The Original Frankie and Louie Redux

The Magic Bullet Theory

Some folks have been asking about the original novella that was The Magic Bullet Theory before Terry Tocantins approached me about turning the whole mess into a play which premiered March 23, 2012 at Sacred Fools Theatre and was so well received we are remounting the show starting November 8 at the Matrix Theater in Hollywood.  The first section has it’s own page and now, I’d like to add the original Frankie and Louie sequence for you to peruse.

Enjoy!

The ’61 navy blue Cadillac pulled into a parking place that over looked the Plaza 12 feet below.  Louie got out of the driver’s side and slammed the door.  “How long do we have until this guy comes down the street here?”

Frank Chiavaro slammed the door, walked over to the front of the car and wiped the north Texas soot from the hood.  He didn’t want to dirty his brand new black silk suit.  “They’ll be here in five minutes.”  He plopped down and opened the thermos of coffee he was carrying.

“Give me some of that,” Louie Barberi said.

“You want some milk and sugar?”  Frank asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Fuck you.  I don’t have any,” Chiavaro smiled.  He handed a white Styrofoam cup to his friend, filled with the hot black liquid. 

“Good coffee,” Barberi sipped the hot liquid.

“I got it at the A&P.  French Roast or some such shit.”

Barberi fixed his gray Porkpie hat and looked out on the people that started gathering on the grass below them.  “Where are they?”

Chiavaro pointed to his right, down the white gate.  “Over there about 200-300 hundred yards.  When it’s over, they drive over here and drop off the package for us.”

“These guys any good,” Barberi asked.

“They’re the best.  Momo imported them from Detroit for that thing last year.”

“Bernstein and Bunacore,” Barberi inquired

“No, no.  That thing at the track,” Frank said 

“What did happen with that,” Louie asked.

“It was all the fucking driver’s fault.  He’s got this horse that’s going off at 3-1, see.  He hasn’t won in three fucking weeks so the guy is really hungry.  When our friends go over to tell him that it isn’t his day, he throws a fucking fit.  So our guys tell him he let’s this one go and he will get a couple later in the week.”

“All that shit over one fucking race,”  Barberi said.  He shook his head in disgust.

 “It was a favor a friend of Johnny’s.  He just bought the horse and wanted his sons to see the win.”  Frank said.

“What was the horse running off at?”

“24-1,” Frank said.  He sipped his coffee and smiled. 

“That would have made a lot of people very happy.”  Louie whistled.

“Exactly.  Except this fucking scumbag gets an idea in his head.  So he lets the horse go and wins the race.  Momo was fucking pissed.”

“So he gave these guys the contract.”

“These guys go back to the Purples and the St. Valentine’s day thing for Capone.”  Frank smiled.

“So what did they do to the guy?”  Louie asked.

“Two weeks later, the guys’ car hit a telephone pole outside of Toledo.  The newspapers said the car hit a patch of ice.”  Frank said.  He sipped his coffee and watched the people mill around.  “Too bad.  That driver was one of the best too.”

“All this happened in July, right?”

“July 24^th, my man.”

Barberi laughed.  “Are they here now?”

Frank nodded.  “No.  They subbed it out to some well known guys here in Texas.  Former Army guys that work by contract now.  Very low key, very professional.  Exactly what we need for this job.”

“Here they come.”  Louie said. 

The black open topped limo took the slow turn onto Elm Street.  Barberi and Chiavaro stood up as the crowd cheered.  The President waved to the crowd on the lawn as the first shot rang out.  He grabbed his throat. A moment later, his head flew back.  They saw a little pink mist in the air.  A Secret Service man climbed onto the trunk and off the limo sped.

“Ah fuck.  I think they really winged the guy.”  Frank closed his eyes and sighed. He twisted to top on the thermos and got back into the car.  Louie crushed his cup and walked to the back of the car.  A black Lincoln sedan with suicide doors drove slowly by and dropped a rifle covered in a canvas bag out the window.  Barberi looked at the man and gave him a thumbs down.  The man nodded and pointed to the back of his head. He opened the trunk and put the rifle in as the Lincoln drove off.

“Well?”  Frank asked.

“Not good.”  Louie said.  He backed into the parking lot and slowly drove off.  The two men sat in silence until they reached a red light, a mile from the plaza.

“They blew the back of his head off.”  Louie finally said.

“I thought you told me these guys were the best.”  Frank said.

“They’re supposed to be.  The guy in the building must have hit him somewhere besides the shoulder.”

“Fucking shit!”  Chiavaro swore.  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No.  We just killed the President of the United States.”