The Frenchman

“Hello vriend. Spreekt u het Duits?”

“Duits? Dit is Nederlands, mijn vriend. Hebt u een vogel? U kijkt als een vogelmens.”

“Ah! Ik zie, Ik zie! U bent de man met mijn vogelkorrels. Tevreden, tevreden, overhandig hen. Weinig Franz is zo ziek!”

He took the briefcase, a large envelope, packed to the brim with euros to the lavishly dressed man. With a friendly tip of the hat, and a warm smile, he set off down the road Via Sant’Agata. His curt suit jacket and well ironed sweat-pants were quite out of fashion in the current day Catania, most citizens brandishing work coats and slacks, or a long sleeved shirt.

He didn’t seem to notice. Nor did he ever seem to notice, not those around him, unless they were important to his current task. But today, today all were important. Today would be the day for the First Call. Labeled by contract assassins as the very first ring you receive from your employer, one which will tell you where to go, where to be, and where you will be staying.

The man was known as the Frenchman by title, Harry Zeuchs in Catania, and Signor Mastiff de Bellini in Roma. His sleek hair, currently glossy and shoulder length, was dyed a muddy brown, with small streaks of black gliding through the locks. He had a fetish for his own black hair.

He passed by a payphone. It rang twice. He picked up the receiver.

“Ciao?”

“This is the office of Mr. Derrik Blake. We've received your payment in full, and kindly ask you to meet our representative at the I Vicerè inn, just down the road. We respect your decision, and hope you will agree to become a customer!”

“I am sorry Signora; I believe you have the wrong dial. May I redirect you?”

“Inserisca prego la moneta,” the voice of the computer recorded operator repeated several times. He hung up the telephone. With a sigh, he picked up the briefcase once again, and resumed his pace down the street. He gave a casual glance to an odd looking man garbed in a blue sweater, but paid little attention.

He forked his way through the crowd. He turned. He started down the next long, full road. He saw the hanging sign of the I Vicerè, golden emblazons dancing through the windows near the hearth, the outlines of patrons laughing, speaking, and lounging. He turned down the small backroad and entered from the rear most doors into the kitchen.

The room was cluttered. There were chefs, barmaids, and several hungry dogs barking and running through the small kitchen. The Frenchman decided to make his way to the common room, where should sit his target. Before reaching his destination, though, he found the innkeeper. With a tug on the sleeve, several words, and eighty or so euros, he was checked in and had a room upstairs.

With a wry grin he stepped gingerly into the hall, choosing the door that was to his paid room. He slid through the door and dropped his suitcase onto the one-man bed. Flipping open the latches, he removed two freshly ironed shirts, a pair of slacks, running shoes, and a small, Type 64 Silenced Chinese Republic Pistol. A magazine containing nine slotted bullets, and a plastic baggie with eighteen more were wrapped up in a toothbrush bag.

He loaded the pistol, put away the clothes, and went into the bathroom. A tall shower stood looming over the sink, and with a shiver, he stepped inside. The faucet was cold, but it warmed up over time as steam rolled out from under the curtains.

Five, ten, and fifteen minutes passed by. He drew the shower to an end and dried down. Sliding into his clothes, he went downstairs, pistol tucked down into his left leg sleeve.

The target was there. He laughed, he drank, he sang with his womenfolk. Two guards stood by him, and he could see the outlines of pistols in their waste bands. The Frenchman took a deep inhale of breath, and entered the common room.

***


“Signor Bellini! How good of a surprise! Please, sit, sit,” the large man, the target, made a gesture to the waitress, “Donna Dell'Hotel! Ottenga il mio compagno qui a- What did you wish of my friend?”

“I wouldn’t mind for a brandy, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Of course! Una birra, buona donna! Taglio di taglio!”

The woman scowled and set off towards the bar. The Frenchman turned towards the target, smiling warmly to his good Italian friend.

“So, my friend, how have you been?” He asked curtly, studying the man with his glance.

“Benissimo, benissimo. I have been, as you say, staying well. It has been a hard past week. My good friend Albert has died of a severe chill. It is very sad to me, these days. Have you met my caretakers, Benito and Gregorio? Please, be friends! Share stories!”

Signor Bellini took the hands of both guards, offering them a friendly grin and a welcome look. His drink arrived. He took it. He handed the woman two coins. He took a swill as the man talked. He scruffed his voice to interrupt.

“If you don’t mind, il mio signore, if we could discuss things privately? I wish to propose a business deal upon you!” Signor Bellini smiled happily. This would be quick and easy.

“Il mio mio! Una proposta di buisiness. Bene, le mie protezioni dovranno attendere qui, Presumo. Dubito di che hitmen lo troverà qui! Hah-hah-hah!” The man laughed, a great booming laugh, and pulled his large rump from the seat in which he sat. The two men walked outside, talking in hushed voices. When they finally reached the back alleyway, Signor Bellini quickly stunned the man, whipped out his pistol, and fire three times into the target’s chest. The sharp exhale and quick intake from the gun’s muzzle flashed, and the man’s heart instantly burst from the fire.

Redish-black gore splurted out from the now-corpse, seeping onto the street in what he lay. The Frenchman entered the inn through the backroom once again, collected his things, and fled the hotel. There would be no international trade deal any longer from this man.

Harry Zeuchs was no longer Harry Zeuchs. He was no longer The Frenchman. He was no longer Signor Bellini. He now had no name. He found a phone, dialed a number, spoke words, and got into a car.

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