Start it off with a bang.

Frank parked his black sedan across the street from Alfredo’s Diner.  He got out, brushed down his coat, and pulled his fedora down low to block the blinking pink neon text.  Three car doors slammed as Tommy, Malone, and Gio all stepped out.  Gio locked eyes with him and nodded.  The four crossed the street and entered the diner.

The air in the room was hot and steamy, the kitchen was loud and the waitresses looked over-worked.  They could have picked a better night to do this, but Fredo’s rage was too great, he insisted the job was done tonight.  They found a small booth in the corner of the restaurant and slid in, ordered coffee, and waited.  They discussed some trivial things: Yankees, women, Tommy’s cousin’s recent wedding and more recent divorce.  Gio ordered a tuna sandwich- halved diagonally, with no crusts, and no lettuce.  He always ordered a tuna sandwich beforehand.  

As the hour hand made its way from 2 to 3, Frank’s mind moved to other things.  He noticed the bored brunette in the red blouse sitting across the restaurant, clearly unhappy that the men at the table found the Yankees more interesting than their companion.  Her lipstick matched her blouse, and covered lips nearly as big as what was under the blouse.  The .38 special in his waistband suddenly felt as if it didn’t fit.  He quickly looked away.

He recognized a player from last week’s poker game behind Gambino’s Cleaners sitting two booths away.  The face was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place the name.  Something Irish.  Paddy?  Mickey?  O’Something?  The Irishman aggressively met his gaze, and Frank turned his attention back to the conversation at his own table.  Tommy was attempting to convince Malone that Dean Martin was best crooner of his day, while Malone was informing Tommy and, indirectly, the people at the table across from them, just where he could stick his Dino.  Frank was relieved when Fredo entered the diner.

He turned to tell Gio that Fredo was here, but Gio was already telling the other two to shut the hell up.  They sat quietly as Frank and Gio looked for the signal.  Finally, they got it: Fredo stood up and went to the bathroom.  Gio nodded.  Frank removed his .38 from his waistband and kept it under the table; the other three did the same.  He noticed his leg was tapping.  He still got a little nervous before each hit.  Gio placed a twenty on the table; the waitresses still deserved compensation.  The bathroom door opened, Fredo stepped out, the table stood up, and they aimed.