which the city had taken its name. The road that wound around it to the beach was pockmarked by
weather and strewn with broken bottles and beer cans.
A long black limousine was parked in the “no stand? zone in front of the theater. The double feature
was Roma and La Strada. Stizano and his bunch had come only for the last feature, La Strada.
Stizano, an inveterate movie buff, had dropped his wife off, and come back to the movies with his
number one button and two other gunsels. It was his way of relaxing.
They were still dressed in black. First came the shooters, both of whom looked like beach bums in
mourning, their necks bulging over tight collars. They studied the street, then one of them stepped
back and opened the theater doors and the number one button exited, a thin, sickly-looking man, the
color of wet cement. He shrugged and summoned his boss.
Stizano was portly, with white hair that flowed down over his ears, and looked more like the town
poet than a mobster. He walked with an ebony cane, his fingers glittering with rings.
The chauffeur walked around the back of the car to open the door.
Suddenly they were marionettes, dancing to the tune of a silent drummer. Tufts flew from their
clothes; popcorn boxes were tossed in the air.
The only sound was the thunk of bullets tearing into the five of them, then the shattering of glass as
bullets ripped into the show windows of the theater and an explosion of shards as the box office was
obliterated, then the popping of the bulbs in the marquee.
Poppoppoppop. . . poppoppoppop...
Poppoppoppoppoppop...
Broken bulbs showered down on the street.
Five people lay in the outer lobby, on the sidewalk, in the gutter.
It had happened so fast there were n screams.
Nor the sound of gunfire.
Nor the flash from a weapon.
Nothing.
Nothing but five puppets dancing on the string of death.
Then, just like that, it was all over. Silence descended over the park.
There was only the wind, rattling the dried-out palms.
