April '57

It was April 17 1957. There were six men. Very large men. A car pulled up. Doors opened and they were in the street. Hulking figures in long dark coats, hands the size of cinderblocks. Menace took possession of the moment. No one ventured a look from the walkups. Some closed curtains or windows, but all diverted their eyes. No one to bear witness. It was Good Friday, but a man screamed, his day shot to hell. Shredding flesh and sensibility, the thunder, the cacophony, then stopped, the sulfurous fog lingering as the big sedan drove ahead. While a crumpled mass bled away. No, not a very good Friday for some, not for the one departed, not for those that stayed.