The silence was broken by pigeons cooing as the day found its inspiration to commence. The street was barren; cars parked, but traffic non-existant.
From the shadows of a doorway, Furio Capuscalco appeared. His jacket, a slightly upscale tatter was clutched tightly across his chest. Each inhale threatened to send buttons scattering across the cobblestone. The satchel he carried was merely an old book bag from grade school. Now, all that occupied it was a pair of stockings and a partially consumed mallo-bar. Small bundles of paper stacked neatly and banded, were tucked neatly on the bottom of the canvas sack. Oh yes, and his cap gun. A boy needed protection if he were to claim the mean streets as his own. Any thug with a sensitivity to loud noise was in for a rude awakening if he gave Furio any shit. Capuscalco was all of seven years old.
Trepidation fluttered in the young boy’s belly. It was either fear that drove him, or the remnants of the sugar high that was the monkey on his back. He had a knack for the confections, and on an otherwise empty stomach, they gave him a terrible ache. Furio glanced out from his hiding place.
“Where are the people?” Furio wondered.
This place near the park was usually bustling with activity. In a hurry; always in a hurry. No one ever noticed him, but Furio was there every day; lurking, peering, peeking around the corner from his sheltered spot.
“Ain’t nobody coming” Furio said to himself. “The coast is clear! It’s mine now!”
And he picked up his bag and stepped onto the sidewalk. A smile laced his smudged face. He owned these streets. His stride had assumed its confidence now. An unseen companion followed closely behind Furio, his four stubby legs padding along as his happy tail flicked the early morning air.
Furio Capuscalco had evaded suspicion again. No one ever expected an armed bank robber to be all of three foot seven inches with peanut butter smears on his chin.