Caponed.

Frank glanced back in the direction of his brother, producing his 1911.

“What the fuck are ya waiting for?!” the short funny character snorted. Frank licked his lips apprehensively. His wheezy brother, in a beige three-piece and hat, rubbed powder on the gums above his bared teeth. Cocaine. “C’mon!”

He turned back to the Café, tip-toed up the concrete slabs and peeled open the door. Frank slipped the pistol in first – then decided to follow. It was empty at a glance.

The lights hung low, the chairs packed, neatly, and stacked away. Seediness clung fervently to the rouge carpet, walls and booths. But no bartender nor waitress was present. In fact, it looked like nobody had been in for a week.

Then there was a crack.

Frank raised the pistol. Frank dropped to one knee. Frank nearly died from a heart-attack.

For he was met with a similar sound to the popping of a bubble, then the low murmur of music ahead. Taking deep breaths – he found his feet. He adjusted his necktie and tilted his hat up with the weapon. Now, he noticed, his hands shook, with great vehemence. But he found himself ploughing forth.

Frank twitched. He emerged from the darkness, concealed by the flame patterned panes, swallowed, before flicking up the safety catch. He leered forward, pressed himself against the door leading into le salon exécutif, curled his fingers around the handle and tugged downwards.

The pistol led him into the next room. He noted the bronze speakerphone, grand piano, smouldering ashtray and the back of a figure, staring hard into a framed photograph of a lady – his lover. Frank lingered forward, took a step closer. No response. Took another step closer. Nothing. Then he stepped on box of matches. Crunch.

Colosimo checked over his shoulder. Giacomo, or “Big Jim” was a big man. He had big owl eyes. He had a big black moustache. And, more importantly, the biggest sphere of influence in Chicago. Jim fumbled his cream jacket with fat, diamond, fingers. “What d’ya want?” he barked with a heavy Cosenzan accent. “Torrio sent you din’nae.”

Frank stammered, “It was only business sir.”

Colosimo shook his head. Raised a finger. “No, no. Greed. Well, at least I know what this shipment was really all about. Bastardo.”

“Please, Don Colosimo…” Frank pleaded, indicating him to look away with the loaded pistol. He glanced through a small window: a storm was coming. And Frank, exchanging the pistol into his left hand, prepared to whip him when he was received by an ear tearing shriek.

“Here you sleazy fat fuck!”

His brother burst into the room. Firing bullet after bullet. Each shot slammed into him; knocking him to the ground. He leant over. Colosimo groaned. And fired a final shot – exiting through his right cheekbone.

“Alphonse!” Frank cried. His brother thrust the pistol in his gut. “How many times do I need to say it Frankie? It’s Al. Al Capone.”

Frank’s eyes drooped.

“Hey!” Al slapped. “Yale’s waiting in the car, c’mon!”