by Monica Owens
But sometimes, you gotta let go.
Fern sat in the front seat and Mick shut the door behind her just as Two emerged from the building. I knew that Mick and Two would flank Charlotte in the back as they roared out of town. The threat against her wasn’t over, even if I did go after Capone. The only way she’d be safe was if she headed out of town. Going home was still risky, but I didn’t know where else she should be.
One backed the car up into the alley, the metal and rubber contraption just feet away from me. He idled and waited for Two to get in. Mick and Charlotte walked over to the car, but she kept looking back.
“Come on, Baby,” Mick told her. “We gotta go.”
“I know, but I—” She turned back to him, her tone crestfallen. “I thought that maybe—”
“Baby, he said his goodbyes. Now we got to do this so his goodbye ain’t for nothing.”
I saw her face clearly as she gazed up at Mick. She was conflicted, but then she drew her brows together. With a shaky breath, she drew herself up and nodded once. That was my girl. Her big blue eyes closed a little too long, but she got in the car. Mick glanced over to where I stood and shook his head.
Probably at my stupidity.
Like I said, sometimes, shit sucks.
I waited till their lights were gone before I strode across the alley, a matchbook in my hand. I didn’t think about it, I just used my thumbnail to ignite all the matches in that book. Part of me didn’t want to do this. I’d built this shit from nothing, after all. But looking around at the empty garage, I realized that’s what it had always been. Empty. I tossed the flaming matchbook against the back wall.
I didn’t look back.
****
As I stood on the sidewalk in front of the brick monstrosity of a hotel that Capone was staying at, I blocked out the sound of sirens. I’d tied up my loose ends, including what those sirens were contending with. I’d sent a telegram and a letter to Jupiter, one to his last known address and another to a PO Box he’d set up in New York. Jupiter was my boss and I owed it to him to at least let him know what was going on. He’d told me to stay put, after all. I was going against a direct order.
But those pretty blue eyes meant more to me than a direct order.
Let’s face it, with the stock market crash, it was harder and harder to make a buck. Capone wouldn’t be obsolete by any means, but he’d morph into something deadlier, more sinister. He’d use whomever he could to stay on top. Of course, not if I had anything to say about it.
I entered that hotel and I ignored the bell hop, the man calling to me from the front desk, and even the members of the Chicago PD that always hung around Capone. Fuck it. I wasn’t in the mood.
I might not have my staff, but I still had some tricks up my sleeve. I managed to get in the elevator alone and took it to the penthouse suite without the car stopping. Then I shorted out the electricity in each elevator by stabbing my finger into the call button and yanking out the wires. That would give me a few minutes anyway.
Someone must’ve called up to the penthouse when they figured out where I was headed. Three of the biggest meatheads I’d ever seen came rushing out of the suite, two with guns in their hands and the other reaching for one.
I held my hands up, palms outward. “Not here for that, boys.”
I still got a left hook to the jaw and I went down in a heap. On purpose. That shit would never have gotten me ordinarily. This way I could sweep my legs out and take the lumpy bastards down. Two fell and, lucky me, one of the guns went off and a bullet went through the head of the third.
The two stupid guards sat there, dumbstruck as they watched the third bleed out. I knocked their heads together as two more guards came out, their weapons brandished and their beady eyes searching for someone to kill.
I rolled to the side, against the elevator doors. I’d grabbed a gun, but there was no way I’d be able to get a shot off at both of them before they shot back. Besides, I wanted Capone. These fuckers would take me to him.
They were the second wave of guard so they were a little smarter. They made sure they kept their backs together as they moved down the hallway. I took a deep breath and got to my feet, again adopting the surrender pose, the gun safely tucked in the back of my pants.
“Not here to fight.”
These two thought about it and decided they wouldn’t rush me. One motioned me forward and the other started the pat down.
They’d find the gun, but it was worth a shot. No pun intended.
When he took my purloined gun, he smirked at me. I turned to the other guy. “So I’m here to see Capone.”
“What makes you think he’s here?”
“You work for the president, then?” I retorted. “Fuck, I know who you are. Every person in Chicago has seen you flanking the crime boss as his personal bodyguards. He wouldn’t not be here.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “What do you want with him?”
“To say goodbye. I’m leaving town.”
The two men exchanged glances. Then the talkative one waved me toward the still-open door to the penthouse suite. They walked behind me and I kept my hands in the air. No good to have them shoot me in the head and throw me over the balcony. Yet.
The penthouse was fit for a king. I’d heard Capone had the hotel decorate it specifically for him. Shows you how corrupt even private institutions are. I didn’t give a shit if Capone lived in a castle or a warehouse. I just wanted him to leave Charlotte alone. Then he could kill me and make himself feel better.
I lowered my hands when they shut the door behind me. One of the guards kept a gun on me and the other went further into the suite. “You got a visitor, boss,” he called out. “Fucker made a bloodbath out there. Gotta clean shit up.” He glared back at me. I shrugged.
A door opened and a man emerged. He wore a knee-length terry cloth robe cinched tight around his ample middle. He carried a cigar and puffed silently as he came closer to me. When he stopped in front of me, he had to look up at me because he was so short. Where had I seen him before? In the papers, assuredly, but I’d never been that interested in the pictures. Had he been there, at Ebby’s that night I’d come to get Charlotte?
Suddenly a flash of memory sharpened in my brain. St. Louis. Plutarch. The fleshy man who’d been meeting with my fellow fallen angel. That had been Capone? I gazed at him, the big lips, the soft features of a man well into making liquor his drug of choice. This was the man all right. Time hadn’t done him a favor, that was for sure.
He smoothed a hand over his thinning hair. “Bacchus, wasn’t it?”
Fuck Plutarch.
“It’s Arcangelo de Bacchio.”
“Or Bacchus.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Tell me, are you here to give me the name of your supplier?”
Yeah, my “hard won” liquor that beat out everyone else’s. Shit, he was looking at the supplier. None of that was even real. But I shook my head.
“Nah. Fucker’s out of the business.”
Capone looked me up and down. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah. So now I am too.”
He puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “Why are you here?”
“Still things we need to negotiate.” I shrugged.
Capone just stared at me, his gangster mind working. Finally, he nodded to the guard behind me, who presumably still held a gun on me. “He clean?”
“Nothing on him.”
Capone nodded again. “Boys, there’s going to be some entertainment joining us later in the evening. Why don’t you clean up the hall and wait for the ladies out there.” When one of the guards opened his mouth to protest, Capone waved a hand at him. “I can handle him.”
He so couldn’t handle me.
Capone walked away as the guards took their leave. He headed to the bar and poured himself a finger of whiskey. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing. Don’t plan on staying long.”
He chugged back the whiskey. “Then have a
seat. Let me get dressed and we’ll talk.” He moved off toward what I now assumed was the bedroom. “No honor in making deals in your skivvies, Bacchus.”
I ground my teeth to hear my name on his lips. But I didn’t say anything. The bedroom door shut behind him and I moved swiftly. The decanter of whiskey he’d drunk from still sat on the bar. I lifted the heavy glass lid and gathered the spit in my mouth. I didn’t have time to do every decanter behind the bar, so I was glad he’d shown me which one he drank out of. And if he didn’t drink out of it, maybe one of the “ladies” coming later would drink from it.
I replaced the top and wiped my mouth. I might’ve been the god of wine and a good time, but good times weren’t all I gave the citizens of Rome.
I went to sit down, my back to the wall and facing the bedroom door. When Capone came out a few minutes later, he was shrugging into a jacket. He came around a sofa and sat facing me.
“So, again, the reason for your visit?”
“You know why I’m here.”
He seemed amused. “Do I?”
“I think you do.”
He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Look, Bacchus, I’m heading for Miami day after tomorrow. No skin off my nose if you’re out of business.”
“Not about the business,” I answered.
He eyed me. This man had ruled Chicago for a long time. And he sure as fuck had messed with the wrong person. I couldn’t out-and-out kill him like I wanted, but he sure deserved it. He was smart, though. I knew my time was coming to an end when I’d rescued Charlotte. Taking my speakeasy and my liquor away would potentially make him even angrier. But I was only willing to give up so much.
“I was sending men to take you over,” he said suddenly.
“Yeah, I figured.”
“And you’ve destroyed all that for me.”
It wasn’t a question, but I still answered it like one. “Yep.”
He took a cigar out of a small humidor on the glass table between us. He carefully clipped the edge and lit it. When he was puffing away, he glared at me. “So now you’re here and want to make a deal. Way I see it, you have nothing left to deal with.”
“I have a lot left to deal with.”
“Where is she?”
“Gone.”
“And yet you say you have a lot to deal with.”
“In the remains of the fire you’ll find a safe in the basement. All yours.”
“So I’m supposed to just go over and haul off a safe? I make money hand over fist, you little shit. What the fuck do I need yours for?”
Funny how he assumed it was money in that safe. I spread my hands. “Hey, like you said, what else do I have to offer?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Your little game is for shit. Why don’t you tell me where that dame went? Huh? Then we’re even.”
I shook my head and leaned back. “Don’t have that info.”
“You stole her from me,” he argued. “I get my pick of the birds in this town, you understand? And you stole her.”
“She didn’t want to be raped.”
“I would have made her feel good.”
“You would have hooked her on drugs and made her stay with you. She deserves better than that.”
“Oh, so she deserved you?” He laughed, an ugly sound. He got up and went to the bar, filling his glass from the decanter of whiskey. “That’s a load of bull.”
“Never said she did,” I said, satisfaction brimming in me when he threw back the whole glass of whiskey.
He grimaced at the burn, but poured himself another glass. He bumbled back over to me. “I’m not a man who doesn’t like getting what he wants,” he told me. “So giving me some safe is by no means a deal for me not getting her.”
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Fuck her name!” Capone shouted angrily. He slammed the empty-again glass on the table. “You think I give a fuck what her name is when she’s eating my cock? Hell no!” He stood over me shouting. “Her name isn’t important, Bacchus,” he said sarcastically. I didn’t like his tone. He laughed at me, spittle flying in my face. “I looked it up. Great name. Impersonating the Roman god of wine and debauchery. You got flair, kid. But there’s something you don’t got.”
“What?” I demanded.
He pulled out a pistol and aimed it at my gut. “You ain’t got nothing to fight back with.”
Didn’t I? I didn’t even raise my hands as that pistol steadily aimed at me. So here it was. My end at Capone’s hands.
“You should’ve listened to your friend when he said to watch out for me.”
I recalled Plutarch’s words. “He said I didn’t know who I pissed off.”
“Right.”
“I wasn’t scared then and I’m not scared now.”
The gun went off. I felt the hot sear of the bullet in my gut. I held my hands over the wound, the blood burbling out. I grimaced in pain and bent over a little.
“You should be,” Capone warned. “Tell me where she went.”
I shook my head.
Another bullet blasted out of the gun. It embedded in my left shoulder and I grunted at the pain. Now he was playing with me. Time to play back.
“You fucker,” I said through gritted teeth, because, hey, it fucking hurt. “Like I’m going to tell you anything—”
Another shot. This one fractured my right kneecap. He was good at torture. He wandered back over to the bar and brought the decanter of whiskey back over. He poured another healthy glass and downed it all. More alcohol was making his shots even truer. Well, that was if he was aiming for my left elbow that last time.
“All the info is in the safe,” I wheezed. Damn, I knew he was going to kill me, but this was ridiculous.
“I told you I didn’t want your damn safe.” He sat down in front of me on the table and I heard the glass tremble. He put a hand to the back of my neck, my hat falling off. “Now, be a good boy and tell me where the bitch went.”
“In my safe—”
A bullet cracked against my left kneecap. I grunted again. Fuck this hurt.
“I’ll still be able to find her,” he said with a wave of his hand. “But it would be easier if you told me.”
“The safe—”
Now my right shoulder. My hands couldn’t even stay wrapped over my belly wound. I started to get light headed. My eyes drifted closed.
“Hey!” He shoved my head and I fell back against the couch. “No dying yet. You don’t die until you hit the ground.”
The rumor was that Capone had thrown several people off his penthouse suite balcony. Guess it wasn’t a rumor. I opened my eyes and stared at him, now standing over me.
I started to laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” he demanded.
“Because you’re killing me,” I wheezed through guffaws.
“I don’t see how that’s funny.”
I leaned forward, the blood dripping from my lips as my belly wound began to clog my esophagus. “Because I’ve already killed you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about? You crazy son of a bitch. Hank! John! Get in here! I need you to take out the trash.”
As he stalked off, I leaned against the couch again, my head floating and my brain disconnected from the pain. I barely even noticed the two bodyguards come back and heft me to my feet. I sure as fuck wasn’t going to help them so I made them drag me across the room.
The night was mild and a slight breeze blew. With grunts and groans they finally maneuvered me to lean over the balcony, their strong hands gripping the back of my suit.
Capone moved closer. “You tell me, I say the word and they pull you back in.”
I laughed again, and his fleshy face flushed. He nodded to each of the men flanking me.
Then I was flying.
Chapter Thirteen
From the Chicago Tribune, March 18, 1930, page 8
“Police are investigating the body of a man found on the pavement in front of the Hotel Co
ncorde, the legendary hotel that Al Capone is rumored to have a penthouse suite in. The man was found dead with six gunshot wounds and multiple broken bones. His age is determined to be early thirties but he had no identification on his person. If anyone has information, they are asked to go to Police Substation 8 and speak to the homicide detectives. All sources will remain confidential.”
I tossed the newspaper to the floor. The words hadn’t changed in five months even though I wanted them to. Whoever wrote that article wasn’t going to win any Pulitzers. There were a lot of words there but no information. I suppose that was good, but it would have been nice to hear that someone was screaming and yelling and beating their chest over my death.
Of course, there was Mars.
When Jupiter got my telegram, he’d dispatched Mars to collect my “body.” Longest fucking two weeks of my life, laying in that morgue pretending to be dead. Mars and I had never been close, but we looked a lot alike so it wasn’t a stretch for Mars to claim to be my long lost brother. That and he had experience as the Roman god of war.
He and I were holed up just outside of Chicago, waiting for my wounds to heal and the shit to blow over. Capone had headed to Miami right after he killed me and, according to today’s paper, the big shot was ailing from an “unknown” sexual disease and languishing in prison. He had syphilis. I could have told them that. Whether from the ladies he frequented or from me spitting in his drink, he was on his way out of this world. He was already out as the head of Chicago.
Didn’t mean there weren’t people still gunning for me if they saw me.
I heard the front door of our hideout open and close and then the footsteps of Mars as he came to my door.
“Hey, shithead,” he greeted me.
“I feel the love, brother.” I grinned.
“Yeah, well, some of your old friends just found me.”
I sat up. “Which ones?”
“Said he was Capone’s brother. He wants me out of town.” He pulled up a chair then stacked his feet on my bed. “I’m inclined to agree with him. So what are we still doing here.”