Young Al Capone by William Balsamo

Author:William Balsamo
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2011-03-03T16:00:00+00:00

10

Chicago, Here I Come!

THE MOB BOSS of Brooklyn waited impatiently for one of his underlings, Al Capone, to arrive for a scheduled appointment at his Sunrise Café. Yale was dressed in a double-breasted, charcoal-gray suit and a light-gray necktie with a diamond-studded stickpin that held the tie firmly in place. He was downing his third demitasse of coffee laced with anisette, and holding a notepad in one hand.

“Sonnafabitch!” he said aloud. “That guy will be late for anything except women, whiskey, and gambling—in that order.” Yale’s eyes glanced once again at the wall clock just as Capone’s hulking figure trudged through the door, still counting the change he’d gotten from the cab driver.

Capone’s first words to his boss would have to be carefully chosen, because past experience had taught him that Frank was tough on his hired help. The words he always objected to, and detested hearing from any of them were, “I’m sorry, boss.” He especially disliked hearing them when they came from Capone or Sham, two of the people he most relied on for his personal protection.

Capone slid into the chair while Yale’s fingers drummed the table top.

“Do you realize I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes waiting for you?” Yale inquired. “I have so many things to do today and you come in here like nothing’s wrong.” He shoved the small notebook across the table at the younger man.

“Well, what the fuck happened to you, or do I have to guess?” Yale snarled.

“I made a stop on the way over, Frank,” Capone said. “One of those late collections from old man Hornsby. Being I was in the neighborhood, I thought I’d pay him a visit. Good idea, no? And guess what, Frank? He paid me all the money he owes you, including the interest.” Capone counted out two hundred dollars, all in twenties, and slid the cash over to Yale, whose anger was softened by the sight.

“That notebook contains all the people with outstanding balances due on their loans,” Yale said. “I want you to go after them this afternoon and be sure to bring home something from each and every one, capisci?”

Capone eyed the names on the pages, which numbered five. Three of them were located in the general area, businessmen on Fourth Avenue, and the other two were longshoremen in the vicinity of the Fulton ferry slip situated at the foot of Fulton Street in downtown Brooklyn. “You should be waiting for these two guys down near the docks when they knock off from work,” Yale remarked, then added, “That’d be around five o’clock, so try being there about ten minutes before.”

“Yeah, boss,” Capone assured him. “I know what them guys look like enough to spot them in a crowd.” Capone rubbed his chin while conjuring up images of the two customers, Eddie Giffara and his cousin, Tommy “Zipper Nose” Marrinelli. “Those two guys are easy to spot because Giffara is a fat bastard they call ‘Squeaks’ and the other guy has a long, jagged scar running down the middle of his nose that looks like a fuckin’ zipper.

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