How I Quit Smoking

“I always liked Frankie. Frankie seemed like the kinda man who could die with dignity. Frankie and Jimmy have seen a buncha cowards go down kicking and screaming, unwilling to accept it, begging for their lives, begging for a second chance. But Frankie, up until the end, a real class act.”

I hate the way Jimmy talks. I'm sitting on the pavement in front of him, why is he talking about me in the third person like I'm already dead? Well, in this situation I guess I can't blame him. There's nothing I can do now.

Jimmy walks towards me slowly but still keeps his distance even though I'm sitting here with a load of buckshot in my chest. There's no point in weighing all the angles in my head, all the zigs I should have zagged, all the times I tried to drop my habit but failed. “Those cigs are gonna be the death of you” my mother always said. The crazy bitch would roll over in her grave if she knew just how right she was.

“You may have seen a buncha cowards die, Jimmy...” I pause to cough up some blood, “but how many did Jimmy ever kill aside from some drunken brawl? Can Jimmy really pull the trigger on Frankie?” I always mock the way he speaks, and it always agitates him.

Jimmy is a mean drunk. Some guys get too happy, some guys get too emotional, some guys get too silly. But Jimmy just gets too goddamn violent. When we first met a few years ago the whole gang was out drinking. I was new in the outfit at the time so it was sort of an induction ceremony. Jimmy was pounding beers the whole night. This was the first time I mocked the way he talks. He threw his bottle at my head and started wailing on me. Most of the other guys were drunk so they just started laughing - a great way to start a new career. I just laid there on the floor curled up. I just took it. You don't fight back when your boss's nephew is hitting you, not in this business. His uncle, Giorgio, finally told him to stop. It took three guys to pull him off me. Bloodied and bruised I stood up, straightened my tie, sat back down, and lit up a smoke without saying a word. Giorgio just laughed at me. But through his laughter he said he wished he had more guys like me - guys who can “take a licking and keep on ticking”. The guys laughed even harder. I earned their respect with that. I earned the right to be the only person who could mock the way Jimmy talks.

Giorgio wouldn't let Jimmy drink anymore after that. And since half the speakeasies in Chicago bought their booze from Giorgio, then Jimmy had to get more creative with where he bought his. He had to go to bootleggers out in the sticks, take a train to Canada and then figure out how to smuggle it back, or risk buying at one of Sal's joints, which as it turns out is pretty damn risky. Jimmy would still get frustrated when I make fun of his speech. But this time is different. He didn't get mad; he didn't lose his temper. He just pumped the grip on his shotgun and the spent cartridge bounced through the puddle of my blood.

“That's where you're wrong Frankie. I've killed before. But now, I'm gonna start doing it the right way, do it right by me. I'm willing to accept Frankie's last request.”

“Hah, you sentimental bastard. All right, Frankie would like a smoke. You know the brand.” I smirk.

He pulls a crumpled pack of Red Apples from his pocket - the pack I left on Maribel's nightstand. I laugh until I cough up more blood.

“That looks familiar.”

“Like Frankie said, I'm sentimental.” He throws me the pack and a lighter. I fumble around until I find the last cig that's not crushed or broken up. I pull it out with the hand that isn't holding the gunshot wound in my chest and light up. Now that it's closer to me, now that the flame of the cig lights up the front of my face in this otherwise darkened alley, I can see that the pack has blood on it...dried blood.

“This blood is-”

“Maribel's” he finishes my sentence.

Everything breaks down. The free hand holds the cig, and my other hands moves from my bleeding chest to my weeping face. I let it flow. I let the blood gush out. I let it all out. Because right now, the literal hole in the center of my chest doesn't hurt nearly as much as the figurative one.

Strength leaves my arms; they fall beside me. I look around. It's just a blur. The tears, the blood loss, it's all a blur. The edges of the buildings that make this alley begin to fade into the cityscape behind them. The trash cans and dumpsters lining the sides meld into the background. Jimmy shifts into a grey blob and his black tie makes a sloppy line down the middle of him.

The whole of life loses its definition save the red tip of my cig.

“So much for Frankie being a class act...” Jimmy snipes.

I take the last long drag of my last Red Apple. I close my eyes. I don't hear or even feel the final blast. All I can feel is the last smoke-filled breath leave my body.

#

I check the clock on my desk: 5:40pm. I'll make him wait five more minutes. He wasn't invited here and I don't particularly feel the need to be all that cordial. I've got to make him wait. I've got to remind him where he is. I've got to remind who I am. He's on the northside, in one of my best hotels, and I'm the guy who runs the show around here.

It's been long enough. I walk into the lavish, private dining room we're now using as a meeting room and curtly apologize for making him wait and that I hoped my “associate” made him feel at home.

“Your associate? You mean the big guy? My grandmother, God rest her soul, is more talkative than him.” Giorgio forces out a chuckle but his stoic companion does not. He continues, “Don't worry about it, Sal. You're a busy man and, hey, I understand cause I'm a busy man, too. We can be amicable despite the, shall we say 'history' that our families have. But hopefully that history is about to change, if you're interested.”

“Are you looking to re-write history or something?”

“I'm looking to make it!” He clenches his fist and brings it down on the table, on my fine, oak table. “Our crews, our organizations, hell even our guys are just like one another. We're two of the same kind you and I.”

“Oh we're the same?” I can barely contain may laughter.

“We're businessmen. We both see the bottom line.” he unclenches his fist and uses his index finger to point towards the table. I can't help but think to myself, “Yes, Giorgio, the bottom line would be in that direction.” He continues after stabbing the table numerous times with his finger, “And the bottom line is that you and I could be making a lot more dough if we weren't bickering with each other or competing for business in central Chicago. We'd be making a lot more money if we were partners.” His associate stands behind him without flinching, not looking even half as excited as his boss. Perhaps he's heard Giorgio practice this speech too many times.

However poorly he's making it, I'll be damned if he doesn't have a point. For years there's just been an understanding, an unspoken agreement. He stayed in the south and I ran the north. Of course the middle would get a little, well, tricky at times. We've each lost guys to competition. But it's never been personal. We are, afterall, businessmen.

I walk over to the bar adjacent the enormous bay window and pour myself some scotch, making sure not to offer any to my colleague. I've thought of a partnership before. If we're working together, then that certainly streamlines the operation. We'd spend less money on bribes since the cops, judges, and dockworkers couldn't put us into a bidding war anymore. We'd spend less money on hiring new guys, guns, and booze since we wouldn't need to match each other in numbers anymore. All the men we hired to keep tabs on one another could now go to running more liquor from Canada through Sault Ste Marie. And all that would mean a hell of a lot more money. It was really only inevitable that we'd end up working together. But even though it was bound to happen. Giorgio is still the one who offered first. Giorgio was the first to flinch. Him coming here essentially means that he needs me, not the other way around. I've got an opportunity here that I can't spoil. I've got the chance to finally consolidate power in this town and keep the upperhand while doing so.

“You make an interesting point Giorgio. A partnership just might been in our best interest. However, a partnership needs to be based on trust. You've got to prove to me that I can trust you.” I say as I return to my seat.

“I suppose you've already got a way for me to do that?” Giorgio asks in an unexpected moment of intelligence.

“I'm sure you heard about Sammy the Shark just a few weeks ago.”

“I hear a lot of things...Sammy? Gee it just doesn't ring a bell. Hey, Bruno, you know anyone named Sammy?” Giorgio ponders aloud while looking over his back.

Bruno chuckles. The man standing behind me takes a step forward. The smile leaves Bruno's face.

“Gentlemen,” I say while putting my hand up to halt the brutes, “Maybe I should remind you. I know you keep tabs on my outfit. But I guess you somehow forgot who Sammy the Shark was. He was one of my best loan sharks. He had a unique way of making sure people paid their debts. He had a unique way of not stirring up trouble with the flatfoots. He was indispensable to my organization. Now, am I ringing any bells?”

“The word around the street is that he had a run in with someone and ended up getting himself shot. I didn't put out a hit on him. I didn't stand to gain anything from him dying. Sometimes guys get drinking and they get out of hand.”

“Well, word on the street also says that man he had a run in with just so happens to be one of your guys. Now I don't know what the hell he was even doing near one of my speakeasies and I don't really care right now. If you want me to trust you, I'm going to need some retribution for what happened to Sammy.”

“What do you want a bigger cut than half once we team up? Is that what this is about?” Giorgio asks, missing the point.

Of course I want more money. Asking someone if they want more money is the dumbest questions imaginable. But I also want sheer power. The kind that can't be expressed in terms of dollars. I want the kind of power that will make Giorgio recognize who will dominate in our relationship.

“No, money isn't everything. Sammy was a key player of mine. And the impact of his murder is more than financial. It's an insult to me. Sammy's death has to be remitted in the old way: blood for blood. I want the bastard who killed Sammy. I want you to give him to me.”

“Whoa now, Sal. Come on. That is asking a lot. You want me to give up one of my guys? How can I expect any of them to trust me after that? How can I be expected to maintain order once word spreads that I did in one of my own?” Giorgio squirms uncomfortably in his chair like he's got an itch that would be all too improper to scratch.

“That's not my concern right now. My only concern is that you prove to me this can be trusted. This thing with Sammy is different. He wasn't just some low-level goon. Even if his murder wasn't personal it was still a big hit and I can't let it go easily.”

“I'm gonna need some time, to figure this out, to figure out how I can do this. You want blood for Sammy's blood? Fine! I'll figure out a way to get that blood.”

“Good, be sure to keep in touch. I trust you know the way out.” I say and stand to let them know the meeting is over.

#

I hadn't seen Frankie in almost three weeks. Well, sure I'd seen him. The way any wife sees her husband’s coworkers. But I'd been waiting to be alone with him for too long. I lay next to him with my head resting on my pillow, his arm reaching underneath my neck and bending down so that the forearm runs along my back. I use to watch the clock, counting down the minutes until he leaves. But now I watch his chest. I watch it go up and down with every drag off his cigarette and every exhale that lets loose a plume of smoke. Up, down, 5. I haven't got much time. Up, down, 6. He never stays past six drags, let alone another cig. One of these days we're actually gonna fall asleep together. The jostle of the mattress tells me that his left arm is putting out the cig in the ashtray on my nightstand. He starts to sit up without saying anything, like I won't notice him pull his arm out from underneath my head.

“Frankie, why don't you stay a little longer? You just got here and you've been so busy these past couple days. I missed you.” I try not to sound pouty at the end but fail.

“Well, babe, when Bruno and Giorgio get back from the sit down with Sal, he's gonna want me waiting for him at the restaurant. Plus, you gotta be ready by seven o'clock and it's damn near five thirty.” He responds, I can't detect anything in his voice hinting that he's sad to leave. Wait a minute...

“I do?” I blurt out? Trying to ignore his aloofness.

“What do you mean 'I do'?” He snaps.

“What do I mean? What do you mean? You know something about tonight that I don't?”

“Babe, don't tell me you forgot!” I stare at him and sorta tilt my head to the side. He almost giggles every time I do this. It must be so darn cute to him. One of these days I’m gonna get him to giggle at it. He continues, “Oh babe you kill me. Your anniversary. Jimmy is taking you to some opera.”

“Oh, yeah...” I trail off but then pick back up again, “Hey how is it that you know about this and I don't?”

“Because Jimmy won't shut up about this. He's been down ever since that Sammy thing and he thinks this is just what he needs to perk his spirits back up.”

Now that he mentions it, I can't help but remember that Jimmy is my husband. I know it was risky to meet with Frankie on our anniversary. But the tangled bedsheets and the parts of my hair still damp with sweat remind me that it was worth it. He's already gotten his pants and shoes on during our conversation and now he's fussing with his dress shirt.

“Frankie when are you gonna stay longer? When are we actually gonna spend a night sleeping next to each other?” I ask him knowing how stupid a question it is. I don't care how dumb it may be. I just would like to hear him say it, at least once. I would just like him to say anything other than...

“Babe, I really don't have time for this right now. We've talked about this. It's as good as a fairy tale. It's sweet, it would be great. But it just won't happen.” He says agitated as he fiddles with his tie. I turn him around and undo his sloppy Windsor. He looks better with a Pratt.

“I swear, Frankie, you're so helpless sometimes.”

“What would I do without you?” He grins smugly.

“I'm more interested with what you're gonna do with me. What we're gonna do one of these days.”

“No way! Not this talk again. We can't go through this again. Fairy tales, babe. Fairy tales.” He doesn't even kiss my cheek goodbye, the jerk.

“Wait, Frankie, don't go just yet!”

“I'm sorry, babe. I've got to.” He says, almost grunts abruptly and closes the door behind himself before I can say anything else.

#

The drive back from Sal's is unbearable. I keep trying to tell Giorgio just how bad this is, just how hard it's gonna be to get out of this. All he does is scream at me. And it doesn't help that I'm so damn jittery it's hard to keep the car on the right side of the road. Luckily I was able to keep my cool in front of Sal. I'm afraid of what Giorgio would do to me if I made him look weak in front of Sal, seeing as how mad he is at me when it's his fault he looked weak in front of Sal.

I finally pull into the back parking lot of the Belladonna, the best restaurant in Chicago to have no customers. It's only 6:50pm, well before Giorgio wanted to be here, he wanted to work out the whole deal with Sal tonight, he didn't think he'd have to be scrambling to solve such a big problem, he didn't expect it go so badly, and he makes sure that I know all this.

We go in the back entrance and through the almost empty kitchen and out into the almost empty dining area. Giorgio spots Frankie sitting in a booth against the far wall and damn near sprints to him. Frankie stands up to great Giorgio but can't even get his “Hello” out.

“We got a big problem.” Giorgio says in one of those whispers that's really like a scream.

“Sal didn't go for the offer?”

“Oh no, he did. He most certainly did. But he wants payback for Sammy. He's trying to use it as leverage against us.”

“He doesn't know who did it, right?”

“No, and he isn't going to find out. We gotta find a way out of this.”

“We gotta, I don't know, we gotta just give him a bigger cut in the new partnership. Or we gotta just prove that it wasn't our fault what happened to Sammy.”

“There's no way he'll go for that. He says he wants this settled the old way. He wants blood for blood. He wants Sammy's killer and I damn sure can't give him that.”

Frankie starts patting himself down moving his hands back and forth between his chest and his hips.  

“What's the matter? You look like you're covered in ants or something.” I joke with him to try to ease the tension.

“I can't find my pack of smokes. Shit, they were my last ones, too.”

“Where'd you last have them?” I ask him, trying to be helpful.

“Uh, I probably just left them in the car.” He says looking towards the entrance, his mouth puckers slightly and his eyes widen just a tad. He must really need a smoke if that's what he's thinking about right now.

“Will you two fools forget about that?! We got bigger problems. You know this partnership has gotta work out but-”

“Boss! you got a phone call!” a voice and a man appear from the back room, the room where most restaurants would store dry goods.

“Can't you see I'm a little busy here?”

“It's important, boss!”

“Oh is it now? I guess I just don't know what's important anymore. I run half of Chicago and I'm trying to run the other half but I gotta have some loser bastard like you tell me what is and what isn't important!” he screams storming off. The man leading him makes sure to stay out of his reach as they walk the width of the restaurant to the door leading to into the back room.

“Hey Bruno I'm gonna go buy some smokes, I'll be right back.”

“The store across the street?” I say trying to match his cool attitude.

“Nah, they don't sell my brand. I'll be at the one down one block and around the corner.”

“Oh, if that brunette is there behind the register tell her I said hello.”

“Schmooze her yourself, Bruno.” He says walking out the front door, slick bastard.

I wander near the back room to try to hear what's going on. The door is slightly ajar and I can make out some of what Giorgio is saying.

“Well how do you know for sure? He's not the only person who buys Red Apples in all of Chicago, Jimmy. Yeah, of course, I would be mad at him if he did but we don't know that right now. Right now I'm pretty mad at you. This Sammy nonsense has put me quite a mess with Sal. He wants payback for it and I'm trying to cover for you and you aren't-- What? What makes you think I'll do that? Yeah...Sal didn't say he wants your blood. He doesn't even know you did it. We could give him Frankie and he'd be none the wiser. But I keep telling you. How do you know it was him? You don't know for sure. Did you even ask Maribel? She did what? No way am I sending out guys to find her! We can find her later! We deal with Sal right now! You gotta slow down, I can't understand what you're saying. Please tell me you're not drinking!”

What does he mean giving Sal Frankie? Giorgio is gonna trade Frankie's life for Jimmy's? My back stiffens and my eyes narrow. This ain't right. You take credit for the people you kill. You stand up like a man and take the rap for the things you do. You don't pass them off to other people. This just ain't right.

I take a few steps closer to the door and concentrate back on Giorgio's conversation with Jimmy.

“All right, fine. I'll keep him here at the restaurant and I'll send someone over to Sal's to tell him what's going on. No, don't you dare come down here. Not the way you are right now. You stay there and you cool your head. I will deal with this. Oh, well isn't this just an epidemic. First Sal won't settle for anything less than revenge and now you won't either. What a great fucking way to end my day! My rival gets leverage on me and you want to snuff one of my best guys!”

I can't believe Giorgio is going to do this. I can't believe he's going to turn on Frankie so easily. Giorgi was just gonna toss him aside like this? There's no way this is right. Why Frankie? Why is he gonna turn on one of our best guys? What the hell is wrong with Giorgio? I tighten my teeth and clench my fists. This just ain't right.

Giorgio slams the phone down and startles me back to my senses, back to what's left of them after hearing something like that. He walks out of the room and looks to the booth where Frankie and I were standing when he left. He's surprised to see me standing so close now.

“What the hell you doing?” He gripes at me.

“Just standing here, boss.” I mouth more than speak.

“Where's Frankie?”

“He stepped out for a bit.” I can't think of a lie.

“What do you mean he 'stepped out'? You know what, whatever, just go get him and bring him back here.”

“I'm sure he'll be back sooner or later.” I stall as I try to think of something, anything to do.

“I said go get him. Now just do it!”

I can't stall any longer. I've got to at least walk out the restaurant. I nod to Giorgio and exit. I head towards the store and my pace eventually quickens to a run. I don't know what I'm gonna do. If I actually bring Frankie back he's dead for sure. I sure can't convince Giorgio to change his mind or were both dead for sure. I gotta tip him off. I gotta give him a chance to run. But to where?

I'm so deep in thought about how to get Frankie out of this mess, this mess he doesn't even know about yet, that I run smack into him as I turn the corner and knock the pack of smokes out of his hand.

“Hey what the hell Bruno? I said schmooze her yourself but I didn't mean you had to do it right now.”

“No, Frankie, you gotta get away.” I blurt out, struggling to catch my breath.

“What are you talking about?” He doesn't know what to make of me right now.

“Giorgio, he talked to Jimmy on the phone, they're after you. I heard Giorgio tell Jimmy on the phone, they're gonna trade you for Jimmy. They're gonna blame you for what happened to Sammy.”

“What in the...Wait, why are you tipping me off about this? What's in this for you?” He still doesn't know what to make of me.

“Because it just ain't right. Jimmy did this and he should man up to it.” I pause not just to catch my breath but to make my point clear, “You think you're the only one that Jimmy ever beat up when he got drunk?”

“I don't know what to say. You're risking a hell of a lot for me and for what? How do you think you can get away with this?”

“To tell ya the truth.” I look off into the distance, “I hadn't given that much thought.” I say knowing that now I look like the cool and detached one.

“That's insane, Bruno! You need a plan, hell we both need one. We got nowhere to turn.” He shakes his head from side to side. “We only got one choice. We gotta go to Sal and tell him exactly what's going on. We gotta tell him it's Jimmy that Sal wants. And then when Giorgio refuses to give him up they'll have to negotiate somehow or it'll just go back to the stalemate. And hopefully somewhere in there will be our chance to escape.”

Even I know that's a horrible plan. Escape to where? I don't say it because it's the only thing we've got going for us. It's the only option that's even got a slim chance of coming out alive.

I reach to the left side of my chest and unclip my holster. Frankie looks uneasy for a split second.

“Here, take this.” I say before pulling out my gun and handing it to him.

“What are doing this for? Why are you giving me Ruth? She's like your third arm.”

“She's brought me luck, and now you need it a hell of a lot more than I do. Besides, if I go back to the restaurant without you then I'm gonna need a convincing story for why you got away. So hit me in the face.”

“What the hell are you on, Bruno! You're talking like a madman.” He tries to hand Ruth back to me but I refuse.

“I'll just say we grappled a bit and you sucker-punched me. But it's gotta look believable so hit me in the face.” He turns his head to the side but still keeps looking at me, almost bewildered. “Dammit Frankie just hit me already!” I scream.

He lifts his hand up in the air and brings the butt of my own gun down right on the middle of my face breaking my nose. I roll around on the sidewalk gripping my mangled noise and writhing in pain.

“I didn't mean hit me with the gun ya prick!”

#

I slam the phone down and curse my stupid, fat uncle. A bead of sweat drops down my face and stings the fresh wound my soon to be ex wife just gave me courtesy of lamp thrown across the room with pinpoint precision. Loopy broad oughta try out for the Sox.

I start to take another swig of medicine to ease my headache only to find the first bottle empty. I'll grab another downstairs before I head out. I don't bother looking around to see if she took anything before leaving, it was all crap she picked out anyway so it's not like I'll miss it.

It's hard to keep the car going in the right direction. There's a lot of whiskey on my breath and even more in my blood. When I get to the Belladonna I don't bother parking. I leave half the car on the street and the other half tilted awkwardly on the curb. I step out, take the last swig from the bottle, and toss it aside.

I walk in the front door to find Giorgio talking to Bruno, who's holding a rag to his face with blood dripping down his neck.

“I don't see Frankie here.” I get there attention. Giorgio looks surprised to see me. His jowls shake as he bounds over to meet me.

“I told you to stay put. Look at you, you're a fucking mess. You need to cool your head.” I think he's screaming at me but I just can't tell. The world around me sounds like I'm wearing ear muffs.

“Where is Frankie?” I poke his pudgy chest with my index finger to accent each word.

“We don't know right now. Why--”

I interrupt him with a very rude and abrupt “Sh!” because I know just what he's going to say. I pull the pack of Red Apples out of my coat pocket and hold them inches from his face. “Look at them! They're his brand. I know it was him.”

“Oh Jimmy, Jimmy. What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do?” He stares at the ground, all the humanity drained from his face, he's blank, he's empty, he's spent, he's useless.

I walk past him and head toward the beaten down muscle.

“Hey.” I spit out to get him to look at me. You have to use small words with these guys. “Where is Frankie?”

“He wrestled Ruth away from me and then he hit my--”

“Hey! Hey! Just shut up. Did I ask Bruno about Ruth? I don't think that I did. I asked Bruno about Frankie. I said it to Bruno in three little words.” I held out my hand extending three fingers. I moved them closer to his face. I have to wonder if he can even count. “Just three little words. And I only want one answer out of Bruno. Where is Frankie?”

“He hit my no--”

“Bruno is not listening to me!” I jab my three fingers into his forehead with each syllable and on the last one I open my hand and slap his cheek. “WHERE IS FRANKIE?!”

“I DON'T KNOW!” He stands up putting his arms out for emphasis. His right hand moves out to reveal what looks like ground beef sitting on his nose.

“Was that so hard for Bruno to say?” I push him back into his chair. He's useless, too.

He stands back up and tries to stare me down. That's what I hate about these bruiser types. They've all got something to prove. I push him back into his chair. “Bruno shouldn't make this hard on himself.” I warn him. He doesn't listen. He stands back up and steps closer to me putting his face inches from mine. “Just sit down you ugly fucking gorilla!” I shove him back into his seat.

He lunges at my throat dropping the rag that was once sopping up the blood from his face. I feel my source of air cut off. I lift my right fist into the air and bring it down on the center of his ugly mug. I remind him that his nose is broken. His grip loosens and I lick shots off at his ribs. I push him back down towards his chair but he stumbles over it and falls to the floor. The commotion wakes Giorgio out of his coma of uselessness. He's now standing and babbling about something. I kneel over the gorilla's waist, interlock the fingers of both hands over my head, and bring them down on the bloody mound in the middle of his stupid, useless face. After a few strokes, I need a quicker, less strenuous way. I stand over him and pull out my revolver. Giorgio screams more incoherent nonsense at me. The bruiser arms extend upwards grabbing at me. If I could hear him talk I imagine he's begging for his life right now. I don't care. I lower my gun to point right between the bastard's eyes.

“It's a damn shame that your mother is gonna have to sit through a closed-casket funeral.” I squeeze the trigger.

Blood spatters across my pants like when you're walking down the sidewalk and a car hits a puddle of water onto you. I holster my revolver. Giorgio is still screaming inaudibly at me. He steps towards me to yell right in my ear. He puts his hand on my shoulder shaking me as if to wake me from a dream. I move my shoulder to let his hand fall off of it. He shakes at me harder still. I push him away and feel my right arm start to cock back. Before it's in its final position the distinct sound of the hammers of three revolvers being pulled back pierces my ear muffs. The fight had dragged the money-counters and security for this place out of the back room. They didn't stop me before but now I was about to cross the line. I lower my arm. It doesn't matter. Only one thing matters. I stare at them wondering if they are useless, too.

“Where is Frankie?”

“Jimmy, just sit down. No one knows where he is. We just don't know. Why don't you just sit down. We'll try to figure out where he is, ok?” My uncle says with an eerie calm in his voice.

With my hearing back I decide maybe its not a bad idea. Some help from the kitchen brings me a fat piece of pie and some coffee. I try to sober up fast. I try to weigh the angles in my head.

He can't go to the cops. Too many of them are on the take and even if he finds any that aren't crooked then they'd just put him in jail. He certainly doesn't want that. He'd be more vulnerable in jail. He can't go to Lake Michigan. No dockworker would let him commandeer a boat. We have a very rigid pact with those guys out there. We run booze on their boats only at the very specific times they allow. He can't use any of our safehouses. Obviously we already know where they are. But someone else might have some safehouses that we don't know about. Would he go to Sal? Sal wants my blood for Sammy, but he doesn't know that its me he wants dead. Would Frankie let him know? That would be horrible for us, especially if Sal found out that we were planning to make Frankie take the fall for it. That might finally spark a war between the two gangs. The gangs would be so busy fighting each other and fighting the cops he sure could find some chance to escape. That's gotta be it. That's his only option. I leave a sliver of pie but no coffee sitting on the table.

“Where's the nearest place that's owned by Sal?” I say, walking towards the front door.

“Probably that flophouse on Wabash and Lake.” One of the money-counters says.

“Yeah, I think it's called Hotel Le Grande or something fancy like that.” One of his pencil-neck coworkers chimes in.

“What are you thinking now Jimmy.” Giorgio asks sounding beaten and tired.

“He's on foot, right? He could have gotten there by now. I think Frankie is gonna go to Sal and start a war between the gangs.”

“What? That's crazy. There's no guarantee that Sal will believe him or offer him any protection. He'd have to be st--”

“Yeah well it's his only option. And it's the only lead I have to finding him right now so I'm going.”

“Come on back and sit down, Jimmy. I've already got guys crawling all over the city looking for him.” My uncle tries to reassure me.

“Yeah, you've got them crawling over the southside but are any of them watching Sal's joints?” I don't even wait for an answer because I know what it is. I just walk out.

It's a pain in the ass getting my car off the curb. I finally get it on the road and head north. I park two blocks south of Le Grande and pull the pump-action shotgun out of the trunk before making my way towards the hotel. I make sure to use the buildings of the urban district for cover. I come around the building caddy-corner to Le Grande's southwestern corner. I peek out and see two men standing in front of the main entrance. I keep my distance from street lamps and cross the road to the north, taking cover behind a staircase coming from an elevated door.

The silence of the street is broken by a gunshot. The two men share a glance with each other and rush inside. It seems like they know exactly where that was coming from. Like they might have let someone in their building they knew was trouble. I can't pinpoint where the shot came from. I run to the corner of the building to try to get a better look at the hotel. I cross the street and put my back against the western wall of the hotel. I realize if Frankie does come running out of this he'll be coming out the back. I race to the northside of the building and pause the northwest corner. I hear more gunshots and glass breaking that sounds like it's above my head. I put my back against the northern edge of the building and look over the western edge. I see glass falling out of a fourth story window. I see a figure move out onto the fire escape. I wonder who that could be. My body tingles from my head to my fingers resting on my weapon. He doesn't go down, though. He takes the two flights up to the roof. Goddamnit. I dart across the northern wall and stop at the northeastern corner. He decided to take the fire escape on that side for some reason?

No, the son of a bitch leaps from the roof of this six story building to the roof of the five story building on its eastern side. I hope the bastard broke his ankle doing that. I reach the next alleyway to find him racing down this fire escape. Finally. I don't look anymore, just listen. He makes a racket as he races down shaky, metal stairs. I hear the ladder of the bottom case slide down. I hear him awkwardly fall to the pavement. Get up you bastard. I hear him running. His foot steps grow louder. He's running towards me. My heart beat syncs to sound of his shoes slapping the pavement in this filthy alley. The sound is loud enough now. I spin around and lower my shotgun to his chest. He stops on a dime about five feet in front of me. I let loose with the first shot and introduce him to unimaginable pain. And hopefully with the pack of smokes in my pocket I can show him even more.