OOC: I was just listening to one of my favourite poems ‘The Ghost of Al Capone’ and thinking of how, as much as Capone lorded it over Chicago in general, (his HQ for a while was the Lexington Hotel in The Loop) it was known that he and his crew were very strong in my own district - the West Side. For several years, for instance, Capone’s base of operations was Cicero, Illinois.

So, I decided to write what I plan to be the first of a few chapters in a fictionalised/exaggerated account of how I became GF here with Capone as a central character. I’ve slightly changed the the truth of how some events occurred to aid the flow of the story. The timeline/events don’t always match up to what happens on MR for ease of narrative but I’ve put it in the streets because it’s still a story about my character. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

Lieutenant Grady was still leaning forward with his hands planted firmly on his superior’s desk. His chair was far behind him, evidence that he’d stood up in an aggressive rush. The superior himself, Captain Wallace, shared the same panicked expression as his Lieutenant but before either could speak a man burst through the door with such force that the frosted panel exploded in a shower of glass.

“What the fuck is your problem Wallace? I’m tired of this crap, there is a ladder there for a fucking reason - you don’t come to me every time you need a fucking diaper change!”

The man’s shoulder lapels - if not his incredible treatment of a police captain- singled him out as Superintendent Kroes, the number 1 guy, of Chicago PD. Nevertheless, both men looked utterly impassive as he raged, simply waiting for it to pass.

“I mean, Jesus! You don’t speak to the Assistant Deputy? or Even the Deputy? OR EVEN THE COMMANDER OF YOUR OWN GODDAMN BUREAU?! No, you get my office straight on the phone because you knew I was in the building. I was in the meeting with the Mayor you goddamn moron, how do you think that looks?!”

The silence stretched out for around 5 seconds, punctuated only by the slight panting of the big man as he recovered his temper. Finally, Wallace looked towards Grady and spoke quietly.

“Tell him what you told me, Lieutenant.”

“Well sir, it’s Moran. The bootlegger. He’s dead”

The colour instantly drained from the Superintendent's face. He moved over to the vacant chair and slumped into it leaving Grady as the only man in the room standing. Almost ignoring him, Kroes’ eyes were boring straight into the Captain’s as he spoke barely above a whisper.

“Do the press have it?”

“Uh, well not yet sir but they will. It was bloody. Our guy at the Sun-Tribune has already told us their headline for tomorrow. The Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre.”

“Well. that’s just what we need right now. Vultures. What the hell happened?”

“Sir. Moran and 6 of his boys were in a warehouse at the docks, a smuggling operation by the looks of it. They were lined up against a wall and shot at point blank range with Thompson submachine guns. The papers call ‘em ‘Chicago Typewriters, sir.”

“I don’t give a damn what the papers call them! How’d Moran get so careless, I thought he was laying low?”

At this point the Captain and the Lieutenant exchanged nervous glances as the former awkwardly thumbed the ballistics report - clearly not for the first time as the ends were already curled up.

“Well, sir. We, uh. We have information - suggestions I should say - that two of the assailants were wearing Chicago PD uniforms, but were not officers. I have recommended a full internal investig-” “-Not important. What’s going on out on the streets is of paramount importance right now. I want every officer on this. What is the assumption. Was Capone was behind this?”

“Well sir, that seems the most obvious conclusion but I believe Lieutenant Grady has some thoughts on this.”

Grady nodded once and nervously swallowed back his spit as he stared straight ahead, reciting from memory the knowledge he had in a dull monotonous voice.

“Yes, Superintendent. There is a third possibility. Around the West Side of Chicago there is a gang, with no particular ethnicity but a French core, led by a man called Eric Cantona. He’s from Marseille and we know he had criminal involvement there, sir, but he’s not been a priority here”

Kroes’ brow furrowed at this. He was a man of unshakable faith and principles and half-measures were not in his repertoire.

“Why not?”

“Sir. Cantona’s influence is heavily weighted towards gambling. Traveling poker and craps games, backroom bookies, lotteries. It’s hard to pin down that kind of activity. But, sir, with all due respect that is not a federal crime, and bootlegging is. Our resources are stretched thin as it is and we’re under too much pressure from the FBI and the DEA to take anything away from our investigations on the Volstead act.”

“Very well Lieutenant, let’s move on. Why do you think this Frenchman is in the frame?”

“Cantona, sir. Well, it’s long been my belief based on whispers we hear and simple criminal logic that he is not happy with his slice of the pie. The bootlegging is too profitable to ignore and I think he sees Capone as a more natural ally, or Moran as an easier target. Either way, it could be him muscling in on bootlegging rather than Capone eradicating his opposition.”

Without warning, Kroes stood and the Captain stood with him. He drummed his fingers against his hat until finally, the Superintendent made a decision moving over and laying the hand on the doorknob even as he spoke.

“Talk to your men. I want overtime. I want double shifts. I want every damn officer on this pounding the sidewalk until we get something. Don’t prioritise, assume Capone and this French guy, Canlonna? Whatever. Assume they are equally as guilty. I want them both under arrest by tomorrow. You have your orders, think of yourselves as my vanguard force. As of this moment, this a citywide investigation and manhunt. I will meet with the rest of the precinct and bureau chiefs and commanders to give them instruction. I want all the information we have on the shooting, and both men, on my desk in an hour. Good afternoon”.

Without a further word, Kroes swung open the shattered door and strode through with purpose and intent evident in every movement. It was going to be an interesting time in Chicago.