Prologue: Whiskey Is Gold
A boxy chassis not unlike a carriage, paired with slender wheels. A windshield split top and bottom, and an open driver's seat.
A Ford Model T rattled and chugged its way down the road.
Carriages, horses, and pedestrians bustling through their morning all cast curious sidelong glances at the new automobile.
Once it left the paved streets for a rough, uneven track, the chassis jolted even harder. Then, at one point, a sharp tick sounded from the frame.
"I think… a screw just came loose."
"It's fine. Happened a few days ago too. Besides, Sheldon's speakeasy is just ahead."
Knox, riding in the passenger seat, clutched the car's frame with a look of unease. The driver only shrugged, unconcerned.
A speakeasy was an illicit bar that sold bootleg liquor. The name supposedly came from the need to speak quietly, discreetly, in a noisy tavern. Lately every drinking hole had come to be called one.
A short while later, the driver pulled the throttle lever to neutral and stepped on the right pedal, bringing the car to a stop in front of an alley.
He hauled on the hand brake, then glanced at Knox as he reached for the ignition switch.
"Kill the engine?"
"No. The talk won't take long."
"I'll wait, then."
Knox picked up the hat resting on his thigh and swung a leg out.
There were no doors on the car. His feet hit the ground at once.
He stared down the alley and settled the hat on his head, pressing it into place. The broad brim of the fedora sat slightly askew, shadowing one eye.
Then, black coat swirling about his knees, he strode into the alley.
The driver watched his back for a moment before drawing a pistol from under the steering wheel and turning it over in his hands.
A clandestine underground bar.
Down a narrow flight of stairs, a soft jazz melody seeped from behind a heavy wooden door.
Inside, the place was thick with tobacco smoke.
Under the dim lights the only people present were Sheldon, who occupied a single table, and a bartender wiping a glass with a cloth.
A wall clock on one side pointed to eight o'clock.
Not night—early morning.
Sheldon checked the time and ground his teeth.
"Damn it. Too late."
With every passing minute a deeper unease settled in his chest. Restless, he bounced his leg and tapped his fingers on the table.
"How long does it take to deal with a bunch of kids? Useless bastards. I should've gone myself."
Territory wars between gangs over business interests were in full swing. Fall behind and you were absorbed—or erased.
It was an age of walking on thin ice.
Sheldon had been on the verge of locking down the West Side. Until those rootless New York brats showed up.
Glug.
He poured whiskey into a glass to shake off the anxiety.
The crystal tumbler was elegant enough, but the liquor inside was anything but. Hold it to the light and you could see fine particles floating. Bring the rim to your nose and a raw blast of alcohol and grain hit hard. There was none of the soft caramel or vanilla you expected from proper whiskey.
So when Sheldon knocked it back, his face twisted of its own accord.
The rough, bitter burn scraped down his throat and left only a searing heat behind.
Still, it wasn't bad. Even if it was cheap whiskey, rushed and poorly refined.
It was liquor. That was enough.
Because liquor was gold.
"And they want a cut of this? Bastards who don't know their place."
He had thrown every man he had at wiping them out, and still no word.
As a chaser he clamped a Cuban cigar between his teeth, drew deep, and exhaled. Thick smoke gathered under the lamp and drifted apart.
That was when footsteps came down the stairs.
The bartender's hand stopped wiping. Sheldon narrowed his eyes and fixed his stare on the entrance.
Creeeak.
The heavy door swung open.
A man in a black coat.
He tipped up the fedora he had pressed down with his fingers, and sharp, double-lidless eyes of deep brown swept the room.
"…Who the hell are you?"
The man's piercing gaze locked on Sheldon.
"Union. Knox."
"!"
The target who should already have been eliminated was standing right in front of him.
Sheldon's pupils jolted. The liquor drained from him in an instant.
Still holding cloth and glass, the bartender kept his eyes on Knox while slowly lowering a hand beneath the bar counter. Fingers found the sawed-off shotgun hidden there—barrel cut short, stock modified for concealment.
The muzzle whipped up toward Knox.
Bang!
The shot cracked. The bartender's head snapped back. Blood sprayed as his body slammed into the back bar; bottles and glasses crashed down in a glittering avalanche.
Smoke curling from its muzzle, Knox's gun swung next to Sheldon's head.
The face that had been ruddy moments before had gone past pale to a sickly blue.
"I said we should join hands. Never said anything about stabbing me in the back."
At Knox's calm voice Sheldon exploded, shouting.
"Fuck! If I take your hand, what about the other gangs? Can you even handle the South and the North Sides— n-no, I was wrong. I'm sorry. It wasn't a double-cross. I just wanted to test your strength. R-right now, we could still do the bootlegging busin—"
Bang!
"Yap, yap…"
Too much talk.
Knox slipped the pistol back inside his coat and strolled out of the bar.
The bartender lay sprawled among the shattered whiskey bottles. Sheldon slumped face-down on the table.
As of today, Sheldon's West Side gang had been deleted.
An age when whiskey was gold.
Gangsters and the mafia.
This was Chicago—chaos seething with the hungers hidden beneath the shadow of Prohibition.
The very heart of the dry years of 1920.