8.

THE NORTH STATE STREET flower shop bell rings as Daniel opens the door, hurrying in from the cold November morning, his three-year-old daughter Ruby in his arms. Closing the door with his foot, he swings Ruby up and through the air in one fluid, athletic movement. Childish laughter floods the room, and Dean O’Banion, entering the shop from the back room, laughs at the expression of sheer joy on Ruby’s face. Swinging Ruby again in a long arc, Daniel slows his movement and deposits her firmly on her feet before him. Ruby’s face is flushed, both from the cold morning and the excitement of the ride, her dark hair escaping the confines of her woollen hat. She beams with adoration up at her father, happy to be out with him and away from the house on Maple Street, where the blinds are drawn and the rooms are quiet and sad.

She knows her brother is gone; she’s just not sure where. His clothes are still there and his crib is still in his room, where mommy sits rocking, waiting for him maybe, his favourite teddy bear on her lap. Ruby knows it’s his favourite because even though he can’t speak yet—except for the “da, da, da,” that makes her laugh—every time she holds Teddy up to him, he always reaches for it. Sometimes he reaches so far forward that he topples right over, rolling like a sausage onto his stomach, his hand still reaching for Teddy, his smile showing two small white teeth breaking the gum. He never cries, her little brother; he is always smiling, and his smile gets even bigger when he sees Teddy. That’s how she knows….

“And how is our beautiful wee princess today?” Dean O’Banion asks, crouching down and taking Ruby’s chin in his hand, his face large and looming before her. “Oh, you sure are a beauty, aren’t you, Ruby girl?” He lapses into his phony Irish accent. Kissing her forehead, Dean stands, smiling at Daniel. He is dressed in the white smock he wears when he arranges flowers, his shears still in his left hand. “I imagine she’ll keep you busy with the boys in a few years.”

“Yes, I’m sure she will,” Daniel answers, smiling down at his daughter.

“How’s Jeanie doing?”

Daniel shrugs the smile from his face. “Better, I think. The flowers were magnificent, Dean. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, Daniel. My heart goes out to you and Jeanie.” Reaching out, Dean places his hand on Daniel’s shoulder, but the intimacy is too much for both men. Daniel, twisting out of reach, takes in the massive amount of flowers for the first time; roses—white, yellow. and red—sit in buckets of water crowding out the floor. More flowers than he has ever seen overwhelm the counters and spill from basins. He spots geraniums, orchids, and baby’s breath, along with even more that he couldn’t possibly name. The smell is an overwhelming mixture of pleasant and sickening.

“What’s going on? Getting ready for a big wedding or something?”

“No, no.” Dean coughs out a laugh. “Just the opposite. Mike Merlo finally gave it up to cancer. His funeral is tomorrow.”

“Yeah, and I’m still nervous about that, Dean.” Hymie Weiss, walks into the room at that moment, talking as if the conversation had never been interrupted. “You should make peace with Torrio and Capone; you should offer some restitution for Sieben’s.”

“Oh, Hymie!” Dean turns, laughing. “Why would I make restitution for the proudest moment of my life? Torrio don’t scare me, and he won’t tell me what to do. To hell with them Sicilians! That’s what I say. If Torrio won’t clear those Genna brothers off my territory, he’s asking for trouble.”

“Yeah, well you’re bringing it to him! Not that he don’t deserve it, Dean. But throwing Torrio to the Feds? Well, he’s gonna be coming back for blood.”

Hymie’s eyes cut from Dean to Daniel. He nods curtly, his features set, his tone dismissive. “Your brother’s upstairs, Daniel. I think he’s excepting you.”

“Thanks, Hymie. I’ll head up,” Daniel replies, relieved to be leaving. The room that only a moment ago seemed so joyful with colour and good wishes is now heavy with foreboding, the feeling as tangible as the sickly-sweet odour of roses hanging in the air.

Swinging Ruby up into his arms, Daniel moves past Hymie and Dean and into the back room. He passes the cold storage and rushes to the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time to the office above. The weak, milky-white November sunlight spilling into the upstairs office is bright and almost too harsh for Daniel as he emerges from the darkness of the stairwell. Michael is sitting at the table by the window with Bugs Moran. Laying before them, a handful of metallic objects.

“What the hell is going on here?” Daniel asks, his voice tight with bewilderment and fear.

“Oh, Danny, my boy.” Michael laughs, quickly putting a gun down on the table and stepping forward, blocking the scene from his young niece. “I didn’t know you’d be bringing the princess. Let’s move into the office and Bugs can clear off the table.” He steers Daniel, with Ruby still in his arms, toward the office door.

“So how is Uncle Michael’s wee princess today?” Michael continues in a soothing tone. “Have you come to visit me with your Da?”

Ruby nods, unsure if she should speak, sensitive to the sound of her father’s voice, so different from what she is used to. She has heard this new voice more often recently, in the darkened rooms at home. Instead she looks around, realizing with excitement that she has been here before. Last time, she slid on the chairs and jumped on the cracked leather couch, which she can never do at home.

“What’s going on, Michael?” Daniel asks, placing Ruby down; his voice is less harsh, but his eyes never leave his brother’s.

“Nothing good, let me tell you.” He pauses. “How’s Jeanie?”

“Better … the same…. I don’t know.” Daniel shrugs, the thought of his wife, her despair that lingers like the smell of over-ripe fruit in a house already pungent with loss. “It’s hard to know what to do.”

The silence stretches between them, connecting them, separating them. Unspoken thoughts circle them. Their mother’s death had been quick and quiet; she had slipped from the world without a ripple, followed closely by Daniel’s son, James Joseph Kenny. Baby James. Daniel’s mind touches the memory like a tongue pressing a toothache—pain, the reminder of reality. Jamie’s small body, listless with fever, lying in Jeanie’s arms, his eyes helplessly beautiful. Where is the rhyme or the reason, Daniel wonders? He shakes his head, dislodges the memory, and returns to the present. He knows there is no other way. Forcing his thoughts forward, his voice when he speaks is ragged and foreign, a stranger’s voice.

“So, what is the nothing good that’s going on, Michael? Hymie is downstairs with Dean, and the friction between them is pretty evident. Then I come up here, and you and crazy Moran are handling hardware?”

Ruby is exploring the room. Running her fingers over the smooth leather couch, pulling out books from the shelves, she thinks it would be fun to play house here with someone. Then she remembers Patty, her rag-doll, hidden in Daddy’s coat pocket.

“Daddy, can I have my doll?” she asks excitedly.

Extracting the doll from his pocket with difficulty, Daniel hands her to his daughter. “Here you go, honey.”

Both men watch as Ruby takes her doll to the dormer window. Chatting to herself, she arranges her doll into the corner and begins to tell an elaborate story; she is lost to the world of her imagination. Daniel is surprised by the strength of emotion he feels surging through him every time he looks at his daughter—his history and his future together in one small, fragile being. She is tenacious, this child of his. Jeanie finds her headstrong, but Daniel knows she will need that kind of strength to face a world as unpredictable and, at times, unfair, as this.

“Take your coat off, Daniel, and sit. I’ll pour us a short one and fill you in. You’ve had your hands full the last little while, and a lot has happened.”

Throwing his coat over the arm of a chair, Daniel sits. “Isn’t it a bit early for a short one?”

“Are you arguing with the doctor, lad?” Michael hands Daniel the drink.

“No.” Daniel shakes his head, smiling at the old joke. “I guess I could use it after all. I think I’d like to get lost in the bottom of that bottle.”

Michael nods in understanding and sits across from his brother. Extracting his cigarettes from his pocket, he offers one to Daniel, who shakes his head. “How’s the job going? Any more promotions?” Michael asks, lighting up and inhaling deeply.

Before he answers, Daniel lets the scotch fill his senses, enjoying the burn as he swallows, almost thankful for the harsh bite. He is feeling more present than he has in months. “No,” he answers. “Not for a while, I think. McKinsey is expanding the company quickly but cautiously. Financing and accounting as a business is a new idea for local manufacturers, but they’re starting to realize that it’s a necessity.”

“You’ll still be able to do the books here, though?”

“Yeah, I can’t see that ever being a problem. The company is getting more and more clients, and business is booming, but I’ll always be able to help Dean, although I haven’t looked at his books in a while.”

“So, there is only one way but up for you.” Michael laughs. “I always knew you were born under a lucky star.”

“Well, I don’t know so much about that.” Daniel’s eyes cloud and his gaze falls on Ruby, who is busily chatting to her doll. She has struggled out of her hat and coat, and they lie beside her, the sun falling across them, the smoke in the room drifting up like lost dreams.

“So, let me fill you in on things here, Danny-boy,” Michael hurries on, uncomfortable with his brother’s pain sweeping into the room like a cold draft.

“Yeah, what’s going on?” Daniel nods, anxious to busy his mind with other concerns.

“Mike Merlo died.”

“Yeah, Dean said. That’s too bad. But what’s the problem?”

“Well, Merlo was the only one standing between Dean and Torrio. You know Merlo—he was the president of their Unione Siciliano or something.” Michael shrugs at his mispronunciation. “Anyways, his word was law for those guys, and Merlo don’t like violence.” Michael shrugs. “Now that Merlo bit it, Hymie thinks there’ll be serious trouble. Capone is ruthless and Torrio listens to him. Hymie thinks big trouble is coming.”

“Torrio is the head of the organization over there, isn’t he? Remember we used to call him torero, the bullfighter. I always thought he was competent. Why is he listening to Capone?”

“Capone has got a one-track mind. If you ask me, he would love to take over the whole operation. So, I figure Torrio plays along with him and keeps him close.

“So, what’s Hymie so worried about? I thought things were going well with Torrio.”

“Yeah, they were for a while, but the Genna brothers started moving in on our territory and Torrio wouldn’t do a goddamned thing about it. The Gennas are selling their liquor at three dollars a barrel, and we sell ours at between six and nine. Their liquor is total shit, but they’re selling it on our turf. When Dean found out he hit the floor running; he told Torrio to keep his goons out of the North Side or else.” Michael takes another drag, stubbing the butt into the brass ashtray to his left. Shaking his head, he continues, “Those Genna brothers are a mean bunch. There’s five of them, and I think Capone is their captain. They’re Torrio’s army, but they’re a power unto themselves. I don’t know if Torrio is actually behind the move into our territory, or if he really can’t control the Gennas. Anyways, we had a sit down about it and it didn’t go well.”

Michael leans back, sipping his scotch, his mind drawn back to that evening. He remembers the look in Dean’s eyes, stone cold and piercing, as he stared down Torrio with the bravado of the fearless, or the foolish. More and more, when he allows himself to go there, Michael feels the cold sweat of worry. Dean is a good match for Torrio, but it’s Capone who pulls the air from the room.

“Daddy. Daddy!” Ruby calls from her world by the window. A smile lights up her face, engaging and open. “Daddy, come see the house I made for Patty! Daddy!”

“All right, my Jewel, I’m coming,” Daniel answers, looking at Michael and smiling. “She’s only three and already I do her bidding.”

Michael shrugs, laughing. “That’s women for ya’. They start young.”

“Well, this is quite the structure, honey.” Daniel crouches beside her and inspects the stacks of books piled up around his daughter. “Maybe we should just straighten out a few—that way the walls of your house won’t topple in on you. All right?” Daniel straightens the walls of Ruby’s ambitious doll’s house. “There. That’s better.”

“Can you play with me, Daddy?” Ruby strokes Patty’s hair and looks up into Daniel’s face; she hasn’t felt this happy in a long time.

“Later, honey. Let Daddy spend some more time with uncle Michael, and then I’ll take you and Patty for a nice lunch. How does that sound? Do you think Patty would like that?”

“Oh yes,” Ruby answers seriously. “Patty has to eat her lunch to grow up strong.”

Daniel laughs and returns to Michael, whose amusement at the exchange shows in his smile. “You’re a good father, Danny.”

“You taught me well, Mick.”

There is humour in the exchange, but Daniel means every word. His eyes meet Michael’s. The two brothers smile, and in a single moment, their history passes between them: Michael’s youth sacrificed to bigger concerns, his struggle to take their father’s place, setting himself up as the barrier for Daniel and their mother against the harshness of life.

Too old before his time, Daniel thinks, looking at his brother. A man before he was a boy and now, thin and greying while still in his prime. Forcing these thoughts from his mind, Daniel asks, “So, where were we? The Gennas taking over Dean’s territory.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Dean has been dissatisfied with Torrio and Capone ever since he helped them take over Cicero.” Michael continues, picking up the thread of the conversation.

“I thought that was a done deal? Papa Torrio took that territory almost three years ago. Daniel’s facetious use of John Torrio’s mob name is not lost on Michael. “Dean was happy to help him out then. So what happened?”

Michael nods. “Torrio is smart. He fixed the elections in Cicero so’s he could move his headquarters out of the city limits and away from the pressure of the reformers and Mayor Dever. Dean even sent a dozen of us over to Cicero to lean on the constituency on election day.”

“Yeah, I remember all that. So why the trouble over Cicero now?”

“Well, Cicero has become a big cash cow, Danny boy. The South Side is seducing more politicians and cementing its hold on everything moving in and out of the goddamn city. Those goons are becoming more condescending in their attitude. Makes me so mad, I could spit blood! Torrio has more than he can handle: The South Side, the prostitution ring, Cicero, the Canadian liquor consortium.” Taking another long swallow, Michael shakes his head, the politics of all of this getting to him. “Then about a year ago, Torrio gave Dean a strip of Cicero territory, just like he was throwing a bone to a dog.”

“Yeah, I know that. So what?”

“Well, the earnings in that territory are pretty slim, about twenty grand a month—such a minor concession that it verges on insult. Dean said he had a plan and that he’d beat the Ities at their own game, and he did! Dean has quadrupled the income by leaning on fifty or so of the saloon keepers on the South and West Side, and now we got them doing business in our territory.”

Daniel stares at his brother, his mind racing. His throat constricts around his last swallow of scotch, and he has difficulty answering. “This is sounding pretty reckless on Dean’s part. I mean, this is heading for serious trouble.”

“Yeah, you telling me. Torrio was none too happy at the sit-down, let me tell ya’.” Michael swirls the golden liquid in the bottom of his glass, remembering the scene in the drafty back room of the abandoned mill

“DEAN, MY FRIEND,” Torrio’s voice is low and controlled. A smile plays at the corners of his jackal mouth. “I need some kick-back from your Cicero territory. You cannot undermine me on my own turf—what will the neighbours think? We will agree on a weekly price, and then we will talk about the Gennas.” Torrio nods slightly in the direction of Sam and Angelo Genna, who, standing to his left, are far enough away that the conversation remains private but close enough that their menacing glare is undeniable.

Dean, his attitude unwavering, the smile on his face incongruous with the murderous look in his eye, lets the moment stretch on to minutes; the sweat running down Michael’s back is the only movement in the room.

“Okay. All right. You drive a hard bargain, O’Banion. No one can ever say you’re not a tenacious business man!” Torrio laughs, trying unsuccessfully to dispel the tension in the air. Nodding to Capone, who is seated to his right, he continues, “Perhaps we will offer interests in the brothel. Fifteen percent. You agree to weekly payments for Cicero and take fifteen percent of the brothels in the area. It’s a good offer, my friend.”

“I’ll have no dealings in brothels.” Dean breaks his silence, the anger in his voice barely contained. “There are no brothels on the North Side and there never will be. I’ll not deal in human flesh.” Dean’s voice drops to a whisper with the last statement. Leaning forward, he continues, his eyes locked on Torrio’s, his jaw muscles jumping. “Remove the Genna dogs from my territory.”

Torrio leans back and laughs again, loud, boisterous. “Dean, my friend, I cannot force the Gennas to do anything. It is a free country, is it not?”

Before the words are out of Torrio’s mouth, Dean is up from the table. “Let’s go, boys.” Dean nods to Michael, Hymie, and Ducci. Then he turns and looks back at Torrio, Capone, and the Gennas. “You won’t take care of the Gennas, Torrio. I will!”

DANIEL SHAKES HIS HEAD, blood pounding in his temples. “So Torrio won’t keep the Gennas under control?”

“Won’t or can’t. Anyways, we hit two Genna shipments and it was a good haul.” Michael smiles, the innocent smile of a child happy with the outcome of his game. “Over thirty grand in Canadian whiskey! But that’s not the best of it.” He gets up and takes Daniel’s empty glass. “You’ll need another one for this.”

“But we’re running our own Canadian whiskey. Why hit the Gennas?”

“It ain’t about money anymore, Danny boy. It’s about honour. We can’t let just anyone walk in and start operating out of our territory. Torrio gave Dean the Cicero territory, and now he’s leaning on him for kickback. He won’t call off the Genna dogs, and then he insults Dean by suggesting he take an interest in the brothels. You know how Dean is against that—hell, everyone knows!”

Daniel watches his brother, his forehead creased with worry. He’s going too far with this, he thinks. This is still just a game to him. And he’s too thin. And lonely. Daniel can hardly understand what holds his brother so tightly to this life. The O’Banion gang has become his whole world, consuming him to the point of obsession. Michael has no wife, not children, no home life. He is still living in the old neighbourhood, one of the few left from the old days. The gang has become wealthy and influential, all of them except Michael, moving with growing families out to more prestigious areas, into homes they could never have imagined a few short years ago.

The American dream is coming to fruition in barrels of Canadian whiskey and syndicated crime. Although the syndication is yet to become fully realized, Daniel knows it’s headed in that direction. The neighbourhood gangs have become more and more organized. They have transformed from groups of delinquent children to deadly serious organizations with levels, with routes, with influence that reaches from one area of the country to the other, one continent to another. They export whiskey from The Distillery Company of London, in Britain to the Liquormans in Canada, who then act as middlemen, importing and exporting to and from America. Their main contact is Arnold Rothstein, who will eventually become the godfather of organized crime. Within a decade of the Roaring Twenties, the syndication will be peddling heroin, cocaine, and other illegal substances through the same means—the same wholesale, transportation, and retail system developed to bootleg booze during prohibition. Daniel can’t predict the specific outcome of their activities, but he can feel the power and deadly intent growing as these gangs organize and legitimize themselves through corruption.

Daniel takes a deep breath as a sudden realization passes through him. He thinks of himself as a moral man; he thinks of his brother as a good man, although perhaps too caught up in the machinations of the city’s gangs. In France, Daniel saw moral men doing immoral things; the compass somehow never finding true north, and war called for desperate measures. Is this war? He looks at Ruby sitting in the sunlight at the window and thinks of Jeanie. Handing him his glass, Michael interrupts the reverie.

Michael is smiling at the story he is about to tell, warming to it like a cold man before a fire. “Things pretty much settled down after that. There were a few more sit-downs, and Dean promised to keep the status quo, but we hit the Gennas two more times and nothing happened. Torrio didn’t even come after us for restitution for the score, Dean went to Torrio with a proposition, telling him he wanted to retire.”

“Dean’s retiring? Good idea. Maybe you should consider it yourself, Mick. Buy a big house down by the lake and find yourself a wife!” Daniel, suddenly happy at the turn of events, can’t keep the excitement from his voice.

Michael’s look is flat, his voice clipped. “Dean’s not retiring. He told Torrio that he was so’s Torrio would buy him out of Sieben’s.”

“Sieben’s?” Daniel thinks for a moment. “Oh yeah, that’s right. Dean owns fifty percent of that place. Gambling and alcohol, always the best money makers.” Daniel’s irony is lost on Michael.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Best money-maker on the North Side. Well, Dean got tipped off that they were gonna raid the place. I mean, Torrio ain’t the only one with politicians in his pocket. So, Dean convinces him that he’s ready to retire and work at the flower shop with Viola—he’s always here anyways—and that he wants Torrio to buy out his shares.

Daniel shakes his head, his thoughts racing. “I find that hard to believe. That Torrio would think Dean is ready to retire. God knows he’s got the money to retire, but Dean’s addicted to this.” Daniel lifts his arm, but he’s suddenly not sure what he’s indicating. The room, the criminal world, the influence, the power?

“Well, maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. But I guess he figured Dean wanted to sell his shares for whatever reason. And you know Torrio—he’s always up for an opportunity to increase his holdings in anything and everything.”

Daniel nods. He doesn’t know Torrio and doesn’t want to; he’s happy to stay on the periphery of things. He’s frightened for his brother. The momentum of Michael’s lifestyle seems to grow exponentially with every passing day; it’s like a vortex of power, sucking morality from a man with dizzying speed, a game of chance with an inevitable outcome and the highest possible stakes. Daniel feels the weight of worry, cold and gnawing in the pit of his stomach.

Still unconvinced by Michael’s story, he asks, “So, what happened?”

“Torrio had his lawyers there. He paid. Dean signed.”

“Do you know how much?”

“Half a mil.”

Daniel’s whistle is low and long. “Sweet Jesus!”

“Dean signed over his shares, and now Torrio owns the Sieben, lock, stock, and barrel. They met there the following week to finish the details. They were sitting at the table in the back of Sieben’s with the lawyers, the deed done, so to speak”—Michael slaps his knee, anticipating the punch line—“when they got raided. Chief Collins and his captain, Zimmerman, and the boys in blue came hauling in and arrested twenty-eight guys, including Dean, Hymie, and Torrio. They also confiscated thirteen trucks loaded with liquor.”

“Dean got arrested?”

“Yeah, but because he ain’t got no interest in the brewery, they can’t hold him. He knew that would happen, and he also knew what they’d do to Torrio.”

“What?”

“They handed him over to the Feds cause it was Torrio’s second arrest for violating prohibition. Torrio was caught with some egg on his face, boy! It was the best sting I ever heard of!”

“Torrio must be beside himself. This is serious, goddam business, Michael.”

“I’ll say. But that guy plays his cards pretty close to his chest. Hymie is worried sick. He thinks Dean is thumbing his nose at Torrio and there’ll be trouble.”

“What does Dean think?”

“Dean thinks it’s the best prank he’s ever pulled. Told Hymie not to be so frightened of those ‘gutter rats,’ as he calls them.” Michael laughs.

Daniel is quiet, watching Ruby, who has looked over at the sound of her uncle’s mirth. She smiles at Daniel, and he returns the smile automatically, his mind struggling with the ramifications of what his brother is telling him. “I don’t know, Mick. It’s not that funny. It sounds pretty serious. I think Hymie is right. Dean should call a truce, make peace. Torrio isn’t going to take this lying down.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Michael says, sobering up. “And now Mike Merlo ain’t here to balance things out. Merlo prefers talk to violence, and all those Italian boys bend their knees to him.”

“What do you think? What are you going to do?”

Michael looks at Daniel, smiling in reluctant acceptance. “What can you do? Dean is the way he is. For months now he’s been saying ‘to hell with the Sicilians.’ He ain’t gonna start playing ball with them now.”

“You’re going to have to be careful, Mick. Maybe the gang should break up for a while.”

“No, nothing is gonna happen right away. They still gotta bury Merlo. Torrio’s boys have already been in here ordering roses like they’re going outta style. Torrio’s order is almost ten grand! And James Genna and Carmen Vacco ordered a seven-hundred-and-fifty-dollar wreath to be picked up today. Things will be quiet for a while. They gotta bury their king.”

“If you say so,” Daniel answers, unconvinced. “But I think I’ll take the books home with me and work from there for the next few weeks.”

“Good idea.” Michael stands, taking Daniel’s empty glass.

“Why don’t we go grab some lunch? I’ve got to feed Ruby something or she’ll go all day without eating.”

“No, Danny, but thanks for asking. I got some work to do with Bugs, and it’s a bit early for lunch for me.”

“Okay. I’ll nip out with Ruby and grab some lunch and be back in an hour or so. You want me to bring you back anything? I hate to sound like Ma, but you need some meat on your bones.”

“Yeah, you do sound like Ma!” Michael laughs at the serious expression on his brother’s face, a look he’d recognize anywhere. “Sure. I know I won’t get anywhere with you unless you have it your way. If you’re going to Grady’s, bring me back whatever the lunch special is.” He looks at Daniel. The space between them is charged with emotion, brotherly concern, familial assent, and something else. “Do you feel better now?”

Daniel shakes his head, laughing. “Honest to god, Michael, you are worse than a child. I’ll bring you back something. And you better eat it!”

HOLDING A PAPER BAG—the lunch special from Grady’s—in one hand and Ruby in the other, her sleepy weight comfortably against him, Daniel makes his way back to Schofield’s.

Memory is a funny thing, easily disrupted and confused by traumatic events. The horrors of France never come back to Daniel as one chronological story; instead, without warning, they seep into his conscious mind like oily liquid, spreading in a deep pool of disorder. Bright, disjointed moments come back to him highlighted in surreal imagery, frightening in their unreality, as his mind rushes to understand, refuses to accept. He knew something was wrong before the door to Schofield’s had closed behind him. The stillness? The feeling of total emptiness? The smell? All of these things and something else, something indescribable, unrecognizable but present.

The shop bell rings above his head, jovially announcing his entrance. He is aware of Ruby’s weight in his arms, her body warm against his chest, her sleepy breath on his neck, and her small whimper, a response to the tensing of his muscles

“Dean?” Daniel calls out, circumspect, hearing nothing but the thin fall of his voice. It is hard to breathe after the cold air of the street. He feels overpowered by the heat of the flower shop and by the cloying odour of so many roses and something else he recognizes, sitting at the edge of understanding, the slight metallic smell of blood. He knows what he will find. And then, he is standing over Dean, whose body lies at the side of the counter, his eyes open in a look of surprise. Blood covers his face, his chest, his stomach, the floor around him, the corners of his mouth.

“Shh…. It’s okay, honey.” Daniel reassures Ruby, who has stirred in his arms.

A cold sweat has broken out all over his body; his coat feels heavy and restricting. He knows he is reacting to the horror; his body is reacting to the perceived threat. His vision narrows and he fights to control his breathing, willing his heart to slow and focusing his attention on his sleeping daughter. Tucking her head under his chin, he moves in a hypnotic state past Dean’s body and to the back room. The back door is open half way, the pale noon light falling across the floor and along the wall. Jimmy Dolan, the boy Dean employs to clean up and make deliveries, sits on the bottom step. He doesn’t notice Daniel approach him.

“Jimmy. Jimmy.” Daniel places a hand tentatively on the boy’s shoulder. Moving out of the flower shop has steadied Daniel’s resolve, but he struggles to raise his voice above a whisper. “Jimmy, son. It’s me, Daniel Kenny.”

The boy looks up, his eyes focusing with effort. “Mr. Kenny?”

“Yes, Jimmy. What happened? Where’s my brother?”

“I don’t know, sir. I was just coming back and leaning my bike against the wall like I always do. I was going in to tell Mr. O’Banion that I’m back when I sees one of those Jewett’s touring cars pulling up in front of the shop. I didn’t think nothing of it at first, but I just stays behind the door here.” Jimmy stares off.

“Jimmy. Jimmy!” Daniel shakes the boy’s shoulder gently until he sees recognition settle into his eyes. “Then what happened?” Daniel asks soothingly, leading Jimmy like a blind man back to the moment. “What happened after you saw the car?”

“Three men come in. All three of them walking together right up to Mr. O’Banion,” Jimmy continues without looking at Daniel, his eyes focused into the distance. “The one in the middle is kinda tall, with a fedora and a long coat. Mr. O’Banion moves out to shake hands and asks ’em if they’re from Mike Merlo’s. They’re smiling, and the guy in the middle says, ‘Yeah, that’s right. We’s here for Mike’s flowers,’ and he takes Mr. O’Banion’s hand and pulls him in close and the other guys kinda surround him and they just start shooting him and before he even falls they’re coming toward the door and I move back and they push open the door and go up the stairs….” Jimmy’s words trail off, and he drops his head into his hands, taking deep ragged breaths.

“It’s okay, son. Can you get up? I think you should head home. I’ll deal with this.” Daniel helps Jimmy up. The boy seems stunned, but there is little he can do for him. “Will you be alright to get home by yourself?”

Jimmy nods, then holds out his hand toward Ruby and strokes her cheek. “She’s frightened.”

Ruby’s face is white, her eyes large and luminous under her hat. She looks at Jimmy without seeing him.

“She’ll be fine.” Daniel covers Ruby’s face with his hand, tucking her tighter under his arm and against his chest. “Are you sure you can make it home?”

“Yeah. I’m all right now.”

“Walk your bike home and remember to take deep, even breaths. All right? And Jimmy? No need to mention this to anyone yet. I’ll deal with this. All right, son?”

Jimmy nods, hesitating before he leaves. “I heard shots up there too.” He indicates the office with a nod of his head; his eyes, locked with Daniel’s, flicker before he turns. When he moves through the back door, the weak light is momentarily obliterated, and then he is gone.

Daniel climbs the stairs, a prayer like a mantra filling his thoughts. Please God, please God. His blood pounds in time with the chant. Pausing in front of the door, he tries to gather his thoughts, which are fracturing like glass before him. Ruby must be his only concern. He should leave now, follow Jimmy out the back door and into the afternoon light, but he is worried for his brother’s life. He already knows what he will find, but still he is compelled to push open the door.

Michael is on the floor. There is a chair next to him, which looks to have toppled over as he grappled the air while falling back. Unlike Dean, he has not been shot at close range. This shooting was hasty; it stopped Michael in his tracks as he headed through the office, keeping him from intervening in the violence downstairs. He is not dead; his chest rises and falls with an effort that Daniel recognizes.

“Michael?” Keeping Ruby’s head turned away, he kneels over his brother and watches Michael’s eyes flutter open. “Michael?”

“Danny?” His voice is choked with the sound of liquid.

“Yeah, Mick. It’s me. What the hell happened? Who did this?”

“I didn’t know them, but they’re Torrio’s boys. They said they were here for payback….” Michael’s coughing halts his story, racking his body with violent tremors.

“Don’t talk, Mick. I’ll call for help. We’ll get you to the hospital.”

“No, Danny.” Daniel can feel the stickiness of his brother’s blood as Michael grabs his hand, his grip tightening with immediacy.

“No…. Don’t … call. Listen … to me.”

“Michael….” Daniel shakes his head, his eyes searching Michael’s.

“No….” Struggling for speech and breath, Michael pleads for understanding. Tears slip from his eyes, bright with urgency. “Listen to me … please.” His words are sluggish, his breathing shallow, his heart slowing. Daniel nods his compliance, unable to answer.

“You have to leave Chicago….”

There is a long silence. Daniel knows his brother wants to say more, but the effort is monumental. It takes everything he has. “Take them … and leave.”

Michael’s words hang in the air. His breathing is a harsh rasp as his lungs fill with blood. It’s a sound Daniel has heard too often. Micheal’s eyes close and then open again. He struggles to stay focused, stay conscious. The last of his energy is being given to this moment. There is nothing now for Daniel; the world has been narrowed to this experience, this place, the few inches between brothers. He strokes back Michael’s hair and looks into his familiar eyes, into his brother’s face strained with pain. “The … safe…. Take the money….” Michael’s eyes close, his face chalk white, the bones beneath pushing forward. With an effort, he opens his eyes. “If they’d a come in a few minutes earlier, the safe woulda been wide open.” He begins to cough, holding his hand over his stomach. Daniel holds Ruby’s head against his chest with one hand and supports his brother with the other. When he has calmed, Michael continues, “Better you take the money and get out, Danny. The boys will think it was swiped by Torrio.” He nods. His eyes close briefly, but he forces them open again. “Do it now … Danny.” His voice is a command, familiar and forceful, demanding a younger brother’s compliance.

“I’m doing it, Michael. I’m doing it,” Daniel replies, taking Michael’s hand in his.

“Good, Danny. Good.” Michael relaxes, his ragged breath slipping from his body. His eyes are open, but Daniel can already see the emptiness behind them.

He stays with his brother, he’s not sure for how long. It’s not until Ruby moves that Daniel realizes he has been frozen in place. Ruby squirms in his arms but she is quiet, watchful. Reaching out, she touches the hand of her uncle, still held in Daniel’s own. She begins to hum a song, a nursery rhyme that Daniel recognizes but cannot name. His thoughts have deserted him, scattering like starlings roused from a tree and circling beyond the horizon. Now, they return with a clarity that heightens his awareness. Gently, he lets go of Michael’s hand and takes Ruby’s. Holding it against his chest, he rocks her back and forth, looking around the room for the first time. He wonders how long it’s been since he stepped through the front door. It seems like hours, days even, but could only have been minutes. How long would it be before someone else comes into the flower shop and finds the bodies? Standing, he is cramped and sore. His arm aches with fatigue as he holds his daughter, pulling her tighter into his chest..

“Ruby,” he whispers, moving her from one arm to the other. He goes into the back room and around the desk to the safe. He knows the combination, and he runs the tumbler with one hand, Ruby snug in the other.

The safe is full; the smell of money wafts up to him in the small stuffy room. His mind racing, he begins to scan the office for something to carry the money in. There is nothing on the desk, but then, behind the credenza, he finds an old leather satchel. His from his school days he thinks, vaguely amused.

It is awkward, holding Ruby and filling the bag, but he does it, stacking the money in as neatly and quickly as he can. He begins to sing the song Ruby was humming, “Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies,” distracting them both from the present. The sun has changed its angle; the afternoon has moved on. Before leaving the office, he thinks to take the last ledger. It’s more to carry, but he has been seen carrying ledgers back and forth from the flower shop for years. It seems natural, and he grasps for anything that can bring a sense of normalcy to this day, anything that can quell the sea of unease churning in his stomach. He is anxious to leave, to be out in the street and on his way home. The office is eerily quiet, heightening the sounds from outside: the traffic rumbling by, children’s voices carried through the tunnelled streets and floating up from blocks away, dogs barking echoing from distant corners of the unheeding city. All of this, and the room itself, make the moment surreal. He wishes he could walk out with his eyes closed and not have to see his brother’s body. He doesn’t want that final image of his brother to stain his memory forever. Moving into the room, he stays as far away from the area as he can, talking and singing to Ruby in soothing tones, focusing on his daughter and her safety. The stairwell is in semi darkness as he heads down; the back door is not quite closed, and the sunlight illuminates a strip of floor like a pathway to freedom. This is the quickest way out.

Now the fear of discovery tightens his chest; blood thumps through his ears, making it difficult to concentrate. If he can make it out with the money, he and Jeanie can leave Chicago and start a new life. They could return to Canada, to Montreal. He can set up his own business, a new home. A life away from this, he thinks, taking one last look along the hallway and into the flower shop, the odour of roses and death hanging heavy in the air. Ruby retches at the smell, then vomits her lunch over her hand and onto Daniel’s chest and arm. Her visceral reaction urges him outside and into the sunlight of the November afternoon. As quickly as he can, he escapes the flower shop and all it contains.

The bodies in Schofield’s are not discovered until early evening, when Viola, Dean’s wife, drops by to help with the orders for the next day. Within minutes, the flower shop is swarmed with Chicago’s finest, making notes, taking pictures. Jimmy Owen will be interviewed, and the three men’s description will be circulated. It will be years before the main gunman is named. Frankie Yale, a New York mobster, and two others, John Scalise and Albert Anselmi. The modus operandi, three men shooting victims with a handgun at close range, will come to be known as the Chicago handshake. O’Banion’s death will begin the bloodiest and most violent era in Chicago’s history, culminating in the St. Valentine’s Day massacre on February 14, 1929.

If we are present at some historic event, can we hope to comprehend it? Can we even remember it with accuracy? Perhaps retelling it as a story is the only way we can make sense of it, make it acceptable, make it real, or as real as we imagined. Jimmy will tell his story to the police, to his parents, to his neighbours, to his children and eventually his grandchildren. The tale will be told and retold, embellished, improvised, and glamourized. He will always remember the part he played in the history of the Chicago gangs, the death of Dean O’Banion, the end of the Irish stronghold on the North Side, and the beginnings of syndicated crime in America.