#a dynamite case

Chapter 1

In the center of town is Mike's Diner. It was an old rundown building of a restaurant, but it still brought in plenty of customers daily. The building had worn white paint, rusted chromed sidings  and only seven of its titled neon lights functioned properly.  Its owner was Mike Mitchell. An ironically little man from the big state of Texas. He was ever eager to fill your empty glass or listen to your troubles in life. He was much like a good bartender without the liquor license. Inside the diner sat only a few of his regulars. On a stool and sitting at the bar was Gary Bends. He came in every Friday night and ordered a bowl of chili. Without a single word muttered, he’d inhale the chili, pay Mike, then leave until the following Friday.  Rod Carson sat in the back reading the paper and nursing a coffee. In the center red leather booth was his favorite regulars. The radiant Tess Trueheart was watching her now adopted son, Junior, eat a piece of fried chicken like he hadn’t eaten in days. Her dazzling green eyes were wide in surprise at Junior’s eating habits. The Kid really knew how to put away food. Sitting across from them at the table was her husband, Detective Dick Tracy. He was too busy looking at a stack of folders to miss Junior’s eating habits.  “Slow down!” she ordered. “That chicken isn’t going anywhere.”

“Sorry,” Junior said with a piece of meat wedged in his mouth.

 “Yeah, eat your food,” said Tracy absent mindedly pretending to be part of the conversation.

 Tess nudged Tracy’s shin with her toe. “That’s the problem,” she said with a smirk.

 Tracy looked up from the files and met Tess’s annoyed stare. He gazed at Junior to see grease and bit of fried flake all over his mouth. “Oh!  Heavens, kid. You mauled that thing.”

   He got up from the table to get some more napkins. Mike stood at the ready with a whole roll of paper towel. “God be with you,” he chuckled. Tracy smirked with thanks. He gave the roll to Junior to wipe himself off.

   “Are you still going over  those purse snatchings?” asked Tess nodding towards Tracy’s folders.

“Hmm mmm,” hummed Tracy. “It’s annoying to no end. The only thing we have going on is that they are all young children. Either no one is there to catch the act or apprehend the children.”  

  “Cops can’t catch little kids?” chuckled Tess.

   “You obviously haven’t seen the shape of some of our officers.”

  “Like Mr. Patton,” quipped Junior. “I can outrun him one legged.”

“Shut up and maul your chicken, Kid.” quipped Dick. That’s when his Two Way Radio chipped in.

“Sam Catchem to Dick Tracy. Come in Tracy.”

Tracy shot Tess an apologetic look. “Go ahead, Sam. This is Tracy.”

“We received an anonymous tip that some of Big Boy’s goons were spotted at the train yard.”

Alphonse ‘Big Boy’ Caprice was a menace upon this city. He was the lieutenant to crime boss, Lips Manlis. For years Tracy had been trying to put Big Boy away. Lines were blurred between it being his mission and a personal vendetta. But because of corrupt officials and dirty cops, Caprice managed to walk every time.  

Upon hearing Big Boy’s name, Tess felt her heart sink to her stomach. She knew without a doubt that Caprice was the one who murdered her father. Her family owned a small greenhouse within the city. The mob was trying to force their way into getting profits as ‘protection money’ from small businesses. Caprice was the thug sent to collect from her upstanding father. Because he refused to cooperate, Big Boy shot her father and burned down the greenhouse. Corrupted DAs and the previous filthy Police Chief never convicted Big Boy or even bothered to follow up on Mr. Trueheart’s murder. The only one who was dedicated to see Caprice behind bars was Tess’s police officer boyfriend, Dick Tracy. Several years later and a promotion to detective, Tracy was getting close to bringing the criminal down once and for all.

Dick Tracy in A Dynamite Case

The City. It once was a beacon of life and thriving businesses. Now, crime runs rampant and a corrupt police force lets it grow like wildfire.. In its prime, the city was rich and vibrant with its exuberant buildings, bustling neighborhoods and cheerful citizens. With the likes of crime bosses, Lips Manlis, Pruneface and Ribs Mocca, they have turned the city into a rotting flesh wound. The gang war has raged for years now. High numbers of casualties have been tallied from each gang, the police force and unfortunate civilians. The amount of blood that had been spilled in the streets have been a travesty. But there have been a select few from the City's Police Department that have taken upon themselves to cure the City's gangland infection. These few police officers and detectives have brought the riffraff to justice and are trying to revive what their town once was. Among the toughest of the bunch, is the City's dedicated top cop, Dick Tracy.

  On the outskirts of town is Anderson's Trainyard. It's a small hub of railroad that runs travelers and freight alike. Powerful locomotives carries its cargo from the center of town to the far reaches near the coastline. The railyard has been there for years. Signs of its age can be seen by the numerous rickety boxcars and defunct steam engines. Nothing could beat the sound of a lonely train whistle from beyond the tracks. Some folk have to listen to it quite close. A stone’s throw  from the trainyard is a small collection of huts and shacks. People from the city consider them an eyesore upon society. Other folk have to consider them home. These Hoovervilles were reminders of dreary times away from the bright lights and big spenders. The homeless and the less fortunate occupy these shacks in hopes to get by and get back on their feet. They also provide shelter for the upcoming winds and light snow November is known for. One particular vagrant considers himself the mayor of this shantytown. Steve Brogan, otherwise known as Steve the Tramp, was a powerhouse of a man. He stood six foot seven and held a heavyweight title from boxing in his better years. He was a bit of a brute and ran a small collection of young hoodlums to do his dirty work. He would shelter orphans, and in return, have them steal food, shoplift or carry out other dirty deeds of his choosing. He made it his business to know about the train schedules and the cargo it would be carrying should it benefit him. On this particular night, he was better off not knowing what was coming in.

  The 86 out of Chicago was coming in at twelve past eight tonight. It was a single car freight train, but Steve was unsure what she was carrying. Train hands and such were tight lipped on it. Even after giving some broken bones, Steve didn't find any answers. A little past seven, Steve was huddled in his shack near a rusted barrel that held a  warming fire.  He heard some rustling outside his door. Before he stepped out to have a looksee, two trenchcoated figures stepped in. One of them had pudgy freckled face and a peculiar hairstyle. His hair was combed hard on both sides, looking flat and even. The other had cruel eyes that seemed to shine from under his fedora. Steve broke into a fighter’s stance.

"Easy there, friend." said the flat haired one while reaching into his jacket. "We was just looking for a chat." The  other man stood motionless and unaffected by Steve's attack position.

"Yeah? Well, I ain't the chatty type," retorted Steve.

The creepy figure raised his fedora and gazed deep into Steve's eyes. The stranger's strong green eyes almost glistened with concentration. A deep and monotone voice seeped from his lips. "You will pay no attention to the incoming train. It is of no importance to you." Steve felt himself go slightly dizzy and not having a care about the ol' 86. He rattled his head to shake off the confusion.

"If you're gonna go hypnotizin' peoples, you better do it to folk with less sense."

The other man laughed. "He showed you, Influence. We did your way, now it's my turn."

"All yours, Flattop," muttered Influence. As the one called Flattop neared Steve, The Tramp swung a right hook. Flattop blocked it and delivered a fierce uppercut into Steve's jaw. He felt what was left of his teeth shatter. Flattop removed the brass knuckles from his glove. "You chose the hard way, you bum. Now, as I was saying. Never mind what's coming in tonight. That stuff belongs to Big Boy Caprice. You understand he don't want no filthy ragman snooping around?" Flattop removed a shiny Smith & Wesson from his jacket.

Steve trembled. "I get it. I get it. Sorry for prying. I don't wanna cross Lip’s number two.."

"Atta boy," grinned Flattop. He fired the pistol sending a slug into Steve's knee. The Tramp cried in agony. "Just a reminder for next time." He put the pistol back into his jacket and lifted his lapels. "Oh. And by the way. Mr. Caprice isn’t going to be Lips’ number two anymore. Sleep well, Champ to a Tramp."

Tracy emerged from the shack and made his way back to the train yard. He searched for the solo car on the far end. After a few moments, he saw the 86 being unloaded by several men in suits. They were removing crates of some materials into a waiting ‘37 gray Dodge. There was a dark blue sedan on idle beside it. Tracy activated and whispered  into his wrist radio again. “Tracy to Pat and Sam. I got activity on that tip. I got Big Boy’s goons unloading a train of something and planning to make off with it. I need backup right away. Going silent, over and out.”

Dick Tracy removed his .45 and kept to the shadows. He moved stealthily towards a stack of vacant cargo containers next to the train.  The old 86 had streaks of rust upon her body from years of service. The once green exterior was now a faded brown. He could hear the creak of the wooden floor boards as Big Boy’s goons stepped on and off the train. The crates they removed were roughly over a foot long but looked pretty hefty. One hefty thug paused to wipe sweat from his brow. He removed his jacket so he could feel the cool air. He had a strong physique with his shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing firm arms. He called out to his fellow unloaders. “Hey, I’m gonna have a smoke.”

“Sure as hell, don’t do it around here!” responded one of them. “Step over by those empty containers.”

The burly one complied and stepped towards the containers where Tracy hid. The detective pressed his body closer to the side of the containers. Just as he was close enough for Tracy to smell the sweat off of him, Tracy slammed the butt of his pistol on the thug’s skull. The bigger they are, the harder they fall was quite true for this one. The man-ape dropped instantly onto his face in the mud. Tracy pulled him away and out of sight. After the gangster was subdued, Tracy ran low towards the train. There were three men total. No doubt their pistols were tucked away under the suit jackets but with their hands full, it might be easy to catch them by surprise. As each man emerged from the  train with a crate in tow, Tracy made his move. He aimed his pistol among each man. “Alright fellas. Let’s drop those boxes and bring the arms back up, yeah?”  Tracy felt a bead of sweat begin to slide down under his fedora.

The goons paused at the sight of the detective in the bright yellow fedora and coat. They were more focused at the cold blue steel pointed in their direction. Up close, Tracy identified the men as Johnny Ramm, Red Thompson and Benny The Grip. “Ya got a lot of gall to show up here, copper,” grunted Thompson. He was a tall individual with dark eyes and bright red hair.

“Let me do you boys a favor and take a break. Set down those crates easy.” The three men laid down the crates slowly then raised back up with their hands raised. “That’ll do,” called out Tracy. “Now step away from the train.” As Tracy pivoted around to get behind the thugs, he saw movement by the Dodge Sedan. Another figure emerged from the driver’s seat. It was Itchy Rossi! He was scratching at his chest as he reached into his jacket to remove his pistol. “Big Boy sent me to meet this train, Tracy! Now you’re gonna meet a bullet!” He waved on the truck to take off as the engines revved up and began speeding away. Itchy then fired shots towards Tracy. Tracy jumped into the train car for cover. The sporadic fire from Itchy’s pistol struck Red in the chest who then fell to the ground dead. Johnny and Benny scattered and ran towards the sedan. Inside the container, Tracy found several boxes left over. Each container had a warning insignia with a symbol of a flame. “What the hell is Big Boy getting into?” Tracy asked himself. He peeked around the corner into the yard. He fired several shots towards the car, hitting the back window and the tire. Itchy jumped back into the driver’s seat and shifted the gear to follow the truck. The sedan tried speeding away but was caught off by a black and white squad car. Detectives Pat Patton and Sam Ketchum jumped out from the front with a Thompson machine gun and shotgun respectively. “Better think about your next move, boyos,” called out Pat with his thick Irish accent. “That’d be a fine car to mess up.”  

  The criminals emerged from the sedan with their hands raised. Itchy was the last to step out. Tracy stepped lively from his cover and approached Rossi with ambition. Itchy sneered at the detective in destain. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, Flatfoot.”

Tracy grabbed Rossi by his short tie and brought him close into a thunderous punch. Itchy spun and hit hard into the mud. Thick patches of mud covered his blue suit.  Tracy hoisted him back up and pushed him hard onto the hood of the sedan.  “I can charge you for police brutality!” yelled Itchy with a bleeding mouth. He spat out a tooth with a bloody trail.

   “You WILL be charged with attempted murder on top of whatever else Caprice is involved in,” retorted Tracy. “Where is that truck headed? What was in the crates?” Rossi remained tight lipped. His blue eyes glared intensely from behind his thick glasses.

Patton and Ketchum cuffed the other thugs and shoved them in the backseat of the squad car. “These guys don’t want to talk either, Tracy,” said Sam. “We might have to make them talk downtown.” He turned to the criminals.“You guys might want to get comfy.”  Tracy brought a now cuffed Itchy and shoved him into the back seat. The three thugs sat close and tight in the back seat. “We’ll talk soon, boys,” said Tracy before slamming the car door.

   “This case is gonna blow in your face, copper!” yelled Itchy from behind the glass.

 “I have another one of Itchy’s partners by the containers over there. He’s currently taking a nap.”

 “I’ll go round him up,” volunteered Patton. He wasn’t much in size at a little over five and a half feet. Pat had a slight protruding belly from under his green suit jacket.

“You might want to take Sam with you,” said Tracy. “He is a hefty one.”   Sam grunted in compliance as he and Patton went to collect the downed gangster. Tracy turned on his wrist radio. He called  Mitch Mitchell who ran the dispatch at the police station. “Come in Mitch! This is Detective Dick Tracy. I have an APB to keep an eye out for a 1937 gray Dodge delivery truck leaving Anderson Trainyard at Benjamin and Fifth. Contents are to be highly dangerous. Approach with caution. Drivers might be armed and dangerous. I also need a wagon sent to the train yard. Over and out.”

 Mitch replied instantly with, “10-4, Tracy!”

Tracy stepped back into the train car to look closer at the crates. He found a crowbar hanging on a hook on the wall. He lifted the hefty metal and wedged the end into a top of the crate. He pried open the case and the wooden top splintered. Tracy’s eyes grew wide as he saw the contents. Inside the crate held several containers of nitroglycerin. Big Boy was planning to hold onto such a dangerous chemical for explosive weapons no doubt. He would be a powerful force to be reckoned with. Luckily, they were able to stop the entire train to be emptied. But there was still enough explosives removed from the train to be a concern. Tracy went back to his wrist radio. “Mitch, it’s Tracy. Do you copy?”

The staticy voice of Mitch Mitchell squeaked back. “Go ahead, Dick.”

“I need the lab boys and our own truck down to the train yard. I have a train full of trouble down here that I need picked up. Any word on that APB?” “Not yet, Tracy. We’ve had no hits on that truck.”

Tracy felt his brow furrow in frustration. It’s a large truck on the roads late at night. How hard is it to find. “Ok, Keep me posted, Mitchell. Over and out.”

Tracy jumped out of the train and saw Patton and Ketchum dragging the the now conscious man-ape. “We got a lead on that truck, Tracy,” said Ketchum in short breaths. “This is Brock Luger and he says the truck is supposed to head to the Southside Warehouse over on the river.”

“ I was just hired on to help out with this job,” said Luger tiredly. “I needed the dough to help my family. I didn’t really know what we’s was haulin’.”  

Tracy barked orders before sprinting to get his car. “I got a van to get this garbage and a truck with tech boys to unload the train. Stick around here so no more of Big Boy’s men show up. I’m going to the pier’s dockyard!”

Chapter  3

  Dick Tracy’s Studebaker Champion slowed to a stop outside the train yard. Tracy radioed Pat and told him he arrived to investigate further. He removed the Colt .45 from his holster under his coat and checked the magazine. After confirming his clip was full, Tracy tucked the pistol away. He stepped from his car and was met with a chilled breeze. The trainyard had an eerie aura around it. Dim silhouettes of the trains lit under a pale moon light. A few yard hands were mulling about their business as they unloaded and loaded trains ready to be shipped back out. They were mostly older men, worn and dirty from the grueling labor. Tracy approached some in hopes they knew or saw anything suspicious in the last few hours. Most shook their heads, grunted in a no or merely ignored him entirely.

  Tracy continued to investigate while trying to avoid giant mounds of mud and uneven gravel. His shoes were already caked with the brown muck. Tracy noticed quick movements along the fenceline separating the trainyard and some desolate Hoovervilles.He removed a flashlight from his pocket and headed towards the fence. There were several missing boards from the worn post.

Tracy shined his light through the gap and saw two young boys darting from his beam. The detective happened to notice each boy held a purse in his possession. Could they be the ones pick pocketing? he thought. The possibility he hit a lead on a case while investigating another was rare, but he decided to follow up anyway. He tucked his yellow trenchcoat close to his body as he squeezed through the gap. His legs picked up speed and gave chase to the boys. “Freeze!” he ordered. “Police!”

One boy, who might have been older given his height, paused to look behind him. He noticed the flatfoot giving chase! “Scatter!” he cried as both boys split up. The taller boy made a beeline for the shacks while the shorter one ducked back through the fence. Tracy decided to follow the taller one. The boy darted between buildings, around late night wanderers, and knocked over trash cans. Tracy was quick to maneuver around the dilapidated buildings and across the muddy terrain. Vegabonds and homeless tried to slow Tracy down in a move to protect their own, but Tracy dodged around them.   The kid was fast, but Tracy was well fit to keep up and close in on him. He spotted the kid jump into a shack, probably thinking he was clear. Tracy slowed down and carefully stepped closer to the shack. He pressed close to the exterior wall which was nothing more than thin and rusted metal. He heard the kid talk to another person inside.

 “I was followed by some copper I think, Steve!” said the kid between gasping breaths.

“You dumb chump!” responded the other voice. “I see you still held on to the loot.”

“I didn’t want to show up empty handed.”  Tracy peered through the opening to see the boy hand over the purse. The man, who Tracy was familiar with as Steve the Tramp, pawed through the purse and its contents. Steve laid on the floor in a makeshift bed. His leg was tied up and bandaged in a sheet as if a tourniquet.

“Not bad, Billy. Not bad,” said Steve as he removed a coin purse and some jewels from inside the bag. “I know just where I can use this stuff.”

That’s when Tracy stepped in and covered the doorway. “Me too, Steve. Back to its rightful owner!”

Steve was caught off guard by the sudden intruder, but he wouldn’t be ambushed again. He hopped up quickly on his good leg and reached for the two by four that sat beside him. He took a swing at Tracy, but the detective was too quick and dodged the blow. When he recoiled upwards, Tracy delivered a fierce shoulder upon Steve’s stomach that sent him onto his thin mattress. He collared the kid and tossed him onto Steve’s lap. “Let’s have a chat, shall we?”

That was when the other boy stepped inside, unaware of the events happening.  When he saw the cop in the yellow fedora and coat, his eyes turned big and tried to turn around to run. Tracy grabbed the young boy on his jacket lapel and spun him into the others. “Going somewhere, son?” Tracy stepped close to the delinquents and peered intensly at Steve. “Now that we’re all comfy. Mind telling me what’s going on here? I’m going to bet these kids work for you and are responsible for those purse snatchings around town.”

Both kids looked intently on the ground with a guilty conscious. Steve merely glared back at Tracy. “But I’m willing to cut you some slack if you explain that wound you got there, Brogan.”

Tracy grew up watching Steve Brogan giving his all in the squared circle back in the day. He would box and beat the best of them. It was sad to see a hero of Tracy’s now sitting in filth and resorting to crime.

“That sure looks like a bullet wound. Know anything about any shipment coming in that belongs to Al Caprice?”

Steve shifted uncomfortably in the worn and holey green jacket. “Maybe. Maybe it was me who told somebody about it.”

Tracy stepped closer. “Was that you who called it in? The anonymous tip?”

“Those bastards shot me!” shouted Steve. He grimaced from the pain affecting his leg. “And the fact they didn’t cut me in into what’s going on. This yard is MY yard, dammit! No one comes into my home and puts a slug into me without paying for it. No matter who they work for!”  

“What’s coming in, Steve? Where is it?” asked Tracy.

Brogan remained tight lipped. Tracy kicked Steve’s injured leg. The former champ screamed in agony.  “I’m pretty sure this leg is infected, Brogan. You don’t tell me what I need to know, I won’t send you to a hospital and you can just saw it off!”

Steve bit his lip to push away the pain. “I don’t know wha’ts on that train. All I know it’s Number 86 from Chicago. It’s the only solo freight train on the other end of the yard. Everyone’s been told to let it be. That’s all I freakin’ know!”

“Alright,” said Tracy. “Then what about these lads? They belong to anybody?”

Both boys shook their heads. “No sir,” said the one named Billy. “Mr. Steve was the one who told us where to go and what to do. He let us stay here and eat the food we steal. We was just so hungry and cold.”

“There are orphanages that have those things. With other kids your age. We’re taking you there tonight. But not you, Steve. You’re getting a warm home behind bars.” Tracy activated his wrist radio. “Tracy to Sam Ketchum. Come in Sam.”

The staticky voice of Sam Ketchum answered the call. “Go ahead, Dick. What you got?”

“I’m at Anderson Trainyard. I may have closed the case on the pick pockets around town. I might be onto something else with that anonymous tip. Send a squad car to the Hooverville near the tracks. I have three passengers for them.”  

“You got it Tracy!” replied Sam.  

Tracy removed a pair of handcuffs and clasped Steve to Billy. He put another pair on the younger boy who was now gushing with tears and attached him to Billy. “I know with you three stuck together,you won’t get pretty far. Wait out front and someone’s going to pick you up shortly. And boys…” Tracy leaned close as his eyes turned to steel as he met both boy’s stare. “If I catch you doing this again, you’re going to jail instead of the orphanage. Got it?”

Chapter 2

   The Club Ritz was the happening nightclub on the corner of 38th and Grand. It stood tall over the other buildings on the block. Loud live music echoed within while bright searchlights fanned over the outer structures. It belonged to crime boss Lips Manlis. His grip over the city was fierce. He had DAs, officers and judges all in his pocket. The entire city was his oyster and he was fond of oysters. At a corner table of the club, Manlis nursed a martini and was slurping down a large plate of oysters. His oversized lips engulfed each morsel with an obnoxious slurp. The band onstage was playing a new jazzy number to entertain the numerous guests inside the club. One of Club Ritz’s secrets was the many tables being used for illegal gambling. Guests were losing their hard earned money on blackjack, baccarat, a roulette wheel and poker. Upstairs was The Ritz’s other secret. In the conference room was Lips Manlis’ headquarters for criminal activity. Within the paneled walls was an arsenal of hand guns, Thompson machine guns and grenades. Several meetings have been held here for all of The City’s gangland members. Tonight, the conference room was vacant. All the activity was in the club.  Beside Lips was his loyal lieutenant, Alphonso 'Big Boy' Caprice.

   Big Boy had an interesting physique. His black tuxedo fit a bit snug due to the slight hump on his back. It was a defect he had to endure his entire life. It led to a rough childhood that required him to become tough at a young age. That toughness led him to be the right hand of the most powerful mobster in the city.  He sat hunched at the table and eating a handful of walnuts anxiously. He looked at his watch to see it was quarter to eight. “Got somewhere to be, Caprice?” asked Lips while slurping down an oyster.

  Big Boy met Manlis’s eyes. “No sir. Nowhere else I’d rather be than among broads and booze.” His voice held a hint of sarcasm. He was almost ashamed of what Lips had become. Back then, Lips Manlis would  personally be the one to get his hands dirty. He would be the one pulling the trigger or using his big hands to slap fear and respect into people. Now, after years of making it big and profitable, Manlis no longer found it necessary to get dirt on his pretty tuxedos. He had gotten pudgy and lazy. Big Boy was getting fed up being the one responsible for all of their business deals and getting things done. Lips spent more time at the club than showing the city how a big boss can be. Well, he was still a big boss. His girth was beginning to stretch his tuxedo’s cumberbund.

   Caprice crushed the shell of his last walnut and ate its contents. He stood from the table and wiped off the crumbs of his dinner jacket. “I’ll be back, Boss. I have a phone call to make. Someone’s behind on some dough.” He removed himself and made his way to the conference room upstairs. Manlis grunted his acknowledgment as he slurped another oyster.  He eyed Caprice as he disappeared through the crowd and up the stairs.  

        Upstairs in the lavish conference room, the large oak table shined with polish. White leather chairs surrounded it. The crimson red walls and chrome of the mini bar had almost a reflection upon the table top. A single black rotary phone sat on top. Caprice sat at the head of the table and lifted the phone off the cradle. He spun the phone's numerical face and waited for the other end to answer.

At the trainyard, Jake “Itchy” Rossi was on the other side of the phone call. He was a tall and lanky figure under a dark blue trench coat and hat. Beady eyes were slit behind thick coke rimmed glasses. For years he had developed a skin condition that required Rossi to scratch himself more than normal. Manlis nicknamed him Itchy and the handle stuck. “I see the train pulling in now, Big Boy,” said Itchy in a high raspy voice. “Me and the boys have everything ready to retrieve the cargo.”

“Good,” replied Big Boy. “But make it quick. The less hassle the better. I feel Lips might be getting suspicious of my absences the last few days getting this set up from Chicago. But I’m not too worried about it since I’ll soon be grasping this city by its throat. Lips Manlis will be serving under me in a few days.” Caprice sneered at the thought of Lips being HIS number two. That was if he let the gross blimp live. “Now get moving! Remember, the first thing I have planned is tomorrow afternoon.” Big Boy hung up the phone and reclined back in the chair. He set his hands behind his head as he awaited inevitable victory.

   Back downstairs, Lips Manlis hung up his phone from his office. His small office was set behind the mainstage of the club. He heard all of Caprice’s conversation. He had a feeling Big Boy was acting suspicious the last few days. Manlis didn’t get to where he was by being trustworthy. He stepped from the office and moved back to his table. He motioned with a hand for one of his crew to join him. George “The Brow” Grissom, the man who sat beside Lips, had a grim face with a stern mouth. His forehead held furrowed wrinkles which qualified him for the nickname. He was a loyal lieutenant to Lips and an avid fan of getting his mitts dirty. His maroon colored suit stood out among the numerous men in dark tuxedos. He was used to standing out with his facial features he cared less about his clothing choice.

“What’s up, Boss?” asked Grissom.

“I need you to go to the trainyard. Something smells fishy and I don’t like fish.” A server came from the kitchen to set another tray of oysters in front of Lips. Manlis tucked a napkin in his collar before began eating.

“What am I looking for exactly?” asked The Brow.  Lips downed his first helping.

“Caprice has something coming in. Sounds big. I want to know what he’s doing behind my back. I like looking over my shoulder before someone puts a knife there, you follow?”