St. Valentine’s Day Massacre

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“All dis for jus’ a speakeasy.”  Detective Banks spat, surveying the grisly scene by the garage.  “Deez gangsters are despicable.”

A beat cop with Tommy gun in hand nodded.  “Yeah, all four of the shooters had to’ve been real bad guys.”

“All four of ’em?  Where you pullin’ that number from, kid?”

The beat cop shrugged.  “Nowhere.”

“Old ladies in the ‘partment cross the street says four cops did it.  You know anything ’bout that?”

“No.”  The beat cop sneered, held his Tommy gun a little higher.

Detective Banks spat again.  “Case looks unsolvable.  Now, clean this mess up.”

***

This was written for the Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction challenge for February 14th, Valentine.  And what can be more Valentine’s than the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, save for the martyrdom of saints? 

Historical Info: On February 14th, 1929, some of Capone’s south-side gangsters teamed with a couple corrupt cops to slaughter 7 enemies in the North Side gang.  Though there were suspects in the murder, none of them were ever arrested due to lack of concrete evidence.  In this flash, I make the connection between rampant police corruption – which Chicago had at the time – and the unsolved mystery.  

22 thoughts on “St. Valentine’s Day Massacre

  1. Charli Mills says:

    Great use of language to catch the local flavor of the gangsters and to add to the seediness of corruption. An additional sidenote to Capone history: Al had an older brother who fled after nearly killing the person who gave Al the scar on his face. By the time the Valentine’s Day Massacre went down, Two Gun Hart, as he was known, worked as a lawman in North Idaho.

      • Charli Mills says:

        Ha! They say the house we rented was on the property of the old Rose Bud Inn. It was always prohibition on the reservations. So Two Hart had a taste for breaking up alcoholic soiries the way a partygoer thirds for whiskey. By the time prohibition arrived, Two Hart was old hat at sniffing out illicit alcohol. In North Idaho, folks who partied would deliver the moonshine to the next place and bury the jars until the festivities. They’d whisper to one another where the next party would be and delivery and burial would take place again. Two Hart could never figure out where they were hiding the hooch! Someone shot him, as it often goes in North Idaho if one continues to annoy neighbors. We lived just below Ruby Ridge. They still don’t like the law in that neck of the woods. It’s a fascinating subculture, probably similar to deep Appalachia.

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