1
They were all there — Capone, Dillinger, Nelson, Karpis and Charlie Lucky. The table at which they sat was littered with poker chips, playing cards, whisky bottles and glasses. A green shaded lamp hung low over the table; its harsh light fell on their faces, while the rest of the room remained dark and shadowy.
Several men, almost invisible in the gloom and haze o f tobacco smoke, lounged behind the group at the table. They were small men, with eyes like wet stones, swarthy complexions and granite faces.
The group at the table and the men in the shadows suddenly stiffened when George Fraser walked into the room. He stood a few feet from the table, his hands in his coat pockets, his jaw thrust forward and his eyes threatening and cold.
No one spoke; no one moved.
“If any of you guys wants to start something,” George Fraser said, after along pause, “I’ll take care of his widow.”
Very slowly, very cautiously, Capone laid his cards down on the table. “Hello, George,” he said in a husky whisper.
George Fraser eyed him coldly. There were few men who would have had the nerve to walk alone into that back room and face five of the biggest and most dangerous bosses in the booze racket, but George Fraser was without nerves.
“It’s time we had a little talk,” he said, biting off each word. “You guys have been running this show too long. You’re through— the lot of you. From now on, I’m taking over this territory, and I’m running it my way.”
There followed another long pause, then Dillinger, his eyes glowing and his face white with rage, snarled, “Who said?”