“I’ll get those greaseballs!” he muttered, as he strode along the lonely road. “They’ll find out what I can do!”
He thought of Monk Thurman, laughing, gloating, as he rode along in Larrigan’s sedan. The gang leader was filled with rage.
He hastened his footsteps, hoping to shorten the time of his return. He was resolved that Monk Thurman would be dead before another day had passed; and he was determined to overthrow the underworld empire that Nick Savoli claimed.
It was nearly daylight when the disgruntled gang leader rattled into Chicago in a milk wagon which he had commandeered.
He arrived at his saloon, too exhausted for immediate effort. Yet he called his henchmen long enough to give them instructions and to send out hunting parties for Monk Thurman.
The detested Savoli could wait; he would hear from Mike Larrigan soon enough!
By evening, the gang leader had recovered from the effects of his ride and the long walk home. Then his mind was occupied with new events that had already crowded their way into huge headlines in the evening papers.
There was no mention there of the disgrace which had befallen Mike Larrigan. Instead the journals told of new gangland killings.
Pete Varona, and Al Vacchi, Savoli lieutenants, and claimants for the presidency of the Unione Italiane, had been put on the spot.
They had been murdered during a party in Varona’s apartment. Their bodies had been discovered shortly after the shots had been fired. Both men were dead when the police arrived. The assassins had escaped — nothing unusual in Chicago.