Frank made his way to the stage and the bruiser leaning against the wall beside it. At least four-inches taller than Frank, with biceps bigger than most men’s thighs and shoulders from here to eternity, he struck an imposing figure. His blue suit, over a white shirt, clung to his muscle-bound body. Legs crossed above the tops of his black wing-tips, he stared stonily out at the crowded speakeasy, expression lightening when he spied Frank heading his way.
“So, Bones,” Frank picked at the sleeve of his black suit, “any sign of the coppers, yet?”
Frank sent a message out to all his guys that afternoon warning of an impending police raid. Said he’d gotten a tip from a rat in the clubhouse. Now, on the lookout for the cops, Frank’s guys stood ready to hustle the big names out as soon as the raid began. And to keep the small timers corralled for the fuzz.
“No, boss. Not yet. I’ll let you know, okay?”
With a curt nod, Frank turned on his heel and slinked back into the crowd. Waylaid by business associates, a few onlookers and his own personal button man there to drop a dime once the cops arrived, Frank pecked a kiss on Gloria’s cheek.
“Hey, Dollface. Sorry, everyone wants to bend my ear tonight.”
Bones, Frank’s button man, got his orders straight from the boss man. He would stitch someone up good. For Frank, who promised Bones a move up in his association once the...