Chapter 73: To Chicago

June 10, 1920, Thursday Morning

Lee Jun-hyuk woke up before dawn and made his final checks.

In his bag were documents analyzing the criminal underworld and economic landscape of Chicago, and five sample cans—on which Lajoie’s fate depended—sat heavily at the bottom.

The metallic clinking of the cans as they bumped together only heightened the strange tension.

The Colt pistol that Yoo Il-han had forced into his hand was also buried deep in the bag. He didn’t really think he’d need it, but he couldn’t bring himself to refuse his partner’s worry.

When he arrived at Grand Central Station, Robert was already on the platform, restlessly waiting for him.

“Are you ready, sir?”

“Yes, I’ll go and come back with a light heart.”

Contrary to Lee Jun-hyuk’s response, Robert’s face was taut with anxiety. The city of Chicago already seemed to press down on his shoulders with its brutal sense of menace.

Even though the June morning air was still cool, a faint sheen of cold sweat had formed on his brow.

The 20th Century Limited bound for Chicago was a symbol of the era’s highest wealth and power by name alone.

The long, black locomotive resting on the platform exhaled steam, looking like a massive steel beast roaring toward the West.

The first-class sleeper cabin was as luxurious as a small hotel room.

A plush red velvet chair was set by the window, and the foldable bed was neatly made with crisp, freshly-laundered white sheets.

There was even a small washstand, the gleaming brass faucet speaking to the train’s high status.

Robert gazed out the window and spoke.

“Twenty hours… This really will be a long journey.”

He already looked exhausted, even though they hadn’t departed yet.

The train set off with a heavy vibration.

Familiar buildings of New York slowly receded into the distance.

As they began heading north along the Hudson River, the water caught the morning sunlight, sparkling like a scattering of silver scales.

“Sir, this Al Capone… is he really someone we can trust?”

At Robert’s cautious question, Lee Jun-hyuk answered without taking his eyes off his documents.

“No. You can’t trust him completely. He’s a mafia, after all.”

“Even so…”

“But as a business partner, he’s not the worst. Like a snake, they don’t bite if their bellies are full. And we have plenty of food for him.”

The scenery outside changed from the gray city to the blue suburbs. The sight of cattle grazing in the meadows looked unrealistically peaceful, but Lee Jun-hyuk’s mind was tangled.

He had no way to predict what would happen in Chicago.

By afternoon, they moved to the dining car.

It was so elegant and luxurious that it was hard to believe they were on a train.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and silverware was laid out atop immaculate white tablecloths. Every time the train rattled, the chandeliers chimed with a clear, crisp sound that was strangely charming.

“I’ve never experienced such a luxurious train ride in my life,” Robert marveled.

His hands trembled slightly as he cut his steak—whether from nerves or the train’s movement, it was hard to say.

Despite the train’s rocking, the waiters’ service was flawless.

They moved with the poise of ballerinas, perfectly balanced.

To show the irony of the Prohibition Era, expensive “grape juice” was served in place of wine.

Lee Jun-hyuk looked out the window and spoke.

“The American railroad industry is truly enjoying its golden age.”

The endless plains of Pennsylvania spread out before them. The golden wheat fields swayed in the wind like a vast ocean.

That evening, they returned to their respective cabins.

Lee Jun-hyuk stayed alone, staring out into the darkness beyond the window.

The train never stopped, racing westward.

The rhythmic clatter of the rails sounded like a lullaby.

Clack, clack. In that rhythm, he thought of Chicago.

Since Prohibition, the city had become a lawless zone rife with bootlegging, gambling, and prostitution. Al Capone was still a subordinate to Johnny Torrio, but it wouldn’t be long before he became the underground emperor of the city.

Even though he lay down on the bed, sleep didn’t come.

Tomorrow, he would meet Al Capone.

And Fonzi. The infamous swindler who had fled with one hundred thousand dollars.

In fact, that money hardly mattered anymore. It was a cheap price to pay for putting Bancroft behind bars.

June 11, 1920, Friday Morning

As the train approached Chicago, the scenery outside changed rapidly.

The green fields vanished, and one by one, factory smokestacks—towering into the sky—began to appear, spewing black smoke that painted the sky a sooty color.

Robert pointed outside the window.

“There it is. Chicago.”

The tension in his voice made the air in the cabin feel heavy.

Lake Michigan spread out vast as an inland sea. Next to it stood tall buildings, but unlike New York’s refined skyline, they exuded a rougher, more savage energy.

10 a.m., Chicago Union Station.

The moment they stepped onto the platform, the unique stench of Chicago assaulted their noses. The bloody smell from nearby slaughterhouses mingled with factory smoke.

The odor was so pungent it made their stomachs churn.

“Mister Lee?”

Two men in black suits approached.

One was massive, with shoulders so broad they looked like they’d get stuck in a doorway.

The other had a razor-sharp look, with eyes as cold as a snake’s.

“Are you men sent by Mr. Capone?”

“That’s right.”

The sharp-looking man answered, his voice like a blade.

“I’m Frankie, and this is Big Joe.”

Frankie extended his hand for a handshake.

His grip was iron-strong, deliberately squeezing as if to test his counterpart.

“We’ll escort you.”

“Alright.”

Outside the station, a glossy black Cadillac was waiting.

As they climbed in, Frankie took the wheel.

Big Joe sat in the passenger seat, and both sides of his jacket bulged—no doubt holsters packed with guns.

“Where are we headed?”

“South Side. The Boss is waiting for you.”

Frankie answered as he started the car.

The streets of Chicago were a world apart from New York.

Rougher, more chaotic.

Even the expressions on people’s faces were different.

While New Yorkers seemed slavish to money, Chicagoans looked like hyenas ready to tear into each other at any moment.

“First time in Chicago?” Big Joe turned around to ask.

A long, deep knife scar ran across his face.

“Yes, it’s my first time.”

“Chicago isn’t like New York. Around here, gunshots are like the dinner bell.”

Big Joe grinned chillingly.

His flashing gold tooth made his words even more sinister.

The car kept heading south.

The buildings got lower, the streets dirtier.

But at the same time, everything seemed more alive.

People were walking down the streets with bottles of liquor in broad daylight. It was as if Prohibition didn’t exist here.

“We’re here.”

Frankie stopped the car in front of a building with a sign reading “Four Deuces.”

On the surface, it looked like an ordinary cigar shop and bar, but Lee Jun-hyuk knew better.

This was the very heart of Chicago’s Outfit, led by Johnny Torrio and Al Capone.

“Let’s go in.”

Frankie opened the door.

Inside, thick cigarette smoke, alcohol, and cheap perfume assaulted them.

Though it was the middle of the day, the bar was crowded with customers, all openly drinking whiskey. In one corner, a pianist played a slow jazz tune.

The rhythm was lively, but for some reason, it sounded sad.

“This way.”

Big Joe led the way up a narrow staircase behind the bar. They stopped in front of an office door on the second floor.

Knock, knock.

“Come in.”

A low, gravelly voice of authority came from within.

The door opened.

Al Capone sat behind a massive mahogany desk.

Black suit, blood-red tie.

Three long scars etched across his face caught the eye first. With a curved cigar in his mouth, he looked down at them like a king.

“Mister Lee, welcome. Glad to have you here.”

Capone rose from his seat and extended his hand.

“Please, have a seat. Care for a whiskey?”

To refuse would be an insult.

“Gladly.”

Capone personally poured expensive Scotch whisky.

“To your arrival in Chicago. Cheers.”

The strong whiskey burned as it went down his throat.

“Must’ve been a tough trip from New York.”

Capone leaned back in his chair.

“Let’s get down to business. Shall we talk about Fonzi first?”

“Yes.”

Capone stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray as he spoke.

“That rat Fonzi is waiting quietly in the basement of this building.”

Lee Jun-hyuk’s eyes widened in surprise.

This wasn’t an act.

“You already caught him?”

“Picked him up at the Tampa port in Florida yesterday. He was waiting for a ship to Cuba, but our men caught up with him.”

Capone smiled coldly.

But his eyes were anything but amused.

“How much money did he have with him?”

“That’s the problem.”

Capone sighed.

“He only had about fifty thousand dollars left. The rest, he squandered on women and gambling.”

“Ah.”

Lee Jun-hyuk’s face fell in disappointment.

This time, it was genuine.

“But…”

Capone smiled meaningfully.

This time, even his eyes smiled with him.

“After a painful bit of persuasion, he confessed to having hidden money in a Swiss Bank. About a million dollars.”

“Really?”

“I got a confession. So it must be true.”

Torture, no doubt.

Capone handed over a piece of paper, scrawled in shaky handwriting. It had a Swiss Bank account number and a secret code.

“Mister Lee, your hundred thousand dollars—plus interest—will be fully returned.”

“Thank you very much.”

“It’s nothing. Aren’t we partners now?”

Capone poured another glass of whiskey as he spoke.

“Now, let’s talk business. Chicago is a massive market. Your magical canned goods will sell like hotcakes.”

“I think so too.”

“We’ll get to the numbers later, but first, let’s have a taste.”

At his signal, a subordinate brought in a plate of Lajoie canned goods.

“How did you…”

“I managed to get a few from New York in advance.”

Capone picked up a forkful of bean sprouts with his fork and chewed. His expression subtly changed.

“What is this, exactly?”

“It’s bean sprouts. Similar to mung beans—”

“No, I mean this flavor… what is it? It sticks to your tongue.”

MSG.

But it was too complicated to explain.

“It’s a secret sauce passed down in my family from the East.”

“Secret sauce?”

Capone’s eyes gleamed with a merchant’s shrewdness.

“This stuff… is addictive. I keep reaching for more.”

He took another bite.

“People in Chicago will go nuts for this. Especially as a drinking snack.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure.”

Capone unfolded a map of Chicago.

“We control over five hundred establishments. Give us exclusive rights for all of Chicago and Illinois.”

Lee Jun-hyuk paused to consider.

Exclusive rights.

A dangerous word.

“But I have some conditions. First, minimize violence. If Lajoie’s image is tarnished, it’s trouble for me. Second, I want the freedom to expand into other regions. Third, the protection fee—”

“Ten percent of sales.”

“How about five percent?”

“Eight.”

“Let’s settle on six.”

Capone laughed heartily.

“Mister Lee, you drive a hard bargain. Fine, six percent.”

The two men shook hands. The deal was done.

“Good. Then let’s go get lunch. I know the best Italian restaurant in Chicago.”

The restaurant was “Mama Rosa” in Little Italy.

The food arrived.

The rich tomato sauce pasta was rougher, but had a deeper flavor than anything in New York.

“It’s delicious.”

“Isn’t it? Our Mama Rosa is the best cook in Chicago. Ah, the branch in New York is run by her relatives.”

“I see.”

Capone poured wine.

Prohibition didn’t exist in his world.

“After lunch, would you like to see Fonzi?”

Capone asked.

“Yes, I’d like to see him.”

He was curious.

How that arrogant con artist had changed.

Just as they finished the pasta, Big Joe came in and whispered something into Capone’s ear.

Capone’s face instantly turned cold.

“Mister Lee, excuse me a moment.”

He left the room with Big Joe.

Had it been five minutes?

Two gunshots rang out from outside the restaurant.

Bang! Bang!

Robert nearly jumped out of his seat in surprise.

“It’s alright. Didn’t I tell you, it’s routine here?”

Lee Jun-hyuk reassured him.

Capone returned.

At the end of his suit sleeve, there was a faint spatter of red. It was hard to tell if it was blood or tomato sauce.

“Sorry. Just had to deal with a pesky fly.”

“I see.”

He sat down as if nothing had happened.

“Well, shall we head back to the Four Deuces? Our friend, the infamous swindler Charles Fonzi, must be waiting eagerly.”