The Wrong Crate
The telegram arrived at four in the afternoon on a Thursday in June, when the heat had settled over the South Side like a wool blanket and even the flies were too tired to move. Sal Mancuso was in the back room of the Blue Lantern, his speakeasy on Thirty-Fifth and Wabash, counting the week's take with a pencil stub and a ledger that would not bear close inspection. The telegram was delivered...
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