One Crate Wrong from Cicero
Tommy Castellano was twenty-seven years old in the summer of 1925, and he had been running whiskey across the Canadian border for three years without losing a single shipment to the Feds or to the rival outfits that carved up Chicago like a holiday roast. He was not a big man—five foot six in his socks, with the narrow shoulders of a boy who had grown up hungry on Taylor Street—and he did not...
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