American Girl (Illinois)(Lea Sheryn) Illinois

Diners filled the umbrellaed tables outside Antoinio's Italian Bistro. White-aproned servers bustled in and out, holding round steaming pizzas on upstretched hands. Inside, every table was full, but the long mahogany bar remained empty. The dusty shelves that used to hold liquor bottles looked forlorn.
Antonio stood amid his bustling restaurant. Rubbing his hands gleefully, he greeted his patrons and shook their hands. Occasionally, he approached a table and spoke to the diners. Since he owned a popular eatery, he knew almost everybody.
"Anything special happening tonight, Tony?" Sal Bonetti asked, leaning toward his host conspiratorially.
"Si," Tony Moretti nodded. Bending slightly, he whispered, "Lionel Barrymore."
Sal Bonetti nodded. Lifting his water glass, he frowned before taking a small sip.
"Your spaghetti and meatballs are superb as usual, Antoinio," Sal stated in a louder voice. "Cheers!" He raised his water in a salute.
"Grazie," Tony muttered, moving toward another table.
"Shall we sample the cannoli, my dear?" Sal turned toward his companion. "Or shall we call it a night?"
"Call it a night," Trixie Andrews answered, winking.
"As you wish, my dear." Sal signaled his waiter to bring the check. He paid and, rising, pulled out his companion's chair.
Trixie took Sal's arm, and they exited onto the sidewalk. Tipping his hat to Officer O'Malley, Sal strolled along the street with Trixie. They stopped at a taxi stand and glanced back toward the policeman. O'Malley continued his beat, twirling his Billy club and whistling a tune. When he turned a corner, Sal led Trixie down the alley.
Sal tapped on a discreet wooden door using the tip of his cane. The door hid behind a stack of old crates and pallets. A small square section of the ingress slid open, and a single eye appeared.
"Lionel Barrymore," Sal whispered. Trixie clutched his arm.
The eye disappeared, and then the door swung open enough to allow Sal and Trixie an entrance. They sidled along between packed warehouse boxes until they reached another hidden door. Whispering 'Lionel Barrymore' again, they crossed another threshold and walked down a rickety set of stairs. After giving the password a third time, the couple finally entered the Speakeasy.
"Benvenuto, amici," Tony Moretti exclaimed, rushing toward his friends. "Welcome."
The two men grasped arms and laughed uproariously.
Trixie glanced around, trying not to appear naïve. Although she looked and acted like a flapper, tonight was her first time in a speakeasy. When her boss, Sal Bonetti, asked her to join him for dinner, she accepted immediately. Her mother didn't like her working for Sal. She thought his laundry business was a front, and he was actually a crime boss.
Trixie also suspected Sal was involved in shady business, but she didn't mind. She worked as his secretary in his private office. It was her first job, and it paid well. Her boss treated her respectfully, but she encouraged him to pay more attention to her. She knew she was making progress when he asked her to join him at Antoinio's.
The Speakeasy thrived with customers despite prohibition. Trixie noticed a couple of Chicago's finest council members at the bar drinking martinis. Her best friend, Dolly Morgan, sat beside one of them. She sported the new straight bob bombshell hairdo with a ribbon band around her forehead. Dolly looked perfectly at ease with her slender legs crossed and a long black cigarette filter between her fingers. Tilting her head, she laughed as the alderman whispered into her ear.
"Dolly!" Trixie stood on tiptoes and waved at her friend. Dolly tilted her head and smiled. Grasping Sal's hand, she pushed through the crowd and found a place at the bar. "You know Sal Bonetti."
"Sure. Hi, Sal." Dolly winked broadly. "This is Marco Conti and Glenn Thompson."
"We're already acquainted," Sal stated, greeting the two counsel men.
"Otherwise known as Lionel Barrymore," Marco chuckled.
"We're all Lionel Barrymore tonight," Glenn laughed.
"It was Mary Pickford last night," Dolly chimed in, mentioning the ever-changing speakeasy password.
"Prohibition is doing wonders for the liquor business," Glenn stated, sipping his martini, "if you like bathtub gin."
Glenn referred to the popular brew created by amateurs and sold to speakeasies during prohibition. Although drinking alcohol was illegal following the eighteenth amendment, many got around the law by making gin at home.
Speakeasies popped up in secret warehouse rooms and basements. A password was required to gain entrance. Tony Moretti operated the clandestine one in the warehouse abutting his Italian Bistro. Bar patrons packed it every night of the week. So far, with the assistance of counselors Conti and Thompson, the police had not raided his establishment. Sal Bonetti's men kept guard around the perimeter and could warn him immediately of police activity in the area.
If the police raided, there was an escape door at the rear of the Speakeasy. Following a warning, Tony's patrons could quickly slip out into an alley and evade arrest. Trixie felt safe with Sal. He had influence in Chicago, and no one would dare arrest him.
Sal handed Trixie a martini, and she sipped it. Although she'd never had one before, she liked its smooth taste. She plucked out the olive and slipped it between her lips. Smiling, she chewed and swallowed it. Her Gatsby dress made her feel sexy. It hung just above her knees, and its fringe flapped around her when she walked. She wore platinum blonde hair in finger curls with black feathers rising from her crown.
Sal liked the way she looked. He hired her because he wanted her, not because she was a good secretary. Sal appreciated young, hot-blooded women. Despite having a wife and three children at home, he had plans for her. His wife—he didn't care about her much. Florentine had connections with the mob and Al Capone. He married her to get further in with the mob. Considering himself a free spirit, he let his eyes roam. They settled on Trixie Andrews.
Trixie accepted another martini and sipped it. Dolly brought her lips close to Marco's ear and whispered something. She brushed her bare shoulder against his suitcoat, and he caressed her thigh. Trixie repeated the action on Sal. He smiled appreciatively. When the Speakeasy closed, he would take her back to the laundry and give her something special.
In the background, a jazz trio tuned up and played Bye-Bye Blackbird. Dolly and Trixie dragged their men onto the dance floor. Other couples crowded onto the floor, and they danced shoulder to shoulder. Trixie pressed her body against Sal's. He reacted quickly and grabbed her derriere. They kissed while they continued to sway.
The dim lights and smoky bar seemed romantic to Trixie. Dancing with Sal made her feel sophisticated. The two martinis gave her a sense of freedom unrealized in her relatively dull life. Her father worked at the greengrocers, and her mother took in laundry. They only went out on their anniversary. Trixie disdained their lifestyle. She wanted more; she wanted Sal.
The Jazz band began playing The Charleston. Trixie and Dolly broke away from their male companions and danced it together. The crowd separated, giving the girls the dance floor. Wild applause broke out when the music ended. Sal and Marco grabbed their date's arms to dance to Sweet Georgia Brown.
Suddenly, Sal stood still and focused on the bar. Lefty Lukowski—Sal's second in command—entered briskly and whispered into Antionio's ear. Then, Tony shouted the word everyone feared.
"RAID!"
The Speakeasy's door burst open, and bright lights filled the space. Officer O'Malley led the way inside, followed by a squad of policemen. Raising their Billy clubs, they began rounding up the patrons. A mass of screaming people hurled themselves toward the escape door. Sal grabbed Trixie by the waist and pushed through the mob. She stumbled when her heel snapped and limped along with him. Around her, the crowd pushed and shoved. Her face connected with the wall, and Sal continued to yank on her arm.
Finally, they emerged into the alley. Most of the crowd rushed toward the street. Trixie glimpsed Dolly with Marco and Glenn. She moved in their direction, but Sal held her firm. Despite her protests, he pulled her further into the alley. She ran with him, limping on her broken heel. The couple ran along a maze of backstreets and emerged several blocks away. Lefty held open the backdoor to a Rolls Royce Phantom limousine. Trixie collapsed onto the seat. Sal encircled her shoulders and kissed her cheek.
"That was a close one," he suavely stated. "Never run toward the nearest street, sweetheart. Coppers always have it covered. We'll hear of a few arrests tomorrow morning, including a couple savvy aldermen."
"And Dolly," Trixie exclaimed. "Poor Dolly. What about Tony?"
"By the time the raid started, Tony was back in his bistro," Sal chuckled. "He knows better than to get caught. And not one of his patrons will admit he was anywhere other than in his restaurant."
"Where to, Boss?" Lefty asked, sliding open the partition between the front and back seats.
"The laundry, pronto," Sal answered. "Use the back alley."
"Whatever you say, Boss." Lefty closed the partition.
Sal sat back and pulled Trixie to his side. He kissed her passionately and began caressing her. Trixie settled into the crook of his arm, encircling his neck with her arms. She had achieved more than she actually wanted. Feeling young and alive, she easily fell into her boss's embrace. She loved the Roaring '20s. The era provided her with more freedom than women previously enjoyed. Trixie was ready for any excitement she could find.
Lefty pulled into the alley and, leaping from the car, opened the back door. Sal Bonetti emerged and then turned to assist Trixie. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he led her toward the laundry. Two cars appeared, blocking the alleyway. A half-dozen armed men emerged.
"Boss!" Lefty yelled, drawing Sal's attention.
Sal turned at the sound of his chauffeur's voice. He swiftly shoved Trixie behind an array of garbage cans. She fell, skidding her knees and tearing her black net stockings. Machine gun fire erupted around her. She squatted, covering her head with her arms, and flattened herself on the hard ground.
"Let's get outta here," a rough voice cried out. Car doors slammed, and tires squealed as the vehicles retreated.
Trixie emerged on her hands and knees. She crawled toward Sal and cradled his head in her lap. He opened his eyes and smiled a weak smile.
"Get outta here, Trix," the crime boss muttered, breathing shallowly.
"I won't leave you, Sal," she answered, brushing his black hair out of his eyes.
"Go home, Trixie," he whispered. His voice faded, and he gasped for breath.
"No." Tears clung to her eyes. The previous hours' fun seemed trite in comparison to recent events.
"Go home. Forget you were here." Sal's eyes drooped weakly. "It won't do for you to stay. Don't ruin your reputation. Don't get caught up in the mob."
The word 'mob' startled her. Trixie rose to her feet slowly. She limped to the head of the alley and glanced back. Sal and Lefty lay on the pavement, cut down by a rival gang. In the distance, sirens wailed. Trixie took off her broken shoes and, carrying them limply, walked away.
Several police cars passed her and pulled into the alley. She looked back again, then continued to walk. It was a long way home. Trixie bent her head, and tears trickled down her cheeks.

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