Dead Birmingham by Timothy C. Phillips

minds had done a lot for Francis’s standing with the Don. They still did whatever business was required of them—kill someone if they needed it, sure, but quietly so as to be not newsworthy.
    This philosophy also landed Francis in charge of certain delicate operations, like the one he was heading up today. The Don knew that Francis would let small things slide, and devote his attention only to matters that were beneficial to the Ganato family’s best interests. This prevalent attitude had prevented many headaches in the past, and while other mob leaders around the country went to prison, Don Ganato quietly consolidated his power, away from the power centers of the northern seaboard. The only heat that Don Ganato liked was from the Southern sun.
    â€œI hear whispers,” Don Ganato had told Francis that morning, using one of his famously euphemistic expressions, “that our counterparts across the river have hired an outsider who has transgressed our quiet little neighborhood. Go and find someone in the know. I want the details. No killing.”
    Francis and his guys had asked around. It turned out that there were certain loose associates of the O’Hearn mob who might be pressed. The name of Johnny “Shakes” Sheehan had come up more than once. It seemed that lately he had gotten very close to Longshot Lonny O’Malley—they were card playing and drinking buddies, some sources said. Finnegan’s Bar, certain other sources indicated, was where he could usually be found. So here Francis and his cohorts were, and their wait was finally over.
    The front doors of Finnegan’s opened. Two men walked out into the noonday sun, smiling, laughing.
    â€œThat’s him.” Francis pointed at the taller of the two, a man in an expensive blue suit. Francis opened his door and got out, casually as possible. The other guys in the car did likewise. They walked quickly across the street.  
    The two men they had been waiting for had stopped and were talking to one another. One had his back to them. The other stood looking in their direction, and his eyes went wide as he saw four very large and well-dressed Italians, approaching.
    The four men stopped, and Francis called out. “You,” he said to the man who had his back to them, “Johnny Shakes.”  
    The man called Shakes did not turn around. Francis spoke again.
    â€œWe need you to come with us. We got some questions for you.”
    Shakes turned around, quickly, now. “Go to hell.”
    â€œHave it your way, pal.”
    The man to Francis’ right moved in quickly, and put his hand on Shakes’ shoulder. Shakes spun with surprising speed and pushed the man’s hand high with own right hand, and yanked his elbow down hard with the other. He moved in behind the man and started backing toward the door to the bar, using the Italian as a shield. His companion pulled a pistol from inside his coat, and Francis and his other men immediately drew their weapons in response. Everyone stood there, weapons drawn, uncertain as to what to do next.  
    â€œHey, Francis, make this fuckin’ Mick let go of me!” The man in Johnny Shakes’ grip cried out in almost comic desperation.
    The other men laughed aloud, but held their guns on Shakes. The man who had been with Shakes inched closer to the front door of Finnegan’s.
    â€œDon’t let him go in there!” Francis yelled. “Half of Longshot’s boys are probably in there.”
    The man that Shakes held made his move. Reaching behind him with his right leg, he tried to sweep Shakes’ feet out from under him. But Shakes countered by stepping backward. The men’s legs became entangled, and they stumbled against the outer wall of the bar. Francis and his friends instantly lunged forward.  
    Shakes spun and threw the man he had been holding into the way of Francis’ men, then managed to claw the door to Finnegan’s bar