Embers & Ash by T.M. Goeglein

with a small crystal chandelier.
    â€œThe alley-vator, right?” Doug whispered, climbing aboard. “Cool.”
    I locked the electrical box and joined him. The chandelier tinkled as we descended, and then we stepped into the foyer of Club Molasses. During Prohibition, the alley-vator had been the main entrance to the speakeasy, depositing customers thirsty for booze and gambling into a luxurious anteroom where coats, hats, and guns were checked by Outfit goons. Now, ancient silken wallpaper hung in strands, powdery dust blanketed plush, worn divans, and cobwebs, long deserted by their original spinners, fell from wall sconces like clumps of gray cotton candy. Doug kicked at a flat, padlocked box and said, “This is where they checked the tommy guns, right?”
    â€œRight,” I said, leading him to a metal door with an eye slot. Long ago, an armed guard peered out from the other side demanding a password for entry. I opened it as we stepped inside, moving beneath a pyramid of wooden molasses barrels—one stacked on top of another, framing the door—and into the club. It was as cool and silent as a burial tomb. Antique slot machines stood in a corner like rows of soldiers frozen in salute. The mahogany bar stretched long and empty in front of a mirror gone cloudy with age, nearly obscuring
CLUB
MOLASSES
in curlicue script. Doug walked onto the dance floor where the letters CM were done in parquet.
    â€œJust like old times.” He sighed. “Poor Kevin beat my face in right here.”
    â€œAnd would’ve choked me to death, if it hadn’t been for Harry.” It was puzzling how the little dog had found his way to Club Molasses, but that was far down the list on mysteries yet to be solved. “Let’s get moving,” I said, hurrying toward the office. It was empty except for a desk, which I’d combed through several times—removing the drawers, nearly disassembling the entire thing—hoping for further clues to help find my family, to no avail. The Capone Door sat exposed on the opposite wall, formerly covered by the large map of Chicago.
    â€œHang on a sec,” Doug said. “Can we take this back to the Bird Cage Club? Sort of like an artifact? It belongs with the map, you know?”
    I turned to a framed photo of Al Capone at a baseball game with Great-Grandpa Nunzio sitting nearby, trying to avoid the camera. It bore the inscription:
    To N.R.—Thanks for the cookies!—Your pal, A.C.
    I’d contemplated taking it the first time I saw it, but it felt like a grave robbery. Now it seemed like just another forgotten relic of my family’s criminal complicity. “Whatever.” I shrugged.
    â€œAwesome,” he said, and tried to lift it from the wall, but it didn’t budge. “Hm . . . it’s stuck.” He tried again, peering closer. “Along the edge. You can barely see them—hinges.” I stepped up, stared, and pulled at the opposite side of the frame, hearing a grudging
click
as the picture opened like a door. Inside, a dust-covered skeleton key hung from a hook, attached to a key chain in the shape of a pharaoh’s head. I removed it carefully, turned it over, and saw a yellowed piece of paper stuck to the back. In looping handwriting recognizable as Nunzio’s, it read:
    Deposito segreto di Nunzio Rispoli, numero 9291-R.
    Looking over my shoulder, Doug said, “Deposit-o segret-o?”
    â€œSecret deposit of Nunzio Rispoli,” I murmured, feeling its heft in my hand. “But not a deposit box. The key is too big. I wonder . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAbout a month ago, Tyler asked me to settle a dispute between Money and a young Outfit guy. A baby-faced smash-and-grabber,” I said. “Guy walks into a jewelry store, puts a gun on the owner, uses a hammer to shatter a display case, grabs all he can carry, and runs for it. Simple, but effective. Tyler figured out