One night at Nighthawks...

Pour me another cup of coffee Bob. I ordered in a tired voice as I slid my mug across the bar. It was late in downtown Chicago. The city slept except for this cozy little coffee shop on Fairbanks. I shifted on my stool and smiled placidly as I watched the steam spiral upward from the cup placed in front of me. Soft violins and flutes accompanied by a silky female voice flowed from the jukebox in the corner. Though I couldn’t understand the Italian lyrics, the music soothed my aching mind and relaxed the tense muscles in my body. As the song slowly faded to silence the man across the bar sauntered over to the jukebox (boots echoing softly on the wood-grain floor) and placed another dime into the slot like he had done several times before. I thought that if I heard the song just once more I could sing along with it, note for note, even though the Italian lyrics were completely foreign to me.
As the man’s back was turned to me and the lady that was with him stared wistfully at a spot on the table as she cradled her chamomile tea, I glanced down at my notepad resting on my knee under the table at the small handful of words and phrases that I had managed to record from his conversation with the lady. The man’s name was Capone, Al Capone. I am a private eye that freelances for the Chicago Police force. As a private eye I usually get paid to investigate people, but this time I’m not on assignment. Capone is a personal project I’m working on. I’m on my own time. I won’t be able to rest easy until he is behind bars.
Capone is defiantly an elusive opponent. He has the whole city of Chicago in his pocket, from the Mayor to the Chief of Police. His hired guns almost outnumber the police force. He has been charged with racketeering several times but nothing ever sticks to him. He always swaggers out of the courtroom with a smug grin on his face, eyes full of gleeful defiance. It has become my mission in life to wipe that grin off of his face and to see the look of defeat in his eyes through iron bars.
As he turned form the jukebox to walk back to his seat, the light glimmered as it caught the scar across the left side of his face. It started above his cheek and slanted down to the bottom of his jaw. The scar bent into a crescent as his lips curled in a sinister smile. I had seen that same smile many times before as I watched in anger from behind the masses of reporters as he descended the steps of the courthouse. Capone doesn’t realize how far he and I go back.
On a foggy winter night back in 45 i was awakened by gunshots. I ran into the den to see my father riddled with bullets. A dark figure in a trenchcoat was standing over his body with a smoking tommy gun. I caught a glimpse of his face in the moonlight as he escaped out of an open window into the night air, but not before I slashed his cheek with a bowie knife my father kept on his study table.
My father was the cheif of police in chicago at the time and had apparently refused to cover up a smuggling ring ran by Capone. That night, over the corpse of my father, I swore that I would avenge his death.