The Luv Rat - by Frank Sonderborg

I was freezing my ass off, watching the SMC Cartage Company garage, on North Clark Street, in Chicago's Lincoln Park. 

It was Bugs Moran’s Bootleg joint. And Capone wanted him wacked. 

Sooner than later. 

I had my own reasons to be there. And his name was Schwimmer. The Luv Rat.

I found out he’d been banging my missus while I was away in the Pen. 

I confronted her when I got my early release.

“Whatcha think I am!!! A frigging nun? Of course I was banging him. He was here, you weren’t, end of story.”

Put like that, it sounded quite reasonable.

But then she had to twist the knife, “He luves me. An I luves him.”

I checked him out. He shouldn’t been banging my missus. Period. 

No excuses. No mercy. The guy was a love rat. 

He was banging the broads right left and centre. Told the broads he was a big-time gangster. 

He was a bum, a nuthing. A hang around. Just another wannabe mobster. 

The dumb schmuck. Schwimmer would pay a high price for hanging around mobsters.

I’d bought chocolates and some red roses for my Baby. I was taking her out tonight. First class. The Blackhawk restaurant, best music best Prime Rib in Chicago. 

But first I had to take care of Schwimmer.

Capone wanted Bugs Moran dead. I was to spot the garage then alert the hit team when Moran showed up.

I counted them off going in, Adam Heyer, the Gusenberg brothers, Johnny May, Schwimmer, the rat. 

Then I spotted Weinshank going in with Moran’s brother in-law Jimmy Clark. 

I thought, Weinshank looked an awful lot like Moran.

Through my rear mirror I could see our boyzz in Cops’ uniforms getting antsy.

They were sitting in a patrol car, waiting for me to give the signal. Behind them in a black Cadillac sat Capones two hitmen.

I lifted my hand and waved them on. And got the ball rolling.

Weinshank looked enough like Moran, for me to get away with this. 

The Cop car cruised down and stopped outside the garage. All the city cops were on the payroll. 

Hell, most of City Hall was on Capones or Moran’s payroll. So, it never even raised an eyebrow with Moran’s guys outside.

The Cops pulled their guns and forced the guards inside. Then the black Cadillac arrived, and the two hitmen entered the garage, carrying the trademark of a Chicago Hoodlum, the Thomsen Machine Gun, or as known locally, the Chicago typewriter.

The Cops pretended to arrest the seven men inside the garage.

Knowing the charges would never stick, and they would be out in no time, they all complied peacefully and stood facing the wall.

The Cops parted and allowed the Chicago Typewriter to do its work. 

Rat-A-Tat-Tatt and Bing Bada boom boom. And I was rid of Schwimmer. 

Oh, Happy Days!!

Anyway, that’s how I spent the 14^{th of} February, Valentines Day in Chicago 1929. 

How about you?