With broad shoulders and thick wavy hair, Nicola was a good dancer, a fair go middling crooner, and an excellent layabout. As his favorite girl Lulabelle raced around her apartment sprouting nonsense Nicola scratched his chiseled chin. She was talking murder and throwing underwear into her steamer trunk. And what’s up with the mangy dog, he thought.

Nicola figured she got ahold of some bad hooch at the Red Slipper. Broads always got loopy around St. Valentine’s Day. Figuring coffee might sober her up, he headed over to the hot plate.

“Stop talking crazy baby,” Nicola said, “Let me take care of you till you come down.”

Lulabelle smacked the tin of coffee out of his hand. Shoving aside the kitchette’s curtains, Lulabelle ransacked her dishes. She popped up with a roll of greenbacks that disappeared into her garter. With a violent shake, Nicola grabbed her shoulders. Next he raised a hand to knock a little sense into her. The hound barked and his girl kneed his crotch. Nicola collapsed to the floor.

“No time for talk. Grab your glad rags and bounce. I did a favor for some hard guys, showed them the garage where the North Side Gang moves their whiskey. I figured these guys were doing a little booze heist and I could get a taste. It was a bloodbath, the Gusenberg brothers, Jimmy Clark, even old John John the mechanic. A bloodbath with my fingerprints, Nic. I hid then hightailed it with John John’s dog,” Lulabella said.

Holding his jewels Nicola tried to make sense of everything she’d told him. The dog licked his handsome face. He shoved the pooch away. Lulabelle shrugged one arm into her best coat and dragged her steamer with the other. She ran for the door.

“Good luck with O’Bannon’s revenge or Capone’s coverup, lover,” she said before slamming the door.

Lulabelle opened the door. Nicola looked up. “C’mon Highball we got a train to catch.”

Tail wagging, Highball followed Lulabelle down the hall.