Chicago: the White City

The End of Big Jim Colosimo
by Morgan Hirsch

Even today, most people think it was Al Capone that killed Big Jim Colosimo, but I know it wasn't. That deed ought to be laid at the doorstep of a certain Greasy-palmed nosferatu hotel owner. That greasy bastard and his covenant were deep in with the Italians and their gambling and brothel operations. When Prohibition started and Colosimo didn't want to get into bootlegging, everybody had a problem with that. Little Johnny Torrio and this particular covenant-using "greasy palms" as their go between-set up the hit that killed Colosimo. I figure the greasy bastard did the shooting. Usually the Bastard was just a gutless prick, but he was a big-time Republican and had always had it in for Colosimo because he?d worked for first ward bosses Bathhouse John Coughlin and Mike Hinky Dink Kenna, so I figure the grease-pit was real eager to put a bullet in Big Jim.

That greasy bastard got his, though. He was set up with John Torrio to sell moonshine in all the speak-easies and hotels he had in the city, and make all kinds of money. Then, there was the Dion O'Banion problem; he and his North Sider boys were hijacking Torrio's booze shipments and buying up all the underground breweries down Carbondale and Macomb way. Things were going to get settled by Torrio buying the Seiben brewery from O'Banion. The night the deal was closed Torrio's guys brought a lot of booze straight from the brewery to one of the Greasy Bastard's hotels for a party. Now this greasy bastard sold lacrimose at that same hotel, and I was there the night of that shindig, so I know what happened. The Italians had brought two trucks-I mean two full truckloads-of booze for this party, and were getting good and juiced when the bastard tells 'em that there's no more liquor. The biggest one of 'em says, "Your Mother we're out, we bought all kinds of booze!" and the bastard says to him, "That's my property now, I have purchased it, part and parcel from Mr. Torrio. If you gentlemen desire to continue imbibing gratis, you had best return to your brewery, forthwith. Go back to your brewery, supply your own libations."

The Italian boys knew they couldn't do anything to the greasy bastard 'cause he was in with Torrio, so they left for the brewery. As soon as they did, I saw the Greasy Bastard go into his office and get on the phone. I can only guess who he called-probably wasn't a vampire, especially anyone in his covenant, 'cause they didn't like talking on the phone in those days. But I heard what he said-"Yes sir-they're on their way sir-No they don?t suspect-when can I expect my compensation?-Excellent, you shall have the lot of them served up like a roast, red apple clenched in their filthy snout." When he hung up, the greasy bastard was smiling like he was the cleverest dog in the city. About an hour later, the Feds raided the Seiben Brewery and busted all the hoople-heads that had just been kicked out of the Bastard's hotel.

I didn't realize just what'd happened, so I was dumb enough to go back to the Greasy-palmed bastard's hotel a couple of nights later. You better believe that was a mistake. I was in the speakeasy, and the door got the secret knock. The greasy bastard went over and looked through the peephole, and he may as well've shat all the bricks in the Water Tower. He put on his fake bastard smile and opened up the door, and it was none other than Frank Yale along with Albert Anselmi and John Scalise, Torrio?s best New York muscle, just short of Al Capone.

If you've never seen a handshake hit before, it's not a pretty thing: one guy comes up all smiles with his hand out-that was Yale-and the poor schmuck that's gonna get killed-that was the Bastard-takes it. The other guy holds the schmuck's hand real tight so he can't pull his own piece, and his partners-Anselmi and Scalise- pull their guns and fill the schmuck with lead. If that nosferatu hadn't had those greasy as hell palms, he probably would've gotten burned down with his hotel, but as it happened he slipped out of Yale's grip before Anselmi and Scalise had put him down. When the bullets started flying, everybody started running everywhere, and that bastard disappeared in the confusion. I got out and when I turned back after running for a few blocks, the speak-easy was burning up, and pretty soon the whole hotel went up with it. That nosferatu had to hide his face in this city for more than a decade, but I guess that's came easy. Stupid, greasy, bastard-shows what you got for dealing with the Italians, though.