[legendsport]

Chicago, IL: July 19, 1923:

Joe Barrell cut into his steak with relish, thinking that a good steak was one of life's great pleasures, and this particular steak was even better, since he wasn't even footing the bill for it.

He shoved the meat-laden fork into his mouth and chewed, his pleasure evident on his face. After swallowing, he nodded across the table and asked, "So, what can I do for you, Mr. Moran?"

The heavy-jowled fellow across from him waved his own fork and said, "Call me, Bugs. Everyone else does."

Moran ate some of his steak while Joe waited for an answer.

The restaurant owned by Augustus Hoch, a meat-packer who was now cutting out the middleman, was one of the city's finest. Joe knew from his brother Jack that Hoch was rumored to not only have ties to the bootlegging gangs that were now rampant in Chicago, but he was also rumored to be interested in bringing professional hockey to the city. But that was neither here nor there, because it was probably his ties to the North Side Gang's bootleggers that enabled a known criminal like Bugs Moran to get the best table in the place.

Moran wiped his fleshy lips with his napkin and dropped it on the table. He took a deep breath and said, "We have a problem, Mr. Barrell."

Joe's confused look brought a small and humorless grin to Moran's face. "I can see that you require an explanation."

Joe nodded, his stomach churning a bit. Though he feared no man physically, Joe was also no fool and knew that Moran and his associates would think nothing of shooting him if there was any benefit to be derived from doing so.

"You have a brother... Jack, right? Lives in Canada?"

Joe nodded again and replied, "You're well-informed. I have many brothers, but yes, my brother Jack lives in Toronto."

"He also plays football, here in Chicago. With you." Stated as known facts, not questions.

"As I said, you're well-informed," Joe replied, wondering - but not asking - where this was going.

"And you... you're..." Moran spread his hands and winked, "involved, shall we say, with Charlotte Cleaves?"

Joe sat back, stunned and confused. He just bobbed his head in acknowledgement.

Moran smirked, and spread his hands. "We're not spying on you, Barrell. Cleaves' husband? He works for our... business associates... in Kentucky."

Moran tapped a fingernail on the glass of illegal whiskey sitting beside his plate. "They make good whiskey in Kentucky, you see."

Joe said nothing, and while he was listening and registering what Moran was saying, he was also still wondering what Moran wanted with him.

Moran raised his glass, cocked it at Joe in a mock toast and then downed his drink in a gulp. "No more evidence," he croaked and then he winked at Joe.

"So... I know you're thinking what does my having my way with another guy's wife, and my brother in Canada, have to do with anything. Am I right?"

"Yes, you know you are. Where's this going, Bugs?"

"Well... our friend Mr. Cleaves, he's not happy. See, his wife, the lovely Charlie? She's in a family way and Mr. Cleaves? Well, he figures the kid ain't his. So... as you can imagine, he is somewhat out of sorts about the whole thing."

"And how does he know, or thinks he knows, about me?" Joe asked.

Moran smiled that cold smile again. "He got it from the horse's mouth, of course."

"Charlie told him?"

"Let's just say he persuaded her to come clean."

Joe's fingers whitened as he tightened them on his own glass of whiskey. "He hit her?" he growled.

Moran shrugged. "I wasn't there, but like I said, he got it out of her. One way or another."

"So... he wants you to what? Rough me up? Make me pay somehow?"

Moran barked a short laugh. "Yes. But if we were going along with that, they'd be pulling you out of the Chicago River right about now."

Moran tapped his glass again, this time loudly. A waiter rushed over and took the glass. "Neat," Moran said and the waiter nodded quickly and hurried off to wherever Hoch stashed his illegal hootch.

"We figure you can pay in a way that benefits us all, and keeps you breathing."

Joe frowned and squeezed his glass again. Moran nodded at his hand and said, "You grip that any harder, you're gonna shatter it. All that glass could really mess up your hands."

"What do you want me to do?" Joe asked, the strain in his voice making it sound almost like a whisper.

"Well, there are two things. One, if we say to throw a game... you throw a game." Joe was shaking his head before Moran even finished. The gangster cocked his head and asked, "No?"

"No. I can't throw a game by myself. There are eleven guys on the team. Even if I play terribly, I can't singlehandedly make us lose."

Moran scoffed and shot back, "Oh, I think you could. But... there's option number two."

"Which is?"

Moran cut another piece of steak and popped it into his mouth. "Your brother Jack. He's over the border and back so much, he's practically a regular to the border people."

Joe shrugged. "I don't know. He usually comes over through Windsor into Detroit, I think."

Moran pointed his fork at him. "Right. And goes back the same way. We're thinking maybe he brings something back to Canada for us."

"Something?" Joe asked.

"Dough... You get Jack to run money into Canada for us... and we forget what you've been doing with Mrs. Cleaves. And if Mr. Cleaves gets too... uppity about it? We'll take care of him."

Joe swallowed. He looked down at his steak, thinking what a shame it was that he had completely lost his appetite.