All language subtitles for ValentinedayM

February 14, 1929-

the year of the black bottle,
six-day bicycle races...

flagpole sitting, and the first flight
from Paris to New York.

Mickey Mouse
makes his screen debut...

and Herbert Hoover is inaugurated
as the 31st president with the words...

"We in America today are nearer
to the final triumph over poverty...

than ever before in any land. "

Six months later, the New York
stock market will crash...

and bring about the greatest
depression in world history.

In the city of Chicago,
the time is 10:25 a. m.

The temperature- 18 above zero.

Oh, my God.

My God!

In the years
following the passage...

of the National
Prohibition Act of 1920...

the nation's underworld rises to power
and battles amongst itself...

just as modern nations
and corporations do.

Open periods of gang warfare are
followed by peace treaties...

and attempts at consolidation
and monopoly...

each of which is shattered
as new warfare erupts...

in quest of the booming
bootlegging and vice profits.

By 1929, the gangs of Chicago
operate 21,207 speakeasies...

and their gross income
reaches $357 million.

Six hundred and 18 members
of the city's underworld...

are murdered within nine years.

Corruption extends
from the mayor's office...

to the humblest
side-street speakeasy.

Tell your lousy sister
to keep her lousy mouth shut!

Do me a favor, will you?

I mean, just to give
her tonsils a break-

Two beers.

Nice place you got here.

Thanks.

Do a nice business, huh?

Pays the rent.

What are you trying to do,
poison me?

If you don't like the beer, mister,
you don't have to pay for it.

Well, now, ain't you
the cat's pajamas?

Did you hear that, Jimmy?

Bright eyes here says
we don't have to pay for this slop.

How 'bout it, bud?
You're drinking this stuff.

Tastes terrible, don't it?

I guess I'm not what
you'd call much of a judge.

What's the matter?
Don't you know when something stinks?

I guess I drunk better at that.

Ah, ya hear that?
Even your friend don't like it.

What more do you want?

All right, bright eyes,
where you getting it?

Fellow named Slauson.

Slauson, Slauson-

Only Slauson I know
works for Capone.

Al Capone.

That wouldn't be the same
Slauson, would it?

Huh?

I think it is.

- How much you move in a week?
- Five barrels.

Five? A swell joint like you got here?

With the right kind of beer,
you could double that, easy.

I'm gonna put 10 barrels in here
tomorrow morning, cost you $55 a barrel.

Look, mister, you trying
to get me knocked off?

I can't buck Capone.
Neither can Moran.

Moran?

Only Moran I know drives a streetcar.

That, uh-That wouldn't be
the same Moran, would it?

My mistake.

Aw, that's okay.
Anybody can make a mistake.

Take me. Why, I could even
be wrong about your beer.

Maybe it's swell,
and it's just you got dirty pipes.

Happens.

Well, now, you know
what you got there, bright eyes.

It's not the pipes at all.
It's green beer.

Here, you can smell it.

See what I mean?

Peter Gusenberg. Born Chicago,
Illinois, September 22 of 1898.

Ex-convict. Mail-robber. Burglar.

Hijacker. Professional killer.

When, at the age of 13, he came home
from school to find his mother dead...

his first act was to pry the wedding ring
from her finger and pawn it.

He has been a member of Bugs Moran's
North Side gang for the past seven years.

Ten barrels, starting tomorrow.

And don't forget-
I'm doing you a big favor.

Frank Gusenberg...

younger brother of Peter Gusenberg-

born Chicago, Illinois,
October 11, 1902.

Burglar. Car thief. Extortionist.
Professional gunman.

Member of the North Side gang
for the past nine years.

He is married to two women
simultaneously...

but lives with neither.

Vincenzo DeMora, alias
"Machine Gun" Jack McGurn-

born Brooklyn, New York,
July 7, 1903.

When he was nine years old,
his father was murdered.

By the time he was 20,
he had personally killed...

every man connected
with his father's death.

He has recently become a top
trigger man and extortionist...

in the Capone organization.

Just where the hell were you?

Nothing I could do, Jack.

Guy came up like
right out of the woodwork.

First I know, the door is open
and he's blasting away.

- Did you make him?
- Yeah.

One of Moran's boys.
Frank Gusenberg.

Alphonse Capone...

alias Al Capone,
alias Al Brown-

born Castellamare, Italy,
January 6, 1899.

No criminal record.
Raised in a Brooklyn slum.

He has migrated to Illinois
early in 1919.

Shrewd, ambitious,
and utterly ruthless...

Capone in six short years has climbed
from the status of saloon bouncer...

to become unchallenged leader of Chicago's
most powerful underworld organization.

To his associates,
he is "The Big Fellow. "

To the public,
he is "Scarface" Al Capone.

Thank you, Mr. Capone.

Sorry about that raid, Jake. I got a new
captain out there who won't play ball.

- What's wrong with him?
- Playing hard to get.

We had him put down
for a yard a week.

He says if we want to operate
in his district, we gotta triple that.

Three hundred, huh? Those guys
must think we're made of money.

Write me out his name.
I'll have the bum transferred to the sticks.

If it helps get him reelected...

half a million in Thompson's
campaign fund's a bargain.

They put Cermak
in the mayor's office...

and we're gonna lose
20 million a year.

That's a waste of dough.
We bought one mayor.

He loses out,
we buy the next one.

You don't know
Tony Cermak, Frank.

Charles "The Fixer" Fischetti-

born Castellamare, Italy,
August 11, 1891.

A second cousin to Al Capone...

Fischetti acts as chairman
at executive meetings.

He is a heavy drinker
but never drunk.

His principle value
to the organization...

is his ability
to suborn political leaders...

and public officials
on both state and city levels.

He will be murdered
on April 7, 1951.

...and that's where
we can get hurt.

He ever tries chiseling
on the Big Fellow's rackets...

he'll think a suitcase fell on him.

Ah, come on, Frank.
You know-

Hello, Al.

Meeting will come to order.

Jake.

Jake, we got you down here
for a report on the stockyards district.

How's everything going down there?

I'll read you the figures
and let you tell me, okay?

We took over that territory from Joe
Saltas at the end of last October...

and right away things got better.

For example...

beer sales for the 30-day period
ending December 15...

are up 21.4-

Jake "Greasy Thumb" Guzik-

born Peoria, Illinois,
November 9, 1894.

A one-time proprietor of a string
of suburban houses of prostitution...

Guzik is now in charge of all bootlegging,
sales and distribution...

for the Capone syndicate.

He will die of natural causes
on July 11, 1956.

Huh. I've been telling you guys for months
that when it comes to selling beer...

that big Polack don't know
his hat from third base.

For Christ's sake! All I get
outta you guys is talk!

The rest of the time,
you're strutting around...

with dollar cigars in your kissers
like a bunch of bankers!

Oh, big shots.

What-What's wrong, Al?

What's wrong?

You guys just get off
the boat or something?

Huh?

Am I the only guy around here
knows what's going on in this town?

Now let me give you some real facts...

not the kind of love
and kisses we've been getting...

from our good pal Jake here.

Nobody has to tell me
we're making money...

out in the stockyards or anyplace else...

on the South Side or the West Side.

But what about the North Side, Jake?

I don't hear no nice fat figures on that!

Or maybe you figure that end of town
ain't worth holding on to.

We talked about this, Al.

Yeah, we talked about it.

You talked about it!

"We don't want no trouble, Al. "
"Forget about it, Al. "

"Bugs Moran's just showing off, Al. "

That's what I think
of your figures, Jake!

Now you're gonna get
some of my figures!

Since Labor Day, Bugs Moran's-

Bugs!

Pushed our beer out of 28-

28 joints south
of Chicago Avenue alone.

That don't sound like much, does it?
Twenty-eight joints.

What's 28 joints out of 12,000?
Peanuts, right?

- Right?
- Al, if you'd just listen to reason-

Shut up, Charlie!
Right now I'm doing the talking!

There's something else.

Take our pal Jack McGurn here.

Now, Jack's a nice fellow.
Does as he's told. Keeps his nose clean.

I wish I had a couple
of hundred like him.

So what happens here a month ago?

Damned if a punk of Moran's
don't up and turn a chopper loose on him!

Tony Lombardo.

My pal Tony.

I went to his funeral.

I cried at his funeral.
I bawled like a baby.

Here's a guy never carried
a gun in his whole life.

Middle of the Loop,
4:30 in the afternoon...

two slugs through
the back of the head...

put there by a couple
of Bugs Moran's red hots!

Al, now, now, just
think a minute, huh?

I mean, going after Moran,
it just ain't good business.

Business!
I'm talking about staying alive!

Try getting it
through your cement head...

that what Moran's pulled so far,
that's just for openers!

He wants me!
He wants me dead!

The way Dion O'Bannion
wanted me dead!

The way Hymie Weiss
wanted me dead!

Right down there on 22nd street!
Middle of the day!

Damned if that crazy Polack don't
come looking for me with a whole army!

That was Hymie Weiss for you.

And right now,
Moran's getting set...

to pull something just as crazy.

Well, the hell with that!

We're gonna get him before he gets me!

I want that Irish son of a bitch... hit.

All right, Al.

You want Moran hit, we hit.

Of course, it's gonna
take a little time.

All right, now wait a minute.
All right, Al, you're sore.

Okay, nobody's saying you
haven't got a right to be sore.

But, now, you remember-

You want to argue with me, Charlie?

Work it out, Frank.
Only make it quick.

Quick? I don't know.
To tell the truth, Al...

there's a whole lot about the guy
we don't know to begin with.

Francesco Nittoni,
alias Frank "The Enforcer" Nitti-

born Montedoro, Sicily,
January 9, 1887.

Nitti is in charge of the Capone
organization's punishment squad...

made up of accomplished
strong-arm men and professional killers.

On March 19, 1943, while under
indictment for income tax evasion...

Nitti will use a gun for the last time-
to take his own life.

...before we could take the chance
to put him on the spot at all.

I don't want to hear all that.
Everybody wants to argue!

- I told you what to do. How long is it going to take?
- I don't know what to tell you.

- Honest, I don't. We got nothing to go on.
- I can't hear you, Frank.

Five weeks. Six at the most.

Six weeks? What are you gonna use
on him, a bow and arrow?

Something on your mind, Jack?

Well, uh, yes, sir.

Maybe I'm wrong to butt in like this...

but the last couple of months I've been
doing a little checking up on Moran.

He lives at the Belden Essex Apartments
on Lincoln Park West.

Apartment 5-C.
Uses the name George Miller.

He's crazy
about his wife and kid.

He stays home most nights.

Never goes anywhere without two torpedoes-
Willie Marks and Ted Newberry...

both bad guys to tangle with.

If that's any help, Mr. Capone.

You left something out, Jack-
where he buys his BVDs.

I said I wish I had a couple
of hundred like him.

Now you know why.

Come here, Jack.

You want to know something, Jack?

I like a guy who can use his head
for something besides a hat rack.

And seeing as how you know
so much about Moran...

I'm giving you the job
of getting rid of him.

If that's okay with you, Frank.

I got no objections.

- Think you can handle it, kid?
- Yes, sir.

There's just one thing, Mr. Capone.

We may have to take some
of Moran's boys with him.

I'll send flowers.

I'm not scared of a war with Capone.

It's gonna be him or me.

If he'd stuck to his word
these past couple of years...

it would be a different story.

But every deal he's made,
he's broken.

O'Bannion thought
he could deal with him.

Weiss did too.

Well, I don't have to tell you
how they ended up.

George Clarence Moran-

born St. Paul, Minnesota,
July 9, 1893.

Ex-convict. Burglar. Horse thief.

Hijacker. Suspected killer.

Present leader of Chicago's notorious
and long-established North Side Mob...

which, during the past five years...

has been almost constantly at war
with the Capone organization...

for control of the city's bootlegging
and gambling profits.

During these five years, every previous
leader of the North Side gang...

has been murdered
by the Capone interests.

Hymie shook the dirty hand
of that rotten greaseball!

Oh, sure, sure. We've been giving him
a lot of trouble lately.

But I'm telling you here and now
that it's not enough.

Not when you figure
what he's been doing to us-

pushing his slop in our saloons...

hijacking our trucks...

and sending punks like that Jack McGurn
up here to snoop around.

Well, that may bejake with you guys...

but not me.

I say it's time we put Al Capone
and his bums out of business.

For good!

George... with what?

You can start a war with Capone,
but you're not going to win it.

Not when every wop in town
is working for him.

I know some that aren't-
Joe Aiello's mob.

That five-and-dime punk?

Capone don't even know he's alive.

- Jimmy, that's no way to talk about our new partner.
- Wait a minute. Wait a minute.

- What is this, some kind of rib?
- Sit down, Frank.

Since when do we hook up
with a bunch of crummy spics?

You can count me out.

Don't you pop off to me,
you stupid Kraut.

When it comes to getting Capone,
I don't care who I use.

You remember Deeny O'Bannion?

Remember Hymie Weiss?
Well, you ought to...

because you helped load
their coffins into the hearse.

Or maybe when a friend of yours is gone,
you don't give a damn no more. Well, I do.

And Deeny O'Bannion was my friend,
and I don't forget him.

And I don't forget
who had him knocked off.

Hymie Weiss and me,
we was with Deeny...

not 10 minutes before they got him.

Now, remember those greaseballs.

They'd just as soon put a bullet
in your back as eat a pizza.

To hell with them Sicilians.
Be seeing you, Hymie.

Morning, Johnny.

Ah, good morning, boys.

No.

And that's
the way Capone operates.

That's the murdering double-crosser
who swore he'd keep out of the North Side.

Well, I'm not waiting around
for Capone to put me in no cemetery.

We nail him before he nails me.

All right, let's nail him
to get it over with.

I just say we do it without the help...

of a two-bit spaghetti
snapper like Joe Aiello.

Frank, you're a dummy,
you know that?

Capone's protection
comes from the Mafia.

He can't make a move
without permission of the head wop.

And he can't be the head himself
because he's not Sicilian.

So he's got his own man,
Patsy Lolordo, running the outfit.

Now, your spaghetti snapper,
Joe Aiello, is a pal of Lolordo's.

He helps us knock over Lolordo,
then he takes over the Mafia.

And that's when we take old Scarface
for a nice one-way ride.

And if it don't work,
he'll take us for a ride.

Well, it better work,
because I'm putting you in charge.

Well, I'm not saying it cannot be done...

especially if Aiello gets us in there.

Albert R. Kachellek, alias James Clark-

born Krojoencke, Germany,
February 25, 1888.

Ex-convict. Burglar.
Car thief. Suspected killer.

Since marrying Bugs Moran's
sister five years ago...

he has become the number-two man
in the Moran gang.

And then we need a good
driver for the getaway car.

I don't care how you do it.
Just get rid of Patsy Lolordo. Quick.

I learned how to drive
when I was young-

John May-

born Chicago, Illinois,
September 28, 1897.

Married. Seven children.

Twice arrested on charges of safe-blowing
and burglary. No convictions.

Has worked occasionally for
the Moran gang as an auto mechanic.

He has promised his wife he will stay
out of further trouble with the law...

but he is three months
behind in the rent.

I'd really like to help you out, Mr. Clark.
It's just that I don't-

Up to you, Johnny.
You want to do us a favor, fine.

If you don't, that's your luck out.

Here, see?

Well, I'm not really
a trigger man, you see?

Matter of fact,
I don't even own a gun.

And if there were
any shooting to start-

Well, I'd tell the cockeyed
world it won't be you.

Think we want some lousy amateur
gummin' up the works?

- Why, I wouldn't even let you kill my own mother.
- Shh.

The Gusenbergs will do
their shooting, Johnny.

All I'm asking you to do
is drive the car.

That, and maybe use a little
muscle if things get rough.

Pay's a hundred bucks.
Now, are you in, or out?

- It's a hundred bucks for the whole job?
- Uh-huh.

I'll do it.

Besides, I really need the money.

Come on, darlin'.
Don't you want any more?

Nicholas Sorello-

born Marsala, Sicily,
May 13, 1872.

Brought to the United States
by his cousin Dominic Forenza...

when in his late 30's.

Married with five children
and 11 grandchildren.

He has had difficulty learning
the ways of the New World...

and has lived
in continual poverty.

He will be murdered
on February 15, 1929...

less than 24 hours after completion...

of the only criminal activity of his life.

Come in.

Mr. McGurn?

- I'm Nick Sorello.
- Sit down, Nick.

Want a drink?
Something to eat?

Thank you, no.

It is kind of you to ask.

Dominic Forenza says
you're a man can be trusted.

Maybe that is because
my memory, it is very bad.

What do you do for a living, Nick?

I have the truck.

Sometimes I'm selling the vegetables.

Sometimes I'm in the moving business.

It's very hard to get a good job
when you talk with accent.

Yeah.

Any trouble with the cops?

No. One time, yes.

They tell me I'm moving the, uh...

stolen goods.

I say, "I do not know this. "

They take what is in my truck.
They let me go.

Same thing as in old country.

It's no different here.

Got a job for you, Nick.

Bring it off, you get paid big.

Five hundred bucks.

It honors me to serve you,
Mr. McGurn.

You're gonna need a couple paisani-

guys that can keep their traps shut.

Sometime tonight there'll be a car
left in front of your house.

It'll be hot, so ditch it
soon as the job's finished.

Got that?
Write this down.

Tomorrow morning,
9:00 on the nose...

you and your boys be on 33rd Street...

half a block west of Robie.

You're gonna need a gun.

A gun?

That is something
I do not have, Mr. McGurn.

Guns make trouble.

No bullets, no trouble, okay?

Okay.

Operator?

Yeah, Lettie, get me the cops.

I just seen a hijack being pulled off.

Johnny and me got our
end of it down pat.

Now all we need to know is-

Yeah?

Mr. Moran, it's Nick Sorello.

Mr. Sorello,
I don't think I know you.

Yeah. Yeah.

What label?

Uh-huh.
How much you asking?

All right, suppose you call me back
in an hour and a half.

Yeah, do that.

- What was all that about?
- A guy named Sorello.

He's got 80-odd cases of Old Log Cabin
he wants to peddle.

- Fifty-six bucks a case.
- Price seems all right.

Yeah, but is he all right?

Monroe 8099, please.

Lieutenant Dellacosta, please.

Oh, hello, Larry. This is George.

Look, Larry, a couple of things.

Let me know if your boys got anything
on a booze hijack last couple of days.

Out near the stockyards. Right.

And while you're at it, see if you got
a make sheet on a wop named Nick Sorello.

Right. I'll call you back
in about an hour, okay?

Thanks, Larry.

Oh, sorry, Jim.
What were you saying?

Oh, just that we're about
ready to make our move.

All we need now is to make sure
Lolordo's bodyguards...

change shifts
the same time every day.

I've got a couple of boys
checking on that right now.

Bang, bang! You're dead!

Alphonse, bellissima.

Pasqualino.

Come in, come in.

Grazie.

Patsy, uh...

Bugs Moran's been
stepping out of line.

I've, uh, told the boys
to go ahead and fix his wagon.

This I do not like to hear, Alphonse.

Maybe if you would talk things over-

Talk, hell!

I talked to O'Bannion,
and he laughed at me.

I talked to Weiss.
I pleaded with Weiss!

Three times he tried
to have me bumped off!

Now, Moran is just as bullheaded.

You can't talk any sense
to these peasants.

Every time I try it,
I wind up getting shot at!

I'm not asking you, Patsy.
I'm telling you.

I'm getting rid of Moran.

You and I, we will not quarrel
over the life of a worthless man.

I'm letting Jack McGurn handle it.

He wants two Mafia boys
on the choppers-

Scalise and Anselmi.

Same dough we paid for
knocking off Hymie Weiss, okay?

As you wish, my friend.

Alphonse, something else
troubles you, no?

Yeah.

I've been hearing things, Patsy.

You know how it is. You pick up
a word here and a word there...

you put them together,
and pretty soon you got a picture.

Maybe it's on the level,
and maybe it ain't.

The way I get it...

Joe Aiello is gonna take over
the Mafia in this town...

and they got your name on a bullet.

I have nothing to fear from Aiello.

Don Giuseppe and I are as brothers.

We attended the university
in Palermo together.

We came to this country
only months apart.

We are both members of the inner
counsel of the Brotherhood.

No, Alphonse. I thank you very much
for your concern for me...

but what you have heard is not true.

I know this.

Yeah?

It's Nick Sorello.

- Get in here.
- Get your-

Who else you got out there, Nick?

It's just a couple of-
Two of my good friends.

- They come help me to-
- Get 'em in here.

Hey, Mario! Joe!

Avanti!

Come on, come on!

Come on!

- What'd you have in mind, Nick?
- I ask your pardon, signor.

It's only to watch the whiskey
I have the gun.

You're a very naughty boy, Nick.

All right, let's get it in here.

Dr. Reinhart H. Schwimmer-

born Chicago, Illinois,
September 1, 1896.

Twice married, twice divorced.

Schwimmer has
no criminal record...

but is one of that group of men who are
fascinated by the exploits of gangsters.

In the last few months,
he has become acquainted...

with the members
of the Moran organization...

and spends a good deal of time
in their company.

A licensed optometrist, he has recently
abandoned his practice...

and is presently supported
by his widowed mother.

Okay, Nick, get it unloaded.

The money.

Signor, first you pay me the money.

Uhh.

Don't worry about it, Nick.
We'll send you a check.

Your pardon, signor.

Myself, I talked
to Mr. Moran on the telephone.

He said, "Okay, Nick,
I pay you the cash. "

Fifty-six dollars a case
for the first-class stuff.

Hey, you tasted, huh?

It's first-class stuff, no?

Okay.

Now you pay me the money...

we take 'em off-a the truck.

Where'd you get it, Nick?

Mr. Moran, he don't say that.
He just say-

A little hijack job, huh, Nick?

Got it off of Dingbat Oberta's
boys, right?

Uh-

We hear these things, Nick.

You don't pay the Dingbat,
we don't pay you. That's fair.

Okay, move it.
You'll get your dough.

Move.

Adam Heyer, born Springfield, Illinois...

June 26, 1881.

Criminal record: one conviction
for operating a confidence game.

Married twice.
One child, a son by his first wife.

As a qualified accountant...

Heyer acts as bookeeper and collector
for the Moran organization-

- Operator, get me Long Beach 1098, please.
- as well as handling payoffs...

to local politicians and the police.

His wife has been ill
for several years...

and he is careful to conceal
the true nature of his business...

from her and from their friends.

They're all here, Mr. Gusenberg.

Nick.

Stuff checks out.
Old Log Cabin uncut.

How many cases?

It's 82.
Myself, I counted it.

Nick wouldn't lie to us.
He wants to stay healthy.

Ain't that right, Nick?

That's 82 cases.

Fifty-six dollars a case.

That figures $4,592.

One thousand, 2,000...

3,000, 4,000...

one, two, three, four, five.

We'll make it, uh, even money- $4,500.

Five hundred for handling charges, Nick.

When we help unload
a truck, we get paid.

Check?

Thousand thanks, signor.

Maybe we do business
again some more next time.

You betcha, Nick!

Nothing we like better
than doing business with bright boys.

You're my idea of a bright boy.

Yeah.

Some of the money,
they steal it back from me.

More than $500.

I figured they would.

In fact, I counted on it.

You got one more job to do.

Just when, I don't know yet.

A real easy job, Nick.

Just one simple phone call.

Now remember, Pete.

Frank'll pick you up
tomorrow afternoon at 3:30 sharp.

At exactly 10 till 4:00,
both of you will pick up...

Joe Aiello on the corner
of Walton and Pelilah.

Now, the three of you
have got to be upstairs...

at five to 4:00 on the nose.

- You got all that?
- Don't worry about me. I can handle my end.

You better do your worrying about Aiello.

I think he's all right, but if something
goes wrong, I'm counting on you, Pete.

See you.

As Mr. and Mrs. Peter J. Gorman...

Peter Gusenberg and an ex-showgirl
named Myrtle Nelson Koppelman...

have occupied Apartment 5C
at 434 Roscoe Street...

for the past seven months.

Hey, Myrt?

You gonna lay there
reading that thing all night?

You made me lose my place.

Yeah? Come on over here.
I'll find it for you.

What are you eating?

What's it look like
I'm eating? A sandwich.

Well, you could have
made one for me.

What's the matter?
You bust a leg or something?

Pete, guess what?

You know that coat
you got me for Christmas?

You told me I could exchange it
because it was too big?

So what?

Well, I did, this afternoon-
for a nicer one.

Nicer?
What do you mean, nicer?

That coat set me back
750 smackers.

Oh, I know it did, Pete.

You've been awful good to me.

And don't you think for one minute
I don't appreciate it.

It's just, well, this one
I couldn't resist. That's all.

I know.
You just sit right there.

I'll go put it on for you.

You'll see how nice it looks.

Yowza, yowza, yowza.

This is Ben, Bernie and all the lads...

coming to you from the College Inn
of the Hotel Sherman.

And now for all you lads and lassies
listening in the great Midwest...

we're gonna play "Stumblin'."

Let's stumble a bit, laddies.

- Isn't it beautiful, Pete?
- How much?

- You don't have to use that tone of voice.
- How much!

It was a bargain, baby. They marked it
way down low. I just knew you'd want me-

- Three thousand. That's all.
- Three grand!

Why, you lousy little gold-digger!

When I picked you out of the line,
all you had to your name...

was a cloth coat with
monkey fur on the collar!

Well, that goes back
tomorrow, you hear me? Back!

Listen, you cheap gangster,
I'm gonna keep-

Hey, you know you're
disturbing the peace?

Let me in!

Cheap gangster!
I'm gonna call the cops-

When interviewed
by the press some weeks later...

Myrtle Koppleman had this to say:

Oh, Pete and I
have been married about a year.

I can't remember exactly
where we were married...

except that it wasn't in Illinois.

I had no idea Pete was a gangster.

He said he was a salesman.

Truly a kinder, more gentle man-
you just couldn't meet one.

On January 7,
the Moran gang puts into effect...

its plan to murder Mafia
chieftain Patsy Lolordo.

The first step is for
Pete and Frank Gusenberg...

to use Joe Aiello's friendship for Lolordo
as a means to enter his apartment.

- Your name Aiello?
- Aiello.

Hop in.

One thing I gotta know, Aiello.

You positive this guy Lolordo
ain't setting us up for a double-cross?

Don Pasqualino and I
are just like blood brothers.

He truly believes we are calling
on him on a business matter.

The men who guard him
will know this...

so they will allow us to enter.

Capisce?

Get in.

Take it easy, Aiello.

The second step
of the plan to murder Patsy Lolordo...

is the systematic elimination
of his bodyguards.

Pasqualino!

Dio mio!

Whoo!

You know, Judge, the trouble with
this country today is its morals are shot.

I mean, look at the young people.

Girls smoking cigarettes
right on the streets...

and necking
in the back seat of a car...

and wearing skirts so short
you can see everything they got.

And fellas, packing a hip flask full of
rotgut whiskey, driving around half-drunk.

You're perfectly right,
Mr. Capone.

I see them in my courtroom every day-
drunk, disorderly, defiant.

I hardly know how to handle them.

What these kids need, Your Honor...

is a good working-over
with a razor strap on their bare behind.

Boys and girls.
If any kid of mine-

Excuse me, Your Honor.

Freshen up your drinks, folks.
I'll be right back.

Hello?

Yeah, yeah, this is Al.

Who?

Oh, hello, Marty.

Now, what's so important
you got to-

Oh-

Get the boys.

What is it, Al?

What's wrong?

Patsy Lolordo.

He's dead.

Murdered him in his own house!

Shot him! His friend!

Al, there's people-

Al!

All right. Who killed him?

Three men.

Two of Moran's punks...

and Giuseppe Aiello.

Aiello?

Yeah.

What was it you were
saying, Charlie?

Talk to Moran,
pay the guy to lay off?

Give the poor guy a pass?

- Al-
- Listen! Let me tell you something!

I came that close to saying...

"Maybe you're right for
the first time in your life. "

But no more, Charlie.
Moran goes.

And so does Aiello.

Him, I take care of.

You see that?
Like an old man.

The union's out to get me. They already made
one try. They came at me with a shotgun.

Next time shoot
a couple back at them.

I'm not a gunman, George.
I just wasn't cut out to be a gunman.

What were you cut out for-
to sell neckties?

Listen, you're in the rackets, brother,
same as the rest of us.

And the kind of dough I'm paying you,
you either fight back or get out.

I thought maybe I could run
one of your speaks for you.

Now, that's my real line.
You know I'm good at it.

I've got no jobs for saloon keepers.

I don't know when I will have.

Either keep the job you've got, or-

Albert Wienshanker,
alias Albert Wienshank-

born Chicago, Illinois,
December 23, 1893.

No criminal record.

Although Wienshank is not a gangster
in the usual sense of the word...

he has been associated with the
North Side Mob for the past three years...

first as an operator of speakeasies,

now in charge of a non-union cleaning and
dyeing association controlled by Bugs Moran.

Well, Bert, I know it isn't easy for you...

but you do a good job for me,
and I'd sure hate to lose you.

Listen, why don't you go back home,
give it some more thought?

Talk it over with Irene again.

I'll be at the Clark Street garage
Thursday between 10:00 and 10:30.

- Stop by and let me know one way or the other.
- I'll do that.

If I could just get Irene
to quit being so nervous-

- Well, you know how women are.
- Yeah.

I can't thank you enough, George.

Forget it. We're old pals,
remember? Hello?

Mr. Moran?
It's Nick Sorello.

You remember me?

Yeah, I remember you, Nick.
What about it?

Maybe pretty soon
I get some more.

Same stuff, like before.
Same price, okay?

Yeah, I guess we can work something out.
How big a load?

Uh, this I'm not sure.
I do not have delivery yet.

You understand, Mr. Moran?

Yeah, I understand.
How soon do you think it'll be?

Maybe tomorrow.
Or maybe two days.

Okay, call us when you're ready.
I'll have the boys take delivery.

Uh, Mr. Moran, is one thing.

Last time, your boys,
they push me around a little bit.

This time, I do business
with you, okay.

But with your boys, no.

Okay, make it this Thursday morning around
10:30. Same place. I'll be there myself.

I guarantee you'll get
everything that's coming to you.

That's fine.

Eh, to meet with you is my pleasure.

Thank you, Mr. Moran.

Mr. Moran.

Why don't you step down here? I have a
beautiful LaSalle I think you'll like.

It has a hot water heater,
safety glass, ventilated crank case.

The best self-starter on the market.
Only 16,000 miles.

A lot of pep and zing in this baby.

I don't know- used car and all.

Ah, but a used LaSalle, sir.
That's the big difference.

I'll let you in
on a little something.

- Belonged to a Cook County commissioner.
- Oh?

And I don't have to tell you
how those boys take care of their cars.

- How much?
- Eight hundred dollars.

But for you, 750.

Sold. Provided I can drive her
out of here right now.

Don't see why not.
How'd you like to finance it?

Oh, uh, cash on the line,
if that's okay.

Yes, sir.
Can't argue with cash.

All I need is your name and address
for the bill of sale.

Oh, yeah.
Uh, James Morton.

212 Hubbard Street...

Los Angeles, California.

- Four months in advance.
- Yes, sir. You betcha.

- I'll get you a receipt for this, Mr., uh-
- Uh, James Morton.

I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Morton.

On the evening of February 11...

Angelo Molina,
a second cousin of Joe Aiello's...

buys a train ticket to Los Angeles.

Aware that Al Capone
has discovered his part...

in the murder of Patsy Lolordo...

Aiello will use the ticket
to board the train at the last minute...

in an effort to escape
the vengeance of Capone.

Who says people are getting fed up?

The papers?
These guys on the radio?

What do they know?

Think most guys give a damn
who gets bumped off long as it ain't them?

Listen, I know people.
I make it my business to know people.

They get a big kick
reading in the paper...

where some poor stiff
gets taken for a ride.

Hello?

Yeah, Frank?

Wait for me...
at the barbershop.

Come on, kid.

Stick around, guys.

I gotta go pay a bill.

Board!

- Who's there?
- Tickets.

Just a minute.

Signor Capone-

Basta!

Assassino!

Giuseppe Aiello.

Mrs. Doody?
My friend here and me...

we're looking for a nice front room,
and your sign out there-

Come on in. I can't afford
to heat up the whole street.

- The way they charge for coal nowadays-
- Yeah.

- You in a band or something?
- With an orchestra.

One of the cabarets over on Fullerton.

- The rooms are upstairs.
- Okay.

Oh, this is a charming
place you have here, Mrs. Doody.

I don't want no horn-tootin' in here.

My roomers wouldn't stand
for nothing like that.

Don't you worry about that, ma'am.

We only play these things
when we get paid for it.

Do you want two singles
or just the double?

One room's enough,
as long as it's a front.

If you're gonna be sleeping days...

I'd advise you to take a back room.

The noise on Clark Street isn't to be
believed, what with the buses and the people-

I said a front room, okay?

You see, we're out here
from New York, ma'am.

Gets too quiet, we can't go to sleep.
Bet you're the same way.

I'll show you what I got.

Oh, it's a nice room, Mrs. Doody.

We'll take it.

You get a change of linen twice a week.

Bathroom's at the end of the hall.
No visitors after 11:00.

And I don't want no women up here!

I run a respectable place-

Well, don't you worry
about that, ma'am.

We'll move our stuff in tomorrow.
How much do we owe you?

Comes to nine dollars a week.
In advance.

Your receipt and an extra key
will be on the hall table.

What's your name?

He's Mr. White,
and I'm Mr. Johnson.

Hey, lady.
What about a phone?

Pay phone at the end of the hall.

You'd better give Vic a call.

Right.

Long Beach 6599.

Filling station. O'Meara talking.

Yeah, hold on.

Phone.

Hello?

He just stepped out.
Any message?

- I'll call him back.
- Okay.

- Who just stepped out?
- Wrong number.

Okay?

Okay.

Out for some fun tonight, eh, boys?

Well, you've come to the right place.

I've been here before, you know?

Thought I recognized you.
That'll be two dollars... apiece.

All right. The car is in a garage
behind 1723 Wood Street.

Right here.

Opens onto an alley
running north and south.

Take the alley to Bloomingdale
and jog left to Wood.

East on Webster to Clark...

south on Clark Street
about half a block...

and there she is.

Since you boys come
from out of town...

nobody in the place
is gonna recognize you.

All you got to do is act like cops.

Huh. Must be yours.

That's Moran.

Probably won't be able
to see his face from across the street...

but none of his boys are built
like him, so that's no problem.

He wears brown clothes a lot-
suit, overcoat, hat, shoes.

Albert Anselmi-

born Marsala, Sicily,
June 11, 1892.

He is a member of the Mafia
and a professional assassin...

as is John Scalise,
born Castelvetrano, Sicily...

January 24, 1895.

In a period of less than six years...

these two men, acting together,
have participated in 31 murders...

including those of Dion O'Bannion
and Earl "Hymie" Weiss.

There's always the outside chance
you'll be spotted by a legit squad car.

If it happens before you get there
and they try to stop you, okay.

That's a rap the lawyers can beat.

If it happens after you leave...

you might as well start blasting.

You got nothing to lose.

Any questions?

That's it.

Hello?

Jack, great to hear from you, kid.

How's the weather back there?

Right around zero, Mr. Capone.

Sure could use some of that
Miami sunshine up here.

Yeah, I'll bet you could!

Anything special you want
to tell me, kid?

Yes, sir. It's all set
for this Thursday, Mr. Capone.

In the morning.
Around 10:30.

We got a nice valentine
all ready to deliver.

Valentine? Hey, that's right.

This Thursday's Valentine's Day.

Ain't that a hot one?
A valentine for Bugs!

Say, Jack, just make sure
it's a great big red valentine, huh?

At 6:45 on the last morning of his life...

John May takes an early bus to work.

He has been promised a 10-dollar bonus
if he can replace the transmission...

of one of the gang's cars before noon.

At 7:02 on the last morning of his life...

Pete Gusenberg is considering ways...

to rid himself of Myrtle Koppleman.

There are plenty more
where she came from.

At 7:23 on the last morning of his life...

Albert Kachellek, alias James Clark...

is thinking of buying a new car.

His status in the gang
demands better than this.

Ah. You should've woke me, Ma.
I'd have had breakfast with you.

How do you expect me to
know you were even home...

coming in at all hours?

You said you would be here for supper.

I'm sorry, Ma.
I ran into a couple of friends.

I might have guessed.

Where those friends of yours
are concerned, you don't have a mother.

At 7:30 on the last morning of his life...

Reinhart Schwimmer
is in desperate need of money.

I have to talk to you, Mama.
It's important.

Listen, Mama, I hate to tell you this,
but... I'm in trouble.

Not with the police, Reinhart.

Nothing like that.
I owe some money.

Three hundred dollars. It's gotta
be paid quick, or I'm in a real jam.

A man with a fine profession
doing such things.

All right.

If you promise to stay
away from those gangsters...

I'll get you the money.

I will. I give you my word.

Just be a good boy, Reinhart.

That isn't so much to ask.

Hello?

Um, what do you want?

What?

Hello? Eddie.

Yeah, I'm up.

Yeah, Eddie, I'm up.
I'm up, I'm up, I'm up.

What's your hurry, honey?

You think I like sitting around here
and listening to you snore?

Stick around, hot stuff.

We'll open a keg of nails.

- You still here?
- Look, mister, you owe me $25!

And I don't leave until I get it.

You know, with a he-man
like me, you ought to pay.

That'll be the day.

Why, thanks, lover.
See you around.

At 7:41 on the last morning of his life...

Frank Gusenberg is wondering if he
shouldn't go back to one of his wives.

Can I fix you some breakfast, dear?

At 8:00 on the last morning of his life...

Adam Heyer is calculating
how much the cost...

of an operation for his wife
will take from his savings.

You will tell him, Bert.

You won't back down.
Promise me.

Don't worry, honey.
I'm through.

I'll walk in and say,
"So long, George.

I won't be seeing you anymore,"
and walk out.

Finished.

Thank God.

I'll call you after lunch,
around 1:30.

At 8:15 on the last morning of his life...

Albert Wienshank has decided
that his safety and his peace of mind...

are more important than $20,000 a year.

Listen to this. Only 600 bucks.

"Four-cylinder floating power.

"Freedom from vibration and rumble...

"that makes driving a constant delight.

- Increased speed and-"
- Alex.

- Moran?
- Nah, he's too short.

You know something, Paul?
That's the sixth guy in there already.

Nobody told us we got to keep score.

All we're supposed to do
is count up to one.

Morning, boys.

If it ain't good old Reiny.
How's the eye business, Doc?

Haven't you heard?
I, uh, retired.

Living on my investments.

He means his old lady
is paying the bills.

Saw Pete's car out front.

I thought I'd drop in, say hello,
get a cup of coffee.

Would you mind helping yourself, Doc?

The waiter just left.

Sure.

How's it going, Pete?

Okay.

Say, a fella over at the barbershop...

gave me a tip on a filly from Miami.

Indian Broom.

Long shot.

Claims it's in the bag.

I'll make my own mistakes.
Okay by you?

Sure, Pete, sure.

Just thought I'd pass it along
for what it's worth.

You know?

- How's the weather out?
- Still coming down.

Winds like a handful of razor blades.

- You guys are getting soft.
- Mr. Miller?

It's a Mr. Bernstein,
long distance from Detroit.

Yeah, Abe. George.
What's so important?

What's keeping the guy?

Bingo!

Right height, right build,
even the right clothes.

That's our baby.
I can let him have it right now.

Ixnay, pal. We'll let him have it-
if he comes out the door.

Go call Vic. Go on.

Operator?
Hey, get me Long Beach 6-

Long Beach 6599.
Right, right.

- Yeah, hello?
- Mr. King?

He just stepped out.
Any message?

Yeah. Tell him his shirts is ready.

Okay.

Hey, what's that all about?

Garlic.

In case the bullets don't kill you,
you die of the blood poisoning.

I told him the next time he tries
to jack up the price at the last minute...

I'd find somebody else
up there to do business with.

I oughta stick a pineapple in his hat.

Lousy cops.

They sure picked
a swell time to get nosy.

Hell of a rut if Sorello shows up
with the booze with them still in there.

- Let's get a cup of coffee.
- Yeah, I could use one.

Okay, Mike. Quiet, Trench.

George, is that you?

Hello, boys.
Something I can do for you?

Yeah, you can shut up.

Now line up, all of you.
Face that wall.

You, over there!
Come on, move!

- Now, wait.
- Let's go.

You. All right, you two, let's go.

Listen, buster, you better be kidding.

Move.

Lousy flatfeet.

Wait till they hear
about this downtown.

Move!

Hey! You!

You on the car!
Let's go! Let's go!

Sir, I'm just a mechanic here.

- Let's go.
- All I do is work on the automobiles.

- Move!
- I don't have anything to do with these people.

Come on. Move!

Hands on the wall!
Lean on it!

Lot of guys tell me,
"Get into the stock market, George.

Pull up a few grand.
Inside a year, you'll be a rich man. "

I say, "What the hell?
I'm already a rich man. "

Besides, I-

- Must have been a bad accident.
- Yeah.

- The way people drive today, you're lucky-
- Kenny!

Hey, Kenny, the cops just killed a bunch
of hoods in the garage up the street!

One of them was Bugs Moran!

Frank?

Can you hear me, Frank?

Who shot you, Frank?

Who did it? Who shot you?

Nobody.

Nobody shot me.

Your brother's dead.

They're all dead.
Come on, who did it?

I've got to tell you, Frank.
You're not going to make it.

You want me to get a preacher?

No.

Just leave me alone.

You don't want to let them
get away with this. Come on, help us.

It's cold.

It's awful cold.

Fix this thing, will you?

A few hours
after the St. Valentine's Day Massacre...

the newspapers manage to locate Moran-

something the police
have not yet been able to do.

Just a heavy cold. I thought
I'd better take care of it.

Where were you, Mr. Moran,
when it happened?

I- Out of town.

How long do you expect to be laid up?

Well, I can't say for sure.

Uh, maybe a day or two.

Did you know the cops
are looking for you, Moran?

I can't imagine why.
Nothing I can tell them.

This gonna put you out of business?

You must be a little mixed up, buddy.

I happen to be in
the real estate business.

Oh, yeah, I knew some of those fellas-

just to talk to, you know?

I- I even read where it said
they were working for me.

You can't believe everything
you read in the newspapers.

Mr. Moran, there are
a lot of people around town...

who are saying it was actually the police
who killed your- those seven men.

Do you think it's possible?

You must be new
around here, mister.

Only Al Capone kills like that.

Well, make yourselves a drink.

Hey, you know, I'm always glad
to have you people drop around.

But believe me, this is one time
I'd like to know the answers.

Mr. Capone, I wonder if you saw those awful
pictures of those men in the newspapers.

I glanced at 'em.

Terrible.

If you don't mind telling us, Mr. Capone...

where were you when it happened?

Why, right here in Miami.
In fact, I was in a meeting...

with your district attorney
that same morning.

Do you know this
Mr. George Moran personally?

I met him- once.
A few years back.

I doubt if I'd recognize
him on the street.

The Chicago authorities insist
you were behind the, uh, massacre.

Any comment on that, Mr. Capone?

Well, I'm not surprised.

They've blamed everything on me
since the Chicago Fire.

Did you hear what Bugs Moran
told the Chicago papers?

He said,
"Only Al Capone kills like that. "

Yeah?

Well, I'll tell you what Al Capone says!

And you can quote me.

They don't call that guy
"Bugs" for nothing.

Public indignation
at the St. Valentine's Day Massacre...

brings to a halt
the most notorious era...

of open gang warfare
in American history.

Later in the century, the gangs
will rebuild so that by the 1960s...

their power will be
far above that of the '20s.

Once more,
law enforcement agencies...

will be aware of the names
of the syndicate leaders...

and once more
they will not prosecute them...

awaiting perhaps the moment
when the public will demand...

as it did in 1929...

that the criminals be brought to justice.

No one is ever brought to trial for the
slaughter of the seven men in this garage...

but within 19 months, all four of the
killers will themselves die of violence.

On the evening of May 7, 1929...

John Scalise and Albert Anselmi...

are invited to a banquet
at the mansion of Al Capone...

unaware that he has discovered
their plot to murder him...

and take over his empire.

Yeah.

I want to make a toast.

To my good friends...

Giovanni Scalise...

and Alberto Anselmi.

Salute.

May you rot in hell!

Of the two supposed police officers...

involved in the massacre...

Boris Chapman is shot to death
on January 5, 1930...

while attempting to rob
a St. Louis jewelry store.

The body of Adolph Moeller
is found in a pond...

12 miles south of Joplin, Missouri...

on September 8, 1930.

Vincenzo DeMora, alias
"Machine Gun" Jack McGurn...

is murdered in a Chicago
bowling alley on February 15, 1936...

almost exactly seven years...

after the St. Valentine's Day
Massacre he masterminded.

George Clarence Moran
disappears from Chicago...

soon after the mass murder
of his followers.

While serving a 10-year
sentence for bank robbery...

in the federal penitentiary
in Leavenworth, Kansas...

he dies of lung cancer
on February 25, 1957.

Alphonse Capone, while he
is never tried for complicity...

in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre...

his role as the man behind it
goes unquestioned.

Three months later,
he is in prison...

and more than half
of the remaining 18 years of his life...

are spent in federal penitentiaries.

On January 25, 1947...

Alphonse Capone, his mind gone...

his body ravaged by syphilis,
dies in his sleep.

On February 4, his body is interred
in the family plot in a Chicago cemetery.