Mr.Capone

. 1 .

"You remember who was good to ya', who was bad to ya', and who did what for ya'. Listen kid; Ya listenin'? Real good? Alright-- who's ass you kiss is important. If you want to make it, you make sure you're loyal to the people who matter."

This was the spiel my 10 year old self was given as I ate a bowl of chili from the soup kitchen, funded by Al Capone himself. It was the first meal I'd had in weeks.

They say nothing is free, and I should've known that all those beans I was shoveling into my mouth would come at a cost; a dark, twisted, horrible cost. The receipt would be written in blood not of my own body.

But how was I to know?

You see, Mr.Capone was good to me. Always had been. He was good to all of us down at the orphanage. The twenties were roaring, but some of us were economically left behind. Mr.Capone was the only one that ever cared about the lower class, and if he didn't he had a damn good way of covering it up.

He'd bring us candy. Small sweets from the depths of his pocket, right behind his all-too-obvious handgun. They were caramel, I remember distinctly. And as we would sit at his feet and eat we would listen to hime remind us of who gaves us that candy and who really cared about us and who loved us.

When I was 12 Mr.Capone took me in. There were no adoption papers, no courtrooms, no anything.

He'd walked in and grabbed my hand and drug me out without one word being spoken. Sister Mary Garland, the nun in charge of our sector, had tried to stop him, but one of Mr.Capone's men had drug her into the next room bu her arm. There were lots of bangs and yelling and then silence. I didn't like to think about wjat might have happened to her.

I wasn't long before I was his bitch.

"Michael" He said to me one day as he placed a dollar bill in my hand "Why don'tcha run down to the bar and grab me a little whiskey?". And I reminded him of my age, 14 at the time. He'd said "Don't worry about it. You tell 'em Big Al sent ya'.".

After I'd returned to him, I gave him his whiskey and his change. He counted it out and chuckled darkly.

"Fuentes" He stated calmly after a minute.

"Sir?" I asked.

"All my change is here."

"Yessir." I confirmed with a nod.

He turned a quarter over between two fingers, analyzing it with great care. And then his eyes met mine and he tossed it to me. I caught it with one hand and had barely got a "Thank you sir!" out before he interrupted:

"Next time, don't be so honest kid."

But I was honest, at least to him. He could always call my bluffs anyway.

I only lied to Mr.Capone once. And it would turn out to be the worst decision of my life.

It was the summer of 1928, and one of Mr.Capone's many right hand men had been incarcerated for battery and assault charges of ridiculous proportions, as well as murder in the second degree.

I had only met the man once when I was 16.

His name, I can't bring myself to say it. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. He was tall and round, and at the time had a joint twice the thickness of my index figer crammed into his mouth, light up on one end.

It was one of Capone's infamous 'parties', which was really a way of buisness dealing. There where always six or ssven men with there wives or mistresses at their sides, smoking and drinking and passing number back and forth. My job was to fetch them whiskey and take coats and be Capone's free waiting service. I didn't mind though. Capone had done a lot for me, and I had to remain loyal.

"Who's the kid, Al?" He'd motioned to me with one meaty hand.

"Ah, this here's Micheal Fuentes." Mr.Capone beamed "He's my most trusted partner.". Something about the way he spoke of me made my stomach swell with pride.

He'd reached out to shake my hand and when he got closer the smell of cannabis and whiskey over took me. Later in life, that would come to be a smell of comfort and escape, but at the time it was horrible.

The man cheated Capone out of a deal that night; lost him a lot of money.

...but Capone was adamant about getting him out a year later.

I had never considered myself in any way part of the mafia. I thought I was like a son to Capone, not just someone to do his dirty bidding for him, but apparently Mr.Capone saw me differently.

Because when I was 17 years old he asked me to assassinate Tony Perry.