The deal was too good to pass up.

"You sure about the price?" George asked. "And it's Canadian? Ok, I'll take it."

"Who was that?" asked Clark.

"One of the fellas from the Purples," George said. "Says they lifted a whole truckload of Canadian and need to punt it."

"Purples? I thought they was in with the South Side," Clark answered.

"They're in with whoever got the dough," George said. "Sounded like it was a little hot for them to hang onto it, maybe a witness or two, so they're letting it go cheap."

The two men bantered a bit before George handed out the details: They would all go down to the garage and inspect the shipment on Thursday morning.

"Give Frankie a call and his brother, Pete, just in case there's trouble," George instructed. "We'll want Heyer there to get it on the books."

"Oh yeah, we're a little short on the dough right now, so get Al down there too. You know he's always wanting to get in on the action."

The group was all waiting impatiently on Thursday morning when the phone rang. Clark picked it up, nodded a few times and spat out a quick "Sure, boss."

"That was the boss," he said, referring to George. "He says to get started without him, he overslept."

The group made their way to the garage, where Johnnie, the mechanic, was chatting up Schwimmer, a local doctor who loved to wager on horses.

"What are you guys doin' here?" Johnnie asked, surprised to see Clark and the others at the garage.

"Just a little business, that's all," Clark said. "You got the trucks ready? Frankie and Pete need to take them out on a run later today."

"They'll be ready," Johnnie said.

The men heard a car pull up and assumed it was a few guys from the Purples.

Two policemen burst into the room, along with a couple of guys who looked like G-Men.

"Hands up all of you!" one of the policemen yelled.

"What's the charge, copper?" Clark snipped.

"Button it, Jimmy," one of the cops replied. "We know you run with Moran, and that something's going down."

"He's not here," one of the suits said after looking over the faces of the men.

"Where's Moran?" the cop asked Clark.

"Wouldn't you like to know!"

"All right, against the wall, all of you!" one of the suits hollered. The men complied. The cops didn't have any evidence.

Out of the corner of his eye, Al noticed one of the suits pulling a Tommy gun from under his coat. It was too late. The garage erupted in a hail of bullets. It was a massacre. Six of the gang died on the spot, Frankie was the only one the real police found still breathing.

"Who shot you?" one of the investigators asked Frankie asked he was being taken from the garage, bleeding heavily from the 14 gunshot wounds he'd suffered.

"No one shot me," the gangster responded. He died a few hours later.

As for George Moran, he spotted a police car and ducked into a coffee shop just before getting to the garage that morning. Feb. 14, 1929, was not his day to die.