In Bed With Lord Byron

Cocktail Lounge, a regular haunt of Capone’s. I felt fraught with nerves. My mission was clear: to
seduce Al Capone. For the first time in my life, I was meant to play a
femme fatale
.
    And let’s face it, I was hardly Marilyn Monroe. I kept secretly imagining horror scenarios. Like Capone looking me up and down and declaring that I looked ‘very nice’, but hey,
I really wasn’t his type.
    Or me and Capone lying in bed and his face dropping in dismay when I took off my dress and he saw my lack of curves. Capone wasn’t Anthony. He was undoubtedly the type of man who judged
women purely on their looks.
    The Green Mill Cocktail Lounge was in uptown Chicago, and was owned by Jack ‘Machine Gun’ McGurn, one of Capone’s favourite henchmen. As we entered, we were greeted by a rich
blast of Chicago jazz from the band.
    I was convinced that everyone was going to look up from their booths and point at us in deep suspicion. But to my relief, nobody even blinked at us. The jazz rolled over my tense body, helping
me to relax a little, my foot automatically tapping along to the aggressive tempo. I glanced around, thinking that it was all rather snazzy. The bar was decorated in art deco and everything was
bathed in a green glow from the neon ‘Green Mill’ in cursive script that blazed above the band. On the walls there were long, ornately wooden-framed murals of mountains and seashore
landscapes, and behind the bar was a bronze Schlitz statue and a sign above it proclaiming,
Niema Schlitza, niema piwa.
    This time we knew what to ask for.
    ‘We’ll have two coffees, please,’ said Anthony. ‘There he is,’ he added quietly, nodding.
    I looked. Capone was sitting in a booth to the right of the bar, with three other guys. He was tucking into a large meal of meat and veg, shovelling in great mouthfuls in a bestial manner. He
was wearing a white hat with a black brim and his face looked slightly more puffy than I had imagined. But his features were certainly striking, and his face was dominated by a pair of huge
glowering black brows that arched over narrow, cunning grey eyes.
    Suddenly, Capone looked up. I jumped. He eyed me up and down – then looked away without interest.
    Bastard
, I thought.
    ‘Anthony,’ I said, taking a sip of my ‘coffee’, ‘I’m just not sure if I can pull this off.’
    ‘Well, to be honest, you should be careful,’ said Anthony. ‘He has syphilis, for one thing.’
    ‘No he doesn’t!’ I cried.
    ‘He does, Lucy. I don’t know much about this period but I remember seeing on a TV documentary that when he went to prison he had a hard time. He got dementia, because the syphilis,
which he’d had since he was a teenager, went untreated.’
    ‘Oh,’ I said, my fantasy bubble bursting. ‘Oh.’
    ‘Look,’ said Anthony, ‘let me go over and ask if we can join in with one of Capone’s card games. The other thing the documentary said was that he always put on a charming
and friendly front.’
    ‘You’re going to go right up to him?’ I asked, gulping. ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea . . . I mean, TV doesn’t always get it right . . .’ I
trailed off, for Anthony had already gone.
    Once again, to my complete amazement, Anthony pulled it off.
    I was expecting Capone to sock him in the face, but the gangster nodded and shook hands, his face stretched into a charming smile, then gestured for us to follow him upstairs.
    There we found a group of about six or seven men seated around a table. There was one spare chair, and Anthony ushered me forward, gesturing that he’d pull up another. I was about to sit
down when a weaselly man placed his palm on the seat.
    ‘That seat’s saved for your friend,’ he said, nodding at Anthony.
    I stepped back, flushing in indignant confusion. For the first time that evening, Capone looked directly at
me. There was a slightly mocking glint in his eyes.
    Anthony sat down, frowning.
    ‘You play poker?’ Capone asked. I was still amazed by how friendly and jovial his manner was; he didn’t seem at all threatened by the presence of a complete stranger.
    ‘Sure.’
    Capone dealt the cards in a deft blur of colour and symbols.
    ‘You new in town?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m Anthony – and this is my sister, Lucy. We’re so glad to have met you, Mr Capone,’ Anthony said meaningfully. ‘We were hoping to find some
employment.’
    I froze. Anthony was being far too obvious and forward. But to my surprise, Capone smiled