My wife loves Capone. Thinks he's the sexiest man alive. I see him on Clark Street today when I'm out with my cart selling fresh flowers. Daisies, gardenias, hollyhocks, I've got 'em all. And I'm seeing lots of business, seeing how every poor schmuck wants his girl to think he's a romantic on the Big Day. It's cold like February always is, and I'm shivering in my big overcoat that almost reaches down to my brogans. Then I see Capone, in an even longer overcoat, with the collar turned up and dark glasses on. It's obvious he's incognito, but there's no mistaking his enormous bulk; he looks like a professional boxer, or one of those circus strong men. (My wife likes her men strong. Not the kind who sell flowers and weigh a buck fifty sopping wet.) So Capone just stands there, pretending to look at the roses and such, while a fancy car pulls up outside the mechanic's garage across the street. Couple guys dressed like coppers get out and head into the garage, and after awhile I hear gunfire. A lot of gunfire, like a whole mob of hunters shooting at a single duck. Capone tips his dark glasses up, looks me dead in the eye, and gives me a look like, "Don't you worry about that. The world is just as it should be." Then he smiles, takes a daisy off the cart, and ducks into an alley. He has a piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe, but I don't point it out. Men like him don't take criticism too well. And they sure as hell don't sell flowers.

Tags: lapsus