You're looking at a strip of lawn and a parking lot. Some grass, a few trees, cars. It is one of the most infamous addresses in American crime, and the city's answer to that was landscaping.
On the morning of February fourteenth, nineteen twenty-nine, a red brick garage stood right here. It belonged, on paper, to a trucking outfit, but it was really a warehouse for Bugs Moran's North Side Gang — Capone's chief rivals. The garage rented for a dollar a day, and the lease was still in the name of the gang's mechanic when the police arrived.
Seven of Moran's men were inside that morning. A car pulled up. Men in police uniforms got out. Moran's people saw the uniforms and assumed it was a raid — an annoyance, not a threat. They put their hands up and faced the wall like they'd done it before.
Then the men in the uniforms opened fire. Seventy rounds. It took seconds.
One of the seven was still breathing when the real police got there. Frank Gusenberg. He had fourteen bullets in him, and
when a detective leaned down and asked who did this to him, Gusenberg said: Nobody shot me. He held that line until he died, three hours later. He gave up fourteen bullets and not one name.
The killers had one job, and they blew it. The entire point of that morning was to get Bugs Moran, and Bugs Moran wasn't there. He was walking up to the garage, running late, and when he spotted what looked l
