He was sitting in a comfortable wing-back at the Calendar Club, puffing on a fat Cuban cigar. He didn’t own the place, but… He owned the place. If you were looking at him, and didn’t see the other man lean down to whisper something in his ear, you would have never known he even received any news. Certainly not any news needing his immediate attention.
Folding the newspaper he was reading and casually leaning forward to put out his cigar, he stood up, brushing his suit straight. He turned on his heel and flipped his Bogart style hat in his hand from off the back of his chair, before situating it on his head. Giving a nod, no words, to his fellas, he strode towards the exit of the club.
Once outside, he popped the trunk on his La Salle, picked up his Tommy, and headed to his Deusenberg. Looking up at the blue skies as he got into the car, he thought about how he had been waiting for this opportunity for a while now. He knew they wanted him. His business. His success. Not their own, but his.
Pushing the car into drive, and speaking to the men already in his car, “Not today fellas. Not today.”