The Green Mill. That crescent-moon sign has been hanging over this corner since nineteen ten, and the room behind it has barely changed. Same long mahogany bar, same booths, same low green light. Walk in and it looks like nineteen twenty-seven, except everyone has a phone and better dental work.
Capone had a booth here. Back corner, angled so he could watch both doors. It's still there, and you can still sit in it, which means you can order a martini in the exact spot where America's most famous criminal sat with his back to the wall watching for people who wanted to kill him. Ask the bartender first. They're protective of it.
The Green Mill was part-owned by one of Capone's top men — Machine Gun Jack McGurn. He picked up the nickname because he was fond of the Thompson submachine gun, but he started out as a professional boxer, so he was good at hurting people two entirely separate ways. McGurn kept a standing tab behind this bar that he never once paid. Nobody was ever going to be
the one to hand him the bill.
The best story in this room belongs to the man who made the mistake of quitting.
Joe E. Lewis was the Green Mill's headliner in nineteen twenty-seven. A singer, a comic, packing the room every night. And a rival club across town offered him more money, so Joe did the reasonable thing. He took the better offer.
McGurn came to see him. Told him, more or less, to reco
