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Gus asked me to go to our Lake Shore Drive apartment and get some fresh clothing. “Get some rest while you’re there,” he said. “I wouldn’t come back until about eight o’clock if I were you.” He seemed restless and kept moving about through the rooms. “You’re the one who needs rest,” I said. “Why don’t you go to bed and try to get some sleep.” He said he didn’t want to sleep. I prepared a sedative, but he tried to avoid taking it. “Whatareyoutryingtodo,makeaninnyoutofme?”hecomplained as he finally took it. “I’ll be back between seven and eight o’clock,” I promised. “Don’t open the door for anyone until I get here.” As I left I took the key and locked the suite from the outside. The maid had just returned to the apartment when I arrived. She made coffee, after which I went to bed and tried to sleep. But my mind was a maze of whirling thoughts. Eddie Lebensberger, his wife Alice, clubs, dollar signs, roaring beer trucks—then the pale face of Ted Newberry , and finally, “Do you want us to stay all night?” whispered over and over again in my mind. What was happening? What was taking place just beyond the grasp of my understanding? I was vaguely uneasy. I finally gave up all attempts to sleep, rose and packed some clothes for Gus, prepared a lunch, and rang for the chauffeur. On our arrival at 38 “They’ve Taken Him to the Morgue” 216 “They’ve Taken Him to the Morgue” 217 the Lincoln Park Arms, I told Murphy that Gus would not need the car that day. It was October 9, 1933. While coffee was being sent up from the café below, Gus bathed and dressed while I laid out his clothes—green suit, tie to match, and other of his favorite accessories, including a jewel studded belt, a gift from Ted Newberry. What I am about to relate may sound ridiculous to some, but it happened , and it left its mark on my mind, a mark that remains today. It was not imagination—it was too real. Gus entered the room, clothed in his usual excellence. He was talking about some trivial thing as he approached. I looked away for an instant, and when my eyes turned back to my husband,theywidenedinterror,andmyhandflewtomylipstosuppress a scream. Gus stood before me, not in his green street suit, but in a tuxedo, with the formal black bow tie instead of the green four-in-hand. His face was set, one hand was across the front of his waistcoat, and wrapped around his fingers was a rosary. I shut my eyes and swayed, putting one hand against his chest to keep from falling. “Honey,” came his voice, “what’s the matter?” Iopenedmyeyes.GusWinkelerwasstandingbeforemeinhisgreen suit, supporting me by the elbows. “Are you ill?” he said with concern. He led me to a chair and brought me a glass of water. “You’re as white as a ghost,” he continued with a shaky laugh. “What’s wrong?” I wish I had told him. I wish I had said: “I have just had a vision.” I wish I had passed that warning onto him. Possibly he would have been more cautious, for he had faith in what he termed my “hunches.” But I only said: “Nothing is wrong, I’m just a little faint, that’s all. I guess Eddie Lebensberger’s death isgetting on my nerves. I’llbe all right in a minute.” But I wasn’t.Ihad just had a vision ofdeath,avisionthatmere words could not dismiss from my mind. About an hour before noon Benny Goldblatt [also referred to as Davie] came in, accompanied by a man I knew only as “Red,” who was 218 al capone and his american boys employed by Gus. Shortly after their arrival Ralph Pierce came, then “Little Bobby.” IfelttherewasnooccasiontoworrywithGoldblattandRedaround, so I told Gus I would drive out to Cicero to get my hair washed and dressed. “Okay, Honey, run on,” Gus said. He handed Goldblatt a roll of bills and told him to pay for the flowers used to decorate the Vanity Fair, another of the clubs he operated. Just before I left the suite Goldblatt handed me the money and asked me to pay the florist, since the shop was in Cicero. I consented. “What are you getting dolled up for?” Pierce bantered as I opened the door. “Why for me...


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MARC Record
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