Head-butt the bartender
From Create Your Own Story
The kid rears back in the stool then launches himself forward head-first, his forehead slamming harshly into the bridge of the bartender's nose!
"You can start by wiping your nose!" the kid snaps. "And, when yer done bleedin', maybe you'll pay a little more attention and respect to your paying customers, stooge!"
"You little bastard!" the barkeep wheezes, reaching across the bar, grabbing the kid by the collar. In a moment of panic, the kid crumbles, crying.
"Sorry Mister... sorry!" he sobs. "I'm here to see Johnny... or Frankie if he's here. I gotta pay my poppa's outstandings, or Poppa will have my hide!" the kid shifts his gaze from the barkeep's blood-shot eyes and bleeding nose to the stack of bills on the bar. As the boy reaches for the money, the barkeep shoves him back, toppling the stool.
The bartender swats a sweaty hand over the stack of cash, smirking behind his busted nose. Suddenly, a flash of silver shoots over the rail, a 4-inch steel blade slams into the barkeeps backhand, skewering and securing his hand and the cash to the bar.
"I SAID IT'S FOR JOHNNY OR FRANKIE!" the kid screams over the barkeeps howling fits, before twisting and jerking the blade from its place. "Now, go tend yourself and find 'em for me, Sonny-Boy!"
When the bartender has bolted, stifling his cries and whimpers behind closed doors, the place is dead-quiet. Then, from the far end of the bar, clapping... a single pair of hands, clapping. The kid gathers up the bloodied bills from the bar and scans down the rail, to the well-dressed man who had sent the barkeep to answer the kid's call. That man now makes way down the rail, still clapping before raising his hands before the youth, and smiling wide.
"Johnny aint available tonight..." the man says. "And I don't know where you heard the name Frankie, but he aint been 'round Chicagoland for quite some time... my name's Al, I run this joint... maybe I can help you out?"
"You aint run shit, little man!" the kid continues to sass, even staring up at the stout man towering over him. "Big Jim Colosimo owns the Four Deuces, and you aint him! My Poppa and me had dinner with Big Jim not 2 weeks ago, and I didn't see his car on the street when I came in, or I'd'a asked for him directly myself..."
"You got some moxy, kid..." Al laughed. "I like that, so I'm going to let it slide, for now..." he lowers his hands to the kids shoulders. The kid glances at the man's hands, stance, and posture, quaking, but with a certain knowing-gleem in his eye, while the man continues.
"But, take this too far and I will burn you down. You, your Pop, your family home, even your fucking puppy-dog... Rocco, 'at's his name, ain'it?" the kid stares up at Al, uncertain. "Now, my name's Al Capone. I run this joint for Mister Colosimo. What do they call you, since Sonny-Boy just don't seem appropriate?"
Kick Al Capone in the nuts Bobby. My name is Bobby... How did you know about Rocco, Mister?
