A/N: How the Canadian whiskey shipment stop touched the four treasury officers in the 1987 film "The Untouchables".

Touched

"My boy, heya shot bang bang," the woman blurted out before reverting to a stream of Italian.

"I'm sorry Ma'am, I can't tell you anything unless I know the boy's name." The nurse, who was of Polish heritage, ignored the unintelligible Italian and focused on the fact that this woman seemed to have a child in the hospital who had been shot. Unfortunately, with the violence from prohibition-stoked organized crime and the many tough neighborhoods where the law was often taken into the citizen's hands, a patient with a gunshot wound was not unusual. Everyone thought they were Al Capone.

"His name is Giuseppe Petri. He's a police man," the woman said, calming down slightly and reverting back to English. Most of the people did if you gave them a moment.

"Petri...Petri...I'm sorry Ma'am, but we don't have a Petri here."

"That's his name! Wait...he use new name for police school." The woman put her hand on her forehead. "Che stupida. His name is Stone. Giuseppe...no...George Stone."

The nurse checked the roster again. "We do have a George Stone."

"Is he alive?"

"He wouldn't be here if he wasn't."

Mama Concetta Petri drew in a deep breath in preparation to issue a long barrage scolding the nurse, but the nurse expertly diffused the situation. "He's in room seven, bed B if you'd like to go visit him. Just down the hallway, on the right." The nurse pointed off to her left and the visitor leapt from the counter in that direction; her actions spoke strongly of an implied guarantee she would be back if the directions weren't the truth. Her anger was washed away with motherly concern as she poked her head through the doorway and saw her son sitting up in his bed. "Giu, are you okay?" she asked as she rushed to his side.

"I'm alright, Ma," he said while she grasped his hands and kissed him on the cheek. "One of 'em got me in the shoulder. They patched me up already and I'm going home in a couple hours."

She made it a point to speak in English - her son always insisted on it since he was a little boy, and would defiantly ignore her if she didn't. "I was so worried. I tell you it was dangerous to be police man. You might get killed like your cousin Lazzaro."

"Lazzaro got killed holding up a bank."

"Yessa, but he was killed by policeman. It dangerous work. I tell you, you should be in family business."

"I don't wanna be a baker, Ma. I want to be a police officer and help people."

"Why? You can be with your own people in the bakery, and help make happy the people by making good food just like your father and his father before him. Is there something wrong you no want to be with your people? Like you change your name?"

"No Ma, it's not that. I'm Italian, I grew up Italian and I'm always going to be Italian. I'm proud of that. But thanks to Al Capone, some people don't trust us. THAT'S why I changed my name, so I could get a fair chance."

"Someday they find out and then out you go!"

He shook his head. "Ain't gonna happen. The guys I work with now, they're top notch. They know my real name, and they don't care. They like me for who I am. To them, I'm just a fellow Treasury officer. We're like brothers, really."

"Brothers? Are any of them Italian?"

"No."

Concetta crossed herself. "Maybe you get someone in future, yes?"

"Maybe, Ma. But we're officers first, and then whatever we are afterwards. If they don't care, I don't care."

"I care, but if you say they are good men then okay. If you no want to be baker, then be careful whatever you do. You sure you okay?" she asked, touching his left shoulder none too gently.

Stone winched just a little. "It's going to be sore for awhile, but I'll be back at work tomorrow. We're doing important work, Ma. Yesterday was just the first big success for us." A nurse came into the room and announced it was time to change the bandage one more time.

"I go. Come home when you get out and say hello to your father. He worry so much about you," she said.

"I will. Maybe I'll come by in time for dinner."

"Maybe? We'll wait to eat until you come. We celebrate you big victory." She kissed her son on the cheek and turned to the nurse. "You take a care of Officer Stone. He's a good, important, handsome and single man." She smiled and walked out while Stone rolled his eyes.

...

Oscar Wallace walked out the front door of the police headquarters where his current assignment had him temporarily located. The Washington Treasury had sent him to Chicago to report to Eliot Ness, a special officer in charge of reigning in Al Capone. He was technically a police officer and had been through all the training, but his specialty was accounting. He could sift through ledgers and statements like detectives searched a crime scene, looking for evidence that pointed to who and what.

Working with Ness and his team had been an experience. Just yesterday he had fired a shotgun for the first time in years, and ridden a horse for the first time since his eighth birthday; both happened as they stopped a whiskey shipment on a bridge crossing from Canada to the United States.

He still got a little sick to his stomach thinking about the raid - it had resulted in him shooting the first people he had ever fired upon. The fact that they were doing the same didn't change the fact that it was almost like another person inside him had taken over while he was under fire. After Stone had gotten shot but called out that he would be okay, a sudden inner strength had overtaken him as he went into some type of revenge mode against someone who had hurt a man he was already considering a friend. So sudden was his charge that he hadn't prepared to run out of shells in his shotgun, having to use it as a club when it was out of ammo.

As he paused thinking about the events, a young female officer in the reserves walked out of the building to his left. They had talked briefly on a few occasions, but he always felt awkward whenever he tried to stray away from work-related topics. She had seemed nice, though, and had a wonderful smile.

Wallace looked at her and she glance over and gave him a smile. THAT smile. He started to wave weakly, but the same inner strength poked him in the gut. Why was he just standing there? He might not ever be stationed permanently in Chicago, but it didn't mean he had to be lonely - there was enough time for that if he ever got back to Washington. He pushed his glasses up his nose and tried to casually walk over, but in fact he hurried slightly.

"Hi, Marsha. Say, I know it's kind of sudden - but do you have plans for dinner?"

"Sorry Oscar, I do have plans - I have to go to my aunt and uncle's tonight."

"Oh, okay. Some other time then."

"How about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Uh, sure! I, ah, look forward to it."

"Right. Tomorrow, then. Oh, here's my ride now. See you tomorrow!" She ran to the street where a car with an older couple had just driven up; she hopped into the back seat and closed the door as the car lurched away. Wallace saw her wave as the car merged into the flow of traffic on the street.

He arched his eyebrows and shook his head. "Huh. That worked out. It really worked out!" he said as he turned to walk down the sidewalk. He was completely unaware that he was whistling a tune, but it halted as his face broke into a huge grin. He absent-mindedly pulled a pipe out of his coat pocket and stuck it in his mouth, not bothering to light it as he continued walking toward his apartment.

Maybe Chicago wasn't going to be so bad after all.

...

Jimmy Malone sat in his chair in his small apartment's living room and looked at the framed photograph on the wall. "Well Dad, I've really done it now," he said as he lifted his glass of bootleg whiskey and toasted the three men pictured; his father and his two uncles posed stiffly in their uniforms as part of Chicago's finest. He downed the contents of the glass and rolled it in his hands as he contemplated the circumstances.

All three had been lost in the turmoil of the 1894 Pullman strikes, when sides and alliances shifted constantly while union, local, federal and business interests vied for control of various parts of the railroad empire. Factions developed as schisms split previously united groups and anger and frustration boiled over into occasional anarchy. Malone remembered his father coming home one night; when he had awoken the next morning, his father had already left the house - never to return.

"I know, I know - being a cop is a dangerous business," he continued to speak to the picture as if his father could hear him. "It's gotten even more so the last decade as the bad guys get more organized. You always said the first rule of being a police officer was to come home to your family at the end of the day. Well Dad, I did just that and where did it get me? I took a beat posting to stay out of the way of all the politics and come home without ruffling anyone's feathers, until there was no one to come home to." His wife Mary had died eight years ago from pneumonia, and with no children he came home to a Victrola and memories.

"That wasn't the worst part. I got comfortable in my little cocoon. 'There goes Jimmy Malone; good cop, just be sure to work behind his back' they said. I shut my mouth and counted down the years until my retirement. It was more important to me just to stay alive. Meanwhile, it's 1930 and the filth in this city gets worse and worse while a would-be king rises up among them. Some wet-behind-the-ears Boy Scout comes into town to clean it up with nothing but a badge and a head full of hope, and what do I do? I decide to do something. Little Jimmy Malone, good cop, now painting a target on his back."

He poured himself another drink. "So what do you think, Dad? Talk it over with your brothers. If you ignore the bad guys just so you can come home safe, are you a cop anymore? What's the point? It's a dangerous business." He took a gulp. "So is crossing the bloody street. Do you think that little girl they blew up deserved it? What did she do? WHAT DID SHE DO!" He slammed the glass down on the arm of the chair, causing it to slip off and crash to the floor.

He busied himself picking up the pieces of glass. "I'll tell you what she did. Nothin'. And what happened to her is going to happen to a lot more people if somebody doesn't do something." He stood up and stood a foot away from the picture. "I don't have any family to come home to, but maybe...just maybe...I can help somebody else come back to theirs. THAT'S what I'm prepared to do."

He looked at the telegram sitting on the desk. It was from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, telling him there would be an official inquiry into his shooting of a dead man as being an unapproved method of interrogation. "I'm gonna ruffle a few more feathers before this is through."

...

Eliot Ness waited by the phone with the receiver off the hook. He was waiting for his call to go through, and there was no point holding it up to his ear to listen to nothing. He tried to look at some of the newspaper articles about their hit on the whiskey shipment, but he just saw the headlines; his lack of concentration wouldn't allow him to read the small print of the articles below. It was very late in the evening, and he was still tired from the recent events.

A thin voice came out of the received and he snatched it up. "Hello? Hello?"

"Mr. Ness?"

"Yes, this is Mr. Ness."

"Mr. Ness, this is Dr. Thornburn. You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Ness, the labor went fine. You have a healthy baby boy."

"And Cathrine?"

"Your wife is fine, too. A little tired, but that's understandable. No complications."

Eliot breathed a sigh of relief. After sending his expecting wife and daughter into hiding from Capone, she had gone into labor while he was out trying to bring a stop to his business. Just because his life was in danger didn't mean that his family should be subject to the same perils from the underworld de facto ruler of Chicago. "Is it okay to see them?"

"They're both resting right now. Why don't you come by tomorrow and see them? Give them a chance to get cleaned up and presentable. Anytime after eight would be fine."

"Thanks, Doc. I could use some rest myself."

"Excellent. I won't be in tomorrow, but anyone on the staff can help you. Have a good night." The phone clicked and went dead.

Ness put the receiver back on the cradle and rubbed his eyes before yawning. He got up from the desk but only went so far as a couch in the office, where he laid back.

"Now I have three to fight for. It's one thing to fight for law and order, but it's another thing when it's your family you're protecting." He yawned. "Capone is gonna hit back. Hard. But he won't be able to reach my family. We'll get the subpoena and see what happens. Just two fighters in the ring, slugging it out. One round at a time. Winner gets Chicago..." he said as he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a title fight. His family was out there in the audience, cheering him on. And in his corner, his trainer Malone coached him on his opponent's weaknesses. It was going to be a long fight...

The End

A/N: Another empty category, empty no longer. A period piece of course, with good guys and bad, loss and triumph. And an Academy Award for Sean Connery.

There are events that discourage us, encourage us and change us. I thought that the bridge incident would be one such event for the Untouchable team.