"You don’t win at Gallo’s—you just leave with enough not to limp. And if the cards don’t get you, the back door will."
Description - Exterior
The shopfront still reads "EZ Suds Coin Laundry" in faded block letters above the awning, but the doors haven’t opened for wash or rinse in years. A thin layer of grime blurs the front windows, and the folding metal security gate is always halfway down, as if caught in the act of closing for good. Just off a side street near Halsted and 35th, the building looks like another forgotten property in Bridgeport—quiet, dusty, and inconspicuous.
Description - Interior
Behind the broken washing machines and dusty detergent racks, a velvet curtain conceals a narrow hallway leading to the back room. Inside, it opens into a surprisingly atmospheric blackjack den: three chipped green felt tables under low-hanging yellowed bulbs, faded red velvet drapes along the walls to dampen sound, and the constant clink of chips beneath the muted murmur of card play. The air smells like bourbon, sweat, and stale smoke.
One corner holds a drink cart and a beat-up phonograph playing jazz so scratchy it could pass for coded static.
Owner
Employees
Marcy – Server with tired eyes and a voice like a cigarette. Keeps track of who’s winning and who’s losing more than money.
Dennis "Two Hands" Paletti – The quiet dealer with a twitch in his right eye. Fast with the cards. Faster with a switchblade.
Pops Navarro – Security, bartender, and former boxer with hands like cinder blocks.
Regulars
“Knuckles” McTavish – Washed-out boxer who wins just enough to keep losing.
Cynthia Bloom – Bridgeport socialite slumming for the thrill. Pays in cash and silence.
Arlo the Fence – Comes in late, always looking to trade “merchandise” instead of chips.
Father Caffrey – Yes, that one. Plays quietly. Never loses.
Smilin’ Pete – Has no teeth and a laugh that makes folks fold just to hear it stop.
Gabe from the 47th Market – A runner who thinks he’s slick. Always owes someone something.
History
The laundromat front shuttered in 1948 after “unfortunate plumbing issues” made the place uninsurable. Roger took over the lease six months later, and since then, the backroom has grown into a low-key sanctuary for players, fixers, and mid-tier operators. It’s considered neutral ground by some—but only because Roger makes sure any beef gets buried fast and quiet. The local crews use the place to test out new recruits, swap favors, or bleed out stress on a long night.
Notes
A sigil has been carved under the center blackjack table—faint, old, and traced monthly with oil.
Veil activity is thin here, but cards sometimes flip without touch during full moons.
One of the velvet curtains conceals a door to a narrow subcellar filled with old laundry carts... and something else.
Gallo keeps a handwritten book of odds and debts behind the bar. No one’s allowed to touch it but him.
Marcy’s earrings? Wards. Pop’s knuckles? Blessed. Gallo’s eyes? They don’t always reflect light right.
The Bulls have an interest in the joint, but haven’t claimed it. Not yet.
Comments