"Frankie don’t cut meat no more—he cuts deals. But that back room? Still smells like iron and bad intentions."
Description - Exterior
From the street, Vassallo Meats looks like any other South Side butcher: a square brick storefront on Ashland just south of 47th, with a striped red awning, faded hand-painted lettering on the front window, and the lingering smell of raw meat and sawdust in the air. But look closer—there’s always a black Packard parked out front, the windows are too clean, and the bell over the door hasn’t jingled since Frankie had it removed.
In the alley out back, deliveries come in late and unmarked. Blood drains into the cracked concrete behind a chained-up steel gate. And there’s a second door—thicker than it looks, never opened by customers.
Description - Interior
The front is pure 1950s working-class Chicago: a clean tile floor, a long glass display case filled with cuts of beef, pork, and lamb, and a chalkboard listing specials nobody can afford. A ceiling fan clicks above. Fluorescent light hums low. The meat hook rails overhead are old but oiled.
Behind the counter is Frankie’s realm. He’s always in a blood-spattered apron over a pinstripe shirt, carving with casual menace. Regulars get a nod. Outsiders get stared at. And in the walk-in freezer? That ain’t all brisket.
A small back office—once a spice storage room—is now Frankie’s den. It has a rotary phone, a gun safe, a tiny altar to Saint Rocco, and a cracked photograph of his father.
Owner
Frankie Vassallo – Built like a walk-in freezer himself. When he’s not taking meetings or “handling” problems, he’s butchering actual meat. Claims it helps him think. Nobody argues.
Employees
Dino – Quiet, wiry, does the morning prep. Probably ex-ICB. Has a bad eye and worse opinions.
Ralphie the Apron – Works the counter, never shuts up. Thinks he’s hilarious. Keeps a sawed-off behind the spice rack.
Mrs. Campo – Old widow who comes in to sweep and wipe down the cases. She doesn’t speak English. Everyone listens when she prays.
History
The shop was originally opened in the 1920s by a Sicilian family, but it changed hands during the War when the son didn’t come back. Frankie "acquired" it in ’49 after its last owner vanished over a tax debt. Officially, it’s a licensed meat distributor. Unofficially, it’s where deals get cut—both figuratively and literally.
Frankie once hung a crooked ex-Ada Clover from the meat rail overnight as a warning. He made his crew mop up in the morning—without gloves.
Notes
One of the meat hooks is shorter than the others and has never been cleaned.
Frankie keeps Veil wards over the back door “just in case,” but he won’t say who set them.
If someone pays cash and asks no questions, Frankie sells “special cuts.” Nobody asks what kind.
A brass key hangs on a hook by the Saint Rocco altar. Nobody touches it.
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