Suddenly the car skids out of control, jumps the curb,comes to a screeching stop. Policemen leap out, fire afterthe hearse.In the speeding hearse, the last of the police bullets thudinto the coffin. Instantly three geysers of liquid spurtthrough the bullet holes. As the firing recedes, the two menin the back put away their guns, remove the wreath fromthe coffin, take the lid off. The inside is jam-packed withbottles of booze, some of them shattered by the bullets. Asthe men start to lift out the broken bottles - SUPERIMPOSE:CHICAGO, 1929DISSOLVE TO:2.EXT. INTERSECTION OF STREETS - NIGHT.2. Traffic is light. All the shops are dark except one - a dimlylit establishment, from which drift the mournful strains of an organ. A circumspect sign reads:MOZARELLA'S FUNERAL PARLOR24 Hour ServiceIn the window, a sample coffin is on display. There seem to be some rites going on inside, because anumber of mourners, singly and in couples, are hurryingfrom the cold, windy street into Mozarella's parlor.Meanwhile, the hearse with the damp coffin draws up to thedelivery entrance at the side of the building. The driverhonks the horn - one long and two short - as the other menstep down and start to slide the coffin out. The side dooropens, and a dapper gent emerges. He wears a tight-fittingblack suit, a black fedora, and gray spats. The spats arevery important. He always wears spats. His name is SPATSCOLOMBO. He cases the street, motions the men inside. Asthey carry the coffin past him, he removes his fedora, holdsit reverently over his heart. Then he follows the men in, hishead bowed.Across the street and around the corner, three police carsdraw up silently, and about fifteen uniformed policemenand plain-clothes men spill out. A Captain gives whisperedorders, and the men scatter and discreetly take up positionsaround the funeral parlor.