The Confessions of Al Capone

by Loren D. Estleman

  "A friend of Capone's."

  "His words, sir, not mine." The sir slipped out from habit.

  "Your identification is accurate. We had him detained by the Miami Police when he came off the causeway. No arrests or convictions, and his permit to carry a concealed weapon was legal, issued by the sheriff s department in Cook County to one Giuseppe Bartolomo Verdi, born September 1919 in Brooklyn, New York, of immigrant parents. He was held overnight on suspicion of vagrancy and released the next morning. He never got a chance to report back to his boss.

  "I see no reason to interfere with an investigation into a local homicide," Hoover continued. "However, in the event the official version is wrong, it might have occurred to you that Capone didn't stop at terrorizing Nitti's man. He has a history of doing nothing by half."

  "You said yourself Capone no longer runs the organization. What reason would anyone in Chicago have to do anything he says?"

  "They might, if there was a better reason to eliminate Nitti. He was under indictment for extortion, and it would be better for all concerned if the investigation ended along with his life. Better all around. This organization has no interest in whether some ape threatened to break Rin-Tin-Tin's legs."

  It made sense; everything he said did. But Vasco didn't accept it, as much as he wanted to.

  It occurred to him then that he had always wanted the Director's explanations to stand up under scrutiny. And now he decided that nothing he had said had been true from the beginning, including his account of how he'd arrested Alvin Karpis, Public Enemy Number One, unassisted by the great machinery he had built singlehanded. What was the point of building it, otherwise? Certainly not to let it stand idle while he assumed the role of a lone avenger out of the pages of Dime Detective, when the reporters he had planted in key positions would provide the details as he dictated them. Vasco could more readily picture this fat bureaucrat waiting in a position of safety until the prey was tamed and ready to tag. Once a suspect was caught in one lie, everything else he said was to be regarded as less than fact. Official instructions regarding interrogation were clear on the subject; Vasco himself had corrected the misspellings and grammatical errors.

  He'd been lied to right down the line: by Capone when he chose to, by everyone who knew his story but thought it could do with embellishing, by Vasco's own father; and it had started right here in this office.

  "I resign. If you want it in writing for your precious files, hand me pen and paper and I'll put it on your desk before I leave. Any old pen will do. It doesn't have to be in blue."

  "I don't accept."

  "You have to. You can't make me go back to Florida. I'll go to one of the eleven recruitment centers within walking distance of this building and join the service under an assumed name. That way there won't be any trouble over my status."

  "I assume this has something to do with your beating. I've seen a great deal worse, but in those cases the victims weren't cowards."

  "That had nothing to do with Capone." He was unfazed by the insult. "Didn't it? Well, I'll know soon enough. He wasn't the only one in his household under observation."

  He knew that for the truth, and it chilled him. There would be a file in those stacks under her name, whatever her full name was. It surprised him to realize he knew her only as Rose. He'd never thought to ask. Had his actions contributed to that file? Undoubtedly, and it would follow her all her life. From the very start of his—his thing; mission was too crisp and clean for what he'd been about—he'd tainted everyone with whom he'd come into contact. Father Kyril would never serve in the Corps of Chaplains. Hoover's friends in the Pentagon could never be sure how much he'd been told—nothing was a concept that could not be proved, like innocence itself—or where it would lead. Why Vasco should immediately think of Kyril he couldn't guess, except that he was a good man, and good men were so hard to identify this side of the field of battle, where everything was revealed.

  In a week, possibly less, Hoover would know what had happened in the Black-and-Tan. For all Vasco knew, he knew or suspected what had happened in Wisconsin. Vasco had been conducting an investigation for months, unaware that he himself was being investigated just as thoroughly. The whole business was a mirror held up to a mirror.

  Someone tapped at the door. Hoover yelped an invitation and Miss Gandy entered. "You've said to bring these in the moment they arrive." She placed a thick envelope Vasco recognized on the table. Hoover thanked her and she withdrew.

  He picked up the envelope, glanced at the writing, and balanced it on his palm as if to test its weight. "Since you say this is your final report, perhaps you'd care to summarize it and save me some time on a busy day." He sounded almost jovial.

  "I don't see why not." The details of his last interview with Capone were fresh, and he reported them in the order in which they'd been given. He was gifted with a memory like a wire recorder, a fact that had no doubt contributed to his selection for the assignment. It would have come out on his aptitude test and been reported in his file. Hoover listened, staring at him.

  "Chicken feed," he said when Vasco finished. "All dead, including Jack McGurn, ambushed by assailants unknown in a bowling alley on Milwaukee Avenue in 1936. The only exception is Frankie Rio, a mere bodyguard. The Chicago Police could arrest him for conspiracy in the Weiss murder, and under interrogation he might spill some details about Ralph Capone, whom he's working for now, but Ralph is only a figurehead. The fish we wanted is lying on a slab in the Cook County Morgue with a number tattooed on his toe."

  "Then there's no point in continuing the investigation."

  "There is every point. The Outfit didn't die with Nitti; if it was murder, that's evidence of it. There is Paul Ricca, who will almost certainly succeed him, and Tony Accardo waiting in the wings. Louis Campagna. Those bastards in Congress say I'm soft on organized crime. They have no idea what I'm up against and how little I have to work with."

  "Capone never mentioned any of those names."

  "Exactly. He's been playing you from the start. He denies any involvement in mutilating Scalise and Anselmi, the murders of Frankie Yale and Jake Lingle, even the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, which every little boy knows is his as much as George Washington and the cherry tree. But he's beginning to slip, as surely you noticed. Six weeks ago he'd never have tied Rio to Weiss, or lain his hand on a disloyal street soldier like Verdi in front of a civilian. Now is the time to go on the offensive, pry as much out of him as you can before he loses all contact with reality. The man is dying. Next month, next week; this moment he may be stretched on his deathbed in that pasha's palace of his, pouring his confidences into empty air. Your application to resign is rejected. Go back to Miami." He dropped the envelope inside the folder and slapped it shut.

  Vasco realized he'd made a tactical error in attempting to beard Hoover in his own den. Most of the battles he'd lost had taken place on Capitol Hill; here in the queen's chamber in the heart of his hive, he'd launched his counterassaults, arranging press conferences, studying his clandestine files, inflating his successes, and picking at his enemies' flaws until they bled, turning public defeat into private victory and always, always getting what he wanted in the end. Diplomacy was Vasco's best weapon; an appeal for mercy, which however little of that quality Hoover possessed, it made good press when it was revealed.

  "He seemed hardy when I left," Vasco said. "He inspires loyalty. His bodyguards take their orders from Ralph, but they do everything he asks, including that business with Verdi."

  "That's because they were afraid he'd go berserk if they refused. He told you himself what he did in that hotel suite in Florida when he found out Tony Lolordo had been assassinated in his own home. His assassin, Joe Aiello, paid for that with his life as soon as Capone found it convenient."

  "He was on top then," Vasco said. "Any scene he made now would just be a temper tantrum. Mae can bring him to heel with a firm word. They do what he tells them because his old associates take care of him, and they do that bec
ause he won their respect a long time ago. He placed loyalty above peace when he refused to turn Scalise and Anselmi over to Hymie Weiss. They remember that. They're returning the favor."

  "He spared them then only to beat them half to death personally the first time they failed him. Then he turned them over for execution. They're no less dead than if it were Weiss. Loyalty's not quite the coin you think it is in these rats' world."

  "He swore that was McGurn's doing."

  "Well, we can't ask McGurn, can we? All the more reason to press Capone."

  "You have to go public with his information to indict and convict the men you're after. Once it gets out Capone's been talking—"

  "I should not have accused you of cowardice. It's only natural to be afraid." Hoover was only half listening, and had misunderstood the direction of the conversation. "You think you're alone down there, but I assure you you're not. We can protect you, and we will."

  "Who'll protect Al?"

  The sympathetic expression fled. He flattened his palms on the table, rose to his full height, which was not full at all, and buttoned his coat across the thick roll of fat around his middle. That pig's snout, those flabby jowls, the bug eyes; how could Vasco ever have considered them heroic? "Al, is it? Well, Al can take the slug in the belly he's had coming to him for twenty years. After we get from him what we want."

  "I won't be party to that."

  "You already are." His hand brushed the folder. "Once this is released, your name and Capone's will be linked inextricably."

  "You'd never do that. There isn't anything in it you could use."

  "capone confesses to fbi. Our biggest headline since g-men kill dillinger, and you know what that did for the Bureau. It would free up allocations currently earmarked for the Office of Strategic Services. I've been waiting twenty-five years to knock Wild Bill Donovan down a peg."

  "It would be a death sentence for us both."

  "A hypothetical situation, Special Agent. At present."

  "That's evil even for you."

  "I doubt you know the definition of the term. You've been in the presence of evil for four months and still fail to recognize it. Charming, isn't he? Colorful, the newspapers called him. I understand Hitler can still hold an audience spellbound with bombs raining down all around his bunker. Of course, they can't walk out."

  "You wouldn't sabotage an investigation that's been going on since last winter just for revenge."

  "Are you prepared to put it to the test?"

  The silence was so complete he could hear Helen Gandy chugging away at her typewriter with two walls in between.

  Hoover broke it. "As it happens, I may not be forced to so drastic a measure. I'd find it personally distasteful to rely upon the underworld to accomplish something I'm capable of bringing about myself. You've been given an assignment vital to national security in wartime; to abandon it now would open you to a charge of obstruction of justice. The article in the U.S. Constitution regarding treason is specific. It's a capital offense. If you were in the armed services you would face a firing squad. The gallows is more common in civilian cases."

  His face had ceased to throb. He wondered if his heart had stopped beating. Certainly his face felt cold, as if the blood were no longer circulating.

  "It's possible I'm being melodramatic," Hoover said. "Since the last war we've grown shy of extremes. However, after serving one year of a ten-year sentence in a maximum-security facility, you may prefer Nitti's solution. Every man does time in his own way."

  "I'd have my day in court. I can't prove murder, but the Bill of Rights has something to say about interfering with the church."

  "Your word against mine, as the villain says. A man who would say anything to save his neck versus the man who arrested Public Enemy Number One, the man who sent Lepke to the chair. My face on a motion picture trailer makes Charlie Chan sell like Gone with the Wind. We don't exactly belong in the same weight class, you and I."

  Vasco felt a tingling, as if a layer of skin had been peeled from his body, exposing the pink tenderness beneath. All his senses were superacute. He could hear his watch ticking, smell the drugstore cologne the Director used, taste the dry bitter aspirin he'd chewed an hour ago. Everything he thought he'd seen clearly before was brilliant now. He was addressing a small man on a hollow stand in a room full of paper.

  "You admit you have enemies in Washington," he said. "You're proud of it: a great man has great enemies. They'll be paying close attention during the proceedings. And it's not just my word and yours they'll hear. We aren't the only ones in on this secret. There's the diocese in Chicago—that recreational center you promised had to have left some kind of record—and Father McGonigle. The Vatican doesn't approve of him, but the Church cut its teeth on Ramses the Great. It won't sell out its sacred traditions for a man in a blue suit. Of course there are others, minor cogs in the machine. Your enemies won't give up until someone comes forward. After that, how long do you think it will be before the Nitti investigation is reopened?"

  Hoover's flush had returned, like rash on a baby's cheeks; but the tight smile pried its way between them. "A commendable sermon. McGonigle is a better tutor than I'd thought. I'll make note of it in his file."

  "The Church is a forgiving institution. I don't intend to shirk my own guilt in the affair."

  "I couldn't help noticing you left out your father. After all, the Bureau bought him his boat."

  He'd expected an assault on that flank. "My father has his faults, but he wouldn't sell out his son for a fishing boat. In any case he was no part in this. He thinks I'm a priest."

  "Your report had holes in it as well. Did you think I didn't know who drove those killers away from Holy Name Cathedral?"

  Nothing now, not even the monotonous methodical rhythm of Miss Gandy's relentless writing machine, disturbed the quiet.

  "Did you never wonder why Capone even remembered your father, of all the men who delivered beer for him?" Hoover asked. "He went through them like envelopes. But he never forgot a man who'd performed a valuable service. That's only good business practice."

  "I told you about the incident with the gun."

  "A minor event. Capone was spared an inconvenience: a night in jail, and more likely an hour, followed by a long court date and then a dismissal of charges when no witnesses came forward in a city friendly to the cause. It got your father some money and a job and the debt was discharged. But the wheel man in the murder of an important character like Hymie Weiss was an asset he wouldn't be likely to forget. It took place during business hours on a busy street. The people who saw and described the driver lost their memories when it came time to make a formal statement, but a policeman's notebook is a useful tool, even if it can't be introduced as evidence without corroboration. It's much more reliable than the official record, because the man who wrote in it hasn't had time to reflect upon what the system expects from a man in his position.

  "I admit it's difficult to build a case after all this time. I submit, however, that it isn't any more difficult than when city hall was spraining its neck looking the other way. Rio may find it in his best interest to turn state's evidence against a suspect more directly involved in return for the chance to plead guilty and avoid the electric chair. The Outfit hasn't cornered the market on friendly judges. The testimony of a gang flunky may not be sufficient to convict, but the world will be watching. Weiss has friends still."

  "My God."

  "Not my jurisdiction. I didn't bring up the subject of Paul Anthony Vasco because I thought he might sell out his son. Are you prepared to sell out your father?"

  "Never."

  "I thought not. It was one of the reasons I insisted you heal the rift." The Director lifted his hands from the table.

  "His file isn't here. I've made other arrangements for storing material of a certain sensitivity. No eyes but mine have seen it. I assembled it from loose nuts and bolts and washers supplied by agents who had no idea what the finished product would be. If I to
ok it to the incinerator myself, no one would know it had ever existed. Do I take it to the incinerator, Special Agent?"

  One spark of resistance remained.

  "I'd rather take it there myself."

  "When you complete your assignment. Not before."

  "And when is that?"

  "When Al Capone is dead. He'll hardly be of any use to us after that."

  "That could take years. If you'd seen him in action Saturday you wouldn't guess he's a dying man."

  "I'm not going anywhere. The last quarter-century will attest to that."

  IN THE LOBBY ON THE GROUND, SOMEONE CALLED VASCO'S NAME. HE TURNED and recognized his friend from the commissary, a portly clerk of about thirty who worked in the attorney general's office.

  "Have you been away?" He shook Vasco's hand. "I haven't seen you around."

  "I took a leave of absence. I'm still on it, actually. I had some business upstairs I thought was finished. "Family trouble?"

  "Among others."

  "What happened to your face?"

  "I got beat up pretty bad."

  "You ought to pick on guys your own size."

  "That's good advice, but I don't think I'll take it."

  "What are you, a glutton for punishment?"

  "Looks like."

  THIRTY-FOUR

  "YOUR LAST ONE, SIR. I'M RESPONSIBLE TO THE RAILROAD FOR THE SAFETY of its passengers."

  Vasco paid for the glass of Kentucky rye and lifted it off the paper napkin without comment. He'd hardly expected to find the friendly colored bartender who'd served him on his first trip south on duty, but the white, pale-haired man behind the bar in the club car seemed to have no personality at all. He considered telling him this was the first time he'd been drunk in his life, but the man's opinion didn't matter.

  He finished the drink and returned to his coach, balancing himself on the backs of the seats and apologizing with a thick tongue to the woman whose foot he'd stepped on. He threw himself into the seat behind her, bruising a hip on the arm.