Shore said, “They didn’t catch the license plate number, though—we figure they’re being just vague enough to cover themselves should you come up with a better alibi.”
Michael grunted another laugh. “Anybody else around there see this mysterious Corvette?”
“No.”
“Imagine that. Did Mario and the Ant find the body?”
“No. The killer shut the garage door after him. Mario and Tony say they went to the front door and knocked, but nobody was home.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Michael asked, “And those two would make credible witnesses in a murder trial?”
Shore sighed. “Well, it is Chicago.…”
“Couldn’t your tech guy testify that the fingerprints were fake?”
“Only if the prosecutor calls him. Look, the fact that the Chicago PD will likely come calling isn’t your only concern.”
Hughes put in, “Isn’t even your main concern.”
Shore continued, “DeStefano’s crew wants blood, and apparently Tony Accardo has sanctioned that action. We understand that Sam Giancana…still in Mexico, for the moment, in his mansion down there…has designs on making a comeback Chicago-way. He’s put half a million of his own money into an open contract for his old friend Mad Sam’s killer.”
“That would be you,” Hughes said, and pointed a finger—Uncle Sam Wants You, Witness-Protection-Program-Style.
“So,” Shore said with a weary shrug, “that means you face not just Mad Sam’s own people…not just contract killers…but any asshole with a gun and the guts.”
Hughes said, “And who are you to these young punks? They don’t know the Congressional Medal of Honor from a Boy Scout merit badge. You’re some over-the-hill casino manager. Easy rubout. Like picking money up in the street for ’em.”
Michael’s question was for Shore. “Your…informants. They’re reliable?”
That awful grin again. “Mr. Satariano…Mike. I’m in the reliable information business. That’s what I do. That’s all I do.”
“And they say Accardo himself goes along with this?”
Shore studied Michael, then said, “You were fairly tight with him, I hear. Not as tight as you were with Frank Nitti.…”
Hughes sat forward. “Frank Nitti?” The marshal had an amazed expression as he asked Michael, “You knew Frank Nitti? From TV?”
Drily Michael said, “Don? Despite Walter Winchell, The Untouchables was not a documentary.”
Mild embarrassment colored the marshal’s angular face.
But Michael noted from this exchange that Hughes was not as familiar with the background here as Shore, that the marshal truly was a flunky.
Shore was saying, “According to reliable sources, you and Frank Nitti were like father and son. And a similar relationship grew between you and Paul Ricca…only Ricca’s gone. Your protector is dead. Which begs the question: Are you tight enough with Accardo to risk going to him now, and making your case?”
This thought Michael had been mulling, since driving away from Cal-Neva in the moments following the attempted hit. Hearing it from Shore, however, forced it forward, his other option for help, for sanctuary—if not the feds, Tony Accardo.
Suddenly Michael was eleven years old sitting in a car in front of the Lexington Hotel in Chicago, his father going in to see Frank Nitti, showing good faith by meeting Nitti on the ganglord’s own turf. And in less than half an hour his father emerged having shot his way back out, his face spattered with the blood of Outfit goons—because Frank Nitti had turned him away, putting business before loyalty. Then after the Angel of Death and his kid getaway artist had hit all those mob banks, Nitti made a deal. Nitti gave up Connor Looney, the murderer of Mama and Peter, to Michael’s father, and promised that the war between the O’Sullivans and the Outfit was over.…
…Only then Nitti had sent a contract killer to end the life of the Angel of Death.
“I’m not going to talk to Accardo,” Michael said.
“Good.” Shore nodded enthusiastically. “Good, good, good—because, Michael, if we can’t work things out here, now, then.…Well, I’ll have to make a phone call. And the courtesy that’s been provided to us, in this matter, by the Chicago Police Department.…That will, shall we say, expire.”
“And they’ll come after me,” Michael said.
“Yes. And whether they can try you effectively for the murder of Sam DeStefano or not.…You will be back in Chicago, a town where every cheap punk and for that matter expensive hood knows that killing you is worth a small fortune.”
Hughes put in, “Even with inflation, half a million dollars can take you places.”
Funny.
Michael was just thinking that.
Because there was in fact a third option: running. Disappearing. Changing identities without t the federal government’s help.…
“What can you offer me?” Michael asked.
Sitting forward, a little too eager, Shore said, “In broad terms, a fresh start—a new name, a new job, a new house every bit as nice as this one. You are in an unusual position, Michael—most of our witnesses are, shall we say, not the most reliable individuals one might hope to meet.”
Half a smile dug a hole in Michael’s left cheek. “I thought that was your business…reliable witnesses?”
“Reliable information. Sometimes the sources are.…Well, we have had some difficulty in WITSEC with the criminal types we of necessity must deal with. Individuals who are used to making big money on the streets, who are unemployable in the straight world. We give fresh starts to some very stale individuals, Michael—most of them wind up working as grocery clerks or security guards.”
“Thieves hired as guards. Cute.”
“But you, Michael—you’re smart, you’re honest, you have a remarkable background in business. You’re not some dese-dem-and-doser with a broken nose and cauliflower ears.”
“I do clean up nice.”
Shore’s grin grew to grotesque proportions. “You will clean up very nicely. Usually we work for months to find anything remotely acceptable to our…clients. In your case, we have a situation that’s perfect for you, and us—a restaurant that needs a manager, an establishment that the government wound up owning, thanks to an IRS matter. We also have a lovely home, almost as lovely as this, waiting for you in the same area.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “You’d provide these lodgings?”
With an expansive shrug, Shore said, “We would arrange for your home, this home, to be sold. Until that time, you’d live in the house we provided, rent free. Then we’d ask that you use the proceeds from the sale of this place to purchase that one.”
“You can’t just hand me a house, huh?”
Shore shook his head, his expression regretful. “No. We can’t pay for testimony. But we have…leeway in seeing to it that you’re able to trade this life for a comparable one.”
“And all I have to do is testify.”
Shore was beaming again. “You see, Michael? You are not like the people we normally deal with. You didn’t say ‘rat out,’ or ‘squeal.’ You said ‘testify.’ You, like us, have no love for these people. You just happened to go down a road that put such people in your life…specifically, in the role of your employers.”
Michael held out open hands. “I don’t have much to give you, Harry. I’ve worked on the legit end.”
The buggy eyes flared. “For over thirty years, in the employ of the Outfit—confidant of Nitti, Ricca, Giancana, and Accardo?…I think you’ll make a most…reliable…witness.”
Michael said nothing.
“I know you’ll want to talk to your family,” Shore said. He looked toward the kitchen, from which the fragrance of spaghetti sauce was wafting, Papa Satariano’s recipe. “Or would you like us to…?”
“No. I’ll handle it.” Michael sat forward, elbows on the arm rests, fingertips touching prayerfully. “Do you have the papers with you? That I can sign today? Tonight?”
That
caught Shore off balance; he exchanged looks with Hughes, then said, “Well…yes. But I thought you.…Well, yes, I can provide those papers. Certainly I can provide those papers.”
If those two killings today, self-defense or not, came to light in the next few hours, the immunity offer might be withdrawn.…
Michael stood. “You get those papers ready. I need to talk to my family.”
Shore stood, and then so did Hughes.
“Would two hours do it?” Shore asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll be back with the papers.”
Michael pointed to the picture window, where the curtains were drawn. “In the meantime, will you leave your gardeners out there, in that panel truck, and keep an eye on this place?”
“Certainly.”
Michael turned to Hughes. “How did you boys come in?”
The marshal, gesturing, said, “Through the back door off the garage. We’ll use that again.”
“Good.” He turned to Shore. “And, Harry—one other thing.…”
“Yes?”
“When does this go down? When do we leave?”
“Oh.” The question seemed to surprise Shore. “Haven’t I made that clear? Right now.”
“Tonight?”
Shore put a fatherly hand on Michael’s shoulder. “This life is over. You’re starting a new one. And the longer you give those little ladies to think about this…the worse off you, and they, will be.”
Michael shook his head. Blew air out.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll be damned.”
“Perhaps not,” Shore said, his smile a restrained one, for him, anyway. “You’ll be on the side of the angels now—see you in two hours. Pack your toothbrush.”
BOOK
TWO
PARADISE OF DEVILS
Two Months Later
SIX
The Michael Smith family of Tucson, Arizona, lived in a development known as Paradise Estates four miles southwest of the city. Theirs was one of fifty homes, red-tile-roof pueblo ranch-styles from a short list of cookie-cutter designs, each with a swimming pool and a generous lawn of Bermuda grass that required a lot of watering.
In fact, the first thing Anna had said, when they’d emerged from their new family vehicle (a wine-color Lincoln Continental), was: “Paradise Estates, huh? Paradise with crab grass.”
They had come from Tucson International Airport with only the bags they’d packed that first sudden night in Crystal Bay, having lived out of them for two weeks in various motels and one hotel, all deemed “safe” by WITSEC.
And what a surprise it was to walk into their new home and find their old furniture waiting.
Among the missing were any personal items—identification, snapshot albums, letters, bills, and no clothing other than what had been frantically packed. The furniture was arranged in essentially the same manner as in their Lake Tahoe place, including a spare bedroom that had already been set up as Michael’s study, complete with books on the shelves (missing any that had been inscribed to him as gifts). Even his precious sixteen-millimeter film collection had made the transition (though framed signed photos to him from Sinatra, Darin, Dean Martin, Shirley MacLaine, and Keely Smith had not).
Later Michael asked Harold Shore about the surprise party their old furniture and household goods had thrown for them.
“Well,” Shore said genially as they sat in the living room area of a hotel suite in Phoenix (where Michael had flown for a Sunday meeting with his federal friends), “our movers went in the morning after we took you out. They crated everything up and lugged it over to a storage facility in Reno, which we watched until we were certain no one else was.…And then another set of movers hauled everything to a military base—you don’t need to know where—until finally the crates were delivered and unloaded to your new home at Paradise Estates. We even sent along a female agent to lend a woman’s touch.”
“Slick,” Michael said. “If you weren’t followed.”
“Oh, we take great care,” the fleshy fed said, those eyes buggy behind the goggle-like black-rimmed glasses, flecks of spittle on his terrible smile. “You’re very valuable to us, Michael. We have big plans for you.”
“So does the Outfit,” Michael reminded him.
Initially the three family members had been taken to a motel near San Francisco and kept under discreet but heavy guard by that blue-eyed Apache called Hughes. Then the Satarianos—not yet Smith—were flown to Washington, DC, where the family was put up in a nice hotel, again protected by Hughes and other marshals.
Hughes made an interesting point, early on, to Michael: “Tell your family to be careful around my guys. We’re on strictly a need-to-know basis. Keep that name ‘Satariano’ to yourselves. I’m the only one privy to who you really are.”
“Thanks for the tip, Don. Don’t you trust your own people?”
“It’s not that, Michael.” The voice coming out of that sharp cheekboned face seemed genuinely concerned for the little family. “Director Shore will tell you the same—even in the OCRS, only a handful are in the know. We’re up against dangerous people. But I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”
“No. But I don’t mind hearing that you feel that way, too.”
At first, Pat and Anna just ate room service and watched television (Days of Our Lives and Match Game among the favorites) while Michael answered question after question in Room 2730 at the Justice Department. A few days in, however, mother and daughter began working with a female agent, who briefed them about their new identities.
Standard operating procedure was that family members would retain their real first names, with a new last one providing the familiar initial. This helped prevent slip-ups, giving the rechristened Satarianos a chance to catch themselves if they started saying or writing their old names.
Or, as Anna said, “Saves on monograms.”
When Michael returned to the hotel room each evening, he, too, would study the fake backgrounds provided them. Fabrication was kept simple, just the basics, should new friends or employers or teachers or whoever ask the usual innocent questions.
The Smiths needed to know where they were from (St. Paul, Minnesota—a city none of them had ever even visited) including street address and description of home and neighborhood, also some key names (of nonexistent grandparents and real schools, including colleges for Pat and Michael).
And “Michael Smith” had to be familiar with various things about the assorted businesses he’d worked for over the years, and be aware of his undistinguished military service—he’d been stateside during WWII, a company clerk (oddly, the same fake post their son, Mike, had fooled his mother with, when he’d really been in combat).
A blond, bland, friendly OCRS agent named Michael Reddy counseled the family, individually and as a group, on various difficult aspects of the WITSEC program.
“You can’t maintain contact with any relatives or friends,” Agent Reddy said. “You’d put them—and yourself—in danger.”
“But what about when our son comes back from Vietnam?” Pat asked.
“We’ll bring you together, of course. He’ll be over twenty-one, so joining you in your new identity would have to be his own choice.”
“I understand,” Pat said, apparently mollified.
Privately, however, Reddy admitted to Michael that the US Army did not hold out much hope for Lieutenant Satariano’s return—apparently, WITSEC had checked the missing soldier’s status, as a matter of course.
“How frank you want to be with your wife,” the agent said, “I’ll leave up to you.…You might not want to put her under any more pressure right now than necessary.”
Reddy also told Michael, privately, that exceptions were often made to the “no contact” policy where parents and grandparents were concerned. Letters could be forwarded on, sans return address, and even phone calls arranged through a Justice Department switchboard; but since both Michael and Pat had lost their parents, this service would only be made
available, discreetly, to Pat…should she want to maintain contact with her sister, Betty.
Pat and Betty were not close—the once wild Betty was now a Republican, and married to a born-again pastor—but “Mrs. Smith” did arrange for one call to be made, just to keep Betty from being concerned.
The biggest problem, of course, was Anna, who was going steady with a boy named Gary Grace.
“You’ll have to watch her like a hawk,” Reddy said. “She is a teenager.”
“No kidding,” Michael said. “Can’t she even write the kid a goodbye letter?”
“We advise not. Make it a clean break. Right now.”
“Do you have any kids, Agent Reddy?”
“Why, yes.”
“How old?”
“Grade school—third and sixth.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Until she’s twenty-one you can control her, of course, and.…”
“You really don’t have teenage kids, Agent Reddy.”
“…And if you want to allow her to write the boy, her letters will have to be read by both you and your wife, and by WITSEC personnel. There can be no hints of where your daughter has moved.”
“I understand. Let’s not even give her that option.”
“That’s a good call, Mr. Smith. A very good call.”
Another trauma dropped at their feet was the need to make a legal name change. They wouldn’t just be pretending to be the Smiths; they would legally be the Smiths…Satariano no more.
Shore himself explained this to Michael: “We can’t have you lying when you fill out legal documents, real estate documents, for instance, or loan papers. The Justice Department can’t be party to fraud. You will have to use your real name…which is now Michael Smith.”
Court records would be sealed, protecting the old and new identities alike. Pat and Anna hated this whole legal-name-change thing, though Michael didn’t really care. He’d been through it before.
The intensive combination briefing and debriefing lasted almost two weeks. Toward the end a stream of new official papers flowed: birth certificates, Social Security cards, driver’s licenses, even school and college transcripts. The Smiths had history.
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