Road to Purgatory

by Max Allan Collins

  Michael had picked up on this, but so much had been going on, it hadn’t really registered; the man had seemed familiar, but this was a fairly typical government sort, almost nondescript…

  Now, close up, Michael had a sudden jolt of recognition, though he hoped it didn’t show.

  “Please sit, Sergeant,” Eliot Ness said.

  Michael Satariano had been named Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., the last time—the other times—he had seen Eliot Ness. And Michael had only been eleven years old.

  The first instance had been in Chippiannock Cemetery, in Rock Island, Illinois, in the winter of 1931. Michael’s mother, Annie O’Sullivan, and his brother, Peter, were buried there. Michael’s father had gone to the cemetery, not only to visit the graves, but for a meeting with Ness, a federal agent working to take down Chicago gangster Al Capone.

  Michael’s father had arranged the parley to turn over to the G-man key evidence against a crony of Capone’s—the patriarch of the Irish Tri-Cities mob, John Looney.

  For a dozen years, Michael’s real father—Michael O’Sullivan, Sr.—had been the trusted right hand of Looney, who since the turn of the century ruled the Iowa/Illinois Tri-Cities. A hero in the Great War, the pride of the Irish immigrants of Rock Island, Michael’s father became like a son to Mr. Looney.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Looney already had a son—Connor, or as some called him, “Crazy” Connor…having “Looney” as a last name apparently not sufficiently conveying the man’s homicidal hotheadedness. It was said Connor Looney resented O’Sullivan getting all the really important jobs, as if Old Man Looney were grooming the lieutenant for a greatness Connor considered his birthright.

  When the O’Sullivan family had gone to the Looney mansion at Christmas, just before everything bad happened, the affection the old boy had for Michael’s father had been apparent. Looney and O’Sullivan had sung together, arms around each other’s shoulders, while Connor, lurking unhappily on the fringes, looked on.

  And the O’Sullivans had benefited from the Looney association, no question. Next to Looney’s mansion itself, they had the nicest home in town, and the O’Sullivans owed their very good life in those very hard times to the patriarch.

  Nonetheless, Michael’s father had kept Michael and his younger brother Peter—and their mother—as far away as possible from what the head of the house did for a living. O’Sullivan made it clear that certain questions were not to be asked, and that Mr. Looney’s munificence was to be respected and valued.

  Michael and Peter would talk deep into the night, wondering what their papa did for Mr. Looney, exactly—and why Papa carried a gun—until, on a kind of dare, a few days after Christmas, young Michael stowed away in the backseat of Papa’s car, to spy on him, and see what kind of “missions” Papa was going on…

  What Michael saw was his father and Connor Looney round up some men into a warehouse. Papa had a tommy gun (that’s what they called it in the movies, anyway), and it was like he and Connor were arresting the men. Curious, the lad had gone to a window of the warehouse to watch, despite a driving rain. He saw Connor Looney arguing with a man, and when the argument got nasty, Connor just…just…shot the man.

  Murdered him!

  The other men used the moment of confusion to go for their own guns, and Michael had witnessed his father emptying the machine gun, killing them all, empty shells raining down harder than the rain itself, and then Connor Looney caught a glimpse of young Michael in the window glass, peeking…

  But Michael did not run.

  He felt strangely guilty, whether for what he’d done or what his papa had done…after all these years, he still couldn’t say. And so, sitting in the pouring rain, like a naughty kid banished to a corner, he promised both his father and Mr. Looney’s son that he would never tell anybody anything about what he saw…and Connor Looney seemed to accept that.

  A few days later, Mr. Looney sent Michael’s father on an “errand,” only the message O’Sullivan was delivering to another Looney associate named Lococo turned out to be O’Sullivan’s own death warrant. Not for nothing, though, had Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., earned the sobriquet “The Angel of Death”: the trap failed, Lococo and several of his underlings dying in the attempt.

  While Michael’s father was supposed to be getting himself killed—and while Fate or perhaps God had seen to it that Michael was not home, rather at a church party—Connor Looney came to the O’Sullivan house and shot Michael’s mother, cold-bloodedly murdering her, then (mistaking Peter for the older boy) killing Michael’s brother, too.

  Both O’Sullivan and Michael got home too late to do anything but grieve. They paid their respects to Mama and Peter, gathered their things, and slipped into the night. They would flee the Tri-Cities, but first O’Sullivan went looking for Connor and Mr. Looney, though all he found was a lot of Mr. Looney’s other soldiers and a lawyer who tried to make a deal. So O’Sullivan, Sr., declared war, leaving a trail of dead gangsters behind. And one dead lawyer.

  That night they drove to Chicago; O’Sullivan had done work there for the top gangsters, who had an alliance with Mr. Looney. Michael’s papa talked to Frank Nitti (who was second only to Al Capone himself), pleading his case, asking that the Chicago people stay out of this personal matter, and offering to come work for them, when it was done.

  When Nitti didn’t accept the offer, O’Sullivan declared war on Chicago as well, leaving a trail of dead Capone thugs throughout their Lexington Hotel headquarters.

  It had been O’Sullivan’s intention to take his surviving son to the farm of an uncle and aunt outside Perdition, Kansas, for safekeeping; but with both the Looney and Capone forces after them, that became too dangerous, and father and son remained on the road. Eventually, at Chippiannock Cemetery, O’Sullivan was able to turn that key evidence over to Eliot Ness, which led to Looney’s arrest.

  With the Looney operation no longer pumping cash into the Capone coffers, O’Sullivan decided to squeeze Chicago further by robbing rural banks where the syndicate kept its money. Young Michael was the getaway man, sitting on phone books, pumping pedals built up with blocks. He had a wonderful time, and grew closer to his sometimes remote father than he ever had before.

  Finally Michael’s father worked out a deal with the Capone mob: he would cease looting their operations if they would hand over Connor Looney. On a rainy night in Rock Island, in the street in front of the Sherman Hotel, Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., took his revenge on Connor Looney.

  And so, finally, Michael and his father reached the farm outside Perdition; but the Capone mob betrayed them: O’Sullivan was shot in the back, ambushed by a contract killer.

  A moment later, Michael killed his father’s killer. He had killed once before on the road, defending his father and himself, and the only emotions the child felt had to do with his fallen father.

  The boy had pulled himself together enough to drive his dying father, not to a hospital, but—at his father’s insistence—a church, where Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., gave his final confession and received his last rites.

  Shortly after that, Michael, Jr., again saw Eliot Ness, who discreetly arranged for Michael to disappear into a Catholic orphanage in Downers Grove, Illinois.

  As best Michael knew, his adoptive parents, the Satarianos, did not know of his true background; at least, there had never been any indication of such.

  Memories flooding through him, Michael took the seat opposite Eliot Ness in the Federal Building cubbyhole office, doing his best to give nothing away.

  “Sergeant,” Ness said, “I appreciate you dropping by. My name is Eliot Ness—I’m the director of the Division of Social Protection.”

  Michael had no idea what that was. He said, “You needn’t thank me. I was ordered here by Captain McRae.”

  “I wasn’t aware he’d made it an order. I’d hoped he’d indicate the voluntary nature of why I asked to see you.”

  “I’m up for doing anything for the war effort—particularly if it doesn’t invol
ve war bond rallies.”

  Ness’s half-smile dug a dimple in one cheek. “I hate public speaking, myself. I’ve had people after me to run for office, for years…but I’m sure it would be a disaster.”

  Michael shifted in his chair, just a little. “I believe I noticed you at the Fourth celebration in DeKalb. And the day before that, here in Chicago.”

  “Yes. You did. You see, Sergeant, I’ve taken a kind of…interest in you.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Ness?”

  The half-smile bloomed into a full grin; but Ness’s eyes were hard. “Well, after all, Michael—we go back a long way.”

  Michael said nothing.

  “I recognized you from your picture in the papers,” Ness said. “You haven’t changed all that much—and to the degree you have, a resemblance to your father’s crept in.”

  “Most people don’t think I look like Papa S. at all.”

  Ness arched an eyebrow. “‘Papa S.’ That’s what you call him? Not just Papa?”

  “Well…”

  “Maybe that’s because he isn’t your real ‘papa,’ Michael. We both know that. I owed it to your father to make sure you were safe; I got you into that orphanage, and I kept a quiet eye on you.”

  “You seem to do a lot from the sidelines.”

  “These days, I do. Of course, I prefer being in the game…but this game? You succeed at all, they make you a damn administrator. Guys like you get to have all the fun.”

  “Guys like me.”

  “We’ll get into that. But it seems to me I owe you a few answers…that is, if you have any questions.”

  Michael folded his arms. “The Satarianos—do they know who I am?”

  “No. And don’t think I didn’t have a twinge when I discovered they’d adopted you. If I’d been on the scene, keeping closer tabs, I might even have interceded.”

  “Why?”

  “Your safety, for one. You grew up kind of close to Chicago, didn’t you? Considering who you are?”

  “Back when my father and I were on the road, none of the Capone people ever saw me. My picture, maybe. Little kid picture.”

  “And one little kid is pretty much like another…and then, of course, you sprouted up.”

  “Listen, Mr. Ness, I…I realize I owe you a certain debt.”

  Ness nodded. “You do. I’m the one who saw to it you went into an orphanage, not reform school. I talked the police into interpreting that crime scene in a way that indicated your father had killed his own killer—that you had nothing to do with it.”

  “There were stories about us in the true detectives magazines,” Michael said. “And they always got that wrong.”

  “That’s because no one likes to think that a kid could be a killer. But you’re your father’s son. And he taught you well.”

  Michael’s eyes tensed. “Is that an insult?”

  “No. But it’s not a compliment, either. Who you were…those months on the road with your father, learning to shoot, learning to kill, experiencing the euphoria of action…that was the school our nation’s first Medal of Honor winner graduated from.”

  Michael said nothing.

  Ness leaned forward. “Tell me it didn’t all come back to you, rushing back…Tell me in that jungle you didn’t wake up to who you are.”

  “…So what if it did?”

  Again Ness shrugged, gesturing dismissively. “You can’t help who you are, Michael. You can’t undo the qualities, good and ill, you were born with. And you can’t erase the things you experienced.” Now the G-man’s gaze hardened. “But you can channel them constructively.”

  “War, for example?”

  “When madmen are trying to steal the planet, yes—a man with your skills comes in handy.”

  Michael laughed once, hollowly. “The army doesn’t want me, anymore. I have only one eye, remember, Mr. Ness?”

  Ness pointed a finger. “Oh, but Uncle Sam still wants you, Michael…if you’re willing. And the job I have in mind, you should find very…satisfying.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Ness’s expression was somber as he said, “I need to know one thing, first. If you had an opportunity to do something about the people who killed your father, would you seek justice? Or revenge?”

  Michael’s eyes tightened, and he sat forward; any sham coolness disappeared. “What?”

  Ness rocked back; crossed his arms. “I’m talking about the Capone gang, Michael. Frank Nitti is still in charge, following the directives of Capone himself, who’s been calling the shots from his Palm Island mansion in Florida, ever since his release from Alcatraz in ’39.”

  Capone…Al Capone…the man responsible for his father’s death…

  Now Ness sat forward, eyes glittering. “And now for the first time, we have them on the ropes. We’re in a position to take them all down.”

  “And…I can be part of this?”

  “You haven’t answered my question, Michael. Justice, or revenge?”

  “Well, justice,” Michael said.

  “Good,” Ness said. “Good…”

  For an hour, Ness filled Michael in about the current status of the Capone mob. They were “on the ropes” because an elaborate extortion scam, relating to their infiltration of various Hollywood movie unions, had unraveled; three major underlings were in custody. Investigations on both the East and West Coasts were under way, with a core group of honest cops helping on the Chicago front.

  The movie scam had been one of several schemes Frank Nitti had undertaken to replace missing income after the repeal of Prohibition. Various union takeovers and, of course, gambling were among the other major mob moneymakers, but in particular, prostitution—brothels, roadhouses, strip joints—had come to the fore.

  This was where Eliot Ness came in.

  “Last March,” he said, “I resigned from my job as public safety director in Cleveland to take this on—it’s my way of fighting the war.”

  The Division of Social Protection’s mandate was “safeguarding the health and morale of the armed forces and of workers in defense industries.” This included educational efforts, like films and pamphlets warning of the dangers of venereal disease; but primarily involved a law enforcement effort to cut back on prostitution in areas close to military and naval bases, as well as industrial areas.

  Ness supervised the activities of twelve regional offices; but he had made the Chicago branch his “baby,” as it provided him with an opportunity to clean up some unfinished business.

  “Al Capone was sentenced on tax evasion,” Ness said, “in this very building. We accomplished that with a two-pronged attack—my squad cut off the mob’s financial flow while the accountants fine-tooth-combed the books we seized.”

  Shifting in his chair, keenly interested, Michael said, “And this is a two-pronged attack, as well? While the government prepares the movie extortion case, you hit Capone on prostitution?”

  “Exactly right, Michael.” Ness leaned forward, hands folded prayerfully. “You and I might be settling up some old scores, here…but that’s just a bonus. We really would be fighting the home-front war.”

  Ness laid it out. Chicago was the nation’s center for transportation; the Quartermaster Corps had its headquarters here. The Stevens Hotel had been converted to a military training facility and housing center for GIs in transit; the Chicago Beach Hotel was now a military hospital, Navy Pier a training facility, universities providing military training. Fort Sheridan, north of the city, remained an army training camp, and the navy had taken over Curtis Air Field.

  The city’s industrial plants were converting heavily to war production, Pullman switching from train cars to aircraft, the Electromotive plant turning out tanks. The steel mills were working overtime, and a new Douglas Aircraft factory on the North West Side was producing frames for the C54 transport. The Grebe shipyards, near Riverview Amusement Park, were turning out subchasers.

  “All of these locations are prey to prostitution,” Ness said. “And, when ration s
tamps hit the Midwest, we can assume the Capone boys will move into stealing and counterfeiting ’em; and black market meat will soon follow.”

  “I’m convinced there’s a problem,” Michael said, “and an opportunity. But what role can one one-eyed soldier play?”

  “A key one. You’re not Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., to the Capone mob. You’re Michael Satariano, the Italian American…a Sicilian boy, no less…who just won the Medal of Honor. Your heroism tells the public at large where Italian Americans stand on this war.”

  “And how is that helpful?”

  “Do I have to tell you the biggest problem I’m fighting isn’t social disease, but corruption? Mayor Kelly is in Capone’s pocket, and those legislators shaking your hand the other day? Mob shills. And then there’s the police—I have only a handful of local coppers I trust. I need a man on the inside, who can feed me information.”

  Making sure he’d heard this correctly, Michael slowly said, “You want me to get hired by the Capone Outfit. To work for them.”

  “And with them. Yes. It’s an undercover assignment, and it’s dangerous. Maybe not as dangerous as facing a hundred armed Japs…but dangerous enough.”

  Michael was shaking his head, doubtfully. “Me being a war hero…maybe that gets me in to shake Frank Nitti’s hand. It doesn’t get me ‘inside.’”

  “There’s a way. There is a way.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Your father, Michael.”

  “…My father?”

  “I mean, Papa S.”

  “What about him?”

  “Ask him to recommend you. Ask him to pave the way.”

  “What, are you nuts?” Michael literally waved this notion off. “Papa S. is no mobster.”

  “I didn’t say he was. But he is, in his small way, connected.”

  “Connected? Little white-haired, chubby Papa? You’re out of your mind—I mean, no offense, but, hell—”

  “Please. Just listen. Your ‘father’ opened his restaurant in 1924 in DeKalb, as a kind of front; Pasquale was a middle man between Chicago and farmers who provided the hops, malt, and corn needed for processing liquor.”