And there were a lot of them, with—as Mimi Capone explained—half a dozen living on site, in the gatehouse as well as a two-story Moorish-style cabana, just beyond the endless backyard swimming pool.
“Would you mind pointing out Mr. Capone’s room, Mimi?”
“Not at all, Mike—that’s it right there.”
The younger Capone indicated a second-floor balcony; underneath, on the first floor, was one of those arched windows with its striped awning.
“First floor awning's got to go,” Michael said.
“Pardon?”
“Second floor don’t matter, but take a look at this.”
Michael walked over and demonstrated how he could step on the first-floor window ledge, and hoist himself up on the metal framework of the awning, giving him easy access to Al Capone’s balcony.
“Jeez, Mike—I see what you mean.”
Michael dusted off his hands as he and Mimi began to walk again. “I want those awnings taken down tomorrow morning, before Mr. Nitti arrives. Okay, Mimi?”
“Not a problem. Of course, Mae won’t love it…”
Mimi was a gracious, talkative host, who pointed out all the sights, from a rock pool with tropical fish (Al liked to feed them bread crumbs) and the dock on the north side, which was home to a cabin cruiser (the Arrow) and a speedboat (christened Sonny). No cement wall encumbered the dockside view of Biscayne Bay—white sunlight careening off white sails, powerboats cutting abstract designs in the blue expanse with their wakes.
Mimi sat Michael down by the pool on one of several deck chairs and went into the cabana to fetch refreshment.
Handing a moisture-sweating bottle of Coke to Michael, a grinning Mimi said," Frank said you don’t drink. He respects that. Me, frankly…I think that’s plain nuts.”
And then Mimi laughed, so Michael laughed, too.
“Beer for me all the way,” Mimi said. “Been good to our family…Hey, you know who built this villa? Whose money, I mean, back in the early ’20s?”
“No idea.”
“Clarence M. Busch of St. Louie!”
“The brewer?”
“None other. When Prohibition came in, one beer baron on hard times had to sell out to another one, on the rise! Ain’t life funny?”
“Hilarious,” Michael said.
The two men sat there for fifteen minutes, talking, or anyway Mimi talked and Michael listened; the view of the bay stretched out before them, a soothing presence.
“I have the feeling,” Mimi said carefully, “that Frank may doubt the loyalty of some of our boys.”
“He didn’t say so,” Michael lied.
Mimi swigged his beer. “Well, we always keep a tight lid on, when Al and Frank get together. Hell, even I won’t be around.”
“Oh?”
“Less I know about what’s really goin’ on, happier I am.”
“Don’t you live here, Mimi?”
“Actually, no. I got a place down the road.”
“Who does, besides half a dozen of your guards?”
Mimi ticked off fingers. “Mae and her sister Muriel, and Muriel’s husband, Louis. Muriel and Louis already skedaddled—went for a few days’ vacation to Fort Lauderdale. Brownie lives off premises; so does Rose, our maid.”
“And of course, Mr. Capone lives here.”
“Al lives here. And I guess you know the rules, where Al’s concerned.”
“I’ve been told not to bother him. Keep my distance.”
“He’s uncomfortable with anybody but family. Even the guards keep ten feet or more away.”
“Really.”
Mimi nodded. “Al’s a cheerful man. Always has been good-natured. But he came out of prison…fearful. You know anything about Alcatraz?”
“Just that it’s on a rock near Frisco.”
“It was designed for only the most famous inmates. Sort of an all-star prison team…and some of those guys are psychos—sick, warped fucks. Al got beat up, more than once. There were attempts on his life.”
“A man in his position makes enemies.”
Mimi shook his head, in disgust. “These weren’t enemies—just assholes wanting to take the biggest man in America down. And enhance their own stupid reputations.”
“Must’ve been hard on your brother.”
“You quote me, Mike, I’ll deny it…but Al’s jumpy. Nervous. His greatest fear is some enemy out of his past will come over those walls and…I don’t know what.”
Michael was already “over” that wall. “You trust your security force, Mimi?”
“I do. About half of ’em worked for Paul Ricca back home, you know—and the Waiter ran the toughest crew in Chicago.”
Apparently Mimi Capone was unaware of the suspected Ricca takeover.
“What kind of alarm system do you have?”
“Nothing—just a yappin’ terrier that belongs to Muriel. And the mutt’s gone, went on vacation with ’em.”
“Mr. Capone’s room isn’t wired or anything?”
“No. No need. We’ve got strength in numbers. Firepower.”
“You do indeed.”
“Security on Palm Island is my job,” Mimi said, puffing his chest out. “And I take pride in it. I love my brother. I wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”
“I hope you don’t feel I’m trying to undermine you, in any way.”
“Not at all! Frank has a right to check us out before a meet. That was a good catch, those awnings…Ready for the nickel tour, inside?”
The house had fourteen rooms, not counting four baths and a glass-enclosed sun porch. The living room was to the right as you entered, a banistered stairway to a landing opposite the front door; at left a dining room beckoned.
A large-as-life painting of a somberly attired Capone and a similarly dressed young boy (his son, at a tender age?) loomed from over the fireplace of a cavernous living room. The simple Mission style of the house, with its graceful arches, seemed at odds with the tasteless array of obviously expensive Louis XIV furnishings, complete with scrolls, curved armrests, and golden ornamental motifs. The over-upholstered, massive chairs and couches added to the aura of tacky opulence.
“I decorated this myself,” a lilting female voice said from beside Michael. Was that a hint of brogue…?
“It’s lovely,” Michael said, turning to the tall, slim woman who had deposited herself at his side.
The beaming interior decorator responsible for this ghastly living room was as charming as it wasn’t; she had big blue sparkling eyes, platinum blonde hair brushing her shoulders, and pert, pretty features. At first glance Michael thought the woman might be in her thirties, but on closer examination, more like midforties.
“You must be Michael Satariano,” she said, offering a small slender hand bearing a big fat diamond. “Mae Capone. We’re so pleased to have you with us.”
Michael knew nothing about Mrs. Capone—the gangster had worked hard to keep his wife out of the limelight—and wondered if this striking woman had once been a chorus girl.
“You have a beautiful home,” he told her.
“I’m about ready to remodel,” she said, hands on hips, surveying the living room; she wore a simple blue-and-white floral-print dress with a white belt and white shoes. “I think I overdid it, buying all this junk when we first moved in.”
“Oh, no, it’s—”
“Pretty gauche,” she said, and made a “click” in one cheek. She looked at him, head cocked, half-smirking. “You can take the girl outa Brooklyn, but you can’t take Brooklyn out of the girl.”
Only the accent that was bedeviling Michael wasn’t of the Brooklyn variety…
“Mimi,” she said, stepping out to address Michael’s tour guide, “would you go upstairs and see if Al needs anything? He hasn’t sent down for lunch.”
“Sure, Mae,” Mimi said, and scurried off.
She slipped her arm in Michael’s and gazed at him with those big blue eyes. “Did my brother-in-law offer you lunch?… He’s a pep
py host, but dumber than Dagwood.”
Michael laughed at this unexpected (and accurate) observation, and said, “I haven’t eaten, but I have my own car. I can easily go and—”
She squeezed his arm and walked him toward the kitchen. “You’re our guest. It’s not every day we have a Congressional Medal of Honor winner within these walls.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Capone, but please don’t make a fuss over—”
She gave him a firm, friendly look. “You’re going to call me Mae, and I’m going to call you Michael. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
The kitchen was spacious, modern, and very white—from the tile floor to the counters and cabinets and the latest appliances; at her direction, he sat at a white-and-black-flecked Formica table. Despite the newness of the surroundings, a pungent odor took him back to his childhood, and not the part spent with the Satarianos…
…corned beef and cabbage.
She provided a place mat, bread, iced tea with lemon, napkin, and silverware, quickly, efficiently; then served him up. She said she’d already eaten, but sat with him and had an iced tea, too.
“This is delicious,” Michael said, and it was. “I love corned beef and cabbage.”
“So does Al.”
“You made this yourself?”
She nodded. “Brownie cooks for the staff, but mostly I take care of Al’s meals.”
Midway through Michael’s meal, Mimi Capone came down to fetch a plate for Al.
When Mimi had again disappeared, Michael said, “May I ask you something, Mrs. Capone…Mae?”
“You’re my guest. And you’re a nice young man. I’m sure you won’t overstep.”
This was the first indication from Mae Capone that there were, in fact, boundaries.
“Are you…Irish?”
She laughed, a little waterfall of glee. “Yes, I’m Irish! Does that surprise a good Sicilian boy like you? That Al Capone would take a bride from the land of the bogs and the little people?”
“Frankly, yes.”
Her beautiful eyes took on a distant cast. “…That was Carroll Street, for you. The Italian and Irish neighborhoods kind of butted up against each other. And the Irish boys, well, they took forever to marry.”
Michael sipped his iced tea. “And the Italian boys got an earlier start?”
“Oh my, yes,” she said, and laughed again. “We were both twenty, Al and I…We’ve had a wonderful marriage—does that surprise you, me saying that?”
“No,” Michael said, unsteadily.
“My husband was a famous and generous man, when the world was his. And when things went another way—with the imprisonment that those hypocrites brought down upon him—well, I stood by my man, like any good wife, Italian or Irish or otherwise. And now, in his retirement, I’m with him still. He has no other nurse but me, you know.”
“Is Mr. Capone ill?”
She rose and took Michael’s dish and was clearing it in the sink, when she said, “Prison took a toll.” Then she returned and sat again. “But he’s still Al Capone. With his friend Frank, he controls Chicago. Even now.”
Her pride in the accomplishments of her criminal husband did not surprise Michael; to stay at the man’s side all these years, Mae Capone would have long since had to come to terms with who and what her husband was.
Mae showed him the rest of the house, going up the stairs to the landing off of which were various bedrooms, including Michael’s own, at the end of the hall.
Finally, at the central bedroom, Mae stopped. “This is my husband’s suite…I stay with him if he has a rough night.”
“Mr. Nitti indicated I probably couldn’t meet your husband.”
“I’m afraid that would be impossible. Al did tell me to convey his admiration and appreciation, for your gallant service to our country.”
“Well…please thank him for me.”
“I will. But, Michael, he’s a private man. I hope you understand.”
“Certainly. Mimi…that is, the other Mr. Capone…said that there are two guards posted inside the house.”
“And that is why you’re here, isn’t it?” she said thoughtfully. “To scrutinize our security.”
Surprisingly, she opened the door to the suite.
Michael followed her into a small room, shallow but wide, where two guards sat at a card table playing gin. They, too, wore sport shirts with shoulder holsters. Both were heavyset, swarthy, dark-haired, though one had a round face and the other a squarish one; veteran thugs, pushing forty or past it. Both were smoking, and the room was thick with it.
They stood as Mae entered.
“Rocco, Tony,” Mae said, gesturing to Michael, “this is Mr. Nitti’s man, Michael Satariano. The young war hero you’ve heard about.”
The round-faced one came over and shook Michael’s hand, burbling praise, as if meeting a movie star. The bucket-headed one, his eyes hooded, merely nodded and sat back down; obviously, he wanted to get back to his game.
Michael took the room in quickly: a console radio; a small refrigerator; comfortable chairs in opposite corners with end tables stacked with magazines. A Maxfield Parrish print. That was it.
Mae turned to Michael. “Two men are always on duty here, making sure no one disturbs my husband, and providing any help he might need…Al often gets restless, wakes up around three, and might want something to eat, or maybe to sit down on the dock.”
The round-faced guard said, “And it’s our job to help out, whatever Mr. Capone needs.”
“Al spends much of his time in his room,” she said, nodding toward the closed door. “Listening to the radio, reading magazines and newspapers.”
“He likes to sit by the pool, too,” the round-faced one put in.
Mae nodded, and then cast Michael a bland smile that somehow signaled that the tour of this suite was over.
“Gentlemen,” Michael said with a nod, “sorry to disturb you. Just having a look around for Mr. Nitti.”
“Sure,” the round-faced guy said cheerfully.
The other guy said nothing.
In the hallway, Michael asked, “I assume these are your top people.”
Again Mae nodded. “Only six on staff, our most trusted, sit in that room. People my husband knew back in Chicago.”
“Men he feels comfortable with,” Michael said.
“Yes. It’s probably the same with President Roosevelt and the Secret Service, don’t you think?”
That said it all, somehow—that this woman equated her husband with the country’s commander in chief.
Mae Capone was a charming hostess, but Michael was relieved when she said she’d be leaving that afternoon to join her sister and her sister’s husband in Fort Lauderdale.
“I prefer not to be present when business is conducted,” she said simply, as they sat on the sun porch, enjoying the view of the expansive backyard and the enormous pool and the bay beyond. She’d already gently scolded him for ordering (but did not rescind) the removal of her “beautiful awnings.”
She was saying, “I do apologize for not being here to prepare your supper.”
“That is a disappointment. I haven’t had corned beef and cabbage like that since my mother made it.”
She crinkled her brow. “Your Sicilian mother made corned beef and cabbage?”
Covering, Michael said, “Sure—just like I bet you make a mean lasagna.”
“I do! I do.”
Early evening, Michael carried Mrs. Capone’s bags to her Pontiac—a week’s worth for the two-day trip—which she would drive herself. She seemed an independent woman, for having stood in such a large shadow for so many years.
In the same blue floral dress, now with a jaunty dark blue hat, Mae looked at Michael and touched his cheek with a gloved hand. “You’re a sweet boy. You remind me of my Sonny…He may stop by to meet you, tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mimi said so.”
“Sonny was so disappointed he couldn’t serve. But he’s contributing to the war effort.”
“I’m sure he is, ma’am.”
“May I ask you something…personal?”
“Anything.”
“Was your father in this line of work?”
“…Sort of.”
The pretty brow tightened. “Please don’t take what I’m about to say wrong. But you seem a fine young man. You’ve won your country’s greatest honor.…I say this from experience. Please… please consider going down a different road.”
Then Al Capone’s wife kissed his cheek, and was gone.
For dinner Mimi Capone took Michael out to the Roney Cabana Club in Miami Beach, where the food and service were excellent, though Michael ate very little. Mimi put away a lobster with melted butter, messily, and talked incessantly about celebrities he’d met in the Miami area. The affable Mimi relished the doors his name opened for him; as the “respectable” member of the Capone clan, he had “all the perks and none of the problems.”
Michael did not point out to the younger Capone that supervising twenty-one armed guards on a notorious gang-lord’s estate may not have been the most respectable job around.
Before long, Mimi Capone, a little drunk, driving a sporty ’37 Dusenberg convertible, dropped Michael off, loaning his guest a spare key. By eleven o’clock, Michael Satariano—with the run of the place—was alone in the mansion, but for two guards and Al Capone.
Of course, there was a matter of four or five guards outside, and an unspecified number of off-duty guards who might be in their quarters in the cabana and gatehouse.
In the kitchen he got himself a Coke—the fragrance of corned beef and cabbage lingered—and went up the main stairs to the landing off of which were the bedrooms. He stood for a moment, staring at the door to the Capone suite.
Then he went to his own room, with its double bed and nondescript contemporary furnishings fortunately free from Louis XIV touches. He changed from the white suit and Florsheims into a green army-issue T-shirt, black trousers, and black crepe-soled bluchers; then he lay on the bed, atop the spread with only the bedstand lamp on.
He sipped his Coke.
Stared at the ceiling.
The shift change was at eleven thirty. Had he gotten home earlier, he’d have taken advantage of the tiredness of the current shift of guards; but now he had to wait until the new group had come on and the others were long gone. He could hear, faintly, a radio playing big band music, and wondered if it was Capone listening or his two watchdogs.
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