So that was what the white sheet of paper was for: a suicide note! Well, he wouldn’t write it.
They would have to kill him, Michael thought. He would not commit suicide for them; he was still enough of a Catholic for that to repel. Taking your own life meant hell, for sure…as if that mattered now, all the men he’d killed.
But then Nitti flipped over the piece of paper and revealed it to be a color print of the Virgin Mary, a rather florid painting right out of Sunday school.
Michael frowned, not understanding.
Nitti, solemnly, asked, “Which hand do you shoot with?”
Like a kid in class, Michael raised his right hand.
Nitti nodded, his eyes looking past Michael, and Campagna leaned in, took Michael’s right forefinger and pricked the tip with a needle.
Startled, Michael managed not to rise up out of the chair as Campagna dribbled drops of O’Sullivan blood onto the Virgin Mary, little droplets of red spattering her.
Then Campagna withdrew to his position behind Michael, as Nitti, standing now, lifted by one corner the blood-dotted picture. With his other hand, Nitti deftly used a Zippo lighter, thumbing it to flame, touching the sheet’s opposite corner, and fire ate its way up the Virgin Mary, consuming her, unimpeded by the few beads of Michael’s blood.
Nitti held onto the burning paper until the last minute, then dropped it onto the table, where it curled in ashy remains.
Wondering if he’d gone mad, thinking he was still in that darkened room, having a particularly demented dream, Michael watched as Nitti pricked his forefinger and extended its blood-dripping tip across to Michael…
…who instinctively extended his hand and touched his own pricked fingertip to Nitti’s.
The two fingertips withdrew, and Nitti said, “Blood makes us family. But we will burn like that image if we betray each other. Say yes, Michael.”
“Yes.”
“Repeat what I say. I pledge my honor to be faithful to the Mafia like the Mafia is faithful to me.”
“I…I pledge my honor to be faithful to the Mafia like the Mafia is faithful to me.”
“As this saint and these drops of my blood are burned, so will I give my blood for my new family.”
“As this saint and these drops of my blood are burned, so will I give my blood for my new family.”
Nitti nodded. “You will answer these questions with ‘yes.’ Will you offer reciprocal aid in the case of any need from your new family?”
“Yes.”
“Will you pay absolute obedience to your capo…to me, Michael.”
“Yes, Mr. Nitti.”
“Do you accept that an offense against one is an offense against all?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand that you must never reveal names or secrets to anyone outside the family?”
“Yes.”
“Do you accept that this thing of ours comes before all else—blood-family, religion, country?”
“Yes.”
“Good, Michael. Understand that to betray the Outfit means death without trial. I am your capo. Louie is your goombah, your godfather. Is all of that understood?”
“Yes, Mr. Nitti.”
Nitti came from around the table and stood before Michael and said, “Get on your feet, Michael Satariano. You are now a made man.”
Michael rose, and Nitti kissed him on either cheek.
Was this the fabled kiss of death? Michael wondered.
But when Nitti drew away, the ganglord was beaming. And tears glistened.
“Welcome, Michael. Welcome, my son.”
And then Nitti embraced Michael.
Awkwardly, Michael returned the embrace.
The three men in black, standing behind the chair where Michael had sat facing the man he had mistaken for his judge/jury/executioner, began to applaud, Campagna saying, “Hey, Mike, you did it, kid! You did it!”
Then Frank Nitti took Michael by the arm and walked him from what the newest made man in the Chicago Outfit now realized was a banquet room, into the dining room of a traditional red-and-white-tablecloth Italian restaurant, the sort of cozy joint Papa Satariano ran back in DeKalb.
His arm around Michael, Nitti ushered him to a corner table, set up just for two, in a section of the dimly lighted restaurant otherwise closed off. Another table nearby was reserved for Campagna and the two bodyguards; but this table was strictly for the boss and his guest of honor.
As they drank Chianti—beginning with a toast to Michael’s new life, sealed with a clink of glasses—Nitti effusively answered all of Michael’s unasked questions.
“For someone who’s been with us so short a time,” Nitti said, “it’s a rare honor, becomin’ a made man. But the service you done the Outfit…what you did for me, Michael…well, let’s just say this is as close to us giving you a Medal of Honor as we can get.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nitti.”
Nitti, smiling big, shook his head, gesturing with his wine glass. “How did it happen, Mike? Did you come out to find a war going on, raging between Ricca’s traitors and our own loyal people?”
“…Yes.”
The ganglord shrugged elaborately. “We can’t prove it, of course. But it’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“It is?”
“That Ricca wanted to kill Al, and strip me of my power. He figures with Al gone, my support’d crumble.” Though they were out of earshot of the other patrons as well as Campagna and crew, Nitti leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m not sure whether Ricca knows the truth about Al or not.”
Michael sipped the red wine. “How long has Mr. Capone been in this state of mind?”
“Started at the Rock. They let him out early, it was so severe. But for a couple of years, it was more…sporadic, they call it. Sometimes he’d be clear as a bell, other times…you saw him. Vegetable. Which is how he is all the time, now.”
“And who knows?”
“The staff at the estate is kept away from him, except for an inner group of about six…Four of them are dead, now.” He shook his head at this tragedy; then he brightened. “Mae threw in with me—she liked the idea of Al retaining power, and she didn’t want the world to know what this great man of hers had come to.”
“If Ricca does know…”
“The Waiter’ll back off now. He won’t make any more moves, not like this, not for a good long while. He’ll credit me with what you done—with anticipating that he was going to hit Al.”
“But, of course, he denies having anything to do with it.”
Nitti shrugged again, sipped Chianti, then said, “Actually, ain’t spoken to him about it yet. I came down yesterday and met with Mae and Mimi. You know, you left quite a mess there, young man.”
“What…what was done about it?”
“Let’s just say Al’s yacht come in handy. The biggest expense will be all the surviving members of each man’s family. Part of what we do is look after the families of any fallen soldiers. It’s the decent thing. Christian thing. But it’s gonna cost.” He scowled. “Only it burns me there’s no way to know which of ’em were the traitors. You think you could’ve identified which was which?”
“No. It all happened too fast.”
“Figured as much. So the bad get rewarded with the good; such is life…You were in bad shape, Mimi said. Come through unscathed, not a scratch…but a nervous wreck. That’s why Mimi had ’em knock you out. Let you catch your rest.”
“So it didn’t get out? The police, the papers…?”
“Never happened. A dozen immigrants and sons of immigrants fall off the face of the earth, and who the fuck cares but us? We’re the only government for our people, Michael—even now.”
Michael sighed, allowing relief to really take hold. Risked a small smile. “Mr. Nitti, I gotta admit—I didn’t know what was going on tonight. I thought maybe you thought…”
Nitti waved that off. “Don’t be silly.”
“Blindfold, black suits…I was thinking it was a o
ne-way ride.”
With a gruff laugh, Nitti said, “Hey, sorry, kid—didn’t mean to throw a scare in you. But these rituals, some people may say they’re foolish or silly or Old World…but tradition is important. Loyalty. Omertà—that’s the code, Michael. Our secrets are our secrets.”
“I understand.”
Once again he leaned forward; he raised a forefinger—the shadow of smudged blood remained. “And speak to no one about Al’s mental condition. No one.”
“No one.”
Nitti leaned back and gestured with open palms. “Now… as for your duties, you’re officially my number-one bodyguard. My top lieutenant. We’re gonna get you a penthouse suite at the Seneca, and you’re gonna live like a king. Someday you’ll settle down and be a socks-and-slippers man like me, with a wife and kids and house in the suburbs; but for now, enjoy yourself. Be a man about town…just be available when I need ya. How’s a thousand a week sound?”
“Like…a lot of money.”
“Michael, I’ve been looking for a sharp, brave kid like you for a long time. Welcome to the family.”
Nitti extended his hand across the table and they shook.
A platter of spaghetti and meatballs came, proving to be almost as good as Papa’s. They spoke not at all of business after that, and Michael enjoyed Nitti’s good-humored company, as they talked about sports (boxing mostly) and movies (Nitti loved Cagney) and Italian food (his late wife Anna’s veal scallopini alla Marsala had been to die for, and Michael encouraged his boss to travel to DeKalb for Mama Satariano’s version thereof).
Michael felt strangely exhilarated, which was probably mostly his surprise at still being alive. For reasons he could not comprehend, he felt proud that Frank Nitti had thought enough of him to make him a “made” man in the Outfit. What would his father, his real father, have felt for his son, Michael wondered—pride? Shame?
On the way to the limo, Campagna fell in alongside Michael. Man-of-the-people Nitti was walking up ahead, chatting with the other two hoodlums.
“Congratulations, kid,” Campagna said, a grin splitting the lumpy face. “You’re in.”
“Better than being out,” Michael said, grinning, too.
“Kid, the only way you go out of this family,” Campagna said, with a shoulder pat, “is feet first.”
Then they drove back to the Capone mansion, where the first person to approach Michael was a tearfully happy Mae Capone, who embraced him and thanked him again and again for the wonderful thing he had done for her husband.
TWO
At the bar in the glitzy Colony Club, Michael sat and sipped his Coca-Cola and enjoyed the music.
Estelle Carey leaned against the piano as she sang—perching on a stool was out of the question, in the formfitting periwinkle gown, with its high neck, mostly bared arms, and bodice with tiny glittering stars. Golden hair piled high, glamour-girl Estelle worked her intimate audience of couples, but Michael knew she was singing straight to him.
Right now, her husky second soprano was wrapping itself around “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.”
Cigarette smoke draped the bar, which was packed; so was the “aristocrat of restaurants,” as the adjacent dining room advertised itself. Michael hadn’t been upstairs to the casino yet, but this was a Saturday night and, judging by the ground floor, the Colony Club was hopping. Frank Nitti’s new number-one lieutenant was wearing a very sharp dark blue white-pinstriped number, a tailored job disguising the .45 in the shoulder sling; but the majority of the Colony Club patrons were in evening dress (and presumably unarmed).
He’d been back from Miami for barely two weeks, but a lot had happened. He’d moved into the promised penthouse at the Seneca; his relationship with Frank Nitti grew ever closer; and every night he’d slept with Estelle, either upstairs or at his Seneca digs—her own apartment was off-limits, as she roomed with a woman who ran a classy dress shop in which Estelle was partnered.
Now that the publicity over his Medal of Honor had receded, so had his celebrity; rarely did anyone recognize Michael, to ask for an autograph or embarrass him with praise, and he relished this new anonymity.
His state of mind was numb, but not unpleasantly so. He was surprised to be alive, and right now did not feel inclined to swim against the tide. If this was limbo, it wasn’t bad—Michael Satariano was, after all, a twenty-two-year-old making a thousand dollars a week, in an easy job, living in a posh penthouse, with a gorgeous nightclub singer for a girlfriend.
Maybe he had died back in Miami; maybe Capone’s people had shot him full of holes and this was heaven, or possibly a coma he hadn’t come out of, and if so, what was the hurry?
With “I’ll Never Smile Again,” Estelle’s set was over—on the weekends, her performances were timed so that while she was on, the orchestra was off, and vice versa. She drifted over to Michael, appearing through the cigarette fog like a materializing dream; she proved her reality by slipping her hand into his and led him into the chrome-and-glass dining room where a table in back waited.
Don Orlando and his orchestra played rhumbas, the dance floor fairly packed, while Michael ate a rare tenderloin (the modest serving the only sign of wartime shortages) and Estelle a small shrimp salad (anything larger would have shown, in that gown). Afterward they danced—slow romantic tunes, no rhumbas for Michael—in preparation for retiring to the specific third-floor bedroom (the “Rhapsody in Blue” suite) of which Estelle seemed to have sole use.
Michael hoped he was the only other man sharing it with her, now; but he had not yet pressed the point.
In the dim light of Rush Street neons tinted blue by the semi-sheer curtains, the two made love, with the combination of tenderness and urgency that always seemed to characterize the act for them. As usual, she preferred to start on top, her long golden hair undone now, and bouncing off her creamy shoulders, her eyes half-lidded in pleasure, her breasts pert hard-tipped handfuls. Christ, she was lovely…
Soon she lay naked next to him, a loose sheet halfheartedly covering the couple, his arm round her, her face against his chest, which was largely hairless (“You’re just a boy, you’re just a child,” she would tease); for a while she kissed his chest lazily, and then she slept, snoring very gently against his flesh, almost a purr.
He felt an enormous affection for this willowy creature with her doll-like features, a girl/woman who had learned to use the softness of her charms in so many hard ways. In a wave of sentimentality, which he mistook for deep emotion, Michael wished he could whisk her away from the Chicago of gambling, whoring, and other commercial sins.
She looked so innocent, slumbering against him. So untroubled. So blissfully at rest. But earlier in the week she’d seemed distracted, and on edge.
In this same bed, she had sat up, arms folded over her bare breasts, her brow furrowed. “I may need you to talk to Frank for me. Mr. Nitti, I mean.”
Propped on his elbow, he stared at her. “Why, baby? Problem?”
“You see that business in the papers, about those actresses who got burnt?”
“Anita Louise, you mean? And somebody else famous, right?”
“Yeah—Constance Bennett. They’re in town promoting a new picture.”
The robbery of several thousand in jewels from a hotel room of the two visiting Hollywood beauties had made headlines. Seemed like a hard way to hawk a movie.
“Well, they were here when it happened,” she said with a humorless smirk, pointing a finger downstairs. “Word is the cops think the heist was planned at the Colony.”
“Like somebody kept the girls busy at the club, giving somebody else time to nick the gems at the hotel?”
“Right. But what would we have to do with it?”
Michael shrugged. “Unless it was a bartender or somebody else employed here, nothing.”
“Right!” she said, hair flouncing. “I mean, what the hell—I can’t be responsible for our clientele. We’re a popular place; all kinds of people come here.”
“
How about the cops? They come here?”
“Not yet…It’s just, I know Mr. Nitti wants to keep things low-key, about now. Mike, I promise I laid the law down with the girls: no exchange of cash. Big rollers get comped with a little affection, but that’s it.”
“I’ll say something to him, if you want.”
“Would you?”
She’d seemed fine after that, and by the next day, the MOVIE STAR JEWELRY HEIST had, like his Medal of Honor, faded from the headlines.
And now it faded from Michael’s mind, too, as he began drifting off to sleep…
…only to have gunshots rudely wake him.
In half a heartbeat, he was out of the bed in his boxer shorts, snatching the .45 from the holster draped over a chair and heading in bare feet for the door. Behind him, startled to wakefulness, Estelle sat up, fists pulling the sheet to her chin, eyes huge and frightened; but he was in the hallway before she could speak.
Two guys, one skinny, one burly, were barreling right at him. They were in T-shirts and pants and socks, charging down the narrow pink carpet, single file, though he could see them both—and each had a gun in his fist.
The skinny one, at the rear, was firing over a shoulder, three sharp reports, shooting at the stairwell door, punching splintering holes. No one in sight, down there—the door itself seemed to be the guy’s target.
He recognized them, sort of: they’d been hanging around the Colony all week; not local, a couple gladhanders who for the last couple days had been hitting the casino hard.
Right now Michael was between them and the elevator, and the burly guy was raising his gun, teeth bared, eyes intense, motioning, motioning, motioning for Michael to move aside.
Instead, Michael walked into the path of the stampeding gunmen and slapped the first guy across the side of the head with the .45.
Then Michael stepped aside—so that the man could go down and his partner stumble over him. Both men lost their guns, identical .38s that went flying.
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