But then he’d turn to the funnies, and force such thoughts out, making room for L’il Abner and Dick Tracy.
At night, between cool sheets in a bed big enough for a family of five, Michael would sometimes face sleeplessness. (“It’s the caffeine in those damn Cokes,” Campagna would say, advising, “You’d sleep like a baby, you drank beer.”) Coca-Cola notwithstanding, he slept better when Estelle lay beside him, breathing, beautiful, human, physical company.
But alone, often when he was just about asleep, faces from the past would drift through his consciousness…his father, patiently teaching him to drive on a country back road; his mother, serving a plate of corned beef and cabbage with a knowing smile (“I told you you’d grow to like it”); his brother’s gleeful laughter when Michael pushed him in the backyard swing; Connor Looney’s sick smile at the last Christmas gathering; grandfatherly John Looney tousling Michael’s hair; his father blasting away with a tommy gun; his mother and brother dead on the floor of their house; his father cut down from behind, by a Capone killer.
And he would go out on the balcony, even when it got cold, even when he had to kick snow aside, and he would stare at the abstract twinkling shapes that were the buildings of the city. And sometimes the edge of that railing seemed to call to him, inviting him to slip over and take the ride of twenty stories down to a bed where he could sleep undisturbed…
As the months went by, Michael did not hear from Eliot Ness. Nor did Lieutenant Drury make any effort to contact him. Perhaps the two men were embarrassed by the meager payoff of their raid on the Colony Club.
Shuttering Rush Street’s most popular nightspot did not make either man any friends, and the embarrassment suffered by captains of industry, politicians, and judges, ignominiously rounded up and shoved in the back of paddy wagons, translated into criticism and lack of support in high places for the gang-busting efforts of both men.
Shortly after the Town Hall interview with Ness, Michael received notification he was back on inactive duty; his little paychecks ceased. He was no longer a soldier in Uncle Sam’s army, rather a lieutenant in Frank Nitti’s.
Within the Outfit, Nitti’s decision to walk away from prostitution was generally accepted as a sound one. With the real houses shut down, Ness stooping to raid the Colony as a “brothel” (a stretch) showed the G-man’s desperation. And, at the same time, the boys still got their share from the girls—strip clubs and arcades were flourishing with serviceman trade—with the high-class hookers working out of hotels and apartments kicking back, as usual.
Michael was able to convince Frank Nitti that Estelle was loyal; that despite what Drury was claiming in the press—about the Colony’s third-floor housing wide-open cash-and-carry prostitution—Estelle had strictly used the favors of her 26 girls as a dividend for high rollers. That no charges were brought against her indicated she was telling the truth.
“If you vouch for her, kid,” Nitti had said, as they sat in a booth at the Capri, “that’s all I need.”
But the landscape was shifting, and in early 1943 the blessing of Frank Nitti did not always seem to be enough.
Though not privy to board meetings, Michael would get the lowdown from his friend Louie Campagna. On a peaceful return trip to Calumet City—where once a month Campagna and Michael strolled around, just to maintain in certain people the fear of God—Campagna had warned Michael that Estelle might well be in solid with Nitti, but other Outfit insiders suspected her.
“She’s straight, Louie,” Michael said, behind the wheel. “She’s a good kid.”
“She’s a ‘kid’ ten years older than you, Mike. And her old boyfriend Nicky Dean’s helping the feds, we think. Plus which, Ricca and some of the others don’t view her getting a free ride from the cops same way Frank does.”
“How so?”
Campagna, who was cleaning his fingernails with a pocket knife, said, “They think she got a pass ’cause she’s cooperating with the feds.”
Frowning, Michael said, “Louie—she got a pass because Drury couldn’t make that prostitution charge stick!”
“Yeah? What about the gambling?”
“She leased the second floor out to Sonny Goldstone, you know that.”
Campagna shrugged. “They coulda nailed her, if they wanted. Had her in for questioning half a dozen times.”
“I been questioned, you been questioned. That doesn’t make us rats.”
The stocky little hood put away the pocket knife, as the car rolled by a steel mill. “I know you like the broad. Who wouldn’t? But even if she’s as straight as you think—”
“She is.”
“Fine. But Ricca suspects her. And maybe you noticed, innocent till proved guilty don’t come up much, in our circle.”
From his position on the sidelines, right next to the game, Michael could easily sense the tensions. Though gradual, a certain physical deterioration on Nitti’s part was inescapable—the man was drinking more wine than milk these days, taking prescription pain medication for back pains relating to an old assassination attempt, and he’d lost weight, giving him a tired, sunken-cheeked look.
To Michael, however, the man seemed no less sharp; and his impeccable grooming, a point of pride for the one-time barber, kept him looking like the top executive he was. Often Nitti and Michael would have lunch together, sometimes joined by Campagna, sometimes not, and Nitti increasingly spoke of business in front of Michael.
Whose status as Nitti’s number-two man (after Campagna) was widely known now, and accepted. The story about Calumet City had reached legendary proportions, and his “rescue” of Capone from disloyal bodyguards—though only a rumor, never openly discussed—had inspired the resurrection, from the Medal of Honor press coverage, of the Demonio Angelico tag the Filipino Scouts had bestowed him. Spoken in front of Michael, a certain comic tone usually was present; but respect was there, too. Kidding on the square.
Michael, of course, had benefited from Nitti’s misreading of his assault at the Capone estate. But the young bodyguard, a novice to Outfit politics, could not foresee the ramifications facing Nitti himself; and by February, the breaking point approached.
In the white-and-gold presidential suite at the Bismarck, Nitti, tie loose, sat on the couch, stocking feet up on a coffee table, a glass of wine in hand. Campagna, Michael, and their boss had just returned from St. Hubert’s where treasurer Jake Guzik revealed overall earnings were up, despite the decreased prostitution revenue.
While Nitti relaxed, Campagna stewed, pacing behind the couch. This had been coming for weeks; even months. Campagna would bring the subject of Ricca up, and Nitti would bat it away. But today the putty-faced consigliere clearly would be heard.
Campagna finally lumbered around to plant himself before his seated master. “Frank, you gotta face this thing.”
Nitti’s eyes stared into nothing; the glass of wine in his hand was still. “What thing?”
“You know what thing. The Ricca thing.”
The tiniest of shrugs caused a bare ripple in the wine. “Nothing to face. Profits are up. We stand firm against these charges.”
Nitti meant the continuing federal investigation into the Hollywood extortion matter. Any day now, the indictments would fall, hence the anxiety in the air.
Campagna’s voice trembled; his hands were balled. “Frank, you know that ain’t what I mean. You have to strike back.”
“Not the way I do things.”
“In the old days it was. Cermak hit you, you hit him. Mayor of the fuck Chicago tries to have you killed, and you have him killed!”
“Discreetly, Louie,” Nitti said, his free hand raised in benediction, although still his eyes did not meet his advisor’s. “Discreetly.”
Now Campagna was gesturing animatedly—this was the most worked up Michael had ever seen the low-key hoodlum. “Sure, the papers wrote it off as a botched hit on Roosevelt! But the people who counted, they knew—our people, they found out what happened when you try to take out Frank fuck
ing Nitti!”
Finally Nitti looked at his old friend. “Louie, those days are over. Got to be over. Have to be over. We’re businessmen. We came up out of the streets, but now we’re in skyscrapers. They call us gangsters, but we’re really just capitalists, good American capitalists. Unions, restaurants, laundries, nice and legit—plus, yeah, gambling and such—slice it how you want, it’s goods and services for the public. Look at how the Colony Club backfired on those fuckin’ do-gooders. Drury and Ness made themselves the villains! Not us. We’re just businessmen, givin’ the public what they want.”
This was an extraordinary speech, coming from Nitti, who chose his words so sparingly. Michael, pretending to read Film Fun, peered over the edges of a picture of Toby Wing.
Campagna was sitting down next to this man for whom he obviously had so much affection. “I agree with all of what you say, Frank. You know that. Your vision of the future is my vision of the future.”
Nitti patted Campagna’s knee. “Good to hear, Louie. Always good to hear.”
An edge spiked Campagna’s reply. “Well, what I got to say now won’t be. Frank, what happened down in Florida was too big to contain. People know.”
“Know what?”
“Well, for one thing, that Al’s slipped the trolley. The new boys we sent down there, to replace all them casualties, some of ’em are in Ricca’s pocket and they spilled.”
“Nobody’s said a word to me about it.”
Campagna raised his hands as if in surrender, though he was still fighting. “Nobody wants to broach the fuckin’ subject, Frank! Nobody wants to accuse you of…of…”
Nitti frowned—more in disappointment than anger. “Lying? Deceiving my brothers?”
“Well.” Campagna swallowed thickly. “It could be viewed like that.”
Nitti took his feet off the coffee table; set down the glass of vino. Swiveled to throw a hard gaze at Campagna, all the harder coming out of the sunken sockets.
“How do they know Al’s crack-up ain’t recent? How do they know that dose of his didn’t push him over the edge, just lately? Them diseases are, what-you-call-it…progressive.”
Campagna gestured with open hands. “That makes sense.”
“Of course it does.”
“So tell the boys. Call a meeting. You tell them how Al’s sick, but not so sick that he ain’t had the good sense to leave you in charge.”
Nitti turned away from Campagna, reached for the wine, and sipped. “I’ll think about it. Think it over. Thanks, Louie. You always been a good advisor.”
Campagna was shaking his head. “Frank, Al havin’ the mind of a three-year-old retard is only part of the problem.”
Nitti said nothing. Had another sip.
“The takeover try in Florida has Ricca’s greasy fingerprints all over it. But what’s Ricca saying? That he had nothin’ to do with it! That he loves Al, that you must have done this thing yourself.”
The ganglord looked sharply at his advisor. “Ricca’s saying I tried to take Al out?”
With a somber, reluctant nod, Campagna confirmed this.
“Then why don’t the prick say so to me? To my damn face? We sat at the table at the Lex how many times since Miami?”
A small shrug from Campagna. “Ricca talks to people one, two at a time. He’s like a goddamn missionary, makin’ converts.”
Nitti mulled this for a few moments, then again turned pointedly to his consigliere. “Has he talked to you, Louie?”
Campagna looked hurt. “I don’t deserve that, Frank.”
Nitti put a hand on Campagna’s sleeve. “Forgive me, then. But you seem to know what the Waiter has on his mind.”
Campagna clutched the hand on his arm. “Frank, hit the bastard! I’ll help you. Michael over there, you don’t think he’ll help? With a man like Mike, we can take anything they throw at us.”
Slowly Nitti shook his head. “We don’t do things like that no more.”
“Fucking Ricca does!”
“I don’t do things like that no more.”
Shaking his head despairingly, Campagna kept trying. “Frank! Don’t you understand? You look weak in this thing! If you don’t hit Ricca, and good and goddamn soon…you’ll be out and he’ll be in.”
Eyes tight, Nitti asked, “My friends…they would turn on me?”
Campagna tried to make the reply matter of fact, but Michael could hear the sorrow: “You said it yourself, Frank. It’s business. They’ll go with strength.”
Nitti smiled gently at his friend; he touched the man’s face. “And you, Louie? Where do you stand?”
As Nitti withdrew his hand, Campagna raised a fist and shook it. “Strong—right next to you. Goin’ after that prick Ricca…Michael!”
Michael looked up from his magazine, affected an expression as if he hadn’t heard a word of this.
Campagna said, “You’ll stand with us. You’re the ol’ Demonio Angelico, right? Ricca can throw all the soldiers at us he wants, and you’re still with us! Choppin’ up the bastards like firewood! Right?”
“I’m with Mr. Nitti,” Michael said ambiguously.
Campagna got to his feet again; he clasped his hands, pleadingly. “Say the word. Say the word. Please, Frank…say the word.”
Nitti said, “I’ll think on it.”
Campagna looked to be on the verge of tears. “Think soon, Frank.”
And the little hood gathered his coat and hat and was gone.
As usual, Michael drove Nitti—who sat in front, not liking the pretension of a chauffeured ride—home to the Near West Side suburbs, where so many Outfit bigwigs lived. Nitti’s neighborhood was wealthy in an understated way—generous lawns, overgrown bungalows, paved driveways, backyard swing sets. In the Hollywood soundstage of Michael’s life, Riverside was the MGM backlot, but the next shooting here wouldn’t be an Andy Hardy movie.
Nitti’s home was a brown-brick story-and-a-half on the corner, plenty of well-manicured yard separating it from the street—new-looking with crisp white woodwork, shrubs hugging the house, patio out back. Mrs. Nitti’s black ’42 Ford sedan sat in the driveway. A vice president at a bank might live here; or the sales manager of Carson Pirie Scott.
Michael’s duties rarely extended to the house; usually he hung around only for the rare evening board meeting in the living room (Michael relegated to the kitchen). Nitti did not have live-in bodyguards, but a pair of men sat in a car all night outside the house; they hadn’t arrived yet.
Michael pulled up at the edge of the drive, and Nitti said, “Shut the car off. Don’t waste gas. There’s a war on.”
Michael obeyed. Nitti was making no move to get out. Though they’d exchanged not a word on the ride over, the boss now apparently wanted to talk.
His voice casual, friendly, Nitti asked, “What’s your take on what Louie said?”
Feeling in over his head, Michael said frankly, “Mr. Nitti—I’m really not qualified to have an opinion.”
Nitti smiled; he patted Michael’s knee. “You wouldn’t be my number two if that was true. You know, Louie’s a good man, and smart, but he’s no genius. And he’s no leader.”
“I like Louie,” Michael said, pointlessly.
“I know you do, son. But some soldiers ain’t cut out to be generals. Now Ricca could be a general, all right; but he’s a ruthless son of a bitch, and the soldiers he surrounds himself with are kill-happy Young Turks. He’ll put us into narcotics, he’ll start the whores up after the war, he’ll squeeze the unions like a buncha pimples.”
Michael said nothing.
“Which puts me in a bad place. Because the terrible things this cocksucker is capable of forces me to consider doing the same kind of terrible things…Michael, are you with Louie?”
“I’m with you, Mr. Nitti.”
He patted the air with a palm. “I know. I know. But should we take Ricca out? You’re the one man I know who wouldn’t be afraid of the likes of Mad Sam and Mooney.”
Michael thought about it.
“Maybe it’s like the war. Maybe when you got evil men like Hitler and Mussolini and Tojo, you got no choice.”
Nitti sighed. “And I shouldn’t sit around on my ass waitin’ for Pearl Harbor to happen.”
“No. You shouldn’t.”
Nitti looked older than his years—he wasn’t even sixty; he seemed small, as if he’d shrunk. “How I wish you weren’t so god-damned young. How I wish you were ready…because, Michael, I don’t know if I have the strength, anymore.”
“Of course you do, Mr. Nitti.”
He shook his head. “I’m not even sure Louie hasn’t already talked to Ricca. That’s what that was about, you know, this afternoon—our little conversation.”
“I don’t follow…”
“It was about Louie warning me that if I didn’t go with him, he would go with Ricca…Michael…my boy. You’ve been a ray of light in this darkness.”
Michael didn’t know what to say.
“I’ve tried to hold on, since Anna’s death. You know, I had everything for a while, Michael—a family I loved, a prosperous business. And then when I lost my wife, it all crashed down. Nature of what we do, I had to try not to show it. But I had needs. Not…not what you might think. A woman is more than the physical; it’s support, friendship, loyalty. I thought Toni was the answer.”
Nitti meant his second wife.
“She seems like a great woman,” he went on. “She’s good with my kid—such a wonderful kid I have. See, I knew Toni before. I adored my Anna, she was everything to me; but I’m a man, and when I was younger, I had those other kinda needs. Toni’s been around our business for years—secretarial stuff. You heard of Eddie O’Hare?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, Toni was Eddie O’Hare’s secretary…before he got hit? She’s been a good friend to me, a lotta years, and she’s strong and smart and so I married her.”
Road to Purgatory Page 22