A sense of urgency was pumping through him, fueled by the notion of getting his hands on these murderers. “All right. Suppose it is. Where can I find them?”
An open-handed shrug now. “Somewhere under Lake Michigan.”
“You’re saying they’re…dead.”
“Well they aren’t holding their breath…I think one of Frank’s people took care of it. Oh, I can see how disappointed you are.”
“How do I know you’re—”
“Telling the truth? Not lying? Because I’m your friend. Or I’m going to be.” Ricca folded his arms again and bestowed that enigmatic smile. “Michael, I could have ruined your life months ago, had I wanted to.”
“Really.”
“Oh yes. Really. You see, William Drury is an honest cop—boringly, stupidly, pointlessly honest. You know—like your friend Ness.”
It was as if cold water had been splashed in his face. “My—what?”
“Eliot Ness, Michael. Not every cop at Town Hall Station is as honest as Bill Drury—almost none of ’em, in fact. That’s how I was able to hear a wire recording of the conversation you and Ness had there, the night the Colony Club was raided.”
Michael whipped the .45 from under his shoulder and pointed it at Ricca.
Who did not blink. Did not react an iota.
Rather, merely said, “I know who you are, Michael. You’re Michael Satariano, yes. But you’re also Michael O’Sullivan, Jr.”
The words hit him like a physical blow.
“I knew your father. He was the best soldier ever lived. What I would give for a man like that…a man like you, Michael. A clown like Mad Sam has his uses; and a cunning little shitheel like Mooney, too. But an angel of death…a demonic angel…why, they come along only once in a lifetime.”
His hand gripping the gun trembled; he tried to stop it from doing that, unsuccessfully. “You…if you know who I am… why…?”
Ricca’s smile widened and turned ghastly in the process. “Why not expose you? After all, you are, in a way, an under cover cop…or anyway, you were. Only, your loyalties shifted from Eliot Ness to Frank Nitti many months ago. That was clear in the conversation I heard, from Town Hall. Also from your conduct.”
Mind reeling, Michael managed, “Why didn’t you tell Nitti about me?”
Ricca’s eyes popped. “And have a good man killed? The son of the Angel of Death? Do I look like a fool? As I said, I know what makes you tick, son. I know that it was you—a one-man army—who rained all that blood down upon Palm Island. You discovered…and made it possible for me to discover…that for fucking years Al Capone has been a feeble-minded figurehead for Frank Nitti.”
A numb Michael asked, “You knew that…and still you didn’t…I don’t understand.”
“You will. I said, I know what makes you tick. Like any good bomb…Oh, lately you’ve lost your way, maybe more than just your way—you lost your purpose. You went to Miami to kill Al Capone. Why?”
“You seem to know everything.”
“To avenge your father’s death. Your father made a deed with the Outfit—he would stop robbing their banks, the war he waged against them would end…if they gave him the Looney kid. And they did. Connor Looney died in the street in Rock Island. I know. I was there.”
“You were there?”
He folded his hands on his skinny belly. “I was one of the bodyguards who sent Connor out to meet his fate that rainy night. His ‘fate’ being your father…Your father kept his end of the bargain, but he was betrayed. Only…that wasn’t Al Capone’s doing.”
“What?”
“The man who made the bargain with your father was the man who broke it. Oh, I’m sure he had Al’s blessing or at least tacit approval. But your father’s betrayer, Michael…was Frank Nitti.”
Again, the words punched Michael like a fist.
“No,” Michael said, shaking his head. “I don’t believe you…”
“You don’t want to believe me…but it’s true. And when you think it through, you’ll know I’m not lying.”
Emotions, conflicting and confusing, surged through the young man; it was all he could do to steady the gun.
“And, Michael? To get back to what we were talking about, before?…There doesn’t have to be a war. Not if Frank Nitti dies.”
Michael swallowed thickly. The .45 in his hand felt so very heavy…
Ricca slid off the desk to his feet and he put a fatherly hand on Michael’s shoulder and smiled at him.
“And who better to carry out this execution, than his trusted right hand—Michael Satariano? Just as what more fitting end could there be for Frank Nitti, than at the hands of Michael O’Sullivan, Jr.?”
SIX
Two men in a green 1940 Chevy were parked outside Frank Nitti’s suburban home. Michael did not know them, other than to exchange nods with—they were bodyguards who usually worked the graveyard shift, keeping an eye on Nitti and his house after dark. That they were here in midafternoon indicated the heightened security following the disastrous counsel meeting of the night before.
The man behind the wheel, dark, small, was named Jimmy the Rat Rossi, his name reflecting rodent-like features that his toothpick sucking somehow accentuated. He wore a dark suit and tie, his hat off to reveal dark hair given way to a monk’s bald spot.
In the rider’s seat, also in dark suit and tie, reading The Racing News, was stocky, bucket-headed Tony “Pocky” Licata, whose claim to fame was a single pockmarked cheek; his hat was off, too, his prematurely gray hair cut close to the scalp. Both men were in their thirties and neither were live wires—just your standard-issue Outfit muscle.
In his military-style trenchcoat, Michael stopped alongside the Chevy, tapped on the window—the car wasn’t running, but it was cold enough to keep the windows up—and leaned in as the Rat rolled it down.
“Anything unusual?” Michael asked.
“No, Mr. Satariano,” the Rat said. “Quiet as a mouse.”
The minor irony of the statement seemed to escape the man who dispensed it.
Pocky looked up from the racing rag to say, “Mrs. Nitti left about fifteen minutes ago.”
Michael glanced over at the empty driveway.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m going up to the house. I have a little business with Mr. Nitti.”
The Rat nodded, not giving a shit, rolling the window up. But unlike his partner, the Rat wasn’t reading on the job; he seemed to be attentive to the effort, almost as much as to shifting that toothpick around.
Michael crossed the street to the unpretentious brown-brick home. It had snowed yesterday afternoon, lightly, and while the city showed few signs, out here in the suburbs, the brown of the short-trimmed yards had a dusting of white that somehow took the edge off the dreary, chilly weather.
On the stoop, Michael paused to collect himself. He felt calm; in fact, he felt as if he were sleepwalking.
He was about to ring the bell when the door opened and there was Nitti, poised in the doorway in a brown fedora and brown plaid overcoat, blue-and-maroon silk scarf loose around his neck, coat open to reveal a snappy gray checked suit.
Startled, Nitti—his face going in an instant from bland to savage—yanked a .32 revolver from his pocket and thrust it toward Michael.
But before Michael could react—had time to react—Nitti’s expression just as quickly changed to relief, and he slipped the little black revolver back in his topcoat pocket.
“Jesus, kid,” Nitti said, and chuckled, an ungloved hand on his chest. “Give me the scare of my life, there.”
“Sorry, Mr. Nitti. I was about to ring the bell.”
“I was just going out for a stroll. Toni went to church to light a candle or two, all this shit goin’ on. Frankly, I, uh…” He stepped out onto the little porch with Michael. “…drank a little too much vino, this afternoon. Thought I’d walk it off.”
The smell of wine was on him, all right. Like the smell of booze had been on Eliot Ness.
“
That’s not like you, Mr. Nitti.”
Nitti put his hand on Michael’s shoulder and smiled. “I’m not proud of it…Do I seem drunk to you?”
“No.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.
“Walk with me?”
“Sure.”
From the sidewalk, Nitti made a “no” motion to the bodyguards in the car, not to follow along. In the rider’s window, the Rat nodded, rolling his toothpick.
They turned right, Nitti saying, “We’ll just walk around the block. Get a little of this nice fresh air.”
While the weather wasn’t chilly exactly, a brittle edge made it just cold enough for their breath to smoke; neither man wore gloves and kept hands in pockets. Of course, Michael was aware that Nitti had that .32 in his right-hand one.
The shrunken-looking Nitti had been fairly diminutive to start with, and seemed much smaller than Frank Nitti had any right to be. But the ex-barber’s hair was freshly cut and, vino or no, he seemed alert. He was lifting his face into a crisp breeze and relishing it.
“Spoke to Louie,” Nitti said, as they turned the corner. He flashed a sideways, chagrined grin. “Sorry about letting you sit overnight in the jug. I honestly didn’t know you was in there.”
“You had a right to be distracted.”
Nitti shot him a sharper look. “So, Louie’s filled you in on the situation?”
“Kinda sounds like you threw the gauntlet down to Ricca, Mr. Nitti. That surprised me.”
“Did it? Why?”
Michael, hands still in his pockets, shrugged, walking. “You’re usually more careful than that. Why stir up enmity with Ricca, right now?”
Nitti shook his head, his mouth tight. “I didn’t stir it—he did. He’s taking advantage of this moment to try to bring me down…A kid who uses a term like ‘enmity’ probably knows what a coup is, right?”
“Sure.”
“Well, this is what the politicians call a bloodless coup. If Ricca can convince the rest of the counsel I’m a selfish fuck-up, unwilling to fall on my sword for ’em…then he slides into my chair.”
“And he figures you won’t move against him.”
Nitti nodded. “And I won’t. We’re facing a trial that’s gonna get big play in the press. But what’s it over? Buncha Hollywood nonsense. Union stuff. Compared to war news, it ain’t nothing. Public yawns and flips to the funnies.” The little ganglord stopped cold. “But we start shooting at each other, acting like gangsters? Then we get way too much attention from John Q. Public.”
Nitti calmly walked on. They turned the corner, to the right. They had the sidewalks to themselves; it was a school day, Friday, and cold enough to keep housewives inside. The tree-lined streets twisted through an idyllic world where the dwellings, if less than mansions, were nonetheless spacious and distinctive; nothing cookie-cutter about the homes of Riverside. Despite the white-brushed lawns, a consistent peppering of evergreens threw a little color into the landscape.
“Kid,” Nitti said, and his expression was grave, “I’m sorry about that girl of yours.”
“Thanks, Mr. Nitti.”
“I liked Estelle. She was as smart as she was pretty. Good earner for us, too.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“I know who did it, and a guy who does work for me, time to time, took care of it.” Nitti stopped again and so did Michael; the older man put his hand on the younger one’s shoulder. “I know you’d like to’ve been the one who took ’em out, but it’s better this way.”
Michael nodded.
They walked along.
“Their name was Borgia,” he said. “If you know your history, you see how fitting that is. They probably were sent by Ricca either to throw a scare in her—afraid she’d talk, in the trial, y’know—or maybe to kill her, and send Nicky Dean a wake-up call.”
“Would Ricca do that?”
“Sure. But I doubt even the Waiter’s reckless enough to attract the press that torture killing got. Stupid. Now, that’s just what I’m talkin’ about—look at the fuck-ing field day the papers are having over Estelle Carey! It puts the goddamn spotlight right on us. All of sudden, we’re mobsters again, not businessmen.”
“I don’t think Ricca thinks of himself as a businessman—at least not the way you do, Mr. Nitti.”
“Probably true. Probably true. Or else he wouldn’t surround himself with sick-in-the-head killers like Mad Sam and Mooney.” Nitti sighed. “Only good thing could come from this is Ricca going away. I have confidence in Accardo.”
Once again Nitti stopped. This time, he put both hands on Michael’s shoulders. Speaking with great emphasis, he said, “While we’re away, Joe Batters will be capo.”
That was another name for Tony Accardo.
“He’s a good man. You can trust him. Stand by him, Michael. Serve him.”
“Yes, Mr. Nitti.”
Nitti’s hands returned to his pockets. They walked on.
Michael said, “No way you can beat this rap?”
“No. And though I can’t take the fall, I must bear some responsibility. Trusting Bioff and Browne, that was stupid. But the nature of what we do is risk. Decisions can come back to haunt you.”
“Bad decisions?”
“Even good ones. We make hard choices for the greater good.”
“Like that guy, what did they call him? The Angel of Death?”
They were at the end of the block. The residential area gave way to undeveloped lots; across the street a row of skeletal trees mingled with shrubbery, behind which a wire fence defended a patch of prairie, high dead grass and brush cut by intersecting tracks of the Illinois Central. In the distance, beyond the dead brush, and the tracks, was a complex of brick buildings, a tuberculosis sanitarium.
Michael knew as much because Campagna had mentioned the fence, which had a gaping hole in it, as a security issue in guarding Nitti. In these days of gas rationing, neighborhood employees of the sanitarium had clipped a hole in the wire barrier, to be able to walk to work.
Having stopped again, Nitti frowned in thoughtful surprise. “Angel of Death…haven’t heard that phrase in ages. O’Sullivan. Looney’s man.”
“Right.”
Nitti grunted a laugh. “Haven’t thought of him in ages, either.”
“Looney or O’Sullivan?”
“Take your pick.” Hands still in pockets, Nitti rocked on his heels. “Old Man Looney’s still in stir, I hear. But O’Sullivan—he was something. Best soldier I ever knew.” Nitti’s eyes narrowed. “How the hell d’you ever hear of him, son?”
“It was written up in the true detective magazines.”
Another grunted laugh. “Buncha bullshit, most likely. Although, with that O’Sullivan—you wouldn’t have to exaggerate what he did, make a good yarn.”
“I thought he was your enemy.”
Nitti shook his head. “No. Looking back, I wonder if I shouldn’t’ve taken him up on his offer—he came to me, wanted me to step aside and let him take his revenge on Looney. But we had a business relationship with Rock Island, and…well.”
“What had Looney done to him?”
Nitti shivered, possibly not from the cold. “It wasn’t what Looney did—the Old Man’s kid, a lunatic like Mooney and Mad Sam—killed O’Sullivan’s wife and son.”
“I thought our families were off limits.”
“They are. They are. But these weren’t our people, Michael—these were a bunch of crazy micks, killing each other.”
“Ah. Why did Looney’s kid kill the mother and son?”
Nitti shrugged, still rocking. “Oh, the reason isn’t important. But he did it, and when I wouldn’t back O’Sullivan’s play, he hit us hard, in the pocketbook. Kinda like Ness! What a man that mick was.”
“But you had him killed.”
Again Nitti shrugged. “I had to. To allow one man to inflict such damage to our business, and get away with it? Some things you just can’t abide.”
“I can grasp that.”
Nitti coc
ked his head, giving Michael a curious half-smile. “What makes you so keen on ancient history, son?”
“I have a vested interest.”
Curious, Nitti smiled. “Really? What kind?”
Now Michael shrugged. “Well, you see, my real name isn’t Michael Satariano. I was adopted.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m the kid who helped rob those Outfit banks. The driver?…I’m Michael O’Sullivan, Jr.”
It took a while for Nitti’s smile to fade, as if Michael’s statement were some colossal joke.
“You…you’re O’Sullivan’s kid?”
“Yes, and I got next to you so I could kill Capone. I thought he was the one responsible for my father’s death. But now…” And Michael slipped his right hand under the trenchcoat and withdrew the .45 and, holding it close to his body, pointed it at Nitti. “…now I know different.”
Nitti raised his hands, just to waist level, more a reasoning gesture than one of surrender. “You…you should know, then, that what I did was business. You heard me just now! How much I respected your father.”
“I can understand that, Mr. Nitti. You can respect a man you have to kill.”
Eyes narrow, Nitti was shaking his head as pieces slipped into place. “All of that…in Miami…your doing. Ricca wasn’t behind it.”
“Wasn’t Ricca at all. When I saw Capone, fishing in his pool, I couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Would’ve been like shooting a little kid.”
The smile returned, bitter now. “But you can shoot me, right, Michael?”
“I think so.”
“You aren’t sure?”
Michael let out a tiny humorless laugh. “It surprises me, but…the rage. I can’t summon the rage. All I feel is…disappointment.”
And in a flash he recalled when he’d last felt like this: it was when he witnessed his father shooting those men in that ware house, when he knew his brave war-hero father had not been on missions, but was just a gangster, a thug, a killer…
Nitti put his hands down. “It would be…foolish to say I’ll try to make it up to you. But Michael, I’ve come to look at you as a son…”
Road to Purgatory Page 26