He put his arm around his son’s shoulder. “We have no home, son. They took that from us…Say good-bye.”
Michael kissed his mother’s forehead, told her he loved her, said good-bye, and quickly his father packed a bag and the two of them were coming out of the front door, suitcases in hand. The boy had seen his father slip the .45 into his topcoat pocket, and his father’s eyes seemed to be looking everywhere.
When Papa closed the front door, it was almost a slam—there was something final about it, the boy thought.
“Son, this terrible night isn’t over,” he said. “There are still things I must do. Can you be brave?”
“Yes…if I have to.”
“Good.”
The car was where his father had left it, when he’d pulled up to run into the house. Before they got in, Papa had Michael accompany him to the garage.
“Stay out here,” he told the boy, “and yell if you see anyone… Anyone.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Papa went into the garage and came back a few minutes later, with the black hard-shell case in hand—the tommy gun would be making the trip with them, and somehow Michael was glad.
Before they got into the car, Michael paused, looking back at the house he’d been raised in—he’d never lived anywhere else. He’d even been born there, in his parent’s bedroom, where Mama lay now.
His father touched his shoulder. “That’s not our home anymore,” he reminded the boy. “With Peter and your mother gone, it’s just a house…an empty structure. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
With their suitcases in the backseat, his father’s big one and Michael’s small one, and the black hard-shell carrying case as well, his father drove at a normal speed through the residential streets of Rock Island. Within ten minutes they were downtown, and Papa pulled the car into a parking space, where the shadows were dark.
Across the street a neon sign glowed: FLORENCE HOTEL.
The boy asked, “Are we staying here tonight?”
“No. I have something to do. I’ll be back soon.”
But when his father began to go, Michael grabbed onto his arm, holding him back.
The look in his father’s eyes, Michael had never seen before—his expression was apologetic, and also sad. Papa’s eyes were red, like he’d been crying.
“Son—tomorrow they’ll realize we’ve gone, and they’ll come after us—wherever we go. I have to protect you.”
“Then stay!” Michael couldn’t see how his father leaving him alone was any kind of protection at all!
His father sat there—thinking, almost like he was fighting with himself. Then he reached in his left-hand topcoat pocket and removed a small gun—a revolver with a very short barrel.
“You said you wanted a gun,” Papa said, and handed it toward him.
But Michael couldn’t make his fist unclench. “I…I changed my mind.”
His father gently yet firmly opened the boy’s fingers and placed the gun into his palm.
“Now, you may hear things—shouts, a gunshot or two. But sit tight, son—if I’m not back in half an hour, go to Reverend Landers at First Methodist, and tell him what happened.”
“But that’s a Protestant church, Papa! Why not go to St. Pete’s, and Father Callaway—”
“Looney money built that church, son…and sent Father Callaway to Rome, last summer, to meet the Pope. You’ll find no sanctuary, there.”
Papa got out his pocket watch and handed it to the boy.
“Half an hour—and if you do have to go to that church, tell Reverend Landers not to go to the police. Tell him the Bureau of Investigation.”
Michael swallowed. “The G-men?”
Almost smiling, Papa said. “Yes, son. The G-men. Remember…sit tight.”
Michael said nothing, looking down at his hand, where the small gun seemed so big…
Papa, about to open the door, paused and his eyes held the boy—as if he were memorizing Michael’s features—then he slipped out into the night, moving down the sidewalk.
In the shadows of a recessed doorway across from the Hotel Florence, O’Sullivan watched as men outside the building milled about, cars parked in front, more cars arriving, a small crowd of Looney thugs growing bigger as the group readied themselves to go after him. If any confirmation were needed, the brave talk among the strutting men occasionally contained the name “O’Sullivan” and the word “Angel.”
Soon Looney’s former chief enforcer—the sounds of cars starting up, heading off, the search party leaving—was in the alley behind the hotel. No one back here, somewhat surprisingly; he began to climb the fire escape cautiously, .45 in one hand.
At the second-floor landing, he looked in the window at an empty corridor; he forced the window open and stepped quietly in, all the while looking for an armed watchdog, but seeing no one. He walked down the hall to the doorway to Connor Looney’s apartment; the lower edge of the door revealed the lights on in there. His first thought was to kick the door in, but that would be loud…
He tried the doorknob—and the door swung open!
Hurling himself in, gun raised, he found himself staring at a well-dressed, self-composed Frank Kelly, seated in the middle of the room, in comfortable chair, before a coffee table. Kelly’s hands were on his thighs—to indicate that he was unarmed—and the portly, prosperous-looking lawyer seemed to have been waiting for O’Sullivan to appear.
O’Sullivan shut the door, and—looking all around the well-appointed apartment—kept the .45 poised to shoot, as he told John Looney’s longtime law partner, “I have no business with Frank Kelly.”
Genial, pleasant, the attorney held his hands open, palms up. “Ah, but Frank Kelly has business with you, Mike. You know as well as anyone that, as John Looney’s partner…and his legal counsel…I’ve often represented him. That’s what I’m doing now…Sit down.”
“No.”
Kelly shifted in his chair; he was walking a tightrope between keeping this friendly and yet serious. “I’m here, as I said, to represent Mr. Looney…to let you know that John Looney had nothing to do with the unfortunate…might I even say tragic… steps taken against your family.”
“And I suppose he didn’t send me to Bucktown with my own death warrant sealed in an envelope.”
Kelly raised his hands in a calming manner. “All of this was Connor Looney’s own doing, and may I say, a deplorable thing… and an unauthorized action, I assure you.”
“Then Mr. Looney will understand why I have to kill his son.”
Kelly sighed and his expression was suitably somber. “He understands the impulse—but as a grieving father yourself, surely you can comprehend why he has sent his boy into hiding…until it’s safe for Connor to come out.”
“In other words, when I’m dead.”
Patting the air, shaking his head, the attorney said, “I didn’t say that, I didn’t say that—now, Mike, I know you’re a reasonable man…”
“No I’m not.”
Kelly tried a smile. “What is it about the Irish? Either full of blarney, like yours truly, or masters of understatement, like yourself.” He shifted in the chair again. “Now I’m going to reach for something, Mike—it’s not a weapon…”
O’Sullivan said nothing.
Kelly bent down and picked up a black satchel and set it on the table. “It’s twenty-five thousand dollars, Mike. Mr. Looney wants you to know there’ll be more. But at such short notice…”
“Money.”
The lawyer shook his head again, his expression acknowledging the lamentable circumstances. “Insufficient to make up for your grievances, I know…but consider it a gesture from Mr. Looney, if you will. Mike, you have family in Ireland. Take Peter and leave.”
“I can’t take Peter. He’s dead.”
Confused, thrown, Kelly said, “My understanding…”
O’Sullivan shook his head. “Connor Looney didn’t even know who he was killing. Tell John Looney his beloved younger god
child is in heaven. And tell John Looney, I’ll see him and his son in hell.”
The lawyer seemed, for the first time, afraid—almost as afraid as he should have been. “I…I understand your reaction…”
“Good. Now, where’s Connor?”
Kelly shook his head. “He’s in hiding. I told you that, Mike.”
“Where?”
“Please! I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew.”
O’Sullivan raised the .45, leveling it directly at the lawyer’s head.
Kelly was an old courtroom warrior and there was steel in his eyes as he replied, “You figure putting a gun to my head will make a difference? I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Mike. Now, go while you have the chance…and take the money. Make a new life with, uh…Michael’s alive and well?”
“He’s alive.”
The lawyer sighed in relief, or pretended to. “Good. Thank God. Jesus, put that gun down! I’m not part of this. I’m just an emissary. A messenger!”
“Then you wouldn’t mind giving John Looney a message for me?”
Kelly beamed benevolently. “Not at all. That’s what I’m here for.”
O’Sullivan thumbed back the hammer on the .45, a small click that seemed to echo in the room.
The lawyer’s eyes widened in alarm. His mouth dropped like a trapdoor. “But…but you said you wanted me to deliver a message to Mr. Looney…”
“Oh, and you will,” O’Sullivan said, and shot the man in the head.
Teeth chattering from the cold, Michael, in the car, thought he heard a gunshot, but he wasn’t sure; it sounded far away. And then, before very long, his father was sliding in behind the wheel. He didn’t look the same, somehow.
“Getting colder,” Papa said. “I threw a blanket in back. Get it. Wrap it around yourself.”
“Okay, Papa.”
Michael got the blanket, bundled himself.
As he drove quietly away from the hotel, Papa asked, “No one bothered you, son?”
“No…but what happened in there, Papa?”
His father thought for moment; then he said, “I declared war.”
Michael, not understanding, asked, “Where are we going?”
“To Chicago. There’s a man there who runs things. I’ve done work for him, at Mr. Looney’s behest. I have to find out where this big man stands.”
“Oh.” Michael leaned against the door, wrapped in the blanket. Despite everything that happened, he was so exhausted, the boy knew he would fall asleep at once. Before he did, he managed a final question. “What’s the big man’s name, Papa?”
His father let out a breath. “Capone,” he said.
But Michael was already asleep.
EIGHT
In the early months of 1931, Chicago suffering a typically chill winter, the city’s most famous citizen—Alphonse Capone—was nearing the end of his criminal reign. Eliot Ness and his squad—who would enter American mythology as the Untouchables—had for several years been costing Capone dearly, seizing and/or destroying many of his assets.
Treasury agent Ness also collected tax ledgers that were turned over to Elmer Irey and Frank Wilson of the IRS, the second prong of the government’s dual attack. With these and other confiscated records, Irey and Wilson would soon bring Capone down; but the criminal organization “Scarface” Al headed would go on without him, and even thrive.
Prohibition had been around for over ten years, and just about everybody considered it a colossal flop, unenforceable legislation that had paved the way for hoodlum Caesars like Big Al. For a time Capone had seemed a benign public figure, attending ball games, sending toys to orphanages, funding soup kitchens, an outrageous larger-than-life character.
But ordering the murder of a reporter in a busy train station was just one example of Capone’s arrogance; and the bloody St. Valentine’s Day Massacre was a notable other one. His shenanigans attracted the attention of President Hoover, which led to the efforts of Ness, Irey, and Wilson.
Many considered the real brains behind the Capone organization to be Capone’s second in command, Frank Nitti. A former barber, and a cousin of the big man, Nitti had gone from the role of Capone’s chief enforcer—the job my father held in John Looney’s organization—to his heir apparent.
Nitti was at the fore of the new breed of gangster. He understood that the mob was like any American big business, and that the murderous ways so ingrained in thugs like Capone, who’d come up through the street, had to be kept in check. Under Nitti, the so-called Chicago Outfit would expand into legitimate businesses and, in particular, unions; the killing would continue, when necessary…but more discreetly.
When my father and John Looney fell violently out, the Chicago Outfit was already on the precipice of change. Capone was still in charge, but facing indictment on various charges. Almost certainly Frank Nitti knew he would soon sit in the chair, the throne, vacated by the most famous criminal America ever created.
O’Sullivan drove through the night, often taking back roads and circuitous routes on his journey to Chicago, though he did not expect Looney or his men to anticipate this move. His son slumbering beside him, O’Sullivan experienced a strange combination of clarity—he was not at all tired—and a dream-like state. His headlights cut through darkness like searchlights, and the winter-barren farmland—some of the richest land in the United States—seemed a surrealistic wasteland around them.
When night began its fade to morning, light easing over the endless fields, the rural landscape took on a stark reality, and beauty. Annie had an eye for such things. Like any woman, she would point out colorful flowers, in summer; but at this time of year, she might also draw his attention to a tree silhouetted against the sky like a ghostly skeleton.
The boy slept. O’Sullivan was thankful for that, and when Michael did finally wake, they were deep in Chicago’s Loop, skyscrapers looming, safe and anonymous in the morning traffic.
“It’s so big,” the boy said, eyes wide, looking all around at the man-made canyon walls. “Is this Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’re going to the library.”
Michael looked at him curiously, but asked no questions. The boy was smart—maybe not as smart as Peter had been, but nobody’s fool. O’Sullivan could tell that the boy understood a haven was needed for him, while his father did what he had to.
The Chicago Public Library faced Michigan Avenue between Randolph and Washington Streets. The turn-of-the-century classical-looking building was not a skyscraper, rather a massive elongated limestone structure, a fortress of knowledge. The boy would be safe, there.
Before long, they were on foot, just a man in a topcoat and fedora, and a boy in a jacket and cap, in a sea of early-morning workers—businessmen, secretaries, blue-collar types—and, again, O’Sullivan felt secure in their anonymity. He escorted his son—he’d instructed the boy to bring along his small suitcase—in on the building’s Washington Street side, entering an immense world of glass mosaics and marble; Michael’s reaction of wonder touched the father in O’Sullivan, despite all he had on his mind.
He walked the boy to a huge reading room, where students and other scholars mingled with the down-and-out, mothers with babies, and the elderly, all just escaping the cold.
Sitting Michael down at an individual table, O’Sullivan said, “I want you to wait for me.”
The boy’s anxiety leapt in to his eyes, but he merely said, “Okay, Papa.”
“I won’t be long, son. You’ll be all right?”
Michael nodded.
“If you want to get up, and get something to read, you can. Otherwise—stay right here.”
Michael shrugged. He lifted up his little suitcase. “I brought my own books,” the boy said.
O’Sullivan almost smiled. “You still have that little gun I gave you?”
Michael patted his coat pocket.
“Good boy,” O’Sullivan said. “Now if anyone comes at you with
their own gun, do you know what to do?”
The boy thought about that. “Shoot?”
“Yes.”
The boy thought about that, too. “Where do I aim? The Lone Ranger shoots the guns out of people’s hands.”
“The Lone Ranger isn’t real. Shoot at their heads.”
Michael swallowed. “Couldn’t I just shoot at their legs?”
“No. Their heads, if they’re close enough. Or their chests, if you need a bigger target.”
“Oh, Papa…I’m afraid.”
“That’s not a bad thing, son. God put that feeling inside of us so we would protect ourselves. So we can survive.”
Michael’s head was swimming, O’Sullivan could tell; but his son needed to hear these things.
Then the boy asked, “But what about thou shalt not kill, Papa?”
The beleaguered father had known this would come up again, and he was ready: “God gives His permission for us to protect ourselves from evil men.”
Michael thought about that. “What if a policeman comes?”
“Run.”
“Papa…run from a policeman?”
“There are no police in Chicago, son. Just killers in blue uniforms…If I’m not back in an hour and a half, you find the nearest church.”
“A Catholic church, Papa?”
“No…God, no. Protestant, Michael. Please.”
“How will I find it?”
One of the librarians, a slender woman in her thirties, had been watching this whispered conversation—hearing none of it; her expression was warmly appreciative of the close bond between the boy and his father. She would have found the scene less heartwarming, had she overheard it.
O’Sullivan said, “Ask that nice librarian. Get directions.”
Michael seemed close to tears, despite his efforts at stoicism.
Touching his son’s shoulder, O’Sullivan said, “You’ve done well.”
The boy liked hearing that.
His father continued: “I probably won’t be gone that long. And I will be back…But you saw what Connor Looney did last night—you know what we’re up against. We have to be strong—we have to consider the possibilities.”
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