How Maguire became aligned with the Capone crowd is unknown. One source claims that Capone hired Maguire to dig up the dirt on a ward heeler who was standing in the Outfit’s way; another source says Maguire was tapped to find a racetrack manager who skipped town with a bundle of mob money.
At any rate, Harlen Maguire became one of Al Capone’s most reliable and fearsome assassins, high on a short list that included “Machine Gun” Jack McGurn and Sam “Golf Bag” Hunt. A Chicago reporter who knew both Maguire and numerous Outfit mobsters claimed that Maguire worked directly under Frank Nitti, who reportedly relished the assassin’s research skills and—under the cover of his profession—his access as a legitimate reporter. What else is a researcher but a hunter?
And Harlen “the Reporter” Maguire was the perfect hunter.
The portable camera, with extendible tripod, weighed around forty pounds, but the slender man carrying it—pale, boyishly handsome, but nonetheless thirty years of age—moved quickly along the sidewalk, as if the apparatus he was hauling were feather light.
Harlen Maguire might have been any reporter on the prowl for a good story, but the sharp cut of his suit, the rich fabric of his topcoat, and the snappy bowler said otherwise…though even a decent off-the-rack suit would have stood out in this neighborhood. This was Little Village, after all, a slum-ridden neighborhood on Chicago’s West Side, where Italian blood often ran hot… and sometimes just ran.
Maguire figured the fire-escape entrance to the tenement block would be less crowded, but a small crowd—undissuaded by the bitter winter morning chill—had gathered here, as well. Most of them were out of work, and a juicy neighborhood murder was just the thing to warm the cockles.
Shouldering his way through, Maguire announced himself as press—”Out of the way! Excuse me, ma’am—thank you!”—and within a minute he was upstairs and inside the dingy one-room flat where, over by the kitchen area, police and a coroner’s doc were dealing with a man of average build in work shirt and denims who was slashed here and there, some nasty cuts that the guy didn’t even seem to notice, ranting, raving.
“I took the knife away from the son of a bitch! He was raping my wife…son of a goddamn bitch! Raping my wife…”
No woman was present, so the cops had already gotten her out of there. And while they were dealing with the killer, Maguire would take a gander at the killee…
His subject was in the bedroom corner of the flat, by a window looking out on the El tracks, a big oaf with his eyes and mouth open, sprawled on the floor with multiple stab wounds in his chest, like a bouquet of flowers: black entry gouges centered blossoms of red. His pants were embarrassingly down, his striped shorts discreetly up. The weapon was on the floor, a small hunting knife with blood smeared almost to the hilt.
Arms outstretched, there was a certain Pagliacci posture about the corpse that appealed to the photographer’s sensibilities. This would be too much for the Herald-American, but the editor over at Startling Detective would pay through the nose—crimes of passion burned up the newsstands.
With swift precision he assembled his tools, camera out of its case, tripod legs extending, bellows growing, and soon the artist was ready to go to work. To create something permanent out of the temporary, to make a sort of life out of death.
But that bastard husband was still ranting, hands in the air, pacing around. “I tell you, it was self-defense! You saw her—her clothes ripped off. He was raping her, I tell you!”
A cop was trying to contain the guy, saying, “Come on, buddy! Hold still—you’re tramplin’ on the evidence.”
“Hey!” Maguire said. “Could the deceased and I have a little peace and quiet? Trying to work in here. Let a guy make a living.”
He’d already slipped the cop—O’Ryan, who Maguire had run into on several prior occasions—a sawbuck, coming in.
“Maguire,” O’Ryan said, “we’re all just trying to do our jobs.”
The photographer went over and pressed another sawbuck into the cop’s palm. “Why don’t you do yours out in the hall?”
“No reason why not,” the cop said, pleasantly, and hauled the killer’s ass out of there, the medic tagging after.
Then it was only the photographer and his subject, who was not likely to give him any problems. Maguire stepped behind the tripod and began to focus, the image of the corpse upside-down in his viewfinder.
“Now smile,” Maguire said softly.
But just as he was about to take his shot, Maguire heard a bubbling gasp…and he stepped from behind the camera and took a right-side up look at the stiff.
Only this wasn’t a stiff: the oaf was gulping for air, blood bubbling, trickling.
Maguire shook his head—son of a bitch was ruining everything. What was a crime of passion without a murder? He glanced at the closed door, and the rumble of an approaching train out on the El already was blotting out the pitiful groans of the uncooperative would-be corpse.
The photographer took a handkerchief from his pocket, then knelt over the victim; the man’s open eyes had lost their blankness, consciousness glimmering. So Maguire covered the man’s bloody mouth with the hanky-in-hand, cupping it, and with his other hand squeezed the victim’s nose closed.
As the El thundered past, the oaf struggled a little—not much, he’d have probably croaked on the way to the hospital, anyway—and Maguire looked into the man’s eyes, watching the consciousness wink out, like the wind quenching a candle.
Then he wiped the fresh blood from the corpse’s face, wadded up the handkerchief, slipped it in his pocket, and got back behind the tripod—with no more prima donna malarkey from his subject.
As his father drove the rural off-roads, Michael rode in the backseat, so he could stretch out and nap or just rest, if he felt like it. But right now he was wide awake, and he was glad when Papa—after a long interval of silence—struck up a conversation.
“Do you remember your Aunt Sarah? Your Uncle Bob?”
He sat forward, leaned on the seat. “I’m not sure…”
“Your mother’s sister, in Perdition. Bob is her husband—your uncle…your real uncle.”
“Per what?”
“Perdition. It’s in Kansas. A little farm, next to a lake?”
“Was I little?”
Papa nodded. “We went there, all of us, when you were four, maybe five. Perdition’s a bump in the road, near Fall River Lake. Peter was just a little tyke. It’s beautiful…Do you remember?”
“Do they have a dog?”
Papa glanced back him, puzzled. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, the place I remember, they had a dog and it jumped up at the table and took a bite out of Mama’s sandwich.”
His father glanced at him again, a tiny, tiny smile forming.
“And so Mama gave it to him,” the boy continued. “I mean, once the dog took a bite, it was his, she said.”
Michael could still remember their laughter, at the time; but he didn’t feel like laughing, now. Neither did Papa, apparently. Because he was just staring at the road.
After a while, Michael asked, “What about it?”
“What about what?”
“Per…Perdition.”
“Oh. Well…that’s where we’re going.”
But that night they stayed in McGregor, Iowa, just another “bump in the road” with a town square and quiet streets. The Starr Motel was toward the edge of the little farming community, a typical roadside motor court. The room was clean but the furnishings were old and cheap, the lighting dim and yellowish, the covers and sheets worn, the kerosene space heater smelly, and, when the boy sat on the edge of the bed and its thin mattress, the springs squeaky. When they had traveled with Mama and Peter, the family stayed in nicer places than this. Not that he cared. The boy was preoccupied: he knew, he just knew, that his father was going to dump him at that place on some lake with this aunt and uncle who he barely remembered.
His father was sitting in a chair by the dresser next to the doo
r, leaning forward, hands folded, thinking. The boy knew he probably shouldn’t say anything. Then he did: “Papa—how long will we be staying at Aunt Sarah’s?”
He looked up, paused, then finally said, “Michael, you’ll be staying there…I won’t. Not right away.”
Michael didn’t argue with his father—what good would it do? He just said, “How long are you going to leave me there?”
“I don’t know. Until it’s safe.”
“How will you know it’s safe?”
“I’ll know,” he said firmly, and stood. “Son, I have to use the phone, in the motel office…You know what to do, if anyone comes through that door.”
Michael nodded and got up to get his jacket from the chair he’d draped it over. The boy took the revolver from the pocket and went back to the bed, setting the gun next to his Tom Mix Big Little Book on the nightstand.
His father was at the door when Michael asked, “Who are you calling, Papa?”
“Your Uncle Bob. To let him know we’re coming for a visit.”
And Papa went out, leaving the boy to think how normal that had sounded.
In the motel office, O’Sullivan gave the desk man a five-dollar bill to cover the long-distance call.
The farmer’s husky voice, over the crackling wire, was strangely soothing to O’Sullivan’s ear. “Sarah’s in Rock Island, Mike…in your house. Seeing to the services for Annie and little Pete.”
“That’s damn decent of you, Bob.”
“Wish we could do more. I wanted to go myself, the train fare for one purt’ near broke us.”
“I’ll help you out, when I see you.”
“I didn’t mean…When will that be?”
And O’Sullivan explained how he hoped he could entrust his son to the couple, until he worked out his “problem” with the Looney family.
“You know we’ll love to have the lad, Mike—we never had any of our own. It might be a balm for Sarah’s busted heart.”
“I know she loved Annie.”
“Loved her like life itself. Guess I don’t have to tell you what a saint Annie was—not a spoiled bone in her body, even if she was the younger girl, the baby…”
O’Sullivan couldn’t hear any more of that. “Bob, before I turn Michael over to you, we have to make sure it’s safe.”
“Not sure I understand.”
“Looney’s men…maybe Capone’s men…may be watching your house. They could be staying in town…”
“Understood. Give it a couple days and call me back—if the crows are sittin’ on the fence, eyes on the corn, this old farmer’ll spot ’em.”
When O’Sullivan returned to the room, Michael was under the covers, shivering. It was cold in there, and the blankets were skimpy and threadbare, and the kerosene floor heater blew less hot hair than Uncle Bob.
“Didn’t you pack a sweater?” he asked the boy.
“No. I forgot.”
O’Sullivan almost reminded Michael that he certainly hadn’t “forgotten” to pack those comic-strip books and toys; but instead the man went to his own suitcase, found a sweater, and started putting it on over the boy’s head.
Michael pulled it out of his father’s hands, putting it on himself, in a small show of defiance.
His son was obviously upset about his father leaving him at the uncle and aunt’s. But O’Sullivan had said all he intended to on the subject, and went to the sink to wash up for bed.
From behind him, his son—his voice sounding very small—said, “I miss Mama and Peter.”
“I know,” O’Sullivan said, wishing he knew something about comforting a child. “I miss them, too.”
That same evening, Maguire was in his studio in his Chicago apartment, in the red glow of the darkroom, surrounded by shelves of his beloved cameras, developing his photos. With tweezers, he fished a photo of the dead oaf out of the tray of fixing solution, then hung it up to dry. He was on photo number six, the last of the usable shots, when the phone rang.
With no sense of urgency, he wandered out into the living room of the small but nicely furnished flat, adorned with the artist’s own work: framed photos of dead bodies, here a corpse in a pool hall, there a shot-up gangster in a corridor, here a bloody naked suicide in a bathtub. It was home to him—he just didn’t bring his dates here.
Flopping on the sofa next to the phone on an end table, he answered with his usual, “Harlen Maguire.”
“Frank Nitti,” the assured voice said on the other end of the line.
Maguire scribbled on a pad as Nitti spoke, making notes, doodling, as the ganglord filled him in on the assignment, saying, “This may take some time—some real tracking, some real research. I can offer you sixteen hundred.”
“Good…because that’s my usual rate, Mr. Nitti. As you know…And anything I make on the photographs is mine.”
“I’m not interested in photography, Mr. Maguire. But I do think creating evidence at the scene of your own crimes is reckless.”
“I’m still around. You’re still calling.”
“I need you to drop everything. You need to go right away.”
“That’s no problem.”
“The funeral’s tomorrow afternoon—it’s a three-, maybe four-hour drive to the Tri-Cities.”
“I travel light.”
Nitti paused. “You do know who Michael O’Sullivan is.”
“Sure. Never met him. But I know his work…Angel of Death, pretty fancy moniker.”
“Well deserved.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I’m a fan of his. So…he isn’t traveling alone—there’s a kid?”
“His son—Michael O’Sullivan, Jr. Eleven. Looks younger.”
Maguire wrote the boy’s name and age down and then turned the “11” into a square and made it into a face, drawing hair, ears, and two dots for eyes.
“So,” Maguire said, “what do I do with junior?”
“What do you usually do with witnesses?”
“Okay.” He drew a downturned mouth on the doodled face. “Will do.”
And they said their good-byes, and he hung up, knowing he should have asked for more, for clipping the kid; but not wanting to cross Nitti. It wasn’t a matter of being afraid of the gangster, though Nitti was not to be underestimated, former torpedo that he was. It wasn’t that, at all…
Maguire got up to straighten one of the framed photos—he’d noticed it hanging crooked, as he spoke to Nitti. This shot was of a murder, or rather murders, he hadn’t done; but one of his nicest compositions nonetheless: six corpses on the floor of S-M-C Cartage, brains spilling out of their shattered skulls—the seventh corpse had crawled out of frame, toward the door, compromising but not really spoiling this record of the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.
No, Maguire didn’t want to risk losing the assignment.
He’d always wanted to meet the Angel of Death. And adding Michael O’Sullivan’s portrait would be a crowning touch to his photo gallery.
The next day, when Michael awoke, the sun was filtering in brightly through the drawn curtains. An oily, metallic smell was in the air—like a machine shop. He looked over toward his father’s bed and saw his father sitting there like an Indian, with newspapers spread out before him on top of the covers and the parts of the tommy gun arrayed like dishes of food on a picnic.
Papa had rags and various pipe-cleaner-like tools and little bottles of stuff. He was methodically cleaning the pieces of the weapon. The pistol lay to one side—either waiting its turn, or already finished with.
The boy rubbed his eyes. “What…what time is it?”
“After two.”
The boy tried to make that work. He sat up. “In the afternoon?”
His father nodded. “You were tired. I slept a long time, too… We needed it. Wash up and get dressed.”
“Are we going?”
“We’ll eat. There’s something we need to do…We’re staying here tonight.”
“Again? Why?”
“Resting up. Get
ting ready. Go—wash up.”
They walked to the town square—it was only a few blocks—and ate at a little café. Michael asked if he could have breakfast instead of lunch, and they were nice and fixed him eggs and bacon and pancakes. Papa ordered the blue plate special, which was meat loaf and mashed potatoes, but he didn’t eat much of it.
Afterward, Papa said, “Let’s take a walk,” and the day seemed cold and dreary for that, but Michael was in no position to argue. They crossed a little park and, a block off the business district, came to a small country church—a Catholic church. Michael quickly realized this was his father’s destination—Papa must have spotted the church when they came into town.
In the gravel parking lot, Michael tugged his father’s sleeve and the man stopped and looked down at his son.
“Why are we going here?”
“There’s a funeral today.”
“At this church?”
“Back home.”
“For Mama? And Peter?”
“Yes. And we’re not there. But we should go in, and light a candle for them. And pray for them.”
This seemed reasonable to Michael, but something else didn’t. Confused, he asked, “Are you sure we can go in there?”
“Of course we can.”
“But, Papa…it’s a Catholic church.”
His father’s smile was so faint, it could barely be made out. “The reach of our enemies doesn’t extend here. We’ll be fine.”
Michael sat in a pew in the back of the church while his father knelt at the altar, praying before Christ on his cross. For a small church, they had a really big Christ—he looked real, and even from where Michael sat, the Lord’s suffering was obvious. He watched as Papa lighted two candles—one for Mama, one for Peter. Then Papa lighted one more candle, which puzzled the boy.
After a while, the black-robed priest—white haired, well fed, with an expression that was both friendly and serious—stepped from the sacristy, and stopped to study the stranger, still kneeling, praying.
The priest introduced himself as Father O’Hara and then spoke with Papa—Michael couldn’t hear the rest of it, they were almost whispering—and then the priest went back to the sacristy and soon returned, in his vestments. Then Papa stepped into the confessional.
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