“Well, this goddamn thing says I died Tuesday,” Capone said. “Close my eyes, strip me down, and fry fuckin’ eggs on me, already!”
The gangster hurled the stick of glass across the room, into the fireplace, where it made a small breaking sound. With surprising grace for a big man—and speed for a man as sick as he seemed to be—Capone climbed off the couch and began to pace. In his left palm he was tossing a baseball—a signed gift from Babe Ruth—up and down.
“How can this be, gentlemen? How can one man…one man and a goddamn kid…cause me so much pestilence?”
Nitti asked, “Pestilence, Al?”
“Pestilence, Frank—biblical shit, curses and plagues. Raining down frogs on our ass—and me, I’m hemorrhaging from his shit…He’s got me bleeding C-notes all over six states!”
Maguire, quietly, said, “Eight.”
Capone stopped and looked at Maguire, hard—it was a gaze that would send Medusa running, but the photographer just received it placidly. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ blink?”
Maguire just shrugged.
Scowling, Capone paced like a caged cat now, in front of a wall that already bore a series of mysterious dents, as if a hailstorm of mythic proportions had had at it. The gangster stopped and threw the ball into the wall, catching it on the rebound.
Capone did this again and again, and every time he did, both Frank Nitti and John Looney flinched—they were hard men, fairly fearless men, Nitti and Looney; but they were not crazy, and one thing that separated Nitti and Capone…and Nitti knew this well…was Big Al having a screw loose. This advancing VD wasn’t helping, either.
Perhaps the baseball reminded Nitti of the time Capone threw a banquet for John Scalise and Albert Anselmi; in the midst of his guests-of-honor speech, Snorky (as his pals called him) had declared them disloyal soldiers and caved in their heads with a baseball bat. Few murders have ever been committed before more witnesses; and yet no one had ever dared whisper a word to the authorities…though the act had served to seal Capone’s legend, locally.
Maguire, on the other hand, neither flinched nor (as Capone had pointed out) blinked, when Al Capone played catch with himself, rattling every object in the room.
“People are laughin’ at me, Frank,” Capone said, punctuating his speech with more hurls of the ball against the wall. “I don’t like bein’ a laughingstock. I got a phone call from Luciano, last night, expressin’ his concern, laughin’ up his fuckin’ sleeve… This morning Dragna out in LA calls, to see how he can help… Probably bust a gut when he hung up.”
“Al,” Nitti said, pacifyingly, “nobody’s laughing at you. Your friends in the business know they could be hit the same way. Remember what your doctor said, Al…sit down.”
“Fuckin’ useless quack,” Capone said, smacking the ball in the wall, catching it in a fist.
Nitti was saying, “You need to relax, doc said, drink lots of water…”
Capone, calmed down a little, turned to Looney. “John, I ask you—what is this shit? Drink a lot of water!”
Looney, who’d been trying to disappear into the woodwork, said, “They say water’s good for a fever.”
“And this you’d know how? You who never had a drink of water in your life…’cept maybe bourbon and branchwater!” But Capone wasn’t as worked up now, and he walked over to his old friend, stood before him, and said, “John, explain this to me…I extend a helping hand to an old friend, take in his one and only son, protect him like he’s my own.”
Looney nodded, his expression conveying his deep appreciation.
Capone continued: “And in return, what do I get? Robbed. I get robbed…Does this make sense to anybody? I got a biblical goddamn plague rainin’ down on me, and I’m supposed to write it off to, what? The Lord moves in mysterious fuckin’ ways?… Why doesn’t the Angel steal your money, John? It’s your beef.”
Looney, quietly, stated what they all knew: “Mike O’Sullivan thinks you’ll give up Connor to stop him. He doesn’t understand our friendship…or that you’re a man of honor.”
Capone smiled, paced a little, playing gentle one-handed catch with himself, obviously not taken in by this shameless blarney. “So, then, maybe you can tell me, John—how much of my money is your son worth?”
Looney’s eyes flared. “Is that what this performance is about, Al? Money? Well, then, I’ll write you a goddamn check! I’ll fill it out and leave it fucking blank…Is that what you want to hear?”
Capone stood there quietly. Nitti tried to read him—and couldn’t. After all these years, a quiet Al Capone remained an unreadable thing to Frank Nitti.
Looney, the eruption over, his voice weary, melancholy, said, “If it had just been about the money, all these years, Al…none of us would be alive today.”
Capone was a statue in a sweat-stained shirt and vest with a sweat-beaded forehead and a blank expression. His thick lips puckered, as if he were about to blow a kiss.
Then he exploded in laughter: “I love the fuckin’ Irish!…So full of shit, but full of heart, too. Thank you, John, I appreciate your remarks. We need, now and again, to be reminded not just of who we are, but who we were.”
Looney nodded sagely.
“And I mean no disrespect,” Capone said, his tone reasonable now, “but the fact remains, I am bleeding money at a time when this Ness character is killing me and these revenue clowns are throwing indictments around like fuckin’ confetti.”
“It is a problem,” Looney admitted, gesturing with open palms. “I am sincere that I will help, financially.”
Capone waved that off. “And as if all this isn’t enough, I’m spending a small fortune…the figure grows daily…bankrolling the efforts of somebody supposedly workin’ at stopping the O’Sullivan problem…a man I am assured, by those closest to me, is a ‘pro.’”
And Capone again cast his gaze on Maguire, who stood quiet, unflappable, as unreadable as Capone in his silences, but without the explosions of clarification.
“And what’s that mean?” Capone demanded of Maguire.
Maguire shrugged a little. “What does what mean, Mr. Capone?”
“That look.”
Not in the least afraid, Maguire replied, “I’m just giving you my undivided attention, Mr. Capone.”
“Every face has a look, kid. Except maybe the Invisible Man’s mug…is that who you are? The Invisible Man? Who’s got no ‘look’?”
“Al, come on,” Nitti said, the tension building, “he ain’t looking at nothing.”
“He’s looking at me, Frank. And I’m something. But the point is, he’s not doing anything. He’s takin’ pictures, he’s takin’ rides in the country, he’s standin’ there in my suite with a fuckin’ look…and I’m bleedin’ money all over the Bible Belt.”
Capone made a face, tasted his own mouth thickly, and went to his massive mahogany desk, where a pitcher of iced water and several glasses waited on a silver tray. He poured a glass and gulped it down.
“Satisfied, Frank?” he asked. “I’m drinking the water. I’m drinkin’ the fuckin’ water, like the doc wants. That should solve everything!”
Nobody said a word while Capone had another glass of cold water. Nitti exchanged a glance with Looney, then both men looked toward Maguire.
“Al,” Nitti said, “Mr. Maguire has a proposal for how we might resolve this difficulty. A way to stop your ‘bleeding,’ and at the same time bait a trap for O’Sullivan.”
Capone, affable all of a sudden, turned to Maguire. “Hey, I’m all ears. I’m a fuckin’ elephant, I got such big ears for ways for me to stop bleedin’. Propose to me, Mr. Maguire—show me why Frank Nitti says you’re the best…but do me a favor?”
“Anything, Mr. Capone,” Maguire said, with a tiny smile.
“Fucking blink once in a while.”
And Capone wiped off his brow and poured another glass of ice water, then headed over to the couch to flop there, and listen.
A week later, at the Grand Prairie State Bank
in Grand Prairie, Oklahoma, Mike O’Sullivan was sitting across the desk from a bank manager, a younger man than most in his position. Very professional in dress and manner, the young bank manager was nervous, and clearly frightened.
“No need for fear,” O’Sullivan assured him. The black bag was open on the desk, the .45 in O’Sullivan’s hand. “This is strictly business. You won’t get hurt—no one will.”
“Mr. O’Sullivan, I’m sorry…I really am…”
“Sorry?”
The bank manager, his eyes wide, shrugged helplessly. “There’s no money here for you.”
The gun snapped into position, leveled directly at the bank manager’s head.
“You don’t understand! Please…give me a chance to explain.”
“Do it, then.”
“I can get you money, of course we have money. But I know who you are, I’ve heard about you, I…it’s just, I don’t have Chicago money for you. They came around two days ago, and took it all out.”
O’Sullivan had been studying the man; the truth was written on his smooth, young face.
“Who took it out?”
“He was going around, with armed men, to all the banks. He’s been doing it for days.”
“Who?”
“The accountant. From Chicago.”
Alexander Rance, O’Sullivan thought; the mob accountant Frank Kelly had brought to the Looney board meeting, to try to make the case for getting involved with the unions.
“What was his name?” O’Sullivan asked, knowing.
“Rance,” the bank manager said. “Alexander Rance.”
O’Sullivan thought about that; then he asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know what Mr. Rance’s next stop is, would you?”
“Actually, I do. He left word where he could be reached until day after tomorrow, I believe.”
“Write it down for me.”
The banker did.
O’Sullivan dropped the slip of paper into the otherwise empty satchel, fastened it, put his gun-in-hand in his topcoat pocket, rose, and was almost out the door, when the banker asked a question.
“Is that…all?”
“I don’t want your money,” O’Sullivan said. “Just don’t mention the information I asked for—or that you gave me.”
“All right.”
O’Sullivan looked at the man, hard. “It’s important.”
“All right!”
“You don’t want to see me again, do you?”
“No.”
“Then keep your word.”
And he went outside, where his son—like clockwork—picked him up, eager to hear about the latest haul.
FOURTEEN
Not much is known of Alexander Adams Rance. He represented Frank Nitti’s shift toward a big business stance, including moving into legitimate enterprises, a radical approach for the criminal empire Johnny Torrio had founded and Al Capone made flourish. Rance was a Chicago boy—he grew up on the mid-South Side not far from State Street, ironically not far from where Capone maintained his Chicago residence. A graduate of the University of Chicago who worked on LaSalle Street before the crash, Rance was recruited by Nitti shortly thereafter.
That Rance exemplified a new generation, a new approach, can be demonstrated with a quick comparison to the one Capone man above him in the area of financial wizardry and creative accounting. Jake “Greasy Thumb” Guzik came up from the streets, a portly teenage pimp who had overheard a murder plot against Capone, reported this to Big Al, and earned a friend for life. Years later, when the porcine mob treasurer appeared before the Kefauver committee, he took the Fifth Amendment, saying he wouldn’t answer questions that would “discriminate against me.”
The smooth Rance, on the other hand, was like so many accountants and lawyers in that small white-collar army who did the bidding of thugs-made-good like Frank Nitti and, later, Paul Ricca, Tony Accardo, and Sam Giancana. By all accounts, a fussy man, particular about his food, dress, and lodging, Rance operated on Outfit finances in a fashion that isolated him from the violence inherent in such criminal activities as gambling, loansharking, prostitution, and bootlegging.
The accountant probably had no idea how much danger he was in when Nitti directed him to personally supervise the removal of mob money from midwestern banks. Rance was to select a hotel from which he could operate, in a given area, withdraw the money, and send it home to Chicago under armed guard, where the funds would go into safety deposit boxes in the kind of large, reputable Chicago banks that would be unlikely targets for my father.
Researchers—seeking information on the Chicago mob’s financial guru, whose reign was cut so prematurely short—discovered that Rance would seek a luxury hotel in a smaller town. He would then check into the bridal suite, apparently because that would represent the nicest accommodations available, and take all of his meals via room service, asking to speak to the chef, to whom he gave copious instructions on the preparation of his meals.
Breakfast in particular was a ritual to Rance—boiled eggs, runny, with crisp bacon…but not so crisp that the strips would break off when he inserted them into the yolk. This detail made it into the newspapers, when a reporter interviewed both the chef and the startled room service clerk, who’d been delivering the kitchen’s second attempt at Rance’s breakfast, shortly before the trouble began.
When father and son pulled into Stillwater, Oklahoma, the wear and grime of the road showed on them. They were a grubby, hardened-looking pair, the boy behind the wheel of the maroon Ford well aware that his father was possessed by a quiet apprehension that seemed a notch up from recent days.
On a gentle slope of Stillwater Creek, the idyllic small town spread northwest; large, comfortable-looking residences sat in big yards half-hidden by trees, and the business district consisted of low, trim buildings, though the relative grandeur of the aptly named Grand Hotel belied the town’s modest appearance, and gave away its secret: this was a center of business and agriculture, within easy driving distance of most Oklahomans.
Fedora low on his brow, O’Sullivan directed Michael to a parking place on the main street, across from the Grand Hotel.
Pulling into the spot like the seasoned driver he now was, the boy asked, “Should I shut off the engine?”
“Yes.” O’Sullivan was checking the clip in the automatic. He had an extra clip in his topcoat pocket. Going into unknown territory like this, such preparations were key.
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Can we stay at a motel tonight? I hate sleeping in the car.”
“All right.” He slapped the clip into the .45. “Now if you see anything, what do you do?”
“Honk twice.”
“And then what do you do?”
“Nothing. I stay in the car. Wait for you.”
“Good—stay sharp, now.” O’Sullivan leaned close to the boy, locked eyes with him. “You could hear shots, screams…you could hear nothing. Don’t leave this car. No matter what.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You ready for this?”
The boy took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
“I know you are,” O’Sullivan said, and got out of the car.
From where they had parked, the boy watched in the driver’s side door mirror as his father strode confidently, yet casually, into the fancy hotel.
In a dreary, functionally furnished apartment above a storefront across from the Grand Hotel, Betty Lou Petersen was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on her silk stockings.
Otherwise, the curly-haired blonde teenager was fully dressed, the first time in the two days since she had hooked up at the Stillwater Tap with the man who stood opposite her, his back to her, in his T-shirt and shorts, at a window looking down into the main street.
A year ago Betty Lou had been a cheerleader at Stillwater High School; now she was an unwed mother and one of the town’s youngest, most attractive prostitutes, although she had not admitted that to herself, yet. She knew she was attracti
ve, but at this point considered herself just to be a party girl who took favors from men. Betty Lou lived at home with her widowed mama, who looked after little Violet when Betty Lou was out “having a good time.”
The man at the window, in his underwear, was a handsome date, but an odd one. His clothes (when he was wearing them) were uptown, and he had good manners; he smelled like pomade and talcum and was very, very clean. Also, he was fairly young and nicely slender, not like some of the traveling salesmen and businessmen she entertained, who had flabby bellies and body odor.
Still, she wasn’t sorry this party was over. Moments ago, when she’d asked him how many more days he wanted her to hang around with him, he’d just ignored her, given her the cold shoulder while he stared out that window, which was all he did, except for when he was on top of her, making her lie still while he did it to her. He was weird. A real Count Screwloose, even if he was good-looking in a Robert Taylor kind of way.
On the bed next to her were the two crumpled twenty dollar bills the creep had just tossed there, irritated when she’d asked him to close the curtains; didn’t he know it was hard to sleep with all that sun!
On the other hand, he was cute, and when she paused at the door, before going out, she said, “I’ll be at the Tap tonight.”
He turned his head toward her, his blue eyes cold and unblinking; he said nothing—didn’t even shrug. Creepy…
“See you,” she said, and went out, his gaze still on her.
And that was why Harlen Maguire, standing watch, did not see Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., cross the street and go into the hotel.
For a town this size, the lobby was spacious and opulent, in a vaguely decadent, late-nineteenth-century way, potted ferns and plush furnishings and an elaborate mahogany check-in desk, behind which a harried fellow in pince-nez eyeglasses was talking on the phone. In a dark suit and tie, with a gold breast badge giving his name in small letters and MANAGER in bigger ones, the poor guy was dealing with a difficult guest.
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