Road to Perdition

Ten

My memories of traveling with my father are something of a blur — when I think back, I see him behind the wheel, sometimes unshaven, sometimes not. When things between us were strained — as when I was pouting over him dragging me to Aunt Sarah and Uncle Bob’s — I would ride in back, the whole seat to myself (me and the black tommy gun case, anyway), getting as far away from him as I could, in our little world that was the inside of the Ford.

My other memory is the heartland — middle America in all its vastness, sometimes rolling landscape, like a Grant Wood painting; other times flatness stretching to the horizon, winter barren, whites and browns and tans and grays. For every field there was a forest; for every ten barns, one church. The ribbons of concrete and gravel and dirt seemed to extend to eternity, endless sentences punctuated by the exclamation points of telephone poles — reminders that this pioneer country had been settled, that it was civilized now... even if I was sharing the backseat of a Ford with a Thompson submachine gun in a hard-shell case.

I can only speculate on what must have been going through Harlen Maguire’s mind as he tracked us. Surely his photographer’s eye had to have been struck by the abstract beauty of America’s richest soil masquerading, in winter slumber, as wasteland. Or was he too consumed with the mission at hand — was he focused hard on the empty road, a pistol and camera on the seat beside him?

In later years, when Maguire’s photographic gallery came to light, and researchers had access to the grisly photos he’d shot over his grim career, images of our room at the Starr Motel in McGregor, Iowa, were part of the inventory. They were published in a section of the book designed to show Maguire’s interests extended to studies beyond the newly dead.

How odd it was, so many years later, to open up an oversized art book, with its slick pages, and find an introduction that noted, “Maguire’s fascination with murder victims is perhaps as controversial as the Diane Arbus predilection for posing the retarded.” How strange seeing Ansel Adams-ish midwestern landscapes in a section that included stark photographs of that empty motel room, with an emphasis on a plaster Madonna on the nightstand, “left behind by some nameless traveler” (the caption writer said).

Particularly odd, particularly strange, when that nameless traveler — me — knew full well that these were not abstract art studies at all, but evidence of the man who had tracked my father and myself, down lonely heartland highways.

Father and son were in Missouri now, traversing rolling prairie land, cutting down State Highway 13, where at a town called Collins they would take the road into Perdition, near Fall River Lake. O’Sullivan stopped at a roadside diner outside Bethany, a boxcar whose “We Never Close” neon made a ghostly glow at dusk.

They had driven all day, and said little to each other. O’Sullivan was lost in thought, working out a plan to force Nitti and Capone to abandon their support of the Looneys and turn Connor over to him. But he could not make it work, a man alone, and no matter how he mentally rearranged the cards, the hand he’d been dealt did not seem a winning one.

He knew his son was sulking, but that only made the boy less trouble, so he let it go. They’d eaten lunch at a small-town café, and the boy had again snookered the help into making him a breakfast. O’Sullivan’s own appetite remained stunted, and he’d picked at his Salisbury steak.

Now, many hours of driving later, the man was ready to give eating a try again; and his son should have some food.

In the boxcar diner’s parking lot, O’Sullivan pulled into a stall adjacent to the window on an empty booth. He turned to his boy, in the backseat. “Hungry?”

Michael was reading one of the little comic-strip books. He didn’t look at his father when he grunted, “No.”

“Might not be another diner for a while,” O’Sullivan said.

The boy shrugged. “I’m still not hungry.”

“You should eat something.”

“I’m reading.”

That was all the effort O’Sullivan was prepared to give it, and he got out of the car, leaving the boy to his book and his brooding. Inside the brightly lit green-and-brown diner, business was slow for this close to suppertime — a farm couple in a booth having a meal, a farmer drinking coffee at the counter.

Leaving his topcoat and fedora on, he took the booth next to his car, where he could see Michael’s head in the backseat, looking down at his book; he could also see the diner’s door, from here. A waitress came over, a blowsy brunette with plenty of lipstick and just as much personality. “Ruby” was stitched on her uniform blouse. She brought water and coffee.

“You look like a hundred miles of bad road, sweetie,” she said.

“That’s a low estimate,” he said. Hunger was finally stirring, and he also thought he might be able to stir his son into eating by making a show of a meal. “I want a T-bone, rare.”

“How rare, sugar?”

“When I stick in the knife, if it doesn’t moo, it goes back.”

“Okay, Dracula. Mashed or fries?”

“Mashed... Pay phone?”

“No public phone. I’d let you use ours, but the manager ain’t here.”

“I really need to use the phone.” He held up a sawbuck. “I’ll make it quick.”

She snatched the ten-dollar bill out of his hands before he could change his mind. “It’s by the register.”

O’Sullivan was already heading toward the phone. “Okay — watch my booth for me?”

“Sure, honey.” She eyeballed the nearly deserted diner. “I’ll see if I can hold back the crowd.”

He made the trunk call to Uncle Bob, who said, “No, Mike — not a crow on the fence. No strangers in Perdition, neither.”

“Good. You should see us tomorrow, late.”

“Fine. Sarah’ll be home by midafternoon. We’ll have ourselves a reunion.”

“I won’t be staying long.”

“All things considered, that’s probably wise. Meaning no offense.”

“None taken.”

He was saying his good-byes when the bell over the door dinged, and, just as the farm couple was leaving, a cop came in — a man in his forties who’d never missed a meal. The blue uniform indicated a town cop, not a sheriff’s man or state policeman. The cop nodded and smiled to O’Sullivan, who nodded and smiled back, hanging up the phone.

The cop settled on a stool near, but not next to, the farmer, who was having a piece of apple pie.

O’Sullivan considered leaving, but Ruby was on her way with his T-bone, smelling very good indeed (the steak — Ruby’s perfume was another matter), and his instincts said the cop’s presence was innocent. So he sat in the booth and dug in, using a steak knife on the nicely rare piece of corn-fed Missouri beef. He glanced out the window, to see if this was tempting Michael, but the boy’s head was no longer visible.

Knowing the boy was probably stretched out sleeping, O’Sullivan nonetheless wondered if he should go out there and check on him. Night had smothered dusk, and that was just enough to make O’Sullivan edgy. He was sipping his coffee, looking out the window at the Michael-less backseat window when the bright sweep of headlights, a vehicle coming into the diner parking lot, made him wince.

The driver parked, got out — O’Sullivan noted the uptown topcoat and bowler as atypical for this rural area — and glanced at O’Sullivan’s car. Something about the glance was less casual than it tried to be. In his booth by the window, O’Sullivan craned his neck, trying to see the front license plate, couldn’t, and as the bell over the door dinged, he returned to his meal.

O’Sullivan seemed to be looking at nothing in particular, but he noted the way the newcomer was registering the farmer at the counter... and especially the cop. Right now O’Sullivan was the only other patron. Dark-haired but pale, the guy had a narrow, angular face — youthful, though O’Sullivan made him as around thirty.

But the oddest thing about him was the camera: he had a camera in his hands, as if he’d come to photograph this mundane diner. That was no tourist camera, either — O’Sullivan recognized it as one of those reflex-and-view cameras the news photogs used. Those babies went for over a hundred bucks...

The man with the camera took the booth next to O’Sullivan’s, but sat opposite him, the two men facing — and right now both were going out of their way not to look at each other.

Water and coffee in hand, Ruby approached the new customer, who said to her, “Pretty dead in here, huh?”

“You kiddin’? This is a stampede. Who has money for luxuries like eating, in these hard times.”

“Well, I do.”

“You look like it, handsome. What can I do you for?”

“What’s tonight’s special?”

“Honey, everything’s special.”

“Really?”

“Everything but the food.”

The guy laughed at that — giving the remark a little more reaction than it deserved. “Ruby, you oughta be on the radio.”

“Don’t I know it. I wrote to Amos and Andy, but they didn’t write back.”

Still chuckling, glancing at the menu, the man said, “Didn’t write back... Well, give me some of that honey-dipped fried chicken.”

“Duck soup. Need any sugar or cream for that coffee?”

“No. Black is fine.”

The cheerful waitress sauntered off, and the customer reached into his topcoat pocket and withdrew a roll of film. He began to load the camera, O’Sullivan noting all this, without seeming to.

Reaching in his own topcoat pocket, O’Sullivan withdrew his small silver flask. Putting a little weave into his actions, he poured whiskey into his coffee cup.

“Doesn’t bother me,” the man said.

O’Sullivan glanced up, seemingly unsteady, and — putting a tiny slur in his voice, not overdoing it — replied, “Bother what?”

The man leaned forward and whispered, as if keeping this conversation from the cop at the counter. “The hooch — used to be a free country. Man wants a little snort, no skin off my hindquarters.”

Eyes half-hooded, O’Sullivan smiled, poured more whiskey into the cup, hoping he was playing his role more convincingly than the fellow in the next booth was. Too friendly, way too friendly...

O’Sullivan raised the flask, in offering.

The man raised a hand in surrender. “No thank you, sir.” Then he returned to loading the camera, snapping it shut, fully loaded now.

“Profession?” O’Sullivan asked, voice wavering slightly, referring to the camera. “Or passion?”

“Little of both, I guess,” the guy said with a shrug. He had cold eyes that didn’t blink much; he’d probably worn that same smile, O’Sullivan thought, when he was a kid pulling the wings off flies.

“To be paid to do,” the man was saying, “what you love to do... Isn’t that the American dream?”

O’Sullivan lifted his shoulders, set them down, as if the action required both thought and effort. “Guess so.”

“And yourself?”

“Huh?”

“What’s your business?”

O’Sullivan blinked, thinking that over. “I’m in business.”

“I knew it!” the guy said. “When I saw that fancy Ford, I thought, ‘There goes a businessman.’ And what is your business?”

“Salesman. Machine parts.”

“Machine parts. The wheels that make the world go ’round — vital work. That’s wonderful.”

“Trus’ me,” O’Sullivan said, “it isn’t... So who do you work for?”

“Can you keep a secret?” He sat forward again, whispering: “I’m afraid I’m a tool of the yellow press... for which I humbly apologize.”

“No kidding? What paper?”

“Different ones. Also magazines. Ever read Startling Detective? Real Fact Crime?”

“No... I’m the squeamish type.”

“Not me... I shoot the dead.”

O’Sullivan tilted his head. “What say?”

“Dead bodies, at crime scenes. The grislier the better, my editors say. What, did you think I killed them?”

With a laugh, O’Sullivan said, “Should hope not.”

Ruby came over to see if O’Sullivan needed more coffee. He said he didn’t. She asked if he wanted a slice of pie. He said not. Then she refilled the photographer’s cup and went back behind the counter.

The photographer picked up where he’d left off: “I know it probably sounds... sick. But death has always fascinated me. Dead bodies, particularly.”

O’Sullivan shivered. “Hey, I’m trying to keep a meal down, over here.”

“Now, friend, wait, think it over — the world needs people who aren’t afraid to look at unpleasantness. Where would we be without doctors? Without morticians?”

“I suppose.”

“The look of a person, right after life has left him — it’s fascinating. Ever see a dead body? I don’t mean in a coffin... I mean within minutes, seconds, of their last breath?”

O’Sullivan nodded.

“You have? Well, I’m sorry for you, friend, if it was a loved one or a friend... terrible thing, loss of life. But it sure does make you feel alive, doesn’t it?”

O’Sullivan raised his coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

The man was eyeing the cop at the counter, who was finishing up, paying Ruby.

Then those unblinking eyes narrowed. “Funny — you’re sweating.”

O’Sullivan sipped the spiked coffee. “Am I?”

“Beads all over your forehead. Is a little warm in here. Funny, though, seein’ a guy sweating in the dead of winter. ’Course, the booze can make a man sweat.”

“And piss, too,” O’Sullivan said, scooching out of the booth.

“Hey, you need a hand, bud?”

“No — I’ll be fine,” O’Sullivan said, standing unsteadily. He began to make his way to the john, stumbling as he went.

“Take it easy, pal!” the man with the camera said.

“Thanks... watch my coffee for me.”

And O’Sullivan staggered into the men’s room.

Harlen Maguire sat, turned around in the booth, wondering if Mike O’Sullivan was as drunk as he seemed. Half a minute passed, and the bell over the door dinged — the cop going out.

Maguire reached in his jacket pocket, withdrew the.38 revolver, keeping it out of sight, beneath the counter. A car started up — pulled out. Good. With the cop gone, Maguire had no problem with what lay ahead of him — a farmer, a waitress, a cook. The gleaming tile of the diner, with its chrome fixtures, splashed with blood (red registering black on film), littered with corpses... what a picture. He wouldn’t even need a flash...

The bell over the door dinged — okay, one more customer, just another element of his composition... but it was the cop again!

Ambling in, the officer said to Ruby, “I’m sorry, ain’t got my head screwed on, tonight — I forgot your tip!”

And Maguire flew out of the booth, out of the diner, and the Ford was gone — he could hear it accelerating down the highway, roaring off.

Shit!

He ran to his own car — the Illinois plates screaming at him: idiot! — and found his tires slashed... four goddamn flats!

Cop inside or not, Maguire ran into the road, where O’Sullivan’s taillights receded into the distance, and slowly, steadily, he aimed the long-barreled revolver...

In the Ford, O’Sullivan — not drunk at all, though rolling down the window one-handed, to combat the whiskey he’d chugged for the sake of show — was yelling at his boy: “Down! Get down — stay down!”

Michael, waking up in the backseat, popped his head up, saying, “What? Why? What’s goin’—”

And his father reached back and physically shoved him down as the rear window exploded.

Behind them, pleased at the sound of the shattered glass, Maguire fired again, this time with no success.

“Damnit,” he said, standing in the road.

The cop, having heard the shot, came running out, one hand unbuttoning a holstered sidearm. “Hey! What the hell you think you’re—”

Maguire turned and shot him in the head.

Blood mist blossomed in the night, as the dead cop tumbled onto his back. With a sigh, disappointed but willing to salvage the evening, Maguire and his gun and his camera headed back into the diner, to finish up.

O’Sullivan drove the speed limit, relieved that no headlights were coming up behind him, grateful for the dark night and the empty highway. He was heading up Highway 13, back toward where they’d come, the turn-off to the Perdition road no longer an option.

In his cap and heavy winter coat, pushed down by his papa, Michael hadn’t been hurt by the flying glass — neither had O’Sullivan — and shards lay in the backseat like scattered ice.

Questions were tumbling out of a frightened Michael. “What happened back there? Who shot at us?”

O’Sullivan answered, watching the boy in the rearview mirror. “A man in the diner was sent to kill us.”

“How did you know he was? Did he point a gun... ?”

“No. I saw him and knew, that’s all.”

“But, Papa — how could you know?”

Now he turned and looked back at his son and told him — flat-out told him: “Because, Michael — I used to have his job!”

O’Sullivan took a side road. A few miles later, he drove up into the entry of an open field and after perhaps half a mile stopped the car, cutting the lights. The man with the camera would not find them here.

Out of breath, he turned to his son, who was wide-eyed and also breathing hard. Fury rose in O’Sullivan like lava, erupting: “When I tell you to do something, goddamn do it!”

“Papa... ”

“When I say get down, you get down. You don’t ask questions. There’s no time for questions. You can die in the time it takes to ask a goddamn question!”

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t listen. From now on, if I say we’re stopping to eat, you stay with me! At my side. You will listen to what I say and do as I say, or you can get the hell out of this car and take care of yourself.”

The boy’s eyes were huge. “What?”

“Make up your mind, Michael. I can’t fight them and you. Not at the same time.”

And now the boy got mad, shouting defensively, “I can take care of myself just fine! You never wanted me along, anyway! You blame me for this — you think it’s all my fault!”

“Stop it, Michael... stop that talk.”

“He meant to kill me and Peter died instead and—”

“It was not your fault! The fault lies with the betrayers — Looney and his son. Listen to me — listen! You are not responsible for the deaths of your brother and your mother... and neither am I. But I am responsible for their retribution.”

The boy seemed to understand; but he still sounded angry when he said, “Just take me to Aunt Sarah’s.”

“I can’t.”

“... What?”

“Not now.”

“But... why?”

He answered the boy’s question with one of his own: “How did that man find us tonight?”

“I don’t know — how did he? How could he?”

O’Sullivan shook his head. “There’s only one way, son — he knew where we were heading.”

“So I can’t go stay with Aunt Sarah and Uncle Bob.”

“Someday, maybe we both can.”

He could tell this terrible turn was, to his son, good news.

Trying not to smile, the boy said, “So... what are we going to do, now?”

O’Sullivan sighed. “Get in front.”

“Okay,” Michael said, and scrambled up next to his father.

O’Sullivan touched his son’s arm. “I’ve been thinking about doing something... but I couldn’t figure out a way to do it alone. With you helping, I can make it work. But it’s dangerous.”

Michael shrugged. “I don’t care. I just want to be with you. I just want to help.”

He held his son’s eyes with his. “Then you need to listen to me... all right? You can’t be a little boy — you have to be the man helping me. Or we’ll both be dead.”

Michael nodded.

“This is what we have to do,” O’Sullivan said. “We have to convince the Chicago gangsters to give us Connor Looney.”

“How can you make them do that?”

“‘We,’ son... ‘we.’ Now, these men in Chicago, they talk about loyalty and honor and family, but what they really care about is money.”

“Root of all evil, Bible says.”

“The Bible’s right. These big men, Capone and Nitti, they keep their money in little banks all over the Midwest. It’s sort of... spread around, for safety sake.”

“What banks, Papa?”

“They’re the same ones your godfather John Looney uses, for the same purpose... hiding money from the government, for tax reasons. I know where these banks are, son.”

The boy was shaking his head — grasping some of it, but not all of it. “But Papa, they won’t just give you the money.”

“That’s right, son — we have to take it.”

Michael’s eyes got big again. “Like robbers? Like Pretty Boy Floyd and Baby Face Nelson?”

O’Sullivan frowned. “How do you know those names?”

“From the newsreels at the moving pictures.”

“... Think of it more like Robin Hood. Are you going to help me, son? Can you do this?”

This time the boy answered with a question: “Do you think I can?”

“Yes.”

Michael smiled — eager. “When do we start?”

“Not until I teach you something.”

“What?”

“How to be a wheelman.”

“What’s a wheelman?”

“First thing tomorrow, after breakfast... you’ll see.”