Road to Perdition

Eleven

For my father and me, the road to Perdition, Kansas, was ever-winding, and (or so it seemed to me then) never-ending. We could have been to the farm by the lake a thousand times in those long months. We traversed the same midwestern states often enough — dirt roads, gravel roads, occasionally concrete, ever traveling, ever nearing, never arriving.

When my father would call my uncle in Perdition, the answer would always be the same: crows on the fence. Looney (or were they Capone?) men were posted on the road outside the farm, “sittin’ out in front of the place in broad daylight,” Uncle Bob would say. And another group of Capone (or were they Looney?) men had a room over the hardware store, in the little downtown of Perdition itself. Two sets of four, at the house, downtown, watching in shifts...

And of course my father wouldn’t allow my uncle and aunt to bring in the sheriff, and Papa’s “no” was emphatic when Uncle Bob suggested, “Should I take my own shotgun, and pay ’em a visit?”

So, in a way, the real start of our journey began the morning after that man with the camera tried to kill us at the diner.

And on that morning — when I had my first lesson as my father’s underage wheelman — I accomplished something that all of Capone’s thugs (and Looney’s too) never could: I frightened my father. Not that my father was immune to fear, and I don’t mean to suggest that the various scrapes and shoot-outs with gangsters and assassins didn’t affect him.

But no gangster, however hardboiled, however ruthless, managed to do what I did — turn my father’s face as white as a sheet, as white as a ghost, as white as that priest stepping out of his confessional.

The next morning — while a service station repaired the Ford’s rear window — Michael’s father gathered some items at the motel, and they had a nice breakfast at another diner, where, between bites of toast and nibbles of crisp bacon, Papa gave Michael the first part of the driving lesson. He told the boy about the gears and the clutch and brake, and the boy — so excited he could barely eat — grinned and nodded and took it all in... or anyway thought he had.

Before long they were on the road again, Papa behind the wheel in his dark topcoat and fedora, looking serene, even comfortable as he turned off the main highway onto a farm road, where right now they seemed to be the only traffic. Soon he pulled over, and got out, telling the boy to do the same.

From the compartment under the backseat Papa collected the items he’d rounded up at the motel — a stack of newspapers he piled on the seat behind the wheel, and pieces of block-like wood that he tied with twine to the various pedals. His father didn’t explain, but Michael realized this was to enable him to sit higher, and reach those pedals easier.

This took quite a while, and by the time Papa had finished, Michael’s heart was a triphammer — he wasn’t scared, not really... more exhilarated, and even astonished. How many fathers would entrust their car to a boy his age? Who needed a bicycle, anyway? Kid’s stuff.

“Get in,” his father said, gesturing to the driver’s door.

Delighted, the boy climbed behind the wheel, and his father came around and got in on the passenger side. Doors closed, they were ready. And Papa still seemed calm, relaxed — apparently confident in Michael’s abilities.

“Do you remember everything I told you?” his father asked.

“Sure.”

“Would you like me to go over it again? I’ll point things out to you.”

“... Sure.”

And his father gave him a refresher, the abstract instructions from breakfast becoming real, gaining context...

Then Papa asked, “Ready?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, then... ignition.”

“... Now?”

“Yes, now.”

Michael turned the key in the ignition and it seemed wondrous, the way the engine burst to thrumming life. How many times had he sat in this car with his father (and his mother) and taken that magic for granted.

Michael turned to his father, who remained casual, composed, the car throbbing. “Now what?”

“You remember what the clutch is?”

“Of course I remember what the clutch is!”

“What’s the clutch?”

“It’s the clutch. It’s the thing that... clutches. You know — grabs.”

“Right. And which pedal does the clutching?”

Michael put his foot on one of the blocks-tied-to-

pedals and pressed. The engine roared, and he reared back from the wheel.

“That’s the gas,” his father said. “The accelerator.”

The boy blinked. “Sure. Yeah — it... accelerates.”

“Right. That’s right. Let me show you which one is the clutch... ”

Then the car was moving forward, a few feet, and Michael tried to put it in gear; but the car shuddered to a stop.

“Don’t worry,” Papa said. “It just stalled. The engine died.”

Alarmed, Michael asked, “Died?”

Papa smiled just a little. “It’s not hard to bring it back to life, son... Let’s try again.”

His father reached over, started the car again, and Michael looked at him, asking, “Release gas, clutch, shift gear, hit gas?”

“That’s right. That’s right.”

Michael tried that sequence — and the car lurched forward!

“And shift!” Papa said.

And the car stopped — died again.

They sat in silence for a moment, then his father asked, gently, “Might I make a suggestion?”

“No! Pop, I have to do this myself.”

His father’s eyebrows were raised, and the boy didn’t sense the man’s amusement.

Before long, however, Michael was driving, the car crawling along the country road... but moving.

“Is this better, Papa?”

“Very good, son. Very good... but I’m going to need you to go a little faster.”

“When?”

“I would say... any time now.”

“Right now?”

“Son, when I come out of a bank with the bank’s money, I don’t want the police to be able to catch us by running alongside the car.”

“Police?”

“It’s a good idea to practice. Faster.”

And before long Michael wasn’t just driving, he was really driving — zooming! But the boy was steering the wheel like in the moving pictures, like a cartoon bug driving a cartoon car, and his father settled him down, and then the car moved straight and steady... and fast.

Farmland seemed to whiz by on either side of them.

“Okay, son, easy now.”

But the boy was having a great time, unaware how barely in control of the vehicle he was.

“Easy, Michael! Forty-five miles an hour is too fast.”

Suddenly, as if it materialized, a tractor was up ahead of them, moving very slow; had this been a field, the tractor would have been doing fine, clipping right along — but on a road, the machine beast was crawling, and the boy was stunned by how fast they had come up on it...

“Watch out for the tractor, son... the tractor... watch out for the — son of a bitch!”

Instinctively, the boy whipped around the tractor, shrieking past, and when he glanced over, his father was white, his eyes wide... afraid, really really afraid...

“We made it!” Michael said, excited, relieved, elated.

“Yes we did,” his father said dryly, settling into his seat, color climbing back into his face.

They had a few more close calls, and when a haywagon crossed the road ahead of them, the boy hit what he hoped was the right pedal and the Ford squealed to a stop, thrusting son and father forward.

“Papa, these brakes are swell!... Are you all right? Are you sick?”

“No... no, son. I’m fine. You’re doing fine... Looks hilly a few miles up ahead. Let’s practice taking curves.”

Other than the scrape with the tractor, Papa never raised his voice, once. He stayed at it, working with his son, guiding him, giving him confidence; and by midafternoon, they were in St. Louis, Missouri, where the boy — sitting high enough in his seat to pass for a teenaged driver — got his first taste of sharing the road with other drivers, not all of them considerate. This came easier than his father had expected — but ex-paperboy Michael had, after all, maneuvered his bike through all kinds of traffic back home.

And by the end of the day, Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., was ready for his new job.

The next morning, O’Sullivan — his fedora and topcoat brushed, his dark suit, too — approached the entrance of the St. Louis Bank and Trust Company. With his no-nonsense manner, a black leather bag in his right hand, he looked better than just presentable — he might have been a doctor, or perhaps a businessman, lugging a valise filled with important papers.

The boy waited down the street, in a legal parking place, motor running. O’Sullivan nodded at his son who, behind the wheel, swallowed, and nodded back.

The high-ceilinged marble lobby was less than crowded, but a share of farmers, housewives, and businessmen stood at the teller windows in lines that weren’t moving fast. He paused inside the door, nodding to a bank guard, who nodded back — an older man, retired cop probably, but armed.

Heading across the lobby at a leisurely pace, O’Sullivan gave the place a slow scan, mentally recording the layout, the positions of people and things. He approached the teller windows, heading toward one that was closed, where a small brow-beaten man in glasses and bow tie and shirtsleeves was getting chewed out by an older, heavier man, also in glasses, but wearing a crisply knotted striped tie and a tailored suit amidst these off-the-racks.

“... You ask for proper identification or you’ll find yourself in the bread line. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

O’Sullivan waited until the officious man seemed finished, then said through the window grating, “Excuse me, gentlemen — I understand Mr. McDougal is your bank president.”

The bow-tied teller pointed. “This is Mr. McDougal.”

After frowning at the stool pigeon, McDougal said, “You’ll have to make an appointment with my secretary, sir.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to call ahead, Mr. McDougal. But this concerns a major depositor... from out of town.”

McDougal began to speak, but the words caught as he took a closer look at O’Sullivan. Then he said, “Yes... of course... step this way, please.”

McDougal led the way, even opened the door for O’Sullivan with an after-you half-bow, closing the door behind him, making a fuss over showing his visitor to the chair across from the big desk in the medium-sized office dominated by a huge safe. Officiousness had been replaced with obsequiousness, as the bank president took the chair behind the desk, eyeing the black bag O’Sullivan had placed on its glass-covered top, to one side, by framed photos of wife, grown children, and grandchildren.

“I’ve come in regard to the Chicago money you’re holding,” O’Sullivan said.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” the bank president said, hands folded like a man sitting down to a big fine meal. “I wasn’t expecting a deposit until the end of the month — business Chicago-way must be good.”

“Actually,” O’Sullivan said, reaching over for the bag and undoing its clasp, “I’m making a withdrawal.”

And O’Sullivan reached down into the bag and came back with the Colt .45.

McDougal’s ass-kissing smile disappeared — fear painted the man’s face a pale shade.

“Hands on the desk, sir... Listen carefully — I want dirty money only, the off-the-books money you’re holding for Capone.”

The banker didn’t miss a beat. “It’s... it’s all right here,” McDougal said, smiling sickly, gesturing to the big safe filling a corner of the office, behind his desk.

“Good. Open it.”

The terrified banker got up and went to the looming iron box and dialed the combination — it took several tries, nervous as he was; but soon McDougal was hauling out a safety deposit box, which he rested on the desk, opening it to reveal stacks and stacks of cash.

“Fill the bag,” O’Sullivan instructed.

The banker did as he was told.

During which, O’Sullivan said, “I read anything in the papers about this... if I read that the savings of innocent farmers were wiped out by a cruel and heartless bank robber... I’ll be unhappy.”

As he piled the bricks of cash into the bag, the banker — still nervous but past the shock, somewhat — asked, “Are you insane, man? You obviously know whose money you’re taking. You must know what kind of animals you’re stealing from. They’ll find out who you are, they’ll track you down and—”

“The name is O’Sullivan. Michael O’Sullivan. Would you like me to write it down for you?”

O’Sullivan took the bag of money from the banker — who was more astounded now than afraid.

“They’ll kill you,” the banker said, trying to fathom this event.

He pointed the gun at the banker’s chest. “Tell Frank Nitti, tell Al Capone, that Michael O’Sullivan will stop bothering them if they give up Connor Looney. Until then, I’ll feed at their trough. Tell them!”

“I will! I will... ”

O’Sullivan removed two fat wads of cash from the satchel. “This is for you. Call it a handling charge. The boys in Chicago will never know — I sure as hell won’t tell them.”

The banker, blinking, shaking his head, asked, “Why cut me in? The upper hand is yours... ”

“It’s tidier this way. Less risky for both of us. This way you won’t be apt to press a button and cause something unfortunate on my way out. You see, Mr. McDougal, if I start shooting, people are going to die... and you’ll be one of them.”

McDougal nodded. “I understand.” And he opened a desk drawer slowly — knowing the standing O’Sullivan could see his every move — and placed the two bricks of cash inside, covering them with some papers.

“Good decision,” O’Sullivan said. “How would you like to do a little advertising for me?”

“Advertising?”

“If you have any trusted colleagues looking for an opportunity... you might want to spread the word. Let them know that when I come around, they shouldn’t hit any hidden alarms. It’ll be safer... and more profitable... if they cooperate.”

“And... if I do this?”

“You’ll receive a bundle in the mail, now and then. A surprise from Santa. You just think Christmas is over.”

The banker was shaking his head again. “You really trust me not to say anything?”

“If you can’t trust your banker, Mr. McDougal,” O’Sullivan said, hoisting the satchel of money, touching the tip of his fedora, “who can you trust?”

Within a minute O’Sullivan — black bag in one hand, other hand with the gun in it shoved into his topcoat pocket — was standing outside the bank, stepping out to the curb, waiting in the chill St. Louis air. Then the Ford drew up ever so slowly.

O’Sullivan looked through the window at the anxious boy behind the wheel.

“No rush, son,” he said with a faint smile.

He got in, and they drove off.

The boy was amazed by how smoothly it had gone. And as he tooled confidently through downtown St. Louis traffic, he realized he was indeed his father’s wheelman, his accomplice... if not his confidant.

Papa had told Michael he hoped there’d be no bloodshed, no fuss, but did not reveal to the boy how he hoped to achieve that.

“You didn’t say it would be this easy,” Michael said.

“You have to be prepared for anything,” his father said. “I need you alert... pull over. I’ll take the wheel, now.”

“Do I have to?”

His father just looked at him, and Michael pulled into a restaurant parking lot.

Still in the passenger seat, Papa repeated, “You have to be prepared for anything.”

“I know.” Michael shrugged. “I’m a Boy Scout, aren’t I?”

And his father leaned back in the seat, covered his face and, at first, Michael thought Papa was crying.

But he was laughing — softly... The only time he would do that, in the time they’d spend on the road together.