Road to Perdition

Thirteen

As the weeks rolled by, my father filled his black satchel at banks in Iowa and Illinois, Nebraska and Oklahoma, Missouri and Kansas, even Indiana and Wisconsin. Never was a shot fired, and our hold-ups became as close to routine as bank robbery could get.

Still, my father warned me: “Keep alert, son. Never forget what we’re doing and why we’re doing it... or who it is that’s pursuing us. Complacency kills as surely as a bullet.”

We did stop at other banks, as my father had indicated we would — not to rob them, but to place our excess cash into safety deposit boxes. As we traveled, Papa would read the papers religiously, looking for mention of our robberies, never finding anything, which pleased him.

He was less happy about the lack of other news. He never said, but upon reflection, I understand he was thumbing through the pages of papers looking for a mention of Connor Looney’s body turning up in a ditch somewhere, signaling Chicago’s surrender, and an end for our journey.

Sometimes at night, when my father grew sleepy behind the wheel, we would sleep in the car. I disliked this, and most of the time, he tried to find motels, or at least campsites where, when we parked, a few of the amenities of civilization were on hand.

And when we stopped to eat at a diner or cafe, he would call the farm at Perdition, at least once a day, talking to my aunt or uncle, who continued to report that crows were indeed on the fence. I was not aware of it at the time, but historians of the mob, including two Capone biographers, claim that among the phone calls my father made along the road were several that went directly to Frank Nitti.

At his desk, in a crisply knotted four-in-hand tie and his long-sleeved white shirt and dark suspenders, Nitti leaned over the phone, saying, “Mr. O’Sullivan — what can we do to put an end to this little misunderstanding?”

“Mr. Nitti, I have no misunderstanding with you,” O’Sullivan’s voice said, calm, reasonable over the crackling lone-distance wire. “I’ve no grievance against the Capone organization — I think I’ve made that clear from the start.”

“And I hope I’ve made it clear,” Nitti replied smoothly, “that the Looneys are business associates of ours, of long standing, and such alliances must be respected.”

“I still have friends back home, Mr. Nitti — and they tell me John Looney is a shambles. Not tending to business, his mind strictly on this present matter... and the welfare of his son.”

“You have a son, too, Mr. O’Sullivan. You can understand that view, certainly.”

“I hope that’s not a veiled threat, Mr. Nitti.”

Nitti, having just lighted up a cigarette, waved out the match. “Of course it isn’t. I merely—”

“I have a son, and if any harm comes to him, all of you best pray the breath has left me — because as long as I have one breath, all of you will pay.”

“Now who’s making threats, Mr. O’Sullivan?”

“I don’t threaten, I take action. Do you have a wife, Mr. Nitti?”

“I do.”

“A son?”

“Yes. And if that is—”

“No. I would never touch them. I would feed you your eyes, if necessary — but your family... no.”

Nitti blew out smoke. “Well, I do appreciate that. There are lines even men like us mustn’t cross.”

“Then you would you agree that some things in life are more important that money?”

“... I would.”

“Well, then I remind you: the murderer of my wife and son is in hiding, with your help.”

Nitti sighed, shifted in his swivel chair. “Mr. O’Sullivan, despite what you say, the Looney interests in the Tri-Cities continue to flourish. It would not be good business to—”

“Then I’m going to continue disrupting your business. Just keep a running tally and when it’s costing you more to be friends with the Looneys than not, make a business decision.”

“Back to threats, Mr. O’Sullivan?”

“Either turn Connor Looney over to me, or kill him yourselves in a way conspicuous enough to make the papers.”

And the line clicked dead.

Nitti looked across his desk at the well-dressed, moon-faced figure with the high forehead and parallel scars — a long and a short — on his plump left cheek, his forehead beaded with sweat; the man had been fighting a fever for several days.

“Find the prick,” Al Capone said, clenching a fist, “and kill him.”

“It’s not that easy, Al,” Nitti said, leaning back. “He stays on the move. And he knows just enough about our inside operations to really do us financial damage.

“Isn’t Ness and his goddamn metal-prow truck costin’ us enough these days! Legal fees up the ass... we’re drowning in negative fuckin’ cash flow.”

Nitti shrugged. “And when O’Sullivan finishes with banks, he can start knocking off casinos — or a brothel on a Saturday night. Where does it end?”

“Where the fuck does it end?” Capone lighted up one of his pool-cue Havanas, while Nitti fired up a fresh cigarette. “You suggestin’ we should do what he says? Give up Crazy Connor?”

Nitti was thinking.

Capone said, “The Looney interests in the Tri-Cities are still a goldmine, Frank — and the feds ain’t touching us there.”

“Fine, but if we gave Connor Looney to O’Sullivan, without making it look like we betrayed him, or his father, we could step in and take over those interests ourselves... with no cut going to the Looneys.”

Capone got up. He seemed unsteady. “Fuckin’ flu... ”

But Nitti knew it wasn’t the flu: Big Al’s syphilis was kicking in again. The Big Fellow had started really having problems with the old Cupid’s itch lately, a doctor on staff fulltime at the Lexington these days.

“Al, the Looneys killed his wife and son. O’Sullivan was a loyal soldier, and they sold him out.”

“The old man didn’t do it,” Capone said. “That old mick and me go way back... Life ain’t all ledger books and balance sheets, Frank. Life — and business — has to do with respect. We cave in to O’Sullivan, we look soft.”

Nitti could see that. “Well, I have my best man on it. A real pro... ”

“What, Maguire? That screwball photographer? He makes my skin crawl.”

“You’re not takin’ him home to mother, Al — he’s a coldblooded killer, and a kind of bloodhound... and that’s what it’ll take to find O’Sullivan, and stop him. Already caught up with him once.”

“Yeah, and he slipped through this so-called pro’s fingers.” Capone, cigar in his mouth, flopped onto a couch and mopped his brow. “Call the old man, in Rock Island. Call Looney, tell him to get his ass up here. I want to talk to him.”

“All right.”

“And this photographer — this ‘pro’ of yours, Maguire, him, too. Tell ’em both to come with answers.”

“Answers to what, Al?”

“Questions.”

“What questions, Al?”

“The answers are their problem, Frank — I’ll handle the fuckin’ questions.”

And the next afternoon, in the executive suite at the Lexington, John Looney and Frank Nitti were seated on a small sofa adjacent a larger couch where Al Capone — suitcoat off, in the vest of his sharp green suit, his green-and-black floral tie loosened, his shirt soaked with sweat, forehead beaded — lay propped up behind a pillow, a thermometer in his mouth.

The most famous criminal in America, on his back, removed the shaft of glass from his full, sensual lips and studied the line of mercury, muttering, “Fuck Mike O’Sullivan... and fuck this flu.”

Nitti exchanged glances with Looney, in a dark vested suit and tie. Both men knew what the “flu” really was. To Nitti’s left, arms folded, his expression as cool as it was unreadable, stood Harlen Maguire, bowler hat in hand.

“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.