Road to Perdition

Five

Before that dreadful night, I hadn’t known who or what my father was. All I’d had to guide me were my childish enthusiasm, an imagination fueled by radio, comics, and the movies, and the natural hero worship my brother and I shared for Papa.

In the intervening years, I learned more. Numerous books about Michael O’Sullivan have been written, some well researched, others far more speculative; and, as I write this, a movie is being made. This narrative, however, is the first time an insider’s view of these events and people has been presented; but my very participation in these events, and my closeness to some of the people, limits my perspective.

For example, I never heard my father referred to as the “Angel of Death,” and whether that phrase was ever actually applied to him — or was merely some journalist’s contrivance — I can only guess. I suspect there’s at least a grain of truth in it, because I did on occasion hear him called “Angel,” by men we met on the road.

According to one writer, John Looney stood before my father, in the study of the mansion on the bluff, and raised a hand as if in benediction, saying, “In the Great War you made me proud — now you will be my soldier of soldiers. But I will never ask you to employ your terrible talents upon the innocent, only the disloyal... or other soldiers. Soldiers of my enemies, who will be visited by my Michael — my archangel of death.”

This may have been spun out of melodramatic whole cloth, but my research indicates some underlying truth, anyway. Certainly my father’s reputation extended beyond the Tri-Cities. This substantiates the claims that Papa was often loaned out by Looney to affiliated gangs around the country, including that of Al Capone and his associate Frank Nitti.

By all accounts, Michael O’Sullivan was efficient, unflappable, deadly. “Was it his somber, almost regretful expression that made them call him the Angel?” one writer wondered.

That question, which implies its own answer, I fully understand: I saw that somber, sorrowful expression many times, on the road. The first time was that night, that awful night.

The rain turned to snow, the windshield wipers icing up. His father drove slowly, carefully, watching the road unwind before him, lost in thought, troubled but trying not to show it. Young Michael shivered, staring at the man next to him, his eyes accusing him, but also studying this hero turned monster.

Only the scraping of the wipers, the blowing of snow, and the jostling of wheels on pavement created any sound; otherwise, silence shrouded the car.

Finally his father glanced at him and said, quietly, “What you did was wrong.”

Michael reacted as if cold water had been splashed in his face. “What I did was wrong?”

And with sudden recklessness, wanting to do anything to get away from the man he’d idolized, the boy threw open the car door. Snow and chill air rushed in, and his father slammed on the brakes, car skidding, but slowing enough for Michael to jump into a snowbank, making a hole in its brittle icy surface, then pick himself up and take off into the nearby woods.

The boy wasn’t thinking — he was running, and he was feeling, but not thinking; the woods were brown and white and their darkness promised shelter, not danger. The man running after him — footsteps breaking the glassy surface of frozen water on snow — was the danger... the man who had pretended to be his father...

“Michael!” the man called.

And the boy ran harder, through the trees, feet crunching the sugary frozen sheet of ice and snow, cracking twigs and crackling leaves, a landscape as beautiful and forbidding as a fairytale forest, that childhood place where Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel, and Snow White so often found themselves... but wolves and witches were in those woods, too, like the beast pursuing him, the creature that had been his father, a thousand years ago, tonight.

“Michael!”

The sound of his father’s footsteps terrified the boy, but something in him longed to stop, to turn and run open-armed to the man and hug him, so Papa could explain away the blood and death... and then his feet made up his mind for him, tripping over a buried gnarl of root, sending him stumbling into the snow, breaking through its crisp crust of ice into something soft, soothing, but very cold.

Then his father was standing over him. The trees loomed, icicles hanging, melting, like long ghastly faces; the trees had faces, too, distorted ones...

But his father looked... like his father. His expression was sad — sadder than Michael had ever seen it, and his father hadn’t ever been a particularly cheerful man.

“Michael... son... ”

The boy couldn’t help it — he began to cry... not in fear. Not anymore, not after seeing that look on Papa’s face. Papa was sad. Michael, too.

He knelt beside his boy. “Son... are you all right?”

“Why... why did you kill those men?”

“Because they had guns, and they’d have killed me.”

“But Uncle Connor... he shot first... ”

“I know. Come with me. We can talk about it in the car.”

“Have you killed other people?”

“Yes.”

“In the war?”

“Yes.”

“... But not just in the war.”

Papa shook his head, then held out his hands. “Come on, back to the car... you’ll freeze out here.”

“How many did you kill?”

“Son... ”

Michael felt more relaxed. Less afraid. And that enabled the physical pain to edge out the emotional upset, and assert itself; wincing, he said, “I think... I think maybe I hurt my leg.”

“Here... I’ll carry you.”

The boy allowed his father to cradle him in his arms, to lift him from the snow, and carry him like the child he was, out of the woods. Michael even rested his head against his father’s chest, wishing he could forget what he’d seen tonight, knowing he never would.

As they drove, they spoke — softly, in a grown-up way that was new between them.

“Why, Michael?” his father asked.

“I just... just wanted to see you in action. I wanted to be proud.”

His father, eyes on the road, swallowed. Then he said, calmly, “It’s natural for a boy to want to be proud of his father. But, son — what I do for a livin’ is not to be admired.”

The boy looked sharply at his father. “Then why do you do it, Papa?”

The night was dark, flecked by snow, the world vague on either side, the beams of the headlights dancing with white flakes; but the road ahead was visible enough.

“Do you know what a soldier is, Michael?”

“Sure. You were one in the war.”

“Yes. But life is like a war, sometimes. You see that, don’t you?”

The boy understood; on his paper route, he had seen the people out of work, hungry, huddling in the recessions of doorways, lining up for Mr. Looney’s free soup.

Obviously choosing his words with care, Papa said, “I’m like a soldier, son. And a soldier does his duty.”

“Even... killing?”

Papa’s face was hard. “That’s what soldiers do.”

Michael thought about that for a while; then, shaking his head, he said, “Papa, it seems wrong... The Church teaches us thou shalt not kill... ”

“The church is right... but I have a duty to my family. That means I have to work. And bein’ a soldier, son... that’s the only work I know.”

Michael thought some more, then he blurted, “I don’t want to be a soldier.”

For the first time this evening, his father smiled — just a little. “Good,” he said.

They fell into a silence — a slightly more comfortable one, though Michael remained torn within himself: this talk with his father, it was rare, it was special, a new bond had been formed between them. But that bond had been formed out of something bad. Sinful. Horrible...

When the car had rolled into the garage, Papa shut off the engine; through a window they could see their home. Michael sensed that his father felt what he felt: that they had changed, both of them. That going in that house would mean something different, now.

And Mama was in there — Mama who didn’t know Michael had sneaked out, who — if she had discovered his absence — might well be distraught. These concerns seemed petty, somehow, after what Michael had seen and his father had done.

The boy asked, “Does Mama know?”

His father replied, “Mama knows that I love Mr. Looney like a father. She knows that when we had nothing, he gave us a home. A life. She knows we owe him everything... Understand, son?”

Michael nodded.

“Come on. Let’s go inside.”

“But Mama... ”

“I don’t think they’re back from the concert, yet.”

The concert — he’d forgotten. Real life, day-to-day activity, the little things that made up a normal life... the boy had forgotten all about the wonderful ordinary life he’d been living. Could he go back to that life? Could life ever be normal? Could he be an ordinary boy again?

Mother and Peter were not home yet. Papa put him down in the kitchen, and Michael could walk, with just a tiny limp. His father offered to carry him up the stairs, but the boy shook his head. The clock said it was surprisingly early, but all Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., wanted to do was crawl in his warm bed, between comforter and covers, where it would be toasty and safe.

His father looked in on him, but did not tuck him in.

“Goodnight, son,” was all he said, from the doorway.

Michael said, “Night,” and tried to go sleep, thinking he would, right away, as tired as he was.

But sleep did not come. Life wasn’t that easy, anymore. And he lay awake, hands balled into fists outside the covers, as he stared up at the ceiling; the weather — snow, rain — reflecting weirdly, made shapes, strange drifting shapes he couldn’t make out. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, but he couldn’t stop looking at them.

He was still awake when Mama — leading Peter in by the hand, his brother still dressed up for the concert (Mama, too) — whispered to her youngest boy, “Get dressed for bed, honey... quiet, now. You’ll wake Michael.”

And as the giggling Peter — Mama couldn’t know the anticipation Michael’s brother was experiencing, wanting to hear the scoop on the “mission” — got into his jammies, their mother crossed to her older boy’s bed. She leaned in, to tuck him in, and he couldn’t help himself.

Michael sat up and threw himself at his mother, hugging her tight, very tight, wanting to crawl inside her and hide.

Annie O’Sullivan, caught utterly off-guard, said, “Oh, dear,” and held him, patting him, kissing his cheek, allowing the boy to disappear in her arms. She could sense his distress, could feel his fear, and said, “It’s just a nightmare, dear.”

“Oh yes, Mama,” the boy said, “it’s a nightmare... a nightmare.”

When her younger son was in bed, she kissed Michael’s forehead, tucked him in, and said, “You’re safe, Mama’s home, Mama’s home.” Then, after tucking in the younger boy, she slipped out.

Annie looked for her husband, but he was not around — the light in the garage was on. She did not make the leap from her son’s distress to her husband’s work-related absence, tonight. Vaguely troubled, but not overly concerned, she readied herself for bed.

In the garage Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., cleaned and oiled the disassembled parts of his Thompson submachine gun — a weapon designed for the Great War in which he’d fought, but developed too late for the trench action it was made for. He got grease on his hands and wiped them off with a cloth — seemed to take an inordinate amount of time, tonight, to get his hands clean.

Methodically, with ritualistic care, he packed away the parts of the machine gun into his plush-padded black carrying case. He stowed the case in the cupboard, with its ammunition drums, and locked away the tools of his trade.

But he did not go back into the house, not immediately. He stood there, staring at the closed cupboard, deep in thought, lost in the possible ramifications of what had transpired — worried for his son and the boy’s emotional welfare, and most of all concerned about the safety of them all.

Connor Looney was an unstable, dangerous man.

And if Connor’s father weren’t John Looney, Michael O’Sullivan would have gone back out into the rainy, snowy night, and killed that homicidal lunatic, to protect his family and himself.

But in a strange way, Connor Looney was family, too — a brother of sorts. And John Looney — who, despite the wicked business they were in, was a kind, generous, benevolent soul — loved Michael O’Sullivan and Annie and especially their boys. O’Sullivan knew this with as much certainty as he knew there was a God, a Heaven and a Hell.

Yet even the most pious man, in silence, alone at night, can have doubts.

In their room, once their mother had gone, Peter sat up in bed, and demanded, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What was it like? Did you see anything? Was it like the picture shows? Was Papa like Tom Mix?”

“It wasn’t anything. Papa just had a business meeting.”

The little boy sat forward even more, making the bedsprings squeak. “A business meeting? We went through all that for—”

“For nothing. And he caught me in the backseat, and I’m lucky he didn’t get me in trouble with Mama... Now, goodnight.”

Peter, bitterly disappointed, said, “Ah... good night.”

Michael had promised his father he would never tell anyone what he’d seen tonight, and that included his brother. However mixed his feelings might be, Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., was no squealer.

At breakfast the next morning, Michael, Peter, and their mother were already at the table when their father entered, joining them. Annie smiled at her husband, but he seemed distracted, his attention — his rather somber gaze — directed at their oldest boy, who seemed to be avoiding that gaze.

Yet she sensed no anger in either of them.

Confused, she asked Michael, “Aren’t you going to finish your breakfast?”

“Not hungry.”

“All right. I’m not one to force food on anyone, even if there are t’ousands of starving people all around this great country.”

O’Sullivan shook his head at her.

Still confused, Annie said to Michael, “Well, then at least clear off your plate.”

“Can I do it later?”

“What, after school? Let that food just sit there and rot?”

The boy worked up a shrug — it seemed to take all his energy. “I don’t have time now. You don’t want me to be late, do you?”

Amazed, Annie looked at her husband for support; his eyes dropped to the table. What was going on? This wasn’t like Michael — the words did not have a smart-aleck tone to them, nothing really overtly disrespectful; more like he was listless, that he somehow just didn’t care...

But before this could turn into a confrontation — or not — the honk of a car horn outside the kitchen window drew everyone’s attention away from the breakfast table.

“That’s Mr. Looney’s horn!” Peter said, and ran excitedly from the table, and out the front door.

Michael followed, with far less enthusiasm.

Annie, still seated at the table, watched with interest as her husband got up and went to the window. She rose and joined him — the sight a common one, the fancy Pierce Arrow pulling up before their house, the driver stopping, John Looney — in a rather shabby brown suit, unbefitting his wealth — stepping out of the back, just in time to catch Peter, who hurled himself into the old man’s arms, for a hug Looney cheerfully delivered.

Annie stood close to her husband at the window, noting his oddly glazed expression as he took in what would normally be a cheery sight.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Something’s wrong.”

O’Sullivan looked for the words.

“Has something happened?” She touched his shoulder.

“Michael was in the car last night when I went out.”

“In the... oh no... ”

“Tucked himself away inside the rear seat.”

“Oh sweet Mary mother... what—”

“I’ve spoken to the boy,” her husband said, cutting her off. “It won’t happen again.”

“But, Mike... ”

He turned to her, his face a stony mask. “No questions, Annie. We won’t speak of this.”

And he left her side, heading to the front closet, for his topcoat and hat.

Outside, Mr. Looney had wandered over to where young Michael was climbing on his bike.

“Just the feller I wanted to see!” the old man said. Then he sidled up to the boy on the bike, and said surreptitiously, “This’ll be our little secret, right?”

Michael pulled back, alarmed. “What do you mean?”

It was almost a shout.

Mr. Looney frowned. “Friendly game of dice, what else could I mean?” He held out a shiny silver dollar. “Here — take it... you won it fair and square. A man of honor always pays his debts.”

Reluctantly, the boy took the dollar.

Mr. Looney stood so close, the grown-up smells smothered the crisp morning air — cigar smoke, liquor, coffee — and made the boy even more uncomfortable.

“And a man of honor always keeps his word,” the old man told the boy, something hard in the ice-blue eyes, something Michael had never seen, or at least noticed, before.

So Mr. Looney knew about last night! Uncle Connor had told him.

“I’m... I’m gonna be late for school,” Michael said, and pedaled off, the old man watching him go — the boy could feel the eyes on his back, burning holes.

When Looney turned, his man O’Sullivan was heading out of the house, shrugging into his topcoat. The wife, Annie, was in the window — she looked concerned. The old man threw her a friendly smile and a wave, as her husband got into the Pierce Arrow, in back. She waved back, but Looney could tell his gesture had done little to assuage her unease.

Within ten minutes, Looney and O’Sullivan were having coffee, seated across from each other in a wooden booth at one of the several restaurants the old man owned in downtown Rock Island. A glorified diner, the place did a brisk business, and was crowded with breakfast trade — of course, a number of the patrons were Looney bodyguards. Several more burly boyos were stationed out on the sidewalk.

Day after a dust-up like last night, the old man knew, extra precautions were called for.

“What an unholy mess,” Looney said. “How’s the boy? He seemed out of sorts to me. Is he okay?”

O’Sullivan seemed happy — or was it relieved? — to hear these words. He said, “I’ve spoken to him. He understands. He’ll keep his pledge to me.”

Nodding, Looney said, “Jesus jumping Christ, it’s tough, seeing that kind of thing for the first time... such a tender age.”

O’Sullivan paused — probably thinking about his first exposure to such like, Looney knew — and then said, “He’s my son.”

“Well,” the old man said, and he bestowed a smile of warmth upon his loyal lieutenant, “you didn’t turn out so bad, did you, lad?”

O’Sullivan didn’t smile, however; his eyes had a haunted quality that disturbed Looney. “I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

“Boys will be boys — which of us didn’t play stowaway as a whelp?... Anyway, you can’t protect children forever. If it hadn’t been one thing, it would have been the other.”

O’Sullivan said nothing.

Looney waved at a waitress for the check, saying, “I fear it’s natural law, my boy — sons are put on this earth to trouble their fathers.”

O’Sullivan smiled, and Looney felt relief: the boy still loved him.

And now the waitress set the check in front of Looney, marked boldly NO CHARGE.

“Ha,” Looney said, “I’ve been coming here forty years, and they never let me pay the check, yet.”

O’Sullivan shrugged, sipped his coffee. “Well, you’re the boss.”

Looney laughed in agreement; but deep down the old man knew that even the boss, eventually, would have to pay.