Road to Purgatory

DeKalb and Chicago, Illinois

Miami, Florida

July 1942

One

Patsy Ann O’Hara, unquestionably the prettiest coed on the Northern State Teachers’ College campus, did not have a date for the Fourth of July.

Apple-cheeked, strawberry blonde, her heart-shaped face blessed with Shirley Temple dimples, a beauty mark near her full lips, her big long-lashed dark blue eyes accented by full dark (cautiously plucked) eyebrows, her five-foot-five figure one that Lana Turner would find familiar, Patsy Ann had been a stunning beauty for so many years, she never thought about it, really, other than to carefully maintain this gift from God.

The former homecoming queen of DeKalb Township High (class of ’38) considered herself more conscientious than vain — meticulous about her grooming, maintaining an exercise regimen, avoiding excess sweets and too much sun, her selection of clothing as exacting as a five-star chef choosing just the right ingredients for a gourmet meal (before shortages, anyway).

Today she had selected an appropriately patriotic red-and-white-checked cotton sundress, its ruffled trim at both bodice and skirt accentuating her just-full-enough bosom and her Grable-esque gams, further set off by red-white-and-blue open-toed wedge-heeled sandals. The outfit perhaps seemed a trifle young — she was, after all, twenty-one...

...but she wanted to look like a high school girl today, or at least invoke one, even if doing so risked occasional askance glances or even envious ridicule from females who never had looked this good, not even in high school.

Anyway, the men would like it... though she only cared about the reaction of one specific man sure to be at the festivities today...

None of the panting males at Northern State Teachers’ College had even bothered to ask Patsy Ann out for the Fourth. This had nothing to do with a shortage of men — fully half the enrollment was male, ranging from 4-Fs to guys waiting for Uncle Sam’s inevitable “greetings,” as well as a number who’d received deferments. They had long since stopped trying, knowing she was “taken.”

The first several years at Northern, she’d been dating her high school boyfriend; and ever since her guy had joined the army and gone off to fight in the Philippines, Patsy Ann had been steadfastly true, a college woman wearing the high school class ring of her overseas beau. Frustrated as some of the guys at Northern might be, they admired her for this loyalty — so did even the cattiest females on campus.

No one but Patsy Ann’s young sister — little Betty, who was a high school senior already! — knew the truth; not even Mom and Dad. No one but Betty knew that Mike had broken it off with Patsy Ann before he went away, that he had kissed her tenderly and told her not to wait for him.

“Forget about me,” he said.

“You can’t be serious, Michael...”

But he was almost always serious.

“A war’s coming,” he said. “I’m not going to put you in that position.”

She’d felt flushed with emotion, some of it anger. “Doesn’t my opinion count in this?”

“No,” he said.

But she knew he didn’t mean that. She knew he was trying to get her mad at him, to help break it off...

She’d penned a letter to him every day. He had not sent a single reply, or at least none had made it back to her. And yet month upon month, she wrote to Mike, staring at his framed senior picture, suffering in stoic, noble silence, an English lit major wholly unaware that her love of romantic literature was influencing her behavior.

When she learned of Mike’s breathtaking heroism, and that he was coming home, Patsy Ann had gone to Pasquale’s Spaghetti House to see if Papa and Mama Satariano had an address for him. They did — their son was at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital near Washington, DC.

When he didn’t reply to her stateside letters, either, she dismissed it — after all, Michael was recuperating, receiving therapy. And then, a few months later, the local paper was full of Papa and Mama Satariano taking the train to DC to attend the presentation by President Roosevelt of the Congressional Medal of Honor — the first of the war!

How Patsy Ann wished she could have been there, standing next to Michael in the White House Executive Office as General Eisenhower lowered the looped ribbon with the golden star over his head...

For several weeks Michael had toured the East Coast, making speeches (she could hardly believe that, shy as he was!) and promoting the sale of war bonds and stamps. Banquets, dinners, receptions, receiving the keys to cities, shaking hands with mayors and governors and senators... how thrilling it would have been, to be at his side. Michael, though, probably detested all of it...

Yesterday, in Chicago, Michael had been flown into Municipal Airport and whisked away for a ticker tape parade down packed State Street. The key-to-the-city ceremony had been at city hall, with Mayor Kelly and various dignitaries lavishing praise on this “heroic native son of Illinois.”

Michael gave a speech, his voice soft and uninflected; but even Patsy Ann, listening on the radio, would have to admit the talk was not a memorable one, sounding nothing like Michael: “There are many who speak of giving their all, but are they willing to allocate ten percent of their earnings for war bonds?”

Still, as she curled beside the console, feeling like a school girl, heart beating like a triphammer, she cherished the sound of his voice.

Had she done the right thing, she wondered, not going into the city? Waiting for today, for what she hoped and prayed would be just the right moment?

Last night, she and her sister had sat in their loose-fitting man-tailored pj’s in the upstairs bedroom they still shared (Patsy Ann lived at home and had rebuffed any attempt by sororities to rush her).

Betty, dark-haired and cute, had been painting her nails cherry red as she said, “I don’t get it, sis. I mean, I can understand him wanting to break it off before he went over there and everything.”

Patsy Ann, seated at the dresser mirror brushing her hair, said, “I know. He was being noble. The far-far-better-thing-I-do-than-I-have-ever-done-before bit.”

“I saw that movie,” Betty said, moving to the next toe.

“It’s a book, too, not that you’d ever know it.”

“You don’t have to get short. Not my fault he hasn’t called or written.”

Patsy Ann put the brush down with a clunk. “No need to be ‘noble’ now — papers say, ’cause of his eye, he won’t see any more action. Why hasn’t he called? What’s wrong with him?”

Betty shrugged. “Maybe it is his eye. Maybe he’s scarred and stuff, and doesn’t wanna make the woman he loves marry a freak.”

“What an awful thing to say!... But you could be right.”

“He’s probably home right now. At his folks’. Phone line runs both ways, you know.”

“You think I should call him?”

“Why not? You’re a modern woman, aren’t you?”

Patsy Ann studied her face in the mirror, as if girding herself for combat. “...I won’t do that. I won’t try to see him until tomorrow... at the Fourth. I’ll just be this, this... vision in the crowd!”

Betty nodded. “Yeah — that should work. These soldiers are really horny when they come home.”

“Where do you get that language?”

Another shrug. “It’s a brave new world, sis.”

“That’s also a book, y’know.”

Betty frowned. “What is?”

The first wartime Fourth of July in a quarter-century fell on a Saturday, the perfect day to set the stage for a weekend celebration of independence. The radio and papers, however, were filled with governmental caution — fireworks and large gatherings could attract air raids and saboteurs. On the East and West Coasts, celebrations had been banned in some cities.

Not in the Midwest, not in a heartland city like DeKalb whose principal exports were barbed wire and hybrid corn. The city fathers scheduled fireworks along with baseball, horseshoes, and archery, with musical programs all day long. Homes were draped red, white, and blue (materials available gratis at the city recorder’s) and when the Fourth dawned warm, not humid, a trifle breezy, flags flapped all over town.

Patsy Ann accompanied her mother, Maureen, a plump, plainer version of herself, to the parade Saturday morning; her rugged, handsome father, William, was driving the mayor and his wife — as owner of the local Buick dealership, Daddy always provided a number of vehicles.

Every float or vehicle draped in red-white-and-blue crepe, each band blaring military marches, created a near hysterical uproar in the crowd, applause, whistles, cheers. And when a vehicle would roll by with sailors or soldiers or marines, Patsy Ann could always spot in the midst of this frenzied fun a mother or two or three weeping.

The grand marshal of the parade was Sergeant Michael Satariano (he’d been promoted by the secretary of war at the Medal of Honor presentation). Patsy Ann had abandoned her mother to work her way to the curb, positioning herself prominently.

Seated up on the back of the convertible, in his crisp khaki uniform, Medal of Honor around his neck, Michael wore a small frozen smile as he raised a hand in a barely discernible wave. Despite how little he gave the crowd, they gave him back plenty; occasionally he would nod, and look from one side of the packed street to the other, a shy and retiring conqueror.

If he saw her, Patsy Ann could see no sign — not of pleasure or displeasure or even recognition. In her little red-and-white sundress, Patsy Ann had surely been noticed by every other healthy red-blooded American male here. Then, as the Buick rolled by, she could see the scarring around his left eye — not disfiguring, but there — and realized she’d picked the wrong side of the street to stand on.

And then he was gone, and she thought, That’s all it was — his bad eye... He just didn’t see me...

That afternoon at Huntley Park, on the south side of town, the boulder-and-concrete bandshell, its red-tiled roof bannered with welcome home, mike! showcased various dignitaries and the guest of honor. The mayor introduced Governor Green — imagine the governor choosing DeKalb for the Fourth, over Chicago or Springfield! — who introduced “Illinois’s own Michael Satariano.”

Pasty Ann sat between her parents in the front row — folding chairs had been provided to supplement stone benches — and they, like everyone, stood and clapped and cheered. Professional-looking photographers were snapping photos of both Michael and the crowd — later Patsy Ann learned that the Trib and the Sun-Times had sent teams, but even more exciting, so had Life and Look. On the sidelines stood another soldier, an officer.

Michael finally raised a hand to silence the audience. His voice was firm, though not loud, and the microphone picked him up fine; anyway, you could have heard a pin drop.

First, Mike acknowledged his parents, who stood in the front row to warmly receive applause. Both of the elder Satarianos were portly, much shorter than their son; in truth, Patsy Ann had never seen any resemblance between her boy friend and his balding, white-mustached, bulbous-nosed father Pasquale and the sweet but barrel-shaped and downright homely Sophia.

After all the build-up, what followed was a repeat of yesterday’s unmemorable “buy bonds” pitch. Mike’s unimpassioned rendition of what was obviously a speech prepared by others undercut whatever power it might have had. Still, the crowd did not seem to notice, hanging on every word as if hearing the Gettysburg Address.

Then after a conclusion that tepidly wished the crowd a happy Fourth, Michael’s voice rose, and Patsy sat up, recognizing a familiar edge.

“While you’re celebrating your independence,” Michael said, “setting off firecrackers, wolfing down a hot dog, tossing back a beer... please remember, and say a prayer for, our boys on Bataan.”

A thrill went through her: Michael meant these words; these were all his!

“The men I fought beside don’t enjoy freedom — this very moment they’re in Japanese prison camps. Don’t forget them! Back to Bataan! Back to Bataan!”

And the crowd was on its feet again, fists in the air, echoing him: “Back to Bataan! Back to Bataan! Back to Bataan!”

Patsy Ann noticed something peculiar: the army officer was not chanting along; he stood with arms folded, wearing a sour expression. A rather handsome man, about forty, in a business suit and fedora stood next to him — smiling.

Then Michael came down and shook thousands of hands and signed autographs, and Patsy Ann waited alone, seated on a stone bench, her parents wandering off to watch the baseball tourney.

Almost two hours had passed before the crowd dissipated. The governor and mayor were long gone; even the proud parents, Pasquale and Sophia Satariano, had moved along. Finally only Michael and the army officer remained, who was speaking to Mike in a curt, even harsh manner, though Patsy Ann did not hear what was said.

But she could understand Mike, as he told the officer, “I have my own ride.”

And then Michael Satariano, with his Medal of Honor and crisp khakis, walked right over to the stone bench where she sat. The army officer, shaking his head, stalked off.

Michael stood before her. Loomed over her. His face was expressionless; his real eye seemed as lifeless as the glass one in the scarred socket.

Hands folded in her lap, feeling very much a little girl suited to her silly sundress, Patsy Ann trembled, on the verge of tears. What terrible thing was Michael going to say?

“Captain’s mad at me,” Mike said, casually.

Then he sat down next to her on the bench, slumped forward a little; his good eye was next to her. It was as if they were still in high school and he’d caught up with her between classes.

“Why?” she managed.

He shrugged. “You heard that phony spiel they made me give. I’ve been doin’ that all up and down the East Coast. And every time, I mention the boys on Bataan. My forgotten comrades.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

He turned to look at her, and the half-smile was so wonderfully familiar. “I’m not supposed to talk about them. We left them there to rot, and I’m not supposed to remind anybody about them... Yesterday, in Chicago?”

“I heard you on the radio.”

“Well, you didn’t hear all of it. The captain had warned them about me, and the broadcast engineer cut me off before I said my Bataan piece.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Newsreel guys got it, though, and the reporters. A couple of big magazines heard me today. We’ll see if they print it... Guys dying for freedom, over there, and the military muzzles somebody like me, for telling the truth.”

“That’s just awful!”

He shrugged. “Ah, it’s not so bad. Got its bright side.”

“How is that possible?”

Another half-smile. “I just got fired. I’m done. On inactive duty. No more bond rallies; no more rubber chicken.”

She laughed a little. “Public speaking, putting yourself on display... that must be torture for you.”

“Well, there’s torture and then there’s torture. But I would rather be back on Bataan.” Any hint of a smile disappeared. “I really would...”

“I... I kinda thought maybe you’d prefer being here, with me.”

“Of course.” But he wasn’t looking at her.

“...You feel guilty, don’t you?”

Mike turned to her, sharply — not angry, more like... alarmed.

She pressed on: “You’re the only American soldier who got off that island, except for General MacArthur and his brass hats, right? So you feel like you abandoned your ‘boys.’”

The faintest smile traced his lips; warmth filled the remaining brown eye. “You always were smart.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Mike. You were brave... I read all about it. Everybody has. We need some heroes right about now.”

“Well, I don’t want to be one.”

“What do you want to be?”

His eyebrows arched. “I wanna be in the backseat of one your daddy’s Buicks... with you.”

Her lips pursed into a smile. “Well... you might get your wish. But a girl likes to be kissed, first.”

He did not respond to this cue.

Instead, he slumped again, his hands locked. He was staring at the grass. “You want a guy who threw you over to kiss you? Who didn’t even bother writing you back?”

“You didn’t throw me over for a girl. You threw me over for a war... My letters — you read them?”

“Every one.”

“That’s all I wanted. Just you to read them.”

He gazed at her, steadily, studying her. “You don’t have a guy?”

“I have a guy.”

Now he looked away. “...That’s fine. I told you not to wait.”

“You, dumbo.”

He took that like a punch; then he laughed — no sound came out, but it was a laugh, all right.

And finally she was in his arms and he was kissing her, and the desperation in his kiss was wonderful, because it matched her own.

She drove them back to Pasquale’s Spaghetti House on North Third, across from the Egyptian Theater, where Sergeant York with Gary Cooper was billed with Maisie Gets Her Man. The restaurant was closed for the Fourth; the two floors of apartments above the place were the family’s living quarters — this was where Michael Satariano had been raised since the age of twelve.

He went up the back stairs while she waited in the car, and returned five minutes later in chinos and a tan crew-neck sport shirt — still vaguely military-looking. They drove around for a while, Patsy Ann staying behind the wheel — she gave him a tour of the modest Northern campus; Michael seemed interested in what classes she had and in which buildings.

When they drove past the modernistic limestone library, she told him she’d been working there part-time. He said he knew that from her letters. She wondered if he knew she’d been testing him.

Reading was a love they had in common, though Patsy Ann preferred the classics — Emily Brontë, Jane Austen, and Charles Dickens among her favorites — while Michael’s tastes were terribly plebeian, running to pulp magazines and comic books. He had a large collection of Big Little Books, tiny square, fat books about comic strip characters and movie cowboys.

Back in high school, she had once teased him for buying a stack of the things at Woolworth’s — Tarzan, the Lone Ranger, the Phantom, Dick Tracy.

“Aren’t you a little old for Tom Mix?” she’d asked.

They were sitting at the counter sipping nickel Cokes after school, and he was paying no attention to her, flipping through the pulp pages between the garish covers.

Still paging through, he said, “My brother and I used to read these.”

“What brother?”

His eyes tensed; his voice took on an evasive quality. “I had a brother before we moved here.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died.”

“Oh, I... I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” His eyes thawed; his smile was warm, too. “It’s not your fault I’m a case of arrested development.”

You never knew what was important to a person — Michael had taught her that. He never again mentioned this mysterious brother, and yet she always remembered the controlled passion in Mike’s voice as he’d spoken about this lost child.

Funny thing — most everyone thought Mike was quiet, even stoic. That was part of what had attracted her in the first place — the mysterious brooding reserve that seemed to mask a reservoir of secrets, of experiences he chose not to share.

But they did talk, Patsy Ann and Mike. In the right mood, he would tell her what he thought — about teachers, about fellow students, about politics and even world affairs. Sometimes they talked about a future together... particularly in the afterglow of backseat lovemaking. (Prom night had been the first time.)

Much as she liked to escape to other ages and places through literature, Patsy Ann savored the notion of a simple life here in the Middle West with Michael, where they could both work and, when the time came, raise a family. Neither of them had adventurous yearnings or high-flown ambitions — just the hope of being part of a loving family in secure surroundings.

And in a small town like DeKalb, that hope was realized, every day. For one thing, the kind of prejudices you ran into in a big city like Chicago just weren’t present; even the three colored families in town were treated fine. That Michael was Italian didn’t seem to bother anybody — or anyway hadn’t since that time in seventh grade when the school bully called Mike a wop and Mike cleaned his clock.

Come to think of it, that was the day Patsy Ann knew she loved Michael Satariano, although they didn’t start going together till high school, sophomore year. Mike was a star short stop on the DTHS baseball team and quarterback on the football team, all-conference in both instances. Patsy Ann was leader of the cheerleading squad and secretary of the student body, so a romance between her and the school’s star athlete seemed star-crossed.

Even her parents didn’t mind — Mike was a good Catholic boy; so what if he wasn’t Irish? When they kept dating after high school, she and Mike had been sat down by her father, who let them both know that there would always be a place for Mike at the dealership, if the boy chose not to follow his folks into their restaurant business.

College offers had come along — several small schools offered sports scholarships, and Mike’s grades were good — but Patsy Ann’s boyfriend had just kept working with his folks at their restaurant, helping out, learning the trade. Patsy Ann had enrolled at Northern, and she and her “guy” had spoken often about the future — how she would get a job teaching high school lit somewhere in the area and he’d take over his family business.

After driving around till dusk, the couple wound up back at the park, where a dance band consisting of Northern music majors played in the bandshell, the folding chairs gone to make room for dancing. The clear sky glittered with stars, and an art moderne — slice of moon made the heavens seem more like the faux-variety you danced beneath in a ballroom.

The other couples were in their teens and twenties, with a few older married folks joining in, on the slow tunes. Michael demurred at jitterbugging, and was amusingly horrified by “The Beer Barrel Polka” and everything it wrought among the dancers. But he seemed happy to hold his girl in his arms for “The Very Thought of You.”

They did not stay for the fireworks, preferring to make their own by driving into the country to one of their favorite parking places, a little access inlet to a cornfield, whose tall stalks were brushed ivory in the moonlight, waving lazily in the evening breeze. They necked and petted in the front seat, but it wasn’t long before they crawled unceremoniously in back.

The sundress’s top gathered at her waist, the dress hiked up, her panties off but the sexy little wedgies on, Patsy Ann lay back, watching as Michael withdrew his wallet and found the little square packet.

“So what if I get pregnant?” she asked.

He thought about it, then, gently, said, “No. We’ve always been careful. We’ll be careful tonight.”

Other than that small moment of reality, the lovemaking was wonderfully dream-like; he was always so tender with her, and yet commanding. At first he just looked down at her pale flesh in the moonlight and said she looked beautiful; then he began to kiss her breasts, and was still doing that when he entered her. They came to climax quickly, together, in shudders that looked like pain but weren’t.

They cuddled in the backseat in their various states of disarray, the sundress bunched at her waist, his trousers and underwear clumped down around his left ankle like a big bulky bandage. They had fallen asleep when sharp cracks woke them both — Michael sat up straight, reacting as if to gunshots.

Through the front window, blossoming just above the cornfield, they could see the fireworks going on at the park right now. They exchanged grins and resumed a cuddly position and enjoyed what they could see of it — not every attempt rose high enough.

Still, they got a kick out of what they did see: a shower of silver here... bursting rockets there... endless sprays and arrays of red and white and blue sparks...

Finally they got their clothes back on — though all the smoothing out in the world wouldn’t hide what the sundress had been through — and Patsy Ann had Mike take the wheel. He said little as they drove back into town; he appeared distracted.

For what seemed like forever, but was really just four silent minutes, they sat in front of her house, a two-story Dutch colonial on South Third, a few blocks from the park.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, finally.

“No. Everything’s right. Perfect.”

But there was something in his tone...

She thought perhaps she understood. “It’s difficult for you, isn’t it? Just picking up where you left off.”

He grunted a little laugh, gave her the half-smile. “You’ve always been smarter than me. Not that that’s anything to brag about.”

She saw through the lightness and said, “You can’t do anything about it, Mike — your friends in the Philippines. You know MacArthur will go back for them, when he can.”

“Dugout Doug,” Mike said softly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Michael, there are things you can do for the war effort, if you want to.”

“Giving speeches?”

“No! I’m sure there must be other things. And—”

“Patricia Ann — it’s not just that I’m not over there, doing my share. Not just that I... escaped from Bataan, tail tucked between my legs...”

“Mike...”

“It’s that this life... don’t misunderstand, tonight was wonderful, like turning a few pages and having years just drop away... but I don’t know that I can... I don’t know that I...”

In the moonlight, his eyes looked moist.

“Michael. What’s wrong? What is it?”

He shrugged and something gruff came into his voice, a little forced, she thought. “Baby, things happened over there. You waited for me, but I didn’t wait for you. I was with ten, eleven prostitutes... Filipino girls mostly, plus a couple of nurses.”

She recoiled. “Why are you telling me that? You didn’t have to tell me that.”

He locked onto her eyes; his expression was hard but not unkind. “You need to know these things, so that you can understand that I’ve changed. I killed hundreds of Japs, Patsy Ann. Hundreds.”

“They’re the enemy.”

“Right. And I was side by side with Filipino Scouts who used to be our enemy, too. I’m not sorry I did it — it needed doing. A soldier does his duty... That’s what soldiers do, kill other soldiers.”

“Right...”

“But they were still people, Patsy Ann. And I killed them... You know the first thing I did when they let me out of St. Elizabeth’s Hospital?”

“No.”

“I took confession. I sought absolution for killing these people, only... I didn’t even know how many I killed. How many Hail Marys, do you suppose, for every fifty Japs?”

“Michael... it’s wartime...”

His eyes widened, and the one that wasn’t glass rolled. “That’s right!... but not here in this Saturday Evening Post cover, come alive. When I came here, what, ten years ago? I found this sheltered little world comforting. I... I had some experiences you don’t know about, ’fore I came here, when I was a kid.”

“You can tell me.”

“No I can’t. What I can tell you is, I lived here for ten years and I pretended that I was somebody I wasn’t. I pretended that those things never happened to me. That I was a normal kid, like you and your sister Betty and my pals Bobby and Jimmy and everybody else in this jerkwater town.”

“You don’t have to be cruel.”

“I don’t mean to be. But on Bataan, something happened: I sort of... woke up. Remembered who I was. And then today, tonight... I remembered something else.”

“What?”

His hands were on the steering wheel — as tight as if he were strangling someone. “I remembered that you can live in a town like this, and think you’re safe. And you’re not. Everything can get taken away from you, in an instant.”

“You’re scaring me, Michael.”

“I mean to. I still love you, Patsy Ann. But you need to know that I’m... having a little trouble. Sorting some things out.”

She touched his arm, tentatively. “That’s okay... I don’t care about those other women...”

He laughed harshly. “I tell you I slept with a dozen whores, and that I killed hundreds of men, and it’s the whores you forgive me for?”

She withdrew her hand. “Michael! Please! Stop...”

Again, the hard but not exactly cruel expression locked onto her. “Patsy Ann, if you love me, you’ll stay away from me. And because I love you, I will stay away from you.”

“Stay away...?”

“Not forever. Maybe just a few days. Maybe a few months. But I need time. Time to work this out.”

“I’ll help you work it out! Please let me—”

“No. You can’t help me with this. Do you believe I love you? That I still love you, and have since sophomore year?”

She leaned near him, almost close enough for them to kiss. “Of course I do. And you know that I love you, and that together we can face anything. If only we trust each other...”

“Then trust me — trust me that right now, at this moment, we are not right for each other.”

She began to cry; and the worst part was, he did not take her into his arms.

“Someday, maybe,” Michael said, raising his hand as if to brush away her tears, but stopping short. “Only, right now I’m not sure I’m fit company for any man... let alone, woman.”

And he got out of the car and walked away.

She clambered out onto the sidewalk, and the prettiest girl in town just stood there with tears smearing her makeup and snot glistening on her upper lip, and she cried, “Goddamn you, Michael Satariano! Goddamn you!”

But if he heard, he gave no indication, just walking down the tree-shaded sidewalk, until his silhouette blended with the dark.

Two

For as many times as Michael had accompanied Papa Satariano to Chicago, the Loop remained intimidating in its size and bustle and sprawl. Of course, to the Satarianos, Chicago meant the Near West Side of the Randolph Street Market and Little Italy, where twice a week Papa S. could buy wholesale his vegetables, fruit, virgin olive oil, spices, fish, sausages, ricotta, Parmesan, Romano and Provolone cheeses, and other supplies.

Despite the relative nearness of DeKalb, Michael had only been to Chicago a handful of times otherwise — a high school field trip to the Art Institute, and occasionally taking Patsy Ann to the theater or on some other special date.

Going down State Street the other day, seated on the back of a Cadillac convertible, waving at the cheering crowds, well-wishers surging toward him only to be held back by police, people hanging out of windows gesturing frantically as a snowfall of torn paper... from ticker tape and old phone books... cascaded down, that hadn’t seemed like Chicago. More like some bizarre dream, or nightmare...

Now, alone in the family’s 1936 blue Buick business coupe, Michael felt small as the great masonry buildings reflected off his windshield, magnificent structures ranging from would-be Greek temples to starkly functional modern tombstones. For a boy whose adolescence had mostly been spent in a small town, the crowded rectangle of the Loop — defined by the elevated tracks — seemed a cacophony of traffic roar and intermittent train thunder, a towering world of thronged sidewalks, mammoth department stores, and giant movie palaces.

The imprint of the war on the city made itself evident from buy bonds posters and service flags in storefront windows to horse-drawn wagons that mingled uncomfortably with autos, slowing traffic and providing the streets with an earthy sort of litter. The vehicles didn’t have the alphabet of ration stickers Michael had seen on the East Coast, but that would come soon enough. Women on the sidewalks — the city’s fabled wind exposing legs sans silk stockings — outnumbered men, at least those roughly in Michael’s age group, who when you did see them were often in uniform.

Michael’s destination was one of Chicago’s most impressive monuments to itself: the Federal Building. On Dearborn between Adams and Jackson, extending to Clark, the massive turn-of-the-century structure — an ornate cross-shaped edifice with a classical dome — served as the Midwestern administrative center of the US government.

Michael was in uniform, because he had been summoned to the Federal Building at the request of Captain McRae, the army public relations officer. Perhaps McRae had changed his mind about switching Michael’s military status to inactive duty; that was fine with Michael, as long as he was given something constructive to do — he had no intention of putting up with any more of this PR baloney. He was a soldier, not a flack.

He performed a minor miracle by finding a parking place on the street and headed inside. If Michael had felt small before, walking across the three-hundred-foot-high octagonal rotunda, his footsteps echoing like tiny ineffectual gunshots, made him feel infinitesimal. An eyeblink ago he’d been in a steamy jungle; now he was surrounded by polished granite, white and sienna marble, mosaics and gilded bronze.

As imposing as this rotunda had been, the federal facilities themselves proved to be a utilitarian cluster of offices, hearing rooms, and conference chambers. Michael checked the slip of paper on which he’d written his captain’s instructions, found the corresponding number on pebbled glass, and knocked.

“Come in!” a mellow male voice called.

Beyond the door, Michael found himself in a small one-room office facing a scarred wooden desk, behind which a man of perhaps forty sat in a swivel chair that was the cubbyhole’s most lavish touch. Filing cabinets hugged the left wall, and stacks of white cardboard boxes did the same at the right, stopping at a window whose whirring fan was aided by an afternoon that was fairly cool to begin with.

In one corner, right of the door, stood a hat tree on which a trenchcoat, dark gray fedora, and lighter gray suitcoat were neatly hung; in the other corner, a water cooler burbled. A single wooden chair faced the desk, waiting for Michael.

It was as if the young soldier had entered the office of the guidance counselor at DeKalb Township High.

A six-footer with alert gray eyes and a ready smile, Michael’s host — in a white short-sleeve shirt with a copper-colored tie — rose and extended across the desk a hand, which Michael shook, the grip firm but not overdoing it. The man’s boyishly handsome face — spade-shaped, faintly freckled — seemed just a trifle puffy. Overwork, Michael wondered, or maybe this was a drinking man?

Possibly both.

Michael had noticed this quietly affable fellow on the periphery of the events in Chicago a few days ago, when the mayor and various politicians and dignitaries had been making their Medal of Honor fuss in front of public and press. Just another vaguely official presence in a fedora and crisp suit and tie, the man had spoken in an intimate, whispering way with both Captain McRae and Governor Green.

Michael had picked up on this, but so much had been going on, it hadn’t really registered; the man had seemed familiar, but this was a fairly typical government sort, almost nondescript...

Now, close up, Michael had a sudden jolt of recognition, though he hoped it didn’t show.

“Please sit, Sergeant,” Eliot Ness said.

Michael Satariano had been named Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., the last time — the other times — he had seen Eliot Ness. And Michael had only been eleven years old.

The first instance had been in Chippiannock Cemetery, in Rock Island, Illinois, in the winter of 1931. Michael’s mother, Annie O’Sullivan, and his brother, Peter, were buried there. Michael’s father had gone to the cemetery, not only to visit the graves, but for a meeting with Ness, a federal agent working to take down Chicago gangster Al Capone.

Michael’s father had arranged the parley to turn over to the G-man key evidence against a crony of Capone’s — the patriarch of the Irish Tri-Cities mob, John Looney.

For a dozen years, Michael’s real father — Michael O’Sullivan, Sr. — had been the trusted right hand of Looney, who since the turn of the century ruled the Iowa/Illinois Tri-Cities. A hero in the Great War, the pride of the Irish immigrants of Rock Island, Michael’s father became like a son to Mr. Looney.

Unfortunately, Mr. Looney already had a son — Connor, or as some called him, “Crazy” Connor... having “Looney” as a last name apparently not sufficiently conveying the man’s homicidal hotheadedness. It was said Connor Looney resented O’Sullivan getting all the really important jobs, as if Old Man Looney were grooming the lieutenant for a greatness Connor considered his birthright.

When the O’Sullivan family had gone to the Looney mansion at Christmas, just before everything bad happened, the affection the old boy had for Michael’s father had been apparent. Looney and O’Sullivan had sung together, arms around each other’s shoulders, while Connor, lurking unhappily on the fringes, looked on.

And the O’Sullivans had benefited from the Looney association, no question. Next to Looney’s mansion itself, they had the nicest home in town, and the O’Sullivans owed their very good life in those very hard times to the patriarch.

Nonetheless, Michael’s father had kept Michael and his younger brother Peter — and their mother — as far away as possible from what the head of the house did for a living. O’Sullivan made it clear that certain questions were not to be asked, and that Mr. Looney’s munificence was to be respected and valued.

Michael and Peter would talk deep into the night, wondering what their papa did for Mr. Looney, exactly — and why Papa carried a gun — until, on a kind of dare, a few days after Christmas, young Michael stowed away in the backseat of Papa’s car, to spy on him, and see what kind of “missions” Papa was going on...

What Michael saw was his father and Connor Looney round up some men into a warehouse. Papa had a tommy gun (that’s what they called it in the movies, anyway), and it was like he and Connor were arresting the men. Curious, the lad had gone to a window of the warehouse to watch, despite a driving rain. He saw Connor Looney arguing with a man, and when the argument got nasty, Connor just... just... shot the man.

Murdered him!

The other men used the moment of confusion to go for their own guns, and Michael had witnessed his father emptying the machine gun, killing them all, empty shells raining down harder than the rain itself, and then Connor Looney caught a glimpse of young Michael in the window glass, peeking...

But Michael did not run.

He felt strangely guilty, whether for what he’d done or what his papa had done... after all these years, he still couldn’t say. And so, sitting in the pouring rain, like a naughty kid banished to a corner, he promised both his father and Mr. Looney’s son that he would never tell anybody anything about what he saw... and Connor Looney seemed to accept that.

A few days later, Mr. Looney sent Michael’s father on an “errand,” only the message O’Sullivan was delivering to another Looney associate named Lococo turned out to be O’Sullivan’s own death warrant. Not for nothing, though, had Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., earned the sobriquet “The Angel of Death”: the trap failed, Lococo and several of his underlings dying in the attempt.

While Michael’s father was supposed to be getting himself killed — and while Fate or perhaps God had seen to it that Michael was not home, rather at a church party — Connor Looney came to the O’Sullivan house and shot Michael’s mother, cold-bloodedly murdering her, then (mistaking Peter for the older boy) killing Michael’s brother, too.

Both O’Sullivan and Michael got home too late to do anything but grieve. They paid their respects to Mama and Peter, gathered their things, and slipped into the night. They would flee the Tri-Cities, but first O’Sullivan went looking for Connor and Mr. Looney, though all he found was a lot of Mr. Looney’s other soldiers and a lawyer who tried to make a deal. So O’Sullivan, Sr., declared war, leaving a trail of dead gangsters behind. And one dead lawyer.

That night they drove to Chicago; O’Sullivan had done work there for the top gangsters, who had an alliance with Mr. Looney. Michael’s papa talked to Frank Nitti (who was second only to Al Capone himself), pleading his case, asking that the Chicago people stay out of this personal matter, and offering to come work for them, when it was done.

When Nitti didn’t accept the offer, O’Sullivan declared war on Chicago as well, leaving a trail of dead Capone thugs throughout their Lexington Hotel headquarters.

It had been O’Sullivan’s intention to take his surviving son to the farm of an uncle and aunt outside Perdition, Kansas, for safekeeping; but with both the Looney and Capone forces after them, that became too dangerous, and father and son remained on the road. Eventually, at Chippiannock Cemetery, O’Sullivan was able to turn that key evidence over to Eliot Ness, which led to Looney’s arrest.

With the Looney operation no longer pumping cash into the Capone coffers, O’Sullivan decided to squeeze Chicago further by robbing rural banks where the syndicate kept its money. Young Michael was the getaway man, sitting on phone books, pumping pedals built up with blocks. He had a wonderful time, and grew closer to his sometimes remote father than he ever had before.

Finally Michael’s father worked out a deal with the Capone mob: he would cease looting their operations if they would hand over Connor Looney. On a rainy night in Rock Island, in the street in front of the Sherman Hotel, Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., took his revenge on Connor Looney.

And so, finally, Michael and his father reached the farm outside Perdition; but the Capone mob betrayed them: O’Sullivan was shot in the back, ambushed by a contract killer.

A moment later, Michael killed his father’s killer. He had killed once before on the road, defending his father and himself, and the only emotions the child felt had to do with his fallen father.

The boy had pulled himself together enough to drive his dying father, not to a hospital, but — at his father’s insistence — a church, where Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., gave his final confession and received his last rites.

Shortly after that, Michael, Jr., again saw Eliot Ness, who discreetly arranged for Michael to disappear into a Catholic orphanage in Downers Grove, Illinois.

As best Michael knew, his adoptive parents, the Satarianos, did not know of his true background; at least, there had never been any indication of such.

Memories flooding through him, Michael took the seat opposite Eliot Ness in the Federal Building cubbyhole office, doing his best to give nothing away.

“Sergeant,” Ness said, “I appreciate you dropping by. My name is Eliot Ness — I’m the director of the Division of Social Protection.”

Michael had no idea what that was. He said, “You needn’t thank me. I was ordered here by Captain McRae.”

“I wasn’t aware he’d made it an order. I’d hoped he’d indicate the voluntary nature of why I asked to see you.”

“I’m up for doing anything for the war effort — particularly if it doesn’t involve war bond rallies.”

Ness’s half-smile dug a dimple in one cheek. “I hate public speaking, myself. I’ve had people after me to run for office, for years... but I’m sure it would be a disaster.”

Michael shifted in his chair, just a little. “I believe I noticed you at the Fourth celebration in DeKalb. And the day before that, here in Chicago.”

“Yes. You did. You see, Sergeant, I’ve taken a kind of... interest in you.”

“Why is that, Mr. Ness?”

The half-smile bloomed into a full grin; but Ness’s eyes were hard. “Well, after all, Michael — we go back a long way.”

Michael said nothing.

“I recognized you from your picture in the papers,” Ness said. “You haven’t changed all that much — and to the degree you have, a resemblance to your father’s crept in.”

“Most people don’t think I look like Papa S. at all.”

Ness arched an eyebrow. “‘Papa S.’ That’s what you call him? Not just Papa?”

“Well...”

“Maybe that’s because he isn’t your real ‘papa,’ Michael. We both know that. I owed it to your father to make sure you were safe; I got you into that orphanage, and I kept a quiet eye on you.”

“You seem to do a lot from the sidelines.”

“These days, I do. Of course, I prefer being in the game... but this game? You succeed at all, they make you a damn administrator. Guys like you get to have all the fun.”

“Guys like me.”

“We’ll get into that. But it seems to me I owe you a few answers... that is, if you have any questions.”

Michael folded his arms. “The Satarianos — do they know who I am?”

“No. And don’t think I didn’t have a twinge when I discovered they’d adopted you. If I’d been on the scene, keeping closer tabs, I might even have interceded.”

“Why?”

“Your safety, for one. You grew up kind of close to Chicago, didn’t you? Considering who you are?”

“Back when my father and I were on the road, none of the Capone people ever saw me. My picture, maybe. Little kid picture.”

“And one little kid is pretty much like another... and then, of course, you sprouted up.”

“Listen, Mr. Ness, I... I realize I owe you a certain debt.”

Ness nodded. “You do. I’m the one who saw to it you went into an orphanage, not reform school. I talked the police into interpreting that crime scene in a way that indicated your father had killed his own killer — that you had nothing to do with it.”

“There were stories about us in the true detectives magazines,” Michael said. “And they always got that wrong.”

“That’s because no one likes to think that a kid could be a killer. But you’re your father’s son. And he taught you well.”

Michael’s eyes tensed. “Is that an insult?”

“No. But it’s not a compliment, either. Who you were... those months on the road with your father, learning to shoot, learning to kill, experiencing the euphoria of action... that was the school our nation’s first Medal of Honor winner graduated from.”

Michael said nothing.

Ness leaned forward. “Tell me it didn’t all come back to you, rushing back... Tell me in that jungle you didn’t wake up to who you are.”

“...So what if it did?”

Again Ness shrugged, gesturing dismissively. “You can’t help who you are, Michael. You can’t undo the qualities, good and ill, you were born with. And you can’t erase the things you experienced.” Now the G-man’s gaze hardened. “But you can channel them constructively.”

“War, for example?”

“When madmen are trying to steal the planet, yes — a man with your skills comes in handy.”

Michael laughed once, hollowly. “The army doesn’t want me, anymore. I have only one eye, remember, Mr. Ness?”

Ness pointed a finger. “Oh, but Uncle Sam still wants you, Michael... if you’re willing. And the job I have in mind, you should find very... satisfying.”

“I’m listening.”

Ness’s expression was somber as he said, “I need to know one thing, first. If you had an opportunity to do something about the people who killed your father, would you seek justice? Or revenge?”

Michael’s eyes tightened, and he sat forward; any sham coolness disappeared. “What?”

Ness rocked back; crossed his arms. “I’m talking about the Capone gang, Michael. Frank Nitti is still in charge, following the directives of Capone himself, who’s been calling the shots from his Palm Island mansion in Florida, ever since his release from Alcatraz in ’39.”

Capone... Al Capone... the man responsible for his father’s death...

Now Ness sat forward, eyes glittering. “And now for the first time, we have them on the ropes. We’re in a position to take them all down.”

“And... I can be part of this?”

“You haven’t answered my question, Michael. Justice, or revenge?”

“Well, justice,” Michael said.

“Good,” Ness said. “Good...”

For an hour, Ness filled Michael in about the current status of the Capone mob. They were “on the ropes” because an elaborate extortion scam, relating to their infiltration of various Hollywood movie unions, had unraveled; three major underlings were in custody. Investigations on both the East and West Coasts were under way, with a core group of honest cops helping on the Chicago front.

The movie scam had been one of several schemes Frank Nitti had undertaken to replace missing income after the repeal of Prohibition. Various union takeovers and, of course, gambling were among the other major mob moneymakers, but in particular, prostitution — brothels, roadhouses, strip joints — had come to the fore.

This was where Eliot Ness came in.

“Last March,” he said, “I resigned from my job as public safety director in Cleveland to take this on — it’s my way of fighting the war.”

The Division of Social Protection’s mandate was “safeguarding the health and morale of the armed forces and of workers in defense industries.” This included educational efforts, like films and pamphlets warning of the dangers of venereal disease; but primarily involved a law enforcement effort to cut back on prostitution in areas close to military and naval bases, as well as industrial areas.

Ness supervised the activities of twelve regional offices; but he had made the Chicago branch his “baby,” as it provided him with an opportunity to clean up some unfinished business.

“Al Capone was sentenced on tax evasion,” Ness said, “in this very building. We accomplished that with a two-pronged attack — my squad cut off the mob’s financial flow while the accountants fine-tooth-combed the books we seized.”

Shifting in his chair, keenly interested, Michael said, “And this is a two-pronged attack, as well? While the government prepares the movie extortion case, you hit Capone on prostitution?”

“Exactly right, Michael.” Ness leaned forward, hands folded prayerfully. “You and I might be settling up some old scores, here... but that’s just a bonus. We really would be fighting the home-front war.”

Ness laid it out. Chicago was the nation’s center for transportation; the Quartermaster Corps had its headquarters here. The Stevens Hotel had been converted to a military training facility and housing center for GIs in transit; the Chicago Beach Hotel was now a military hospital, Navy Pier a training facility, universities providing military training. Fort Sheridan, north of the city, remained an army training camp, and the navy had taken over Curtis Air Field.

The city’s industrial plants were converting heavily to war production, Pullman switching from train cars to aircraft, the Electromotive plant turning out tanks. The steel mills were working overtime, and a new Douglas Aircraft factory on the North West Side was producing frames for the C54 transport. The Grebe shipyards, near Riverview Amusement Park, were turning out subchasers.

“All of these locations are prey to prostitution,” Ness said. “And, when ration stamps hit the Midwest, we can assume the Capone boys will move into stealing and counterfeiting ’em; and black market meat will soon follow.”

“I’m convinced there’s a problem,” Michael said, “and an opportunity. But what role can one one-eyed soldier play?”

“A key one. You’re not Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., to the Capone mob. You’re Michael Satariano, the Italian American... a Sicilian boy, no less... who just won the Medal of Honor. Your heroism tells the public at large where Italian Americans stand on this war.”

“And how is that helpful?”

“Do I have to tell you the biggest problem I’m fighting isn’t social disease, but corruption? Mayor Kelly is in Capone’s pocket, and those legislators shaking your hand the other day? Mob shills. And then there’s the police — I have only a handful of local coppers I trust. I need a man on the inside, who can feed me information.”

Making sure he’d heard this correctly, Michael slowly said, “You want me to get hired by the Capone Outfit. To work for them.”

“And with them. Yes. It’s an undercover assignment, and it’s dangerous. Maybe not as dangerous as facing a hundred armed Japs... but dangerous enough.”

Michael was shaking his head, doubtfully. “Me being a war hero... maybe that gets me in to shake Frank Nitti’s hand. It doesn’t get me ‘inside.’”

“There’s a way. There is a way.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Your father, Michael.”

“...My father?”

“I mean, Papa S.”

“What about him?”

“Ask him to recommend you. Ask him to pave the way.”

“What, are you nuts?” Michael literally waved this notion off. “Papa S. is no mobster.”

“I didn’t say he was. But he is, in his small way, connected.”

“Connected? Little white-haired, chubby Papa? You’re out of your mind — I mean, no offense, but, hell—”

“Please. Just listen. Your ‘father’ opened his restaurant in 1924 in DeKalb, as a kind of front; Pasquale was a middle man between Chicago and farmers who provided the hops, malt, and corn needed for processing liquor.”

Michael said nothing. How could he protest, when he thought back on the core regulars at the restaurant: farmers who brought their families in once a week, and who spoke and joked warmly with Pasquale, like old friends...

“Prohibition was the plague that created the Capones and the Looneys,” Ness said. “And the Volstead Act taught honest people like Papa S. that breaking a stupid law like that might be a crime, but certainly no sin.”

“Maybe in the ’20s,” Michael allowed, again shaking his head in doubt. “I’m sure he has no contact with them, anymore.”

“Does Papa S. buy his produce and supplies in Chicago? The mob controls olive oil, fruits and produce, and tomato paste... just like they do gambling, dope, and prostitution.”

Silence filled the room, interrupted only by the whirring of the window fan.

“Now keep in mind,” Ness said, lifting a warning finger, “you may be asked by these people, even ordered to do things, that you can’t do. Break a law undercover, you’ve still broken a law.”

“I thought this was war.”

“There are wars, and there are wars. If you think you’ve gotten in over your head, for God’s sake swim to shore.”

“And if somebody like Frank Nitti tells me to commit a crime for him...?”

“You must... somehow... manage not to do it, without tipping your hand. That’s the hardest part of your assignment. You must seem to be one of them, without becoming one of them... Do you understand?”

Finally Michael said, “Am I being ordered to do this?”

“I told you — strictly volunteer. You’ll remain on active duty, and receive your pittance of a paycheck from Uncle Sam.”

“Who will know?”

“I will. So will Lieutenant William Drury — your police contact. And should both Drury and myself be eliminated by the Capone crowd, I’ll have left a sealed envelope with Governor Green, explaining everything.”

“Can he be trusted? You said those legislators were mob shills...”

Ness grinned. “Dwight Green prosecuted Scarface... I can show you the courthouse, downstairs. He helped me send Al Capone to Alcatraz.”

Just as you, Mr. Ness, Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., thought, will help me send Al Capone to hell...

Ness had been right.

Something had awakened in Michael in the jungles of Bataan. That war was lost to him — Captain Wermuth and General Wainwright, right now they were either dead or imprisoned by the Japanese, and out of Michael’s reach — nothing he could do for them.

But this old war, the Capone war, could still be waged... and won. After all these years, after all this time, the death of his father could be avenged. It might start in Chicago, but it would end in Miami, with Al Capone in Michael O’Sullivan, Jr.’s, gunsights.

Or his hands.

His father had put the squeeze on Capone; Michael would squeeze another way.

Michael stood and extended his hand to Ness, who rose, and again they shook, rather ceremoniously.

“Thank you, Michael.”

“Glad to help,” said the son of the Angel of Death.

Michael spoke to Papa Satariano after hours that evening, the help gone home, Mama finished in the kitchen and upstairs, Papa having tallied the till and locked up.

Pasquale’s Spaghetti House was larger than a hole in the wall... just. But while the distressed red-brick interior was narrow, the building went back as far as the alley, with a high decorative tin ceiling, which they’d painted out black a few years ago — Papa S.’s idea of remodeling.

Wooden booths with red cushions lined either wall, a scattering of round tables with red-and-white-checkered cloths between. High on the walls perched framed oil paintings, stripe-shirt gondoliers, and commedia dell’arte clowns, acquired by Papa S. at Little Italy street fairs.

The glassed-in area between the dining room and kitchen proper was where Papa and a handful of trusted employees — including Michael, ever since junior high — would toss pizza dough, and feed a hungry oven. The term “pizza” hadn’t caught on in the sticks, and on the menu Papa S. called his exotic specialty “tomato pie.” Some Chicago pizza parlors made a thick crust in a deep dish, but Papa S. provided a thin, crispy variety... and lots of entertainment for those lucky enough to have a seat near that window.

Mama S. did most of the other cooking, and she made the salads, but sauces were another of Papa S.’s bailiwicks. Between them, the smells of homemade-style Italian cooking permeated the place with a distinctive aroma the customers cherished; Michael, living upstairs, had formed his own opinion... though after a year in the Philippines, Michael now inhaled the familiar scents with something approaching delight.

At the moment, however, delight was not his state of mind. As he sat with Papa S., explaining what he wanted, what he needed, the old man’s obvious discomfort was second only to his own.

“These words,” Papa S. said, eyes tight behind wire-frame glasses. His face was round, his mustache white and well trimmed. “I hear them. They’re comin’ out your mouth, son — but they can’t be you.”

“They’re me, Papa.”

“‘Papa’ is it?” The old man snorted a laugh. “You do want this.” Now began the elaborate gestures, the singsong sarcasm. “Usually, it’s ‘sir,’ or ‘Papa S.’ — you always let me know that you know I’m not really your blood papa.”

“I never meant—”

Papa raised a palm. “It’s okay. You weren’t no foundling on our doorstep. We took you in as a grown young man. They told us you had a troubled past. We didn’t care. We loved you. We looked at you, and we loved you.”

Michael knew why. The Satarianos lost a son, ten years of age, to scarlet fever the year before they’d adopted him; pictures of the boy held more than a vague resemblance to Michael. Funny — he’d almost died of scarlet fever himself; but his father had nursed him to health, on the road.

When he’d found the photo album, with the pictures of the lost Antonio, Michael felt strange — as if he’d been chosen by the Satarianos for wrong reasons. He felt like a brown-and-white-spotted puppy picked to replace a dead brown-and-white-spotted dog.

Papa S. was saying, “But when you wanted somethin’, car keys, night off, advance pay, oh, then I was Papa, all right.”

The words were gruff, and even the tone; but the eyes behind the glasses remained kind. Papa S. couldn’t fool Michael. The man was a soft touch. Always had been. Particularly when his adoptive son called him Papa...

Michael leaned forward. “You dealt with these people over the years, didn’t you?”

Papa S. reared back. “Who says I did?”

“Oh, come on, Papa. You were the middleman between the Outfit and the farmers, right?”

“Gossip you’re believing now? What if I tell you I never had nothing to do with those kind of people.”

“Tell me, then.”

Papa S. said nothing. “I’m gonna get some coffee... You wanna pop or something?”

“Coke.”

Papa got up and lumbered off; he had bad corns, and there was more side-to-side motion than forward movement.

Soon Papa S. was handing a frosty bottle of Coke to Michael; then the old man sat and spooned three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee.

“Times was different, then,” Papa said softly, stirring, stirring. “Twenty, thirty years ago, we were like coloreds. We had no say, nobody to go to. We turn to the Unione Siciliano, because why? Because there was no place else. Colosimo and Torrio, they were the government to us.”

The same could have been said about the Irish in the Tri-Cities and the Looney mob, Michael knew. Funny — both his fathers had turned to the mob for the only fair shake available to them in America at that time. Only, Pasquale Satariano dealt in produce, and Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., had dispensed muscle.

“Why you wanna work for them, son?”

Michael shrugged, swigged the Coke. “They run a lot of restaurants and clubs. If I get in solid with them, maybe I can manage or own something of my own, someday.”

Papa S. gestured around them elaborately. “This’ll be your own, someday!”

“Not sure I want to stay in a small town, Papa. Big world out there.”

Black eyebrows rose. “You don’t think this world, this small-town world, is better than a buncha Japs shooting at your skinny behind?”

“You know as well as I do, a kid with a last name like mine needs connections in the big city. You’ve got them. All I ask is you share them with me.”

“Dangerous people to run with.”

Michael grinned. “Not as dangerous as a buncha Japs.”

A small smile curled under the mustache. “Throw my own words back at me. You’ve changed. Used to be, you were respectful.”

“I still am. I still appreciate everything you and Mama S. have done for me.”

“Mama S.,” the old man said, grunting it, making a sour laugh out of the words. “All she’s done for you is right. This would break her heart, she knew you were with the Mafiosi.”

“Don’t tell her, then.”

Papa S. just stared at him. Then he sipped the coffee. “We could say you’re doing war work in the city. Missions for the army. It’s... what do you say, confidential.”

“Yeah. That should do.”

“Top secret.”

“Right. Like your sauces.”

They smiled at each other.

But then Papa S.’s expression turned grave, and he shook his head. “You honor your country, your honor your family, then you turn around and—”

“I won’t dishonor you, Papa, or my country. You have to trust me in that.”

The old man leaned forward, his voice soft, pleading. “You don’t need to do this, son. With that medal, you can go through all kinda doors. Even with our last name. You’re the first, the very first, Medal of Honor winner! Do you know the pride that swells in my chest?”

“I do know. And I appreciate that, Papa. But you have to do this for me.”

Papa S. studied Michael, who did not avert the gaze, in fact held it.

Then the old man said, “I’ll do this thing for you.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

“Because I love you. Because your mama loves you. And you... you appreciate us.”

The old man stood, and the light hit his eyes; tears were pearled there. Turning away, moving in that shuffling side-to-side gait, Pasquale Satariano headed toward the rear of the building, to the stairs to their living quarters. Michael thought about going to the old man and putting his arm around him and saying, “I love you, Papa, I really do.”

But he didn’t — he didn’t go to the old man, and he didn’t love him, either.

Respected, admired, appreciated him, yes. Adored, venerated, prized Mama S., yes. Not love.

Since the deaths of his parents and brother over ten years ago, Michael had made it a point not to love anybody; puberty had double-crossed him where Patsy Ann was concerned, but that had been his only slip.

No, Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., had never allowed himself to love the Satarianos.

And it was too late to start now — now that an old hatred had renewed itself to fill him with new purpose.

Three

At the turn of the century, the ten-story Hotel Lexington at Twenty-second Street and South Michigan had been among Chicago’s most stellar. The imposing hotel — with its turreted corners and bay windows and lofty lobby — had played host to President Grover S. Cleveland when he came to town to open the Columbian Exposition in 1893.

But since 1928, the Lexington had become better known for playing host to Al Capone, who controlled the Century of Progress Exposition in ’33. For many years the Capone organization monopolized the third, fourth, and fifth floors, the latter reserved for women who serviced the mobsters and their guests. A ten-room suite on the fourth had been Capone’s — his living quarters and his offices, supplanted with hidden panels, moving walls, and silent alarms.

After Snorky (as Capone’s intimates referred to him) was sent away by feds like Eliot Ness and Elmer Irey, the Outfit (as they were locally known) scaled itself back, assuming a more low-key posture in the community, their presence at the Lexington lessening considerably. Subtracting Capone’s former living quarters, the suite of offices on the fourth floor was halved, the third and fifth floors long since returned to the hotel for its own devices.

As Frank Nitti walked across the black-and-white mosaic tile floor of the Lexington, a pair of bodyguards fore and aft, he found the grand old hotel looking sadly long in the tooth. The overstuffed furnishings were threadbare, the potted plants neglected; only the mob’s cigar stand, which was also a bookie joint, seemed prosperous.

Nitti much preferred to do business out of his suite at the Bismarck Hotel, conveniently across from city hall and footsteps away from the Capri Restaurant, out of which he also worked; the Lexington had outlived its usefulness (of course, as the gangster knew all too well, some might say the same about Frank Nitti).

At five eight, Nitti was smaller than all four men accompanying him. He wore no hat, his hair well-trimmed, slicked back, parted at the left, touched with gray at the temples; average of build, he did not appear physically imposing, though he took confident strides. In the perfectly tailored gray suit with the dark gray tie, he looked like the smooth business executive he was, albeit one with a roughly handsome face, lower lip flecked with scar tissue, eyes dark and alert. He was not carrying a gun. The bodyguards were.

The impeccable grooming of the small, dapper man still known to many as the Enforcer reflected a former profession: barber. He had cut hair and provided close shaves in his cousin Alphonse Capone’s old neighborhood in Brooklyn, in the early ’20s. Occasionally he had not shaved but cut a throat, and — imported to Chicago by Al as a bomber and assassin — Nitti had earned respect for cold-blooded violence, though his rise in the Outfit was due more to his business brains and organizational skills.

Appointed by Capone as chairman of the board, for the duration of Snorky’s prison term, Nitti had avoided the headline-provoking brutality of his chief; he had ruled calmly and fairly, and no turf wars to speak of had broken out during his tenure. He considered himself a captain of industry, and had replaced bootlegging with unionism.

Yet here he was, still holding court in the infamous Lexington, whose art-moderne aura spoke of the ’20s and ’30s, not the ’40s, not today. But wasn’t that the point? The psychological link to the old days — to Al — that the suite of offices on the fourth floor represented could not be underestimated. And anyway, his Bismarck suite did not include a boardroom.

Half an hour later, Nitti sat at the head of the long well-polished table; several pitchers of iced water were positioned around, and glass ashtrays for the various cigars and cigarettes of Nitti’s five guests, who took up only half of the available seats. The room was air-conditioned and, like so many late associates of the men at this table, well-ventilated.

On the wall behind Nitti were three oil paintings, two of which had been in Al’s office in the old days: George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. The third, over a fireplace whose mantel was decorated by various civic awards for their absent leader’s philanthropy in the Depression, loomed a distinguished three-quarters view of Capone himself — without his trademark Borsalino, his scars hidden from view.

Seated at the long dark-oak table were five of the top Outfit capos in Chicago.

At Nitti’s right hand sat Paul Ricca — pale, thin, white-haired, with high cheekbones, long narrow nose, and slash of a mouth in a placid expression belied by dark dead eyes; he wore a crisp brown suit and a blood-red tie, and smoked a cigarette. Nicknamed “the Waiter,” after a profession he had rarely ever pursued (other than when filling in “occupation” on a form), Ricca had been Capone’s bodyguard and was now Nitti’s underboss.

Ricca was famous for killing two guys in Sicily, going to prison for it, then on the day he got out, killing the eyewitness. Theoretically Nitti’s top aide, the Waiter (the Enforcer knew all too well) was angling for the top chair.

Next to Ricca sat Charlie Fischetti — stocky, white-haired, handsome, as impeccably attired as Nitti in his own gray suit and a hand-signed Salvador Dalí necktie. Fischetti, one of three brothers in the Outfit, oversaw gambling and nightclubs. Nitti trusted Fischetti, who agreed about the need to move into legitimate concerns, encouraging mob investment on Wall Street and in Texas oil.

At Fischetti’s right was slender, perpetually smirky Murray Humphreys, in charge of labor unions, cleaning plants, and laundries; Humphreys was also a master fixer of politicians. Another spiffy, dashing gangster, Murray the Camel was the Outfit intellectual: he’d graduated high school. The only non-Sicilian at the table... in fact, the only Welshman in the Outfit,... Hump was valued by all, despite his outsider’s inability to become a “made” man.

On the other side of the table, at Nitti’s left, sat Louis “Little New York” Campagna, the Enforcer’s most trusted associate, a short blocky man in an off-the-rack brown suit, with cold dark eyes in a lumpy mashed-potatoes face with perpetual five o’clock shadow. Imported from NYC in ’27 by Al himself, Campagna handled enforcement for Nitti — from those personal bodyguards who’d come up with him in the elevator, to any points that needed making related to any of their business concerns.

Next to Campagna sat Tony Accardo, a roughneck dubbed Joe Batters by Capone for the thug’s abilities with a baseball bat (off the diamond, of course). A big man with an oval face, sad eyes crowding a bulbous nose, Accardo wore a blue suit and lighter blue tie, nothing fancy but nicely respectful, coming from a guy who preferred sportshirts and slacks. In addition to running West Side gambling, Accardo was often called upon by Campagna for heavy stuff.

Despite the long table and the boardroom trappings, this was not a meeting of the “board.” Around ten gangsters had gambling territories (like Accardo’s) and numerous other Outfit associates had varied responsibilities — Capone’s look-alike brother Ralph (“Bottles”) took care of soft drinks and tavern supplies; Eddie Vogel had the slots, cigarette machines, and vending machines; Joe Fusco had liquor distribution (legal, now); and Jake Guzik remained treasurer. Seldom were all these figures gathered at once.

But these five were key players, and Frank Nitti had summoned them because he had important business to discuss.

“You heard Ness is in town,” Nitti said.

“Fuck Ness,” Accardo said, and there were nods and grunts of agreement, all around.

Ricca, his gaze on the cigarette in his fingers, said, “Guy’s a joke. Got run out of Cleveland on a rail.”

Fischetti, gesturing with a cigarette-in-holder, demurred. “Ness was effective for many years in that town. Just ask Moe Dalitz. He was crimping the style of the Mayfield Road boys right up to the end.”

“But the point,” Ricca said, without looking at Fischetti, or anyone else for that matter, “is Mr. Big Shot has reached the end... Jerkoff gets drunk and slams his car into somebody else’s, and then doesn’t report it? You or me, we’d be in stir for that. Hit and run, pure and simple.”

Humphreys said, “As amusing as the notion of an alcoholic prohibition agent may be, my understanding is Mrs. Ness was driving, and she was injured and he rushed her to the hospital. After checking on the other motorist.”

Now Ricca cast his hard gaze on Humphreys, and to the Hump’s credit, the man did not look away. “Ness resigned in disgrace,” Ricca said. “He’s nothing now. Not a danger to nobody.”

Finally Nitti spoke, softly, reasonably; he had just lighted up a cigar and gestured with it, nonthreateningly. “I disagree, Paul. It’s exactly because Ness had to resign in disgrace that he’s dangerous to us.”

Ricca waved a dismissive hand.

Accardo asked, “Why’s that, Frank?”

Nitti’s eyes darted from face to face. “Does anybody disagree with Hump about Ness’s performance in Cleveland? Just about the best in the country; drove our friends outa there — cleaned up the police force, caused trouble with the unions, with the numbers racket. Gotta hand it to him.”

“He’s a relic, Frank.” Ricca’s gaze, cool now, settled on Nitti... tellingly. “He’s one of them people you hear about that don’t know when their time is up.”

Nitti frowned at the narrow-faced gangster. “You think Ness’s time is up, Paul? He’s a fucking fed again!”

“Yeaaah,” Rica said, sneering. “Makin’ sure our boys in the armed forces know that sex is bad for ’em. A dick policin’ dicks — what a joke.”

“No joke.” Nitti looked around at them, and all eyes and ears were his, with the exception of Ricca’s. “Is there anyone in this room who doesn’t think Al would be sitting where I am, if it wasn’t for Ness?”

“Ness was only one of a dozen,” Ricca said, and slapped the air dismissively.

“A dozen that included Dwight Green, currently governor of our fair state,” Nitti said. “So Ness will have allies. Even a few cops, like Drury. Still, Paul, you’re right — Ness is down. He’s on his damn knees.”

“Blowin’ GIs,” Ricca said.

Everyone smiled at that. But Nitti.

Who said, “No one’s more dangerous than a champ who’s just come up off the canvas, looking for an opening. How does Ness rehabilitate himself, do you think? How does he get his good name back?”

“He doesn’t,” Ricca said quietly.

Nitti continued: “He returns to the site of his first, most famous victory. He looks at the Capone mob. And he knows that if he can bring us down, he’s back on top.”

“Not going to happen,” Ricca said.

“I know it isn’t.” Nitti slapped the table and everyone, even Ricca, jumped a little. “Because as of today, we’re shutting down all prostitution around military installations and defense plants.”

Ricca half-rose. “What the fuck?”

And everyone else at the table seemed stunned.

“Sit, Paul.” Nitti motioned at the air with both hands, cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Sit. I’ll explain...”

“Explain! You know what kinda income that brings in, Frank? Are you nuts?”

“Watch what you say, Paul — I do speak for Al.”

Ricca frowned; smoke curled upward from his cigarette between fingers. “You talked to him about this?”

“Through intermediaries. You know I don’t dare speak on the phone with Al — fucking federal wiretaps. But I’m scheduling a meet for a couple weeks from now, in Miami.”

Ricca, eyes tight, sat forward. “I want to talk to Al.”

“You know that’s impossible.”

Both Capone and Nitti had homes in Florida; and meetings between them were fairly frequent. But because of law enforcement surveillance, the policy was that nobody visited Capone but Nitti himself.

Ricca was shaking his head, boiling.

Frowning, Fischetti said, “I’m afraid I’m with Paul on this one, Frank. How can we shut something down that’s so lucrative?”

“We won’t shut it down, not entirely. Just the whorehouses — the wide-open brothels. We’ll leave the strip clubs alone... good healthy fun for our boys in the armed forces. And we’ll have understandings with the girls that if they take the boys home, well, we get our cut.”

“Just no houses,” Fischetti said, eyes tight with thought, starting to slowly nod.

“Right. No madams. No joints that can be raided. We’ll also set up call girls, big-ticket lookers; put ’em in hotels, nice ones.”

Ricca still seethed, but the others seemed to be coming around.

“Boys,” Nitti said, and he gestured with both hands, palms up, “we’re businessmen. We’re part of the community.” He motioned toward the awards on the mantelpiece. “Al was beloved — he gave to charity, he set up soup kitchens and homeless shelters. Town loved him. Why?”

Accardo said, “’Cause they was fuckin’ thirsty.”

Everyone but Ricca laughed.

“Exactly right,” Nitti said. “They was fuckin’ thirsty. Nobody thought Al was a bad man for helping the average guy buy a beer after work. We didn’t have a public relations problem till St. Valentine’s Day, and even Al admits that was a mistake. What did we learn? Don’t stir up the heat!”

“People also get hungry,” Ricca said, “for a whore. No difference. Appetites, either way.”

“Big difference,” Nitti said, shaking his head. “If we stay with our wide-open houses, Ness will crucify us in the press. We’ll look like we’re undermining the war effort. Hell, we’re already a bunch of Italians, ain’t we? You wanna be on a wanted poster next to Mussolini?”

“Awwww,” Ricca said, and waved at nothing.

But Fischetti was thinking out loud: “You mean, we need to worry about how we look. To the public. We give ’em gambling, we’re pals, helpin’ ’em unwind. We give GI Joe the syph, we’re a buncha un-American dagos.”

“Now,” Nitti said, pleased, “you’re thinking like a businessman.”

“Sex is good business,” Ricca said coldly.

“It is. So we have the strip clubs, and arcades, on the low end; call girls on the high end. But no brothels. If the public sees us as whoremongers, we’re finished. Ness will make us look like traitors... and himself a hero.”

Ricca turned his dead gaze onto Nitti. “We just invested in that packing plant, and that slaughterhouse. You gonna close that down? Black-market meat, that unpatriotic, too, like fucking a whore?”

“Fucking isn’t unpatriotic, Paul; pimping is. And I’m all for the black-market meat business. It’s bootlegging all over again. People will love us for giving them what they crave. Same with ration stamps, when they start up — counterfeit or stolen.”

Accardo said, “And anyway, it’s the whores that are Ness’s beat, right?”

This got an unintentional laugh, including both Ricca and Nitti.

“That’s right,” Nitti said. “We don’t want to play into that prick’s hands. We made him a star once — we ain’t gonna do it twice.”

Ricca said, “This is immediate, this shutdown? I thought you was gonna wait till you talked with Al.”

“You’re right, Paul. For now, we stay open; but we start plannin’ pulling out... so to speak.”

Again, smiles all around.

The discussion of the brothel situation was followed by updates on the Hollywood union case. Ricca reported that the feds were offering Willie Bioff, George Browne, and Nicky Dean reduced sentences if they spilled. So far all three were sitting tight in the federal pen. But everybody at the table was unnerved by the government coming down on them.

“Problem like this makes Ness look like the nothing he is,” Ricca said.

“All the more reason,” Nitti said, “not to give the feds anything else on us.”

With the meeting dismissed, Nitti gave Campagna a look that said, Stick around, while Ricca approached.

“I meant no disrespect,” Ricca said, shaking Nitti’s hand; Ricca’s grasp was like holding a dead fish. “I will honor Al’s wishes on this.”

When Ricca was gone, Campagna said, “Al’s wishes. Not yours.”

“Al is the boss.”

“The boss in Miami. The boss in exile. You run Chicago, Frank.”

“Not if Ricca gets his way... My office, Louie.”

They walked down the hall and into the office through the reception area; though his secretary was still at her desk, Nitti’s waiting room was otherwise empty. At one time the chairs lining the walls would have been filled with crooked politicians and shady businessmen, waiting for a few precious minutes of Nitti’s time; but Nitti conducted his business in a more discreet fashion, now — either one-on-one, at the Bismarck suite, or working through intermediaries.

The spacious wood-paneled office, lavishly appointed, might have been a La Salle Street broker’s. Another portrait of Capone (in hat and coat with cigar) hung over another fireplace. Nitti settled in behind a desk no larger than a Lincoln Continental. Behind him was a window with a view onto the South Side of Chicago, long the Capone empire; the swivel chair in which he sat had been Al’s as well, a gift from the Chicago Heights boys, its back bullet-proofed.

Campagna, comfortable with his chief, fetched from an icebox a bottle of milk and poured Nitti a chilled glass (ulcers) and then got himself a bourbon on the rocks from the liquor cart. The loyal, lumpy-faced little killer settled into the leather-padded visitor’s chair across from Nitti, who had his feet up on the desk, rocked back in the swivel chair, sipping his milk thoughtfully.

“How big a problem,” Nitti asked, “do we have with Ricca?”

“Big,” Campagna said.

“Who can I trust?”

“Probably everybody but Ricca.”

“Who for sure?”

“...Me.”

“You know, the Waiter’s been lining himself up with those hothead kids from the Patch. This Giancana, Mooney they call him? He’s got a screw loose.”

“He ain’t the only one. DeStefano makes Mooney look normal. Mad Sam, they call him.”

Nitti sipped his milk. “Isn’t DeStefano a solid juice man?”

“Yeah, the best. Who ain’t gonna pay up a guy that’d feed ya your nuts, parboiled?”

Nitti nodded; this was a good point. “All these wild youngsters, Ricca’s got ’em in his pocket. Couple are on my staff.” He frowned. “Louie, can we trust these bodyguards?”

“Far as it goes. Frank, always comes down to, these guys kill people for money. Allegiance ain’t what it used to be.”

Nitti shook his head. “And in these times, we should have that. We should pull together. Tell you the truth — my preference is, we stay out of the black market. I think it is unpatriotic. But I couldn’t go that far. Didn’t dare.”

Campagna nodded. “Good call, Frank. Nixing the whore houses was drastic enough.”

Nitti sighed. He took his feet off the desk and leaned on his elbows. “What I’d give for a reliable goddamn bodyguard.”

“You got me, Frank.”

“You’re too valuable for flunky work, Louie. I wouldn’t insult you.”

“It’d be an honor.”

“Louie... I wish I had a hundred of you.”

“My ma says, when they made me? Broke the mold.”

“Your ma is right, Louie.”

Campagna looked at his watch. “Listen, in about half an hour, that kid’s comin’ around. That war hero?”

Nitti straightened. “Well, I look forward to that. Congressional Medal of Honor. And he’s Sicilian! Now somebody like him, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

Campagna shrugged. “Hey, well... his old man says he wants to work for us.”

“That’s this fella... Pasquale Satariano?”

“Right. In DeKalb. He was our guy with the farmers. Sweet old Mustache Pete kinda goombah. He makes a gravy worth drivin’ out there for.”

“I couldn’t do that, could I?”

“Drive out there?”

“Involve somebody like that, in our thing?”

“The war hero kid?” Campagna shrugged. “I dunno. Up to you. Up to him. Why don’t you ask him?”

And that’s what Nitti did, but not at first.

Stiff and polite in a dark brown suit with a brown-and-yellow tie, the young man sat where earlier Campagna had. Campagna was standing over by the fireplace now. Nitti offered the boy a drink, and he requested a Coke; said he didn’t drink liquor. Nitti liked that, considered heavy drinking among his people bad for business.

It also made him feel comfortable and unselfconscious, having a glass of milk in front of the kid.

“You honor us,” Nitti said, and saluted him with the glass of milk. “You honor Sicilians like us. You honor Americans like us. God bless you, Michael Satariano. And God bless America.”

Michael toasted Nitti back, with the glass of Coke, and then said, “You were a great friend to my father.”

“Your father, Pasquale, he was valuable to us. We still consider him one of us. I understand you’d like a job.”

The boy sat forward, his expression earnest. “I would. You see, I lost an eye in combat, so I can’t serve anymore. And, frankly, after a year in the Philippines, going back to work at my father’s spaghetti house... well, it seems a little dull. Tossing pizza dough.”

“Noble profession. Don’t knock it, son.”

“I respect my father. And I think someday I’d like to be in that business... roughly speaking.”

“Roughly, how?”

The boy shrugged. “A bigger restaurant, even a chain. Nightclub... or clubs. Not just a hole-in-the-wall in a little college town.”

“You’re ambitious.”

“I’d like to be somebody, sure. That’s the American dream; it’s what we’re fighting for... Just look at what you’ve accomplished, Mr. Nitti.”

“Nothing, compared to you, son.”

“I’m young, Mr. Nitti. I crave work that’s challenging. That might even have a little... excitement to it.”

Nitti studied the kid. Michael Satariano had such a sweet, almost angelic face, though the dark eyes were unfathomable. This young man had killed over a hundred Japs. That was more kills than all the Mooneys and Mad Sams put together.

Then something flashed through Frank Nitti’s mind; something jarring — this kid reminded him of someone. Years ago, another killer had sat across from him at this desk and offered his services: O’Sullivan, the Angel of Death. How Nitti wished he’d taken the man up on his offer, that he’d stood aside and allowed O’Sullivan to kill the Looneys.

In that case, O’Sullivan would have come to work for Nitti; would have been Frank Nitti’s loyal enforcer. A smart man, tough but not ruthless, and the bravest son of a bitch who’d ever walked the earth. How Nitti wished O’Sullivan were alive and at his right arm now, an ally as reliable as Campagna and ten times as valuable.

And here was another young killer, a Sicilian boy from the sticks with a vague resemblance to that long-dead Irish hitman. Funny — Nitti had the strange feeling he was getting a second chance...

“If you came to work for me,” Nitti said, “the law you would answer to would be our law. Al Capone’s law.”

“Mr. Nitti, I know all about killing the enemy. Just point the way.”

Nitti almost laughed. This sweet kid... and yet he knew from the newspapers what this young man was capable of.

“Can you drive, with one eye?” Nitti asked.

“With one eye and two arms and two feet, sure.”

“I could use a bodyguard. A loyal man who would die for me. Who would, as you say, kill for me.”

“I’m that man, Mr. Nitti.”

Nitti glanced at Campagna, who shrugged; but Louie was smiling. He, like Nitti, was amused and impressed.

“Do you have a place to stay?” Nitti asked.

“No. I came up from DeKalb. I can’t really commute, with gas rationing coming. Anyway, I’d prefer to live in town.”

“We’ll put you up at the Seneca Hotel. Lot of our people live there.”

Nitti rose. Extended his hand across the expanse of the desk.

The Enforcer and the war hero shook, after which the latter found five hundred-dollar bills left behind by the former.

“Anything else you need?” Nitti asked.

“Not that I can think of,” Michael said. “Oh!... A shoulder holster would be nice.”

Four

The “Calumet” of Calumet City, Illinois, derived from the French word for the peace pipe once used by the Indians in these parts, long since displaced by the white people they’d bargained with. Finding something interesting to smoke in wide-open Calumet City these days would likely not be a chore. You could turn up just about anything illegal and entertaining, in this residential outgrowth of Hammond, Indiana, a (mostly) quiet hamlet of twelve thousand souls.

Quiet was how Michael Satariano, at the wheel of a ’39 Ford Deluxe coupe, found the forty-minute drive from the Loop. Tooling down Torrence Avenue about dusk, he’d had a pleasant of intermittent conversation with his companion, Louie Campagna, passing on one side of the road swimmers and boaters on Lake Calumet, and on the other side a geometric gray expanse of industry, steel mills, oil refineries, chemical works, and fertilizer factories, all disgorging dirty clouds steadily into the sky.

Then as they neared Calumet City, open spaces with wild grass greeted them, prairie land suggesting they were indeed about to enter the Wild West.

“You know, kid,” Campagna said at one point, after a long silence, “Mr. Nitti likes you.”

“Yeah?”

“You come along at a good time for the both of you — there’s people who’d like to see Frank retire, the hard way. So somebody he can trust, like you... it’s a Godsend.”

“That’s generous of you, Louie.”

“Hey. Just sayin’, keep your nose clean, please the boss, every reason to think you could go places.”

Four days had passed since Frank Nitti had hired Michael as a chauffeur-cum-bodyguard. Nitti had dismissed his other bodyguards — at least the daytime crew — and occasionally Michael was joined by Campagna in duties that consisted primarily of driving Nitti here and there, and sitting outside or sometimes inside one of the crime boss’s offices.

Nitti worked out of the Bismarck Hotel more than the Lexington, Michael soon learned; and, on nearby North Clark, held court in a booth at the Capri Restaurant. Nitti’s home in suburban Riverside was the final stop on Michael’s route. Nitti, whose wife of many years had died last year, had recently remarried, and the home was a new purchase; he had a nine-year-old son.

Campagna had commented on that, too: “He worshipped Anna.” That was Nitti’s first wife. “Hit him hard, last year... he was depressed as hell. And some people took advantage of that. But Frank’s coming on strong again. Comin’ on strong.”

Occasionally other stops were made during Michael’s daily tour of duty as Nitti’s driver, as when the ganglord sat down for a powwow with Outfit treasurer Jake Guzik, an obese creature who apparently worked strictly from a perpetually food-filled table at St. Hubert’s English Grill, near the Union League Club. Like any executive, Frank Nitti spent his time in meetings and on the phone — that the men he met with were frequently on various public enemies lists did not change the mundane nature of things.

Nitti was friendly but preoccupied, and in four days perhaps ten sentences had been exchanged between employer and new employee... until late this afternoon, when the Enforcer had summoned Michael to sit beside him on a couch in the white-appointed, gold-trimmed Victorian-looking presidential suite at the Bismarck.

“So much for challenging work, right, kid?” Nitti said good-naturedly. He was drinking milk. An attractive colored maid had provided Michael with a Coca-Cola on ice, already established in the Outfit as the war hero’s drink of choice.

“Beats tossing pizza dough,” Michael said, the nearness of Nitti unnerving him.

“But soldiering is like that, right? Hurry up and wait? Nothing happens, nothing happens, nothing happens... then bang, all hell breaks loose.”

“Is it about to?”

Nitti laughed, patted Michael on the leg. “I just wanted to watch you for a few days. Let you get used to me, so’s you could see how things go around here.”

“And size me up a little?”

“And size you up a little... Ready for a real job?”

“Give the orders, Mr. Nitti. I’ll carry them out.”

Nitti rested the milk glass on a nearby coffee table, on a coaster, then shifted on the couch, his arm on the back of the sofa; the intimate nature of the conversation should have made Michael feel more relaxed, and didn’t.

“You see, Michael, because you’re Sicilian, you have the potential to go a long way. Hey, don’t get me wrong — we ain’t biased against nobody. A good earner is a good earner. You met Guzik the other day — he’s a Jew, but what the hell do we care? He’s smart, so he’s one of our top people.”

“That’s the American way,” Michael said, hoping no irony showed through.

“It is. It’s what you fought for. Still, blood is blood, and we Sicilians run this business. To be more than an errand boy, though, you need to be a ‘made’ man.”

“I don’t understand.”

Nitti shrugged. “Here again, it’s a blood thing. When you’ve taken a life, in the line of duty, you’ll be in a position to be made. Invited inside. It’s that simple.”

“Who do you want me to kill?”

Nitti sat there, frozen, for a few moments, then said, “Kid, I was just... filling you in. You understand, we don’t attract heat no more. One of the reasons Al had to go away was he attracted heat. Too many shootings on public streets, in the subway, red splashed all over the headlines.”

“Sounds like it’s hard to get ‘made,’ then.”

“It may take time. Years. But we’re not the Cub Scouts. Now and then, here and there, the knife and the gun, we turn to them. There are disloyal people who have to be... weeded out. There are scores that need to be settled, examples that need to be made. We’re just more discreet about it than in Al’s heyday.”

“How does Mr. Capone feel about retirement? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Nitti shook his head. “He’s not retired, kid. He’s still the boss. I run things, but with his approval. Don’t ever forget that.”

“I won’t.”

“Now... Like I was sayin’, I do have a little job for you. It could get rough... I don’t think so, but it could, and it’s possible things might get messy.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Any case, Louie will be there to back you up. Also, we have the local cops in our pocket, so even if things get good and goddamn messy, you’re in the clear. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“You have to go in strong, because this is one of those set-an-example deals I was talkin’ about. You ever hear of a guy called Ness?”

“No,” Michael said.

“Think back — it was in all the papers maybe ten years ago, early ’30s.”

“I was just a kid, then. Reading the funnies was my speed.”

Nitti grinned; he had large teeth, very white, and Michael wondered if they were real. “Well, if you was readin’ Dick Tracy, you were close: Ness was one of the feds that got Al on income tax charges; he’s a raider type... likes to bust up and confiscate property. Costly prick. But dedicated and smart.”

“You want me to threaten him? Hurt him?”

“No! Jesus, kid. Settle down.”

Nitti explained to Michael that he’d decided to curtail prostitution activities, to head off Ness’s vice efforts. But Calumet City — the wide-open little town owned by the Outfit, which catered to servicemen and defense plant workers — was going to be a problem.

“Our partners there,” he said, “are kinda cowboys. Whole damn town is like Dodge City or Tombstone or some shit. And I have sent word that the brothels are to be shut down... I’ve made it clear that the strippers can still strip, and can still negotiate fun and games with customers.”

“Isn’t that prostitution, too?”

“Yeah, but untraceable to us. B-girls, hostesses, not a problem. A lotta girls live in Cal City, and can take guys home to their places, what’s the harm, who’s to know? But the out-in-the-open whorehouses, they gotta be shuttered.”

“Which these cowboys don’t want to do?”

Nitti’s smirk was disgusted and humorless. “No. Worst of them is a pipsqueak called Frank Abatte. Owns a dozen clubs in Cal City, with us as silent partners, of course. Does just fine with gambling, so he’ll make do without the broads. Problem is, he thinks he’s the boss of Cal City.”

“You’d like me to point out that he isn’t.”

“If you would, Michael. Now, Abatte’s got his own crew — couple lads called Vitale and Neglia, both killers, and they can be triggerhappy... You sure you’re up for this?”

“Piece of cake,” Michael said.

Louie provided the details, explaining a lot about how Calumet City worked, along the way. The Outfit controlled the town in part because Cal City was in Cook County, but also by political clout. The bartenders, entertainers, taxi drivers, tavern owners, gamblers, prostitutes, strippers, bouncers, and so on all lived right there in Calumet City, the riffraff outnumbering the better element.

But even some of the better element voted along with the riffraff, since the sinful two blocks at the extreme northeastern part of town, nudging the Indiana state line, paid the lion’s share of the city’s taxes by way of high license fees.

This kept property taxes down for those who lived in the neat crackerboxes with well-tended lawns on the intersecting streets of this typical small American town with its city hall, stores, library, and churches. The police? Mostly ex-employees of the joints, who spent their time trying not to run over drunks in the town’s four patrol cars. The number of Cal City saloons: 308. The number of Cal City cops: fourteen.

Night had fallen by the time Michael and Campagna reached Calumet City’s State Street; the sky to the north blazed red, courtesy of the steel mills, which complemented the street’s own scarlet hue, countless relentless neons washing the world garish shades of red and yellow and orange. It was as if the city were on fire, names screaming out of the conflagration: Rainbow, Ron-da-voo, 21 Club, Playhouse, Show Club, Club Siesta, Oasis, Rip Tide.

Wasn’t quite nine and things hadn’t started to hop yet, the sidewalks populated but not thronged; uniforms from every branch of the service could be spotted as well as the rough faces and leather and denim jackets of mill and factory workers.

These were ordinary storefronts that had been converted into saloons and clubs, and most had big picture windows through which the activities within — sometimes a little band tearing it up, or comic telling jokes, but also strippers working runways — could be glimpsed as a come-on.

Michael prowled down the street in the Ford, the electric fire reflected on the windshield and bathing both their faces; finding a parking place here was tougher than downtown Chicago.

Campagna pointed out a spot in front of a fire hydrant, and Michael obediently pulled in.

“We don’t pay any kinda fine in Cal City,” Campagna said, getting out into the neon noon.

Campagna wore a wide-lapeled gray suit, presently orange, and a darker gray fedora, scarlet at the moment. Michael’s dark brown suit, from Marshall Field’s, was a little big for him, to accommodate the nine-millimeter Browning in his shoulder holster; later he’d get something tailored. He wore no hat. He too was tinted orange and red.

Right in front of them, through a window, they could see past the bartender into the club, where over the heads of seated patrons, a pale shapely woman on a behind-the-bar runway was removing her G-string, her pasties already off.

“Must be kinda different for ya,” Campagna said with a knowing chuckle.

They began to walk down the sidewalk, weaving in and out among mostly male strollers. As they moved past one joint after another, various musical styles asserted themselves: honky-tonk; jazz; blues; even polka music... here an accordion, there the mournful wail of a clarinet or earthy moan of a saxophone, country shuffles and stripper-friendly tom-toms courtesy of a succession of low-rent Krupas.

“Different how?” Michael asked.

Campagna snorted a laugh. “Well, you musta never seen the likes of this, before. I mean, they don’t have this kinda fun in DeKalb, right?”

“No they don’t.”

But they did in Manila. And Michael wasn’t terribly impressed by the strident sinning of Cal City. He was a veteran, not only of the war in the Philippines, but of dives with names like the Santa Ana, the Zamboanga, the Circus Club, and the Yellow Den. Joints where Filipina babes were too bored to walk the streets, making the customers come to the bar stools where they sat, and God help the guy who didn’t know these doll-like beauties had been taught to use knives since childhood; a town where even the best hotels had prominent signs saying: FIREARMS ARE PROHIBITED ON PREMISES; PLEASE CHECK GUNS AT DOOR.

Yes, Cal City had wide-open gambling; you could hear the rattle of dice from the street, slot machines, roulette wheels, birdcages, games of poker, right out in the open. But in Manila there was all that plus jai alai and cockfights and the ponies.

“Yeah, Louie,” Michael said, dryly. “Hick kid like me can only say, ‘wow’... Where can we find our friend Frankie Abatte?”

“One of a half-dozen places. You wanna get a steak first?”

“I’d rather eat, after.”

“He might not be in yet; it’s not even nine. This place is barely woke up. Anyway, we oughta chow down before it gets too drunk out, in Cal City. People puking around me takes the edge off my appetite.”

This seeming a good point, Michael followed Campagna to the Capitol Bar and Lounge, which had a fancy awning (CONTINUOUS ENTERTAINMENT!) and occupied a defunct bank that looked vaguely familiar. Maybe he and his father had robbed it. Probably the fanciest joint in town, with a number of well-dressed slumming couples in attendance, the Capitol featured an attractive blonde in a black ball gown who played the organ and sang current hits with a nice smile and pitch that nestled in the cracks of the Hammond.

“What’s the story on Abatte’s boys?” Michael asked.

Both men were eating rare T-bones smothered in grilled onions and mushrooms, with french fries on the side. The blonde was butchering “Blues in the Night.”

“Vitale’s tall, dark, looks sleepy,” Campagna said. “He ain’t. Usually kind of duded up. The other one, Neglia, is short and squat. Froggy-lookin’ guy, a slob. Dangerous.”

“What do they do for Abatte?”

“Rough people up who welsh on gambling debts. I hear Vitale’s the one who does the shooting. Neglia, he beats on people, while Vitale holds a gun on ’em.”

“Thanks. Always good to know the players.”

“Well, Abatte himself’s more dangerous than his boys. Time to time, he makes a point of putting a bullet in a welsher’s head his own self, so that word gets around what a hard case he is.”

“Nice to know.”

Campagna cut into his steak, blood running. “Squirt’s got a big sense of himself. Likes to throw his weight around, like little guys do, sometimes.”

Campagna himself was on the small side, but Michael said nothing, and managed not to smile.

“Will they have guns on them?” Michael asked.

“Mutt and Jeff will. The boss, he’ll have a gun and probably a shiv in his desk. But he likes to wear a tux and act the big shot, and a gun under the arm ruins the cut of a tux, you know. The line.”

“Yeah. Fred Astaire hardly ever packs a rod.”

Campagna thought about that for a second, then laughed. “Hey, that’s funny... Kid — you don’t look nervous.”

“Should I be?”

“You’re puttin’ that steak and fries away, just fine.”

“Is this a test, Louie?”

“No! No, hell no, kid. It’s just, I’d be nervous, if I was thrown into this pit for the first time. Little slice of hell, like Cal City.”

“This isn’t hell, Louie. Purgatory, maybe.”

They began checking specific clubs of Abatte’s; he had offices in the back of all of them.

In the 21 Club, where the decor ran to college pennants, a skinny stripper with an appendicitis scar was bumping and grinding, and all the lipstick in the world couldn’t hide the horsiness of her face. But the young army trainees sitting along the runway were staring up at her pubic thatch in awe, perhaps just figuring out where they came from.

At the bar, drinking Coke from a bottle, his back to the naked woman, was a little boy of perhaps ten in a plaid short-sleeve shirt and jeans, seated way up on a stool, kicking his legs in boredom.

“Stripper’s kid, probably,” Campagna said with a shrug.

In the Club Siesta, a little Mexicale combo played for another stripper; at the Oasis, a bigger band, six pieces, offered up swing and boogie-woogie tunes, filling a postage-stamp dance floor, the men keeping their hats on because nobody stayed at any one of these joints long — whole point was to go up and down the street sampling sin.

The smell of cheap beer common to all these joints Michael found repellent, and all of them were filled with gray-blue clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke — no wonder the steel mill hands felt at home here.

Whatever the theme of the club, the ambience was the same: skimpy decorating failing to deliver on neon promises, crude unprofessional murals of pinup girls often drawn directly on otherwise unpainted walls, cheap wooden tables cluttered with beer bottles and ashtrays, where men sat with women they usually hadn’t come in with.

The floozies were not dolled up — they looked like ordinary factory or shopgirls, if a little harder; and Michael could not be sure if these were hookers or just pick-ups. Party girls or pros, Campagna explained that such shenanigans were fine with Nitti — this kind of thing could not be policed by Ness.

In several joints, however, Michael noted women taking men by the arm — sailors and other servicemen, and steel-mill hands — and disappearing up back stairways. Each time, Campagna gave his young friend a knowing look and nod.

And in every joint, Campagna asked to see Mr. Abatte and, in every joint, Mr. Abatte was not in.

The Ozark had a three-piece hillbilly band including a balladeering guitarist, with a slightly larger sawdust-covered dance floor. This was a rough crowd, and a bouncer had to break up a couple of brawling steel workers at the bar, fighting over a young woman who seemed bored to tears, blowing smoke rings while they hammered at each other.

This cleared (and knocked over almost) every stool at the bar, at least momentarily, and Campagna seized the moment to approach the bartender, a bald bruiser with a cigarette in his tight lips and a white shirt and black tie.

Campagna asked, “Mr. Abatte in?”

“Maybe. Who wants him?”

“Frank Nitti.”

“You’re not Frank Nitti.”

“You’re not Frank Abatte.”

The bartender mulled over that conundrum for a moment. Customers were returning to the scene of the brawl, turning stools right side up, and climbing aboard.

“I’ll let them know you’re here,” the bartender said, and used a phone down the bar.

Several minutes later, as a courtesy, the bartender brought them draw beers. Campagna nodded to the guy, but neither man drank them. Michael didn’t care for the stuff, and he had an idea Campagna feared a Mickey.

Just enough time had gone by to make Michael hope he’d never hear a country fiddle player again when a door to one side of the bar opened. Framed there was a toad-like man in a rumpled light blue gabardine and a dark blue porkpie hat about the same color as his five o’clock shadow.

Michael glanced at Campagna, raising his eyebrows in a silent question that Campagna answered with a curt nod: this was Abatte’s man Neglia, all right.

Campagna headed over but Michael put a hand on the older man’s shoulder.

His whisper barely audible over the country-and-western racket, Michael said gently, “Let me lead the way, Louie.”

Louie paused, and bestowed another curt nod: Nitti had indeed meant for Michael to handle this.

Unbuttoning his suitcoat, Michael stepped out front. At the doorway, Neglia held up a thick hand, traffic-cop fashion. The thug’s round head rested on a mammoth double chin atop a neckless frame; but Neglia was more massive than fat, the shoulders and arms powerful-looking.

“I don’t know you,” the toad-like toady said thickly.

“I don’t know you,” Michael said.

“But I know him,” Neglia said, with a gesture toward Campagna.

“Now that we’ve established who you know and who you don’t know,” Michael said, “let’s see Mr. Abatte.”

“You don’t have an appointment.”

“He’s not a goddamn dentist. Stand aside.”

Neglia scowled. “You don’t talk to me that way.”

“I’m talking for Frank Nitti. Stand aside.”

Campagna, behind Michael, said, “What are you, Neglia? The bridge troll? Get the fuck outa the way.”

Neglia’s sigh came out his nose and mouth simultaneously in a foul wave of garlic. Michael’s eyes damn near teared up. Then the toad turned and led them into a short hallway, Campagna shutting the door behind them. At another door, Neglia knocked shave-and-a-haircut.

“Nitti’s guys!” Neglia called.

“Okay!” a deep voice responded.

Neglia opened the door, went in first, allowed Michael and Campagna to step inside, then closed it behind them. The room was medium-size and probably looked bigger than it was, usually, since the only furnishings were an old scarred-up desk with chair, with a chair opposite, the wall behind decorated with framed stripper photos, hanging crooked; but the office was in fact crowded.

Frank Abatte — a small, weasel-faced man with thinning black Valentino hair and wide-set dark blue eyes — was seated behind the desk; as advertised, he wore a tuxedo. A hooded-eyed hood, skinny in a sharp gray pinstripe and pearl-gray fedora, stood just behind his boss, at right; this was obviously Vitale.

Along the left wall stood three more individuals — a dumpy cigar-chewing guy in an apron, a tall blond fortyish man in a black vest and slacks, and a heavyset woman about fifty in a new polka-dot dress as crisp-looking as she wasn’t.

Neglia, grinning to himself, trundled over behind his boss. So both Abatte’s muscle boys were at his side, bookending him, now.

Abatte grinned, too; he looked like a ventriloquist’s dummy come to life, specifically Charlie McCarthy in that tux, without the monocle, of course. The desk was bare but for a telephone.

“You Chicago boys stop by at an opportune time,” Abatte said, his voice rich and deep, a big sound for a little man. “We were just havin’ a little meeting of concerned Cal City citizens.”

“Sorta like the Chamber of Commerce,” Campagna said.

Abatte folded his hands like a priest about to counsel a couple contemplating marriage. “My fellow owners share with me an interest in keeping our Cal City business happy and thriving and free of interference from the outside.”

“You work for Mr. Nitti,” Campagna snapped. “Don’t ever forget that, Frankie!”

Abatte’s disdain was palpable. “Mr. Nitti’s a partner, a silent partner, with all of us. He’ll get his share. But I don’t work for anybody but Frank Abatte, get it?”

Michael sat down across from Abatte, crossing his legs, ankle on a knee. Campagna not taking the chair of honor seemed to puzzle the tuxedo-sporting gangster.

“You’re a little young, aren’t you?” he asked Michael.

Campagna, positioning himself by the door, said, “His name’s Michael Satariano. He’s new.”

With his limited peripheral vision, Michael could not see if the name registered on the group at left. Neglia certainly didn’t recognize it; but Vitale’s sleepy eyes wakened, a bit. And Abatte’s upper lip curled in contempt.

“The war hero,” Abatte said, as if tasting the words and not finding them flavorful. He gestured, a sarcastic master of ceremonies. “Ladies and gentlemen... we have a special guest. We’re privileged to be in the presence of Chicago’s own Congressional Medal of Honor winner.”

Michael glanced at the trio — the guy in the apron, the man in the vest, the gal in the polka-dot dress; they were exchanging wide-eyed looks.

“Mighta known,” Abatte said. “Nitti’s sure as hell been wrappin’ himself in the flag lately. Shoulda figured he’d recruit the Sicilian Sergeant York... Did he just enlist you for this one mission, kid? What, is seeing you supposed to shame me into doin’ the ‘right thing’?”

Stepping forward, Campagna said, “Mr. Nitti does not want wide-open whorehouses and jackrolling and cheating our boys in the armed forces — that’ll bring heat down on all our heads. Capeesh?”

Through clenched teeth Abatte said, “This street was built on brothels. And the heat is Nitti’s job — it’s what we pay him for.”

Campagna turned toward the trio of owners. “These war years will be a boom time for Cal City. Don’t botch it. Mr. Nitti appeals to your patriotism, and your common sense. Federal heat is—”

Abatte slammed his hand on the desk, and everybody but Abatte himself... and Michael... jumped a little; the phone made a stunted ringing sound.

“You city boys... you can run and hide, if you want.” Abatte’s eyes showed white all around. “This is a wide-open town here, a good time to be had by all. And we intend to keep it that way. Press us on this, and Nitti won’t even get his goddamn pound of flesh.”

Michael cleared his throat.

Abatte, who seemed to have forgotten about the young man’s presence, looked at Michael with a disdainful expression. “You want something, sonny boy?”

Michael said, “Just the answer to a question.”

“Ask me and we’ll see if it’s worth answering.”

Michael uncrossed his legs. Quietly he said, “Who do you work for, again?”

Again Abatte slammed a hand onto the desk; the Cal City big shot’s other hand, however, had dropped from view, where the man might access a drawer holding a gun and a knife...

Spittle flew: “I work for me, myself, and I! Frank Abatte! And no one else.”

Michael slipped a hand inside his suitcoat.

Both Vitale and Neglia lurched forward, and Abatte straightened; but Michael raised his other hand, gently, and said, “Please, gentlemen. I just need to get something out to make a point.”

The bodyguards settled back, Abatte relaxed, and Michael withdrew the .45 automatic.

Every eye in the room widened, except Michael’s.

Pointing the gun from the hip at Abatte, Michael asked, “Who do you work for?”

Abatte’s upper lip curled in contempt. “I... work... for... Frank... Abatte.”

Michael shot him in the head.

Time stopped for Abatte, paralyzed him momentarily, his eyes wide, the red hole in his forehead like a third startled eye; then he flopped forward on the desk, hands asprawl, revealing a splash of gore on the wall, between framed askew photos, and a gaping hole in the back of his head.

Still seated, Michael shot Vitale, who was clawing for his gun under his own suitcoat, in the throat; this Michael did because he anticipated that the gurgling, gargling, blood-frothing horror that would ensue would distract and discourage the others.

He had saved Neglia for last, because he knew Vitale was the more competent of the two; but the toad had a .38 in hand and his teeth clenched, a fraction of a second away from shooting, when Michael fired, another head shot, which knocked the porkpie hat off and splattered blood and brains and bone onto a stripper’s picture, straightening it.

Behind Michael, Campagna was training a gun on the owners, who were standing with their hands up and their jaws down.

Without getting up, Michael swiveled calmly in the chair to the trio of owners, who stood against the wall as if they’d like to disappear behind it. He spoke to the man in the apron.

“And who do you work for?”

“Frank Nitti!”

“Who do you work for?”

“Frank Nitti.”

“Who do you work for, ma’am?”

“Frank Nitti.”

“Any questions about the new prostitution policy?”

“No.”

“No.”

“No.”

“Good,” Michael said.

He rose and went to the door, opened it, looked out at the hallway, letting in some country swing; the fiddle sounded better to him now — it had a folksy quality he found soothing. No sign that anybody had heard anything over the natural din of the Ozark.

Returning his attention to the owners, he said, “By the weekend, these wide-open whorehouses are past history.”

Eager nods, all around.

“By the way — any of you see anything tonight? I hear it gets rough around here, sometimes.”

But none of them had heard or seen a thing.

“It’s early,” Michael said, with a shrug. “Might be some excitement, yet.”

The guy in the vest had pissed himself; that was a good sign.

“Why don’t you get back to your places of business, then,” Michael said pleasantly, nodding toward the door.

They scrambled out — thanking Michael as they went.

He was smiling about that when Campagna said, “That’s three eyewitnesses you let go, there, Mike.”

“You think any of them’s a problem?”

Campagna, who’d been frowning in thought, began to laugh. “No. No, I don’t. Joe Batters does the collecting around these-here-parts, and he’ll back your play... Kid, you’re a caution.”

Michael reholstered the .45. “Just so Mr. Nitti doesn’t think I stirred up the heat.”

Campagna was going to the phone; one of Abatte’s dead hands seemed to be reaching for it.

“Hell no,” Campagna said, lifting the receiver. “Just let me call the Cal City police chief.”

“Why him?”

“Jesus, kid,” Campagna said and shrugged. “Somebody’s gotta dump these stiffs!”

Five

The Colony Club, at 744 North Rush, had two devout neighbors: the Methodist Publishing House, next door, and (a block south) Quigley Preparatory Seminary, where young boys prepared for the priesthood. The Colony, however, catered to sinners seeking not salvation but a damned good time.

And the ultra-ritzy club’s pretty hostess, Estelle Carey — a willowy green-eyed golden blonde who looked ten years younger than her thirty-one years — saw to it that the patrons got whatever kind of good time they might desire.

At the moment that meant Estelle singing. Perched on a stool in a slit-up-one-side dark blue gown, bodice covered in sequins, in a corner of the bar next to a baby grand, her accompanist Roy tickling the keyboards lovingly, Estelle kept couples at tables nearby enthralled with her small, sweet, smoky voice. Her favorites were Dinah Shore and Ella Fitzgerald, and she sounded a little like both, which was intentional, aided by doing a lot of their hit tunes.

Estelle was a star attraction at the Colony; though various big bands that played in the spacious dining room were national names, locally the name Estelle Carey meant something — something naughty, perhaps, but something.

She’d started out life part of the crowd, with a last name — Smith — to prove it. Daddy Smith died when Estelle was a toddler, and much of her childhood had been spent in an orphanage; she’d left high school early on for waitressing. But her beer-budget background had somehow spawned champagne tastes, and her salary and tips from a Logan Square restaurant had been supplemented by sharing more than just a smile and a wink with male customers.

Estelle had always liked men — liked the power her good looks gave her over these powerful creatures, enjoyed the physical act of lovemaking in a way many girls at least claimed not to. From a junior high teacher she’d seduced at thirteen to every boss she’d ever had, Estelle had improved her life by generously sharing her considerable charms.

Still, she did not in the least consider herself a harlot — she had never made love for money in her life.

On the other hand, she’d never gone to bed with a man without the next morning receiving money to help out her sick mom, or make up a rent shortfall, real or imagined. Now and then, over the years, a steadier boyfriend might lavish gifts upon her, from fur coats to rent-free apartments. This was to be expected.

Waitressing at Rickett’s on North Clark Street had been Estelle’s breakthrough into a better life. Not that Rickett’s was posh; heck, it was just your typical white-tile restaurant. But it was open all night and attracted show people and the artsy crowd from Tower Town... and even Outfit guys like Nicky Dean.

With his mop of well-oiled black hair, Nicky was like some smooth George Raft — type movie gangster had walked down off the screen and into her life. Tall, dark, roughly handsome, Nicky looked like a million in a dinner jacket; he had style and charm and clout with the Outfit... also a wife, a little chorus cutie he’d married maybe ten years ago, but Mrs. Dean was sickly, and Nicky treated Estelle better than a husband treated a wife.

Still, some would say Nicky made Estelle earn every expensive stitch of clothing and even “pay” the rent on various fancy flats, by putting her to work. Even now, people said that — look at her in the Colony Club, singing for her supper.

But Estelle Carey had never been lazy. She liked to work, and just as Nicky was no one-woman man, she enjoyed other lovers, just not on an extended basis. Nicky didn’t even mind Estelle entertaining the occasional Outfit guy, because he seemed to take pride in having them taste a dish just once or twice of which he could partake any ol’ time.

What had gotten Estelle into the newspaper gossip columns — and turned her into a local celebrity — was her continuing status as Chicago’s most famous 26 girl. She rarely played the game herself these days — the bar at the Colony had half a dozen stations where gorgeous girls took care of those duties.

Twenty-six was a game played all over Chicagoland in watering holes from the lowliest gin mill to the poshest nightspot. At a table or podium, an attractive, well-built doll would shake dice in a leather cup and roll for drinks with a male customer. Though playing for quarters, the customer — who was often drunk — might manage to lose as much as ten dollars.

What had got Estelle into the papers, though, was taking a Texas oil millionaire for an astonishing ten thousand dollars at the penny-ante game. And the guy loved her for it. Always sought her out when he was in town.

Which was what made Estelle Carey the queen of dice, and provided the basis for what she taught her girls: a man needed to feel that a 26 girl was his friend, even a sort of sweetheart, and that the bar was a home away from home.

The 26 girls at the Colony, handpicked, handtrained by Estelle, knew how to spot compulsive gamblers or otherwise potential high rollers, and (earning a nice bonus for each sucker) steer them to the “private” club upstairs — a full casino where many fortunes were lost and only a handful were made... Nicky’s and Estelle’s, among them.

The club had an art-moderne decor out of an RKO musical — chromium and glass and shiny black surfaces. The casino upstairs was less chic — just a big open space with draped wells and subdued lighting, noisy and smoky, rife with the promise of easy money that almost never delivered, and the promise of easy women, who more frequently did.

That had been Estelle’s idea, and Nicky told her how Capone, Nitti, and others in the Outfit had praised her genius: no one ever figured out a better blow-off for a burnt customer than this. A high roller who’d been stung — often with an off-duty 26 girl on his arm, who’d egged him on at the tables — would be invited up to the third floor, where private suites awaited. After some behind-closed-doors time with a beautiful dame, many a loser walked away from the Colony Club wearing a winner’s smile.

Estelle was good to her girls. On slow nights, she allowed them to take a non — high roller up to a suite for fifty bucks; on a less slow night, the price bumped to a hundred (either way, the house got its cut). If the Colony’s first floor was largely legit, the second-floor casino and third-floor beauty parlor were definitely not; this meant hefty monthly payments to the cops and politicians, and the Outfit was obviously a fifty-fifty partner.

Estelle was perched on her stool, singing “Fools Rush In,” when she noticed that kid again, sitting at the bar, almost looking like a grown-up in a sharp gray suit, pretending not to be watching her as he nursed his Coca-Cola. She hadn’t seen him right away — this was Saturday night, so the place was hopping, the tables filled, a fog of cigarette smoke drifting across the bar.

Michael Satariano. The city’s celebrated Congressional Medal of Honor winner. And she was pretty sure the kid had a crush on her. Which didn’t depress her, not hardly — he was one good-looking boy; the scar near his left eye only gave him character, helping him not seem so goddamn, cradle-robbing young...

Something maternal rose within her, a surprising sensation, all things considered; but part of her wanted to scream at him, Get away from these people! What was a kid who had the world by the tail doing hanging out with Outfit goons? She herself had had no other choice, really; the likes of Nicky Dean had been her best ticket to a better life.

But this kid shook the president’s hand! This kid was famous, not just locally, but all across the nation. Wasn’t a business in the country that wouldn’t give him a job, a good job, a real job, and on a damn platter.

And yet there he’d been, three nights ago, sitting next to Louie Campagna at a table in this very bar, after closing; she’d been sitting at that same table, too.

Campagna had explained about Eliot Ness and the crackdown on prostitution; and that Mr. Nitti was concerned about the Colony Club’s third floor.

As they spoke in the bar, the lights were up, and two bartenders were sweeping. She and the two Outfit guests sat in a corner near the piano, out of earshot of the help.

Estelle, sitting with a leg crossed, showing her knee, was sipping a Coke. She had noted that the young man with Louie Campagna — Louie was drinking Scotch rocks — had also ordered a Coke.

Rather than respond to Campagna’s question, Estelle asked the kid, “You don’t drink when you’re working?”

“I don’t drink at all,” the kid said. A nice mellow voice.

“Well, do you smoke?”

“No.”

Estelle laughed. “Neither do I. Girlfriend of mine, long time ago, told me I’d look young longer if I didn’t smoke or drink.”

Without a smile, the kid said, “It’s working.”

Despite the babyface on him, something smoldered under there...

Louie sat forward, mildly irritated. “Estelle — this is business, here. We’re talking about things.”

To the kid, she said, “I’ve seen you somewhere... Louie, he’s new. Right?”

“Right. And the reason you recognize him is ’cause he’s Michael Satariano.”

Estelle snapped her fingers. “Medal of Honor! Yeah!”

This had led to a conversation mostly between her and Campagna, with Satariano embarrassed and Louie actually proud that a war hero like this had chosen to honor his Sicilian heritage by going into business with his paisans.

But they had finally gotten to the subject of the meeting, Louie saying, “This club, it’s famous. Hell, Estelle, you’re famous. A Rush Street landmark — so you got to watch yourself, this third floor.”

Polite but cold, she replied, “I would think the gambling would be a bigger problem. That’s wide open. What happens on the third floor is... discreet.”

Louie shook his head. “You ain’t listening, Estelle. This ain’t about anything except Eliot fuckin’ Ness havin’ a hard-on against Al Capone and Frank Nitti. Guy’s lookin’ to make another name for himself, on the Outfit’s back, get it?”

“I get it. And gambling isn’t Ness’s bailiwick.”

“No. But whorehouses is.”

Estelle lifted both eyebrows. “My girls aren’t prostitutes. And I’m not a madam.”

Campagna’s lumpy face registered skepticism. “Well, do you think that G-man’s gonna make whatever-the-hell distinction it is, you’re makin’? Kid yourself all you want, Estelle — you won’t kid this Ness character.”

Her eyes tightened. “Does this have anything to do with Nicky? With the Hollywood case?”

Since late last year, Estelle had been running the Colony Club herself. Nicky, who’d been Nitti’s watchdog over those union goons Bioff and Browne, had been convicted in the movie union extortion case; poor baby started doing his eight years last December.

“Maybe not directly,” Campagna said. “Back ten years ago, when the T-men was building their case against Al, Ness was hitting us hard in the pocketbook. So now he hits our brothels, while the other feds build this Hollywood case against us. Same old double-team, Mr. Nitti says.”

“But with Nicky in stir, and Bioff and Browne inside, too,” she said, “surely the movie-union thing is over.”

Estelle had never really understood what the fuss was about, anyway; all Bioff and Browne had done was sell strike prevention insurance to movie moguls, and all Nicky did was mule the money back to the Outfit.

“Word is,” Campagna was saying, “the G’s trying to build a conspiracy case. Feds’re crawling all over town usin’ information Bioff and Browne spilled, copping a plea, gettin’ a shorter sentence.”

“Those two union goons are known liars. Don’t they both have perjury raps on their records?”

“That’s why the feds are lookin’ for real witnesses. And that’s why Ness is back. Estelle, restrict the third floor to compin’ high rollers. No exchange of money, honey.”

“I hear you.”

“Do you? I hope so. Let me spell it out: no fuckin’ whoring, Estelle. Should we get that faggelah piano-player in here, so I can sing it for you?”

“No, Louie. I hear every note.”

“Good. And I know you got an ear for music.”

They had gone, then — Louie and his Medal of Honor winner. But she had noticed that on the occasions when Campagna had gotten either tough or profane with her, the kid had winced, just a little. Like he didn’t approve of a lady being talked to in that fashion.

Estelle really liked that.

The next night the kid had come back, alone. Late, on a much slower night. In a sport shirt and slacks, looking damn near collegiate, he sat at the bar, drinking Cokes, listening to her, watching her discreetly, even trading a couple of smiles with her.

On her break, Estelle took the stool next to him. “Hey, hero,” she said. “Slumming?”

His smile was boyish, shy. “This is a beautiful place.”

“It is nice.”

“You... you sing great.”

“Thanks.” She laughed a little. “But I think it’s more the talking-dog deal.”

He frowned in confusion. “Pardon?”

With an elaborate shrug, she said, “They’ve heard of me, the notorious 26 girl. Gangster’s moll. When I sing, and carry a decent tune, and don’t screw up the words, they’re bowled over... See, a talking dog doesn’t have to say anything impressive.”

“Just talk,” he said, with a half-smile that was wholly adorable.

“That’s right. Just talk’s enough.”

His forehead tensed. “Listen... Louie’s really not a bad guy.”

“Oh, I know that.”

“He had a job to do, the other night. Me, too. This situation with the feds, it’s serious. I’m sure he didn’t mean any offense.”

“I’m sure Louie didn’t. Just tryin’ to make his point. Is that why you came back tonight?”

“I guess... I was curious to hear you sing. We came in after you were finished, other night.”

“Wanted to hear the dog talk?”

He flashed the half-smile again, though his voice had a touch of embarrassment. “Miss Carey... a dog you’re not.”

“Well, I can be a little bitchy, at times.”

“I doubt that... Anyway, you sing swell. Like Dinah Shore and Doris Day all rolled into one.”

“Oooo... makes me sound fat.”

Abashed, blinking, he said, “Oh, you’re not fat.”

She kept him wriggling on the hook, saying, “You really know how to compliment a girl.”

And now he blushed.

Fucking blushed!

She touched his hand. “You’re really very sweet, Michael... May I call you Michael?”

“I’d like that.”

“And you’ll call me Estelle... Michael, why did you take a job with Frank Nitti?”

He shrugged. “I’m Sicilian. Good opportunity to make a lot of money before I’m very old.”

“You may be surprised to learn that a lot of Sicilians aren’t mobsters. I’d go so far as to say most aren’t.”

“I know that.” He stared evasively into his Coke. “I just like the... charge you get. I was in combat, and it’s a kind of intense feeling. Adrenaline rush.”

“Are you kidding me?”

He looked up at her, something plaintive in his expression. “Miss Carey... Estelle. Could we talk about something else?”

So they had chatted about their backgrounds, and how he was staying a few blocks away at the Seneca Hotel. This was no surprise to her, as the Seneca was home to a lot of Nitti’s gangsters. Then it was time for her to go back on, and she saw him slip out, during her third number.

Now tonight the young hero was back, sitting at the bar again. That well-tailored gray pinstripe indicated Outfit money had already started to flow for him. But he seemed troubled to her, sitting slumped over that Coke like a boozehound on his twelfth whiskey and soda.

The last song of her set was “Our Love Is Here to Stay,” and the couples at the tables gave her a nice hand. Michael’s eyes weren’t on her as she slipped onto the stool next to him.

“Back for more punishment, hero?”

“You sing great. Really pretty.”

“Thanks... You look kinda blue tonight.”

“I guess I’m a little homesick.”

“Well, hell, soldier — how far is DeKalb, anyway?”

He tasted his tongue. “Real far. Farther every day.”

She studied him. “You got a girl back there?”

“You... you remind me of her.”

Estelle was about to kid the kid about using such an old line on her, but from the pain around his eyes, she knew he meant every word.

“Does your best girl,” she asked gently, “know what you’re up to, here in the big city?”

His eyes widened with a touch of horror. “Not hardly.”

“Then why are you up to what you’re up to, Michael? Every door in this town, every door in this country, is open to you!”

He turned to her, the glass eye as cold and expressionless as the rest of his face; but the good eye, the real eye, was on fire. “I have things I need to do.”

For a moment, she felt frightened, and she wasn’t sure why. She’d read the newspapers stories about all the Japs this kid had killed, but it had no meaning to her; it didn’t seem real — Japs dying in movies were just milk bottles getting knocked down by baseballs at a carnival.

Now, suddenly, she sensed the killer beside her.

And yet she also sensed a sweet, troubled boy.

She put a hand on his arm. “Would you like to go somewhere more private? Where maybe we can talk?”

“I... I don’t know if I want to talk.”

She stroked his cheek. “You don’t have to, sweetheart. But you look like you could use some company — and I don’t mean Louie Campagna.”

He thought for a moment, then nodded.

A self-service elevator off the second floor took them to the third, where she led him by the hand into one of the ten private suites. The spacious single room had a fireplace, light blue plaster walls, white trim, white carpet, modern dark blue furnishings, several framed abstract paintings in blue and white, a large double bed with blue satin spread, a small wet bar, and a window looking onto the neons of Rush Street, semivisible through a sheer blue curtain. She went to a table lamp with a translucent blue shade and a dim bulb and switched it on; this was all the light they’d need.

She walked him to the bed and kicked off her heels, nodding permission to him to do the same. His Florsheims off, she helped him out of his sportcoat, and carefully hung it over a chair near the bed. She was mildly surprised not to find a shoulder holster. Then she loosened and removed his tie, and took him by the hand and led him to the bed, where they lay on top of the smooth spread, generous pillows behind them. He was on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling; she lay on her side, chin propped on the heel of her hand, studying him.

“What’s on your mind, handsome?”

“Are you Catholic?”

Her eyes widened. This was not a response she’d anticipated. “Well... that depends on how you look at it.”

He turned his face toward hers, forehead tightened with interest. “How so?”

“I was raised that way, for a while. But I haven’t been to mass, for a long, long time.”

“Did you ever go to confession?”

“Well, sure.”

He sighed. Looked at the ceiling again. “I went today.”

“Did you, now.”

“I feel kind of sick about it.”

“Why?”

“Because I... I don’t know. I guess I feel like a hypocrite.”

“And why’s that?”

“It was a big sin.”

“Well. I guess sins come in all sizes.”

“They don’t come much bigger than this. Anyway, I’m not sure I believe, anymore.”

“Then why go?”

“Habit. Tradition. A feeling that... my father would have wanted me to.”

“Listen, don’t knock it. You had a father. More than I can say. So what if it comes with a little baggage.”

“I’m not knocking it.” A painfully young earnestness came into his face. “But my father believed. He really thought he could do something... something really bad, and a few words from a priest could wash it away.”

“Who’s to say it can’t?”

He looked at her again. “But what if you commit that same sin again? What if when you’re asking for forgiveness, you know you have every intention of doing that sin again?”

“Well... maybe it’s sort of one sin at a time. You know, a matter of keeping up with ’em, making the bookkeeping easier, for you and God both, not to mention the stupid priest... I’m sorry you’re so unhappy.”

This seemed to surprise him. “Am I?”

“Well, this, whatever-sin-it-is, is bothering you, isn’t it?”

“Not really.”

“But you’re... talking about it... thinking about it...”

“Yeah. But I’m not really feeling anything.”

“Well, sure you are. You feel guilty, or you wouldn’t go to church and confess.”

He gave her a mildly annoyed look. “I told you. That was habit or duty or something.”

“You don’t feel sad? You don’t feel guilty?”

He didn’t say anything for a while; his gaze returned to the ceiling. “I haven’t felt anything, really, not for a long time.”

“Oh, yeah? What about feeling homesick? What about that girlfriend of yours?”

He shifted onto his side, leaned his elbow against a blue satin pillow, and put a hand against his head. He bestowed her that wonderful half a smile again. “Hell, Estelle. That’s just biology.”

She grinned, laughed. “How old are you, hero?”

“Twenty-two.”

“I’m almost ten years older, you know.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Not in this light, anyway. But I just wanted to make sure you were okay with it.”

“With what?”

“An older woman kissing you.”

And she did. A soft, slow, tender kiss that he responded to well. They kissed for five minutes; necked like she was as nearly a high school kid as he was. Then they petted, and she found it surprisingly exciting; breathing hard, she slipped off the bed and out of her gown. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt.

Soon the lamp had been switched off and they were naked under silk sheets, and he was a sweet, gentle lover at first, kissing her face, her neck, her breasts, and she slipped her head under the covers to take him into her mouth, enjoying the shudder she invoked. Finally she climbed on top of him and rode, because she liked to control men, and he seemed glazed, as he looked up at her body washed as it was in blue neon from the street. She came so hard she thought her head would explode, but he restrained himself and let her go there alone; then he eased her off him and onto her back and mounted her, and — displaying an intensity that thrilled and frightened her — brought her to another climax, and himself, collapsing into her arms, where she held him close, patting him like a crying child as his breathing returned to normal.

“Did you feel that, cowboy?” she asked.

“I felt that,” he admitted.

“But just biology, huh?”

“Where would we be,” he said, “without it?”

Eliot Ness was sitting on a bench in a museum studying a massive pastel painting called A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, depicting Parisian city dwellers on the bank of the Seine on a Sunday afternoon.

Right now it was Sunday afternoon in Chicago, at the Art Institute, that massive Italian Renaissance — style building with its famous bronze lions guarding broad steps facing Michigan Avenue. On the second floor, in chronologically arranged galleries, were the paintings of masters from the thirteenth century to the present.

Ness was no intellectual, but he found the museum interesting and restful, and this particular painting was at once impressive in its majestic size and soothing in its subject matter. Rounded shapes from the sloping bank to the bustles of the ladies with their parasols pleased his eyes, people strolling, sailing, fishing, lounging; you could look at it for a long time without being bored.

The museum was not busy; people in Chicago were out and about on beaches on this sunny July day, up to the same kind of things as painter Georges Seurat’s subjects.

And no one at all was around when Michael Satariano sat next to Ness on the bench.

“In the future we’ll minimize these public meetings,” Ness said quietly. “Just find a public pay phone.”

“All right.” Michael wore a sport shirt and chinos; he looked like a college boy — undergrad. “I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to tell you.”

Ness was disappointed but not surprised to hear that Nitti was shutting down his brothels in anticipation of the G-man mounting raids. He was also not surprised to hear that he himself was a topic of conversation among the hoodlums.

“They say you resigned from your Cleveland police job,” Michael said, “in disgrace.”

He shifted on the bench, a little. “It was a matter of politics. I was an appointee of the previous administration.”

“Not ’cause of some hit-and-run thing.”

“That’s an overstatement and oversimplification.”

Michael shrugged. “I’m just telling you what they talk about. They think you’re trying to use them to recapture a past glory.”

“What do you think, Michael?”

Michael’s unreadable gaze switched from the painting to Ness. “I think they’re a step ahead of you. Frank Nitti is a smart man.”

“Very smart. Listen, Mike... there’s a place on Rush Street called the Colony Club — I want you to check it out. Big-scale prostitution operates out of there.”

A faint smile tickled the boy’s lips. “Already been there — Campagna and I called on Estelle Carey. I don’t think that’ll take you very far.”

“Why not?”

“First off, it’s a high-hat joint. That’s one expensive, tony place. I didn’t see one serviceman. And it’s not exactly a defense worker hangout, either.”

“But there is prostitution.”

Michael shrugged. “If that’s what you’d call it. From what I understand, these 26 girls and some other hostesses just latch onto a high roller, and if he goes bust, give him one more free roll... in the hay, this time.”

“It’s still prostitution.”

“I’m not going to tell you your business. But you raid that place, you’ll make all kinds of enemies. I saw politicians there, and rich people. And with that wide-open casino, you know the cops are protecting them.”

Ness said tersely, “Let me worry about that. What’s the story on Calumet City?”

Michael told him how Nitti had laid down the law; there’d no doubt be individual girls selling their wares, but the Cal City cathouses were closing down.

“Kinda rough around there, I hear,” Ness said.

“I don’t follow.”

“Don’t you? Surely you saw the papers. Frankie Abatte turned up on a roadside outside Hot Springs, Arkansas — nude and with a bullet in his head.”

“Wonder what he was doing down that way?”

“Yeah, and without his two watchdogs, Vitale and Neglia. Of course, you probably saw that in the paper, too — how Vitale turned up dead in a sewer, and Neglia was found in a trunk on La Salle Street, also dead.”

Michael made a clicking sound in one cheek. “Wages of sin.”

“Tell me you weren’t responsible, Michael.”

“For hauling Abatte down to Hot Springs? And stuffing those other guys... what were their names? In a sewer, and a trunk? Hell no!... You mean a car trunk, or a steamer trunk?”

Ness studied the blank face, looking for sarcasm, because there hadn’t been any in the tone.

“Car,” Ness said patiently. “Michael, I told you when we began this undertaking—”

“Poor choice of words, Mr. Ness.”

“I told you that your status as an operative does not extend to committing crimes, just to stay credible among these lowlifes.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Any crime you commit, if you’re called to an accounting, you’ll stand for.”

“I know.” He looked at Ness, his boyish face hard. “Hypothetically, let’s say, if I were in a situation where gunmen had me cornered... would responding in kind be out of line?”

“In self-defense, you mean.”

“Self-defense, let’s call it.”

“Well...”

“Or should I, in such a case, pull the plug on the operation? Go to the police, and explain that I was undercover and had to defend myself?”

“...If it was self-defense, then... well.”

“Hypothetically, Mr. Ness.”

“Hypothetically... I wouldn’t expect you to break your cover, no.”

They sat and looked at the painting for a while. Michael had to move his head to take in the big painting, due to his mono-vision.

The young man nodded toward the vast canvas. “Lovely, isn’t it? It’s all made out of little dots.”

“Yes. The eye kind of blurs them into colors and shades.”

Michael nodded, saying, “But the artist really just made a lot of little points... and they added up to something meaningful. That’s nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s a nice painting.”

“Just goes to show you. Sometimes you have to make a point, to make an impression.”

Ness, not liking the sound of that, moved on to a new subject. “I’m going to be out of town for a week,” he said. “Possibly two. I have eleven other offices around the country to supervise, you know. You have Lieutenant Drury’s number, if you need something, or learn something.”

“Actually, I may be out of town, myself.”

Ness frowned. “Oh?”

“Nitti’s meeting with Capone, soon, in Miami Beach. He’s talking about sending me down there, as a sort of advance agent.”

Urgency in his voice, Ness said, “Try to get a good look at Capone. Get close to him.”

Michael said, “I intend to... What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing, really. Our people down there have seen damn little of him, lately. He’s more and more reclusive.”

“Don’t worry,” Michael said, “I plan to get very dose to Capone.” He rose. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ness.”

Ness remained for another five minutes, not wanting to be seen exiting with Michael. He just sat and stared at the huge painting and wished he could walk into it, and feel the sunshine, and hear the lap of the river, and disappear into a simpler time.

Six

Behind the wheel of his rented ’39 Packard convertible, heading out the causeway linking Miami with the face-lifted sandbar of Miami Beach, Michael wondered if the salt breeze was conspiring with the golden-white sunshine to make him feel more relaxed than was, under the circumstances, wise.

He was tooling down Palm Avenue, which bifurcated Palm Island — villas on either side, their backs to Biscayne Bay — on his way to the Capone estate, on this three-quarter-mile-long, man-made key the shape of one of Big Al’s trademark cigars.

In the company of numerous servicemen, he had arrived on the Dixie Flyer this morning at seven. On Flagler Street, he selected sunglasses in a curio shop, purchased a tropical white suit and panama-style fedora at a department store, at a pawn shop picked up a spare army Colt .45, and bought white wing tips with black toes at a shoe store and two boxes of .45 ammo at a sporting goods shop.

Michael had a midmorning breakfast at a one-arm joint called the Dinner Bell, and was relieved to find that the food went down easy. He’d had a little trouble on the train last night, and wasn’t sure if it was nerves or just the rattle and bump of the ride.

Not that this job for Mr. Nitti looked at all taxing. Yesterday the ganglord had filled him in at a table in a private dining room at the Capri Restaurant. Other than Nitti, Michael, and occasionally the waiter, no one else was there; even Campagna had been left downstairs.

After lunch, Nitti smoked an expensive, sweetly fragrant cigar while Michael mostly sat and listened, arms folded.

“You’re going in a day ahead of me,” Nitti said, “to make sure the security is up to snuff, for my meet with Al.”

“Will they know I’m coming?”

“Of course — you’ll report to Al’s brother John... ‘Mimi,’ only you call him ‘Mr. Capone’ until or unless he says otherwise. Mrs. Capone, Mae, Al’s wife, lives there with a few of her family members. There’s a good fifteen, twenty armed guards working in shifts, protecting Al.”

“Sounds sufficient.”

“It’s mostly just for Al’s peace of mind. Ever since he got out of stir, he’s been... anxious, about somebody out of his past maybe showin’ up to settle scores.”

“Really.”

Nitti shrugged, blew a smoke ring. “I know, I know — it’s what the head shrinkers call paranoia.”

How did Nitti know that term, Michael wondered; did the gang boss have his own psychiatrist? Campagna said their chief had been depressed after his wife’s death last year.

“Anyway,” Nitti said, “make sure the security team’s still sharp — that they ain’t got fat and sloppy. Been three years since Al’s release, you know, with never an attempt of any kind.”

“Guys can get lazy under such circumstances.”

“Exactly, kid.” Nitti leaned forward. Sotto voce, he said, “And you do know I’m also concerned about... certain parties. Certain factions.”

“Yes,” Michael said.

While little direct information had been shared with Michael, he’d gathered from both Nitti and Campagna that Paul “the Waiter” Ricca was contemplating a power play.

“Now I trust Mimi,” Nitti said, gesturing with the cigar as if it were a baton and Michael the band. “Al’s little brother is a harmless boy... ‘Boy,’ hell, he must be forty, now. But that’s still how I think of him — a damn kid.”

“Why’s that, Mr. Nitti?”

“Well... Mimi never was an achiever. Ran after skirts, mostly... but he’s got a clean record, and speaks well, so he handles the press for us down there, in Florida. And he supervises the estate... and, like me, Mimi cares about Al’s welfare.”

“Sounds like a good, loving brother.”

“He is. But Ricca goes back a long way with the Capones — Al was best man at the Waiter’s wedding. So when we put the security staff together, some of ’em came from Ricca’s crew.”

“I see.”

“This meeting I have scheduled with Al, to get approval on my new prostitution policy, among other things... that’s an ideal opportunity for somebody to take us both out.”

“And with you and Capone gone,” Michael said, “Ricca steps in.”

“Not a goddamn doubt in the world, kid... So check out the lay of the land. Talk to people, sniff around, listen to your gut.” Nitti clasped Michael’s arm. “Report to me when I get down there, and when I do... watch my back.”

“Mr. Nitti,” Michael said, actually feeling a little guilty, “I appreciate the trust you’ve given me.”

Nitti beamed at the young man. “Michael, when I first saw you, I felt like I knew you for years.”

“...I felt the same way, Mr. Nitti.”

“If it don’t embarrass you, me saying so... if I’d had a son, I’da been pleased to have him turn out like you.”

Michael frowned in confusion. “But you do have a son, Mr. Nitti...”

“Yes, and I’m sure not disparagin’ my own fine boy.” Though they were alone, Nitti whispered, “He’s adopted, you know.”

“Oh.”

“Anna and me, we never had a son. Or daughter. And my boy... you’ve seen him, he’s nine. Smart kid, very smart kid. I don’t want him to go into this kind of work. Or if he must, I pray it’s when we’re one hundred percent legit.”

“You think that day will come, Mr. Nitti?”

His eyes tightened. “Under me, it will. Under Ricca? And those crazy wild kids from the Patch? The Outfit’ll be peddling heroin on schoolyards.”

“I believe that.” Michael applied a smile to his face. “It’ll be an honor to meet Mr. Capone.”

“But you won’t,” Nitti said, his expression darkening. “At best you’ll glimpse the Big Fellow from afar.”

“Because he values his privacy?”

“It’s more than that. Al developed health problems in stir — his syphilis kicked in, it’s as old an enemy of Al’s as Ness... who’s fightin’ the syph himself, right?”

“Right,” Michael said, summoning another smile.

“Anyway, Al’s got his pride. He’s put on some weight, hair’s gettin’ thin — and once in a while he has a little attack, kinda on the order of epilepsy.”

“How sad.”

“Some convulsive side effect of the crud. Fear of that happening in front of the boys... that’s what made Al turn reclusive. And become the elder statesman, and rule through me. Capeesh?”

“Capeesh,” Michael said.

“I had my way, you’d sit and talk with him for hours. Got the stories, Al has, still sharp as a tack — just prefers to be remembered as he was in his prime.”

“I can understand that.”

“You can pay your respects to him, and to me, by taking a good hard look at the Palm Island security.”

Which was the job Michael had to do here for Frank Nitti. But he’d also come to Miami to do something for himself, somewhat at odds with the ganglord’s goals.

Michael intended to kill Al Capone.

But first he had to tell Capone who he was. He wanted Capone to know that betraying Michael O’Sullivan ten years ago had finally come back to bite him in his fat evil ass. Michael wanted to see in the Big Fellow’s eyes the fear and anguish and the realization of just who it was that had come calling.

On the train, thoughts that had danced, tauntingly, at the periphery of his consciousness from the beginning, only now came to the fore, forcing Michael, with the deed a day away, to confront certain realities...

Could he find a way to settle this score without losing his own life? Was there a way to be alive two days from now, with a future of some kind ahead of him? Could he dupe the shrewd Frank Nitti into thinking Michael Satariano had no role in Al Capone’s death?

If so, the possibility of a normal life — the small-town life with Patsy Ann he’d brushed aside for this opportunity to avenge — nagged at him. Wasn’t that what he wanted most of all, to replace what had been taken from him, so long ago? A normal life, a family life, with a loving wife and healthy, happy children, in the secure warmth of hearth and home...?

That would have been his dream, at least if he’d allowed himself to dream it. If he had dared dream it. In a world where men like Capone and Ricca thrived — for that matter a world where the leaders of great nations like Germany and Japan and yes, Italy, behaved no better than the gangster chiefs of big cities like Chicago — could such a small, mundane dream ever be a reality?

For all the home-front flags and bands and warm welcomes waiting for a “hero” like him, Michael saw around him an America where telegrams announced the loss of a son to loving parents, where a pretty girl of eighteen was a shattered grieving widow, where a high school baseball game was canceled because last season’s star player had been killed in action. And somewhere in the Philippines, right now, his friends and comrades were in prison camps, possibly facing torture, if they were lucky enough to be alive...

Michael Satariano — Michael O’Sullivan, Jr. — was a soldier. He could no longer fight the Japanese or the Germans; but he could do his country — and the memory of his dead father, brother, and mother — the service of removing from the face of the earth the blight of Alphonse “Scarface” Capone. Who even now, from a distance, ruled the Chicago Outfit, barely having to lift his pudgy fingers.

Little of the mansion was visible from the road, thanks to an eight-foot concrete-block wall. Michael pulled in at the spiked-iron gate before heavy oak portals. No guard met him, but, using a house phone on a stucco pillar, he announced himself while still in the Packard, receiving no acknowledgment. He was just starting to think that the phone was dead when a slot in one oak door slid open, speakeasy-style, and dark eyes under bushy dark eyebrows gave him the once-over.

The portals swung open, and then the gate, courtesy of a tall, solidly built guard in white slacks and a white short-sleeve shirt, cut by the dark brown of a shoulder holster. Michael waved at the deeply tanned guard and received a nod for his trouble; the Packard headed down the graveled drive, the doors and gate closing behind him.

To his right was that white concrete wall, to his left an elaborate rock garden; ahead the gravel drive ducked under the archway of a mission-style gatehouse, to curve around to the looming mansion itself. Perhaps a dozen palms surrounded and shaded the impressive beige two-story neo-Spanish stucco structure; the arched windows wore green-and-brown-striped canvas awnings, the flat tile roof also green.

A castle fit for a king — in this case, King Capone.

Michael pulled up into the area where the gravel drive widened to accommodate parking, though only one other vehicle was present, a 1941 aquamarine Pontiac. As Michael got out, a slender dark-haired man in a white suit mirroring his own came out the front door, followed by a colored servant in a black vest and white shirt and dark trousers.

Holding out his hand, the man spoke in a slightly squeaky tenor: “Sergeant Satariano, a delight, an honor, sir... I’m John Capone, but my pals call me Mimi.”

Michael’s host had an oblong, pleasant face that seemed a more handsome if less forceful version of his famous brother’s. His white shirt was open at the neck (Michael had worn a light blue tie).

“Thank you, Mr. Capone,” Michael said, shaking hands with Big Al’s younger brother, whose grasp was mild despite much enthusiastic arm pumping.

“Make it Mimi, please. This is Brownie, our houseboy — he’ll get your bag.”

Michael nodded to the “boy,” who was about forty. Brownie nodded and smiled back.

Mimi slipped an arm around Michael’s shoulder and walked him to the side of the house. “Michael... is it Michael or Mike?”

“Either.”

“Mike, Frank Nitti has nothing but good things to say about you. I was thrilled to get to meet you, and I know Mae feels the same. Medal of Honor! Damn! And you haven’t forgotten your Sicilian roots, good for you!... I think Sonny’s coming over tomorrow to shake your hand, too.”

“Sonny?”

“Al’s son. He’s about your age. He’s a mechanic over at the Miami Air Depot — tried to get in the army, but he’s got a bum ear.”

As they strolled along the side of the house — a paved walk and mosaic patios edged it — Michael noted a stocky, swarthy tough in a yellow sport shirt and tan trousers; he wore a shoulder holster with a revolver, and was ambling up and down that side of the mansion. Another guard, again in a sport shirt with shoulder holster, sat on a beach chair on one of the patios, reading Ring magazine. Another guard, next patio down, sat engrossed in Spicy Mystery, a pulp with a naked woman tortured on the cover.

The guards in their casual attire looked like they should be lugging golf clubs on the links, not weapons around the grounds of a gangster’s palace... though the lawn and shrubs were as carefully tended as any country club’s.

Mimi noticed Michael tallying the help and said, “We have five outside, including the gate guard, and two in the house.”

“Day and night?”

“Yeah, three shifts. Usually we only have four on the grounds, but ’cause of Frank’s concern, I canceled days off. Beefing up, a little.”

“Good to hear. Good-size staff.”

“Twenty-one guys, all from Chicago. Know their stuff.”

Maybe, but every guard was in his midthirties or older; in the Outfit, Michael knew, if you hadn’t made a mark by your early thirties, you weren’t going anywhere. King Capone or not, these were not the first team.

Not that that made them pushovers or any less deadly than any thug with a gun.

And there were a lot of them, with — as Mimi Capone explained — half a dozen living on site, in the gatehouse as well as a two-story Moorish-style cabana, just beyond the endless backyard swimming pool.

“Would you mind pointing out Mr. Capone’s room, Mimi?”

“Not at all, Mike — that’s it right there.”

The younger Capone indicated a second-floor balcony; underneath, on the first floor, was one of those arched windows with its striped awning.

“First floor awning’s got to go,” Michael said.

“Pardon?”

“Second floor don’t matter, but take a look at this.”

Michael walked over and demonstrated how he could step on the first-floor window ledge, and hoist himself up on the metal framework of the awning, giving him easy access to Al Capone’s balcony.

“Jeez, Mike — I see what you mean.”

Michael dusted off his hands as he and Mimi began to walk again. “I want those awnings taken down tomorrow morning, before Mr. Nitti arrives. Okay, Mimi?”

“Not a problem. Of course, Mae won’t love it...”

Mimi was a gracious, talkative host, who pointed out all the sights, from a rock pool with tropical fish (Al liked to feed them bread crumbs) and the dock on the north side, which was home to a cabin cruiser (the Arrow) and a speedboat (christened Sonny). No cement wall encumbered the dockside view of Biscayne Bay — white sunlight careening off white sails, powerboats cutting abstract designs in the blue expanse with their wakes.

Mimi sat Michael down by the pool on one of several deck chairs and went into the cabana to fetch refreshment.

Handing a moisture-sweating bottle of Coke to Michael, a grinning Mimi said, “Frank said you don’t drink. He respects that. Me, frankly... I think that’s plain nuts.”

And then Mimi laughed, so Michael laughed, too.

“Beer for me all the way,” Mimi said. “Been good to our family... Hey, you know who built this villa? Whose money, I mean, back in the early ’20s?”

“No idea.”

“Clarence M. Busch of St. Louie!”

“The brewer?”

“None other. When Prohibition came in, one beer baron on hard times had to sell out to another one, on the rise! Ain’t life funny?”

“Hilarious,” Michael said.

The two men sat there for fifteen minutes, talking, or anyway Mimi talked and Michael listened; the view of the bay stretched out before them, a soothing presence.

“I have the feeling,” Mimi said carefully, “that Frank may doubt the loyalty of some of our boys.”

“He didn’t say so,” Michael lied.

Mimi swigged his beer. “Well, we always keep a tight lid on, when Al and Frank get together. Hell, even I won’t be around.”

“Oh?”

“Less I know about what’s really goin’ on, happier I am.”

“Don’t you live here, Mimi?”

“Actually, no. I got a place down the road.”

“Who does, besides half a dozen of your guards?”

Mimi ticked off fingers. “Mae and her sister Muriel, and Muriel’s husband, Louis. Muriel and Louis already skedaddled — went for a few days’ vacation to Fort Lauderdale. Brownie lives off premises; so does Rose, our maid.”

“And of course, Mr. Capone lives here.”

“Al lives here. And I guess you know the rules, where Al’s concerned.”

“I’ve been told not to bother him. Keep my distance.”

“He’s uncomfortable with anybody but family. Even the guards keep ten feet or more away.”

“Really.”

Mimi nodded. “Al’s a cheerful man. Always has been good-natured. But he came out of prison... fearful. You know anything about Alcatraz?”

“Just that it’s on a rock near Frisco.”

“It was designed for only the most famous inmates. Sort of an all-star prison team... and some of those guys are psychos — sick, warped fucks. Al got beat up, more than once. There were attempts on his life.”

“A man in his position makes enemies.”

Mimi shook his head, in disgust. “These weren’t enemies — just assholes wanting to take the biggest man in America down. And enhance their own stupid reputations.”

“Must’ve been hard on your brother.”

“You quote me, Mike, I’ll deny it... but Al’s jumpy. Nervous. His greatest fear is some enemy out of his past will come over those walls and... I don’t know what.”

Michael was already “over” that wall. “You trust your security force, Mimi?”

“I do. About half of ’em worked for Paul Ricca back home, you know — and the Waiter ran the toughest crew in Chicago.”

Apparently Mimi Capone was unaware of the suspected Ricca takeover.

“What kind of alarm system do you have?”

“Nothing — just a yappin’ terrier that belongs to Muriel. And the mutt’s gone, went on vacation with ’em.”

“Mr. Capone’s room isn’t wired or anything?”

“No. No need. We’ve got strength in numbers. Firepower.”

“You do indeed.”

“Security on Palm Island is my job,” Mimi said, puffing his chest out. “And I take pride in it. I love my brother. I wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”

“I hope you don’t feel I’m trying to undermine you, in any way.”

“Not at all! Frank has a right to check us out before a meet. That was a good catch, those awnings... Ready for the nickel tour, inside?”

The house had fourteen rooms, not counting four baths and a glass-enclosed sun porch. The living room was to the right as you entered, a banistered stairway to a landing opposite the front door; at left a dining room beckoned.

A large-as-life painting of a somberly attired Capone and a similarly dressed young boy (his son, at a tender age?) loomed from over the fireplace of a cavernous living room. The simple Mission style of the house, with its graceful arches, seemed at odds with the tasteless array of obviously expensive Louis XIV furnishings, complete with scrolls, curved armrests, and golden ornamental motifs. The over-upholstered, massive chairs and couches added to the aura of tacky opulence.

“I decorated this myself,” a lilting female voice said from beside Michael. Was that a hint of brogue...?

“It’s lovely,” Michael said, turning to the tall, slim woman who had deposited herself at his side.

The beaming interior decorator responsible for this ghastly living room was as charming as it wasn’t; she had big blue sparkling eyes, platinum blonde hair brushing her shoulders, and pert, pretty features. At first glance Michael thought the woman might be in her thirties, but on closer examination, more like midforties.

“You must be Michael Satariano,” she said, offering a small slender hand bearing a big fat diamond. “Mae Capone. We’re so pleased to have you with us.”

Michael knew nothing about Mrs. Capone — the gangster had worked hard to keep his wife out of the limelight — and wondered if this striking woman had once been a chorus girl.

“You have a beautiful home,” he told her.

“I’m about ready to remodel,” she said, hands on hips, surveying the living room; she wore a simple blue-and-white floral-print dress with a white belt and white shoes. “I think I overdid it, buying all this junk when we first moved in.”

“Oh, no, it’s—”

“Pretty gauche,” she said, and made a “click” in one cheek. She looked at him, head cocked, half-smirking. “You can take the girl outa Brooklyn, but you can’t take Brooklyn out of the girl.”

Only the accent that was bedeviling Michael wasn’t of the Brooklyn variety...

“Mimi,” she said, stepping out to address Michael’s tour guide, “would you go upstairs and see if Al needs anything? He hasn’t sent down for lunch.”

“Sure, Mae,” Mimi said, and scurried off.

She slipped her arm in Michael’s and gazed at him with those big blue eyes. “Did my brother-in-law offer you lunch?... He’s a peppy host, but dumber than Dagwood.”

Michael laughed at this unexpected (and accurate) observation, and said, “I haven’t eaten, but I have my own car. I can easily go and—”

She squeezed his arm and walked him toward the kitchen. “You’re our guest. It’s not every day we have a Congressional Medal of Honor winner within these walls.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Capone, but please don’t make a fuss over—”

She gave him a firm, friendly look. “You’re going to call me Mae, and I’m going to call you Michael. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

The kitchen was spacious, modern, and very white — from the tile floor to the counters and cabinets and the latest appliances; at her direction, he sat at a white-and-black-flecked Formica table. Despite the newness of the surroundings, a pungent odor took him back to his childhood, and not the part spent with the Satarianos...

...corned beef and cabbage.

She provided a place mat, bread, iced tea with lemon, napkin, and silverware, quickly, efficiently; then served him up. She said she’d already eaten, but sat with him and had an iced tea, too.

“This is delicious,” Michael said, and it was. “I love corned beef and cabbage.”

“So does Al.”

“You made this yourself?”

She nodded. “Brownie cooks for the staff, but mostly I take care of Al’s meals.”

Midway through Michael’s meal, Mimi Capone came down to fetch a plate for Al.

When Mimi had again disappeared, Michael said, “May I ask you something, Mrs. Capone... Mae?”

“You’re my guest. And you’re a nice young man. I’m sure you won’t overstep.”

This was the first indication from Mae Capone that there were, in fact, boundaries.

“Are you... Irish?”

She laughed, a little waterfall of glee. “Yes, I’m Irish! Does that surprise a good Sicilian boy like you? That Al Capone would take a bride from the land of the bogs and the little people?”

“Frankly, yes.”

Her beautiful eyes took on a distant cast. “...That was Carroll Street, for you. The Italian and Irish neighborhoods kind of butted up against each other. And the Irish boys, well, they took forever to marry.”

Michael sipped his iced tea. “And the Italian boys got an earlier start?”

“Oh my, yes,” she said, and laughed again. “We were both twenty, Al and I... We’ve had a wonderful marriage — does that surprise you, me saying that?”

“No,” Michael said, unsteadily.

“My husband was a famous and generous man, when the world was his. And when things went another way — with the imprisonment that those hypocrites brought down upon him — well, I stood by my man, like any good wife, Italian or Irish or otherwise. And now, in his retirement, I’m with him still. He has no other nurse but me, you know.”

“Is Mr. Capone ill?”

She rose and took Michael’s dish and was clearing it in the sink, when she said, “Prison took a toll.” Then she returned and sat again. “But he’s still Al Capone. With his friend Frank, he controls Chicago. Even now.”

Her pride in the accomplishments of her criminal husband did not surprise Michael; to stay at the man’s side all these years, Mae Capone would have long since had to come to terms with who and what her husband was.

Mae showed him the rest of the house, going up the stairs to the landing off of which were various bedrooms, including Michael’s own, at the end of the hall.

Finally, at the central bedroom, Mae stopped. “This is my husband’s suite... I stay with him if he has a rough night.”

“Mr. Nitti indicated I probably couldn’t meet your husband.”

“I’m afraid that would be impossible. Al did tell me to convey his admiration and appreciation, for your gallant service to our country.”

“Well... please thank him for me.”

“I will. But, Michael, he’s a private man. I hope you understand.”

“Certainly. Mimi... that is, the other Mr. Capone... said that there are two guards posted inside the house.”

“And that is why you’re here, isn’t it?” she said thoughtfully. “To scrutinize our security.”

Surprisingly, she opened the door to the suite.

Michael followed her into a small room, shallow but wide, where two guards sat at a card table playing gin. They, too, wore sport shirts with shoulder holsters. Both were heavyset, swarthy, dark-haired, though one had a round face and the other a squarish one; veteran thugs, pushing forty or past it. Both were smoking, and the room was thick with it.

They stood as Mae entered.

“Rocco, Tony,” Mae said, gesturing to Michael, “this is Mr. Nitti’s man, Michael Satariano. The young war hero you’ve heard about.”

The round-faced one came over and shook Michael’s hand, burbling praise, as if meeting a movie star. The bucket-headed one, his eyes hooded, merely nodded and sat back down; obviously, he wanted to get back to his game.

Michael took the room in quickly: a console radio; a small refrigerator; comfortable chairs in opposite corners with end tables stacked with magazines. A Maxfield Parrish print. That was it.

Mae turned to Michael. “Two men are always on duty here, making sure no one disturbs my husband, and providing any help he might need... Al often gets restless, wakes up around three, and might want something to eat, or maybe to sit down on the dock.”

The round-faced guard said, “And it’s our job to help out, whatever Mr. Capone needs.”

“Al spends much of his time in his room,” she said, nodding toward the closed door. “Listening to the radio, reading magazines and newspapers.”

“He likes to sit by the pool, too,” the round-faced one put in.

Mae nodded, and then cast Michael a bland smile that somehow signaled that the tour of this suite was over.

“Gentlemen,” Michael said with a nod, “sorry to disturb you. Just having a look around for Mr. Nitti.”

“Sure,” the round-faced guy said cheerfully.

The other guy said nothing.

In the hallway, Michael asked, “I assume these are your top people.”

Again Mae nodded. “Only six on staff, our most trusted, sit in that room. People my husband knew back in Chicago.”

“Men he feels comfortable with,” Michael said.

“Yes. It’s probably the same with President Roosevelt and the Secret Service, don’t you think?”

That said it all, somehow — that this woman equated her husband with the country’s commander in chief.

Mae Capone was a charming hostess, but Michael was relieved when she said she’d be leaving that afternoon to join her sister and her sister’s husband in Fort Lauderdale.

“I prefer not to be present when business is conducted,” she said simply, as they sat on the sun porch, enjoying the view of the expansive backyard and the enormous pool and the bay beyond. She’d already gently scolded him for ordering (but did not rescind) the removal of her “beautiful awnings.”

She was saying, “I do apologize for not being here to prepare your supper.”

“That is a disappointment. I haven’t had corned beef and cabbage like that since my mother made it.”

She crinkled her brow. “Your Sicilian mother made corned beef and cabbage?”

Covering, Michael said, “Sure — just like I bet you make a mean lasagna.”

“I do! I do.”

Early evening, Michael carried Mrs. Capone’s bags to her Pontiac — a week’s worth for the two-day trip — which she would drive herself. She seemed an independent woman, for having stood in such a large shadow for so many years.

In the same blue floral dress, now with a jaunty dark blue hat, Mae looked at Michael and touched his cheek with a gloved hand. “You’re a sweet boy. You remind me of my Sonny... He may stop by to meet you, tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mimi said so.”

“Sonny was so disappointed he couldn’t serve. But he’s contributing to the war effort.”

“I’m sure he is, ma’am.”

“May I ask you something... personal?”

“Anything.”

“Was your father in this line of work?”

“...Sort of.”

The pretty brow tightened. “Please don’t take what I’m about to say wrong. But you seem a fine young man. You’ve won your country’s greatest honor... I say this from experience. Please... please consider going down a different road.”

Then Al Capone’s wife kissed his cheek, and was gone.

For dinner Mimi Capone took Michael out to the Roney Cabana Club in Miami Beach, where the food and service were excellent, though Michael ate very little. Mimi put away a lobster with melted butter, messily, and talked incessantly about celebrities he’d met in the Miami area. The affable Mimi relished the doors his name opened for him; as the “respectable” member of the Capone clan, he had “all the perks and none of the problems.”

Michael did not point out to the younger Capone that supervising twenty-one armed guards on a notorious gang-lord’s estate may not have been the most respectable job around.

Before long, Mimi Capone, a little drunk, driving a sporty ’37 Dusenberg convertible, dropped Michael off, loaning his guest a spare key. By eleven o’clock, Michael Satariano — with the run of the place — was alone in the mansion, but for two guards and Al Capone.

Of course, there was a matter of four or five guards outside, and an unspecified number of off-duty guards who might be in their quarters in the cabana and gatehouse.

In the kitchen he got himself a Coke — the fragrance of corned beef and cabbage lingered — and went up the main stairs to the landing off of which were the bedrooms. He stood for a moment, staring at the door to the Capone suite.

Then he went to his own room, with its double bed and nondescript contemporary furnishings fortunately free from Louis XIV touches. He changed from the white suit and Florsheims into a green army-issue T-shirt, black trousers, and black crepe-soled bluchers; then he lay on the bed, atop the spread with only the bedstand lamp on.

He sipped his Coke.

Stared at the ceiling.

The shift change was at eleven thirty. Had he gotten home earlier, he’d have taken advantage of the tiredness of the current shift of guards; but now he had to wait until the new group had come on and the others were long gone. He could hear, faintly, a radio playing big band music, and wondered if it was Capone listening or his two watchdogs.

She had reminded him of his mother.

Mae Capone’s Irish good looks and her cheery manner and her maternal fuss had, inevitably, reminded him of his mama, and there wasn’t a damned thing to be done about it. Much as he tried to banish the thought, it kept floating back. The image of a smile that was at once Mae’s and his mother’s lingered, goddamnit.

So what if she was a nice woman? And had a nice son who was doing his bit for the war effort? Who cared that Mimi Capone was a decent, harmless guy, and that their life down here was a placid routine of isolated luxury? Capone remained Capone — the man who had betrayed Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., and dispatched a contract killer to cut him down. The same Capone who had aligned himself with the Looneys after the murders of Michael’s mother and brother, and who, to this day, conspired with Frank Nitti to rule the kingdom of Chicago crime...

Mae Capone and her son Sonny and their loving husband/father, despite all Al Capone’s sins, had enjoyed years together, as a family. They had had birthdays and Easters and Thanksgivings and Christmases... Even with Capone in prison for a time, they’d been alive and had each other.

His hands tensed into fists; untensed. Tensed again.

He stared at the ceiling, not wanting to hurt Mae Capone, but knowing that a few kind words and a plate of corned beef and cabbage were not enough to dissuade Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., from doing what he had come here to do...

A little after two a.m., just below the Capone suite, a guard in a yellow sport shirt banded by a brown shoulder holster bent to light up a cigarette with a Zippo lighter. It didn’t spark to flame on the first try and his thumb was poised for a second, when the barrel of a .45 slammed across the back of his skull and dropped him to the grass.

Using black electrical tape, Michael bound the guard’s wrists behind him and the man’s ankles, too, and dragged the unconscious figure over to nearby bushes, tucking him out of sight before another guard could wander by to notice. Michael confiscated the man’s .38 Police Special and stuck it in his waistband, next to the spare pawn-shop .45.

Michael slipped his father’s .45 back into its shoulder holster worn over the green T-shirt; then — using the technique he’d partly demonstrated to Mimi, earlier — climbed from window sill to awning frame and hoisted himself up and over the balcony rail.

The sky was clear and starry with a full moon; ivory washed Michael and everything else on the balcony, which was not much: a comfortable-looking deck chair and a little table. The view here was onto the spacious backyard dotted with palms and other foliage, and the substantial swimming pool, the dock beyond; moonlight dappled off shimmering water, both the pool and the bay. No guards in sight.

Curtained French doors led from balcony to bedroom. Automatic in his right hand, Michael tried the handle with his left, gently...

Unlocked.

He pushed the door open and entered the dark room, leaving the door ajar, letting moonlight in. The room was as spare as an Alcatraz cell: two twin beds, one at left, the other right; nothing on the walls, not even a Maxfield Parrish; no nightstands; a chest of drawers; a lounge chair facing the balcony, with a small table next to it.

No radio. No books, or magazines, or newspapers.

Also, no Capone.

One bed, covers rumpled, did indicate a recent slumberer. At his left, Michael saw a closed door with an edge of light at the bottom. Gun in hand, he crossed to that door, tried the knob, went in fast.

Nothing.

Bathroom — shower stall with door closed; oversize toilet; double sink. Many, many pill bottles. Electric razor. Towels on racks and more stacked on a clothes hamper.

Michael opened the shower door and aimed his .45 in at an empty, oversize stall. When he shut it again, ever so gently, metal nonetheless nudged metal and made a sound, and when he moved back into the dark bedroom, a guard in the usual sport-shirt and shoulder holster burst in, a small dark frowning figure, throwing a wedge of light into the bedroom, and pointing a .38 at the intruder.

Michael shot the guard, in the head, and red splashed the door and smeared into modern art as the man slid down, the guard’s gunshot hitting a stucco wall, making a terrible metallic reverberation; and then another guard was in the doorway and he was firing at Michael, who hit the deck and fired up at the shooter, catching him in the head as well, though the angle sent the spatter up even as the man dropped down, piling on top of his crony, doggy-style.

From the open doors onto the balcony, yelling from below — none of it discernible as words, but the gist easily understood — discouraged Michael from exiting the way he’d come, and he figured his best bet was the rental car out front, so he jumped over the two bodies stacked in the doorway, and as he did, caught dripping blood from the ceiling onto the side of his face. He didn’t bother wiping it off because it would only make his hands sticky.

He was heading briskly down the stairway when the front door opened and three more of them rushed in, eyes wild, guns in hand, and this time the words were easy to make out: “There’s the bastard! Get him!” “Shoot that fucker!”

In a flash he realized a tactical error: if he’d made his move before shift change, these men would recognize him and he might have talked his way out; but for now he was just a guy in a green T-shirt on the stairs with a pistol in his hand. And blood on his face...

He withdrew the other .45 and hopped onto the banister and went straddle-sliding down, shooting all the way, a regular two-gun kid, and the men streaming through the doorway fired up at him, but he was a moving target and they were slowed down by his gunfire, which was turning them from men into bodies, tripping over each other as they died.

When Michael got to the bottom of the stairs, four dead men were sprawled there, one or two of them propping the door open, and he could see the Packard out there, just waiting...

...but he could also see three more guards in their sport shirts and shoulder holsters running toward him with teeth bared and eyes wide.

He threw a few shots their way, catching one, and headed into and through the kitchen, corned beef and cabbage taunting him, and hurtled across the backyard, tossing away the spare .45, which was empty, and replacing it with the commandeered .38, from that first guard.

Up ahead was the swimming pool, but beyond that the dock, and a speedboat; that seemed his best, perhaps his only bet...

But as he approached the pool, men came streaming down the stairs of the cabana — four men, two of whom were the round-and square-faced cardplaying guards from Capone’s anteroom. They were in their underwear — these were some of the live-in guards — wearing T-shirts and boxer shorts... and handguns.

The cardplayer who hadn’t spoken this afternoon paused halfway down the steps. “There! Get him!”

Michael took the offensive, running right at them, along the edge of the pool, firing up at them with a gun in either hand, and the round-faced guy, who’d been in the lead, caught a couple slugs in his head, which more or less exploded in a bone-and-blood red-and-white shower, and then tumbled down, flung onto the steps, and the other three stumbled over him, trying to shoot at Michael, who was doing a better job shooting at them.

Soon they were in an awkward pile of death at the bottom of the steps, as if they’d all gone after a fumbled football, the hard way.

Michael wheeled, looking to see if any more of them were coming up behind him, from the house.

Nobody. Not right now, anyway.

And he wheeled back to the pile of guards in their bloody underwear and went over and kicked at them, making sure they were dead; not so long ago, he’d checked the Japs in that clearing much the same way.

Behind him a voice said: “Nail the fucker!”

Two guys were running at him, across the backyard, firing wildly, barely more than shapes in the moonlight. The .38 was empty — he flung it to one side — and flopped onto the grass, withdrawing a spare magazine from his pocket and slamming it into the automatic.

Now they were close enough, and he took them down with head shots; one flopped face-forward onto the grass, dead too quick to be surprised, and the other caught one in the neck and his hands went to his throat and blood squirted through his fingers as he did a sad, short crazy dance before tumbling into the pool sideways, not making much of a splash, then floating there, blood streaming out, diluting itself in the pool water, the red looking black in the moonlight.

Michael got to his feet.

He listened carefully. He could not hear anything but the lapping of the water behind him, the bay beckoning; only now he could afford to head back to the house and use the rental car. Or would others be waiting...?

He was weighing that when another sound drifted across the eerie solitude of the night.

A whimpering.

At first he thought he’d wounded one of them, but the sniveling sound just wasn’t right. It was coming from near the swimming pool. Carefully, he stalked over there, 45 ready; and then he saw the figure, down on the cement beside a deck chair.

A big, fat figure, with curly gray thinning hair, rolled up like the world’s largest fetus. Wearing a purple bathrobe over cream-colored pajamas; with purple slippers.

Michael almost laughed.

In all the excitement, distracted as he was by killing a dozen or so men, Michael had forgotten what this was about.

Capone.

Al Capone, who right now was a whimpering terrified blob on the pool’s cement skirt, and Michael — his mind’s eye filled with the image of his father, dead on the kitchen floor in that farmhouse — grabbed the figure by the arm and flung him onto his back, though the man’s knees pulled up, his eyes wide and confused.

The famous face had a formlessness about it, but this was King Capone, all right — even if those chipmunk cheeks, scars and all, happened to be smeared with tears and snot.

Michael knelt and put the gun in Capone’s pudgy neck, dimpling the flesh, and hovered over him, the ganglord on his back, his about-to-be killer on his knees, as if in prayer.

“Look at me, Snorky! Look at me.”

Capone looked at Michael.

“Do you know who I am?”

Capone’s big eyes registered nothing.

And just as Michael was about to tell the king of crime exactly who he was, Capone asked, in a very small voice, “Where is it?”

Through his teeth, Michael spat: “Where is what?”

“My... my fishing rod?”

Michael winced, trying to make sense of this. He got on his feet, looking down at the fat child-like figure. In the moonlight, around them, lay dead bodies — Michael’s grim handiwork, all to bring him to this moment.

But Al Capone was rummaging around on the cement like a baby seeking its rattle.

“Here it is!”

With great effort, Capone lifted the fishing rod, which had been on the other side of the deck chair, where he managed to awkwardly seat himself; then he cast the line limply into the water.

It was as if Michael weren’t there at all.

The greatest of all gangsters sat fishing in his swimming pool, smiling the smile of a very young and not at all bright child, drool dribbling from plump purple lips as he hummed a tuneless song, oblivious to the carnage around them.

And Michael knew.

He understood. Understood it all: the syphilis had reduced Capone to a near vegetable, and Nitti had hidden that from all but a small select circle, to maintain his own power and the illusion of Capone’s.

There would be no revenge upon Big Al, on this or any night; the syphilis had beaten Michael to it, leaving a brain-damaged, befogged husk where Alphonse Capone had once been. Barely forty, this ancient mariner sat fishing in his pool, waiting for a bite he’d never get.

As he processed this shocking news, Michael did not notice the men slowly approaching — three more guards with guns drawn, and behind them Mimi Capone.

Who said, “Put the gun down, Michael.”

And Michael tossed the gun on the grass, turning his back on what remained of Al Capone. He fell to his knees and began to weep as the men closed in.