"Mrs. Capone?"
"The first time people visit the house, she prefers to speak with them before they meet Mr. Capone."
She had a pleasant Deep Southern accent, not at all the brassy twang he'd overheard among Negroes in the District and on Chicago's South Side, which he'd always suspected was exaggerated for Caucasian ears. She took his hat and hung it on a hall tree and he followed her across an entryway dim to his eyes, still adjusting from the sunlight, through a wide doorway into a large living room lit by table lamps. Chairs and davenports built for a race of giants invited one and all to sink into their chintz-covered depths. The focal point, above a huge ceramic hearth that could not have hosted many fires in that climate, was an oil painting in a gilt frame, easily seven feet tall, of a stocky, round-faced man with a pensive expression, resting one hand on the shoulder of a boy of about twelve. Vasco recognized Al Capone and assumed the boy was his son; he'd seen only one picture of a lad eagerly watching Babe Ruth sign a baseball, and he'd been nine or ten.
"Mrs. Capone will be down shortly. Would you like iced tea or lemonade?" An ironic selection. "Neither, thank you."
She nodded and left, skirts rustling against bare brown legs; no curtsy this time. Vasco attributed all such subtleties to Mae Coughlin Capone—like his mother, the Irish helpmeet of an Italian. ("It ain't that they like dark meat so much as you have to kneecap a Mick to get him to the altar before he's forty," his father had told him once when he was drunk.)
A number of irregular shapes littered the red stone mantel among what appeared to be family photographs in silver frames. He stepped closer to examine them. Elephants of varying sizes and attitudes, quite finely carved from ivory. He reached to pick one up.
"How can you tell there's an elephant in the icebox?"
The voice—masculine, middle-register—wasn't loud, but it jolted him so hard he nearly swept the mantel clear. He turned, his heart thundering, to face a bulky purple outline against the low red sun shining through a window in line with the doorway at its back.
The answer came before he could respond. "You can see his footprints in the provolone, that's how! Har-har!"
Vasco force-fed a smile to his face and before he knew what he was doing grasped the hand that had murdered dozens.
1944
THINGS UNDER THE EARTH
SEVEN
"I'm a sucker for elephants," Al Capone said. "They're all over the house. I used to keep these ones on my desk back in Chicago. They're good luck, and they never forget. Those are two of the things that took me to the top."
The first impression Vasco had, as the master of the house stepped farther into the room away from the glare behind him, was that he had beautiful lips. Chiefly it was the curve of the upper that gave them beauty; the lower was thick and meaty, but the sharply defined dimple beneath his nose acted as a sculptor's chisel, creating a scrolling effect, like the shape of a violin.
The rest of him was much as he'd appeared in photographs: a two-hundred-plus-pounder just under six feet tall, with the sloping shoulders of a saloon bouncer and a bullet head mounted directly on the torso. The neckless look was accentuated by a yellow silk scarf knotted Noel Coward fashion at his throat, printed with red-and-white dice. Over it he wore a coral sport shirt and over that a brown mohair smoking jacket tied with a sash, the initials AC embroidered in gold thread two inches below the breast pocket. Yellow flannels and oxblood loafers with tassels put the finishing touches on the picture of the country squire at home.
Vasco's second impression was that the medical reports were wrong. Capone had lost weight in prison, and his well-known affinity for swimming daily in his pool had shaped what was left into muscle. He looked fit enough to go back to Brooklyn and hurl drunks and belligerents into the street. The gray eyes under the heavy brows were clear, the brows appearing even darker than they were against the talcum dusting his face; a cosmetic attempt, the visitor assumed, to conceal the scars scoring his left cheek. Flecks of it clung like dandruff to the collar of his jacket. He was nearly bald now, but there was no gray in the hair that remained, cut close to the skull.
"Jim Colosimo gave me my first one, that big one on the end. It's genuine elephant ivory, from the tusk. It was a welcoming present when I came out from New York, and it brought me luck right away, so I started a collection. But this one here's my favorite."
He reached past Vasco and took down a carving one-third the size of the ornate one he'd pointed out first, fashioned far more crudely from coarser material with a dull white finish, probably soapstone. Vasco hadn't noticed it among the others.
"George Kelly gave it to me," he said, holding it out in front of him in both hands. "Took him three months to make it. 'Course, he spent a month of that time in solitary, where they don't let you have tools."
"Machine Gun Kelly? The bank robber?"
"Pop-gun, we called him. He couldn't pull the trigger on a mouse. He's the only man in the history of Alcatraz asked to be sent there. His wife was convicted of kidnapping, and when he found out inmates couldn't receive visits from convicted felons he couldn't wait to go. He was more afraid of her than he was of J. Edgar Hoover."
Vasco felt himself go pale, but the other man appeared more interested in the childlike carving than in his visitor's face. The very name on those graceful— cruelly graceful—lips chilled him. Was he being played with, like a guest at one of Capone's ghastly banquets? He was suddenly sure the Big Fellow knew all.
Capone returned the object to its place. "I liked Georgie. I wouldn't hire him to carry my bags, never mind a rod, but he was good company. He told me that elephant joke. Dentyne?" He produced a brightly wrapped square from the pocket of his smoking jacket and held it out.
Vasco detested chewing gum, but he thanked him and took it. Accepting his host's hospitality was an important first step. He unwrapped it and watched Capone strip the foil off another piece for himself. He had powerful hands with blunt fingers and neatly pared nails. A diamond the size of a lemon drop sparkled on his left pinky. Agents of the Bureau of Internal Revenue must have missed it when they put him away for tax evasion.
Capone chewed fastidiously, keeping the wad out of sight as he spoke. He seemed to have some social graces, as well as a good grasp of grammar. His speech betrayed none of his New York borough origins, and not even the flat Chicago dialect. Mob legend said Johnny Torrio, his early sponsor, had spent a lot of money grooming his protégé for polite society.
''Doc Phillips says I have to give up cigars. I don't miss booze, but personally I think a stogie looks better in an ashtray than a glob of wet rubber. Don't go looking for dignity when your health's shot to hell."
"You don't seem infirm. Quite the opposite."
The man's grin was wide. It was perfectly scaled to his broad face. "I'm going to beat this rap, Padre. I hope you're patient if you're here to give me Last Rites." The Director had cautioned him not to rush things. ("Let him think confession is his idea. He's not used to taking suggestions from anyone.")
"I'm not here on Church business. My father asked me to look you up. You gave him a job when he needed one and he never forgot it."
"I never forgot what he did for me. I didn't have the juice then to beat a beef with the gun still smoking in my paw."
He felt himself reeling. That Capone had just casually confessed to murder— had he?—was unsettling enough. That he would so readily remember the circumstances of a relatively minor event in a sanguinary life, after twenty years, astonished him and fed his darkest suspicions. Paul Vasco's infinitesimal role in the Chicago underworld should have banished him from memory. If it was infinitesimal; that was the sticking point.
A stubby finger shook in Vasco's face. "Take a lesson from the elephant: Never forget. That bum Joe Howard roughed up my pal Jake Guzik and got what he had coming: four slugs in the kisser fired by a person or persons unknown. That's what the coroner said, and who am I to argue with a servant of the people?"
"I'll remember."
The grin slammed back on, a thousand-candlepower lamp in a dark alley. The hand flattened, patted Vasco's cheek. He shrank from it, but only inside. Capone's breath was cinammony from the gum. "Your old man's proud, I bet. Mine wanted me to be a priest. I had six brothers, so he didn't have to worry about the name carrying on. He gave up on Jimmy and Ralph, but he had hope for me right up to the day I smacked my sixth-grade teacher and ran away from school."
"I think Dad's getting used to the idea." He'd resolved to respond candidly whenever the truth didn't conflict with his mission. The fewer lies he told, the easier they were to keep track of.
"Well, it's different with just one kid. We're put on this earth to be a disappointment to our parents. My brother Jimmy let us all down when he took off with the circus and became a policeman."
How did he know Vasco was an only child?
A woman came in. "Snorky, I thought you were resting."
It may have been that he was thinking of family just then, but her light brogue reminded him immediately of his mother—right down to the note of mild alarm—and she might have resembled her physically had Maureen Vasco lived into middle age. She was an attractive blonde with a heart-shaped face and blue eyes the size of half-dollars. He'd seen only one photograph of Mae Capone, who much unlike her husband had covered her features with the collar of a mink coat when the shutter clicked, but there was something about the way a woman entered a room that announced she was the mistress of the house. She wore a sky-blue cotton dress with a full skirt that came to her knees and woven leather sandals on her pedicured feet. Her waist was the least bit thick, but she was evenly tanned and looked younger than she was. Vasco had read that Mae was two years older than Al.
"You know I can't sleep when it's light out. Pipe that, will you?" Capone told Vasco. "Sunup used to be bedtime for me. I entertained the head of the crime commission in my pajamas at noon. Now I'm down with the chickens and up with the rooster."
"Will you introduce me to your friend?" she asked.
"This is little Petey Vasco. Last time I saw him he was in a high chair. His old man was the best driver in the Outfit."
Shaken by yet another demonstration of Capone's memory, Vasco took her outstretched hand. It was cool to the touch. "I'm serving at Our Lady of Redemption. I stopped by to pay my respects."
"That's very thoughtful. Snorky, you should be in bed. It'll be dark by the time you're ready."
"I thought I'd take a swim first." Irritation crept into his tone. He sounded like a rebellious child.
"In the dark?"
"The pool's forty by sixty. I think I can find it."
"First thing in the morning."
Capone's face clouded. Vasco braced for one of his infamous rages. Instead the man turned and shook his hand. His grip was looser than before. "Bring the old man sometime. I don't get much chance to talk about the old days."
Mae kissed Al on his unscarred cheek. "I'll send up your supper later. Pretend it's breakfast in bed."
He left the room, shuffling a little; exhaustion seemed to have set in all at once. Most of the energy present left with him nonetheless.
The sugar substitute in Vasco's gum had lost its flavor. Lacking a place to dispose of it he swallowed.
Mae smiled at him. "Won't you sit down?"
"I should be getting back to Redemption."
"I know Father Kyril. He can manage without you a few minutes longer." This was authority speaking, in a pleasant voice with the brush of Old Erin, and it chilled him head to foot. Kyril was suspicious of him already.
He sat on the end of a massive davenport. It was surprisingly firm. More surprisingly still, his hostess chose the adjoining cushion. Their knees nearly touched when she turned his way. At that moment the pretty maid entered. "Iced tea, please, Rose. Would you like some?" Mae looked at her guest. "Thank you." His mouth was dry, and the lump of latex lay on the floor of his stomach like an ejected shell.
When they were alone, her voice dropped to a murmur. "We have to be quiet. Al's hearing is excellent. When we used to throw parties, he'd hear someone say his name in a group across a roomful of people and go over to eavesdrop. Are you with the Treasury Department?"
The question caught him so far off guard he was glad she hadn't asked if he was with Justice. His reaction might have told her the truth. "No."
"If you are, then you know this house is in my name. The mortgage is paid through the generosity of Al's old friends in Chicago. Nothing here belongs to him, not even his clothes. You saw his ring?"
"It's hard to miss."
"It's paste. He gave the original to his brother for safekeeping when he was sentenced and Ralph disposed of the stone and had it replaced with an imitation. Al doesn't know that, so if he tells you it's worth fifty thousand dollars and you run to your superiors with the information, you'll only embarrass yourself."
"Mrs. Capone, my superiors are all prelates of the Catholic Church."
"What seminary did you attend?"
"St. Francis, in Cicero."
"A call came in concerning your father. He lives in Fort Lauderdale?"
"Yes, ma'am. He owns Sunrise Charters."
"You gave the guard at the gate a card. Do you have another?"
He got one from his wallet. She slid it into a pocket of her skirt without looking at it. "I'll see Ralph gets the information. It's best if you don't come back unless you're invited."
"Is that what Mr. Capone wants?"
"Thank you, Rose." She removed a tall glass from the tray the maid had carried in, handed it to Vasco, and took the other for herself. Rose withdrew. "Mr. Capone is an invalid. He doesn't make decisions. How do you like Florida so far?" She sipped. Her eyes were blue steel above the rim of the glass.
"I like it. I understand it gets very hot in summer."
"It's a pressure cooker. We can't turn on the air conditioner, because Al might get a chill. Nothing gets done around here in July. We used to fly down to Bimini, where the trade winds are pleasant, but now he gets agitated as soon as the plane leaves the ground. Anyway, we can't afford it. Did you know government accountants estimated Al earned more than three million dollars in 1929?"
"I never dreamed." Actually he'd seen copies of Treasury investigator Frank Wilson's memos and knew the amount to the penny.
"What became of it all, I ask you? Albert had to leave Notre Dame because we couldn't pay his tuition."
That would be Sonny, their only child, who in fact had dropped out when his classmates learned his real name. He'd registered under 'Al Brown,' his father's favorite alias. Vasco envied Mae her effortless obfuscation. He sampled his iced tea, discovered it was sweetened with real sugar. He made conversation. "Do you ever get back to Chicago?"
"Al won't fly, and he tires too easily for train travel. But there's nothing for us there. His mother lives in the house on Prairie, and she visits us every winter. If we did go back, detectives and federal agents would follow us everywhere we went. There's always at least one stationed outside this house. You'd think they'd have better things to do with a war on."
You married him. Aloud he said, "I'm sorry."
They sipped in silence for a while. A foghorn croaked out in the bay. The temperature had dropped noticeably with the onset of evening. He hoped the Model T's headlights were equal to the fog.
"I wish we'd stayed in Brooklyn."
He waited politely, but she seemed to have completed her thought. "Speedboats buzz the dock all the time," she said. "They throw Al into a panic. We never know if it's federal men or curiosity seekers or someone coming to murder him."
"Why that? He's retired."
"Some people never forget."
"Like the elephant."
She smiled. The expression seemed genuine, and genuinely sad. "Al and his elephants. I bought four of them in bronze when we moved in here, to make him feel at home. I sold them at auction along with his boats and most of the furniture when he was away. No one was helping out then. They were afr
aid to spend a penny in case Washington decided to go after them just like Al. A fat lot of luck they brought us, those elephants. I wasn't sorry to see them go.
"Back in Chicago I couldn't go shopping in Marshall Field's without a car in front of me and a car behind, and someone to check out the store before I went inside. Al hired a bodyguard to look after Albert on the playground. A little boy, can you imagine? He was afraid he'd be kidnapped and tortured. He posted men to keep strange cars from parking within four square blocks of his hotel. The president doesn't do that. Once when we were on vacation in Wisconsin, he had our driver stop while he watched a family eating supper in a house with all the windows open and the shades up. He said he'd give anything to be able to do that. I never wanted him to be a barber like his father, but if he'd kept that nightclub job in Brooklyn, our lives would have been different."
He refrained from pointing out that Capone had fled west to avoid a murder indictment. It was possible to overstudy for an assignment.
She looked at him quickly—almost guiltily—and he had the odd feeling that for a moment she'd forgotten her suspicions of him. Was it that simple? A white collar and an honest face? Had he an honest face? He'd always thought it heavy and bland. "Are you finished with your tea?" she asked.
He hadn't thought about it after that first sip. "It's sweeter than I'm used to."
"Al likes it that way. We traded gasoline stamps to my sister for her sugar rations. We seldom go out driving. So many strange cars fall in behind us we practically have to apply for a parade permit." She set down her glass and smoothed her skirt. "I'll have Brownie show you to the door."
"Brownie?"
"Our handyman. He's also the cook."
"Please don't bother. I know the way."
But Rose had returned, and Mae asked her to send Brownie in. She never rang a bell or seemed to operate any other kind of summoning device, but the girl always appeared just when she was needed. She had even brought him his hat.
The Confessions of Al Capone Page 9
