"I can play poker," Vasco said.
Even Mae looked shocked. Capone alone went on sorting the cards in his hand like a fey decorator comparing paint chips.
"I learned from the Jesuits," Vasco said, "when the pastor at St. Francis was out." A general collapse of curiosity ensued, from all but Henderson, the poster child for Unitarianism. What was it about Jesuits? They were the Jews of the Church.
"Poker's the berries with me," Capone said. "I need to get even. I dropped a quarter-million smackers just the other night."
The realtor gathered in the cards and shuffled, Henderson watching him with the same exaggerated attention to detail. It was plain to all but the host that quarter-million-dollar pots were relics of a past long dead.
"A box of matches, please, Rose. We're not casting lots for the clothing of Christ." The maid, who had materialized to replace the nearly empty pitcher of lemonade on the table with a fresh one, curtsied to Mae and withdrew.
It was an interesting game of chance, and one not likely to be duplicated: a gang lord, a hotelier, a real-estate salesman, and a false priest, with the gang lord's wife looking on to make sure no old secrets came out in her husband's confusion; Vasco detected Ralph's influence in the last. But he was less interested in game strategy than in studying Parker Henderson. He could not fathom the thinking of a respectable citizen who voluntarily kept company with the underworld. He himself had spent most of his life fleeing the very thing the other sought.
"Full house. Read 'em and weep, boys." Capone spread his cards on the table.
The realtor belched into a fist. Vasco caught the acrid odor of a peptic ulcer.
"Al, you've got two pair. That's a ten of clubs, not a jack. I've got three sixes." He showed him his hand.
Capone's face flushed a deep shade of—mauve? magenta?
Vasco's mother would have known. She could pick out a curtain color that matched the dishes in a box she hadn't opened in two weeks, since the last move. Capone caught the eye of a bodyguard walking past, trying to look like a guest. "Hit this guy, willya?" He pointed at the white-haired man, whose face turned a color that matched the cottage cheese of his complexion.
The bodyguard's tongue made a bulge in one cheek.
Mae intervened. "Snorky, you're playing for matchsticks."
"You're right. He ain't worth a bullet. Beat it," he told the bodyguard, who looked at Mae. She made a little motion of her head and he coasted away. There was a new boss in charge.
"George, I'm dying to hear about the place next door. You swore to me you'd let me know when it came on the market. I want that home chapel." Mae scooped the realtor out of his seat with a touch of the shoulder and twined her arm inside his, drawing him toward the house. By the time they reached the corner of the pool his color was returning.
"How do you like that guy?" Capone picked up the deck and shuffled. "In the old days he'd've had eels crawling out of his eyes down by Coral Gables."
Henderson produced a folded handkerchief from inside his seersucker coat and sponged his forehead.
Vasco began to have hope. If Capone's regression allowed him to make the kind of threat in the open that he'd been accustomed to making in the past in private, he could be careless about other secrets as well.
At that moment Vasco picked up the cards he'd been dealt and discovered he was more than halfway to a straight. He immediately threw away two key cards and asked for two more from the deck.
While Capone was studying his hand, Vasco glanced around and saw Mae and the realtor near the bar, the white-haired man gulping from a tall glass and massaging the base of his sternum with his other hand. Liquor was hard on an ulcer, but not as hard as having one's life threatened. Sonny Capone joined them. Mae said something to him, pointing toward the table. He nodded and started that way. The second shift was clocking in. There would be no wheedling anything out of Snorky whenever one of them was around.
Sonny sat in. He played quietly and bet conservatively, as if the matchsticks were dollars, but he was an inept bluffer, easily read. Capone, on the other hand, was a sphinx. His file said he was Homerically unlucky at the track, dropping millions at Hialeah and Charlestown, but Vasco could see that when skill and intelligence were required he was as lethal in the parlor as he had been on the streets of Chicago. His early mistake wasn't repeated. He won steadily, losing only when he folded before a hand that proved unbeatable afterward. Here was the Scarface of old.
But the man who had tried to have another player killed for correcting his play; that was the old Scarface, too.
Vasco played patiently and well. In Cicero he'd taken quickly to the game and usually left the table with pocket money, but he was careful to lose to Capone lest his anger flare up again. He wasn't afraid that one of his threats would actually be carried out, but he didn't want to alienate the man he was there to befriend.
Sick or not, however, Capone was no simpleton. Losing constantly invited doubt. It made Vasco want to sigh. Poker was complicated enough without adding diplomacy.
On the fifth hand he beat Capone's pair of eights with three deuces. Capone's face darkened and he thought he'd made a horrible mistake. But Capone merely ground his teeth on his cigar stub and said, "A man can't lose when he's playing partners with God."
Henderson chuckled nervously. Capone glared at him. There was a beat during which pinheads of sweat glittered along the hotel manager's hairline. Then Capone yanked out the cigar and laughed.
It was a boy's laugh, uninhibited and irresistibly contagious. It spread as far as the group gathered on the other side of the vast pool, who laughed without knowing what the joke was. Henderson joined in, reaching for his handkerchief.
"Had you going there, Park," Sonny said, dragging in the cards. "You, too, Father. Dad's a comic."
"Peter," he reminded him.
Capone replaced his cigar, which had gone out. Henderson scratched the wheel on a pigskin-and-platinum lighter and relit it for him. It was a glimpse into the past, and into the nature of their relationship. "You boys bring your old dads next time," Capone said. "We'll have a father-and-son tournament, show you sprouts there's still lead in our pencils."
They played a few more hands with the sun hanging low and turning the surface of the pool a coppery shade of pink. The guests began to thin out. Capone sat back as they filed past the table in a reception line, shaking hands and mouthing pleasantries learned at Johnny Torrio's knee a quarter-century ago. Old friends got the two-handed shake; Vasco paid special attention to them, but couldn't place their faces with pictures in the FBI file. He supposed Florida had furnished an entirely different set of companions from the Chicago crowd. Henderson rose. Capone paid him the compliment of rising himself to grasp his hand. Evidently he harbored no ill feelings for the other's testimony at his trial. The man was a conundrum, threatening violence for no reason at all while forgiving old grievances that had shattered his life. His medical report had listed mercurial mood swings among the symptoms of his disease, but Vasco suspected they were part of his nature. It was the difference between stroke-induced lameness and a congenital limp; and it had played no small role in his fall from grace. If grace was the proper term. It rang of blasphemy.
When he stood to say good-bye, Capone locked his hand in an unbreakable grip. "Stick around, Padre. We're showing a movie later. Mae hates crime pictures, and come this time of day Danny's too far gone to appreciate 'em. I don't like watching alone."
"What about Sonny?" He looked at him.
"I run the projector," Sonny said. "It runs hot. It's a choice of paying attention to the story or keeping the house from burning down around our ears."
"There's grub in it." Capone was smiling, but there was a pleading quality behind his eyes. His dip had washed the talcum off his face, exposing the deep curving trench on his cheek.
"I'd enjoy that," Vasco said. "Thank you."
Mae came up. He couldn't tell how she took the news when Capone told her. She was a harder puzzle to solv
e. She smiled at Vasco, then put a hand on her husband's arm. "You should rest before dinner."
He nodded, seeming to deflate suddenly, as he had at the end of their first meeting. He started toward the house, slippers scraping the tiles, Sonny close at his elbow.
"I'll understand if you'd rather I left," Vasco told Mae when they were out of earshot. "You've been entertaining all afternoon."
"I wouldn't hear of it. You're invited. Actually, I'm glad you were. I have a big favor to ask." White teeth bit her lower lip, a unique sign of indecision on her part. "My brother has a problem. He knew I was counting on him to drive Rose home after the party, but he's up in the guest room snoring like a stevedore. Sonny has poor night vision, part of his condition. She doesn't live very far away. Do you suppose—"
"I'd be happy to drive her, but why not Brownie?"
"He doesn't go home until after he serves dinner, and he lives north of Miami. Rose has been here since early morning getting things ready. It wouldn't be fair to make her wait, or to ask Brownie to drive four miles out of his way, with gas rationing. It's a terrible imposition."
"Not at all."
"Thank you, Father. Dinner will be ready when you get back."
"Peter."
She shook her head. "I attend Mass at Blessed Sacrament four times a week. I go to confession there, and sometimes at Redemption when I can't be away from the house long, because it's closer. I could never address a priest by his Christian name."
He smiled understanding, but his mind was racing. If Mae Capone confessed to Sergei Kyril, the odds were he knew who Mr. and Mrs. Brown were. For a man who was supposed to be working undercover, Vasco had never felt so transparent.
Rose wore a light tan cloth coat over her uniform and a taupe felt beret pinned to her hair at a jaunty angle Vasco found surprising in someone so seemingly quiet. She smiled shyly when he opened the front door for her and again when he took her white-gloved hand to help her up onto the seat. She slid over into the passenger's side and folded her hands on a shiny black patent-leather purse in her lap.
She gave him directions to a part of town that was mixed Cuban and Negro—a place of small houses, many in need of paint, but in good repair, the lawns clipped. Larger, older places stood among them, turn-of-the-century relics with signs in the windows offering rooms to let.
"The Capones seem to be good people to work for," he said, hand-signaling a turn.
"They've been very kind to me."
"Brownie seems dedicated." He knew that was an understatement, but it wasn't the houseman he wanted to talk about.
"He's not as mean as he looks."
"He couldn't possibly be."
It was a gamble that paid off. She made a sound of amusement, too low for a giggle, not dry enough to be called a chuckle. "He made me comfortable my first day. I was afraid to leave the kitchen. My mother said I'd be butchered in my sleep. I said, 'But I won't be sleeping there.' She said, 'Well, then, they going to get you when you're awake. It's open season on us all the time.' You know, a Negro candidate in the Chicago elections was murdered just 'cause he was black."
He knew the incident from the file. Octavius Granady, an attorney, ran for sanitary trustee in the twentieth ward and was torn apart by shotgun slugs moments after the polls closed.
They'd chased him in an automobile and surrounded his car after he crashed into a tree. Fish in a barrel. His opponent was Boss Morris Eller, a Capone man. Seven arrests, including four police officers, all acquitted.
"I think it had to do with more than just his being colored." He wasn't comfortable with black. It seemed to be an inside thing.
She smiled in profile, with a bitter shake of the head. She had a fine nose, high forehead, small round chin. He liked her melodic accent, the lemon scent that clung to her after a long day of hard work in the Florida heat. "Brownie told me they never kill civilians, only gangsters and politicians, and anyway Mrs. Capone would protect me, and if she didn't, he surely would. I've been happy there. Mr. Danny's funny when he drinks." She turned his way suddenly, flushing under the caramel. "I shouldn't have said that."
He touched his collar. "I've had practice keeping secrets."
She smiled again, no bitterness this time, and faced front.
"I imagine finding good help is more complicated for them," he ventured. "People are always listening."
But she said nothing. He couldn't afford to press it. "Is this your street?"
"That big house there on the right."
It was one of the older buildings converted into rooming houses. It had been painted fairly recently, before the war, in Victorian colors, faded now to pastels. A thickset black woman in a long skirt was sweeping the front porch, a man's old fedora on her head with the brim pulled down all around. She stopped to watch as a priest alighted and helped his passenger down.
"Thank you, Reverend," Rose said.
"Father's the usual form of address." He felt the stiffness of the words.
"I only called my own father that, and he's passed."
He watched her climb the steps to the porch. The thickset woman resumed sweeping.
Remarkable young woman. Remarkable household.
"You're in for a treat, Padre," Capone said. "Brownie cooks good Italian for a shine. I smell a Sicilian in the woodpile on the old plantation."
The houseman set out the main course, his face chiseled from stone. Vasco would have been hard-pressed to win a hand of poker against him, Mae, and Al.
He felt self-conscious in his gray business suit. Capone, looking rested from his nap, eyes clearest gray, wore a tuxedo with glistening satin lapels over an immaculate white shirt with black studs and a black tie knotted flawlessly, possibly by Mae. She had on a gray satin off-the-shoulder dress and a string of matched pearls. Dressing for dinner seemed to present a tangible link to the days of old. Caruso sang Pagliacci on an unseen phonograph. Changing records appeared to be one of Brownie s many responsibilities.
The pasta was superb, obviously hand-rolled and topped with a delicate tomato bisque sauce that had not come from a jar. Vasco didn't share his father's passion for all-Italian, all the time—he suspected it was the Irish in him—but he ate with energy and didn't hesitate to accept seconds when they were offered. All he'd had to eat since breakfast was a piece of broccoli in a crust of cheese. Trust Mae, the devout Catholic, to make sure that Friday's meal contained no red meat.
Sonny was present, manipulating his fork bottom-side up in the accepted European fashion, and Danny Coughlin, looking bloated and hungover with his starched collar slicing into his sunburned neck. He poked at his plate and made short work of the first carafe of red wine. The wine in Capone's glass looked pale, diluted from an identical carafe filled with mineral water.
"You like opera, Padre?" Capone sat back with his napkin tucked inside the v of his coat—a peasant despite all training—trailing his fingers in the air to the melody from the phonograph.
"The music. I have trouble following the libretto. My mother insisted on English only at home."
"Irish girls, prettiest on the planet. Name one contribution the Irish made to music."
" 'Danny Boy.' " Mae smiled at Danny, who wasn't paying attention, involved as he was in rearranging the pasta in front of him to appear as if he'd eaten more than a small portion.
"Name another one."
" 'When Irish Eyes are Smiling.' 'Londonderry Air.' 'Who Threw the Overalls-'"
"I said one." Capone scowled, and the party lapsed into silence, broken only by Caruso and metal clinking crockery. Vasco was only partly aware of the tension. How could Capone remember his mother was Irish? Their meeting had been brief, no longer than it had taken to exchange a roll of bills for his pistol. So many years ago.
"Patsy Lolordo loved grand opera," Capone said suddenly. "He taught me to love it. He had Carmen playing in his place on North Avenue when that assassino Joe Aiello—"
Sonny pushed away his plate. "Mother, may I be excused? That old Bell a
nd Howell takes some coaxing."
"Don't you want any dessert?"
"Ruth says I'm getting fat." He patted his stomach.
"All right. More wine, Father?"
"I'd better slow down. It wouldn't do for Miami's newest man of the cloth to be arrested for driving under the influence."
He was happy to be allowed some part in diverting his host from a dangerous conversation. He had confidence now that Capone could be drawn out by a canny practice of patience rather than by applying pressure. Pasquale Lolordo, slain in his own home with his wife in the next room, on orders of Bugs Moran, in violation of all the rules of Mafia etiquette regarding murder, to weaken Capone's hold on the Sicilian order: January 8, 1929, thirty-seven days before St. Valentine's Day. Put a nickel in the Vasco vending machine, get absolution or a lesson in mob history, complete with names and dates.
Dessert was orange ice, the oranges fresh-squeezed from local groves. Capone ate greedily; his guest thought it wouldn't be long before he was back up to his preincarceration weight. He finished ahead of the others, plucked free his napkin, and wiped his palms, immaculate like his shirtfront, the nails rounded and buffed. (Did Mae submit a record of expenses to Jake Guzik, mob accountant? So much for barbering and manicure, cigars, pasta, wine, entertainment? The Bureau of Internal Revenue would insist on receipts.) "This is the life, Padre. A night at the pictures without sitting through a crummy newsreel and somebody's brat squalling in the back row. Ever see Scarface?"
Was it that night's selection, or some kind of test? For once Vasco could answer truthfully. He avoided gangster movies as assiduously as he avoided gangsters; until recently, that was. He shook his head.
"Malarkey. I sent some boys out to California to find out if they were making a picture about me without my permission. A man's got rights, even if the world thinks he's public property. The guy that wrote it was no fool, a Chicago boy; he said it wasn't about me. He didn't even know he wasn't lying through his teeth. This guy, this actor—Mooney?" He looked to Danny, who was galvanized suddenly.
The Confessions of Al Capone Page 15
