Road to Paradise

by Max Allan Collins

  Just like always, except for the .45 automatic in his hand.

  FIVE

  Afternoon sun slanted through the glass patio doors as Michael paused, having just stepped from the garage into the yellow-and-white modern kitchen. Sun rays, floating with dust motes, were bright enough to make him squint, lending a surrealistic unreality to the mundane surroundings, the world within the Satariano home that seemed as normal as the loaf of Wonder Bread on the counter.

  He toed one slip-on shoe off, then the other, and moved on in his socks, the silence broken only by such innocuous household sounds as refrigerator hum, dishwasher rumble, and various ticking clocks.

  First he checked the pantry and laundry, just off the kitchen at his left —nothing. The adjacent door to the basement stairs made him wonder if he should check down there—semifinished, the basement consisted of the laundry room (beneath where he stood), a storage room, and a big open space with a ping-pong table and a small sitting area on an old carpet with a second TV and a ’60s hi-fi. He decided the cellar could wait for last—unlikely any intruders would be down there, unless they’d ducked out of sight upon hearing the station wagon come into the garage.

  So he would have to watch his back.

  The kitchen fed both a formal dining room, off to the right, and the rec room, straight ahead. He had good clear views of both, though in either case he had to lean in to get a good look—not that there was any place for anybody to hide in that open dining area, with the Bauhaus chairs and marble-top table and ankle-deep white carpeting that had meant only the rarest meal had ever been taken here.

  The rec room—with its comfortable bench-style sofa against the wall (behind which no one could hide) facing the wall of shelving he’d built to house the TV and stereo and all his LPs and Pat’s Book of the Month Club selections—was also a mostly open area. The carpet was a shag puce, and on one side was a window on the backyard, sending in more mote-floating sun rays, and on the other a wall of the tin Mexican masks Pat had been collecting, strange faces watching him in blank judgment.

  With the .45 in front of him, like a flashlight probing darkness, Michael padded through the living room, Pat’s current modern approach finally pleasing him—not the yellow-and-white geometry of it all, but the lack of hiding places this cold European style provided an intruder. The red-and-green-and-black-and-white abstract paintings screamed at him as he passed, as if warning of what might lie beyond. He tiptoed through the foyer into the hallway that split the horizontal house vertically, side-by-side bedrooms for Anna and Mike, then a bathroom, the master bedroom, another bathroom, and his study.

  He began with the bedroom on the far end, Mike’s, which after their son left for the army, Pat had said she intended to keep “just as it was.” But of course first she had cleaned it, so now it was nothing like when Mike lived in it, when you’d have found a floor scattered with LP covers (Hendrix and Joplin) and books (Heinlein and Asimov) and of course dirty clothes, his bed rarely made; for all his young Republican talk, and despite his skill with weapons, Mike had not been a likely candidate for the military life—the posters of Mr. Spock, cavegirl Raquel Welch, and Clint Eastwood from For a Few Dollars More would not be welcome at a barracks, nor could these quarters have stood up under inspection, before Mike’s mother had tidied them up, anyway.…

  The only place to hide was the closet, but it was empty save for Mike’s clothes and the shelf where the kid had stacked the Playboys his parents weren’t supposed to know he collected.

  Anna’s room—which the girl kept tidy without prompting from her mother—was likewise empty of intruders, though the closet provided considerably more clothes for someone to hide behind, and checking without making rustling noises was no small feat.

  In the hall again, he listened carefully. No sounds other than the electronic pulse of any modern home; and yet he could swear someone was here. Was he so out of shape that he was prey to paranoia, now? Just because he’d maintained his fighting weight, that didn’t mean his instincts might not’ve gone flabby on him.…

  He continued on, with the bathroom.

  Handgun at the ready, he nudged open the glass door on the shower stall—nobody, not even Janet Leigh, jumped out.

  Starting to feel foolish, Michael pressed forward, their bedroom next, the master bedroom.

  Which had plenty of places to hide—under the antique four-poster bed, for example; Pat’s walk-in closets; behind the black-and-red oriental dressing screen (a rare holdover from an earlier interior decorating scheme); and their large bathroom connecting from the bedroom, with the double shower stall.…

  No one.

  Nothing.

  Nobody.

  Finally he came to his study, and opened the door quickly, to find a stocky man in a dark business suit sitting at his desk; the man—bald with black-rimmed glasses that magnified dark eyes—smiled pleasantly, as if Michael had finally showed up for his appointment.

  And when Michael thrust the .45 forward, a hand came from behind the door and locked onto his wrist, and twisted.

  The .45 popped from Michael’s hand, clunked onto the carpeted floor (not discharging, thankfully); and Michael spun to meet his attacker, an athletic-looking tanned guy with a somber face cut by Apache cheekbones. Even in the heat of the moment, Michael was taken by the strange calmness of the intruder’s sky-blue eyes.

  An automatic—nine millimeter?—was in the intruder’s other hand, and he shoved the snout in Michael’s belly and shook his head as if advising a naughty child to reconsider that cookie jar.

  Because the man did not immediately fire the weapon, Michael knew this was not a hit—not unless someone had decided to take him and torture him and then kill him, always a possibility in the Outfit life—and acting upon this assumption, kneed the son of a bitch in the balls, at the same time gripping the intruder’s wrist and shoving the snout of the automatic down, to where it was pointing at the floor.

  Apparently the pain was enough—Michael’s knee had come up with speed and force—to cause a reflexive loosening of the man’s grip on the weapon, and then Michael had the gun in his own hand…it was a nine mil, a Browning…and in one fluid motion retrieved the .45 from the floor, backing up into a corner between his bookshelf walls and pointing the nine mil in his left hand at the bent-over blue-eyed bastard, and the .45 at the bald-headed prick, who was still just sitting there at the desk smiling a smile made wolfish by prominent eyeteeth.

  “Stand up,” Michael said to the irritatingly pleasant man. “Hands up, too. And get away from my goddamn desk…no, other way…closer to the wall. That’s it.”

  He waved the nine mil at the other guy, who was bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard, motioned for him to stand nearer to his bald associate.

  The blue-eyed guy managed to comply, and even straightened up and put his hands in the air. He was tall, maybe six two, perhaps thirty-five, certainly no older than forty; the other man was pushing fifty, and he still had that disquieting toothy smile going, as if he were the one holding a gun on Michael, the eyes behind the glasses magnified enough to give their bearer a buggy look.

  What made this fucker think he held the cards here?

  Their threads were off -the-rack, but not cheap. The tall younger one had a dark blue suit and blue paisley tie, and the bald guy wore undertaker black, though his tie was a cheerful shades-of-green striped number. They were conspicuously well-groomed, professional-looking.

  “Daaaaamn,” the tall one said, and the reference seemed to be to his bruised balls, as he was hunkered over slightly. His expression was that of a man who’d been forced to stare at the sun.

  “You’re not Outfit,” Michael said. “What are you? Federal?”

  The bald one beamed and nodded, a professor pleased a backward student had provided a correct answer. “Yes, Mr. Satariano.”

  Michael motioned with the .45. “Put your gun on my desk.… Take it out slowly, and then hold it by the barrel.”

  Now that g
oddamned smile turned sheepish. “I’d like to accommodate you, Mr. Satariano—but I don’t carry a weapon.”

  “Hold open your jacket. Let’s see the lining—pretend you’re Merv Griffin.”

  In the manner of that obsequious talk-show host, the bald man complied, saying, “We’re not breaking and entering. We do have a warrant. May I reach inside this pocket and get it for you?”

  “Stop smiling,” Michael said, “and you can.”

  The fed did his best to contain his happiness and carefully reached into his pocket and withdrew several folded sheets of paper.

  “Toss it on the desk,” Michael said. “What’s the charge?”

  “No charge—not yet. The document gives us the right to enter your home for a specific purpose. And it’s not to search the premises.”

  “I believe that,” Michael granted, moving his gaze from man to man—the tall guy seemed to be recovering. “Or else you’re the tidiest damn cops I ever ran across.”

  “We’re here to talk to you,” the bald fed said. “To you and your family.”

  “My family?” Michael stepped forward, thrust the gun at the bastard. “What the fuck, my family…?”

  The smile returned, and he patty-caked the air. “No reason to be concerned; in fact, quite the opposite. My name is Harold Shore—associate director of the OCRS. That’s the—”

  “Organized Crime and Racketeering Section,” Michael said, backing up. “Justice Department. Let’s see your credentials.”

  Shore nodded, and again gingerly withdrew something from an inside jacket pocket, a small wallet.

  “Step forward,” Michael said, still training both guns on the two men, “and hold that up where I can see.”

  Shore did so.

  The credentials were Justice Department, all right; no badge, but a photo ID—the son of a bitch was even grinning in the picture!

  “You can step back now,” Michael said. To the other intruder, he said, “What about you?”

  “I’m with him.”

  “Really? You didn’t just bump into him, in my study? Name.”

  “Don Hughes. Donald.”

  “Let’s confirm that, Donald.”

  Hughes held up his photo ID—and a badge, this time. But the credentials weren’t what Michael expected.

  “Deputy US marshal.…” Michael frowned, shifting his gaze to Shore. “Not the first team—not FBI?”

  Hughes, putting his credentials away, seemed vaguely hurt.

  “The marshals work with me,” Shore said, “on my unit.”

  “What unit would that be?”

  “Some people call it the Alias Program.” That awful smile again, the prominent eyeteeth conspiring with the buggy eyes to create the opposite effect intended. “We call it WITSEC.”

  Michael, his voice almost a whisper, said, “Witness Protection Program,” and lowered the guns. “That’s what this is about?”

  “Yes, Mr. Satariano. But I wonder if I might call you Michael? And you call me Harry. All my friends do. Why don’t you put your guns away, and invite your family in the house.”

  Michael ignored that, saying, “Those gardeners down the street? They’re yours?”

  Shore nodded. “But we wouldn’t stop you, if you left. This is not an arrest. We’re here to talk, that’s all. Give you an option you may not have considered.”

  What did they know? Were they aware of the two dead Outfit slobs in that passageway at the Cal-Neva? The call he’d made to Chicago could not yet have resulted in the removal of those stiffs.…

  “That ‘option,’ as I understand it,” Michael said, “would start with immunity for any crime I might have committed prior to this meeting.”

  “Correct,” Shore said. “You can sign those papers today. And we can work out the details later.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Harry.” He turned to the marshal. “Here’s your gun, Don. Button it under your coat.”

  Carefully, Hughes did as he’d been told. But the marshal’s eyes met Michael’s, acknowledging this as a gesture of trust.

  Then Michael said, “You two know where the living room is?”

  They nodded.

  “Go sit in there and wait for me. I’m going to bring my girls in the house. I don’t want either one of you saying a word to them. We’re gonna restrict this to guy talk for now, got it?”

  Shore gestured with open hands and, of course, smiled. “I would have suggested that very thing.”

  Hughes said, “We only want the best for you and your family.”

  Michael laughed. “Yeah, well, that’s sweet as fucking hell. I’ll wipe my tears and get back to you.”

  He stuck his father’s .45 in his waistband and motioned to them to exit his office, which they did, Michael right behind.

  Walking his wife and daughter to the kitchen, Michael suggested that they go ahead and prepare dinner, while he would talk to the two government men in the living room—and he did acknowledge these were federal agents, but that they were not here to make an arrest.

  Both Pat and Anna were unnerved, of course, but he had said, “They may be able to help us,” and that seemed to calm them both.

  In the kitchen, Pat nodded toward the living room. “Should I make enough for our…guests?”

  “No. I’m not ready to break bread with them, just yet.”

  “Well, we could at least offer them coffee.”

  “No.”

  Anna was at his side suddenly. “Daddy—are we in danger?”

  “With these men in the house? Not at all.”

  In the living room, Michael took the chair where not long ago had sat the young recruiting officer who’d reported on Mike’s MIA status. The two feds were on the couch across from him, Shore sitting forward, fingers intertwined, while Hughes leaned back, arms folded. The bald OCRS director tried so hard to be nice, it came off vaguely sinister, while the marshal was so low-key, you might miss how sharp his spooky blue eyes were, watching you.

  “First,” Shore said quietly, “I need to bring you up to date on your situation.”

  “Why don’t you do that.”

  Eyes big behind the glasses, eyeteeth exposed, flecks of spittle on his lips, Shore said, “Considering your caution this evening, I am guessing that you are aware that your Chicago friends… perhaps I should say former friends…are blaming you for the death of Mad Sam DeStefano.”

  “I am aware of that. But I didn’t do it.”

  Now Shore’s eyes tightened, and the grin vanished. “We don’t believe you did, either.…But there are certain people in law enforcement who don’t agree with us.”

  Michael crossed his legs, ankle on knee; his hands gripped the arms of the easy chair. “And what people in law enforcement would that be?”

  “Police in Chicago who found a weapon discarded a block from the DeStefano home…a weapon with your fingerprints on it.”

  Michael did not bother to hide his surprise. “What the hell.…” Then he laughed, once. “Ridiculous.”

  Shore said nothing; both he and Hughes seemed to be studying their host.

  He did his best to level with them, within reason: “My son and daughter each have a handgun—they participated in gun club competitions—and those are in my wall safe. And I only own two other guns—one’s the .45 you saw earlier. The other is an old war souvenir.”

  Shore nodded, and then leaned forward, eyebrows hiked above the dark rims of his glasses. “And, by the way, don’t think your war record hasn’t encouraged your government in giving you this second—”

  “Stuff it. What weapon has my fingerprints?”

  Shore turned toward Hughes, who spoke for the first time since they’d moved to the living room. “A double-barreled shotgun. A Remington.”

  “I’ve never owned a weapon like that.”

  Hughes shrugged. “It was stolen from a pawn shop in Reno—your backyard—about two weeks ago.”

  Michael grunted. “Somebody went to real trouble, making a fancy frame l
ike this.”

  The marshal shook his head. “Maybe not fancy enough—our techs tell us the fingerprints were likely planted…lifted from a drinking glass, say, and placed on the weapon.”

  Michael frowned. “That’s an opinion, though—not a fact.”

  Shore nodded. “A prosecutor could look at a jury and say, straight-faced, that your prints were found on the murder gun.” He shifted on the couch. “And we understand that you have no alibi—other than your family—for the day of the shooting.”

  Michael moved his head, to take Shore in better—his mono-vision could be limiting. “Harry, nobody’s been around from the Chicago police or anywhere else asking me about that.…”

  “Some checking was done by phone—Cal-Neva employees confirm you were not at work that day…for several days, in fact.”

  “There’s a reason for that.”

  Shore, who’d mercifully stopped smiling so goddamned much, assumed a somber expression that also tried a little too hard. “We are aware of the sad situation with your son, by the way. He appears to have been a very brave young man. You should be proud.”

  The marshal, his expression suddenly grave as well, said, “I lost a nephew over there.”

  “Yeah, thanks, but Mike’s listed missing, not killed; so you’re saying, if I don’t cooperate with you, I might be facing a murder charge in Chicago?”

  Shore shrugged. “Good possibility. They have two eyewitnesses placing you at the scene.”

  Michael already knew this, from talking to Vinnie on the phone; but he said, “Who?”

  “Sam’s own brother, Mario, and Anthony Spilotro.”

  Again Michael laughed. “Tony the ‘Ant’ and Mario? You mean, the same two guys who were gonna have to stand trial with Mad Sam? Who now don’t have to worry about what that lunatic might spill?”

  Shore nodded. “Our theory is that they were involved themselves.”

  “You think?” Michael let out a short laugh. “Interesting alibi—do the crime, then say you saw somebody else do it, when you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  Hughes said, “They said they saw a Corvette like yours, with a ski-masked guy at the wheel that could’ve been you, half a block from the house, driving away fast.”