Road to Paradise

by Max Allan Collins

  No more life in the eyes now, but Michael, lips peeled back over his teeth in something that was not at all a smile, shoved the gun under the gangster’s chin and fired again and again and again and again and again.

  Giancana, quite dead now, lay on his back with his ankles crossed, right arm crooked at his side, his left hand above his head as if doing a native folk dance. Dark red streamed from the gaping throat wounds, and trails trickled from his nostrils and began to pool beside him on the linoleum.

  Michael turned off the stove and slipped out into the garden, shutting the door behind him. He stood under a sky that flashed with heat lightning while the moon painted pale ivory the lovely landscaping, muting the color splashes of flowers.

  He should have fled quickly, but he froze there, a voice in his mind—belonging to, of all people, his wife’s sister, Betty—saying, What good would it do? Nothing will bring her back.

  Sam Giancana, the man responsible for Patricia’s death, was dead. And nothing had changed. Michael felt only an emptiness. No satisfaction. What had his father felt, when Connor Looney died?? Heat lightning flashed, as if a coded answer, daring him to figure it out, and he suddenly sensed something.

  He looked up at wispy gray clouds and spasms of lightning and a strangely accusatory moon, and he could feel God watching.

  And in Sam Giancana’s garden, with the dead gangster still bleeding onto a kitchen floor but a few yards away, Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., knelt on the stone patio and prayed, clasping gloved hands, one of which still held the murder gun.

  “Forgive me, Father,” he said quietly, but out loud, head unbowed, beseeching the electricity-pulsating sky, “for I have sinned.”

  Confession over, he got to his feet, and the hell out of there.

  And he didn’t even realize he was crying until he was back to the car and his daughter said something.

  “Are you all right, Daddy?”

  “Fine, sweetheart. Fine. Drive. Normal speed.”

  She drove them through the shady lanes of the residential suburb. The pistol was not in the car with them—he had tossed it in the sewer walking back.

  “You’re crying, Daddy. Why?”

  “Just…your mother. Thinking of your mother.”

  “…Is he dead, Daddy? The man…the man who killed Mom?”

  “He is. I killed him, baby.”

  She was about a block from the residential hotel when she asked, “Do you feel better about it? With him dead?…Should I feel better?”

  That was when he noticed she was crying, too.

  THIRTEEN

  At first glance, the stone-gray monolith—somehow simultaneously squat and towering—might have been a government building, an art deco courthouse from New Deal days, perhaps. On closer look, the wildly contradictory geometric overhangs and vaguely Egyptian columns of the washed-pebble, poured-concrete study in cubism suggested something more ethereal than tax money might buy, even under the WPA.

  This was Unity Temple, the most famous of Oak Park’s many churches, Frank Lloyd Wright’s 1906 study in cantilevered concrete, built to replace the former temple, which had been hit by lightning in 1905 and burned to the ground, a heavenly hint the church leaders hadn’t taken. Perhaps that explained the lack of a spire, though Wright claimed to be avoiding cliché when lightning rod was more like it.

  An architectural landmark and tourist attraction, the cement church at Lake Street and Kenilworth gave daily informal tours—nothing too structured from a denomination that defined itself as nondenominational. The last one, on this sunny afternoon in June, had ended at five p.m., fifteen minutes ago—Michael had instructed Associate Director Harold Shore of the Organized Crime and Racketeering Section to take that final tour.

  On returning last night from Giancana’s house, Michael had called the panic-button number, and said he was ready to come in from the cold—and wanted to meet with Shore, ASAP.

  “Where?”

  “Chicago.”

  “Can you be a little more specific, Michael?”

  “I will be, after you arrive.”

  “Then I’ll fly out tomorrow—first thing.”

  “I’ll only talk to you and Hughes. Nobody new. Understand, Harry? I spot any backup, I’m vapor.”

  “Understood.”

  “Do you have a regular hotel?”

  “Usually the Drake. Give me a second, Michael—let me check the plane schedule…”

  “If you’re trying to trace this call, Harry, I’ll be annoyed.”

  “No, no, no.…Assuming no airline delays, I’ll be at the Drake no later than two thirty p.m.”

  “I’ll call you there at that time.”

  And Michael had, giving Shore detailed instructions about meeting him at Unity Temple, including attending the final tour of the day, and lagging behind in the sanctuary.

  Now the last visitor had trailed out—actually around, because the entrance was behind the structure, which had no doors on the street, another stated avoidance of cliché by the architect, probably in reality an effort to evade nearby El noise.

  Across the way, Michael waited and watched another ten minutes, tucked behind some trees next to a church as Gothic as the Wright structure was modern. His post provided him a necessary catercorner view, since that rear entrance could be approached from either side.

  As he jaywalked over to the Temple, Michael—in a brown sport jacket, yellow pullover, and lighter brown slacks—might have been another tourist, albeit not one with a camera, rather a .45 Colt automatic in a shoulder holster. He followed the sidewalk back to a bank of wood and stained-glass doors—adorned with Wright’s usual geometric designs—that joined the two wings of the modernistic monument. He unbuttoned his sport jacket, for easier access to the weapon, as he entered beneath the bold bronze words:

  for the worship of god

  and the service of man.

  Michael had already thoroughly scoped the building out, and arranged for the use of the auditorium. He’d said (truthfully, as far as it went) that he needed to talk to some gentlemen from the government about the welfare of his daughter, and wished to do so in the privacy of this spiritual, sacred space. Michael’s sincerity—and a one-hundred-dollar contribution—convinced the reverend, who would be off having his supper with his family in the parish house.

  The low-ceilinged, almost dreary foyer, with typical Prairie-style high-backed wooden chairs, did not provide direct access to the inner church—corridors at left and right led around it, to various entrances.…Apparently Frank Lloyd Wright didn’t want worshipers in search of something meaningful finding it too easily. Michael chose left, continuing on a journey that—from street to sanctuary—took seven turns and a walk equal to twice the building’s length.

  A short flight of dimly lit steps rose into the brightness of the sanctuary, a mode of entrance designed to allow latecomers a discreet arrival—not a bad thing for Michael, under the present circumstances. He emerged at the rear of the worship area, a sort of glorified box of cool pastel planes with dark horizontal and vertical wood trim, with room enough for hundreds yet as intimate as a tea room, double tiers of balcony on three sides, and a front-and-center pulpit facing a handful of central pews, four rows divided by an aisle.

  In the second pew from the back, seated as per Michael’s instructions, were Shore and Hughes, the two feds staring up in awe at the ceiling’s grid of wooden beams with countless inset squares of stained-glass skylight. Even in late afternoon, sunshine streamed down, turned amber by the leaded windows, whose geometric shadows made their presence known as well.

  Michael slid in behind them. “Gentlemen.”

  Shore and Hughes slid left and right, respectively, and turned toward their host. Against the brown suit with brown/rust/yellow paisley tie on a tan shirt, bald Shore looked puffy, pale, and annoyed, his eyes slitted behind the big heavy frames and buggy lenses. Hughes, on the other hand—in a dark blue suit with blue-and-white polka-dot tie against pale blue shirt—seemed
detached, the Apache-cheeked, light blue–eyed marshal still taking in the unique architectural surroundings.

  His tone both soft and tight, Shore said, “Before we begin, Michael, tell me you didn’t hit Sam Giancana last night.”

  “I did not,” Michael said. Lies had been told in churches before. Offhandedly he added, “But I did go see him and talk to him.”

  Now Michael had Hughes’s arched-eyebrow attention, too. “And you didn’t whack the son of a bitch?” Then the marshal winced, remembering where he was, whispering to Shore, “Sorry.”

  “I talked to him,” Michael said, matter of fact. “Got some interesting information. But I didn’t kill him.”

  Shore sighed heavily, eyes rolling behind the magnifying lenses. “We can’t do business if you did. You do understand that, don’t you, Michael?”

  Their voices echoed somewhat, in the resonant room.

  “I understand. But I saw the papers, the TV, like everybody else—so I know what went down there last night, after I left. You tell me, Harry—would I have shot Mooney with some kind of half-assed silenced weapon.…What did they find again?”

  Hughes said, “A Duromatic .22.”

  “What,” Michael said, “a target pistol?”

  Shore nodded. “With a silencer out of shops class. Admittedly not your style.”

  “That was a mob hit,” Michael said, with a dismissive shrug. “Would I have shot him, how many times?”

  “Six,” Shore said, eyes glued to Michael.

  “Back of the head, then five times in the jaw, to rip his tongue apart? Outfit symbolism for a squealer, right? What would I have done, Harry?”

  “Once in the head,” Shore said, locking eyes with Michael. “Looking right at him.”

  “Using what?”

  Hughes half-smirked and said, “That .45 of yours.”

  Michael smiled genially. “Fellas, we see eye to eye on this.”

  Hughes said, “Giancana’s old buddy Butch Blasi was seen in the neighborhood, not long before that caretaker upstairs found the body. Chicago PD and FBI both like him for it.”

  “Butch works for Aiuppa now,” Michael said, “but Giancana would’ve still trusted him. Makes sense.”

  Shore made a face as if tasting something sour; his usual smiles were nowhere to be seen. “This has Accardo written all over it.”

  “No argument,” Michael said.

  Hughes was still taking in the multileveled but simple sanctuary with its tinted glass, natural colors, abstract designs. “Why this place?”

  “I wanted someplace public,” Michael said, “where we could talk in private.”

  Hughes frowned as he looked around. “Yeah, but what’s the deal with this crazy-house, anyway? What the hell kind of church is this?”

  Shore frowned, too—but at Hughes. “Be respectful.”

  But Michael answered him, “As I understand it, they believe in peace, respect, and justice. Hey, you’re Justice Department guys. What better place?”

  Vaguely irritated with this line of chitchat, Shore said, “It’s sort of…nondenominational.”

  “I’ve made a contribution to the church,” Michael said, “so that we can talk without interruption—for at least an hour.”

  Shore said, “Our business won’t take that long. You’ve convinced me that you had nothing to do with Giancana’s murder. And the Outfit scum you encountered at your house in Paradise Estates, and the other two lowlifes at the Cal-Neva parking lot, prom night…well, that was clearly self-defense. So WITSEC feels it can welcome you back into the fold, Michael, open arms.”

  Hughes said, “We’re looking at maybe a half a dozen major organized crime trials in the next three years—you’ll be valuable to the process. Welcome home.”

  “And,” Shore said, “there’ll be no slip-ups, you have my word. You and your daughter will be safe in your new lives.…Where is Anna, Michael?”

  “She’s safe.” He let the sarcasm show as he said, “Not as safe as if she were in the protective arms of WITSEC, of course—you guys being so expert at protecting people and all.”

  Shore’s sigh was weight-of-the-world. “I understand your bitterness, Michael. But you are making the right decision, and—”

  “You may not like my terms, gents.”

  Hughes grunted a laugh. “Why? What kind of ‘terms’ do you have in mind?”

  “Well,” Michael said, leaning back in the pew, putting his arms along the back of the bench, enjoying the way the two feds had to twist around to talk to him, “while you will be relocating Anna and me, in new lives of our choice…I won’t be testifying.”

  Shore said, “What?”

  Hughes laughed harshly and said, “Then why the hell would we want your ass back? If you’re not gonna play the game.”

  “I’ll play the game, fellas. But my rules. My conditions.”

  Shore’s eyes were half-lidded behind the glasses. “Which are?”

  “You relocate us. Set us up, the full WITSEC boat, to my specs. I don’t testify.”

  “Don’t testify!” Hughes said, forehead taut.

  “Don’t testify. But I also don’t go public.”

  Shore frowned, but said nothing; he didn’t have to—he got it at once.

  But Hughes asked, “Public, what the hell, public?”

  “Public about how WITSEC got my wife killed. About how I had to go on the road with my daughter and protect her myself because you people didn’t. Or couldn’t.”

  Shore swung around in the seat, facing the empty pulpit, his back to Michael, now. The man lowered his head, covering his face with a hand, an elbow on a knee; but he was not praying.

  Hughes, sideways in the pew and still looking back at their recalcitrant witness, said, “Who’s gonna believe you? You don’t think the government isn’t capable of denying everything? You haven’t heard of disinformation, dipshit?”

  Shore looked at Hughes. “Don, shut up.” Then he craned back around in the seat and said to Michael, “You have a deal.”

  Hughes blurted, “Are you crazy, Shore? You’re gonna let this asshole—”

  “Please, Don,” Michael said. “It’s church, remember? Voice down. Little respect. Please.”

  Shore in a gravel whisper said to the marshal, “WITSEC won’t last a ‘sec’ if what happened to the Satarianos gets in the media. The program will be over. No one will trust us to testify. We’d be the Watergate of law enforcement. Mr. Satariano will…I should say Mr. Smith will—”

  “Actually,” Michael said, “I’ll be using O’Sullivan.”

  Unaware of the name’s significance, Shore waved that off. “Fine, fine, that’s the least of our problems.…So are you and Anna prepared to pack your bags and come with us, then?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Michael said. “You haven’t heard the rest of my terms.”

  Hughes’s eyes showed white all around. “Rest of your terms? Jesus!”

  The word echoed in the sanctuary.

  Quietly, patiently, resignedly, Shore said, “What else do you want, Michael?”

  “First, I need to tell you something, something that you may not believe. It’s one reason why I thought a church would be appropriate for this meeting. Anyway. See, I’ve had what’s sometimes called an epiphany.”

  Hughes frowned. “A what?”

  Shore’s eyes were closed.

  “Something happened, recently—something personal, private, that I don’t feel like sharing with you.” Because that would have involved telling the truth about killing Sam Giancana. “But let’s keep it simple, and just say I’m turning over a new leaf.”

  Shore shook his head, sighed yet again. As if in pain, he said, “What kind of ‘new leaf’ would that be, Michael?”

  “A long time ago I chose a path…a road. Where it led was violence and revenge. And, looking back, I don’t think that ever worked out all that well—for me, or anybody. Right here in this sacred place, gentlemen, I’m telling you that I am no longer se
eking revenge. I hope never to have to perform another violent act in my life.”

  Hughes, bitterly amused, said, “Well, glory hallelujah, and goodie for you.”

  Shore, relieved, flashed Hughes a dark look, then brightened and said, “Well, that’s a ‘condition’ I’m pleased to embrace, Michael. In fact, I’d insist upon it.”

  “Understand,” Michael said, and raised a gently lecturing finger, “I have no moral barrier against self-defense, or protecting my daughter.”

  “Fine,” Shore said, and smiled, more strained than usual. “Who can argue with that? So. Are we done?”

  “Almost. Harold, I just need you to take Don here into custody.”

  Shore started to smile, but then noticed the stricken expression on his marshal’s face.

  Michael’s eyes locked with those haunting sky-blue eyes bookended by Apache cheekbones, and said, “You may not know what ‘epiphany’ means, Don…but you’re fucking lucky I had one. Or you’d already be dead.”

  Hughes swallowed thickly. “What the fuck are you babbling about? What are you, high?” He swiveled to Shore. “Harry, the guy’s fucking nuts, or coked to the gills or some shit—he’s talkin’ out of his ass!”

  Calmly Michael said, “Giancana told me last night that the CIA made a gesture of goodwill to him, partially paying him back for various inconveniences, by giving me up to him. And they did that through somebody in WITSEC, Harry. Some security breach. But really, only you two were in on my family’s relocation every step of the way—the program is set up on a ‘need to know’ basis, right, Don? Very tight. Controlled.”

  Hughes was shaking his head, smiling, but a sick smile. “Harry, you can’t be buying any of this shit. I don’t know what he’s up to, why he’s doin’ this, maybe he believes it, and is so upset by his wife’s death that—”

  Michael slapped Hughes. Hard. It rang in the high-ceilinged chamber.

  “Don’t ever mention her,” Michael said.

  Hughes, his cheek blazing red, was trembling—with fear, with rage.

  “The tap on Gary Grace’s phone,” Michael said, calm again, “that’s federal; Outfit doesn’t tap phones. Telling Giancana’s assassins to disguise the hit on my home as a mass murder by mad hippies, who would do that? Someone protecting the Witness Protection Program. Someone inside. Actually, Harry, I thought it might have been you.…”