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.”
Road to Purgatory Page 10
