Road to Purgatory

by Max Allan Collins

  Sometimes he just couldn’t figure his pop—bad enough Mike had been invited to sit at the conference table in the library; must his pop treat that nigger Davis like an equal? Connor understood the coloreds were good customers, and he knew, too, the likes of Davis had connections that were useful.

  But his father let that nigger drive for him—was seen in public with him! And the one time Connor had found the nerve to complain about it to the Old Man, a slap had been his reward. That’s what he got, for showing an interest in the family business! The Old Man talked about wanting Connor to be more involved, to think, to express ideas, and then when he did? A fucking slap, like Connor was some whore!

  A hat was being passed around now—to finance the recall of Mayor Schriver—and between the Looney goons in the crowd, and the strong pro-Looney, anti-Schriver sentiment in this hooping and hollering riffraff, Connor felt sure no fool would try to make off with that money.

  As he studied the throng, Connor noted here and there a pocket of better-dressed, obviously educated folk—teachers, lawyers, clerics, doctors—who were likely among the instigators of this socialist flapdoodle. It bothered him that his father would go along with such traitors.

  As his eyes were drifting idly over the crowd, he stopped on a familiar figure—a young man of about eighteen, in a shabby shirt and loose pants and shoes patched with tape. He recognized the boy, who had a distinctive birthmark on one cheek, though he didn’t know the lad’s name.

  A week ago, the kid had cornered Connor, who’d been seated alone with a beer in a back booth at the Java House.

  The boy had stood before Connor, his face dirty, his light blue eyes wide, his upper lip pulled back over blackened teeth. On his left cheek was a disgusting brown birthmark bristling with little hairs, shaped like a fat C.

  “I know what you did to my sister,” he said.

  “What? Go away.”

  “She went to work for Mrs. Van Dale. She had to do it. We didn’t have no money. She didn’t ask my mama, she just run off… She come back last week, cryin’. With stories about what Mr. Looney’s son did to her…in her…her backside.”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “You have a dirty mouth, mister.”

  “Well, you’re just plain dirty, kid. Beat it!”

  “Does your papa know what you do to young girls? Maybe the Argus would pay to know. Maybe Mayor Schriver would.”

  “…You want money?”

  “No! I want to get even for Colleen! You’re a bad man, mister. Maybe I’ll catch up with you again someday.”

  But as the boy stood on the edge of the crowd, he merely seemed to be watching the speaker as McCaskrin riled up the rabble further. Or was this kid here to shadow Connor? To take some stupid hick hayseed revenge upon him?

  And now Connor had a new mission for the night. He would keep an eye on the kid. Maybe follow him home, to whatever hovel he’d crawled out of—in Greenbush, maybe, or some shoddy farm. If the kid went to the mayor or the Argus, that would be embarrassing.

  Connor might even get slapped again.

  “Mayor Schriver,” the speaker was yelling, “is a disease in human form—and he must be eliminated!”

  The crowd roared, fists raised, shaking at the sky.

  What a buncha rubes, Connor thought, eyes on the boy.

  The city hall, which included the police station, was at Third Avenue and Sixteenth Street, a block away from Market Square. The massive three-story brick building, formerly an armory built in the late 1800s, had a one-story jail annex. Because of the rally, Emeal Davis dropped John Looney and Mike O’Sullivan in front, and drove off in search of a parking place.

  As they waited, Looney—dapper in a dark topcoat and black homburg—said to his trusted lieutenant, “Maybe His Honor will listen to reason.”

  “Maybe,” O’Sullivan said.

  It was just cold enough for their breaths to plume. They could hear, like nearby explosions, the applause and cheers at the rally.

  “Maybe,” Looney said, “we won’t even have to throw in with these damn socialists.”

  “Not my business, sir.”

  Looney put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “How I wish I had a thousand of you.” But he was thinking, How I wish I had one son like you.

  Then Davis returned, saying he’d got ten lucky two blocks down, and John Looney took the lead with Davis and O’Sullivan right behind him. The police station was on the bottom floor, and the entryway fed a short flight of stairs on either side down to the police area, while a wide central stairway went up to the offices of the city government.

  The mayor’s office was on the third floor; Looney and his two men walked up the metal-plated stairs, their feet making pinging sounds. After hours, free of most employees, the building had a disconcerting stillness, but for some police-station bustle floating up, hollowly. Their footsteps echoed like gunshots off the marble floor; down at the end of the hall, where the mayor’s corner suite of offices waited, two uniformed coppers stood guard.

  Looney pretended to recognize the cops, saying “Hello, boys,” and reached past them for the knob of the pebbled-glass MAYOR OF ROCK ISLAND door. Davis and O’Sullivan fell in line behind him.

  In a firm, not quite threatening manner, the cop nearest the door placed his hand on Looney’s arm. Looney looked up, eyebrows raised, making sure his expression told the man this act was an affront.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the cop said, a young pale lad who was probably Irish himself, “but we have instructions that only you are to pass.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes. Your men here need to stay in the hall. His Honor said to inform you he’s requestin’ a private meeting.”

  “Oh. Well, then.” Looney shrugged to his men.

  Davis said, “We’ll be right here.”

  O’Sullivan said, “You don’t have to take this meeting, John.”

  Rarely did O’Sullivan call Looney by his first name; when he did so, it was not out of a lack of respect, rather a show of affection. This was a friend, not a bodyguard, advising him not to go in there.

  Looney twitched a pixie smile. “If you hear me holler, boyos, come runnin’.”

  “Yes, sir,” Davis said, smiling wide for the first time that evening, and revealing two gold eyeteeth, which even in this dim hallway found light to wink off.

  Looney went into the reception area; behind the counter were several desks for the mayor’s secretary and various assistants, all empty at the moment, not surprising for midevening. But leaning against the wall, casually, both smoking cigarettes, in rumpled brown suits that mirrored each other, were two plainclothes men who Looney did recognize—Simmons and Randell. These were the mayor’s personal coppers, his bodyguards, really.

  Tough birds.

  “Evening, fellas,” Looney said.

  “Mr. Looney,” Simmons said, tipping his fedora. He was a big man, six two easily, with a powerful physique, and an impassive homely pockmarked face.

  Randell tipped his hat, too, another big man, though only six foot, but beefy; a paunch on him, though his arms were muscular. His face was round and bland with small dark eyes, watermelon seeds stuck in putty.

  Looney pushed open the little gate into the private office area, where the two plainclothes men waited, and could feel their gaze on him.

  “Should I go on in?” Looney asked, pausing.

  “Better knock,” Simmons advised.

  And Looney went forward to rap on a pebbled glass door labelled MAYOR HAROLD M. SCHRIVER—PRIVATE.

  “Come in!” a deep voice called.

  Looney opened the door into the mayor’s large office, its light-green plaster walls hanging with framed diplomas, civic awards, and photographs of the mayor with various dignitaries, local, state, and national. No one could say Harry Schriver had a low opinion of himself.

  Along the right wall, as if proof work was done here, were wooden filing cabinets; but snugged against the left wall was a well-wor
n leather sofa with pillows. The mayor’s desk was central, a massive ancient oak affair, suspiciously free of paperwork—just a phone, an ink blotter, a pen-and-pencil holder, and an ashtray in which a lighted cigar resided, curling smoke. A newspaper, folded, was off to one side.

  Shade drawn on the window behind him, in the swivel chair behind the desk, in shirtsleeves and suspenders, sat the would-be Boss Tweed of Rock Island, Illinois.

  Stocky Harry Schriver had a disheveled look, due mostly to a pile of graying hair like a pitchfork of straw had been dropped on his head. His eyes were large and dark blue and bulged, giving him a toad-like quality, which his double chin only underscored. His nose and eyes were bloodshot. His Honor obviously did not respect the Volstead Act.

  “How kind of you to accept my invitation, John,” Schriver said through a big yellow insincere smile.

  Looney, hat in hand, took the visitor’s chair across from the desk; he slipped out of his topcoat—the radiator was working overtime—and draped it over the back of the chair; then he crossed his legs, resting ankle on knee.

  The Irish kingpin said, “My pleasure, Harry. I assume you’d like to reopen discussions about our business affairs.”

  Schriver’s smile was so tight, his skin seemed about to burst; his eyes had a maniacal gleam. “What’s this I hear about you supporting this goddamn horseshit socialist recall?”

  Looney shrugged, gestured mildly. “Well, that’s how America works, Harry. If the people are dissatisfied with their government, they throw the rascals out.”

  The smile disappeared, and Schriver waved a thick forefinger at his guest. “The people of Rock Island are behind me. They’re behind me because I’m striking out at lawbreakers like you, Looney!”

  Looney merely smiled, folded his arms. “Save your breath, Harry—you’re not out on the campaign stump now. These raids you’ve been having the police make, these charges you’ve been bringing against my people…what can you be thinking of?”

  Schriver leaned on an elbow; he withdrew the cigar from the ashtray and puffed it nervously. “I just think Rock Island would be better off without a certain element.”

  Looney uncrossed his legs, unfolded his arms; leaned forward. “No, you think you can take over. You think you can run this city and all the vice on top of it. You don’t need a John Looney to oversee things.”

  Schriver leaned back, rocking in the swivel chair, cigar jutting. “Maybe I don’t think a city this size needs two bosses.”

  “You could be right.” Looney gestured with the homburg. “That’s why I’m throwing my hat in the ring.”

  The mayor lurched forward, the cigar almost falling out of his mouth. “What?”

  “Well, when you’re recalled, somebody will have to sit behind that desk. Might as well be the one boss this city needs…me own self.”

  Schriver turned purple; he grabbed the folded newspaper in both hands and snapped it open for Looney to see—the News, with today’s headline: SCHRIVER’S SHAME, and slightly smaller, NIGHT AND DAY OF FILTHY DEBAUCH IN PEORIA.

  “Good to know people in low places,” Looney chuckled. “I have the best sources for tips in the Middle West.”

  “These lies stop now,” the mayor said, voice trembling.

  Looney drew in a deep breath. Calmly, he said, “This is still America, Mayor Schriver. There’s a little thing called the First Amendment. Freedom of the press.”

  Schriver’s upper lip curled back. “There’s a little thing called I don’t give a shit. Boys!”

  The door behind him opened, and Looney glanced back to see the two plainclothes dicks enter.

  “It’s time,” the mayor said. To them.

  Looney frowned, getting up.

  The two coppers were climbing out of their suitcoats, letting the garments drop to the floor; their guns were holstered on their hips.

  Patting the air, Looney said, “You don’t want to make this mistake, fellas. The likes of the mayor here are a dime a dozen—the John Looneys last a long time.”

  “Is that right?” Schriver said, but the voice was next to Looney now. “I think you’ve lasted long enough.”

  Looney saw the fist swinging but couldn’t duck, and his thought, his ironic self-mocking thought was, Brass-knuckle business is right, because His Honor was wearing them. The punch shattered Looney’s nose, and he would have gone down on his knees, but the two burly coppers were holding onto him.

  Blood running through his mustache into his mouth, Looney half-choked as he asked, “What do you want, Schriver?”

  The mayor slammed a fist into Looney’s belly.

  Looney, who had ulcers, felt pain streak through him.

  “I want a retraction,” the mayor said, “and an apology…in print!”

  “All…all right.”

  Schriver went back around the desk, opened a drawer, and when he returned, had a length of rubber hose in his hand.

  “I…I said I’d apologize…retract it…”

  The mayor whacked the rubber hose alongside Looney’s right ear; cartilage snapped like twigs underfoot. “Glad to hear it, John! But that’s the last time I want to see my name in your scandalous, blackmailing rag again, understood?”

  “Un…understood…”

  The mayor whapped the rubber hose alongside Looney’s left ear. More snapping cartilage.

  Looney shrieked, “You’re killing me! You’re fucking murdering me!”

  The mayor waved the limp phallus of the rubber hose in Looney’s blood-streaked face. “No, John, I’m just warning you. Warning you that your paper will have one more edition, apologizing to me, before you disappear. Before you go out to your New Mexico ranch and hump cattle or cactus, for all I the hell care. Because, John?”

  And the mayor kneed Looney in the groin.

  Crying out in agony, spitting blood, Looney screamed, “Help! Mike! Emeal! For God’s sake!”

  “They’re not available, John. What was I saying? Oh yes, because if I or any of my men see you in Rock Island two days from now, you’ll be shot on sight.”

  Looney, barely conscious, said nothing, held up like a rag-doll by the coppers.

  The mayor tossed the bloody rubber hose on the desk and then flexed his hands. “I’m tired, fellas. You work him over for a while. I’ll just watch.”

  And they did, and the mayor did.

  THREE

  In recent years, Michael O’Sullivan had rarely felt helpless.

  He had survived the war, when many around him in the trenches had not. And he had returned to America with a new confidence and a fatalistic outlook that served him well. Along the way, he had earned the allegiance of John Looney, even as he paid Mr. Looney that same respect.

  But as he stood in the city hall hallway, next to his friend and fellow Looney aide Emeal Davis, O’Sullivan felt helpless indeed, hearing the cries of his chief, the agonized calls for help, the pitiful shrieking from beyond the pebbled glass doorway guarded by the two armed police officers.

  “They’re killing him in there,” O’Sullivan said to the pale young cop, over the muffled yet all too distinctive cries of pain.

  “I have my orders,” the young cop said; something in the man’s voice said he did not necessarily relish these orders.

  “Nothing’s keeping you here,” the other cop said. He was about thirty with a chiseled look and eyes that conveyed a cynical acceptance of his lot in life. He clutched his nightstick in his right hand, tapping it into the open palm of his left, to produce a rhythmic, suggestive thumping.

  Looney cried, “Sweet Jesus!”

  This was not a prayer.

  Trembling with rage, Emeal Davis stepped forward and raised a pointing finger. “We’re not putting up with that—that’s our boss in there!”

  The chiseled copper said, “Don’t wag your finger at me, nigger. Get the hell out while you still can.”

  Davis’s eyes were wild, and O’Sullivan knew the man was seconds away from drawing down on the officers and storming the office a
nd taking back their boss. O’Sullivan grabbed Davis by the elbow, shot him a hard look, and took several steps back, as did Davis, his eyes now hooded and ominous.

  Looney’s cries continued.

  “We can go,” O’Sullivan whispered. The two men were huddled against the opposite wall while the coppers eyed them. “And we should.”

  Davis whispered back harshly: “And leave Mr. Looney in there, to be beaten to death?”

  “I don’t think the mayor brought him here to kill him. Just to teach John Looney a lesson.”

  “But the Old Man’s health is frail…”

  “Emeal, he’s strong at heart. He’s got spine.”

  Undercutting O’Sullivan’s argument, a shrill cry of pain from Looney emanated from the closed office door. The pale young cop swallowed; the older one swung that nightstick into his palm again, harder now.

  “You could always go get reinforcements,” the smug older cop said, thump, thump, thump. “We only have thirty-five, forty fellas on hand, downstairs.”

  O’Sullivan stepped forward, holding an arm out to keep Davis back. “I know you’re just doin’ your job, gents.”

  With a curt nod, O’Sullivan took Davis by the arm, and on the first-floor landing Davis glared at his companion. The dark blue derby was at a jaunty angle, and the effect, with the intense clenched anger, was almost comic.

  Almost.

  Whispering, Davis said, “You and me can take those two lads out, easy. Schriver’s probably got his bully boys, Randell and Simmons, in there, working John over, tenderizin’ him like a bad cut of beef. We can take them out, one two, and His Honor’ll be shakin’ in the corner.”

  “Can we do that without firing a shot?” O’Sullivan asked. “Without attracting the boys in blue down below?”

  Davis’s eyes tightened in doubt. “Well…I say we take the risk.”

  “I say we take Mr. Billy Club’s advice.”

  “What advice?”

  “Seek reinforcements.”

  O’Sullivan took Davis by the arm again, and they went quickly down the stairs and out into the night. At the top of the steps, city hall at their back, the two men could hear the cheers, the applause, the shouts, the intensity of which had grown considerably since they’d gone inside.