Road to Purgatory

by Max Allan Collins

  “Three people died, Mr. Looney,” a young Democrat scribe said. “Including a police officer, killed by a stray bullet through a window. Surely you don’t condone the actions of these rioters.”

  Looney shifted in the cranked-up bed. “Two citizens also died, when the police recklessly fired their guns into a crowd that had assembled because news had spread of my kidnapping and assault. These brave, foolhardy souls ran to my rescue, and I love them for it, even when their judgment failed them. Remember, some two dozen suffered gunshot wounds from police volleys, or so I am told.”

  An Argus reporter asked, “Will you continue to lobby for the mayor’s recall? Do you still intend to run yourself?”

  “My newspaper has been unlawfully shut down,” Looney said. “And until I have my constitutional freedom of speech restored, I can lobby for nothing. That said, I understand the sheriff’s office is opening an investigation into graft and corruption in the Schriver administration.”

  A Davenport Daily Times man pressed, “Do you or don’t you intend to run for mayor?”

  “No. And I never did. I appreciate the enthusiasm of my many friends and supporters in Rock Island…but I frankly don’t know how that rumor ever got started…In fact, I will be leaving Rock Island very soon, to recuperate from these injuries at my ranch in New Mexico.”

  The Argus reporter dared to ask, “You don’t mean to say that the mayor is driving you out of town, Mr. Looney?”

  Looney pointed a trembling finger. “Young man, he has threatened to kill me on sight. Ask him about that. And see if Harry Schriver dares deny that, while his men pinned back my arms, he brutally bestowed this beating upon me.”

  A reporter from the Tri-Cities Worker asked, “Is the talk true that one of your associates, Michael O’Sullivan, rescued you from an almost certain death?”

  Looney managed a smile. “If you remove the word ‘almost,’ my friend, your statement will be more accurate. And you all know that as publisher of the News I insist upon accuracy to the finest detail.”

  Connor, watching smiles blossom across the little press conference, wasn’t sure whether his father was kidding.

  “We’d like to talk to Mike O’Sullivan,” the reporter persisted.

  Raising a hand like the pope passing a benediction, Looney said, “I’m sorry, no. Mr. O’Sullivan has other more important matters on his mind and hands, at the moment.”

  The Dispatch reporter asked, “More important than the welfare of his employer?”

  “Much more, gentlemen. While we have been having our little fun, over these long hours, Mrs. Michael O’Sullivan has been doing God’s work—delivering into this cruel city a sweet young citizen.”

  Connor did his best not to betray the nausea he felt, when his father coughed up such sentimental phlegm. As if the world needed another Shanty Irish brat. As if the existence of another O’Sullivan mattered a whit, in the great scheme of things.

  Getting to his feet, Connor said, “That’s all, gents—my father needs his rest. You have your story. We appreciate you stopping by.”

  And Connor rounded them up and guided them out.

  At his father’s bedside, Connor stood and said, “We need to get you out of here, toot sweet, Pop. Before Schriver has a warrant sworn out, on one trumped-up charge or another.”

  Looney touched his son’s hand; the battered face beamed. “You do care about your old man, don’t you, my boy?”

  “I do, Pop. You know I do.”

  And as his father gazed up at him through loving if slitted, puffy eyes, Connor Looney felt a rush of emotion. He did love his father, and his father loved him. Neither one of them was perfect, Connor thought. But then neither was this fucking world.

  Wards were the rule at St. Anthony’s, but exceptions were made for the family and inner circle of a hospital benefactor like John Looney.

  So it was that in another private room at the modern facility, Annie O’Sullivan held her new son in her arms, the tiny thing slumbering peacefully.

  Last night around eight, she’d known the time was nigh; following her husband’s instructions, she called the hospital and an ambulance came quickly around. Mary Jane stayed with Michael, Jr., and Annie went off to St. Anthony’s, into the loving hands of nuns in white who hovered like friendly ghosts, and where hours later, she was joined by a red wee squalling thing whose beautiful ugliness stunned her.

  Now she could hardly believe that, barely fourteen hours later, she felt fine. Exhausted, but fine.

  Sitting beside her, wearing a silly grin, was the baby’s father; dark circles under his eyes, skin a grayish pallor, tie loose around his collar, suitcoat rumpled, he looked like a corpse. But a happy one.

  Whispering, not wanting to wake the child, she said, “We haven’t spoken of a name, yet.”

  “Your father was Peter,” he said. “Mine David. I vote for Peter David O’Sullivan.”

  “Lovely. How lovely. It’s unanimous, then.”

  The baby woke and cried just a little—sort of a halfhearted wail, as if only doing what was expected of him.

  Annie began to nurse the child, saying, “Welcome, Peter. Welcome to the family.”

  And Mike sat watching, with the goofiest expression.

  After a while one of the sisters came and took the child back to the nursery, so Annie could get her rest.

  Mike sat on the edge of her bed and held her hand.

  “I hear there was a terrible riot last night,” she said.

  “There was.”

  “Something to do with Mr. Looney, wasn’t it?”

  “Don’t worry yourself about that.”

  “So sad.”

  “Sad?”

  Annie sighed. Shook her head. “I overheard two of the sisters talking, this morning. Three died, they say.”

  “Yes.”

  “One a policeman.”

  “So I understand. Annie—”

  “One was just a boy of eighteen, running an errand for his mother, taken down by a bullet. In the back. Isn’t that terrible?”

  How mournful Mike’s eyes seemed as he said, “Please don’t think of such things, dear.”

  “Can you imagine? Sending your boy off for an errand, only to have him struck senselessly down like that?”

  And then she began to weep.

  He climbed up on the bed and slipped an arm around her and lay beside her, comforting her.

  “I’m sorry…sorry,” she said, sniffling. He gave her his hand-kerchief, and she said, “It’s just…I’m so emotional right now. Please forgive me.”

  “You should be happy.”

  “Oh, I am! I am! But when I think of that poor mother… Never to see…”

  And she began to cry again.

  Arm still around her, Mike patted her gently, soothingly, as if she were a child herself.

  Dabbing her eyes with her husband’s hanky, she said, “You have to promise me, Mike…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want Peter, or Michael, involved in such things.”

  “Such things?”

  “The kind of work you do. You had no choice. I mean no disrespect, no lack of gratitude. But they must have…a better life. Promise me!”

  “I promise, darling.”

  And she could tell by the look in his eyes that he meant it. That he wanted nothing more in life than a different path for his boys.

  She fell asleep in the crook of his arm, just as Peter had slept in hers; warmth flooded through her, happiness spreading its glow, with the promise of a shining future for her family, for her children, the likes of which only a great land like America could provide.

  BOOK

  THREE

  AMERICAN DREAM

  Chicago, Illinois

  through March 1943

  ONE

  Michael Satariano lay on the bed in the darkened room, curled into a fetal position.

  He did not know how much time had passed since the carnage at the Capone estate. Although awake, he remai
ned sluggish, and felt certain the hot tea he’d been given, after entering this room, had been laced with a Mickey Finn.

  But, whether his captors had doped him or not, he made no effort to emerge from a funk that came largely from within. Something inside him had died, or at least retreated to its own small, private corner, where it, too, rolled itself up, as if the posture of birth somehow welcomed death.

  The recent dispatching by Michael of one Capone gunman after another, piling up dead thugs like kindling, filling doorways with bodies, draping stairways with corpses, splashing blood and gore around the grounds like a sloppy child diving into his birthday cake and ice cream, well, it…all seemed strangely dream-like now. He could still see in his mind’s eye combat in the jungle of Bataan, and himself chopping down Japs with the tommy, summoning gritty sounds-sights-smells reality that, however nightmarish, remained vividly tangible.

  But his attempt to shoot his way through an army of bodyguards to carry out his vendetta on Alphonse Capone…hours ago, or at most days (how long had he been held here?)…had already taken on a distinctly surreal cast.

  When he woke periodically, in the darkness of the room (what room? where?), he would laugh and weep at once, thinking of the terrible irony of it all, Al Capone a gibbering drooling idiot, beyond Michael’s grasp, free from the responsibility of his crimes and his sins, an unfit target for the revenge of Michael O’Sullivan, Jr.

  Who would die at the hand of these Sicilians, and justifiably: hadn’t he for no reason (no good reason, no real reason) betrayed their trust to enter a household where he rained death down upon…how many men? A dozen? More? Invading the home of their retired, revered leader with the intent to kill…

  He had been caught red-handed—literally—surrounded by his pointless homicidal handiwork. And now they would kill him for these transgressions, and his father and his mother and his brother would never be avenged, could never be avenged, because the man responsible was lost in the empty rooms of his mind, waiting unaware for death.

  Perhaps in hell Capone would return to cognizance; no doubt Michael would be there, waiting for him…

  Mimi Capone, accompanied by two armed men, had walked Michael away from the poolside where Al Capone fished in the deep end while, all around, corpses leeched blood and other fluids into the grass under the moonlight. Michael had a sense of the wide-eyed awe and horror of these tough men who’d rushed onto the scene, shocked speechless by the battlefield they’d stumbled into.

  As Mimi ushered him across the backyard, Michael had half-sensed questions, but they’d had a hollow, underwater sound, and though he recognized the words as English, they formed no thoughts or concepts he recognized. Vaguely he remembered being escorted up some steps, and shortly after he entered this small room, this cell-like space with just a single cot-like bed and no table or light or anything else.

  Someone had made him sit up and drink the tea—was it Mimi?—and the voice had been soothing, gentle, encouraging Michael to drink.

  Which he had. Not that he’d been thirsty, just that he was in no state of mind to refuse. Warmth had saturated his system and, without getting under the covers, he got himself (or had they put him there?) onto the bed.

  Vaguely he recalled somebody checking on him; had he been walked to a bathroom, once…?

  Now, fully awake for the first time, he sensed that his shoes and socks were off; he felt coolness on his legs and arms and realized he was in his underwear, still on top of the bedspread, though the room—which had no windows, at least that he was aware of (he never left the bed to explore his quarters)—was not so cool as to encourage him to crawl under the covers. This would have been far too ambitious an activity for him to attempt, anyway.

  Michael’s back was to the door when it opened.

  He looked over his shoulder: a silhouette framed in a shaft of light. A man. Anyway, a person wearing a man’s hat.

  “I’m gonna hit the switch, kid,” the voice said. “Be ready for it.”

  Illumination flooded the room blindingly, and Michael, still on his side curled up and facing the wall, shut his eyes and covered them with his hands, as if the glass one were still flesh and blood, too.

  Michael heard footsteps and then felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “You been out for two days. Go on and sit up.”

  Opening his eyes tentatively, Michael took a few moments to get used to the brightness, then he rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. He touched his face, finding the roughness of stubble there.

  Hovering over him was Louie Campagna, wearing a black suit and a black tie and a white shirt and a black fedora. Not very Miami festive—more like Chicago funeral.

  “You had yourself quite a party the other night,” Louie said flatly. “Made Calumet City look like a cakewalk.”

  Michael, in his underwear, felt like a vulnerable child. He could think of nothing to say and the notion of nodding was beyond him.

  Campagna held some clothes in his arms, shoes in one hand. He thrust them forward. “Put these on, kid.”

  Then Campagna gave Michael some space, waiting over by the open door. Beyond the door Michael could see a landing looking out over the Capone yard; he was in a room in the gatehouse. It was night out there. Two nights ago, was it, that he’d made his misguided assault?

  “They gave you a sedative,” Campagna said. “That’s why you got the feebles. Shake it off.”

  Michael got into clothes identical to Campagna’s: black suit and tie, white shirt, black socks, black shoes, only no hat. A funeral’s star performer didn’t need one. Also didn’t need to perform.

  Campagna gestured to the open door. “After you, kid.”

  “Where…?” was all Michael could manage; his tongue was thick, his mouth, his teeth, filmy with drugged sleep.

  “Car’s downstairs. Let’s go. Things to do.”

  Michael swallowed, nodded. He went out past Campagna, onto the landing, wondering if he should make a break for it—a thought he was capable of forming, but not executing. His limbs felt rubbery, his head and stomach ached.

  The cool evening air, though, did feel good; and it was another beautiful southern Florida night, grass glittering with the rays of a still nearly full moon. No bodies around—the clean-up crew had long since done its work. From here the pool and cabana and the dock could all be viewed, as could the endless shimmer of white-touched blue that was the bay.

  Michael clomped down the steps, Campagna just behind him. In the graveled drive waited a hearse-like black Lincoln limousine. Two burly-looking swarthy guys in black stood on either side of the vehicle, one next to a rear open door. Both had bulges under their left arms—not tumors, Michael thought, though surely malignancies.

  “Michael,” Campagna said, “you’re gonna have to be blindfolded.”

  Michael turned. Campagna was holding up a black length of cloth in both hands, as if preparing to strangle somebody.

  “Not necessary,” Michael muttered.

  “Sorry. Orders.”

  Michael did not resist; and when the blackness settled over his eyes, the knot snugging at the back of his neck, he felt almost relieved to be again shut off from the world. A hand on his arm, probably Louie’s, guided him.

  “Duck your head,” Louie said, and Michael did, and was gently pushed inside the vehicle.

  Someone climbed in beside him—again, probably Campagna. The door shut. He heard the other men get in, in front, and slam their doors. Then they were moving.

  He sat quietly, still as a statue; no one said anything. The sounds were of the limo’s engine, other traffic (not heavy), and birds over the bay. His senses were returning to him, and some of his fatalistic lethargy faded and his blood seemed to start to flow again, an urge for survival rekindling.

  But blindfolded in the presence of three armed gangsters, Michael had limited options. Still, his hands and ankles weren’t bound. He could rip the blindfold off his eyes, throw a punch into Campagna’s puss, and get to the door
and open it and roll out, before either man in the front seat could do a damn thing. The vehicle was not going fast—twenty-five, thirty tops—and unless he pitched himself out into the path of an oncoming car, then he could—

  And the limo came to a stop.

  The two front doors opened, followed by the sound of shoes crunching on gravel. The back car door to Michael’s left opened, and the man sitting next to him (Campagna?) slid out. A hand settled on Michael’s arm and guided him out of the car, then steered him across a few feet of gravel and in through a door. Faintly, he detected cooking smells; warm in here, but not hot. Comfortable…

  …except for the part where he was blindfolded in the company of three Outfit hoods.

  He was escorted a few more feet, and Campagna’s voice, next to him, said, “We’re going in a room. You first.”

  Michael brushed a doorjamb as he went through. He stopped, then the hand was on his arm again and he was guided across the room. Not much light was leeching in around the edges of the blindfold, so the room apparently was dim. He heard footsteps behind him, indicating the two thugs had followed, and the door closed.

  “There’s a chair here,” Campagna said, and positioned Michael.

  “Sit down, Michael,” a familiar baritone voice said.

  Michael obeyed.

  He felt hands at the back of his neck and the blindfold slipped away, filling Michael’s vision with a man seated at a small square white cloth-covered table opposite.

  The man was Frank Nitti, also attired in black.

  The room was fairly large, but Nitti sat with his back to the wall; of half a dozen overhead light fixtures, only the one directly above the Outfit kingpin was on, creating a spotlight effect. A few framed paintings—landscapes…Sicilian landscapes?—hung here and there around the room, but otherwise it contained nothing but two chairs and the small table that separated Michael from the man who had been his benefactor in the Outfit, the man who had trusted Michael and who Michael had betrayed.

  On the table were a .38 and a black-handled dagger with a crooked and obviously sharply honed blade. Next to them was a white piece of paper.

  Frank Nitti’s face was pale and grave. “Michael Satariano,” he said. He gestured to the two weapons on the table. “These represent that you live by the gun and the knife, and that you die by the gun and the knife.”