Макс Коллинз - Road to Paradise

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.”

Shore said, “They didn’t catch the license plate number, though — we figure they’re being just vague enough to cover themselves should you come up with a better alibi.”

Michael grunted another laugh. “Anybody else around there see this mysterious Corvette?”

“No.”

“Imagine that. Did Mario and the Ant find the body?”

“No. The killer shut the garage door after him. Mario and Tony say they went to the front door and knocked, but nobody was home.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Michael asked, “And those two would make credible witnesses in a murder trial?”

Shore sighed. “Well, it is Chicago...”

“Couldn’t your tech guy testify that the fingerprints were fake?”

“Only if the prosecutor calls him. Look, the fact that the Chicago PD will likely come calling isn’t your only concern.”

Hughes put in, “Isn’t even your main concern.”

Shore continued, “DeStefano’s crew wants blood, and apparently Tony Accardo has sanctioned that action. We understand that Sam Giancana... still in Mexico, for the moment, in his mansion down there... has designs on making a comeback Chicago-way. He’s put half a million of his own money into an open contract for his old friend Mad Sam’s killer.”

“That would be you,” Hughes said, and pointed a finger — Uncle Sam Wants You, Witness-Protection-Program-Style.

“So,” Shore said with a weary shrug, “that means you face not just Mad Sam’s own people... not just contract killers... but any asshole with a gun and the guts.”

Hughes said, “And who are you to these young punks? They don’t know the Congressional Medal of Honor from a Boy Scout merit badge. You’re some over-the-hill casino manager. Easy rubout. Like picking money up in the street for ’em.”

Michael’s question was for Shore. “Your... informants. They’re reliable?”

That awful grin again. “Mr. Satariano... Mike. I’m in the reliable information business. That’s what I do. That’s all I do.”

“And they say Accardo himself goes along with this?”

Shore studied Michael, then said, “You were fairly tight with him, I hear. Not as tight as you were with Frank Nitti...”

Hughes sat forward. “Frank Nitti?” The marshal had an amazed expression as he asked Michael, “You knew Frank Nitti? From TV?”

Drily Michael said, “Don? Despite Walter Winchell, The Untouchables was not a documentary.”

Mild embarrassment colored the marshal’s angular face.

But Michael noted from this exchange that Hughes was not as familiar with the background here as Shore, that the marshal truly was a flunky.

Shore was saying, “According to reliable sources, you and Frank Nitti were like father and son. And a similar relationship grew between you and Paul Ricca... only Ricca’s gone. Your protector is dead. Which begs the question: Are you tight enough with Accardo to risk going to him now, and making your case?”

This thought Michael had been mulling, since driving away from Cal-Neva in the moments following the attempted hit. Hearing it from Shore, however, forced it forward, his other option for help, for sanctuary — if not the feds, Tony Accardo.

Suddenly Michael was eleven years old sitting in a car in front of the Lexington Hotel in Chicago, his father going in to see Frank Nitti, showing good faith by meeting Nitti on the ganglord’s own turf. And in less than half an hour his father emerged having shot his way back out, his face spattered with the blood of Outfit goons — because Frank Nitti had turned him away, putting business before loyalty. Then after the Angel of Death and his kid getaway artist had hit all those mob banks, Nitti made a deal. Nitti gave up Connor Looney, the murderer of Mama and Peter, to Michael’s father, and promised that the war between the O’Sullivans and the Outfit was over ...

... Only then Nitti had sent a contract killer to end the life of the Angel of Death .

“I’m not going to talk to Accardo,” Michael said.

“Good.” Shore nodded enthusiastically. “Good, good, good — because, Michael, if we can’t work things out here, now, then... Well, I’ll have to make a phone call. And the courtesy that’s been provided to us, in this matter, by the Chicago Police Department... That will, shall we say, expire.”

“And they’ll come after me,” Michael said.

“Yes. And whether they can try you effectively for the murder of Sam DeStefano or not... You will be back in Chicago, a town where every cheap punk and for that matter expensive hood knows that killing you is worth a small fortune.”

Hughes put in, “Even with inflation, half a million dollars can take you places.”

Funny.

Michael was just thinking that.

Because there was in fact a third option: running. Disappearing. Changing identities without t the federal government’s help...

“What can you offer me?” Michael asked.

Sitting forward, a little too eager, Shore said, “In broad terms, a fresh start — a new name, a new job, a new house every bit as nice as this one. You are in an unusual position, Michael — most of our witnesses are, shall we say, not the most reliable individuals one might hope to meet.”

Half a smile dug a hole in Michael’s left cheek. “I thought that was your business... reliable witnesses?”

“Reliable information . Sometimes the sources are... Well, we have had some difficulty in WITSEC with the criminal types we of necessity must deal with. Individuals who are used to making big money on the streets, who are unemployable in the straight world. We give fresh starts to some very stale individuals, Michael — most of them wind up working as grocery clerks or security guards.”

“Thieves hired as guards. Cute.”

“But you, Michael — you’re smart, you’re honest, you have a remarkable background in business. You’re not some dese-dem-and-doser with a broken nose and cauliflower ears.”

“I do clean up nice.”

Shore’s grin grew to grotesque proportions. “You will clean up very nicely. Usually we work for months to find anything remotely acceptable to our... clients. In your case, we have a situation that’s perfect for you, and us — a restaurant that needs a manager, an establishment that the government wound up owning, thanks to an IRS matter. We also have a lovely home, almost as lovely as this, waiting for you in the same area.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “You’d provide these lodgings?”

With an expansive shrug, Shore said, “We would arrange for your home, this home, to be sold. Until that time, you’d live in the house we provided, rent free. Then we’d ask that you use the proceeds from the sale of this place to purchase that one.”

“You can’t just hand me a house, huh?”

Shore shook his head, his expression regretful. “No. We can’t pay for testimony. But we have... leeway in seeing to it that you’re able to trade this life for a comparable one.”

“And all I have to do is testify.”

Shore was beaming again. “You see, Michael? You are not like the people we normally deal with. You didn’t say ‘rat out,’ or ‘squeal.’ You said ‘testify.’ You, like us, have no love for these people. You just happened to go down a road that put such people in your life... specifically, in the role of your employers.”

Michael held out open hands. “I don’t have much to give you, Harry. I’ve worked on the legit end.”

The buggy eyes flared. “For over thirty years, in the employ of the Outfit — confidant of Nitti, Ricca, Giancana, and Accardo?... I think you’ll make a most... reliable... witness.”