Макс Коллинз - Road to Paradise

“Not in a good way, no.” The attorney gestured with two open hands. “But Mooney Giancana rarely considers such subtleties — he’s the original loose cannon. All Giancana knows is he would like to have Satariano removed from the equation — which is understandable. After all, we know Giancana is positioning himself to take over again — with Ricca dead, and you retired, Mooney’s a charismatic figure who—”

“Charisma my ass!” Tony chewed on the cigar as he spoke. “He’s a demented prick with delusions of grandeur and a talent for getting his ugly mug in the media. We shipped his ass to Mexico because of the attention he was attracting, and now he’s back, what, a month? And we got Senate hearings and fuckin’ shoot-outs!”

“Actually, Tony, Mexico is the key to this...”

Accardo and Paul Ricca had sent Mooney away, out of the spotlight in ’66, and allowed him to develop his own interests, internationally — chiefly, cruise ships and casinos. A modest 20 percent tax came back to the Outfit.

“...A happy arrangement, Mexico — Mooney’s out of your hair, and generating income. What could be better? But good things do not last forever.”

Both men knew that Giancana’s ties to the corrupt Mexican government had made all of this possible, until last month when a new regime came in and decided to seize all of that money and deport Giancana into the arms of the FBI. No outstanding arrests warrants were waiting, but an avalanche of subpoenas were.

“So now Mooney’s back,” Tony said, “but he’s broke, and his mind’s on that Senate hearing. Hell, first thing he did was get gallbladder surgery. He’s an old man! Washed up.”

“Ah,” Horshak said, lighting up a new cigarette, “but remember, Tony — a deposed king always has designs on his ‘rightful’ throne. What other option does Mooney have, but to stage the comeback he was already thirsting for?”

Tony shook his head, hard. “Can’t allow that. Can’t allow that. Maybe he’d like to retire someplace.”

Another twitch of a smile turned that slit in Horshak’s face into a mouth. “You tell me — is Sam Giancana the shuffleboard type? Does he walk away from those millions in Mexico, and settle for a pension? This is a man who has enjoyed power... and I do mean enjoyed ... for decades.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “They say he looked like a little old man in baggy pants and beard when he turned up at the airport.”

“He was yanked out of his bed in the middle of the night and kidnapped by Mexican immigration officials. How would any of us look? Besides, Mooney always was a ham.”

Tony’s brow beetled in thought. “That was an act... what? For the feds who met him at the gate?”

Horshak waved that away with the hand holding the cigarette, making smoke trails. “I just offer it as a possibility. And meaning no offense, my friend, isn’t this ‘old man’ two years younger than yourself?”

“I’m not officially running things. Aiuppa is.”

“‘Officially’ being the operative term... But even if all we were facing here is Sam Giancana preparing to testify in front of a Senate committee exploring, among other things, the assassination of Jack Kennedy... Well, Tony? Do I really have to go on?”

Tony said nothing; he just sat puffing his cigar, his eyes on the girls frolicking in the pool, though he didn’t really see them.

“Not good,” Tony muttered. “Not good.”

Horshak drew smoke in, let smoke out. Then he smiled like a patient priest and asked, “How much security do you have here, Tony?”

Tony, still idly watching the pretty girls swim and splash at each other, said, “What you see is what you get. Half a dozen guys. Why?”

The attorney nodded, thought, said softly, “You must have personally approved the hit on Michael Satariano. The other hit at Cal-Neva, remember? The one Satariano deflected?”

His eyes flashed at Horshak. “I sanctioned that because Michael whacked DeStefano! What else could we do — tell Mad Sam’s crew easy-the-fuck-come, easy-the-fuck-go?”

“I would have advised against it — Satariano was a loyal man, and his Medal of Honor celebrity could have... Well, that’s beside the point, isn’t it? You didn’t seek my counsel.”

“That’s right, Sid. When I want your advice, I ask for it.”

“Which you are now, right?”

Tony swallowed. “Right.”

The attorney sat back; he gestured with a gentle open hand. “For the sake of argument — what if Satariano didn’t ‘whack’ Mad Sam DeStefano? What if Giancana framed him for it?”

“Why in hell?”

Horshak shrugged. “Perhaps to get the heat off the real assassins, and put them — and Mad Sam’s crew — securely in his debt. And if you’re Sam Giancana planning a comeback, wouldn’t that make perfect sense? Remove an obstacle — Satariano — and build allies with Mad Sam’s fatherless camp? But, then, you’re much closer to this kind of thing than I am, Tony. What do you hear?”

Tony shifted on the edge of the lounge chair; the girls giggled and splashed. “Well... Gotta admit that some are sayin’ Satariano didn’t do DeStefano. Some opinion says it was Spilotro and Mad Sam’s brother — the Ant and Mario.”

The attorney nodded sagely. “The very two stalwarts who fingered Satariano.”

“Yeah. Them stalwarts. They neither one wanted to see that crazy sadistic ice-pick-happy lunatic take the witness stand.”

“And speaking of crazy lunatics taking the witness stand,” Horshak said, with as wide a smile as the cut of a mouth was capable, “how do we feel about Mooney testifying before that Senate committee?”

Tony grunted. “‘We’ don’t like it.”

“You don’t anticipate Mooney pulling a Valachi, do you?”

“No! But he will go after those CIA cocksuckers — Mooney’s made it known that those spy pricks have been letting him twist in the wind. Says those feds shoulda found some way to keep him from bein’ deported, or at least get his millions back for him from them Mexicans. And as feds themselves, they oughta be able to prevent him havin’ to testify to a buncha senators.”

A slow nod. “And how do we feel about having this CIA dirty linen exposed to public view?”

Tony threw up his hands. “It’s what those bastards deserve, but I don’t see how Mooney figures he can give the spies up without giving us up, too! We’re too, what’s the word? Interwove with those cocksuckers.”

“Strange bedfellows indeed.”

“Yeah, but who’s fuckin’ who? We thought they could help us get Cuba back, and how the hell has that been workin’ out?”

Both men were well-aware that for almost ten years, Giancana — using his Mexico City mansion as home base — had traveled all around Europe, Latin America, and the Middle East. This put Mooney in a perfect position to facilitate a major cocaine and heroin smuggling ring...

...but not for Chicago.

Tony Accardo was a legendary holdout in the drug business; he had never allowed the Outfit to get involved with junk — providing working stiffs with recreation like whores and gambling was one thing, peddling soul-robbing addiction a whole other.

But in Mexico, out from under Accardo’s watchful eye, Giancana could make side deals with anybody he pleased. Most likely in those Mexico City years, Mooney got in tight with not only the CIA but other syndicate guys, like Trafficante in New Orleans and Gambino in New York, who did not share the Accardo disdain for drugs.

“I respect and admire the stand you’ve taken on narcotics over the years,” Horshak said. “But the press isn’t going to make any such distinctions, nor is the general public... that Great Unwashed who elect our leaders. To John Q. American, the ‘mob’ and the CIA will just be bad guys together, and all sorts of structures could come apart... meaning lots of things, and people, could fall down.”