Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

With the Looney operation no longer pumping cash into the Capone coffers, O’Sullivan decided to squeeze Chicago further by robbing rural banks where the syndicate kept its money. Young Michael was the getaway man, sitting on phone books, pumping pedals built up with blocks. He had a wonderful time, and grew closer to his sometimes remote father than he ever had before.

Finally Michael’s father worked out a deal with the Capone mob: he would cease looting their operations if they would hand over Connor Looney. On a rainy night in Rock Island, in the street in front of the Sherman Hotel, Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., took his revenge on Connor Looney.

And so, finally, Michael and his father reached the farm outside Perdition; but the Capone mob betrayed them: O’Sullivan was shot in the back, ambushed by a contract killer.

A moment later, Michael killed his father’s killer. He had killed once before on the road, defending his father and himself, and the only emotions the child felt had to do with his fallen father.

The boy had pulled himself together enough to drive his dying father, not to a hospital, but — at his father’s insistence — a church, where Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., gave his final confession and received his last rites.

Shortly after that, Michael, Jr., again saw Eliot Ness, who discreetly arranged for Michael to disappear into a Catholic orphanage in Downers Grove, Illinois.

As best Michael knew, his adoptive parents, the Satarianos, did not know of his true background; at least, there had never been any indication of such.

Memories flooding through him, Michael took the seat opposite Eliot Ness in the Federal Building cubbyhole office, doing his best to give nothing away.

“Sergeant,” Ness said, “I appreciate you dropping by. My name is Eliot Ness — I’m the director of the Division of Social Protection.”

Michael had no idea what that was. He said, “You needn’t thank me. I was ordered here by Captain McRae.”

“I wasn’t aware he’d made it an order. I’d hoped he’d indicate the voluntary nature of why I asked to see you.”

“I’m up for doing anything for the war effort — particularly if it doesn’t involve war bond rallies.”

Ness’s half-smile dug a dimple in one cheek. “I hate public speaking, myself. I’ve had people after me to run for office, for years... but I’m sure it would be a disaster.”

Michael shifted in his chair, just a little. “I believe I noticed you at the Fourth celebration in DeKalb. And the day before that, here in Chicago.”

“Yes. You did. You see, Sergeant, I’ve taken a kind of... interest in you.”

“Why is that, Mr. Ness?”

The half-smile bloomed into a full grin; but Ness’s eyes were hard. “Well, after all, Michael — we go back a long way.”

Michael said nothing.

“I recognized you from your picture in the papers,” Ness said. “You haven’t changed all that much — and to the degree you have, a resemblance to your father’s crept in.”

“Most people don’t think I look like Papa S. at all.”

Ness arched an eyebrow. “‘Papa S.’ That’s what you call him? Not just Papa?”

“Well...”

“Maybe that’s because he isn’t your real ‘papa,’ Michael. We both know that. I owed it to your father to make sure you were safe; I got you into that orphanage, and I kept a quiet eye on you.”

“You seem to do a lot from the sidelines.”

“These days, I do. Of course, I prefer being in the game... but this game? You succeed at all, they make you a damn administrator. Guys like you get to have all the fun.”

“Guys like me.”

“We’ll get into that. But it seems to me I owe you a few answers... that is, if you have any questions.”

Michael folded his arms. “The Satarianos — do they know who I am?”

“No. And don’t think I didn’t have a twinge when I discovered they’d adopted you. If I’d been on the scene, keeping closer tabs, I might even have interceded.”

“Why?”

“Your safety, for one. You grew up kind of close to Chicago, didn’t you? Considering who you are?”

“Back when my father and I were on the road, none of the Capone people ever saw me. My picture, maybe. Little kid picture.”

“And one little kid is pretty much like another... and then, of course, you sprouted up.”

“Listen, Mr. Ness, I... I realize I owe you a certain debt.”

Ness nodded. “You do. I’m the one who saw to it you went into an orphanage, not reform school. I talked the police into interpreting that crime scene in a way that indicated your father had killed his own killer — that you had nothing to do with it.”

“There were stories about us in the true detectives magazines,” Michael said. “And they always got that wrong.”

“That’s because no one likes to think that a kid could be a killer. But you’re your father’s son. And he taught you well.”

Michael’s eyes tensed. “Is that an insult?”

“No. But it’s not a compliment, either. Who you were... those months on the road with your father, learning to shoot, learning to kill, experiencing the euphoria of action... that was the school our nation’s first Medal of Honor winner graduated from.”

Michael said nothing.

Ness leaned forward. “Tell me it didn’t all come back to you, rushing back... Tell me in that jungle you didn’t wake up to who you are.”

“...So what if it did?”

Again Ness shrugged, gesturing dismissively. “You can’t help who you are, Michael. You can’t undo the qualities, good and ill, you were born with. And you can’t erase the things you experienced.” Now the G-man’s gaze hardened. “But you can channel them constructively.”

“War, for example?”

“When madmen are trying to steal the planet, yes — a man with your skills comes in handy.”

Michael laughed once, hollowly. “The army doesn’t want me, anymore. I have only one eye, remember, Mr. Ness?”

Ness pointed a finger. “Oh, but Uncle Sam still wants you, Michael... if you’re willing. And the job I have in mind, you should find very... satisfying.”

“I’m listening.”

Ness’s expression was somber as he said, “I need to know one thing, first. If you had an opportunity to do something about the people who killed your father, would you seek justice? Or revenge?”

Michael’s eyes tightened, and he sat forward; any sham coolness disappeared. “What?”

Ness rocked back; crossed his arms. “I’m talking about the Capone gang, Michael. Frank Nitti is still in charge, following the directives of Capone himself, who’s been calling the shots from his Palm Island mansion in Florida, ever since his release from Alcatraz in ’39.”

Capone... Al Capone... the man responsible for his father’s death ...

Now Ness sat forward, eyes glittering. “And now for the first time, we have them on the ropes. We’re in a position to take them all down.”

“And... I can be part of this?”

“You haven’t answered my question, Michael. Justice, or revenge?”

“Well, justice,” Michael said.

“Good,” Ness said. “Good...”

For an hour, Ness filled Michael in about the current status of the Capone mob. They were “on the ropes” because an elaborate extortion scam, relating to their infiltration of various Hollywood movie unions, had unraveled; three major underlings were in custody. Investigations on both the East and West Coasts were under way, with a core group of honest cops helping on the Chicago front.

The movie scam had been one of several schemes Frank Nitti had undertaken to replace missing income after the repeal of Prohibition. Various union takeovers and, of course, gambling were among the other major mob moneymakers, but in particular, prostitution — brothels, roadhouses, strip joints — had come to the fore.