Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

“You heard Ness is in town,” Nitti said.

“Fuck Ness,” Accardo said, and there were nods and grunts of agreement, all around.

Ricca, his gaze on the cigarette in his fingers, said, “Guy’s a joke. Got run out of Cleveland on a rail.”

Fischetti, gesturing with a cigarette-in-holder, demurred. “Ness was effective for many years in that town. Just ask Moe Dalitz. He was crimping the style of the Mayfield Road boys right up to the end.”

“But the point,” Ricca said, without looking at Fischetti, or anyone else for that matter, “is Mr. Big Shot has reached the end... Jerkoff gets drunk and slams his car into somebody else’s, and then doesn’t report it? You or me, we’d be in stir for that. Hit and run, pure and simple.”

Humphreys said, “As amusing as the notion of an alcoholic prohibition agent may be, my understanding is Mrs. Ness was driving, and she was injured and he rushed her to the hospital. After checking on the other motorist.”

Now Ricca cast his hard gaze on Humphreys, and to the Hump’s credit, the man did not look away. “Ness resigned in disgrace,” Ricca said. “He’s nothing now. Not a danger to nobody.”

Finally Nitti spoke, softly, reasonably; he had just lighted up a cigar and gestured with it, nonthreateningly. “I disagree, Paul. It’s exactly because Ness had to resign in disgrace that he’s dangerous to us.”

Ricca waved a dismissive hand.

Accardo asked, “Why’s that, Frank?”

Nitti’s eyes darted from face to face. “Does anybody disagree with Hump about Ness’s performance in Cleveland? Just about the best in the country; drove our friends outa there — cleaned up the police force, caused trouble with the unions, with the numbers racket. Gotta hand it to him.”

“He’s a relic, Frank.” Ricca’s gaze, cool now, settled on Nitti... tellingly. “He’s one of them people you hear about that don’t know when their time is up.”

Nitti frowned at the narrow-faced gangster. “You think Ness’s time is up, Paul? He’s a fucking fed again!”

“Yeaaah,” Rica said, sneering. “Makin’ sure our boys in the armed forces know that sex is bad for ’em. A dick policin’ dicks — what a joke.”

“No joke.” Nitti looked around at them, and all eyes and ears were his, with the exception of Ricca’s. “Is there anyone in this room who doesn’t think Al would be sitting where I am, if it wasn’t for Ness?”

“Ness was only one of a dozen,” Ricca said, and slapped the air dismissively.

“A dozen that included Dwight Green, currently governor of our fair state,” Nitti said. “So Ness will have allies. Even a few cops, like Drury. Still, Paul, you’re right — Ness is down. He’s on his damn knees.”

“Blowin’ GIs,” Ricca said.

Everyone smiled at that. But Nitti.

Who said, “No one’s more dangerous than a champ who’s just come up off the canvas, looking for an opening. How does Ness rehabilitate himself, do you think? How does he get his good name back?”

“He doesn’t,” Ricca said quietly.

Nitti continued: “He returns to the site of his first, most famous victory. He looks at the Capone mob. And he knows that if he can bring us down, he’s back on top.”

“Not going to happen,” Ricca said.

“I know it isn’t.” Nitti slapped the table and everyone, even Ricca, jumped a little. “Because as of today, we’re shutting down all prostitution around military installations and defense plants.”

Ricca half-rose. “What the fuck?”

And everyone else at the table seemed stunned.

“Sit, Paul.” Nitti motioned at the air with both hands, cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Sit. I’ll explain...”

“Explain! You know what kinda income that brings in, Frank? Are you nuts?”

“Watch what you say, Paul — I do speak for Al.”

Ricca frowned; smoke curled upward from his cigarette between fingers. “You talked to him about this?”

“Through intermediaries. You know I don’t dare speak on the phone with Al — fucking federal wiretaps. But I’m scheduling a meet for a couple weeks from now, in Miami.”

Ricca, eyes tight, sat forward. “ I want to talk to Al.”

“You know that’s impossible.”

Both Capone and Nitti had homes in Florida; and meetings between them were fairly frequent. But because of law enforcement surveillance, the policy was that nobody visited Capone but Nitti himself.

Ricca was shaking his head, boiling.

Frowning, Fischetti said, “I’m afraid I’m with Paul on this one, Frank. How can we shut something down that’s so lucrative?”

“We won’t shut it down, not entirely. Just the whorehouses — the wide-open brothels. We’ll leave the strip clubs alone... good healthy fun for our boys in the armed forces. And we’ll have understandings with the girls that if they take the boys home, well, we get our cut.”

“Just no houses,” Fischetti said, eyes tight with thought, starting to slowly nod.

“Right. No madams. No joints that can be raided. We’ll also set up call girls, big-ticket lookers; put ’em in hotels, nice ones.”

Ricca still seethed, but the others seemed to be coming around.

“Boys,” Nitti said, and he gestured with both hands, palms up, “we’re businessmen. We’re part of the community.” He motioned toward the awards on the mantelpiece. “Al was beloved — he gave to charity, he set up soup kitchens and homeless shelters. Town loved him. Why?”

Accardo said, “’Cause they was fuckin’ thirsty.”

Everyone but Ricca laughed.

“Exactly right,” Nitti said. “They was fuckin’ thirsty. Nobody thought Al was a bad man for helping the average guy buy a beer after work. We didn’t have a public relations problem till St. Valentine’s Day, and even Al admits that was a mistake. What did we learn? Don’t stir up the heat!”

“People also get hungry,” Ricca said, “for a whore. No difference. Appetites, either way.”

“Big difference,” Nitti said, shaking his head. “If we stay with our wide-open houses, Ness will crucify us in the press. We’ll look like we’re undermining the war effort. Hell, we’re already a bunch of Italians, ain’t we? You wanna be on a wanted poster next to Mussolini?”

“Awwww,” Ricca said, and waved at nothing.

But Fischetti was thinking out loud: “You mean, we need to worry about how we look. To the public. We give ’em gambling, we’re pals, helpin’ ’em unwind. We give GI Joe the syph, we’re a buncha un-American dagos.”

“Now,” Nitti said, pleased, “you’re thinking like a businessman.”

“Sex is good business,” Ricca said coldly.

“It is. So we have the strip clubs, and arcades, on the low end; call girls on the high end. But no brothels. If the public sees us as whoremongers, we’re finished. Ness will make us look like traitors... and himself a hero.”

Ricca turned his dead gaze onto Nitti. “We just invested in that packing plant, and that slaughterhouse. You gonna close that down? Black-market meat, that unpatriotic, too, like fucking a whore?”

“Fucking isn’t unpatriotic, Paul; pimping is. And I’m all for the black-market meat business. It’s bootlegging all over again. People will love us for giving them what they crave. Same with ration stamps, when they start up — counterfeit or stolen.”

Accardo said, “And anyway, it’s the whores that are Ness’s beat, right?”

This got an unintentional laugh, including both Ricca and Nitti.

“That’s right,” Nitti said. “We don’t want to play into that prick’s hands. We made him a star once — we ain’t gonna do it twice.”

Ricca said, “This is immediate, this shutdown? I thought you was gonna wait till you talked with Al.”