Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

“You’re right, Paul. For now, we stay open; but we start plannin’ pulling out... so to speak.”

Again, smiles all around.

The discussion of the brothel situation was followed by updates on the Hollywood union case. Ricca reported that the feds were offering Willie Bioff, George Browne, and Nicky Dean reduced sentences if they spilled. So far all three were sitting tight in the federal pen. But everybody at the table was unnerved by the government coming down on them.

“Problem like this makes Ness look like the nothing he is,” Ricca said.

“All the more reason,” Nitti said, “not to give the feds anything else on us.”

With the meeting dismissed, Nitti gave Campagna a look that said, Stick around , while Ricca approached.

“I meant no disrespect,” Ricca said, shaking Nitti’s hand; Ricca’s grasp was like holding a dead fish. “I will honor Al’s wishes on this.”

When Ricca was gone, Campagna said, “Al’s wishes. Not yours.”

“Al is the boss.”

“The boss in Miami. The boss in exile. You run Chicago, Frank.”

“Not if Ricca gets his way... My office, Louie.”

They walked down the hall and into the office through the reception area; though his secretary was still at her desk, Nitti’s waiting room was otherwise empty. At one time the chairs lining the walls would have been filled with crooked politicians and shady businessmen, waiting for a few precious minutes of Nitti’s time; but Nitti conducted his business in a more discreet fashion, now — either one-on-one, at the Bismarck suite, or working through intermediaries.

The spacious wood-paneled office, lavishly appointed, might have been a La Salle Street broker’s. Another portrait of Capone (in hat and coat with cigar) hung over another fireplace. Nitti settled in behind a desk no larger than a Lincoln Continental. Behind him was a window with a view onto the South Side of Chicago, long the Capone empire; the swivel chair in which he sat had been Al’s as well, a gift from the Chicago Heights boys, its back bullet-proofed.

Campagna, comfortable with his chief, fetched from an icebox a bottle of milk and poured Nitti a chilled glass (ulcers) and then got himself a bourbon on the rocks from the liquor cart. The loyal, lumpy-faced little killer settled into the leather-padded visitor’s chair across from Nitti, who had his feet up on the desk, rocked back in the swivel chair, sipping his milk thoughtfully.

“How big a problem,” Nitti asked, “do we have with Ricca?”

“Big,” Campagna said.

“Who can I trust?”

“Probably everybody but Ricca.”

“Who for sure?”

“...Me.”

“You know, the Waiter’s been lining himself up with those hothead kids from the Patch. This Giancana, Mooney they call him? He’s got a screw loose.”

“He ain’t the only one. DeStefano makes Mooney look normal. Mad Sam, they call him.”

Nitti sipped his milk. “Isn’t DeStefano a solid juice man?”

“Yeah, the best. Who ain’t gonna pay up a guy that’d feed ya your nuts, parboiled?”

Nitti nodded; this was a good point. “All these wild youngsters, Ricca’s got ’em in his pocket. Couple are on my staff.” He frowned. “Louie, can we trust these bodyguards?”

“Far as it goes. Frank, always comes down to, these guys kill people for money. Allegiance ain’t what it used to be.”

Nitti shook his head. “And in these times, we should have that. We should pull together. Tell you the truth — my preference is, we stay out of the black market. I think it is unpatriotic. But I couldn’t go that far. Didn’t dare.”

Campagna nodded. “Good call, Frank. Nixing the whore houses was drastic enough.”

Nitti sighed. He took his feet off the desk and leaned on his elbows. “What I’d give for a reliable goddamn bodyguard.”

“You got me, Frank.”

“You’re too valuable for flunky work, Louie. I wouldn’t insult you.”

“It’d be an honor.”

“Louie... I wish I had a hundred of you.”

“My ma says, when they made me? Broke the mold.”

“Your ma is right, Louie.”

Campagna looked at his watch. “Listen, in about half an hour, that kid’s comin’ around. That war hero?”

Nitti straightened. “Well, I look forward to that. Congressional Medal of Honor. And he’s Sicilian! Now somebody like him, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

Campagna shrugged. “Hey, well... his old man says he wants to work for us.”

“That’s this fella... Pasquale Satariano?”

“Right. In DeKalb. He was our guy with the farmers. Sweet old Mustache Pete kinda goombah. He makes a gravy worth drivin’ out there for.”

“I couldn’t do that, could I?”

“Drive out there?”

“Involve somebody like that, in our thing?”

“The war hero kid?” Campagna shrugged. “I dunno. Up to you. Up to him. Why don’t you ask him?”

And that’s what Nitti did, but not at first.

Stiff and polite in a dark brown suit with a brown-and-yellow tie, the young man sat where earlier Campagna had. Campagna was standing over by the fireplace now. Nitti offered the boy a drink, and he requested a Coke; said he didn’t drink liquor. Nitti liked that, considered heavy drinking among his people bad for business.

It also made him feel comfortable and unselfconscious, having a glass of milk in front of the kid.

“You honor us,” Nitti said, and saluted him with the glass of milk. “You honor Sicilians like us. You honor Americans like us. God bless you, Michael Satariano. And God bless America.”

Michael toasted Nitti back, with the glass of Coke, and then said, “You were a great friend to my father.”

“Your father, Pasquale, he was valuable to us. We still consider him one of us. I understand you’d like a job.”

The boy sat forward, his expression earnest. “I would. You see, I lost an eye in combat, so I can’t serve anymore. And, frankly, after a year in the Philippines, going back to work at my father’s spaghetti house... well, it seems a little dull. Tossing pizza dough.”

“Noble profession. Don’t knock it, son.”

“I respect my father. And I think someday I’d like to be in that business... roughly speaking.”

“Roughly, how?”

The boy shrugged. “A bigger restaurant, even a chain. Nightclub... or clubs. Not just a hole-in-the-wall in a little college town.”

“You’re ambitious.”

“I’d like to be somebody, sure. That’s the American dream; it’s what we’re fighting for... Just look at what you’ve accomplished, Mr. Nitti.”

“Nothing, compared to you, son.”

“I’m young, Mr. Nitti. I crave work that’s challenging. That might even have a little... excitement to it.”

Nitti studied the kid. Michael Satariano had such a sweet, almost angelic face, though the dark eyes were unfathomable. This young man had killed over a hundred Japs. That was more kills than all the Mooneys and Mad Sams put together.

Then something flashed through Frank Nitti’s mind; something jarring — this kid reminded him of someone. Years ago, another killer had sat across from him at this desk and offered his services: O’Sullivan, the Angel of Death. How Nitti wished he’d taken the man up on his offer, that he’d stood aside and allowed O’Sullivan to kill the Looneys.

In that case, O’Sullivan would have come to work for Nitti; would have been Frank Nitti’s loyal enforcer. A smart man, tough but not ruthless, and the bravest son of a bitch who’d ever walked the earth. How Nitti wished O’Sullivan were alive and at his right arm now, an ally as reliable as Campagna and ten times as valuable.

And here was another young killer, a Sicilian boy from the sticks with a vague resemblance to that long-dead Irish hitman. Funny — Nitti had the strange feeling he was getting a second chance...