Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

Neglia, grinning to himself, trundled over behind his boss. So both Abatte’s muscle boys were at his side, bookending him, now.

Abatte grinned, too; he looked like a ventriloquist’s dummy come to life, specifically Charlie McCarthy in that tux, without the monocle, of course. The desk was bare but for a telephone.

“You Chicago boys stop by at an opportune time,” Abatte said, his voice rich and deep, a big sound for a little man. “We were just havin’ a little meeting of concerned Cal City citizens.”

“Sorta like the Chamber of Commerce,” Campagna said.

Abatte folded his hands like a priest about to counsel a couple contemplating marriage. “My fellow owners share with me an interest in keeping our Cal City business happy and thriving and free of interference from the outside.”

“You work for Mr. Nitti,” Campagna snapped. “Don’t ever forget that, Frankie!”

Abatte’s disdain was palpable. “Mr. Nitti’s a partner, a silent partner, with all of us. He’ll get his share. But I don’t work for anybody but Frank Abatte , get it?”

Michael sat down across from Abatte, crossing his legs, ankle on a knee. Campagna not taking the chair of honor seemed to puzzle the tuxedo-sporting gangster.

“You’re a little young, aren’t you?” he asked Michael.

Campagna, positioning himself by the door, said, “His name’s Michael Satariano. He’s new.”

With his limited peripheral vision, Michael could not see if the name registered on the group at left. Neglia certainly didn’t recognize it; but Vitale’s sleepy eyes wakened, a bit. And Abatte’s upper lip curled in contempt.

“The war hero,” Abatte said, as if tasting the words and not finding them flavorful. He gestured, a sarcastic master of ceremonies. “Ladies and gentlemen... we have a special guest. We’re privileged to be in the presence of Chicago’s own Congressional Medal of Honor winner.”

Michael glanced at the trio — the guy in the apron, the man in the vest, the gal in the polka-dot dress; they were exchanging wide-eyed looks.

“Mighta known,” Abatte said. “Nitti’s sure as hell been wrappin’ himself in the flag lately. Shoulda figured he’d recruit the Sicilian Sergeant York... Did he just enlist you for this one mission, kid? What, is seeing you supposed to shame me into doin’ the ‘right thing’?”

Stepping forward, Campagna said, “Mr. Nitti does not want wide-open whorehouses and jackrolling and cheating our boys in the armed forces — that’ll bring heat down on all our heads. Capeesh? ”

Through clenched teeth Abatte said, “This street was built on brothels. And the heat is Nitti’s job — it’s what we pay him for.”

Campagna turned toward the trio of owners. “These war years will be a boom time for Cal City. Don’t botch it. Mr. Nitti appeals to your patriotism, and your common sense. Federal heat is—”

Abatte slammed his hand on the desk, and everybody but Abatte himself... and Michael... jumped a little; the phone made a stunted ringing sound.

“You city boys... you can run and hide, if you want.” Abatte’s eyes showed white all around. “This is a wide-open town here, a good time to be had by all. And we intend to keep it that way. Press us on this, and Nitti won’t even get his goddamn pound of flesh.”

Michael cleared his throat.

Abatte, who seemed to have forgotten about the young man’s presence, looked at Michael with a disdainful expression. “You want something, sonny boy?”

Michael said, “Just the answer to a question.”

“Ask me and we’ll see if it’s worth answering.”

Michael uncrossed his legs. Quietly he said, “Who do you work for, again?”

Again Abatte slammed a hand onto the desk; the Cal City big shot’s other hand, however, had dropped from view, where the man might access a drawer holding a gun and a knife...

Spittle flew: “I work for me, myself, and I! Frank Abatte! And no one else.”

Michael slipped a hand inside his suitcoat.

Both Vitale and Neglia lurched forward, and Abatte straightened; but Michael raised his other hand, gently, and said, “Please, gentlemen. I just need to get something out to make a point.”

The bodyguards settled back, Abatte relaxed, and Michael withdrew the .45 automatic.

Every eye in the room widened, except Michael’s.

Pointing the gun from the hip at Abatte, Michael asked, “Who do you work for?”

Abatte’s upper lip curled in contempt. “I... work... for... Frank... Abatte .”

Michael shot him in the head.

Time stopped for Abatte, paralyzed him momentarily, his eyes wide, the red hole in his forehead like a third startled eye; then he flopped forward on the desk, hands asprawl, revealing a splash of gore on the wall, between framed askew photos, and a gaping hole in the back of his head.

Still seated, Michael shot Vitale, who was clawing for his gun under his own suitcoat, in the throat; this Michael did because he anticipated that the gurgling, gargling, blood-frothing horror that would ensue would distract and discourage the others.

He had saved Neglia for last, because he knew Vitale was the more competent of the two; but the toad had a .38 in hand and his teeth clenched, a fraction of a second away from shooting, when Michael fired, another head shot, which knocked the porkpie hat off and splattered blood and brains and bone onto a stripper’s picture, straightening it.

Behind Michael, Campagna was training a gun on the owners, who were standing with their hands up and their jaws down.

Without getting up, Michael swiveled calmly in the chair to the trio of owners, who stood against the wall as if they’d like to disappear behind it. He spoke to the man in the apron.

“And who do you work for?”

“Frank Nitti!”

“Who do you work for?”

“Frank Nitti.”

“Who do you work for, ma’am?”

“Frank Nitti.”

“Any questions about the new prostitution policy?”

“No.”

“No.”

“No.”

“Good,” Michael said.

He rose and went to the door, opened it, looked out at the hallway, letting in some country swing; the fiddle sounded better to him now — it had a folksy quality he found soothing. No sign that anybody had heard anything over the natural din of the Ozark.

Returning his attention to the owners, he said, “By the weekend, these wide-open whorehouses are past history.”

Eager nods, all around.

“By the way — any of you see anything tonight? I hear it gets rough around here, sometimes.”

But none of them had heard or seen a thing.

“It’s early,” Michael said, with a shrug. “Might be some excitement, yet.”

The guy in the vest had pissed himself; that was a good sign.

“Why don’t you get back to your places of business, then,” Michael said pleasantly, nodding toward the door.

They scrambled out — thanking Michael as they went.

He was smiling about that when Campagna said, “That’s three eyewitnesses you let go, there, Mike.”

“You think any of them’s a problem?”

Campagna, who’d been frowning in thought, began to laugh. “No. No, I don’t. Joe Batters does the collecting around these-here-parts, and he’ll back your play... Kid, you’re a caution.”

Michael reholstered the .45. “Just so Mr. Nitti doesn’t think I stirred up the heat.”

Campagna was going to the phone; one of Abatte’s dead hands seemed to be reaching for it.

“Hell no,” Campagna said, lifting the receiver. “Just let me call the Cal City police chief.”

“Why him?”

“Jesus, kid,” Campagna said and shrugged. “Somebody’s gotta dump these stiffs!”