Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

And yet there he’d been, three nights ago, sitting next to Louie Campagna at a table in this very bar, after closing; she’d been sitting at that same table, too.

Campagna had explained about Eliot Ness and the crackdown on prostitution; and that Mr. Nitti was concerned about the Colony Club’s third floor.

As they spoke in the bar, the lights were up, and two bartenders were sweeping. She and the two Outfit guests sat in a corner near the piano, out of earshot of the help.

Estelle, sitting with a leg crossed, showing her knee, was sipping a Coke. She had noted that the young man with Louie Campagna — Louie was drinking Scotch rocks — had also ordered a Coke.

Rather than respond to Campagna’s question, Estelle asked the kid, “You don’t drink when you’re working?”

“I don’t drink at all,” the kid said. A nice mellow voice.

“Well, do you smoke?”

“No.”

Estelle laughed. “Neither do I. Girlfriend of mine, long time ago, told me I’d look young longer if I didn’t smoke or drink.”

Without a smile, the kid said, “It’s working.”

Despite the babyface on him, something smoldered under there...

Louie sat forward, mildly irritated. “Estelle — this is business, here. We’re talking about things.”

To the kid, she said, “I’ve seen you somewhere... Louie, he’s new. Right?”

“Right. And the reason you recognize him is ’cause he’s Michael Satariano.”

Estelle snapped her fingers. “Medal of Honor! Yeah!”

This had led to a conversation mostly between her and Campagna, with Satariano embarrassed and Louie actually proud that a war hero like this had chosen to honor his Sicilian heritage by going into business with his paisans .

But they had finally gotten to the subject of the meeting, Louie saying, “This club, it’s famous. Hell, Estelle, you’re famous. A Rush Street landmark — so you got to watch yourself, this third floor.”

Polite but cold, she replied, “I would think the gambling would be a bigger problem. That’s wide open. What happens on the third floor is... discreet.”

Louie shook his head. “You ain’t listening, Estelle. This ain’t about anything except Eliot fuckin’ Ness havin’ a hard-on against Al Capone and Frank Nitti. Guy’s lookin’ to make another name for himself, on the Outfit’s back, get it?”

“I get it. And gambling isn’t Ness’s bailiwick.”

“No. But whorehouses is.”

Estelle lifted both eyebrows. “My girls aren’t prostitutes. And I’m not a madam.”

Campagna’s lumpy face registered skepticism. “Well, do you think that G-man’s gonna make whatever-the-hell distinction it is, you’re makin’? Kid yourself all you want, Estelle — you won’t kid this Ness character.”

Her eyes tightened. “Does this have anything to do with Nicky? With the Hollywood case?”

Since late last year, Estelle had been running the Colony Club herself. Nicky, who’d been Nitti’s watchdog over those union goons Bioff and Browne, had been convicted in the movie union extortion case; poor baby started doing his eight years last December.

“Maybe not directly,” Campagna said. “Back ten years ago, when the T-men was building their case against Al, Ness was hitting us hard in the pocketbook. So now he hits our brothels, while the other feds build this Hollywood case against us. Same old double-team, Mr. Nitti says.”

“But with Nicky in stir, and Bioff and Browne inside, too,” she said, “surely the movie-union thing is over.”

Estelle had never really understood what the fuss was about, anyway; all Bioff and Browne had done was sell strike prevention insurance to movie moguls, and all Nicky did was mule the money back to the Outfit.

“Word is,” Campagna was saying, “the G’s trying to build a conspiracy case. Feds’re crawling all over town usin’ information Bioff and Browne spilled, copping a plea, gettin’ a shorter sentence.”

“Those two union goons are known liars. Don’t they both have perjury raps on their records?”

“That’s why the feds are lookin’ for real witnesses. And that’s why Ness is back. Estelle, restrict the third floor to compin’ high rollers. No exchange of money, honey.”

“I hear you.”

“Do you? I hope so. Let me spell it out: no fuckin’ whoring, Estelle. Should we get that faggelah piano-player in here, so I can sing it for you?”

“No, Louie. I hear every note.”

“Good. And I know you got an ear for music.”

They had gone, then — Louie and his Medal of Honor winner. But she had noticed that on the occasions when Campagna had gotten either tough or profane with her, the kid had winced, just a little. Like he didn’t approve of a lady being talked to in that fashion.

Estelle really liked that.

The next night the kid had come back, alone. Late, on a much slower night. In a sport shirt and slacks, looking damn near collegiate, he sat at the bar, drinking Cokes, listening to her, watching her discreetly, even trading a couple of smiles with her.

On her break, Estelle took the stool next to him. “Hey, hero,” she said. “Slumming?”

His smile was boyish, shy. “This is a beautiful place.”

“It is nice.”

“You... you sing great.”

“Thanks.” She laughed a little. “But I think it’s more the talking-dog deal.”

He frowned in confusion. “Pardon?”

With an elaborate shrug, she said, “They’ve heard of me, the notorious 26 girl. Gangster’s moll. When I sing, and carry a decent tune, and don’t screw up the words, they’re bowled over... See, a talking dog doesn’t have to say anything impressive.”

“Just talk,” he said, with a half-smile that was wholly adorable.

“That’s right. Just talk’s enough.”

His forehead tensed. “Listen... Louie’s really not a bad guy.”

“Oh, I know that.”

“He had a job to do, the other night. Me, too. This situation with the feds, it’s serious. I’m sure he didn’t mean any offense.”

“I’m sure Louie didn’t. Just tryin’ to make his point. Is that why you came back tonight?”

“I guess... I was curious to hear you sing. We came in after you were finished, other night.”

“Wanted to hear the dog talk?”

He flashed the half-smile again, though his voice had a touch of embarrassment. “Miss Carey... a dog you’re not.”

“Well, I can be a little bitchy, at times.”

“I doubt that... Anyway, you sing swell. Like Dinah Shore and Doris Day all rolled into one.”

“Oooo... makes me sound fat.”

Abashed, blinking, he said, “Oh, you’re not fat.”

She kept him wriggling on the hook, saying, “You really know how to compliment a girl.”

And now he blushed.

Fucking blushed!

She touched his hand. “You’re really very sweet, Michael... May I call you Michael?”

“I’d like that.”

“And you’ll call me Estelle... Michael, why did you take a job with Frank Nitti?”

He shrugged. “I’m Sicilian. Good opportunity to make a lot of money before I’m very old.”

“You may be surprised to learn that a lot of Sicilians aren’t mobsters. I’d go so far as to say most aren’t.”

“I know that.” He stared evasively into his Coke. “I just like the... charge you get. I was in combat, and it’s a kind of intense feeling. Adrenaline rush.”

“Are you kidding me?”

He looked up at her, something plaintive in his expression. “Miss Carey... Estelle. Could we talk about something else?”

So they had chatted about their backgrounds, and how he was staying a few blocks away at the Seneca Hotel. This was no surprise to her, as the Seneca was home to a lot of Nitti’s gangsters. Then it was time for her to go back on, and she saw him slip out, during her third number.