Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

Her pride in the accomplishments of her criminal husband did not surprise Michael; to stay at the man’s side all these years, Mae Capone would have long since had to come to terms with who and what her husband was.

Mae showed him the rest of the house, going up the stairs to the landing off of which were various bedrooms, including Michael’s own, at the end of the hall.

Finally, at the central bedroom, Mae stopped. “This is my husband’s suite... I stay with him if he has a rough night.”

“Mr. Nitti indicated I probably couldn’t meet your husband.”

“I’m afraid that would be impossible. Al did tell me to convey his admiration and appreciation, for your gallant service to our country.”

“Well... please thank him for me.”

“I will. But, Michael, he’s a private man. I hope you understand.”

“Certainly. Mimi... that is, the other Mr. Capone... said that there are two guards posted inside the house.”

“And that is why you’re here, isn’t it?” she said thoughtfully. “To scrutinize our security.”

Surprisingly, she opened the door to the suite.

Michael followed her into a small room, shallow but wide, where two guards sat at a card table playing gin. They, too, wore sport shirts with shoulder holsters. Both were heavyset, swarthy, dark-haired, though one had a round face and the other a squarish one; veteran thugs, pushing forty or past it. Both were smoking, and the room was thick with it.

They stood as Mae entered.

“Rocco, Tony,” Mae said, gesturing to Michael, “this is Mr. Nitti’s man, Michael Satariano. The young war hero you’ve heard about.”

The round-faced one came over and shook Michael’s hand, burbling praise, as if meeting a movie star. The bucket-headed one, his eyes hooded, merely nodded and sat back down; obviously, he wanted to get back to his game.

Michael took the room in quickly: a console radio; a small refrigerator; comfortable chairs in opposite corners with end tables stacked with magazines. A Maxfield Parrish print. That was it.

Mae turned to Michael. “Two men are always on duty here, making sure no one disturbs my husband, and providing any help he might need... Al often gets restless, wakes up around three, and might want something to eat, or maybe to sit down on the dock.”

The round-faced guard said, “And it’s our job to help out, whatever Mr. Capone needs.”

“Al spends much of his time in his room,” she said, nodding toward the closed door. “Listening to the radio, reading magazines and newspapers.”

“He likes to sit by the pool, too,” the round-faced one put in.

Mae nodded, and then cast Michael a bland smile that somehow signaled that the tour of this suite was over.

“Gentlemen,” Michael said with a nod, “sorry to disturb you. Just having a look around for Mr. Nitti.”

“Sure,” the round-faced guy said cheerfully.

The other guy said nothing.

In the hallway, Michael asked, “I assume these are your top people.”

Again Mae nodded. “Only six on staff, our most trusted, sit in that room. People my husband knew back in Chicago.”

“Men he feels comfortable with,” Michael said.

“Yes. It’s probably the same with President Roosevelt and the Secret Service, don’t you think?”

That said it all, somehow — that this woman equated her husband with the country’s commander in chief.

Mae Capone was a charming hostess, but Michael was relieved when she said she’d be leaving that afternoon to join her sister and her sister’s husband in Fort Lauderdale.

“I prefer not to be present when business is conducted,” she said simply, as they sat on the sun porch, enjoying the view of the expansive backyard and the enormous pool and the bay beyond. She’d already gently scolded him for ordering (but did not rescind) the removal of her “beautiful awnings.”

She was saying, “I do apologize for not being here to prepare your supper.”

“That is a disappointment. I haven’t had corned beef and cabbage like that since my mother made it.”

She crinkled her brow. “Your Sicilian mother made corned beef and cabbage?”

Covering, Michael said, “Sure — just like I bet you make a mean lasagna.”

“I do! I do.”

Early evening, Michael carried Mrs. Capone’s bags to her Pontiac — a week’s worth for the two-day trip — which she would drive herself. She seemed an independent woman, for having stood in such a large shadow for so many years.

In the same blue floral dress, now with a jaunty dark blue hat, Mae looked at Michael and touched his cheek with a gloved hand. “You’re a sweet boy. You remind me of my Sonny... He may stop by to meet you, tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mimi said so.”

“Sonny was so disappointed he couldn’t serve. But he’s contributing to the war effort.”

“I’m sure he is, ma’am.”

“May I ask you something... personal?”

“Anything.”

“Was your father in this line of work?”

“...Sort of.”

The pretty brow tightened. “Please don’t take what I’m about to say wrong. But you seem a fine young man. You’ve won your country’s greatest honor... I say this from experience. Please... please consider going down a different road.”

Then Al Capone’s wife kissed his cheek, and was gone.

For dinner Mimi Capone took Michael out to the Roney Cabana Club in Miami Beach, where the food and service were excellent, though Michael ate very little. Mimi put away a lobster with melted butter, messily, and talked incessantly about celebrities he’d met in the Miami area. The affable Mimi relished the doors his name opened for him; as the “respectable” member of the Capone clan, he had “all the perks and none of the problems.”

Michael did not point out to the younger Capone that supervising twenty-one armed guards on a notorious gang-lord’s estate may not have been the most respectable job around.

Before long, Mimi Capone, a little drunk, driving a sporty ’37 Dusenberg convertible, dropped Michael off, loaning his guest a spare key. By eleven o’clock, Michael Satariano — with the run of the place — was alone in the mansion, but for two guards and Al Capone.

Of course, there was a matter of four or five guards outside, and an unspecified number of off-duty guards who might be in their quarters in the cabana and gatehouse.

In the kitchen he got himself a Coke — the fragrance of corned beef and cabbage lingered — and went up the main stairs to the landing off of which were the bedrooms. He stood for a moment, staring at the door to the Capone suite.

Then he went to his own room, with its double bed and nondescript contemporary furnishings fortunately free from Louis XIV touches. He changed from the white suit and Florsheims into a green army-issue T-shirt, black trousers, and black crepe-soled bluchers; then he lay on the bed, atop the spread with only the bedstand lamp on.

He sipped his Coke.

Stared at the ceiling.

The shift change was at eleven thirty. Had he gotten home earlier, he’d have taken advantage of the tiredness of the current shift of guards; but now he had to wait until the new group had come on and the others were long gone. He could hear, faintly, a radio playing big band music, and wondered if it was Capone listening or his two watchdogs.

She had reminded him of his mother.

Mae Capone’s Irish good looks and her cheery manner and her maternal fuss had, inevitably, reminded him of his mama, and there wasn’t a damned thing to be done about it. Much as he tried to banish the thought, it kept floating back. The image of a smile that was at once Mae’s and his mother’s lingered, goddamnit .

So what if she was a nice woman? And had a nice son who was doing his bit for the war effort? Who cared that Mimi Capone was a decent, harmless guy, and that their life down here was a placid routine of isolated luxury? Capone remained Capone — the man who had betrayed Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., and dispatched a contract killer to cut him down. The same Capone who had aligned himself with the Looneys after the murders of Michael’s mother and brother, and who, to this day, conspired with Frank Nitti to rule the kingdom of Chicago crime...