Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

A hat was being passed around now — to finance the recall of Mayor Schriver — and between the Looney goons in the crowd, and the strong pro-Looney, anti-Schriver sentiment in this hooping and hollering riffraff, Connor felt sure no fool would try to make off with that money.

As he studied the throng, Connor noted here and there a pocket of better-dressed, obviously educated folk — teachers, lawyers, clerics, doctors — who were likely among the instigators of this socialist flapdoodle. It bothered him that his father would go along with such traitors.

As his eyes were drifting idly over the crowd, he stopped on a familiar figure — a young man of about eighteen, in a shabby shirt and loose pants and shoes patched with tape. He recognized the boy, who had a distinctive birthmark on one cheek, though he didn’t know the lad’s name.

A week ago, the kid had cornered Connor, who’d been seated alone with a beer in a back booth at the Java House.

The boy had stood before Connor, his face dirty, his light blue eyes wide, his upper lip pulled back over blackened teeth. On his left cheek was a disgusting brown birthmark bristling with little hairs, shaped like a fat C .

“I know what you did to my sister,” he said.

“What? Go away.”

“She went to work for Mrs. Van Dale. She had to do it. We didn’t have no money. She didn’t ask my mama, she just run off... She come back last week, cryin’. With stories about what Mr. Looney’s son did to her... in her... her backside.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“You have a dirty mouth, mister.”

“Well, you’re just plain dirty, kid. Beat it!”

“Does your papa know what you do to young girls? Maybe the Argus would pay to know. Maybe Mayor Schriver would.”

“...You want money?”

“No! I want to get even for Colleen! You’re a bad man, mister. Maybe I’ll catch up with you again someday.”

But as the boy stood on the edge of the crowd, he merely seemed to be watching the speaker as McCaskrin riled up the rabble further. Or was this kid here to shadow Connor? To take some stupid hick hayseed revenge upon him?

And now Connor had a new mission for the night. He would keep an eye on the kid. Maybe follow him home, to whatever hovel he’d crawled out of — in Greenbush, maybe, or some shoddy farm. If the kid went to the mayor or the Argus , that would be embarrassing.

Connor might even get slapped again.

“Mayor Schriver,” the speaker was yelling, “is a disease in human form — and he must be eliminated!”

The crowd roared, fists raised, shaking at the sky.

What a buncha rubes , Connor thought, eyes on the boy.

The city hall, which included the police station, was at Third Avenue and Sixteenth Street, a block away from Market Square. The massive three-story brick building, formerly an armory built in the late 1800s, had a one-story jail annex. Because of the rally, Emeal Davis dropped John Looney and Mike O’Sullivan in front, and drove off in search of a parking place.

As they waited, Looney — dapper in a dark topcoat and black homburg — said to his trusted lieutenant, “Maybe His Honor will listen to reason.”

“Maybe,” O’Sullivan said.

It was just cold enough for their breaths to plume. They could hear, like nearby explosions, the applause and cheers at the rally.

“Maybe,” Looney said, “we won’t even have to throw in with these damn socialists.”

“Not my business, sir.”

Looney put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “How I wish I had a thousand of you.” But he was thinking, How I wish I had one son like you .

Then Davis returned, saying he’d got ten lucky two blocks down, and John Looney took the lead with Davis and O’Sullivan right behind him. The police station was on the bottom floor, and the entryway fed a short flight of stairs on either side down to the police area, while a wide central stairway went up to the offices of the city government.

The mayor’s office was on the third floor; Looney and his two men walked up the metal-plated stairs, their feet making pinging sounds. After hours, free of most employees, the building had a disconcerting stillness, but for some police-station bustle floating up, hollowly. Their footsteps echoed like gunshots off the marble floor; down at the end of the hall, where the mayor’s corner suite of offices waited, two uniformed coppers stood guard.

Looney pretended to recognize the cops, saying “Hello, boys,” and reached past them for the knob of the pebbled-glass MAYOR OF ROCK ISLAND door. Davis and O’Sullivan fell in line behind him.

In a firm, not quite threatening manner, the cop nearest the door placed his hand on Looney’s arm. Looney looked up, eyebrows raised, making sure his expression told the man this act was an affront.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the cop said, a young pale lad who was probably Irish himself, “but we have instructions that only you are to pass.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. Your men here need to stay in the hall. His Honor said to inform you he’s requestin’ a private meeting.”

“Oh. Well, then.” Looney shrugged to his men.

Davis said, “We’ll be right here.”

O’Sullivan said, “You don’t have to take this meeting, John.”

Rarely did O’Sullivan call Looney by his first name; when he did so, it was not out of a lack of respect, rather a show of affection. This was a friend, not a bodyguard, advising him not to go in there.

Looney twitched a pixie smile. “If you hear me holler, boyos, come runnin’.”

“Yes, sir,” Davis said, smiling wide for the first time that evening, and revealing two gold eyeteeth, which even in this dim hallway found light to wink off.

Looney went into the reception area; behind the counter were several desks for the mayor’s secretary and various assistants, all empty at the moment, not surprising for midevening. But leaning against the wall, casually, both smoking cigarettes, in rumpled brown suits that mirrored each other, were two plainclothes men who Looney did recognize — Simmons and Randell. These were the mayor’s personal coppers, his bodyguards, really.

Tough birds.

“Evening, fellas,” Looney said.

“Mr. Looney,” Simmons said, tipping his fedora. He was a big man, six two easily, with a powerful physique, and an impassive homely pockmarked face.

Randell tipped his hat, too, another big man, though only six foot, but beefy; a paunch on him, though his arms were muscular. His face was round and bland with small dark eyes, watermelon seeds stuck in putty.

Looney pushed open the little gate into the private office area, where the two plainclothes men waited, and could feel their gaze on him.

“Should I go on in?” Looney asked, pausing.

“Better knock,” Simmons advised.

And Looney went forward to rap on a pebbled glass door labelled MAYOR HAROLD M. SCHRIVER — PRIVATE.

“Come in!” a deep voice called.

Looney opened the door into the mayor’s large office, its light-green plaster walls hanging with framed diplomas, civic awards, and photographs of the mayor with various dignitaries, local, state, and national. No one could say Harry Schriver had a low opinion of himself.

Along the right wall, as if proof work was done here, were wooden filing cabinets; but snugged against the left wall was a well-worn leather sofa with pillows. The mayor’s desk was central, a massive ancient oak affair, suspiciously free of paperwork — just a phone, an ink blotter, a pen-and-pencil holder, and an ashtray in which a lighted cigar resided, curling smoke. A newspaper, folded, was off to one side.

Shade drawn on the window behind him, in the swivel chair behind the desk, in shirtsleeves and suspenders, sat the would-be Boss Tweed of Rock Island, Illinois.