Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

Looney’s cries continued.

“We can go,” O’Sullivan whispered. The two men were huddled against the opposite wall while the coppers eyed them. “And we should.”

Davis whispered back harshly: “And leave Mr. Looney in there, to be beaten to death?”

“I don’t think the mayor brought him here to kill him. Just to teach John Looney a lesson.”

“But the Old Man’s health is frail...”

“Emeal, he’s strong at heart. He’s got spine.”

Undercutting O’Sullivan’s argument, a shrill cry of pain from Looney emanated from the closed office door. The pale young cop swallowed; the older one swung that nightstick into his palm again, harder now.

“You could always go get reinforcements,” the smug older cop said, thump, thump, thump . “We only have thirty-five, forty fellas on hand, downstairs.”

O’Sullivan stepped forward, holding an arm out to keep Davis back. “I know you’re just doin’ your job, gents.”

With a curt nod, O’Sullivan took Davis by the arm, and on the first-floor landing Davis glared at his companion. The dark blue derby was at a jaunty angle, and the effect, with the intense clenched anger, was almost comic.

Almost.

Whispering, Davis said, “You and me can take those two lads out, easy. Schriver’s probably got his bully boys, Randell and Simmons, in there, working John over, tenderizin’ him like a bad cut of beef. We can take them out, one two, and His Honor’ll be shakin’ in the corner.”

“Can we do that without firing a shot?” O’Sullivan asked. “Without attracting the boys in blue down below?”

Davis’s eyes tightened in doubt. “Well... I say we take the risk.”

“I say we take Mr. Billy Club’s advice.”

“What advice?”

“Seek reinforcements.”

O’Sullivan took Davis by the arm again, and they went quickly down the stairs and out into the night. At the top of the steps, city hall at their back, the two men could hear the cheers, the applause, the shouts, the intensity of which had grown considerably since they’d gone inside.

“If our triggermen rush the police station,” O’Sullivan said, “then every Looney enemy on both sides of the river’ll have all they need to end our endeavor, forever.”

Davis frowned, his breath steaming through flared nostrils like an angry bull. “Goddamnit. You’re right, Mike. Schriver’d be the kingpin of the Tri-Cities. But he’s killin’ John in there!” O’Sullivan walked down to the sidewalk, Davis following. “Emeal, if Harry kills John, it’ll only be ’cause it got out of hand. He means to take our friend to the woodshed. Take him down as many pegs as pegs there are.”

They walked across the street and faced each other.

Davis said, “John may not survive.”

“That’s true. Schriver’s risking that — you know how cozy the Old Man is with Chicago. Torrio and Capone would come down on this town with biblical fire. When the smoke cleared, Schriver would be dead, and some Chicago pawn would have the local throne.”

Davis was shaking his head. “Mike — I never heard you talk like this. You always seem like you’re just... in the background; but you been listenin’, ain’t ya?”

“I haven’t been asleep.”

Providing O’Sullivan with applause, the crowd a block over roared.

O’Sullivan began to walk toward Market Square, and Davis put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Mike, I parked down the other way.”

“Never mind the car. We’re going over to the rally.”

“Why?”

O’Sullivan flashed the derby-sporting gangster a small nasty smile; put a brotherly hand on the man’s shoulder.

“If an angry local populace rushes city hall, Emeal, seeking release of their champion, John Looney... serving that recall on His Honor a bit early... then we’d have our way, wouldn’t we? And take no blame.”

Davis had the expression of a man who’d been slapped; but then he grinned, the gold teeth gleaming. “You ain’t been asleep, Mike. Not in the least bit.”

Connor Looney, on the sidelines, was watching the socialist speaker, Gardner, further inflame the flock. A skinny man with a narrow face and sharp features, Gardner wore a black suit with string tie; with his Lincolnesque features, his itinerant preacher air, the orator played the crowd like a goddamn nickel kazoo.

“It is not enough to remove Harry M. Schriver,” Gardner was saying in a spike-edged baritone, “we must look to the fearless newspaperman who has sought to bring our besmirched city back within the bounds of peace, propriety, and happiness. The next mayor of Rock Island, my friends, must be... John ... P ... Looney! ”

As fists were raised, shaking wildly, and whistles and squeals and yells swam a sea of applause, Connor revised his opinion of throwing in with these socialists. The speaker was at once a rabble-rouser, full of fiery idealism; and yet just the kind of pushover they could control. The previous speaker, McCaskrin, had toed the Looney line, but stopped short of endorsing the Old Man as the replacement candidate.

This skinny clown had gone all the way, however, due to a whisper (and probably a few bucks) from Frank Kelly, who could be glimpsed hovering near one side of the platform.

Then Connor noted a figure moving through the crowd, against the tide: it was that nigger Davis! Seeking out the Looney shills dotted around the square; Davis would pause to speak to each of them, receiving nods in return, and the shills were then moving out through the crowd themselves, animatedly talking to rally attendees as they went.

Connor dropped his cigarette to the pavement, frowning. What was up, anyway?

Then he saw another familiar figure — Michael O’Sullivan — moving through the bobbing heads up near the pump-station platform. Had his father made a last-minute decision to speak to this gathering, himself?

But then he spotted that plump leprechaun Frank Kelly going up the side stairs toward the platform, followed by Mike, who stopped the lawyer, whispered to him, Kelly nodding, only to continue on up. Then Mike slipped back down the stairs and was swallowed up by the throng.

Frowning in thought, Connor was watching the stage when he realized Emeal Davis was again moving through the crowd, coming toward him now; Davis had an intense expression, and Connor immediately knew something big was afoot.

Quickly Davis filled Connor in on the situation at city hall, and told him that even now the Old Man was being beaten to a pulp by Schriver and his bully boys.

“Those pricks!” Connor said, hands tightened into balls, face flushed red. “Let’s storm the fuckin’ place!”

Davis said, patting the air with his hands like a damn minstrel, “Take it easy, boyo — that’s exactly what we plan to do. But Mike’s got a way to do it, a special way...”

“Mike? Who died and put him in charge? With my pop in custody, that makes me the man who makes the decisions! Haul Mike’s ass over here, and I’ll tell him what to do.”

“Connor, it’s a good plan...”

“I’m not ‘Connor’ to you, Sambo. It’s ‘Mr. Looney’ or you can get your black ass out of my family’s business.”

Davis swallowed. “I know you’re upset... but this plan is a good one, and it’s already in motion.”

And it was, too: on the stage, Gardner had interrupted his spiel momentarily while Frank Kelly whispered into his ear. Nodding, the scarecrow-esque Gardner raised his hands as if the victim of a holdup; but the crowd, milling and murmuring during the lull in the speech, hushed.

“I am given to understand,” the sharp voice said, in crisp single words that shot verbal bullets across Market Square, “that the mayor has taken John Looney into custody!”