Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

Chicago, Illinois

through March 1943

Michael Satariano lay on the bed in the darkened room, curled into a fetal position.

He did not know how much time had passed since the carnage at the Capone estate. Although awake, he remained sluggish, and felt certain the hot tea he’d been given, after entering this room, had been laced with a Mickey Finn.

But, whether his captors had doped him or not, he made no effort to emerge from a funk that came largely from within. Something inside him had died, or at least retreated to its own small, private corner, where it, too, rolled itself up, as if the posture of birth somehow welcomed death.

The recent dispatching by Michael of one Capone gunman after another, piling up dead thugs like kindling, filling doorways with bodies, draping stairways with corpses, splashing blood and gore around the grounds like a sloppy child diving into his birthday cake and ice cream, well, it... all seemed strangely dream-like now. He could still see in his mind’s eye combat in the jungle of Bataan, and himself chopping down Japs with the tommy, summoning gritty sounds-sights-smells reality that, however nightmarish, remained vividly tangible.

But his attempt to shoot his way through an army of bodyguards to carry out his vendetta on Alphonse Capone... hours ago, or at most days ( how long had he been held here? )... had already taken on a distinctly surreal cast.

When he woke periodically, in the darkness of the room ( what room? where? ), he would laugh and weep at once, thinking of the terrible irony of it all, Al Capone a gibbering drooling idiot, beyond Michael’s grasp, free from the responsibility of his crimes and his sins, an unfit target for the revenge of Michael O’Sullivan, Jr.

Who would die at the hand of these Sicilians, and justifiably: hadn’t he for no reason ( no good reason, no real reason ) betrayed their trust to enter a household where he rained death down upon... how many men? A dozen? More? Invading the home of their retired, revered leader with the intent to kill...

He had been caught red-handed — literally — surrounded by his pointless homicidal handiwork. And now they would kill him for these transgressions, and his father and his mother and his brother would never be avenged, could never be avenged, because the man responsible was lost in the empty rooms of his mind, waiting unaware for death.

Perhaps in hell Capone would return to cognizance; no doubt Michael would be there, waiting for him...

Mimi Capone, accompanied by two armed men, had walked Michael away from the poolside where Al Capone fished in the deep end while, all around, corpses leeched blood and other fluids into the grass under the moonlight. Michael had a sense of the wide-eyed awe and horror of these tough men who’d rushed onto the scene, shocked speechless by the battlefield they’d stumbled into.

As Mimi ushered him across the backyard, Michael had half-sensed questions, but they’d had a hollow, underwater sound, and though he recognized the words as English, they formed no thoughts or concepts he recognized. Vaguely he remembered being escorted up some steps, and shortly after he entered this small room, this cell-like space with just a single cot-like bed and no table or light or anything else.

Someone had made him sit up and drink the tea — was it Mimi? — and the voice had been soothing, gentle, encouraging Michael to drink.

Which he had. Not that he’d been thirsty, just that he was in no state of mind to refuse. Warmth had saturated his system and, without getting under the covers, he got himself ( or had they put him there? ) onto the bed.

Vaguely he recalled somebody checking on him; had he been walked to a bathroom, once...?

Now, fully awake for the first time, he sensed that his shoes and socks were off; he felt coolness on his legs and arms and realized he was in his underwear, still on top of the bedspread, though the room — which had no windows, at least that he was aware of (he never left the bed to explore his quarters) — was not so cool as to encourage him to crawl under the covers. This would have been far too ambitious an activity for him to attempt, anyway.

Michael’s back was to the door when it opened.

He looked over his shoulder: a silhouette framed in a shaft of light. A man. Anyway, a person wearing a man’s hat.

“I’m gonna hit the switch, kid,” the voice said. “Be ready for it.”

Illumination flooded the room blindingly, and Michael, still on his side curled up and facing the wall, shut his eyes and covered them with his hands, as if the glass one were still flesh and blood, too.

Michael heard footsteps and then felt a hand on his shoulder.

“You been out for two days. Go on and sit up.”

Opening his eyes tentatively, Michael took a few moments to get used to the brightness, then he rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. He touched his face, finding the roughness of stubble there.

Hovering over him was Louie Campagna, wearing a black suit and a black tie and a white shirt and a black fedora. Not very Miami festive — more like Chicago funeral.

“You had yourself quite a party the other night,” Louie said flatly. “Made Calumet City look like a cakewalk.”

Michael, in his underwear, felt like a vulnerable child. He could think of nothing to say and the notion of nodding was beyond him.

Campagna held some clothes in his arms, shoes in one hand. He thrust them forward. “Put these on, kid.”

Then Campagna gave Michael some space, waiting over by the open door. Beyond the door Michael could see a landing looking out over the Capone yard; he was in a room in the gatehouse. It was night out there. Two nights ago, was it, that he’d made his misguided assault?

“They gave you a sedative,” Campagna said. “That’s why you got the feebles. Shake it off.”

Michael got into clothes identical to Campagna’s: black suit and tie, white shirt, black socks, black shoes, only no hat. A funeral’s star performer didn’t need one. Also didn’t need to perform.

Campagna gestured to the open door. “After you, kid.”

“Where...?” was all Michael could manage; his tongue was thick, his mouth, his teeth, filmy with drugged sleep.

“Car’s downstairs. Let’s go. Things to do.”

Michael swallowed, nodded. He went out past Campagna, onto the landing, wondering if he should make a break for it — a thought he was capable of forming, but not executing. His limbs felt rubbery, his head and stomach ached.

The cool evening air, though, did feel good; and it was another beautiful southern Florida night, grass glittering with the rays of a still nearly full moon. No bodies around — the clean-up crew had long since done its work. From here the pool and cabana and the dock could all be viewed, as could the endless shimmer of white-touched blue that was the bay.

Michael clomped down the steps, Campagna just behind him. In the graveled drive waited a hearse-like black Lincoln limousine. Two burly-looking swarthy guys in black stood on either side of the vehicle, one next to a rear open door. Both had bulges under their left arms — not tumors, Michael thought, though surely malignancies.

“Michael,” Campagna said, “you’re gonna have to be blindfolded.”

Michael turned. Campagna was holding up a black length of cloth in both hands, as if preparing to strangle somebody.

“Not necessary,” Michael muttered.

“Sorry. Orders.”

Michael did not resist; and when the blackness settled over his eyes, the knot snugging at the back of his neck, he felt almost relieved to be again shut off from the world. A hand on his arm, probably Louie’s, guided him.