Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

“Thank you, Mr. Nitti.”

Nitti, smiling big, shook his head, gesturing with his wine glass. “How did it happen, Mike? Did you come out to find a war going on, raging between Ricca’s traitors and our own loyal people?”

“...Yes.”

The ganglord shrugged elaborately. “We can’t prove it, of course. But it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“It is?”

“That Ricca wanted to kill Al, and strip me of my power. He figures with Al gone, my support’d crumble.” Though they were out of earshot of the other patrons as well as Campagna and crew, Nitti leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m not sure whether Ricca knows the truth about Al or not.”

Michael sipped the red wine. “How long has Mr. Capone been in this state of mind?”

“Started at the Rock. They let him out early, it was so severe. But for a couple of years, it was more... sporadic, they call it. Sometimes he’d be clear as a bell, other times... you saw him. Vegetable. Which is how he is all the time, now.”

“And who knows?”

“The staff at the estate is kept away from him, except for an inner group of about six... Four of them are dead, now.” He shook his head at this tragedy; then he brightened. “Mae threw in with me — she liked the idea of Al retaining power, and she didn’t want the world to know what this great man of hers had come to.”

“If Ricca does know...”

“The Waiter’ll back off now. He won’t make any more moves, not like this, not for a good long while. He’ll credit me with what you done — with anticipating that he was going to hit Al.”

“But, of course, he denies having anything to do with it.”

Nitti shrugged again, sipped Chianti, then said, “Actually, ain’t spoken to him about it yet. I came down yesterday and met with Mae and Mimi. You know, you left quite a mess there, young man.”

“What... what was done about it?”

“Let’s just say Al’s yacht come in handy. The biggest expense will be all the surviving members of each man’s family. Part of what we do is look after the families of any fallen soldiers. It’s the decent thing. Christian thing. But it’s gonna cost.” He scowled. “Only it burns me there’s no way to know which of ’em were the traitors. You think you could’ve identified which was which?”

“No. It all happened too fast.”

“Figured as much. So the bad get rewarded with the good; such is life... You were in bad shape, Mimi said. Come through unscathed, not a scratch... but a nervous wreck. That’s why Mimi had ’em knock you out. Let you catch your rest.”

“So it didn’t get out? The police, the papers...?”

“Never happened. A dozen immigrants and sons of immigrants fall off the face of the earth, and who the fuck cares but us? We’re the only government for our people, Michael — even now.”

Michael sighed, allowing relief to really take hold. Risked a small smile. “Mr. Nitti, I gotta admit — I didn’t know what was going on tonight. I thought maybe you thought...”

Nitti waved that off. “Don’t be silly.”

“Blindfold, black suits... I was thinking it was a one-way ride.”

With a gruff laugh, Nitti said, “Hey, sorry, kid — didn’t mean to throw a scare in you. But these rituals, some people may say they’re foolish or silly or Old World... but tradition is important. Loyalty. Omertà — that’s the code, Michael. Our secrets are our secrets.”

“I understand.”

Once again he leaned forward; he raised a forefinger — the shadow of smudged blood remained. “And speak to no one about Al’s mental condition. No one.”

“No one.”

Nitti leaned back and gestured with open palms. “Now... as for your duties, you’re officially my number-one bodyguard. My top lieutenant. We’re gonna get you a penthouse suite at the Seneca, and you’re gonna live like a king. Someday you’ll settle down and be a socks-and-slippers man like me, with a wife and kids and house in the suburbs; but for now, enjoy yourself. Be a man about town... just be available when I need ya. How’s a thousand a week sound?”

“Like... a lot of money.”

“Michael, I’ve been looking for a sharp, brave kid like you for a long time. Welcome to the family.”

Nitti extended his hand across the table and they shook.

A platter of spaghetti and meatballs came, proving to be almost as good as Papa’s. They spoke not at all of business after that, and Michael enjoyed Nitti’s good-humored company, as they talked about sports (boxing mostly) and movies (Nitti loved Cagney) and Italian food (his late wife Anna’s veal scallopini alla Marsala had been to die for, and Michael encouraged his boss to travel to DeKalb for Mama Satariano’s version thereof).

Michael felt strangely exhilarated, which was probably mostly his surprise at still being alive. For reasons he could not comprehend, he felt proud that Frank Nitti had thought enough of him to make him a “made” man in the Outfit. What would his father, his real father, have felt for his son, Michael wondered — pride? Shame?

On the way to the limo, Campagna fell in alongside Michael. Man-of-the-people Nitti was walking up ahead, chatting with the other two hoodlums.

“Congratulations, kid,” Campagna said, a grin splitting the lumpy face. “You’re in.”

“Better than being out,” Michael said, grinning, too.

“Kid, the only way you go out of this family,” Campagna said, with a shoulder pat, “is feet first.”

Then they drove back to the Capone mansion, where the first person to approach Michael was a tearfully happy Mae Capone, who embraced him and thanked him again and again for the wonderful thing he had done for her husband.

At the bar in the glitzy Colony Club, Michael sat and sipped his Coca-Cola and enjoyed the music.

Estelle Carey leaned against the piano as she sang — perching on a stool was out of the question, in the formfitting periwinkle gown, with its high neck, mostly bared arms, and bodice with tiny glittering stars. Golden hair piled high, glamour-girl Estelle worked her intimate audience of couples, but Michael knew she was singing straight to him.

Right now, her husky second soprano was wrapping itself around “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.”

Cigarette smoke draped the bar, which was packed; so was the “aristocrat of restaurants,” as the adjacent dining room advertised itself. Michael hadn’t been upstairs to the casino yet, but this was a Saturday night and, judging by the ground floor, the Colony Club was hopping. Frank Nitti’s new number-one lieutenant was wearing a very sharp dark blue white-pinstriped number, a tailored job disguising the .45 in the shoulder sling; but the majority of the Colony Club patrons were in evening dress (and presumably unarmed).

He’d been back from Miami for barely two weeks, but a lot had happened. He’d moved into the promised penthouse at the Seneca; his relationship with Frank Nitti grew ever closer; and every night he’d slept with Estelle, either upstairs or at his Seneca digs — her own apartment was off-limits, as she roomed with a woman who ran a classy dress shop in which Estelle was partnered.

Now that the publicity over his Medal of Honor had receded, so had his celebrity; rarely did anyone recognize Michael, to ask for an autograph or embarrass him with praise, and he relished this new anonymity.

His state of mind was numb, but not unpleasantly so. He was surprised to be alive, and right now did not feel inclined to swim against the tide. If this was limbo, it wasn’t bad — Michael Satariano was, after all, a twenty-two-year-old making a thousand dollars a week, in an easy job, living in a posh penthouse, with a gorgeous nightclub singer for a girlfriend.