Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

Nitti meant the continuing federal investigation into the Hollywood extortion matter. Any day now, the indictments would fall, hence the anxiety in the air.

Campagna’s voice trembled; his hands were balled. “Frank, you know that ain’t what I mean. You have to strike back.”

“Not the way I do things.”

“In the old days it was. Cermak hit you, you hit him. Mayor of the fuck Chicago tries to have you killed, and you have him killed!”

“Discreetly, Louie,” Nitti said, his free hand raised in benediction, although still his eyes did not meet his advisor’s. “Discreetly.”

Now Campagna was gesturing animatedly — this was the most worked up Michael had ever seen the low-key hoodlum. “Sure, the papers wrote it off as a botched hit on Roosevelt! But the people who counted, they knew — our people, they found out what happened when you try to take out Frank fucking Nitti!”

Finally Nitti looked at his old friend. “Louie, those days are over. Got to be over. Have to be over. We’re businessmen. We came up out of the streets, but now we’re in skyscrapers. They call us gangsters, but we’re really just capitalists, good American capitalists. Unions, restaurants, laundries, nice and legit — plus, yeah, gambling and such — slice it how you want, it’s goods and services for the public. Look at how the Colony Club backfired on those fuckin’ do-gooders. Drury and Ness made themselves the villains! Not us. We’re just businessmen, givin’ the public what they want.”

This was an extraordinary speech, coming from Nitti, who chose his words so sparingly. Michael, pretending to read Film Fun , peered over the edges of a picture of Toby Wing.

Campagna was sitting down next to this man for whom he obviously had so much affection. “I agree with all of what you say, Frank. You know that. Your vision of the future is my vision of the future.”

Nitti patted Campagna’s knee. “Good to hear, Louie. Always good to hear.”

An edge spiked Campagna’s reply. “Well, what I got to say now won’t be. Frank, what happened down in Florida was too big to contain. People know .”

“Know what?”

“Well, for one thing, that Al’s slipped the trolley. The new boys we sent down there, to replace all them casualties, some of ’em are in Ricca’s pocket and they spilled.”

“Nobody’s said a word to me about it.”

Campagna raised his hands as if in surrender, though he was still fighting. “Nobody wants to broach the fuckin’ subject, Frank! Nobody wants to accuse you of... of...”

Nitti frowned — more in disappointment than anger. “Lying? Deceiving my brothers?”

“Well.” Campagna swallowed thickly. “It could be viewed like that.”

Nitti took his feet off the coffee table; set down the glass of vino. Swiveled to throw a hard gaze at Campagna, all the harder coming out of the sunken sockets.

“How do they know Al’s crack-up ain’t recent? How do they know that dose of his didn’t push him over the edge, just lately? Them diseases are, what-you-call-it... progressive.”

Campagna gestured with open hands. “That makes sense.”

“Of course it does.”

“So tell the boys. Call a meeting. You tell them how Al’s sick, but not so sick that he ain’t had the good sense to leave you in charge.”

Nitti turned away from Campagna, reached for the wine, and sipped. “I’ll think about it. Think it over. Thanks, Louie. You always been a good advisor.”

Campagna was shaking his head. “Frank, Al havin’ the mind of a three-year-old retard is only part of the problem.”

Nitti said nothing. Had another sip.

“The takeover try in Florida has Ricca’s greasy fingerprints all over it. But what’s Ricca saying? That he had nothin’ to do with it! That he loves Al, that you must have done this thing yourself.”

The ganglord looked sharply at his advisor. “Ricca’s saying I tried to take Al out?”

With a somber, reluctant nod, Campagna confirmed this.

“Then why don’t the prick say so to me? To my damn face ? We sat at the table at the Lex how many times since Miami?”

A small shrug from Campagna. “Ricca talks to people one, two at a time. He’s like a goddamn missionary, makin’ converts.”

Nitti mulled this for a few moments, then again turned pointedly to his consigliere. “Has he talked to you , Louie?”

Campagna looked hurt. “I don’t deserve that, Frank.”

Nitti put a hand on Campagna’s sleeve. “Forgive me, then. But you seem to know what the Waiter has on his mind.”

Campagna clutched the hand on his arm. “Frank, hit the bastard! I’ll help you. Michael over there, you don’t think he’ll help? With a man like Mike, we can take anything they throw at us.”

Slowly Nitti shook his head. “We don’t do things like that no more.”

“Fucking Ricca does!”

“ I don’t do things like that no more.”

Shaking his head despairingly, Campagna kept trying. “Frank! Don’t you understand? You look weak in this thing! If you don’t hit Ricca, and good and goddamn soon... you’ll be out and he’ll be in.”

Eyes tight, Nitti asked, “My friends... they would turn on me?”

Campagna tried to make the reply matter of fact, but Michael could hear the sorrow: “You said it yourself, Frank. It’s business. They’ll go with strength.”

Nitti smiled gently at his friend; he touched the man’s face. “And you, Louie? Where do you stand?”

As Nitti withdrew his hand, Campagna raised a fist and shook it. “Strong — right next to you. Goin’ after that prick Ricca... Michael!”

Michael looked up from his magazine, affected an expression as if he hadn’t heard a word of this.

Campagna said, “You’ll stand with us. You’re the ol’ Demonio Angelico , right? Ricca can throw all the soldiers at us he wants, and you’re still with us! Choppin’ up the bastards like firewood! Right?”

“I’m with Mr. Nitti,” Michael said ambiguously.

Campagna got to his feet again; he clasped his hands, pleadingly. “Say the word. Say the word. Please, Frank... say the word.”

Nitti said, “I’ll think on it.”

Campagna looked to be on the verge of tears. “Think soon , Frank.”

And the little hood gathered his coat and hat and was gone.

As usual, Michael drove Nitti — who sat in front, not liking the pretension of a chauffeured ride — home to the Near West Side suburbs, where so many Outfit bigwigs lived. Nitti’s neighborhood was wealthy in an understated way — generous lawns, overgrown bungalows, paved driveways, backyard swing sets. In the Hollywood soundstage of Michael’s life, Riverside was the MGM backlot, but the next shooting here wouldn’t be an Andy Hardy movie.

Nitti’s home was a brown-brick story-and-a-half on the corner, plenty of well-manicured yard separating it from the street — new-looking with crisp white woodwork, shrubs hugging the house, patio out back. Mrs. Nitti’s black ’42 Ford sedan sat in the driveway. A vice president at a bank might live here; or the sales manager of Carson Pirie Scott.

Michael’s duties rarely extended to the house; usually he hung around only for the rare evening board meeting in the living room (Michael relegated to the kitchen). Nitti did not have live-in bodyguards, but a pair of men sat in a car all night outside the house; they hadn’t arrived yet.

Michael pulled up at the edge of the drive, and Nitti said, “Shut the car off. Don’t waste gas. There’s a war on.”

Michael obeyed. Nitti was making no move to get out. Though they’d exchanged not a word on the ride over, the boss now apparently wanted to talk.