Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

In his mind his own voice, speaking to Patsy Ann, over the cozy lunch they’d had while Estelle was being tortured to death, said, I’m not going to risk those I care for .

Feeling weak-kneed, he wanted to sit; hot in the trench coat, he wanted to strip it off and fling it somewhere. But he dared do neither — evidence was scattered from one end of the five-room apartment to the other, and he didn’t want to disturb any of it, on the off-chance an honest Chicago cop caught the case.

As if that had been his cue, Lieutenant William Drury — the most famous honest cop in town, despite that camel’s hair topcoat — appeared at the mouth of the kitchen.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Drury asked.

Michael began to scream and rushed the cop, who backed into the room where Estelle lay. Throwing a punch that almost connected, Michael met a punch of Drury’s that did.

Then he was on the scorched carpet, sprawled next to Estelle’s vacant-eyed corpse, her ghastly white/purple/black/red face turned questioningly his way.

Hands jerked him to his feet, but Michael pulled away, shoving past Drury and fleeing to the kitchen where he flung himself over the blood-spattered sink and lost the meal he’d shared, not long ago, with his other best girl.

And when the cuffs were snapped on, he had, mercifully, already passed out.

Michael woke in a small isolation cell. Sun filtered in through a high barred window; he judged it morning — maybe ten. He knew where he was: Town Hall Station, only two blocks from Estelle’s apartment.

He had slept deep and long and dreamed a delirium of faces and events floating but never congealing into even the incoherent, surrealistic narrative of a nightmare — more a review of Michael O’Sullivan, Jr.’s, life as Michael Satariano... faces and places from Bataan, Captain Wermuth, General Wainwright, the clearing full of Japs, the Zero dipping down over that jungle roadway... scraps of memory from DeKalb, Papa and Mama S., school friends, bits and pieces of that last Fourth of July... a drooling Al Capone, bodyguards with guns streaming at Michael, that guy Abatte from Calumet City standing on the sidelines, grinning at him only with a hole in his head, Frank Nitti patting Michael’s shoulder, spouting reassuring gibberish... Estelle whispering words of love in bed on top of him at the Colony, transforming into a terrible scorched and beaten and dead Patsy Ann, grinding on him and murmuring her love through battered, cut lips...

He jerked upright.

Shook his head, dispelling the images; swung his legs around, to sit on the edge of the cot in the small cement chamber, which had an open toilet bowl and nothing else. He was in his T-shirt and pants, his belt gone; he was shoeless, though he’d been left his socks. His wristwatch was missing, but checking the time would be meaningless, as he was unsure what day it was.

He had that same drugged, sluggish feeling as when he’d woken in the cell-like bedroom at the Capone mansion. But he knew where he was and why he felt that way — he had a blurred but undeniable memory of attacking uniformed cops in this cell, when his cuffs were removed. He’d assaulted them for no particular reason, other than his grief-driven rage needed somewhere to go.

And another memory — of a doctor with a gladstone bag entering and sedating him — was not blurred at all, as distinct as the needle that had plunged into his arm. The only surprise was waking up in this isolation cell, and not in an infirmary, though considering he’d attacked both Drury and those other cops, maybe the bars made sense.

Clarity and a peculiar calm came to him quickly. He had been adrift of late, purposeless; but his reason for living had returned, as did the deadly stoic surface he’d inherited from his father. And at the core of his being glowed something red hot.

A guard came checking on him, and Michael convinced the man sufficiently he was no longer a threat. Lunch was brought to Michael, and the information that a day had passed came casually.

Eventually he was ushered to the same windowless, sound proofed interrogation booth as before. Three chairs waited at the small scarred table, and he took one. Before long Lieutenant Drury came in, in shirtsleeves and a vest, tie loosened, his creased pants looking crisp, even if the detective did not.

Drury took one of the remaining chairs. He sat and stared at Michael, who got tired of it quickly and transferred his attention to the wall. For an eternity this went on — a full minute, at least — and then a third party joined them.

Eliot Ness sat across from Michael. The G-man’s suit was rumpled, but not as rumpled as the G-man. Ness looked terrible — older, puffy, eyes circled; the smell of liquor was on him. His physical deterioration reminded Michael of somebody, vaguely... and then it came to him: Frank Nitti.

Drury said, “Are you going to take another swing at me?”

Michael said nothing.

Ness said, “Your fingerprints are all over the Carey woman’s apartment.”

Michael said nothing.

Drury said, “We don’t think you killed her. From what we understand, you two were an item.”

Michael said nothing.

Ness said, “Why do you think she was tortured?”

Michael said nothing.

Drury said, “It’s no surprise the Outfit had her killed. You know what happened yesterday? It was on the radio.”

Michael said nothing.

Ness said, “Grand Jury returned indictments in the Hollywood shakedown. Against Frank ‘the Enforcer’ Nitti, Paul ‘the Waiter’ Ricca, Louis ‘Little New York’ Campagna, Rosselli, Gioe, D’Andrea... all of ’em, short of Accardo.”

Michael said nothing.

Drury said, “Killing Estelle sends a message to Nicky Dean.”

Michael said nothing.

Ness said, “Maybe putting Estelle through hell was part of the message.”

Michael said nothing.

Drury said, “Or maybe they were after something — money, maybe?”

Michael said nothing.

Ness said, “There’s over a million missing from the stage hand union retirement fund.”

Michael said nothing.

Drury said, “But that might be bullshit. Was there ever really any money? Could the killers have found it in that apartment?”

Michael said nothing.

Ness said, “We say killers, Michael, because it seems to be a man and a woman. Lipstick on a cigarette. People she trusted. ‘Friends.’ She was fixing ’em cocoa when they started in on her.”

Michael said nothing.

Drury said, “Anybody could have sent them. Nitti or Ricca or any one of the other seven indicted. Or the whole damn bunch. You’re the little mouse in the corner, Michael. What did you hear?”

Michael said nothing.

Ness leaned forward, desperation in his eyes. “Help us. Tell us what you know. That’s why we did this in the first place, Michael — remember? That’s why you did this. To help me get these bastards.”

Michael said nothing.

Drury said, “If we can add murder to extortion, the Outfit is finished; this whole hierarchy will go away for a long, long time, and all the bribe money in the world won’t spring ’em loose.”

Michael said nothing.

Ness said, “It’s not too late for you, Michael. With that medal of yours, I can get you a job with my department. Or with Treasury; Christ, even Hoover wouldn’t turn you away. Michael, the Mafia doesn’t kill FBI agents!”

Michael said nothing.

Drury slammed a hand on the table. “What is this, that fucking omertà ? You’re a made man, now — on their side? The side of those who tortured and killed that poor girl?”

Michael said nothing.

Ness said, “You have to choose, Mike. Are you part of the problem, or part of the solution? You become one of us, openly, and you’ll be protected.”