Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

Bella Napoli was a corner building, a one-story brown-brick structure with a row of narrow, shuttered windows extending around its sides; during Prohibition, these windows had been blackened, no doubt, whereas these days (in summer and spring, anyway) window boxes of colorful flowers offered a friendly, family feel. In the gravel parking lot in the back, Michael left the Ford among a few other vehicles, one a 1942 black Pontiac sedan he recognized as Ricca’s.

Michael had been to the Bella Napoli restaurant once before, with Nitti and Campagna, for a tense meeting with Ricca, whose favorite hangout this was. The Waiter made a point of lunching at this old-fashioned Italian joint, rather than in the Loop with politicians and reporters.

The only entrance was around front, double doors beneath an unlit horizontal neon. Stepping inside, Michael was pleasantly assaulted by the rich aroma of spicy tomato sauce, taking him immediately to Papa S.’s spaghetti house in DeKalb, although the resemblance ended there.

This was a neat, open dining room punctuated by dark woodwork but with an overwhelmingly bright ambience: tables wore white cloths, walls bore murals of ancient Rome under blue skies, and decorative wine bottles were everywhere, shelved above doors, lining the red button-tufted booths. The lunch crowd was thinning — it was after one thirty — but perhaps half the tables were inhabited.

Michael raised a hand to forestall the hostess and walked toward the rear, where at a table with his back to the wall sat Paul Ricca. On his either side were Sam “Mad Dog” DeStefano and Sam “Mooney” Giancana, the most notorious of the Young Turks aligned with this Outfit elder statesman.

Knife-blade thin, his short hair as white as the tablecloth, Ricca — in a beautifully tailored charcoal suit with a lighter gray tie and lighter-yet gray shirt — had pushed away a small plate with half a cannoli on it; he was sipping espresso and had a cigarette going. With his high cheekbones, narrow nose, and mouth like a cut in his face that refused to heal, Ricca had a visage oddly reminiscent of an American Indian’s. Obviously he saw Michael approaching, but he reacted not at all, his dark brown eyes unblinking.

At right, Giancana — in a well-cut chocolate suit with orange tie — sat back in his chair, arm slung over it, smoking a cigar. His dark eyes hooded, small, nondescript-looking, with severely thinning black hair, Giancana had a bland oval face that took on a vaguely sinister aura when a sneer formed, as it did upon his seeing Michael.

At left, DeStefano — bigger than the other two, by far — sat wolfing down a dish of spumoni with a spoon. If he’d noticed Michael walking toward them, he was hiding it well. Fleshy but not fat in a black slept-in-looking suit, a red-and-blue food-stained tie loose at his collar, DeStefano had a cantaloupe-shaped noggin with a full head of hair thick with Brillcream yet still as unruly as a bucket of worms. The tiny close-set eyes, nose like a wad of clay a sculptor stuck there (and hadn’t got ’round to finishing yet), and thin-lipped permanent scowl all suited him perfectly: he was widely considered to be the biggest lunatic in the Outfit, surviving only at the whim of Ricca.

Both of these Young Turks were graduates of the street gang, the 42s — vicious punks who stripped cars, held up stores, and raped high school girls. Giancana was currently Ricca’s bodyguard and chauffeur. DeStefano was a loan shark, but was also Ricca’s personal assassin. According to Campagna, Ricca would just turn to DeStefano, point to somebody, and say, “Make him go away.”

And that somebody would go away.

If there hadn’t been so many civilians present, Michael might simply stride up and shoot the two punks right at the table, to make a point with Ricca and to save himself the trouble, later.

Instead, he just walked up to the empty chair opposite Ricca and stood there expectantly. DeStefano, ice cream dribbling down his chin, finally noticed Michael, and his natural scowl exaggerated itself into something that would have been comic, had it not been worn by a psychopath. Giancana leaned back, smiling a little, as if he found Michael mildly amusing.

Both men, Michael noted, wore shoulder holsters: he recognized the cut of their coat (most of the Outfit guys used the same tailor). Ricca appeared unarmed.

“Sit, Michael,” Ricca said genially, gesturing with a cigarette-in-hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Ricca,” he said, and sat.

“You show a good deal of courage, coming in here. Of course, a Medal of Honor winner like you, small potatoes, right?”

DeStefano seemed frozen, his brow grooved deeply, as if a thought trying to form had curdled there; spumoni in its various colors dripped down his chin like a messy flag.

“I take you very seriously, Mr. Ricca,” Michael said, nodding toward both men. “ And your friends.”

Nodding gravely, Ricca said, “Respect is an important thing, Michael... Sam, wipe your face. We have a guest.”

DeStefano hung his head and picked up a napkin.

Michael said, “May I speak frankly?”

Ricca raised a hand in “stop” fashion, like a traffic cop. “I prefer you and I speak in private, Michael.”

“I would like that.”

DeStefano, his face wiped clean of spumoni but not confusion, said in a rough baritone, “Mr. Ricca, you want Mooney and me should move over a table?”

“No, Sam. Mr. Satariano and I are going to speak in the back room. Alone.”

Giancana sat forward so quickly, Michael thought the little man might lose his balance. “Boss — you’re not gonna go off with that... this... Demonio fucker by yourself?” The nasty little hoodlum curled his upper lip as he said to Michael, “Everybody knows you’re Frank Nitti’s lapdog.”

Michael said, “And whose son of a bitch are you?”

Giancana was half out of the chair when Ricca reached out and gripped him by the arm. “He’s my guest, Momo,” Ricca said, using another of Giancana’s nicknames. “He showed us respect, we must do the same.”

“He didn’t fucking show me respect!”

Ricca made a gesture with an open palm. “You insulted him. You were in his place, wouldja’ve ignored such an insult? Of course not. Now, you two boys sit here and behave yourselves. Sam, order some more spumoni if you like.”

DeStefano seemed to like the sound of that; but Giancana was frowning, his eyes locked on Michael like unfriendly magnets.

Ricca got up, and this time Giancana was the one who reached out, gripping his master’s arm. “At least make him leave his biscuit behind.”

By that, Giancana meant Michael’s weapon.

Michael met Ricca’s gaze and shook his head: no way will that happen .

Ricca nodded, then said to Giancana, “I don’t think the management would appreciate it if Mr. Satariano were to display his ‘biscuit’ in public.”

“I think that’s wise, Mr. Ricca,” Michael said. “There’s always a chance it could go off.”

Giancana’s sneer was in full bloom as he said, “War hero. Remind me to piss myself, when you scare me.”

“I won’t have to.”

DeStefano started to giggle, and Giancana glared at him.

“So sue me, Mooney,” DeStefano said, through sniggers. “Funny’s funny!”

Ricca stepped around the table and gestured toward the double doors into the kitchen. Michael, walking sideways to keep an eye on the two young lunatics, followed him through. A number of bustling cooks, under the supervision of a chef, were hard at work, steam rising, pots and pans clanking, and again the restaurant smells triggered memories in Michael, who followed Ricca into an office off the kitchen.

It was just a cubbyhole with a small desk and a file cabinet; the only decoration was a framed photograph of the restaurant on opening day. Despite a chair opposite the desk, and one behind it, neither man sat.