Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

The man behind the wheel, dark, small, was named Jimmy the Rat Rossi, his name reflecting rodent-like features that his toothpick sucking somehow accentuated. He wore a dark suit and tie, his hat off to reveal dark hair given way to a monk’s bald spot.

In the rider’s seat, also in dark suit and tie, reading The Racing News , was stocky, bucket-headed Tony “Pocky” Licata, whose claim to fame was a single pockmarked cheek; his hat was off, too, his prematurely gray hair cut close to the scalp. Both men were in their thirties and neither were live wires — just your standard-issue Outfit muscle.

In his military-style trenchcoat, Michael stopped alongside the Chevy, tapped on the window — the car wasn’t running, but it was cold enough to keep the windows up — and leaned in as the Rat rolled it down.

“Anything unusual?” Michael asked.

“No, Mr. Satariano,” the Rat said. “Quiet as a mouse.”

The minor irony of the statement seemed to escape the man who dispensed it.

Pocky looked up from the racing rag to say, “Mrs. Nitti left about fifteen minutes ago.”

Michael glanced over at the empty driveway.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going up to the house. I have a little business with Mr. Nitti.”

The Rat nodded, not giving a shit, rolling the window up. But unlike his partner, the Rat wasn’t reading on the job; he seemed to be attentive to the effort, almost as much as to shifting that toothpick around.

Michael crossed the street to the unpretentious brown-brick home. It had snowed yesterday afternoon, lightly, and while the city showed few signs, out here in the suburbs, the brown of the short-trimmed yards had a dusting of white that somehow took the edge off the dreary, chilly weather.

On the stoop, Michael paused to collect himself. He felt calm; in fact, he felt as if he were sleepwalking.

He was about to ring the bell when the door opened and there was Nitti, poised in the doorway in a brown fedora and brown plaid overcoat, blue-and-maroon silk scarf loose around his neck, coat open to reveal a snappy gray checked suit.

Startled, Nitti — his face going in an instant from bland to savage — yanked a .32 revolver from his pocket and thrust it toward Michael.

But before Michael could react — had time to react — Nitti’s expression just as quickly changed to relief, and he slipped the little black revolver back in his topcoat pocket.

“Jesus, kid,” Nitti said, and chuckled, an ungloved hand on his chest. “Give me the scare of my life, there.”

“Sorry, Mr. Nitti. I was about to ring the bell.”

“I was just going out for a stroll. Toni went to church to light a candle or two, all this shit goin’ on. Frankly, I, uh...” He stepped out onto the little porch with Michael. “...drank a little too much vino, this afternoon. Thought I’d walk it off.”

The smell of wine was on him, all right. Like the smell of booze had been on Eliot Ness.

“That’s not like you, Mr. Nitti.”

Nitti put his hand on Michael’s shoulder and smiled. “I’m not proud of it... Do I seem drunk to you?”

“No.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“Walk with me?”

“Sure.”

From the sidewalk, Nitti made a “no” motion to the bodyguards in the car, not to follow along. In the rider’s window, the Rat nodded, rolling his toothpick.

They turned right, Nitti saying, “We’ll just walk around the block. Get a little of this nice fresh air.”

While the weather wasn’t chilly exactly, a brittle edge made it just cold enough for their breath to smoke; neither man wore gloves and kept hands in pockets. Of course, Michael was aware that Nitti had that .32 in his right-hand one.

The shrunken-looking Nitti had been fairly diminutive to start with, and seemed much smaller than Frank Nitti had any right to be. But the ex-barber’s hair was freshly cut and, vino or no, he seemed alert. He was lifting his face into a crisp breeze and relishing it.

“Spoke to Louie,” Nitti said, as they turned the corner. He flashed a sideways, chagrined grin. “Sorry about letting you sit overnight in the jug. I honestly didn’t know you was in there.”

“You had a right to be distracted.”

Nitti shot him a sharper look. “So, Louie’s filled you in on the situation?”

“Kinda sounds like you threw the gauntlet down to Ricca, Mr. Nitti. That surprised me.”

“Did it? Why?”

Michael, hands still in his pockets, shrugged, walking. “You’re usually more careful than that. Why stir up enmity with Ricca, right now?”

Nitti shook his head, his mouth tight. “I didn’t stir it — he did. He’s taking advantage of this moment to try to bring me down... A kid who uses a term like ‘enmity’ probably knows what a coup is, right?”

“Sure.”

“Well, this is what the politicians call a bloodless coup. If Ricca can convince the rest of the counsel I’m a selfish fuck-up, unwilling to fall on my sword for ’em... then he slides into my chair.”

“And he figures you won’t move against him.”

Nitti nodded. “And I won’t. We’re facing a trial that’s gonna get big play in the press. But what’s it over? Buncha Hollywood nonsense. Union stuff. Compared to war news, it ain’t nothing. Public yawns and flips to the funnies.” The little ganglord stopped cold. “But we start shooting at each other, acting like gangsters? Then we get way too much attention from John Q. Public.”

Nitti calmly walked on. They turned the corner, to the right. They had the sidewalks to themselves; it was a school day, Friday, and cold enough to keep housewives inside. The tree-lined streets twisted through an idyllic world where the dwellings, if less than mansions, were nonetheless spacious and distinctive; nothing cookie-cutter about the homes of Riverside. Despite the white-brushed lawns, a consistent peppering of evergreens threw a little color into the landscape.

“Kid,” Nitti said, and his expression was grave, “I’m sorry about that girl of yours.”

“Thanks, Mr. Nitti.”

“I liked Estelle. She was as smart as she was pretty. Good earner for us, too.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“I know who did it, and a guy who does work for me, time to time, took care of it.” Nitti stopped again and so did Michael; the older man put his hand on the younger one’s shoulder. “I know you’d like to’ve been the one who took ’em out, but it’s better this way.”

Michael nodded.

They walked along.

“Their name was Borgia,” he said. “If you know your history, you see how fitting that is. They probably were sent by Ricca either to throw a scare in her — afraid she’d talk, in the trial, y’know — or maybe to kill her, and send Nicky Dean a wake-up call.”

“Would Ricca do that?”

“Sure. But I doubt even the Waiter’s reckless enough to attract the press that torture killing got. Stupid. Now, that’s just what I’m talkin’ about — look at the fuck -ing field day the papers are having over Estelle Carey! It puts the goddamn spotlight right on us. All of sudden, we’re mobsters again, not businessmen.”

“I don’t think Ricca thinks of himself as a businessman — at least not the way you do, Mr. Nitti.”

“Probably true. Probably true. Or else he wouldn’t surround himself with sick-in-the-head killers like Mad Sam and Mooney.” Nitti sighed. “Only good thing could come from this is Ricca going away. I have confidence in Accardo.”

Once again Nitti stopped. This time, he put both hands on Michael’s shoulders. Speaking with great emphasis, he said, “While we’re away, Joe Batters will be capo.”

That was another name for Tony Accardo.

“He’s a good man. You can trust him. Stand by him, Michael. Serve him.”