Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

“Yes, Mr. Nitti.”

Nitti’s hands returned to his pockets. They walked on.

Michael said, “No way you can beat this rap?”

“No. And though I can’t take the fall, I must bear some responsibility. Trusting Bioff and Browne, that was stupid. But the nature of what we do is risk. Decisions can come back to haunt you.”

“Bad decisions?”

“Even good ones. We make hard choices for the greater good.”

“Like that guy, what did they call him? The Angel of Death?”

They were at the end of the block. The residential area gave way to undeveloped lots; across the street a row of skeletal trees mingled with shrubbery, behind which a wire fence defended a patch of prairie, high dead grass and brush cut by intersecting tracks of the Illinois Central. In the distance, beyond the dead brush, and the tracks, was a complex of brick buildings, a tuberculosis sanitarium.

Michael knew as much because Campagna had mentioned the fence, which had a gaping hole in it, as a security issue in guarding Nitti. In these days of gas rationing, neighborhood employees of the sanitarium had clipped a hole in the wire barrier, to be able to walk to work.

Having stopped again, Nitti frowned in thoughtful surprise. “Angel of Death... haven’t heard that phrase in ages. O’Sullivan. Looney’s man.”

“Right.”

Nitti grunted a laugh. “Haven’t thought of him in ages, either.”

“Looney or O’Sullivan?”

“Take your pick.” Hands still in pockets, Nitti rocked on his heels. “Old Man Looney’s still in stir, I hear. But O’Sullivan — he was something. Best soldier I ever knew.” Nitti’s eyes narrowed. “How the hell d’you ever hear of him, son?”

“It was written up in the true detective magazines.”

Another grunted laugh. “Buncha bullshit, most likely. Although, with that O’Sullivan — you wouldn’t have to exaggerate what he did, make a good yarn.”

“I thought he was your enemy.”

Nitti shook his head. “No. Looking back, I wonder if I shouldn’t’ve taken him up on his offer — he came to me, wanted me to step aside and let him take his revenge on Looney. But we had a business relationship with Rock Island, and... well.”

“What had Looney done to him?”

Nitti shivered, possibly not from the cold. “It wasn’t what Looney did — the Old Man’s kid, a lunatic like Mooney and Mad Sam — killed O’Sullivan’s wife and son.”

“I thought our families were off limits.”

“They are. They are. But these weren’t our people, Michael — these were a bunch of crazy micks, killing each other.”

“Ah. Why did Looney’s kid kill the mother and son?”

Nitti shrugged, still rocking. “Oh, the reason isn’t important. But he did it, and when I wouldn’t back O’Sullivan’s play, he hit us hard, in the pocketbook. Kinda like Ness! What a man that mick was.”

“But you had him killed.”

Again Nitti shrugged. “I had to. To allow one man to inflict such damage to our business, and get away with it? Some things you just can’t abide.”

“I can grasp that.”

Nitti cocked his head, giving Michael a curious half-smile. “What makes you so keen on ancient history, son?”

“I have a vested interest.”

Curious, Nitti smiled. “Really? What kind?”

Now Michael shrugged. “Well, you see, my real name isn’t Michael Satariano. I was adopted.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m the kid who helped rob those Outfit banks. The driver?... I’m Michael O’Sullivan, Jr.”

It took a while for Nitti’s smile to fade, as if Michael’s statement were some colossal joke.

“You... you’re O’Sullivan’s kid?”

“Yes, and I got next to you so I could kill Capone. I thought he was the one responsible for my father’s death. But now...” And Michael slipped his right hand under the trenchcoat and withdrew the .45 and, holding it close to his body, pointed it at Nitti. “...now I know different.”

Nitti raised his hands, just to waist level, more a reasoning gesture than one of surrender. “You... you should know, then, that what I did was business. You heard me just now! How much I respected your father.”

“I can understand that, Mr. Nitti. You can respect a man you have to kill.”

Eyes narrow, Nitti was shaking his head as pieces slipped into place. “All of that... in Miami... your doing. Ricca wasn’t behind it.”

“Wasn’t Ricca at all. When I saw Capone, fishing in his pool, I couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Would’ve been like shooting a little kid.”

The smile returned, bitter now. “But you can shoot me, right, Michael?”

“I think so.”

“You aren’t sure?”

Michael let out a tiny humorless laugh. “It surprises me, but... the rage. I can’t summon the rage. All I feel is... disappointment.”

And in a flash he recalled when he’d last felt like this: it was when he witnessed his father shooting those men in that ware house, when he knew his brave war-hero father had not been on missions, but was just a gangster, a thug, a killer ...

Nitti put his hands down. “It would be... foolish to say I’ll try to make it up to you. But Michael, I’ve come to look at you as a son...”

“Don’t say that.”

Nitti’s eyes tightened; he wasn’t exactly pleading. “You could be my successor. You have the guts and the mind and the heart to take this Outfit where it needs to go! And leave all the illegitimate shit in the past where it belongs. Listen to me, son...”

“Don’t call me that!”

Nitti nodded. “I understand... I understand. But I know... no matter what you say , I know there’s a bond between us.”

“Stop it.”

Slowly Nitti shook his head. “You don’t want to do this. You’ve already lost your father, the rest of your family. If you do this thing, you’ll burn in hell, and you won’t even have to die to get there.”

“Satariano!”

Without taking the gun off Nitti, Michael whirled to one side, and he saw the two bodyguards, Rat and Pocky, heading toward them, guns in hand, down the sidewalk.

Michael swung the .45 toward them, when Rat called out: “We know you’re with Ricca, Mike!” Toothpick tumbling from his lips, Rat added, “ Get down, the fuck down!”

Nitti, eyes and nostrils flaring, shoved Michael, knocking him to the cement, and ran pell-mell across the street toward the row of trees and bushes, topcoat flapping. Gunshots rang in the afternoon air, hollow little sounds, like the firing of a starting pistol before a race.

Which was apropos, because the shots had missed Nitti and he was slipping between the trees, stepping over bushes, crawling through the gaping hole in the fence. The ganglord had the revolver in hand now, and paused to turn and throw one sharp shot their way.

The bullet flew well over Michael’s head: he lay on the sidewalk, 45 in hand, and Nitti’s shot seemed intended for the two approaching on-the-run bodyguards-turned-hitmen.

Rat paused to help haul Michael to his feet. “You want in on this, come along!”

And then Michael was standing on the corner, watching Rat and Pocky pick their way between trees and brush and through that hole in the fence.

Things were happening fast, and reflection was not an option; but somehow he knew, no matter what Frank Nitti had done ten years ago, that he could not allow that man to be brought down by these traitors.

As he ran across the street, cutting between the trees, bursting through the fence, 45 in hand, Michael was unsure whether he was acting so that he could kill Nitti himself, or to protect this man, about whom his feelings were decidedly mixed...

...but he fell in behind Rat and Pocky, who were up ahead about fifteen yards, wading through waist-high grass, the way slowed by clumps of shrub brush and wild skinny trees that leaned like modern dancers in the gentle wind.