Макс Коллинз - Road to Perdition

Blurry as his view was, Michael could tell he was in an alley, a wall of brick on his either side. But where was his father, and Uncle Connor?

There they were! Down standing under a yellowish lamp over a back entrance to the building. Was it a warehouse? Uncle Connor was knocking on the door; Papa was standing just behind him, with something at his side — the tommy gun? To get a better look, Michael crawled carefully up and over into the front seat, trying not to make noise, though the pounding rain would have covered most anything. He got too close to the windshield, though, his breath fogging it, and when he wiped his own haze away with a jacket cuff, Papa and Uncle Connor were gone, the yellow lamp glowing alone in the night, like a drenched firefly.

As would most any kid, even in a situation like this one, Michael got quickly bored. First he got into the driver’s seat, and pretended to steer the car, making his feet reach down for the pedals, fooling with the gear shift stick. When he tired of that, he was back to being just another kid stuck in a car waiting for a parent.

He had come to watch his father “work” — to observe the dangerous, unfathomable things Papa, the war hero, did for Mr. Looney. And inside the brick building, Papa was on one of those missions Michael and Peter had speculated about, deep into so many nights, sometimes till after ten.

So, decision made, jaw firmly set — he was his father’s son, after all — the boy stepped out into the pelting rain and sought to do what he’d done so often: spy on his mysterious old man.

He tiptoed through the puddles, making little splashes, hugging the nearer brick wall, staying in the shadows, in case Papa and Uncle Connor came back out, unexpectedly. He wasn’t afraid of being left behind — the boy knew Rock Island well, from his paper route, and he could find his way home, though in this rain he might catch his death. But a cold was a risk worth taking...

At the door, he could hear voices within, muffled, faint. No good. He needed to see inside, and looked around for a window to peek in, or... ah! Just down the alley a ways, was another door, a smaller one, the bottom of it not snug, the wood rotted away, allowing light to spill out into the wet alley like glowing, glistening liquid.

He knelt there, as if at an altar, and peered under the generous gap, which gave him a view inside a huge, gloomy warehouse, a mostly empty expanse but for stacked crates and boxes and two men, out in the middle of the big room with its brick walls and concrete floor.

One of the men was sitting in a chair, arms in his lap, in a brown topcoat and no hat; the other was Uncle Connor, in his drenched raincoat, standing in front of the seated fellow, walking back and forth a little, getting water on the floor, talking while the man in the chair — was that Mr. McGovern from the wake? Fin McGovern, the dead man’s brother? — just listened, though he was looking at the floor, not at Connor.

Michael could not see his father, unaware that O’Sullivan was standing to one side of the door under which the boy peeked. And of course O’Sullivan — cradling his Thompson submachine gun in his arms like a baby — knew nothing of the boy’s presence, though he had noted the two figures in the darkness of the warehouse, undoubtedly two of McGovern’s cronies, who would be well armed, themselves.

Both father and son, from their similar vantage points, listened and watched while Connor Looney talked to Fin McGovern, voice loud and hollow and ringing in the big room.

“Don’t think I don’t feel for you,” Connor was saying. “We’ve all suffered losses in our lives — it’s been over a year since Ma died, and yet, still I hurt. We’re more than flesh and blood, us people — we’re feelings, we’re family... So don’t get me wrong, Fin — I know what you’re goin’ through.”

McGovern said nothing, just sat in his chair and stared at the floor.

Connor was pacing. “But a little sorrow, and too much booze, can cause misjudgment. What you’re suffering don’t give you the right to shoot your mouth off like that — embarrassing, disrespecting the man who makes everything in your life, in this town, possible.”

McGovern remained silent.

“My Pa is willing to let that pass, however — you and he go back many a year, after all... your father and his father, back in the old country, they shared their share of pints. John Looney is, if nothing else, a fair man... a just man. He asks no apology. All he seeks is an end to this foolish talk.”

McGovern shifted in his chair.

“A few ill-chosen words at your brother’s wake, we can forgive. But no more mouthing off, Fin — it must end now.” Connor wasn’t pacing, now — he planted himself before the seated man. “What do you say?”

And now the man in the chair seemed to be looking right at Michael! The boy backed up, an inch, but didn’t go scurrying — he was frozen with fear — and interest.

Of course McGovern had not been looking at the boy, whose presence remained unknown; rather he was seeking a more sympathetic court from O’Sullivan.

“Be reasonable, Fin,” O’Sullivan said, stepping in front of the door. “Come on, now.”

The boy — hearing his father’s voice just beyond that door, his view now partially obscured by Papa’s feet — knew he should flee. But he couldn’t help himself; he was fascinated by the tense tableau before him...

“Fin?” Connor said.

McGovern spoke, but the boy couldn’t hear him; the rain drowned out what was clearly a whisper.

Apparently Connor couldn’t hear the man, either, because he said, “Speak up, Fin!”

“All right,” McGovern said tightly.

Connor sighed and smiled. “Good. Thank you, Fin — thank you for a civil meeting, thank so much for being a reasonable fella. And I am sorry for your loss, and for this misunderstanding... but mostly I’m sorry your brother was a goddamn liar and a thief.”

And with a self-satisfied smile, Connor headed away from the seated man, moving toward the door, where O’Sullivan waited.

O’Sullivan — appalled by that last unnecessary twist of the knife — knew trouble could well follow, and his hands tightened around the machine gun.

And indeed — though the spying boy couldn’t see them, from his gap-at-the-bottom-of-the-door vantage point — those two men of McGovern’s — looking like the workers they were in caps and woolen jackets — stepped from the shadows with their rifles in their hands.

McGovern stood, holding up a hand, cautioning his men. O’Sullivan could tell that the man had been wrestling with himself, going along with these indignities for the good of the cause; but Connor had gone too far.

“My brother was not a thief,” McGovern said, loud and unafraid. “My brother was not a liar.”

Connor stopped, glanced at O’Sullivan with a slight smile. The man was enjoying himself, O’Sullivan knew, and it sickened him.

Turning to McGovern, apparently unimpressed by the two armed men (who the spying boy could not yet see), Connor said coolly, “Excuse me?”

McGovern stepped forward, chin high. “To protect my family, and for the sake of my livelihood, I’ll look the other way... I’ll say nothing... for the present. But don’t think I don’t know something shady’s going on, something I can’t believe John Looney knows about.”

Connor seemed tense now, his voice threatening. “Careful what you say, Fin.”

“Something’s going on, boyo, and don’t think I won’t find out.”

The men behind McGovern hoisted their rifles.

And McGovern raised a hand, first to O’Sullivan, then to his own men, saying, “Easy, buckos. We’re just talking. Friendly conversation... right, Connor?”