Макс Коллинз - Road to Perdition

“Sure.”

McGovern raised a lecturing finger. “You tell Father Looney that my brother never stole from him — I’ve gone over the books with a fine-tooth comb, and Danny never sold no booze to no one. Every single barrel — accounted for.”

“On paper, maybe.”

“Danny was not that clever — not with numbers, not with nothing. And besides, where’s the money, if he was selling your father’s booze?”

Suddenly defensiveness colored Connor’s voice. “How the hell should I know? Check his fucking mattress, why don’t you?”

“Perhaps,” McGovern said, with a nasty smile, “you should check yours.”

Hands stuffed in his topcoat pockets, Connor began to pace again; his voice took on an edge that reminded O’Sullivan why the man had been nicked named “Crazy Connor” since his childhood.

“You know, this is downright immoral,” he was saying, and he turned toward O’Sullivan, saying, “Don’t you think so, Mike?” Then to McGovern he ranted: “My old man, foolish, sentimental soul that he is, throws your little brother the wake of a lifetime — even if the undeserving little son of a bitch had been robbing us blind — and this is your goddamn thank you? What a terrible world this is.”

O’Sullivan’s spirits had fallen, even as his hackles rose: had he been in charge of this “talk,” both sides would have shaken hands and gone about their business. Now violence was in the air...

McGovern stepped forward, shaking his finger like a scolding parent. “You think you’re so damn clever, but don’t mistake me for my brother — I know what’s going on! You’ve been spending so much time in Chicago, it’s—”

Connor’s hand flew from his pocket and the pistol in his fist bucked twice, putting two bullets into McGovern, one in the chest, another the head — stunned, surprised at his own death but without time to come to terms with it, the big man, a red kiss on his forehead and another blossom of red on his chest, flopped face-first on the cement floor.

That was still happening when the two men behind McGovern raised their rifles and Michael O’Sullivan opened fire with the Thompson, round after round chewing the men up and spitting them out, shaking them like naughty children, dropping them to the floor like the meat they’d become, unfired rifles clanking impotently on the cement, streaming blood seeking drains.

It happened so fast Michael wasn’t sure what he was seeing, such a blur of activity the boy didn’t even rear away, such a thunder of gunfire his ears seemed to explode, as he froze in wide-eyed horror and fascination, viewing the scene of carnage between his father’s feet, shell casings falling like brittle rain.

Where one of the men had fallen was directly in Michael’s view, a bloodied face with unseeing eyes, and the boy tried to move, tried to run, but he couldn’t. His body seemed stalled, as if its engine wouldn’t start.

And then he began to cry. He had seen death, and it hadn’t been like Tom Mix at all, and his father was no Lone Ranger; the Lone Ranger shot guns out of bad men’s hands — his father had gone another way. He lay in a fetal ball and wept and the sky joined in, crying down on him.

Within the warehouse, Mike O’Sullivan was furious. “What the hell was that about?”

Connor, as exhilarated as he was frightened, was breathing hard. “Let’s take our leave, shall we?”

“That’s your idea of talk? You jackass.”

Connor glared at him. “Watch what you say to me.”

“Jesus, Connor!”

But John Looney’s son was moving quickly toward the door, leaving the scattered trio of bleeding corpses behind like so much refuse.

“Hey!” O’Sullivan said. “Don’t walk away from me... ”

Connor stopped, but not at O’Sullivan’s bidding; the man held up a hand, cocked his head. “Quiet — don’t you hear that?”

The sound of weeping issued from the doorway, barely audible under the rain.

Connor looked sharply at O’Sullivan. “We got a witness!” He pointed — a small hand was visible just under the ragged, rotted-away lower edge of the door.

Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., knew. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew: that small white hand, that snuffling sob... both belonged to his son, Michael, Jr.

And he ran to the doorway. “Michael!”

The hand disappeared, and O’Sullivan pushed open the door, barging into the alleyway, where — in the darkness and the rain — Michael stood, sobbing, slump-shouldered. Seeing his father, with the tommy gun at his side, its snout still curling smoke, the boy recoiled, but he did not run.

Once his father had seen him, that was that, and he just stood there, letting the rain and his father have him. Stern as he could be, Papa was a kind father — he had never hit either of the boys. Though he had just seen his father killing people, Michael felt not afraid, rather ashamed for what he’d done, for the line he’d crossed...

His father approached, slowly, quietly. “Are you hurt, son?”

Michael said nothing at first, then shook his head. Uncle Connor filled the doorway — the man had that same terrible expression as in the moonlight; the door framed him, making an awful portrait.

O’Sullivan turned, called to Connor. “It’s just my boy... Michael, Jr. Must’ve have tagged along.”

Connor said nothing.

Thompson still clutched in one hand, O’Sullivan knelt before his son, rain streaming down the boy’s face like a thousand tears. “You saw everything?”

“... Yes, sir.”

O’Sullivan glanced back at Connor, who was approaching from the doorway, slowly. His mind reeled as he calculated a new host of dangers. Jesus , he thought, then he looked at his boy, shivering in the rain.

“You must never speak of this to anyone but me.”

Michael managed a nod. “Y-yes, sir.”

Connor ambled up beside O’Sullivan, who stood again.

To the boy these were two nightmarish figures before him, not his father and “uncle.” They were both looking at him, strangely, like the boy was a painting in a museum they couldn’t figure out.

Finally, Connor smiled but it was a ghastly thing. “Can you keep a secret, kid?”

O’Sullivan answered for his son: “He’s given me his word he’ll never speak of this.”

Connor touched O’Sullivan’s sleeve. “You’re sayin’ this brat knows enough not to squeal?”

O’Sullivan shook off Connor’s hand. “He’s not a brat, Connor — he’s my son. A man of honor. You do understand the idea?”

The two men looked at each other, rain pummeling them, the brim of Connor’s hat collecting the water, his father’s fedora funneling the moisture. Even the boy, shaken as he was, could sense the tension.

Then Connor lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Good enough for you, Mike me boy, good enough for me.” He nodded toward the Ford, blocking one end of the alley. “Why don’t you take your kid home. I know a speak, couple blocks from here — I’ll find somethin’ to do.” He turned his collars up. “Nice night for a stroll, anyway.”

And Connor Looney walked the other way, footsteps splashing, as he headed out into the pouring rain and a dark night, leaving behind three corpses, one father, and one son.

Before that dreadful night, I hadn’t known who or what my father was. All I’d had to guide me were my childish enthusiasm, an imagination fueled by radio, comics, and the movies, and the natural hero worship my brother and I shared for Papa .

In the intervening years, I learned more. Numerous books about Michael O’Sullivan have been written, some well researched, others far more speculative; and, as I write this, a movie is being made. This narrative, however, is the first time an insider’s view of these events and people has been presented; but my very participation in these events, and my closeness to some of the people, limits my perspective .