Макс Коллинз - Road to Perdition

“You know, I’m a boxer by trade — nine consecutive wins, held the South Orange record. I got what it takes to make a hell of a bodyguard.”

O’Sullivan remained mute as they moved down another corridor, at the dead end of which was a door labeled OFFICE — PRIVATE.

“What I’m gettin’ at,” the bouncer said, “and I mean Mr. Calvino no disrespect, but... you wouldn’t happen to know if Mr. Looney needs another good man? I’m lookin’ to move up in the world. Any chance you could ask him for me?”

“Sure.”

A big grin broke out on the bouncer’s mug. “Ah, thanks, Mr. O’Sullivan, I really appreciate that. It’s been great talkin’ to you — nice to chew the fat with somebody who really sees eye to eye with ya.”

Aglow, the bouncer knocked on the door, and stepped inside without waiting to be summoned.

O’Sullivan, alone in the hallway, pressed his ear to the door and heard the following exchange:

“Mr. Calvino, sorry to in’erupt, sir... but Mike O’Sullivan’s here.”

Calvino’s husky baritone, slightly slurred, responded: “O’Sullivan... Looney’s enforcer?”

“Yeah, it’s him, sir. Angel of... ”

“I know who he is, I know who he is... aw, shit. What’s he want?”

“To see you, sir.”

“Fuck a duck. Is he packing?”

Pride colored the bodyguard’s voice: “Not anymore.”

O’Sullivan smiled as he listened.

Then Calvino’s voice: “All right — show him in... but you stick around, see? Keep an eye on the mick son of a bitch.”

“Sure, boss.”

“Wait... wait a second... ”

O’Sullivan’s eyes narrowed — a drawer opened; he heard something being put away — dope paraphernalia, maybe? And a faint but unmistakable clunk on wood — a weapon?

Then the bodyguard emerged, smiling, friendly, as he said, “Come on in, Mr. O’Sullivan... Mr. Calvino’s pleased to see you.”

O’Sullivan went in, surprised by how slovenly the office was — buckets caught dripping water from overhead pipes, boxes were stacked precariously against wallpaper-peeling walls, newspapers and ledger books lay piled on top of file cabinets. Framed portraits of Louis Armstrong and other jazz greats who’d played Calvino’s hung on one wall, at varying askew angles.

And behind the big desk was the man who at one time had been John Looney’s only real competition in the Tri-Cities: Anthony Calvino, his dark suit and colorful tie a wrinkled mess, though not as much a mess as he was. Calvino was a big dark man, once a powerful person in every sense; now his rheumy eyes — and the sickeningly sweet smell of opium smoke — told another story.

On the big man’s cluttered desk, in front of him, was a RING magazine, folded open, tented there, as if he’d been interrupted reading. Papers and paperweights alike were jiggling on the desk, and the framed photos on the wall were shimmying. The office shared a wall with the bar, it seemed — the loud jazz music was bleeding through, sending a slight reverberation through the room. Any boss other than the drug-addled Tony Calvino would have minded; Calvino probably hadn’t noticed.

Without rising, the fleshy Calvino held open his hands, and beamed, as if he and O’Sullivan were dear old friends, not adversary acquaintances.

“Mike! Mike O’Sullivan — how the hell are you... and how is the old man? Things good?”

They did not shake hands.

O’Sullivan said, “Some things are good.”

“How come ol’ John never comes ’round to see me? We could talk old times.”

“Mr. Looney doesn’t like Bucktown.”

“Ah, but he likes the money Bucktown puts in his pocket.”

“That’s why I’m here, Calvino. You been light of late.”

“Yeah, yeah, I didn’t figure you came for the quiff... but it’s always there for you, Mike, on the house. Some very pretty ladies. There’s one can pick up a dime off the floor with her—”

“No thanks. I’m not here to collect dimes.”

Calvino raised his palms as if in surrender. “I know, I know... it’s my goddamn overhead, expenses, grease for the cops and politicians... the Iowa side’s no picnic, y’know. But I’m good for it. Don’t I always render under Caesar?”

“Not lately... Mr. Looney sent this personal message for you... It’s in my inside pocket.”

Calvino made a magnanimous gesture with a plump jeweled hand, nodded toward the bouncer behind O’Sullivan. “My boy says you’re clean. Go ahead.”

But both Calvino and the bodyguard watched, tense and intent, as O’Sullivan reached under his topcoat into his suit-jacket pocket. And when he withdrew the sealed letter, the two men visibly sighed in relief... which amused O’Sullivan, some. Reputation did have its benefits.

Calvino took the envelope, saying, “So I’m behind again... the old man didn’t need to... ” As he reached for a letter opener — which jumped with the jazz beat, on his desk top — the king of Bucktown asked, “How much trouble am I in, son?”

“I don’t know what’s in the letter, Calvino. I’m just the messenger tonight.”

O’Sullivan glanced at the tented magazine; was something under there?

Calvino unfolded the letter and read. His face gave away nothing — in fact, his reaction was so blank, it felt wrong to O’Sullivan.

As the walls reverberated with the frantic music next door — “Muskrat Ramble,” at the moment — the objects, the papers on the desk, continued to do a little dance... and from beneath the tented magazine, something black and metallic peeked.

Calvino was holding the letter in his left hand, studying it, thinking, thinking... then he looked up at Looney’s enforcer with a smile, but his eyes flicked toward the bodyguard behind O’Sullivan.

Perhaps if the fleshy Bucktown monarch hadn’t been a hophead, he’d have moved fast enough; probably not — the man merely shifted in his chair, his hand moving only a fraction when O’Sullivan reached under that magazine and grabbed the cold metal of the revolver there, hand finding the grip, finger finding the trigger, and as the open-mouthed Calvino stared at him, the whites of his eyes as big as his pupils were small, O’Sullivan squeezed off one round — on the downbeat of the music, right into the gangster’s heart.

Calvino flopped onto the desk, his head hitting first, scattering everything, everywhere.

O’Sullivan had already turned to face the friendly bodyguard, who was fumbling for the gun in his waistband, O’Sullivan’s own .45; but the man knew it was useless, and even as he went for the weapon, he was moaning, “Jesus, no... no... ”

One bullet was all the job reference Mike O’Sullivan would ever give Calvino’s ex-employee — the burly bouncer bounced against the wall, almost in time to the music, sliding down just as “Muskrat Ramble” came to a big finish.

O’Sullivan paused, waiting to see if anyone came charging into the room — but the raucous music had apparently covered the gunshots. He collected his .45 from the dead bouncer. The brothel was close by, and other than a few bouncers of their own — most likely unarmed — no threat should come from that direction.

Alive but confused, wondering what had prompted Calvino turning on him, O’Sullivan looked at the desk, where the letter lay discarded by its dead recipient.

O’Sullivan snatched up the missive he’d delivered, which consisted of one simple, boldly scrawled sentence...

KILL O’SULLIVAN AND ALL SINS ARE FORGIVEN.

A sudden realization gripped him — he knew he’d been sent on this mission for two reasons: to meet his death; and to draw him away from his family.

O’Sullivan had been one target.

But Connor Looney would have another target.