Макс Коллинз - Road to Perdition

Everyone was settled in for a wait, and O’Sullivan had left his son with that hour-and-a-half deadline. He gave the receptionist — a pleasant if officious thirtyish woman who sat near the focal-point door marked PRIVATE — his name, acknowledged he had no appointment, but suggested she tell Mr. Nitti that Mr. O’Sullivan was here. Then he took a seat.

After a while, when she had not yet done as he’d asked, he settled his gaze on her and, when her eyes met his, he checked his watch and raised an eyebrow.

The receptionist got the message — though she did not recognize O’Sullivan, she clearly could see that he was not a part of the political/business crowd taking up the other chairs. And, despite the pretense of normal business the Capone organization made, even a receptionist like this knew the score: the deadly-looking unshaven man should not be kept waiting.

She spoke to her boss on the intercom, then looked up at O’Sullivan and nodded.

He thanked her, as she held open the door for him.

The office was spacious, a lavishly appointed executive suite worthy of LaSalle Street, all dark woodwork, with a desk and a conference table, and of course a fireplace, over which hung an oil portrait of Al Capone.

Frank Nitti did not cut the imposing figure Capone did, either in the portrait or in life. A small mustached man in his midforties, Nitti was in his white shirtsleeves with dark suspenders, but his gray and black tie was not loosened, and there was nothing casual about the well-groomed former barber. As he approached his visitor — offering a hand, which O’Sullivan shook — Nitti seemed typically cordial yet distant.

“I didn’t know you were waiting out there, Mike,” Nitti said. He was smoking, a cigarette in his left, gesturing hand. “But I have to admit I’m not surprised to hear from you... Come, sit.”

“No thank you. I can’t stay long.”

Nitti shook his head. “I’m pleased that you would think of us, in your time of grief... We all just heard. You want some coffee?”

O’Sullivan shook his head. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Nitti.”

“Don’t be silly. Al is in Florida, holed up with his lawyers. Some legal matters pending, and I haven’t talked to him about your situation yet. But I know he’ll be distressed by this loss. He’s a family man, too... ”

“I know. Thank you.”

“And allow me to offer my personal condolences on your tragic loss.” Nitti gestured. “Come! Please... sit... ”

They sat facing each other across a small table, next to a window that offered a commanding view of the South Side of Chicago — the Capone/Nitti empire.

Sympathies expressed, Nitti’s manner shifted to businesslike. “Now — what’s on your mind, Mike?”

“You heard about my family. But what did you hear about Tony Calvino?”

Nitti lighted up a new cigarette. “That you killed him.”

“Self-defense.” O’Sullivan dug in his suitcoat pocket. “John Looney’s son Connor sent me to Calvino’s to deliver this sealed message... ”

O’Sullivan handed Nitti the note; the bantam gangster read the words — KILL O’SULLIVAN AND ALL SINS ARE FORGIVEN — and said, “Jesus — the man sent you there to die. To be killed.”

“And then Connor went to my house, my home, to kill my family. You seem to know that he murdered my wife and one of my sons.”

“Yes. Yes... ”

“Last night, before I shot him, Frank Kelly told me that Looney is protecting his son. He’s hidden him away.”

Seemingly unimpressed by the reference to the Kelly murder, Nitti shook his head, disgusted. “And you served Looney’s interests well, and honorably, for years! There’s no excuse for such vicious behavior. We’re not animals — we’re businessmen.”

“Yes. And I have also served the Capone interests ‘well and honorably,’ over the years.”

Nodding in a that’s-old-news manner, Nitti said, “Through our alliance with the Looney family... Why did you come here, Mike?”

“I don’t seem to be working for the Looneys anymore.”

“That’s a fair assessment.”

O’Sullivan paused; rather formally, he said, “I would like to work for you, Mr. Nitti. For you and Mr. Capone.”

That seemed to catch Nitti off guard; he exhaled smoke, then said, “Well now, that’s a very interesting notion, Mike. You are the best at what you do.”

“Thank you. But for me to join your ranks, and be your loyal soldier, I need you to turn a blind eye to what I have to do in the coming days.”

“And what’s that?”

“Kill the man who murdered my family.”

Nitti blew out more smoke. “Connor Looney... And what about his father?”

“I have no desire to kill the old man. I would prefer he suffer the hell on earth of losing a son.”

For endless seconds, Nitti said nothing, sitting still as stone.

Then he said, “Mike, I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer.”

“Why?”

“Your wife and son are gone. So you kill Crazy Connor... Is one more body going to make any difference?”

“In my ledger book, yes. Mr. Nitti, you’re a businessman. I’ve made a good sound business proposal — I’ll work only for you.”

Nitti stabbed out the cigarette in a tray on the table. “Mike, listen — I respect you. I’d like nothing better than to have you working for us. I know Al will feel the same way — he holds you, and your abilities, in high regard. But you put us in a difficult position.”

“How?”

“You said it yourself, Mike. I’m a businessman. Much as I might personally loathe these despicable things that have been done to your family, the alliance between us and the Looneys is a long-standing one... and profitable.”

“So if John Looney asks for your help—”

Nitti, impatient now, sat forward. “Let me tell you something you may not have realized. You’ve lived all these years under the protection of people who care about you. And those same people are trying to protect you now. Including me.”

A chill passed through O’Sullivan’s bones. “Looney’s already come to you.”

Nitti’s mouth tightened, but his forehead was smooth. “If you go ahead with this thing — if you go through that door of vengeance, you’ll be walking through it alone. And all that trust, all that loyalty we’ve talked about, will vanish... and, Mike, you can’t make it, not on your own. Not with a little boy in tow.”

This was over. O’Sullivan stood. “You’re already protecting Connor Looney.”

“We’re not protecting Connor Looney, Mr. O’Sullivan,” Nitti said, still seated, palms up. “We’re protecting our interests.”

Suddenly the weight of the worst hours of his life fell heavily on O’Sullivan’s shoulders. He could not hide the disappointment in his voice. “I drove through the night to see you.”

“I appreciate that. I appreciate the respect and trust you’ve shown — that you came unarmed... Now I suggest you drive yourself back to the Tri-Cities. I suggest you go home. Bury your wife and child. With our blessing.”

O’Sullivan slowly shook his head. “It won’t be that simple... I came asking only your neutrality. But the friend of my enemy is my enemy.”

Nitti’s eyes tightened. “Are you threatening me, Mr. O’Sullivan?”

“No. There’ll be no bloodshed today. I don’t think you want the newspapers to have a Lexington Hotel massacre to add to St. Valentine’s day.”

Nitti shrugged. “You’re free to leave.”

“Then I will.”

O’Sullivan went out quickly, his eyes taking everything in as he moved through the reception area to where businessmen were stepping onto the elevator, Marco again playing operator. He stepped on, but then as the doors were about to be closed, thought better of it, and stepped off.