Макс Коллинз - Road to Perdition

“... You ask for proper identification or you’ll find yourself in the bread line. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

O’Sullivan waited until the officious man seemed finished, then said through the window grating, “Excuse me, gentlemen — I understand Mr. McDougal is your bank president.”

The bow-tied teller pointed. “This is Mr. McDougal.”

After frowning at the stool pigeon, McDougal said, “You’ll have to make an appointment with my secretary, sir.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to call ahead, Mr. McDougal. But this concerns a major depositor... from out of town.”

McDougal began to speak, but the words caught as he took a closer look at O’Sullivan. Then he said, “Yes... of course... step this way, please.”

McDougal led the way, even opened the door for O’Sullivan with an after-you half-bow, closing the door behind him, making a fuss over showing his visitor to the chair across from the big desk in the medium-sized office dominated by a huge safe. Officiousness had been replaced with obsequiousness, as the bank president took the chair behind the desk, eyeing the black bag O’Sullivan had placed on its glass-covered top, to one side, by framed photos of wife, grown children, and grandchildren.

“I’ve come in regard to the Chicago money you’re holding,” O’Sullivan said.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” the bank president said, hands folded like a man sitting down to a big fine meal. “I wasn’t expecting a deposit until the end of the month — business Chicago-way must be good.”

“Actually,” O’Sullivan said, reaching over for the bag and undoing its clasp, “I’m making a withdrawal.”

And O’Sullivan reached down into the bag and came back with the Colt .45.

McDougal’s ass-kissing smile disappeared — fear painted the man’s face a pale shade.

“Hands on the desk, sir... Listen carefully — I want dirty money only, the off-the-books money you’re holding for Capone.”

The banker didn’t miss a beat. “It’s... it’s all right here,” McDougal said, smiling sickly, gesturing to the big safe filling a corner of the office, behind his desk.

“Good. Open it.”

The terrified banker got up and went to the looming iron box and dialed the combination — it took several tries, nervous as he was; but soon McDougal was hauling out a safety deposit box, which he rested on the desk, opening it to reveal stacks and stacks of cash.

“Fill the bag,” O’Sullivan instructed.

The banker did as he was told.

During which, O’Sullivan said, “I read anything in the papers about this... if I read that the savings of innocent farmers were wiped out by a cruel and heartless bank robber... I’ll be unhappy.”

As he piled the bricks of cash into the bag, the banker — still nervous but past the shock, somewhat — asked, “Are you insane, man? You obviously know whose money you’re taking. You must know what kind of animals you’re stealing from. They’ll find out who you are, they’ll track you down and—”

“The name is O’Sullivan. Michael O’Sullivan. Would you like me to write it down for you?”

O’Sullivan took the bag of money from the banker — who was more astounded now than afraid.

“They’ll kill you,” the banker said, trying to fathom this event.

He pointed the gun at the banker’s chest. “Tell Frank Nitti, tell Al Capone, that Michael O’Sullivan will stop bothering them if they give up Connor Looney. Until then, I’ll feed at their trough. Tell them!”

“I will! I will... ”

O’Sullivan removed two fat wads of cash from the satchel. “This is for you. Call it a handling charge. The boys in Chicago will never know — I sure as hell won’t tell them.”

The banker, blinking, shaking his head, asked, “Why cut me in? The upper hand is yours... ”

“It’s tidier this way. Less risky for both of us. This way you won’t be apt to press a button and cause something unfortunate on my way out. You see, Mr. McDougal, if I start shooting, people are going to die... and you’ll be one of them.”

McDougal nodded. “I understand.” And he opened a desk drawer slowly — knowing the standing O’Sullivan could see his every move — and placed the two bricks of cash inside, covering them with some papers.

“Good decision,” O’Sullivan said. “How would you like to do a little advertising for me?”

“Advertising?”

“If you have any trusted colleagues looking for an opportunity... you might want to spread the word. Let them know that when I come around, they shouldn’t hit any hidden alarms. It’ll be safer... and more profitable... if they cooperate.”

“And... if I do this?”

“You’ll receive a bundle in the mail, now and then. A surprise from Santa. You just think Christmas is over.”

The banker was shaking his head again. “You really trust me not to say anything?”

“If you can’t trust your banker, Mr. McDougal,” O’Sullivan said, hoisting the satchel of money, touching the tip of his fedora, “who can you trust?”

Within a minute O’Sullivan — black bag in one hand, other hand with the gun in it shoved into his topcoat pocket — was standing outside the bank, stepping out to the curb, waiting in the chill St. Louis air. Then the Ford drew up ever so slowly.

O’Sullivan looked through the window at the anxious boy behind the wheel.

“No rush, son,” he said with a faint smile.

He got in, and they drove off.

The boy was amazed by how smoothly it had gone. And as he tooled confidently through downtown St. Louis traffic, he realized he was indeed his father’s wheelman, his accomplice... if not his confidant.

Papa had told Michael he hoped there’d be no bloodshed, no fuss, but did not reveal to the boy how he hoped to achieve that.

“You didn’t say it would be this easy,” Michael said.

“You have to be prepared for anything,” his father said. “I need you alert... pull over. I’ll take the wheel, now.”

“Do I have to?”

His father just looked at him, and Michael pulled into a restaurant parking lot.

Still in the passenger seat, Papa repeated, “You have to be prepared for anything.”

“I know.” Michael shrugged. “I’m a Boy Scout, aren’t I?”

And his father leaned back in the seat, covered his face and, at first, Michael thought Papa was crying.

But he was laughing — softly... The only time he would do that, in the time they’d spend on the road together.

O ver the next two weeks, my father and I knocked over four banks, and that was just the beginning. At the time I wondered why we put so many days between robberies; looking back, I realize my father was craftily creating a nonpattern, a patchwork of plunder that defied analysis. It made for a lot of driving, but a bank in Illinois would be followed by one in Nebraska; Iowa might be followed by Oklahoma, with him filling his satchel in Wisconsin next .

We could certainly afford the gas .

The compartment in the backseat, where I had hidden myself away on that rainy night, was stacked with bricks of money, decorated with various bank wrappers. And we were probably on the fourth robbery before my father finally explained the absence of gunfire and police .

His pattern was always the same — politely announcing himself as a representative of Chicago, revealing his gun in the bank president’s office, the gathering of Capone money, a sharing of the proceeds with the banker, and a threatening but almost courteous exit. After the first several robberies, the word had spread and most of the bankers seemed to be waiting for my father — in a good way... eager for their bonus .