Макс Коллинз - Road to Perdition

When father and son pulled into Stillwater, Oklahoma, the wear and grime of the road showed on them. They were a grubby, hardened-looking pair, the boy behind the wheel of the maroon Ford well aware that his father was possessed by a quiet apprehension that seemed a notch up from recent days.

On a gentle slope of Stillwater Creek, the idyllic small town spread northwest; large, comfortable-looking residences sat in big yards half-hidden by trees, and the business district consisted of low, trim buildings, though the relative grandeur of the aptly named Grand Hotel belied the town’s modest appearance, and gave away its secret: this was a center of business and agriculture, within easy driving distance of most Oklahomans.

Fedora low on his brow, O’Sullivan directed Michael to a parking place on the main street, across from the Grand Hotel.

Pulling into the spot like the seasoned driver he now was, the boy asked, “Should I shut off the engine?”

“Yes.” O’Sullivan was checking the clip in the automatic. He had an extra clip in his topcoat pocket. Going into unknown territory like this, such preparations were key.

“Papa?”

“Yes?”

“Can we stay at a motel tonight? I hate sleeping in the car.”

“All right.” He slapped the clip into the .45. “Now if you see anything, what do you do?”

“Honk twice.”

“And then what do you do?”

“Nothing. I stay in the car. Wait for you.”

“Good — stay sharp, now.” O’Sullivan leaned close to the boy, locked eyes with him. “You could hear shots, screams... you could hear nothing. Don’t leave this car. No matter what.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You ready for this?”

The boy took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

“I know you are,” O’Sullivan said, and got out of the car.

From where they had parked, the boy watched in the driver’s side door mirror as his father strode confidently, yet casually, into the fancy hotel.

In a dreary, functionally furnished apartment above a storefront across from the Grand Hotel, Betty Lou Petersen was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on her silk stockings.

Otherwise, the curly-haired blonde teenager was fully dressed, the first time in the two days since she had hooked up at the Stillwater Tap with the man who stood opposite her, his back to her, in his T-shirt and shorts, at a window looking down into the main street.

A year ago Betty Lou had been a cheerleader at Stillwater High School; now she was an unwed mother and one of the town’s youngest, most attractive prostitutes, although she had not admitted that to herself, yet. She knew she was attractive, but at this point considered herself just to be a party girl who took favors from men. Betty Lou lived at home with her widowed mama, who looked after little Violet when Betty Lou was out “having a good time.”

The man at the window, in his underwear, was a handsome date, but an odd one. His clothes (when he was wearing them) were uptown, and he had good manners; he smelled like pomade and talcum and was very, very clean. Also, he was fairly young and nicely slender, not like some of the traveling salesmen and businessmen she entertained, who had flabby bellies and body odor.

Still, she wasn’t sorry this party was over. Moments ago, when she’d asked him how many more days he wanted her to hang around with him, he’d just ignored her, given her the cold shoulder while he stared out that window, which was all he did, except for when he was on top of her, making her lie still while he did it to her. He was weird. A real Count Screwloose, even if he was good-looking in a Robert Taylor kind of way.

On the bed next to her were the two crumpled twenty dollar bills the creep had just tossed there, irritated when she’d asked him to close the curtains; didn’t he know it was hard to sleep with all that sun!

On the other hand, he was cute, and when she paused at the door, before going out, she said, “I’ll be at the Tap tonight.”

He turned his head toward her, his blue eyes cold and unblinking; he said nothing — didn’t even shrug. Creepy...

“See you,” she said, and went out, his gaze still on her.

And that was why Harlen Maguire, standing watch, did not see Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., cross the street and go into the hotel.

For a town this size, the lobby was spacious and opulent, in a vaguely decadent, late-nineteenth-century way, potted ferns and plush furnishings and an elaborate mahogany check-in desk, behind which a harried fellow in pince-nez eyeglasses was talking on the phone. In a dark suit and tie, with a gold breast badge giving his name in small letters and MANAGER in bigger ones, the poor guy was dealing with a difficult guest.

“The chef isn’t available, sir... can I help you?”

O’Sullivan paused just long enough to eye the key rack, where most of the keys were back on their hooks, their businessmen guests up and out of there. One hook, however — labeled 311 BRIDAL SUITE — was empty.

“Mr. Rance, I’m writing it down,” the manager said.

O’Sullivan paused.

The manager was continuing: “Runny eggs, yes sir... You do not want your bacon to break off, I understand... Right away, sir.”

The hotel was old enough not to have elevators, and O’Sullivan trotted up the central stairway to the mezzanine, where he found more stairs, which he climbed to the top floor, the third.

At room 311, the bridal suite, O’Sullivan glanced around at the otherwise empty corridor, withdrew his .45 from his right-hand coat pocket, and knocked with his left.

“It’s open!” an irritated voice called from within.

Gun poised, O’Sullivan went in. The living room of the suite was expansive and expensive — chintz and crystal, overstuffed sofas and chairs, woodwork washed ivory. At a room-service table — its silver tray arrayed with a plate of a largely uneaten breakfast of boiled eggs in twin silver cups and crisscrossing crisp bacon — a man in a green silk dressing robe stood pouring himself a cup of coffee, his back to O’Sullivan.

“Well, at least you’re prompt,” the man said, his manner fussy and patronizing. “Top marks for speed, anyway... if not for preparation of cuisine.”

Dripping with indignation, Alexander Rance turned and held up an egg in its silver cup. “Perhaps you would like to attempt to consume this hardboiled monstrosity?”

Rance’s eyes were on the egg in the silver cup, as he spoke, but his peripheral vision caught something that drew his attention to the man standing before him...

... Pointing a .45 automatic at his head.

O’Sullivan said, “Put that down.”

Rance’s eyes showed white all around. “It’s... it’s just an egg.”

“This isn’t. Put it down.”

Rance did as he was told, muttering apologetically, “I’m sorry... I thought you... I was expecting... Mr., uh, O’Sullivan, isn’t it?”

“You know it is, Mr. Rance.”

A plush pinkish-red brocade sofa was between them. The accountant held his hands high; his eyebrows were almost as high, as he asked, “How did you find me?”

O’Sullivan, not about to betray the manager of the Grand Prairie State Bank, said, “This is the best hotel in the area, and you’re so very particular.”

Rance, working hard to regain his dignity, lowered his hands to waist level, saying, “What may seem ‘very particular’ to you, Mr. O’Sullivan, may simply be another man’s rather more discriminating tastes. But I will be ‘particular’ enough to ask you to do me the courtesy of lowering your weapon.”

“Keep those hands up,” O’Sullivan said.

Not taking his eyes off the accountant for longer than a second, he went to the door, which had the key in it; he then locked the room and went to the bedroom door, opening it, leaning in, gun ready. He quickly scanned the room — large double bed and floral brocade wallpaper; though no maid had been here yet, Rance had made his bed, at the foot of which was a large metal steamer-type trunk that was clearly not part of the bridal suite’s florid furnishings.