Макс Коллинз - Road to Perdition

O’Sullivan returned to the accountant, said, “You can put your hands down — we’re just going to talk,” and lowered the .45.

“Thank you,” Rance said with exaggerated distress. “Now — what can I do for you, Mr. O’Sullivan?”

“I’d like your files.”

“My files?”

Nodding, O’Sullivan said, “The ledgers, the record books — you had to bring them along, if you were going to close out all those accounts.”

Rance seemed almost amused. “Suppose I did — what good would they do you?”

“They wouldn’t do me much good. But those feds who’re readying indictments against Al Capone could really use them.”

This notion seemed to alarm the accountant. “You wouldn’t even think of doing—”

“Mr. Rance, I’ve obviously already thought of it. But I won’t give them to the G-men if Capone and Nitti give me Connor Looney. Like the wanted posters say — dead or alive. Either one is fine with me.”

Rance was shaking his head. “You’re completely out of my arena, Mr. O’Sullivan — I’m strictly a man of books and numbers.”

“Good. Because that’s what I want: the books with the numbers.”

But Rance was still shaking his head. “I can’t give you those files. My life would be—”

O’Sullivan raised the .45 and cocked it — the click made its small, deadly point.

“All right! All right... They’re in the trunk in my bedroom.”

“Get it. Bring it in.”

Rance gestured, exasperated. “Well, I could use some help.”

“I’ll hold the gun. You get the trunk. I’m particular about that.”

Rance, understandably nervous with the gun pointed his way again, glanced toward a window onto the street. O’Sullivan noted this, and as Rance went into the adjacent room, leaving the door open, O’Sullivan went to that window, and closed the curtains.

In the boarding house across the way, Maguire had already perked up, several minutes before, realizing Rance was talking to someone. Half the time the accountant would deal with room service and other hotel staff, making their lives miserable; so Maguire spying Rance through the window, speaking to someone in his suite, did less than set off an alarm bell.

And then Mike O’Sullivan was in the window, closing the curtains — perfectly framed there, if only for a moment.

That Ford he’d spied earlier... maroon, but the same make as the green one. Had they painted it? Had he been asleep at the wheel?

These and other thoughts rocketed through Maguire’s mind, as he dressed quickly but with his typical methodical precision, omitting his tie. Under the bed he had stowed a canvas bag, and from this he withdrew a long-barreled pump-action rifle. Bowler atop his head, the rifle concealed under his topcoat, he flew down the stairs and strode across the street, paying little heed to the downtown traffic, which was light anyway in this hick burg.

As he headed toward the entrance of the hotel, he didn’t even look up when a car screeched its brakes, swerving to avoid him.

Someone else looked up, though: Michael — who had gotten bored on his watch and started reading his Tom Mix Big Little Book, missing the sight of Maguire passing right by on the driver’s side of the Ford — was startled back into vigilance now, by the squealing brakes. In the driver’s side door mirror, he could see the man in the bowler hat, jogging across the street.

The boy hadn’t seen the gunman very well at that diner; but his father had described the man in detail and, besides, the snout of a rifle was sticking down like a skinny third leg that didn’t quite reach the ground.

The man in the bowler was approaching the hotel now, and Michael slammed his hand into the horn — twice.

The sounds made the man glance back, but he didn’t make eye contact with Michael; and then the man was inside the hotel.

Heart racing, Michael hit the horn again, and again. He paused and repeated the action, and kept it up, getting scared, holding the horn down for a long time, so long that people on the street were stopping and staring.

But where was his father? Why hadn’t the sounds sent him running out of the hotel?

About the time Maguire was reaching under the bed for the bag with his pump-action rifle in it, O’Sullivan was in the bridal suite, keeping his .45 trained on Alexander Rance, who was huffing and puffing as he pushed the large metal trunk out of the bedroom.

Rance glanced at the window, where O’Sullivan had shut the curtains, and complained, “I can’t see well enough — open those back up.”

There was no overhead light, but several of the crystal lamps were on. Sunlight filtering in through the closed curtains cast an eerie glow.

“You can see fine,” O’Sullivan said. “Push.”

Rance continued to push the apparently heavy trunk into the room. “What do you think you’re accomplishing by interfering with our business, Mr. O’Sullivan?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with business. It’s personal.”

Breathing hard, still pushing the trunk, nearer the light of the lamps by the couch, Rance said, “It’s nothing but business — all of life is business, that’s what you fail to grasp. And in business, to get what you want, you must have something valuable to trade.”

“Those files are a start.”

“Not... ” The accountant grunted as he pushed the trunk. “... Not for someone as valuable as Connor Looney.”

O’Sullivan frowned. “What makes Connor Looney valuable?”

Rance’s expression clouded, as if he’d said too much, bantering with this intruder.

A mechanical chatter — loud as hell! — drew O’Sullivan’s attention away from Rance, who was rising from his crouch, the trunk pushed to the center of the room, now.

“Opening bell on Wall Street,” Rance explained, nodding across the room.

In the shadow of an alcove, a ticker-tape machine stood, spewing tape, making a racket like a miniature machine gun. Under the glass jar covering the machine, a pile of yesterday’s tape was strewn.

The machine’s chatter was loud enough to blot away the outside world — including the sound of O’Sullivan’s son, desperately honking the horn.

Rance withdrew a big ring of keys from his dressing-gown pocket, sorting through them, muttering, “Now which one is it?”

“Find it — now.”

“I’m trying!... I believe this is the one... ”

The accountant knelt at the trunk, tried the key. “No... not that one... ”

“If you’re stalling, I’ll shoot the lock off. Then you.”

“Please... I’m doing my best!... Here it is... no, I tried that one already... ”

“Mr. Rance... I may look like a patient man, but I assure you I’m not. Move it!”

Rance threw a glare at O’Sullivan. “That tone isn’t helping! You’re making me nervous!”

O’Sullivan went over and jammed the gun into the accountant’s left temple and asked, “Does this help?”

“Uh... uh... ”

“One more try, and we do it my way.”

Rance selected another key, and said, “This is it — it has to be,” inserted it into the keyhole and, with a click, unlocked the trunk. O’Sullivan took a step around, to get a look inside, as Rance opened the lid...

... on emptiness.

At that moment the ticker tape ran out, its chattering ceased, and the blurt of the car horn... the signal repeated over and over... finally made itself known to O’Sullivan.

Rance took that opportunity to scramble into the bedroom, slamming the door, locking it behind him.

And Mike O’Sullivan — with a second futile glance at the bare inside of the “heavy” trunk the accountant had struggled with so — knew he’d been set up. Rance had been the bait, and he knew he was the mouse... so where was the fucking cat?