Road to Purgatory

The shrunken-looking Nitti had been fairly diminutive to start with, and seemed much smaller than Frank Nitti had any right to be. But the ex-barber’s hair was freshly cut and, vino or no, he seemed alert. He was lifting his face into a crisp breeze and relishing it.

“Spoke to Louie,” Nitti said, as they turned the corner. He flashed a sideways, chagrined grin. “Sorry about letting you sit overnight in the jug. I honestly didn’t know you was in there.”

“You had a right to be distracted.”

Nitti shot him a sharper look. “So, Louie’s filled you in on the situation?”

“Kinda sounds like you threw the gauntlet down to Ricca, Mr. Nitti. That surprised me.”

“Did it? Why?”

Michael, hands still in his pockets, shrugged, walking. “You’re usually more careful than that. Why stir up enmity with Ricca, right now?”

Nitti shook his head, his mouth tight. “I didn’t stir it — he did. He’s taking advantage of this moment to try to bring me down... A kid who uses a term like ‘enmity’ probably knows what a coup is, right?”

“Sure.”

“Well, this is what the politicians call a bloodless coup. If Ricca can convince the rest of the counsel I’m a selfish fuck-up, unwilling to fall on my sword for ’em... then he slides into my chair.”

“And he figures you won’t move against him.”

Nitti nodded. “And I won’t. We’re facing a trial that’s gonna get big play in the press. But what’s it over? Buncha Hollywood nonsense. Union stuff. Compared to war news, it ain’t nothing. Public yawns and flips to the funnies.” The little ganglord stopped cold. “But we start shooting at each other, acting like gangsters? Then we get way too much attention from John Q. Public.”

Nitti calmly walked on. They turned the corner, to the right. They had the sidewalks to themselves; it was a school day, Friday, and cold enough to keep housewives inside. The tree-lined streets twisted through an idyllic world where the dwellings, if less than mansions, were nonetheless spacious and distinctive; nothing cookie-cutter about the homes of Riverside. Despite the white-brushed lawns, a consistent peppering of evergreens threw a little color into the landscape.

“Kid,” Nitti said, and his expression was grave, “I’m sorry about that girl of yours.”

“Thanks, Mr. Nitti.”

“I liked Estelle. She was as smart as she was pretty. Good earner for us, too.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“I know who did it, and a guy who does work for me, time to time, took care of it.” Nitti stopped again and so did Michael; the older man put his hand on the younger one’s shoulder. “I know you’d like to’ve been the one who took ’em out, but it’s better this way.”

Michael nodded.

They walked along.

“Their name was Borgia,” he said. “If you know your history, you see how fitting that is. They probably were sent by Ricca either to throw a scare in her — afraid she’d talk, in the trial, y’know — or maybe to kill her, and send Nicky Dean a wake-up call.”

“Would Ricca do that?”

“Sure. But I doubt even the Waiter’s reckless enough to attract the press that torture killing got. Stupid. Now, that’s just what I’m talkin’ about — look at the fuck-ing field day the papers are having over Estelle Carey! It puts the goddamn spotlight right on us. All of sudden, we’re mobsters again, not businessmen.”

“I don’t think Ricca thinks of himself as a businessman — at least not the way you do, Mr. Nitti.”

“Probably true. Probably true. Or else he wouldn’t surround himself with sick-in-the-head killers like Mad Sam and Mooney.” Nitti sighed. “Only good thing could come from this is Ricca going away. I have confidence in Accardo.”

Once again Nitti stopped. This time, he put both hands on Michael’s shoulders. Speaking with great emphasis, he said, “While we’re away, Joe Batters will be capo.”

That was another name for Tony Accardo.

“He’s a good man. You can trust him. Stand by him, Michael. Serve him.”

“Yes, Mr. Nitti.”

Nitti’s hands returned to his pockets. They walked on.

Michael said, “No way you can beat this rap?”

“No. And though I can’t take the fall, I must bear some responsibility. Trusting Bioff and Browne, that was stupid. But the nature of what we do is risk. Decisions can come back to haunt you.”

“Bad decisions?”

“Even good ones. We make hard choices for the greater good.”

“Like that guy, what did they call him? The Angel of Death?”

They were at the end of the block. The residential area gave way to undeveloped lots; across the street a row of skeletal trees mingled with shrubbery, behind which a wire fence defended a patch of prairie, high dead grass and brush cut by intersecting tracks of the Illinois Central. In the distance, beyond the dead brush, and the tracks, was a complex of brick buildings, a tuberculosis sanitarium.

Michael knew as much because Campagna had mentioned the fence, which had a gaping hole in it, as a security issue in guarding Nitti. In these days of gas rationing, neighborhood employees of the sanitarium had clipped a hole in the wire barrier, to be able to walk to work.