“Papa, these brakes are swell!... Are you all right? Are you sick?”
“No... no, son. I’m fine. You’re doing fine... Looks hilly a few miles up ahead. Let’s practice taking curves.”
Other than the scrape with the tractor, Papa never raised his voice, once. He stayed at it, working with his son, guiding him, giving him confidence; and by midafternoon, they were in St. Louis, Missouri, where the boy — sitting high enough in his seat to pass for a teenaged driver — got his first taste of sharing the road with other drivers, not all of them considerate. This came easier than his father had expected — but ex-paperboy Michael had, after all, maneuvered his bike through all kinds of traffic back home.
And by the end of the day, Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., was ready for his new job.
The next morning, O’Sullivan — his fedora and topcoat brushed, his dark suit, too — approached the entrance of the St. Louis Bank and Trust Company. With his no-nonsense manner, a black leather bag in his right hand, he looked better than just presentable — he might have been a doctor, or perhaps a businessman, lugging a valise filled with important papers.
The boy waited down the street, in a legal parking place, motor running. O’Sullivan nodded at his son who, behind the wheel, swallowed, and nodded back.
The high-ceilinged marble lobby was less than crowded, but a share of farmers, housewives, and businessmen stood at the teller windows in lines that weren’t moving fast. He paused inside the door, nodding to a bank guard, who nodded back — an older man, retired cop probably, but armed.
Heading across the lobby at a leisurely pace, O’Sullivan gave the place a slow scan, mentally recording the layout, the positions of people and things. He approached the teller windows, heading toward one that was closed, where a small brow-beaten man in glasses and bow tie and shirtsleeves was getting chewed out by an older, heavier man, also in glasses, but wearing a crisply knotted striped tie and a tailored suit amidst these off-the-racks.
“... 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.