Looney, who’d been trying to disappear into the woodwork, said, “They say water’s good for a fever.”
“And this you’d know how? You who never had a drink of water in your life... ’cept maybe bourbon and branchwater!” But Capone wasn’t as worked up now, and he walked over to his old friend, stood before him, and said, “John, explain this to me... I extend a helping hand to an old friend, take in his one and only son, protect him like he’s my own.”
Looney nodded, his expression conveying his deep appreciation.
Capone continued: “And in return, what do I get? Robbed. I get robbed... Does this make sense to anybody? I got a biblical goddamn plague rainin’ down on me, and I’m supposed to write it off to, what? The Lord moves in mysterious fuckin’ ways?... Why doesn’t the Angel steal your money, John? It’s your beef.”
Looney, quietly, stated what they all knew: “Mike O’Sullivan thinks you’ll give up Connor to stop him. He doesn’t understand our friendship... or that you’re a man of honor.”
Capone smiled, paced a little, playing gentle one-handed catch with himself, obviously not taken in by this shameless blarney. “So, then, maybe you can tell me, John — how much of my money is your son worth?”
Looney’s eyes flared. “Is that what this performance is about, Al? Money? Well, then, I’ll write you a goddamn check! I’ll fill it out and leave it fucking blank... Is that what you want to hear?”
Capone stood there quietly. Nitti tried to read him — and couldn’t. After all these years, a quiet Al Capone remained an unreadable thing to Frank Nitti.
Looney, the eruption over, his voice weary, melancholy, said, “If it had just been about the money, all these years, Al... none of us would be alive today.”
Capone was a statue in a sweat-stained shirt and vest with a sweat-beaded forehead and a blank expression. His thick lips puckered, as if he were about to blow a kiss.
Then he exploded in laughter: “I love the fuckin’ Irish!... So full of shit, but full of heart, too. Thank you, John, I appreciate your remarks. We need, now and again, to be reminded not just of who we are, but who we were.”
Looney nodded sagely.
“And I mean no disrespect,” Capone said, his tone reasonable now, “but the fact remains, I am bleeding money at a time when this Ness character is killing me and these revenue clowns are throwing indictments around like fuckin’ confetti.”
“It is a problem,” Looney admitted, gesturing with open palms. “I am sincere that I will help, financially.”
Capone waved that off. “And as if all this isn’t enough, I’m spending a small fortune... the figure grows daily... bankrolling the efforts of somebody supposedly workin’ at stopping the O’Sullivan problem... a man I am assured, by those closest to me, is a ‘pro.’”
And Capone again cast his gaze on Maguire, who stood quiet, unflappable, as unreadable as Capone in his silences, but without the explosions of clarification.
“And what’s that mean?” Capone demanded of Maguire.
Maguire shrugged a little. “What does what mean, Mr. Capone?”
“That look.”
Not in the least afraid, Maguire replied, “I’m just giving you my undivided attention, Mr. Capone.”
“Every face has a look, kid. Except maybe the Invisible Man’s mug... is that who you are? The Invisible Man? Who’s got no ‘look’?”
“Al, come on,” Nitti said, the tension building, “he ain’t looking at nothing.”
“He’s looking at me, Frank. And I’m something. But the point is, he’s not doing anything. He’s takin’ pictures, he’s takin’ rides in the country, he’s standin’ there in my suite with a fuckin’ look... and I’m bleedin’ money all over the Bible Belt.”
Capone made a face, tasted his own mouth thickly, and went to his massive mahogany desk, where a pitcher of iced water and several glasses waited on a silver tray. He poured a glass and gulped it down.
“Satisfied, Frank?” he asked. “I’m drinking the water. I’m drinkin’ the fuckin’ water, like the doc wants. That should solve everything!”
Nobody said a word while Capone had another glass of cold water. Nitti exchanged a glance with Looney, then both men looked toward Maguire.
“Al,” Nitti said, “Mr. Maguire has a proposal for how we might resolve this difficulty. A way to stop your ‘bleeding,’ and at the same time bait a trap for O’Sullivan.”
Capone, affable all of a sudden, turned to Maguire. “Hey, I’m all ears. I’m a fuckin’ elephant, I got such big ears for ways for me to stop bleedin’. Propose to me, Mr. Maguire — show me why Frank Nitti says you’re the best... but do me a favor?”
“Anything, Mr. Capone,” Maguire said, with a tiny smile.
“Fucking blink once in a while.”
And Capone wiped off his brow and poured another glass of ice water, then headed over to the couch to flop there, and listen.
A week later, at the Grand Prairie State Bank in Grand Prairie, Oklahoma, Mike O’Sullivan was sitting across the desk from a bank manager, a younger man than most in his position. Very professional in dress and manner, the young bank manager was nervous, and clearly frightened.
“No need for fear,” O’Sullivan assured him. The black bag was open on the desk, the .45 in O’Sullivan’s hand. “This is strictly business. You won’t get hurt — no one will.”
“Mr. O’Sullivan, I’m sorry... I really am... ”
“Sorry?”
The bank manager, his eyes wide, shrugged helplessly. “There’s no money here for you.”
The gun snapped into position, leveled directly at the bank manager’s head.
“You don’t understand! Please... give me a chance to explain.”
“Do it, then.”
“I can get you money, of course we have money. But I know who you are, I’ve heard about you, I... it’s just, I don’t have Chicago money for you. They came around two days ago, and took it all out.”
O’Sullivan had been studying the man; the truth was written on his smooth, young face.
“Who took it out?”
“He was going around, with armed men, to all the banks. He’s been doing it for days.”
“Who?”
“The accountant. From Chicago.”
Alexander Rance, O’Sullivan thought; the mob accountant Frank Kelly had brought to the Looney board meeting, to try to make the case for getting involved with the unions.
“What was his name?” O’Sullivan asked, knowing.
“Rance,” the bank manager said. “Alexander Rance.”
O’Sullivan thought about that; then he asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know what Mr. Rance’s next stop is, would you?”
“Actually, I do. He left word where he could be reached until day after tomorrow, I believe.”
“Write it down for me.”
The banker did.
O’Sullivan dropped the slip of paper into the otherwise empty satchel, fastened it, put his gun-in-hand in his topcoat pocket, rose, and was almost out the door, when the banker asked a question.
“Is that... all?”
“I don’t want your money,” O’Sullivan said. “Just don’t mention the information I asked for — or that you gave me.”
“All right.”
O’Sullivan looked at the man, hard. “It’s important.”
“All right!”
“You don’t want to see me again, do you?”
“No.”
“Then keep your word.”
And he went outside, where his son — like clockwork — picked him up, eager to hear about the latest haul.
Fourteen
Not much is known of Alexander Adams Rance. He represented Frank Nitti’s shift toward a big business stance, including moving into legitimate enterprises, a radical approach for the criminal empire Johnny Torrio had founded and Al Capone made flourish. Rance was a Chicago boy — he grew up on the mid-South Side not far from State Street, ironically not far from where Capone maintained his Chicago residence. A graduate of the University of Chicago who worked on LaSalle Street before the crash, Rance was recruited by Nitti shortly thereafter.