That Rance exemplified a new generation, a new approach, can be demonstrated with a quick comparison to the one Capone man above him in the area of financial wizardry and creative accounting. Jake “Greasy Thumb” Guzik came up from the streets, a portly teenage pimp who had overheard a murder plot against Capone, reported this to Big Al, and earned a friend for life. Years later, when the porcine mob treasurer appeared before the Kefauver committee, he took the Fifth Amendment, saying he wouldn’t answer questions that would “discriminate against me.”
The smooth Rance, on the other hand, was like so many accountants and lawyers in that small white-collar army who did the bidding of thugs-made-good like Frank Nitti and, later, Paul Ricca, Tony Accardo, and Sam Giancana. By all accounts, a fussy man, particular about his food, dress, and lodging, Rance operated on Outfit finances in a fashion that isolated him from the violence inherent in such criminal activities as gambling, loansharking, prostitution, and bootlegging.
The accountant probably had no idea how much danger he was in when Nitti directed him to personally supervise the removal of mob money from midwestern banks. Rance was to select a hotel from which he could operate, in a given area, withdraw the money, and send it home to Chicago under armed guard, where the funds would go into safety deposit boxes in the kind of large, reputable Chicago banks that would be unlikely targets for my father.
Researchers — seeking information on the Chicago mob’s financial guru, whose reign was cut so prematurely short — discovered that Rance would seek a luxury hotel in a smaller town. He would then check into the bridal suite, apparently because that would represent the nicest accommodations available, and take all of his meals via room service, asking to speak to the chef, to whom he gave copious instructions on the preparation of his meals.
Breakfast in particular was a ritual to Rance — boiled eggs, runny, with crisp bacon... but not so crisp that the strips would break off when he inserted them into the yolk. This detail made it into the newspapers, when a reporter interviewed both the chef and the startled room service clerk, who’d been delivering the kitchen’s second attempt at Rance’s breakfast, shortly before the trouble began.
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.