“Not a problem. Of course, Mae won’t love it...”
Mimi was a gracious, talkative host, who pointed out all the sights, from a rock pool with tropical fish (Al liked to feed them bread crumbs) and the dock on the north side, which was home to a cabin cruiser (the Arrow) and a speedboat (christened Sonny). No cement wall encumbered the dockside view of Biscayne Bay — white sunlight careening off white sails, powerboats cutting abstract designs in the blue expanse with their wakes.
Mimi sat Michael down by the pool on one of several deck chairs and went into the cabana to fetch refreshment.
Handing a moisture-sweating bottle of Coke to Michael, a grinning Mimi said, “Frank said you don’t drink. He respects that. Me, frankly... I think that’s plain nuts.”
And then Mimi laughed, so Michael laughed, too.
“Beer for me all the way,” Mimi said. “Been good to our family... Hey, you know who built this villa? Whose money, I mean, back in the early ’20s?”
“No idea.”
“Clarence M. Busch of St. Louie!”
“The brewer?”
“None other. When Prohibition came in, one beer baron on hard times had to sell out to another one, on the rise! Ain’t life funny?”
“Hilarious,” Michael said.
The two men sat there for fifteen minutes, talking, or anyway Mimi talked and Michael listened; the view of the bay stretched out before them, a soothing presence.
“I have the feeling,” Mimi said carefully, “that Frank may doubt the loyalty of some of our boys.”
“He didn’t say so,” Michael lied.
Mimi swigged his beer. “Well, we always keep a tight lid on, when Al and Frank get together. Hell, even I won’t be around.”
“Oh?”
“Less I know about what’s really goin’ on, happier I am.”
“Don’t you live here, Mimi?”
“Actually, no. I got a place down the road.”
“Who does, besides half a dozen of your guards?”
Mimi ticked off fingers. “Mae and her sister Muriel, and Muriel’s husband, Louis. Muriel and Louis already skedaddled — went for a few days’ vacation to Fort Lauderdale. Brownie lives off premises; so does Rose, our maid.”
“And of course, Mr. Capone lives here.”
“Al lives here. And I guess you know the rules, where Al’s concerned.”
“I’ve been told not to bother him. Keep my distance.”
“He’s uncomfortable with anybody but family. Even the guards keep ten feet or more away.”
“Really.”
Mimi nodded. “Al’s a cheerful man. Always has been good-natured. But he came out of prison... fearful. You know anything about Alcatraz?”
“Just that it’s on a rock near Frisco.”
“It was designed for only the most famous inmates. Sort of an all-star prison team... and some of those guys are psychos — sick, warped fucks. Al got beat up, more than once. There were attempts on his life.”
“A man in his position makes enemies.”
Mimi shook his head, in disgust. “These weren’t enemies — just assholes wanting to take the biggest man in America down. And enhance their own stupid reputations.”
“Must’ve been hard on your brother.”
“You quote me, Mike, I’ll deny it... but Al’s jumpy. Nervous. His greatest fear is some enemy out of his past will come over those walls and... I don’t know what.”
Michael was already “over” that wall. “You trust your security force, Mimi?”
“I do. About half of ’em worked for Paul Ricca back home, you know — and the Waiter ran the toughest crew in Chicago.”
Apparently Mimi Capone was unaware of the suspected Ricca takeover.
“What kind of alarm system do you have?”
“Nothing — just a yappin’ terrier that belongs to Muriel. And the mutt’s gone, went on vacation with ’em.”
“Mr. Capone’s room isn’t wired or anything?”
“No. No need. We’ve got strength in numbers. Firepower.”
“You do indeed.”
“Security on Palm Island is my job,” Mimi said, puffing his chest out. “And I take pride in it. I love my brother. I wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”
“I hope you don’t feel I’m trying to undermine you, in any way.”
“Not at all! Frank has a right to check us out before a meet. That was a good catch, those awnings... Ready for the nickel tour, inside?”
The house had fourteen rooms, not counting four baths and a glass-enclosed sun porch. The living room was to the right as you entered, a banistered stairway to a landing opposite the front door; at left a dining room beckoned.
A large-as-life painting of a somberly attired Capone and a similarly dressed young boy (his son, at a tender age?) loomed from over the fireplace of a cavernous living room. The simple Mission style of the house, with its graceful arches, seemed at odds with the tasteless array of obviously expensive Louis XIV furnishings, complete with scrolls, curved armrests, and golden ornamental motifs. The over-upholstered, massive chairs and couches added to the aura of tacky opulence.
“I decorated this myself,” a lilting female voice said from beside Michael. Was that a hint of brogue...?
“It’s lovely,” Michael said, turning to the tall, slim woman who had deposited herself at his side.
The beaming interior decorator responsible for this ghastly living room was as charming as it wasn’t; she had big blue sparkling eyes, platinum blonde hair brushing her shoulders, and pert, pretty features. At first glance Michael thought the woman might be in her thirties, but on closer examination, more like midforties.
“You must be Michael Satariano,” she said, offering a small slender hand bearing a big fat diamond. “Mae Capone. We’re so pleased to have you with us.”
Michael knew nothing about Mrs. Capone — the gangster had worked hard to keep his wife out of the limelight — and wondered if this striking woman had once been a chorus girl.
“You have a beautiful home,” he told her.
“I’m about ready to remodel,” she said, hands on hips, surveying the living room; she wore a simple blue-and-white floral-print dress with a white belt and white shoes. “I think I overdid it, buying all this junk when we first moved in.”
“Oh, no, it’s—”
“Pretty gauche,” she said, and made a “click” in one cheek. She looked at him, head cocked, half-smirking. “You can take the girl outa Brooklyn, but you can’t take Brooklyn out of the girl.”
Only the accent that was bedeviling Michael wasn’t of the Brooklyn variety...
“Mimi,” she said, stepping out to address Michael’s tour guide, “would you go upstairs and see if Al needs anything? He hasn’t sent down for lunch.”
“Sure, Mae,” Mimi said, and scurried off.
She slipped her arm in Michael’s and gazed at him with those big blue eyes. “Did my brother-in-law offer you lunch?... He’s a peppy host, but dumber than Dagwood.”
Michael laughed at this unexpected (and accurate) observation, and said, “I haven’t eaten, but I have my own car. I can easily go and—”
She squeezed his arm and walked him toward the kitchen. “You’re our guest. It’s not every day we have a Congressional Medal of Honor winner within these walls.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Capone, but please don’t make a fuss over—”
She gave him a firm, friendly look. “You’re going to call me Mae, and I’m going to call you Michael. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
The kitchen was spacious, modern, and very white — from the tile floor to the counters and cabinets and the latest appliances; at her direction, he sat at a white-and-black-flecked Formica table. Despite the newness of the surroundings, a pungent odor took him back to his childhood, and not the part spent with the Satarianos...