“Selling what?”
“Judging by who they turned out to be, I’d say selling themselves as salesmen.”
Ness nodded, apparently liking that analysis.
Drury asked, “Speak to them yourself, Mr. Satariano?”
“No. They were obnoxious. I kept my distance. But looking back, I can see they suddenly turned into high rollers, after that robbery.”
“Thanks for not keeping your distance tonight,” Drury said. “We knocked on the door and announced ourselves, and they started shooting. We ducked in the stairwell, and they ran out and shot some more. We’re both lucky not to be ventilated.”
“Glad to help,” Michael said flatly. “Anything else, fellas?”
“Unfortunately,” Ness said, “you’ll have to come over to the station house, to make a statement.”
“Can’t I make that here?”
With unmistakable, nonnegotiable firmness, Ness said, “No.”
“Well, I’m down the hall with my girlfriend. I assure you I’m not a john, and she’s not a whore.”
“Me neither,” Marie whimpered, mascara running.
Michael continued: “She’s one of the owners and managers of the club.”
“Estelle Carey?” Drury asked.
Michael nodded.
“Well,” Drury said smugly, “that’s handy.”
“What do you mean, handy?”
Ness said, “We want to talk to her, too.”
Michael did his best to reassure Estelle that everything would be fine, though sounds from the street below — officious yelling by cops, car and paddy wagon doors slamming, the frightened/irritated yammer and babbling of those being rounded up — undermined his efforts.
Finally Ness came around to collect them. Drury was chatting with another plainclothes cop in the hall, a Sergeant O’Connor, who was taking over the supervisory role. Then Michael and Estelle were escorted by Ness and Drury down the elevator and through the downstairs, where a small army of boys in blue were ushering indignant socialites out to waiting paddy wagons on Rush Street, the red-and-blue lights of police vehicles competing with neons.
Michael and Estelle were driven in an unmarked car to turn-of-the-century Town Hall Station, a formidable red-brick building on the corner of Addison and Halsted. Within ten minutes, inside a small interrogation chamber whose walls and ceiling were acoustically tiled, Michael and Ness sat at a small scarred wooden table.
Michael — his tie off, his collar open — glanced around: the usual two-way mirror was absent.
Noting Michael taking stock, Ness tossed his fedora on the table and said, “It’s secure.”
“It’s not rigged for eavesdropping?”
“No. Some of the other booths are. Like the one Lieutenant Drury’s questioning your friend Estelle Carey in.”
“You’re shutting her down?”
“The Colony Club’ll be a memory by tomorrow.”
“Won’t it reopen? It’s a protected joint.”
He shook his head. “Tomorrow morning I’m holding a press conference at the Colony. Every paper in town will have pictures of the casino and the third-floor cathouse.”
“Sounds like good advertising.”
“No. They’re done. Something will open to take its place, no doubt — but the Colony’s over.”
Michael grunted a humorless laugh. “Real blow you struck for Uncle Sam — some serviceman hangout.”
“It’s the Outfit we’re squeezing. That was fortuitous, tonight.”
“Me saving your ass, you mean?”
Ness smiled, barely. “Well... that, and it giving us a chance to talk privately. You’ve been something of a stranger, Michael. You don’t call... you don’t write...”
“You said you were going to be out of town.”
“I gave you Lieutenant Drury’s number. You’ve been back from Miami for well over a week. What went on down there?”
“Why, what do you hear?”
“Just a few rumblings.”
“Such as?”
Ness shrugged. “They’ve imported some new staff.”
Michael shrugged. “Security’s an issue, on the Capone estate.”
Eyes narrowing, Ness leaned forward, slightly. “Did you see Capone? Talk to him?”
“I saw him.”
“What’s his, uh... mental state?”
Michael fixed a cold gaze on the fed. “You knew, didn’t you?”
Ness, all innocence, blinked twice. “Knew what?”
Now Michael sat forward. “You manipulated me into infiltrating Frank Nitti’s inner circle, so I could finally settle up with the man who had my father killed.”
Michael slammed a hand on the table — hard.
But Ness didn’t jump. Or even blink.
“And all the time you knew — knew ‘King’ Capone was a drooling imbecile.”
Silence held the room for perhaps thirty seconds. Michael felt himself trembling and hoped it didn’t show. Ness seemed a statue.
Then finally the G-man said, “We didn’t know. We suspected — medical projections were made, based upon his condition when he was released, back in ’39. But until right now... we weren’t sure.”
“Hell, you oughta put Big Al’s puss on a poster and hang that up in all the barracks, and show GIs what VD really can do.”
“...It’s an idea.”
Michael snorted a nonlaugh and sat back and folded his arms. “So. I’ve fulfilled my mission, then.”
“You have accomplished a major portion of it, at least. You’ve confirmed my theory that Frank Nitti has maintained his control over the syndicate by perpetuating the fiction that Capone was ruling from afar.”
Twitching a smile, Michael said, “Haven’t you veered slightly off course, Mr. Ness? Aren’t you supposed to be protecting military bases and defense plants from painted women?”
Ness gestured with an open hand — vaguely conciliatory. “Your sarcasm aside, Michael, that is indeed my job — but I’m also part of a coordinated effort by various government agencies to put the Capone bunch out of business.”
“You think stopping Frank Nitti is a good idea.”
“Don’t you?”
Michael shrugged one shoulder. “Nitti’s not the worst man in his world.”
Ness’s eyes at once widened and tightened. “You can’t be serious — what the hell kind of ‘world’?”
Calmly, Michael said, “A legitimate world, within ten years, if Nitti has his way. Get rid of him and you’re looking at Paul the Waiter Ricca — and psychos like Stefano and Giancana, mad dogs up from the street. It’ll mean decades of gambling and whores and loansharking and narcotics. Capone’ll seem like Walt Disney.”
The federal agent sat silent, stunned by this onslaught of words, coming from the normally taciturn Michael.
Finally, Ness said, “Your father thought John Looney was the best man in their world. And look what it got him.”
Michael snapped, “Frank Nitti is not John Looney, and I’m not my father.”
“Are you sure?”
Michael said nothing.
Ness looked pale; almost sick. “You’ve... you’re not the kid I sent in, Michael. Maybe I made a mistake.”
This time Michael’s laugh did have humor in it — dark humor. “What, I’m infected now? You oughta have access to penicillin, if anybody does.”
Still wearing that stricken expression, Ness said, “You need to understand, Michael. Undercover work has unique pitfalls. You can easily become part of the universe you’ve insinuated yourself into.”
“If you don’t, Mr. Ness, you get killed.”
With a sigh, the fed said, “I know that. I know that.” Ness became suddenly business-like. “So I’m pulling the plug on you, Michael. This relationship is over.”