Michael was able to convince Frank Nitti that Estelle was loyal; that despite what Drury was claiming in the press — about the Colony’s third-floor housing wide-open cash-and-carry prostitution — Estelle had strictly used the favors of her 26 girls as a dividend for high rollers. That no charges were brought against her indicated she was telling the truth.
“If you vouch for her, kid,” Nitti had said, as they sat in a booth at the Capri, “that’s all I need.”
But the landscape was shifting, and in early 1943 the blessing of Frank Nitti did not always seem to be enough.
Though not privy to board meetings, Michael would get the lowdown from his friend Louie Campagna. On a peaceful return trip to Calumet City — where once a month Campagna and Michael strolled around, just to maintain in certain people the fear of God — Campagna had warned Michael that Estelle might well be in solid with Nitti, but other Outfit insiders suspected her.
“She’s straight, Louie,” Michael said, behind the wheel. “She’s a good kid.”
“She’s a ‘kid’ ten years older than you, Mike. And her old boyfriend Nicky Dean’s helping the feds, we think. Plus which, Ricca and some of the others don’t view her getting a free ride from the cops same way Frank does.”
“How so?”
Campagna, who was cleaning his fingernails with a pocket knife, said, “They think she got a pass ’cause she’s cooperating with the feds.”
Frowning, Michael said, “Louie — she got a pass because Drury couldn’t make that prostitution charge stick!”
“Yeah? What about the gambling?”
“She leased the second floor out to Sonny Goldstone, you know that.”
Campagna shrugged. “They coulda nailed her, if they wanted. Had her in for questioning half a dozen times.”
“I been questioned, you been questioned. That doesn’t make us rats.”
The stocky little hood put away the pocket knife, as the car rolled by a steel mill. “I know you like the broad. Who wouldn’t? But even if she’s as straight as you think—”
“She is.”
“Fine. But Ricca suspects her. And maybe you noticed, innocent till proved guilty don’t come up much, in our circle.”
From his position on the sidelines, right next to the game, Michael could easily sense the tensions. Though gradual, a certain physical deterioration on Nitti’s part was inescapable — the man was drinking more wine than milk these days, taking prescription pain medication for back pains relating to an old assassination attempt, and he’d lost weight, giving him a tired, sunken-cheeked look.
To Michael, however, the man seemed no less sharp; and his impeccable grooming, a point of pride for the one-time barber, kept him looking like the top executive he was. Often Nitti and Michael would have lunch together, sometimes joined by Campagna, sometimes not, and Nitti increasingly spoke of business in front of Michael.
Whose status as Nitti’s number-two man (after Campagna) was widely known now, and accepted. The story about Calumet City had reached legendary proportions, and his “rescue” of Capone from disloyal bodyguards — though only a rumor, never openly discussed — had inspired the resurrection, from the Medal of Honor press coverage, of the Demonio Angelico tag the Filipino Scouts had bestowed him. Spoken in front of Michael, a certain comic tone usually was present; but respect was there, too. Kidding on the square.
Michael, of course, had benefited from Nitti’s misreading of his assault at the Capone estate. But the young bodyguard, a novice to Outfit politics, could not foresee the ramifications facing Nitti himself; and by February, the breaking point approached.
In the white-and-gold presidential suite at the Bismarck, Nitti, tie loose, sat on the couch, stocking feet up on a coffee table, a glass of wine in hand. Campagna, Michael, and their boss had just returned from St. Hubert’s where treasurer Jake Guzik revealed overall earnings were up, despite the decreased prostitution revenue.
While Nitti relaxed, Campagna stewed, pacing behind the couch. This had been coming for weeks; even months. Campagna would bring the subject of Ricca up, and Nitti would bat it away. But today the putty-faced consigliere clearly would be heard.
Campagna finally lumbered around to plant himself before his seated master. “Frank, you gotta face this thing.”
Nitti’s eyes stared into nothing; the glass of wine in his hand was still. “What thing?”
“You know what thing. The Ricca thing.”
The tiniest of shrugs caused a bare ripple in the wine. “Nothing to face. Profits are up. We stand firm against these charges.”
Nitti meant the continuing federal investigation into the Hollywood extortion matter. Any day now, the indictments would fall, hence the anxiety in the air.
Campagna’s voice trembled; his hands were balled. “Frank, you know that ain’t what I mean. You have to strike back.”
“Not the way I do things.”
“In the old days it was. Cermak hit you, you hit him. Mayor of the fuck Chicago tries to have you killed, and you have him killed!”
“Discreetly, Louie,” Nitti said, his free hand raised in benediction, although still his eyes did not meet his advisor’s. “Discreetly.”
Now Campagna was gesturing animatedly — this was the most worked up Michael had ever seen the low-key hoodlum. “Sure, the papers wrote it off as a botched hit on Roosevelt! But the people who counted, they knew — our people, they found out what happened when you try to take out Frank fucking Nitti!”
Finally Nitti looked at his old friend. “Louie, those days are over. Got to be over. Have to be over. We’re businessmen. We came up out of the streets, but now we’re in skyscrapers. They call us gangsters, but we’re really just capitalists, good American capitalists. Unions, restaurants, laundries, nice and legit — plus, yeah, gambling and such — slice it how you want, it’s goods and services for the public. Look at how the Colony Club backfired on those fuckin’ do-gooders. Drury and Ness made themselves the villains! Not us. We’re just businessmen, givin’ the public what they want.”
This was an extraordinary speech, coming from Nitti, who chose his words so sparingly. Michael, pretending to read Film Fun, peered over the edges of a picture of Toby Wing.
Campagna was sitting down next to this man for whom he obviously had so much affection. “I agree with all of what you say, Frank. You know that. Your vision of the future is my vision of the future.”
Nitti patted Campagna’s knee. “Good to hear, Louie. Always good to hear.”
An edge spiked Campagna’s reply. “Well, what I got to say now won’t be. Frank, what happened down in Florida was too big to contain. People know.”
“Know what?”
“Well, for one thing, that Al’s slipped the trolley. The new boys we sent down there, to replace all them casualties, some of ’em are in Ricca’s pocket and they spilled.”
“Nobody’s said a word to me about it.”
Campagna raised his hands as if in surrender, though he was still fighting. “Nobody wants to broach the fuckin’ subject, Frank! Nobody wants to accuse you of... of...”
Nitti frowned — more in disappointment than anger. “Lying? Deceiving my brothers?”
“Well.” Campagna swallowed thickly. “It could be viewed like that.”
Nitti took his feet off the coffee table; set down the glass of vino. Swiveled to throw a hard gaze at Campagna, all the harder coming out of the sunken sockets.