He jerked upright.
Shook his head, dispelling the images; swung his legs around, to sit on the edge of the cot in the small cement chamber, which had an open toilet bowl and nothing else. He was in his T-shirt and pants, his belt gone; he was shoeless, though he’d been left his socks. His wristwatch was missing, but checking the time would be meaningless, as he was unsure what day it was.
He had that same drugged, sluggish feeling as when he’d woken in the cell-like bedroom at the Capone mansion. But he knew where he was and why he felt that way — he had a blurred but undeniable memory of attacking uniformed cops in this cell, when his cuffs were removed. He’d assaulted them for no particular reason, other than his grief-driven rage needed somewhere to go.
And another memory — of a doctor with a gladstone bag entering and sedating him — was not blurred at all, as distinct as the needle that had plunged into his arm. The only surprise was waking up in this isolation cell, and not in an infirmary, though considering he’d attacked both Drury and those other cops, maybe the bars made sense.
Clarity and a peculiar calm came to him quickly. He had been adrift of late, purposeless; but his reason for living had returned, as did the deadly stoic surface he’d inherited from his father. And at the core of his being glowed something red hot.
A guard came checking on him, and Michael convinced the man sufficiently he was no longer a threat. Lunch was brought to Michael, and the information that a day had passed came casually.
Eventually he was ushered to the same windowless, sound proofed interrogation booth as before. Three chairs waited at the small scarred table, and he took one. Before long Lieutenant Drury came in, in shirtsleeves and a vest, tie loosened, his creased pants looking crisp, even if the detective did not.
Drury took one of the remaining chairs. He sat and stared at Michael, who got tired of it quickly and transferred his attention to the wall. For an eternity this went on — a full minute, at least — and then a third party joined them.
Eliot Ness sat across from Michael. The G-man’s suit was rumpled, but not as rumpled as the G-man. Ness looked terrible — older, puffy, eyes circled; the smell of liquor was on him. His physical deterioration reminded Michael of somebody, vaguely... and then it came to him: Frank Nitti.
Drury said, “Are you going to take another swing at me?”
Michael said nothing.
Ness said, “Your fingerprints are all over the Carey woman’s apartment.”
Michael said nothing.
Drury said, “We don’t think you killed her. From what we understand, you two were an item.”
Michael said nothing.
Ness said, “Why do you think she was tortured?”
Michael said nothing.
Drury said, “It’s no surprise the Outfit had her killed. You know what happened yesterday? It was on the radio.”
Michael said nothing.
Ness said, “Grand Jury returned indictments in the Hollywood shakedown. Against Frank ‘the Enforcer’ Nitti, Paul ‘the Waiter’ Ricca, Louis ‘Little New York’ Campagna, Rosselli, Gioe, D’Andrea... all of ’em, short of Accardo.”
Michael said nothing.
Drury said, “Killing Estelle sends a message to Nicky Dean.”
Michael said nothing.
Ness said, “Maybe putting Estelle through hell was part of the message.”
Michael said nothing.
Drury said, “Or maybe they were after something — money, maybe?”
Michael said nothing.
Ness said, “There’s over a million missing from the stage hand union retirement fund.”
Michael said nothing.
Drury said, “But that might be bullshit. Was there ever really any money? Could the killers have found it in that apartment?”
Michael said nothing.
Ness said, “We say killers, Michael, because it seems to be a man and a woman. Lipstick on a cigarette. People she trusted. ‘Friends.’ She was fixing ’em cocoa when they started in on her.”
Michael said nothing.
Drury said, “Anybody could have sent them. Nitti or Ricca or any one of the other seven indicted. Or the whole damn bunch. You’re the little mouse in the corner, Michael. What did you hear?”
Michael said nothing.
Ness leaned forward, desperation in his eyes. “Help us. Tell us what you know. That’s why we did this in the first place, Michael — remember? That’s why you did this. To help me get these bastards.”
Michael said nothing.
Drury said, “If we can add murder to extortion, the Outfit is finished; this whole hierarchy will go away for a long, long time, and all the bribe money in the world won’t spring ’em loose.”
Michael said nothing.
Ness said, “It’s not too late for you, Michael. With that medal of yours, I can get you a job with my department. Or with Treasury; Christ, even Hoover wouldn’t turn you away. Michael, the Mafia doesn’t kill FBI agents!”
Michael said nothing.
Drury slammed a hand on the table. “What is this, that fucking omertà? You’re a made man, now — on their side? The side of those who tortured and killed that poor girl?”
Michael said nothing.
Ness said, “You have to choose, Mike. Are you part of the problem, or part of the solution? You become one of us, openly, and you’ll be protected.”
Michael said nothing.
Drury said, “It’s your best option, kid. What if we leaked the truth? That you went into Nitti’s organization, undercover, for Eliot Ness? How long would they let you live?”
Michael said nothing.
Ness looked at Drury and shook his head. Drury, lowering his gaze, sighed heavily. The G-man got up slowly, took one last mournful lingering look at Michael, and went out. Drury, his expression disgusted, was halfway out the door when Michael finally spoke.
“Interesting interrogation technique,” Michael said.
Drury, startled, said nothing.
“Don’t hit the suspect with a rubber hose,” Michael said. “Hit him with everything you know, and see if it breaks him down... Do I get my phone call now?”
Still poised in the doorway, Drury sighed. “You don’t need it. A lawyer’s already been around. Should be here with your writ of habeas corpus any time now.”
“Your friend Ness looks like he’s been drinking.”
Drury stepped back in; shut the door. His tone shifted to conversational. “He’s had a tough go of it lately. Washington thought he was spending too much time in Chicago; been running him ragged all ’round the country. Only reason he’s back in town now is some joint workshop with the FBI.”
“America’s most famous Prohibition agent... a drunk?”
“Eliot’s no drunk. He’s still a good man... and he’s concerned about you. You should let him be your friend. You should let me be your friend.”
It sounded genuine enough, but Michael knew what both men wanted was to use him.
“I’ll think about it,” Michael said.
“All I ask,” Drury said.
Then the cop slipped out, and a uniformed cop ushered Michael back to the cell.
Less than an hour later, Michael was on the street, in his military-style gabardine trenchcoat over the brown sportcoat and tan slacks — same as for his dates yesterday with Patsy Ann and Estelle. The .45, returned to him by the police, was back in its shoulder sling; he was, after all, licensed to carry a concealed weapon.