Horshak waved that away with the hand holding the cigarette, making smoke trails. “I just offer it as a possibility. And meaning no offense, my friend, isn’t this ‘old man’ two years younger than yourself?”
“I’m not officially running things. Aiuppa is.”
“‘Officially’ being the operative term... But even if all we were facing here is Sam Giancana preparing to testify in front of a Senate committee exploring, among other things, the assassination of Jack Kennedy... Well, Tony? Do I really have to go on?”
Tony said nothing; he just sat puffing his cigar, his eyes on the girls frolicking in the pool, though he didn’t really see them.
“Not good,” Tony muttered. “Not good.”
Horshak drew smoke in, let smoke out. Then he smiled like a patient priest and asked, “How much security do you have here, Tony?”
Tony, still idly watching the pretty girls swim and splash at each other, said, “What you see is what you get. Half a dozen guys. Why?”
The attorney nodded, thought, said softly, “You must have personally approved the hit on Michael Satariano. The other hit at Cal-Neva, remember? The one Satariano deflected?”
His eyes flashed at Horshak. “I sanctioned that because Michael whacked DeStefano! What else could we do — tell Mad Sam’s crew easy-the-fuck-come, easy-the-fuck-go?”
“I would have advised against it — Satariano was a loyal man, and his Medal of Honor celebrity could have... Well, that’s beside the point, isn’t it? You didn’t seek my counsel.”
“That’s right, Sid. When I want your advice, I ask for it.”
“Which you are now, right?”
Tony swallowed. “Right.”
The attorney sat back; he gestured with a gentle open hand. “For the sake of argument — what if Satariano didn’t ‘whack’ Mad Sam DeStefano? What if Giancana framed him for it?”
“Why in hell?”
Horshak shrugged. “Perhaps to get the heat off the real assassins, and put them — and Mad Sam’s crew — securely in his debt. And if you’re Sam Giancana planning a comeback, wouldn’t that make perfect sense? Remove an obstacle — Satariano — and build allies with Mad Sam’s fatherless camp? But, then, you’re much closer to this kind of thing than I am, Tony. What do you hear?”
Tony shifted on the edge of the lounge chair; the girls giggled and splashed. “Well... Gotta admit that some are sayin’ Satariano didn’t do DeStefano. Some opinion says it was Spilotro and Mad Sam’s brother — the Ant and Mario.”
The attorney nodded sagely. “The very two stalwarts who fingered Satariano.”
“Yeah. Them stalwarts. They neither one wanted to see that crazy sadistic ice-pick-happy lunatic take the witness stand.”
“And speaking of crazy lunatics taking the witness stand,” Horshak said, with as wide a smile as the cut of a mouth was capable, “how do we feel about Mooney testifying before that Senate committee?”
Tony grunted. “‘We’ don’t like it.”
“You don’t anticipate Mooney pulling a Valachi, do you?”
“No! But he will go after those CIA cocksuckers — Mooney’s made it known that those spy pricks have been letting him twist in the wind. Says those feds shoulda found some way to keep him from bein’ deported, or at least get his millions back for him from them Mexicans. And as feds themselves, they oughta be able to prevent him havin’ to testify to a buncha senators.”
A slow nod. “And how do we feel about having this CIA dirty linen exposed to public view?”
Tony threw up his hands. “It’s what those bastards deserve, but I don’t see how Mooney figures he can give the spies up without giving us up, too! We’re too, what’s the word? Interwove with those cocksuckers.”
“Strange bedfellows indeed.”
“Yeah, but who’s fuckin’ who? We thought they could help us get Cuba back, and how the hell has that been workin’ out?”
Both men were well-aware that for almost ten years, Giancana — using his Mexico City mansion as home base — had traveled all around Europe, Latin America, and the Middle East. This put Mooney in a perfect position to facilitate a major cocaine and heroin smuggling ring...
...but not for Chicago.
Tony Accardo was a legendary holdout in the drug business; he had never allowed the Outfit to get involved with junk — providing working stiffs with recreation like whores and gambling was one thing, peddling soul-robbing addiction a whole other.
But in Mexico, out from under Accardo’s watchful eye, Giancana could make side deals with anybody he pleased. Most likely in those Mexico City years, Mooney got in tight with not only the CIA but other syndicate guys, like Trafficante in New Orleans and Gambino in New York, who did not share the Accardo disdain for drugs.
“I respect and admire the stand you’ve taken on narcotics over the years,” Horshak said. “But the press isn’t going to make any such distinctions, nor is the general public... that Great Unwashed who elect our leaders. To John Q. American, the ‘mob’ and the CIA will just be bad guys together, and all sorts of structures could come apart... meaning lots of things, and people, could fall down.”
A sharp crack provided an exclamation point to the lawyer’s statement.
Narrow-eyed Accardo sat forward; wide-eyed Horshak reared back. The bodyguards dropped their playing cards and rose, turning toward the noise.
Another crack followed, one second after the first, and Accardo — already on his feet, a revolver from the pocket of his terrycloth robe now in his right fist — said, “Vic, Rocco, that’s the gate — check it out. Vic boy, go left; Rocco go around right.”
The two bodyguards had already snatched their guns from the shoulder holsters dangling off the beach chairs. Now the hoods in swimming trunks and Aloha shirts ran in opposite directions, out of the floodlights, and into relative darkness — a few security spots kept the entire grounds illuminated within reason — and around the side of the house, toward the gate.
The girls were all in the pool, terrified and treading water; eyes and mouths wide open, they were reacting to Tony’s words, not the cracks, which they’d heard but did not recognize as gunfire.
Taking a step toward the pool, Tony waved his revolver and said, “Out of the pool, girls.”
As they scrambled out, slipping on the watery edges, Tony said, “Go to a bedroom and get on the floor — stay low... Phil, escort them, then watch the front.”
Phil, a stocky, curly-headed kid, nodded and — gun in hand — herded the girls inside through the glass patio doors, saying, “Ladies, ladies, don’t trip over yourselves, gonna be fine...”
Another gunshot rang in the night, and another.
Then a terrible silence.
Four of his men dead, Tony figured — the single shots followed by no victory cry from either of his boys, well, that told the tale. Whoever this was was inside the gate, now...
Nothing left but Phil indoors, and Jimmy T. out there with them.
“Goddamnit, Tony!” Horshak said, waving his hands like a minstrel singer. “We have to do something!”
Tony whirled and thumped the lawyer’s yellow sport shirt with a thick finger, right on the little alligator. “You just stay close, Sid. Got it?”
Skinny Jimmy T. was hopping around like a demented jack rabbit, revolver in hand, looking behind him and to every side, throwing long shadows on the floodlit patio.
“Jimmy,” Tony called softly, “trouble will either come around the house, left or right, or through it, out these patio doors — or if it’s more than one guy, both; maybe all three. So get yourself some cover, watch the kitchen, and I got the rest.”