And Michael had even heard disturbing rumblings that Giancana was contemplating a return stateside, to resume his throne.
As for the children of the Capone-era crew, they had largely pleased their parents by going into legitimate pursuits — stockbrokers, Realtors, attorneys, small-business owners. And so many of the Outfit businesses these days were legit — hotels, restaurants, car dealerships, real estate tracts...
In Vegas, the Outfit had sold out to Howard Hughes, Wall Street, and the corporations — Sheraton, MGM, and Hilton — though there would always be a place in gaming for experienced guys like Michael. Somebody “connected” like Michael, however, even somebody with as spotless a record as his, usually could only manage a work permit; a gaming license required the kind of rigorous background check — net worth, stock holdings, loans, bank accounts — that would have made the Singing Nun nervous.
That was why, officially, Michael remained entertainment director at Cal-Neva, and made only thirty grand per annum. Of course his bonuses took him up to over one hundred grand, but what the Gaming Control Board didn’t know wouldn’t hurt it.
He would soon be in a position to take an early retirement — fifty-five, he and Pat had agreed to — and all of this would be behind him. He had enjoyed managing the Cal-Neva, was considered a good, tough but fair, nice if somewhat remote, boss; he had restored the resort’s reputation and made it a consistent earner. And he had ducked, for decades, the bullet of being asked by the Outfit to do something... unpleasant.
Satisfied his cleaning staff was on top of things, Michael entered his office, which did not reflect the rustic nature of the rest of the facility.
This was an executive’s inner sanctum — dark woodwork, a large neat mahogany desk with matching wooden file cabinets — whose windows provided a striking view of the lake. The fireplace did retain the rough boulder-like look of the lodge, and above the fireplace — other than a few framed family portraits on the desk — was the only personal touch in the room.
Over the mantel a World War II — vintage Garand rifle rested on two prongs, underneath it a small, simply framed document bearing a watercolor American flag and calligraphic lettering: “To Michael P. Satariano, Corporal United States Army, for saving my life in a strafing attack by a Japanese Zero fight on Bataan March 10, 1942,” signed “General Jonathan M. Wainwright.”
Once a month Michael cleaned the weapon and polished its stock. Other than his father’s .45 — stowed away in a safe-deposit box, with various cash — it was the only gun he owned.
He settled into his swivel chair — black leather, comfortably padded — and flipped open a file of receipts, picking up where he’d left off yesterday. He worked on this, and then typed some correspondence — he had no secretary, and used an Olympia on a stand beside the desk — and after a little over an hour, he took a break to wander out into the lodge and find himself a soft drink.
He stopped for a few minutes to chat with two members of the Mexican cleaning staff in the Indian Lounge, and compliment them on their work — they were waxing the dance floor — then walked into the cocktail lounge, with its colorful stained-glass dome of Austrian crystal. He ducked behind the circular bar and got himself a bottle of Coca-Cola from the small refrigerator tucked beneath. No ice, but the Coke sweated with cold. He did not take a glass with him, just using a bottle opener and helping himself to a Cal-Neva cocktail napkin.
When he returned to his office, he almost dropped the Coke, because seated in the visitor’s chair across from Michael’s desk was Sam “Mooney” Giancana.
“Nothing for me, thanks,” Giancana said.
The diminutive, deeply tanned gangster — looking like a golfer in his straw orange-banded fedora, avocado sport jacket, burnt-orange Polo shirt, and lime slacks — leaned back casually, arms folded, legs crossed, ankle on a knee; his shoes were light-brown tasseled loafers, and he wore no socks.
“Make yourself at home,” Michael said, and he and his Coke went behind the desk.
“In a way, this still is my home.” Giancana’s face was an oval with a lumpy nose and a sideways slash of a smile stuck on haphazardly; his eyes lurked behind gray-lensed sunglasses.
“Well, you do still know your way around,” Michael said, with a nod toward the fireplace.
Giancana smiled. “I checked myself into Chalet Fifty. For old times’ sake. Hope you don’t mind.”
What this meant was, Giancana had entered the chalet and used the underground passage to come up through the secret doorway that was built into one side of the stone fireplace.
Seated now, Michael said, carefully, “Is this your place? I’ve never been sure how you and the Boys were splitting things up, after you left.”
Giancana shrugged. “Accardo gets his piece of my Mexican interests. I still get my piece of Chicago’s interests. Nothing’s changed — ’cept that hothead Aiuppa is sitting where I should.”
Michael managed not to smile; the idea of Giancana considering someone a hothead was... amusing.
On the other hand, Michael had never really seen Giancana lose his temper. He’d watched the little gangster stab a fork into a guy’s hand once, and slap an occasional underling, but always with a cool calculation that was in its way far more frightening.
“I didn’t know you were back in the country,” Michael said.
“No one does.”
“Not even the feds?”
“I’m not wanted for anything. I left the States of my own free will.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “But I don’t need to advertise, neither. That’s why I slipped over the border, like a goddamn wetback. And I’ll slip back over the same way. The family?”
It took a beat for Michael to figure out what Giancana meant.
Then he said, “My family’s fine, thanks — Pat’s busy with her pet projects and charities. Anna’s in high school now. And Mike’s over in Vietnam — should be home soon.”
Giancana nodded. “Finally the fuck winding down. Them kids’ll all be back ’fore you know it — that’s good. You must be proud of the boy.”
“I am. But mostly I’ll be glad to have him home safe, again... And your girls?”
“Grown up. Two married, one divorced. That’s about par.” Giancana made a disparaging click in one cheek. “No values, these days.”
Michael leaned on an elbow. “Sam — surely you didn’t come all this way just to make small talk.”
Giancana shrugged with both shoulders this time, then put his hands on his knees. “Seeing you’s a big part of it, Saint.”
“Really.”
“Oh yeah. See, I’ve let you sit on the sidelines, all these years, ’cause it’s been useful to our thing, having a guy like you, all wrapped up in the flag, fronting for us.”
The back of Michael’s neck was tingling.
“But, Mike — I ain’t never forgot who you are, what you are. You’re still the guy that shot Frank Abatte in Cal City that time. You’re still the guy that single-handed took out that hit team on Al down in Palm Beach. And you’re still the guy that nailed those two disloyal prick bodyguards that turned on Frank.”
Michael leaned back; he twitched a smile. “Actually, Sam, I’m not.”
“Not?”
“That’s not who I am anymore.”
Giancana offered up yet another shrug, gestured with open hands; for Michael’s taste, the man was working way too hard to seem casual.