Then, without moving, he disappeared into darkness. Looney waited. Why run? Mike had figured it, hadn’t he? The only way to get Capone to give up Connor was if John Looney were dead.
The old man could hear the footsteps on the wet pavement, growing closer, closer, and then Mike O’Sullivan — the machine gun in his left hand now, the .45 Colt in his right — was standing before him, the two almost close enough to reach out to each other... but not quite.
“You would kill your father,” Looney said, “to avenge your son?”
“You’re not my father.”
Looney’s chin jutted — trembled. “I was as much a father to you as to my own boy.”
“Only I wasn’t blood.”
The old man swallowed. “And now you need mine, don’t you?... Well, those of us who take this path, we know don’t we, son? Someday... some night... we all may come to an end like this.”
O’Sullivan kept the .45 trained. “Spare me your blarney, old man.”
But there was truth in his voice when Looney said, “If this way it must be... I’m glad it’s you.”
O’Sullivan shot him anyway.
Looney, a bullet in the brain, stumbled back into the Pierce Arrow and slid down the side of the car, sat for a moment, then fell on his side. A stream of blood from his forehead made its way toward the gutter.
O’Sullivan stood for several long moments, staring at the corpse of a man he had loved; he had wept over his dead wife and son, and for Michael too, and he might have been weeping now, but the rain streaming down his face concealed it, even from himself.
Around him, in buildings on all sides, lights were going on in windows, yellow squares glowing in the dark wet night — then faces appeared in those squares, indistinct, smeary bystanders looking down on the carnage in silence from the warmth of their lodgings.
Only one man in the street was standing — the rest were scattered in various postures of violent death. He must have looked so small to them, O’Sullivan thought, viewed from on high, a man standing alone in the rainy street.
He looked up at them, his face moving from blurred face to blurred face, explaining himself... no, warning them of where life could take them.
“Go back inside!” he called, voice echoing like the earlier gunfire. “And pray — pray that God never puts you on my road!”
But the lights stayed on, the faces continued to watch... to judge. Police would be called; sirens would wail.
And Mike O’Sullivan — knowing he hadn’t made his point to these witnesses, but confident he’d made an impression on John Looney — walked back into the rainy darkness, which swallowed him, leaving the empty street behind.
The almost empty street.
Though Frank Nitti’s office was in the Lexington Hotel, he — unlike Capone — did not live on the premises; he’d come over from his home on the near West Side to be available when O’Sullivan called back.
Right now, with most of the lights off, he sat at his desk, in his shirtsleeves and suspenders and no tie, taking his second call tonight from the remarkable Mr. O’Sullivan.
“It’s done?” Nitti asked.
“John Looney is dead,” O’Sullivan’s voice said over the scratchy line, as cold and matter of fact as a nurse saying the doctor will see you now; the sound of clatter and chatter in the background indicated the man was calling from a restaurant or diner.
Nitti asked, “You expect any retaliation?”
“No — I took down his seven best men, too. Best, after me, that is.”
“Seven,” Nitti said, impressed. “You’ve tied the St. Valentine’s Day record.”
“I wasn’t keeping score. You want Rance’s records returned to you, Mr. Nitti, or should I send them to the feds?”
“Send them back addressed to me here at the hotel,” Nitti said. “What do you want in return?”
“The money I’ve taken from you... and a permanent truce between us.”
“Done... How long will it take you to get here?”
“I’m two hours from the city. I’ll have no opposition?”
“Those were your terms,” Nitti said, putting his shrug into his voice, “and I agreed to them.”
“Mr. Nitti, if this is a trap, pray I don’t survive it.”
Nitti sighed. “Mr. O’Sullivan, I have been sympathetic to your cause from the start. It was only due to business concerns that I couldn’t aid you, before.”
“Where does Capone stand on this?”
“With the old man dead, Al won’t give a damn about Connor Looney... in fact, with both of them gone, it opens the door wide for us in the Tri-Cities. But then, you’ve already figured that out, haven’t you, Mr. O’Sullivan?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still interested in working for us?”
“No.”
Nitti twitched a smile, but that he kept out of his voice. “If you change your mind, I’m sure we’d have a position for you. You’re the best at your trade I’ve ever encountered... Mr. Capone agrees. But in any event, he will want your assurance that, after this... it’s over.”
“You both have that assurance... My son and I will disappear.”
“Good... You remember where the Lexington Hotel is, I assume? Well, you’re looking for room 1032.”
“... You sure you want this done on your premises? Won’t that attract undue attention?”
“Oh, Mr. O’Sullivan — you of all people should not be so naive. Here we control things. Do you really think every dead body that turns up in a ditch died there?”
“... Remember what I said, Mr. Nitti — if this is a trap... ”
“Don’t lower yourself with a threat, Mr. O’Sullivan. Have a little dignity. Retain your aura of mystery.”
And Nitti hung up.
Then the Chicago mob’s top business executive — the real spider at the web’s center — considered going home; it was, after all, late on a Sunday night, though his wife Anna would be asleep by now. Perhaps he should stay until O’Sullivan arrived at the hotel, and this nasty business was over...
On reflection, this seemed to Nitti the prudent course of action, and he selected a file from a stack on the desk and, in a pool of yellow light from a desk lamp, went to work.
It had rained in Chicago, too, but on the drive from Rock Island, the downpour had faded to a drizzle and now it was a memory, the streets in the Loop taking on a slick, glisteny black sheen reflecting streetlamp glow and the neon of sleeping businesses, as if the pavement had caught occasional fire.
O’Sullivan parked down the block on 22nd, glad to be alone, pleased not to be making his boy part of this. The Thompson was in the car, in the backseat, still assembled; all he was carrying was a .45 in his shoulder holster and a.38 in his topcoat pocket. The wind picked up scraps of paper, which seemed to race across South Michigan Avenue, scrambling across toward the Lexington Hotel. O’Sullivan took his time. He was in no hurry.
This endless night had been long coming.
No doorman was on duty, not in the wee hours of early Monday morning. And the lobby was nearly deserted — a hotel man at the front desk; and by the elevators, skinny, edgy, snappily dressed Marco — who’d been his armed elevator operator on O’Sullivan’s last visit to the Lexington — seemed to be the only watchdog.
“Marco,” O’Sullivan said.
“Angel,” Marco said, with a respectful nod.
And the watchdog reached over and pressed the UP button for him; the grillwork doors opened, Marco stepped aside, and O’Sullivan stepped inside. The doors closed, leaving an unconcerned Marco behind.