The Confessions of Al Capone by Loren D Estleman

Author:Loren D Estleman [Estleman, Loren D]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Historical, Thrillers, Crime
ISBN: 9780765331199
Google: aC6BaeEoUqgC
Amazon: 148050646X
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2013-06-11T05:00:00+00:00

TWENTY

AFTER A SWEATY, TOSS-TURN NIGHT, PETER VASCO GOT UP RESOLVED TO commit an act of insubordination and compound it by violating national policy in wartime.

It was early and still dark out, but dim light glowing through the stained-glass windows told him Brother Thomas was already at work, sweeping carpets and attacking with a zealot's fervor the daily cobwebs spun by heretical spiders from the crown of thorns behind the altar. Vasco went straight from the rectory to the toolshed and drove off as soon as the Model T sputtered into action. He was not dressed as clergy.

After showering and shaving in the tiny monastic bathroom he shared with Kyril, he'd put on a sport shirt and gray flannels and after a moment's consideration left even his hat behind. He'd seen more bare heads in Florida than anywhere he'd ever been and felt an almost desperate urge not to stand out.

He found a filling station that opened early for fishermen and waited while a man in a dirty yachting cap pulled away from the pump, driving an old Dodge pickup towing a boat with an inboard motor, a bundle of fishing rods sticking out over the stern. The sun was just beginning to stain the empty black sky above the ocean.

The attendant, a man too old for military service, took his stamps and cash, scratching behind his ear with the nozzle in his other hand. "You with the government?"

He'd anticipated that reaction to the number of stamps. "No, I work at home. This is the first time I've had the car out in a month." For some reason he found he could lie with less guilt in civilian clothes.

"Hoarder, huh? Oughtta be ashamed of yourself." The man grinned, his tongue showing through the gap where his front teeth belonged.

He did feel shame, but not for that reason. He was disobeying Hoover's orders, to take back up with Capone as soon as possible, and using gasoline for nonessential travel. A tank or a jeep might be made useless because of this impulsive act. A poster pasted on the station window read is this trip necessary?

It was. He was compelled beyond all reason to spend one day as something other than a priest.

A train was out of the question. They didn't begin running for another hour, and he couldn't afford to be seen waiting on a bench dressed as he was. Also, the chance of encountering a regular commuter on board who had seen him around town was too great. How strange that he should feel more as if he were acting undercover as plain Peter Vasco than when he masqueraded as a servant of the Roman Catholic Church.

He turned off a side street onto the coast highway and entered the thickening stream of traffic. The shipyards and defense plants were changing shifts. He crawled along among carloads of workers sharing vehicles, many of them yawning, some of the women applying makeup behind the wheel with the aid of rearview mirrors. All the

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