Road to Perdition by Max Allan Collins

Author:Max Allan Collins [Collins, Max Allan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brash Books, LLC
Published: 2016-08-16T06:00:00+00:00

That same evening, Maguire was in his studio in his Chicago apartment, in the red glow of the darkroom, surrounded by shelves of his beloved cameras, developing his photos. With tweezers, he fished a photo of the dead oaf out of the tray of fixing solution, then hung it up to dry. He was on photo number six, the last of the usable shots, when the phone rang.

With no sense of urgency, he wandered out into the living room of the small but nicely furnished flat, adorned with the artist’s own work: framed photos of dead bodies, here a corpse in a pool hall, there a shot-up gangster in a corridor, here a bloody naked suicide in a bathtub. It was home to him—he just didn’t bring his dates here.

Flopping on the sofa next to the phone on an end table, he answered with his usual, “Harlen Maguire.”

“Frank Nitti,” the assured voice said on the other end of the line.

Maguire scribbled on a pad as Nitti spoke, making notes, doodling, as the ganglord filled him in on the assignment, saying, “This may take some time—some real tracking, some real research. I can offer you sixteen hundred.”

“Good…because that’s my usual rate, Mr. Nitti. As you know…And anything I make on the photographs is mine.”

“I’m not interested in photography, Mr. Maguire. But I do think creating evidence at the scene of your own crimes is reckless.”

“I’m still around. You’re still calling.”

“I need you to drop everything. You need to go right away.”

“That’s no problem.”

“The funeral’s tomorrow afternoon—it’s a three-, maybe four-hour drive to the Tri-Cities.”

“I travel light.”

Nitti paused. “You do know who Michael O’Sullivan is.”

“Sure. Never met him. But I know his work…Angel of Death, pretty fancy moniker.”

“Well deserved.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I’m a fan of his. So…he isn’t traveling alone—there’s a kid?”

“His son—Michael O’Sullivan, Jr. Eleven. Looks younger.”

Maguire wrote the boy’s name and age down and then turned the “11” into a square and made it into a face, drawing hair, ears, and two dots for eyes.

“So,” Maguire said, “what do I do with junior?”

“What do you usually do with witnesses?”

“Okay.” He drew a downturned mouth on the doodled face. “Will do.”

And they said their good-byes, and he hung up, knowing he should have asked for more, for clipping the kid; but not wanting to cross Nitti. It wasn’t a matter of being afraid of the gangster, though Nitti was not to be underestimated, former torpedo that he was. It wasn’t that, at all…

Maguire got up to straighten one of the framed photos—he’d noticed it hanging crooked, as he spoke to Nitti. This shot was of a murder, or rather murders, he hadn’t done; but one of his nicest compositions nonetheless: six corpses on the floor of S-M-C Cartage, brains spilling out of their shattered skulls—the seventh corpse had crawled out of frame, toward the door, compromising but not really spoiling this record of the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.

No, Maguire didn’t want to risk losing the assignment.

He’d always wanted to meet the Angel of Death.

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