A Bloody Business

by Dylan Struzan

  Vito Genovese waits outside and empties another pack of Old Gold. The night wears on. He mooches cigarettes from other drivers and shares in idle chat. Finally, Charlie appears with a peace offering, cannoli wrapped in a white napkin.

  Vito peels back the napkin. He stuffs his mouth with delight and waits.

  Finally, Charlie says, “This guy is so full of hot air he could float back to Italy.”

  They pop into the sedan and beat a hasty retreat. Vito says everybody on the street is speculating about the reason for Maranzano’s visit and that rumors are running wild.

  Charlie says, “Sicilian ambition. Plain and simple.”

  Vito looks straight ahead and navigates the heavy traffic. They run into a veritable gridlock on the Manhattan Bridge.

  Vito says, “Some guy wants to drain the East River and put in a road and a subway and a bunch of garages.”

  Charlie says, “He should join up with Maranzano.”

  Charlie stuffs his rage a little deeper into his gut.

  He says, “This wannabe Caesar has been here five minutes and already he’s got the Sicilians riled up against Joe the Boss. He doesn’t like that Joe’s mob is not purely Sicilian. You probably already guessed that. The way he talks, we’re all a bunch of bastard kids birthed by whores, especially you just because you happen to be Neapolitan.”

  Vito’s lip curls, “Some things never change. This goes all the way back to the Two Sicilies bullshit.”

  “It goes back to Vito Cascioferro,” Charlie says. “He holds a grudge against Joe the Boss since he took over the Morello family.”

  “What are you going to tell the Boss?”

  “I ain’t got the answer to that question yet,” Charlie says.

  Charlie finishes the evening with a phone call to Meyer. The next morning, they meet at a cafe across from McSorley’s for breakfast.

  Charlie says, “It was a big shindig.”

  He pokes the yolks of his eggs with the edge of his toast. Last night’s meeting still sticks in his craw. He lowers his voice to a near whisper in case of spies.

  “This is a guy who has big ideas about taking over the Italian rackets. He’s got all the bullshit. He quotes Julius Caesar like he’s some kinda saint. He’s on a sleigh-ride to become the great Sicilian Father. He shits in Sicilian. You should have seen them, last night. Everybody was eating out of the palm of his hand. I’m telling you, Meyer, this ain’t gonna end well. We can’t afford to underestimate these cocksuckers.”

  His mouth full of egg, Charlie continues, “Last night’s show was nothing more than him putting Joe the Boss on notice that he intends to take over the Brooklyn family. He must have Stefano Magaddino’s approval. They’re cousins. Famiglia, that’s what it’s all about with these guys.”

  “Will Joe give up Brooklyn?”

  “Are you kidding?” Charlie says. “He’s already struggling to keep Frankie Yale as his ally.”

  “It’s gonna be war?” Meyer says.

  Charlie says, “Sooner or later. You can count on it. You saw what Joe did to Valenti.”

  That was two years ago and still the neighborhood buzzes with the story. Valenti had planned to take over. He lost not only the war but his life. Now Vito Cascioferro sends his emissary for the same purpose.

  Charlie says, “This guy insulted Joe the Boss in five languages. One thing he don’t know is that there’s a difference between the Americanized guys and the Italians. We got guys from all over. Vito is Neapolitan. He ain’t gonna go for this takeover. And he ain’t alone.”

  “There’s more than Neapolitans,” Meyer says. “But don’t let on.”

  A heavy dose of laughter comes from a nearby table. Charlie looks up. A group of Irishmen watch a gaggle of women in black dresses and bonnets huddle in front of McSorley’s. They look like professional mourners.

  The men howl. The women tune their voices to a pitch pipe.

  One man says, “It’s the old maid brigade. Thank the Lord McSorley’s don’t let women through the front door.”

  Meyer and Charlie divvy up the price of breakfast and step outside.

  The old maid brigade sings hymns of abstinence a cappella to the passing crowd.

  Meyer lights a cigarette.

  “Have you talked to Joe Adonis?” Meyer says.

  “I’m thinkin’ about it,” Charlie says.

  “We could use a guy on the inside in Brooklyn. That’s where Maranzano intends to make his move, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Adonis is with Yale, though,” Charlie says. “He ain’t part of the Brooklyn Castellammarese. Maranzano won’t cozy up to Yale’s mob.”

  “He’s still in Brooklyn,” Meyer says. “Talk to Adonis.”

  They walk across town. The conversation drifts to the Hotel Claridge in the heart of Times Square. Prohibition has hit the hotel bar hard, which affects business. Hotels are being forced to find new revenue.

  Charlie says, “You can get a room for next to nothing. Five dollars a week. Seven dollars. That’s nothing. We could set up offices in the heart of the Tenderloin.”

  Meyer says, “What’s your beef with Adonis?”

  Charlie mutters, “His name is Joe Doto.”

  “So what?” Meyer says.

  “He calls himself Adonis. That’s gotta tell you something.”

  Adonis has a reputation with the women. That’s a sore point to Charlie, the guy who, as the expression goes, can’t get laid in a whorehouse.

  Charlie says, “How can you trust a guy like that?”

  “Is that it?” Meyer says. “Is that what’s bothering you? He gets more tail than you? Look, if Benny thinks he’s good on the street, he probably is. Benny says he’s friendly with Capone. If this Maranzano thing goes where you think it will go, we could use a tie to Chicago. And who knows, some of his charm might rub off and you could get lucky with the broads in his wake.”

  “Jesus,” Charlie says. “I’ll give the guy a call.”

  By summer, Benny has set up business in the Claridge Hotel. He rents a series of suites that overlook Broadway. The boys come to the hotel to place orders and hang out. They play cards and bring in girls from Polly’s house. Benny feeds off the energy.

  On a July afternoon, Sammy limps in sporting a black eye and a roughed-up face.

  Benny says, “What happened to you?”

  Sammy says, “A couple of guys were undercutting us so we gave them an ultimatum.”

  Benny closes the books and straps on his Colt. He packs off Sammy to the saloon where the dispute went down. The victor, an Italian guy who couldn’t be more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, is standing at the bar guzzling beer. The more he drinks, the louder he gets. The alcohol makes him sweat. He takes off his jacket. His shirt is worn and frayed. He slides from the barstool and does a jig.

  “And that’s how you take care of the Bugs and Meyer mob,” he sings.

  The bartender sets up another beer.

  Benny gives Sammy the look. Sammy nods. It’s the guy.

  Benny says, “Keep your head. We follow him out the door.”

  The guy downs another pint and stumbles out the door and down the block. Rounding a corner, he staggers past an alley. Before he can grasp what is happening, Benny is on top of him, pushing him from the street and deep into a passageway that has very little visibility to the outside world.

  “You don’t want to mess with us,” Benny says.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the kid says.

  “The bill collector.”

  The kid squints, focusing on Sammy. Benny kicks in the front of the guy’s knee. There is a loud pop. The guy’s knee buckles and he collapses to the ground. He recognizes Benny and pisses himself.

  Benny says, “As of today, you’re out of business.”

  The guy spits at Benny. Benny looks at Sammy, the black eye, the skinned-up face, the limp. He positions himself for a kick to the guy’s spine and pauses. The guy on the ground heaves. Puke goes everywhere.

  “You know wher
e this guy lives?” Benny asks Sammy.

  “Sure,” Sammy says.

  “You hear that? A word to the wise. We know where you live.”

  * * *

  Charlie spends a few days pondering his meeting with the wannabe Caesar before arranging a meeting with Frank Costello. Costello is five years Charlie’s senior. In Costello’s mind, this is a lifetime. He prides himself on his sophistication. He sees Charlie as little more than a well-dressed guttersnipe who is growing in power, the kind of power that demands respect even from a well-heeled political fixer. Charlie is keenly aware of what Costello thinks. Still, Charlie wants to cover his bases and thus arranges to meet Costello at the Fulton Fish Market early one morning. Vito drives.

  “Go around the block,” Charlie tells Vito as they approach the market. “And take it slow. Let Frank stew a little. I don’t want him to think I’m at his beck and call.”

  Vito says, “Costello is Calabresi, you know. You can’t trust the Calabresi. They got dirt under their fingernails, if you know what I mean. They were always just a bunch of farmers. Lowbrows.”

  “Yeah well this farmer has got a lot of connections to Tammany Hall.”

  Vito stews. He slows his trek around the block, idles in a nearby alley, takes a route through the docks, admires the ships in port and tests his knowledge of what is coming in on which ship. It does his heart good to make Costello wait.

  Costello peruses the New York Times. He checks his watch and hides his resentment. He is a man of punctuality who rises early and takes breakfast amid a string of meetings. He gets a shave and a manicure and has his shoes shined daily promptly at 9 A.M. Then he takes more meetings. The line to see him is long and usually distinguished.

  Vito pulls into the fish market and parks. Costello pulls a pair of rubbers from his pocket and stretches them over his newly polished shoes. He hates the smell of fish, fresh or otherwise. He hates the filth. He hates knowing the truth of the miserable journey his dinner has taken from the sea to his plate.

  Ciro Terranova runs the market. He is ally to Joe the Boss and friend to both Charlie and Costello. Fulton Market is not only the most important wholesale East Coast market; it is easily one of the largest in the world. Charlie plods through barrels and cartons and endless crates of fish hell with Costello in tow. The guys on the floor shout out “hello” or “good to see you” or “give my regards to Broadway.” Already, Terranova has set aside half a dozen bass from the morning’s catch for Charlie.

  Charlie stops in the tented area where fishmongers bid on the daily catch. The area is empty now, a suitable place for a serious discussion out of earshot of just about anybody.

  Charlie turns to Costello and says, “Maybe you heard, there’s a new wop in town. His name is Salvatore Maranzano. He’s over in Brooklyn. He could smell the money in America all the way across the ocean. I ain’t gonna be coy with you, Frank. We ain’t got that much in common but what we got, we gotta protect. Maranzano is looking to situate himself at the top of the food chain. Joe the Boss thinks you oughta join up with us. I ain’t lookin’ to take nothin’ from you, Frank. I make enough money on my own. But I’m askin’ you to come in with us as an ally. It’s good business. Joe the Boss asked me to speak to you personally. Maranzano is mustering the Sicilians to his side. He’s already put the touch on Terranova but don’t take my word for it. You can ask him yourself. He’ll tell you straight up what’s going on. Maranzano ain’t got much use for anybody who isn’t Sicilian, which is about half the guys in town, including you. Joe the Boss wants to know what side of the fence you’re sitting on.”

  Costello straightens his back; the broadness of his chest fills out. He looks dignified under a full head of trimmed and slicked-back hair.

  Costello says, “These old greasers always think they’re going to rush in and take over. Half of them don’t even speak English. What’s this guy gonna do without contacts?”

  Charlie says, “He speaks five languages. He’ll spill blood if he must. He has his eye on Brooklyn but you can be damned sure that once he gets established there, he’ll be looking to spread out. As far as Joe is concerned, you’d come in with me, then you’d have protection. We all know how much we make on bootleg. The way I see it, you got a lot of political connections. We could use a guy like you. We got a lot of muscle. You could use guys like us.”

  Costello says, “Lots of people have connections. You don’t need me.”

  Charlie says, “I heard you was trained by Big Tim Sullivan personally. Is that so? You got an in with the Irish. We’d like it if you got close to Big Bill Dwyer and Owney Madden. It would be a mutual benefit.”

  Costello says, “Yeah, when the bullets fly, it’s always good to know somebody on the outside who can cover your back.”

  Charlie says, “I ain’t so blind as to think the Irish are gonna jump in the fray to protect a mob of guineas. Not even for a price. What I got in mind ain’t that difficult to understand. We’re businessmen protecting our interests. If some of us is Irish and some of us is Italian, so what? We got business to think about, not where we come from.”

  It wasn’t that long ago that Costello was selling kewpie dolls to dopes with punch cards. The memory of the bankrupt business still haunts him. He wants to move in bigger circles but to a man like Costello, who did time for a concealed weapons charge, joining up with Joe the Boss doesn’t seem to be a logical move. One strike was enough to give him a new motto.

  “Violence is ignorance,” Costello says.

  “Your philosophy ain’t no good among these old greasers,” Charlie says. “Let’s not play games, Frank. Greasers aside, you and I both know there’s a lot of money to be made. There’s even more when we cooperate.”

  Costello says, “I’ll think it over.”

  “Take your time,” Charlie says. “Call me when you figure it out but keep this in mind, it’s better to come in at the beginning of a thing than it is to find yourself capitulating to terms at the end of a .38.”

  The market winds down from the early morning rush. Ciro Terranova makes his way along the men standing shoulder-to-shoulder cleaning fish. He yells to Charlie and Costello. A guy in galoshes and a long waterproof apron slogs behind Terranova with an ice-laden box of bass. The dead fish are splayed like a geisha’s fan in their small wooden coffin. Terranova pushes on the flesh. It bounces back instantly.

  “Can’t get fresher than that,” he says.

  Charlie shoves five bucks in the shirt pocket of the galoshes guy and tells him to deliver the fish to the Villa Nuova restaurant. “For my money, they got the best chef in town.”

  Terranova nods to a delivery truck.

  “You make the run,” Terranova says. “Come back here when you’re done.”

  Terranova watches the man load the fish and pull away from the market. Terranova knows why Charlie has come. He has not discussed Maranzano with anyone, not even Costello, whom he has worked with in Harlem since Costello’s release from prison in 1916. That was in the days of the Morello gang, before Joe the Boss started making his presence known.

  Terranova says, “What did you think of the big hoopla in Brooklyn last night?”

  Costello balks at Terranova’s ease over the greaser incursion. But Terranova is, after all, Sicilian and Sicilians can afford ease.

  Charlie says, “He’s got some big ideas. Some of the boys are saying he’s got the blessing of our old pal Vito Cascioferro. If that’s so, we could be in for another war. Maybe you can fill Frank in so he understands what we’re up against.”

  Terranova is an expert on the subject. Even now, he needs the strength of Joe the Boss to survive. With the connection made, Charlie dismisses Costello from the conversation. Costello then winds his way through the fish market and back to the street. He drops the rubbers from his shoes into the trash.

  Charlie and Terranova head for a bowl of chowder at the Seafood Bar and Clam House where they shoot the bull, reminisce about old times, and generally reassure each other that c
ome what may, they will watch each other’s backs. Then Vito drives Charlie to Brooklyn to collect Joe Adonis. They come back to the Cannon Street garage. Better to discuss business in the heart of the Lower East Side than in Frankie Yale’s backyard. And better to talk in among Jews than Italians. Besides, Charlie, without saying a word, demonstrates to Meyer that Joe Adonis is coming under Charlie’s control.

  Outside the garage, a bloated dead horse lies, not yet carted away, near a pushcart vendor selling any manner of pots and pans. Blankets hang for sale from an awning frame. A butcher stands in front of his kosher shop fishing for customers.

  The stink doesn’t stop there. The garage is airing out from Sammy’s latest experiment with a smoke machine. He’s heard about them from other bootleggers. Attached to the hull of the speedboat, smoldering tins of oil lay down cover for escaping the clutches of the Coast Guard or rival gangs. Charlie waves away the black, billowing smoke and hunts for Meyer.

  Sammy says, “It’s a takeoff on the smudge pot soldiers used in the war. The Coast Guard might have beefed up their engines but they don’t have a defense for smoke.”

  Charlie says, “You couldn’t do this somewhere else?”

  Benny saunters in and coughs.

  “Jesus, Sammy,” he says. “You’ll have the whole damned fire brigade here.”

  Sammy tries to smother the smoke with wet towels.

  Benny turns to Adonis, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Adonis says, “Capone is going to be in town next week. He’s looking for a night on the town. Take in a fight at the Garden. Pick up some broads. You wanna come?”

  “Sure,” Benny says. “When the hell are they gonna get that damned horse outta here? The stench is killing me.”

  “Goldene Medina,” Meyer mocks, coming in from a back room.

  Benny says, “Did you know the law entitles every Jewish household to ten gallons of wine a year. That’s…”

  “Twenty-four ounces every Shabbat,” Red says.