He scoops another round of sauerkraut and shouts for a bowl of matzoh ball soup to shake the chill. Winter has hammered the Lower East Side with all the fervor of the Manassa Mauler pounding the comers in his infamous saloon fights.
“In a minute,” the waiter shouts back.
“Who you gonna bet on?” Benny says.
Rosen clings to his love affair with Dempsey’s style. He looks at Meyer.
“Maybe he should stay in Hollywood,” Meyer says of the once-tough Dempsey who has undergone plastic surgery at the behest of his shiksa wife.
Rosen says, “He kicked out his manager over something the guy said about his wife. The broad got him in pictures out there. He carries her around on his shoulders. She thinks she can reform him. What a show. After the surgery, he won’t get in the ring. Save the face. Dempsey is going soft out there with all those actors.” Rosen grabs a pickle from the bowl, a full sour, and bites it in half. “My wife ain’t a Jew but she ain’t no shiksa either. She’d never try to reform me. She likes mink too much.”
Meyer says, “What’s going on in Philadelphia?”
Rosen says, “Sabella is as predictable as my wife. Dangle a few greenbacks in his direction and he’ll follow you anywhere.”
The hijacking of the booze with the “Old Shylock Distributors” stamps and counter revenge attack has done the trick. Still…
“Watch your back,” Meyer says.
* * *
Joe the Boss Masseria strolls past the neatly stacked and packed streets of Little Italy along with his rising lieutenant, Charlie Lucky. The 5’2”, brutish Masseria marvels at America’s genius for consolidation. Sicily, with all its sprawling beauty, never offered such compact control. Joe paints a picture postcard image of the business opportunities that surround them. He dreams of grandeur and schemes for conquest and justifies the whole package with indignation.
Joe is on a tear.
“We have a responsibility to our people,” he says. “Look at them. Peasants. They shuffle wherever they go, always the head hung down. You should always stand tall and take what you want. If you don’t, you are trampled underfoot. Do you know, Sally, there are more Italians in New York than in Sicily. That’s a lotta escarole for us!”
Charlie covers his disdain with a smile. The papers have made a fortune wrangling the city’s census statistics into “startling facts” that scare sensible citizens. “More Italians than in Naples,” the paper said with no word of Sicily. “More Germans than in Berlin. More Irish than in Dublin. More Jews than in Warsaw.”
Joe the Boss and Charlie duck into a small café on Elizabeth Street where, over a large plate of pasta and a bottle of fine Chianti, Joe twists a few facts of his own.
“Famiglia,” he tells Charlie. “This is our credo. Every family needs a strong leader. Stefano Magaddino was strong in Brooklyn. Now he is strong in Buffalo. He can do them no good in Buffalo. Cola Schiro is weak. A little bird tells me that Salvatore Maranzano is turning heads in Brooklyn. Soon he will head the Sicilians. He will challenge our famiglia. We are not strangers to this way of life.”
Joe the Boss hunts for signs of betrayal in Charlie but finds only an impassive stare. Charlie runs through a short list of little birds and comes up with Alfred Mineo as the most likely ally whispering in the old man’s ear. Mineo chafes under the reins of his boss, who favors Maranzano’s bid for ascendency in the Castellammarese clan. Mineo courts Joe’s favor by betraying his boss’ trust.
Charlie says, “There’s a guy in Yale’s mob I’ve been bringing along. His name is Joe Doto. He calls himself Joe Adonis. He’s Napoli. A guy like Maranzano is too busy spreading his bullshit among men of honor to notice a Neapolitan. Doto keeps us informed about what’s going on in the Sicilian orbit in Brooklyn.”
Joe the Boss rolls the Chianti in his glass.
“And what does this Doto have to say?”
“Maranzano is trouble,” Charlie says.
For one thing, the self-important Maranzano flaunts his contempt for Joe the Boss, and he does it in five languages. He quotes Julius Caesar and uses the skills he learned while studying for the priesthood to gather a following. Maranzano eloquently insists the “man who dodges bullets” has abandoned Sicilian tradition by taking the crass American title of “Boss.” He insists loudly that Joe the Boss, a gluttonous man, will use his impure mob, spotted with non-Italians, to devour the Castellammarese.
The Neapolitan in Brooklyn makes for a good spy.
Masseria snarls and stuffs more pasta into his gaping mouth.
Joe says, “This is Don Ferro’s doing. He wants to come back to America.”
Cascioferro fled to Italy to avoid a murder charge. Joe Petrosino, the New York cop heading up the Italian Squad, naively followed him to Palermo where Cascioferro had Petrosino executed in the Piazza Marina.
“Is that possible?” Charlie says.
Joe the Boss says, “Bring the Napoli by my office. I take a look at him.”
An old woman slips through the front door of the restaurant.
“White-washed graves,” she screams, pointing a bony finger toward the street. “Are we such little dogs that we should be kicked around by ruffians such as these?”
The restaurant’s patrons turn as one and watch five hundred hooded men, beating drums and waving American flags, parade past them. The six-million strong Ku Klux Klan is on a mission to inform New Yorkers and New Jerseyans that Al Smith, the Catholic Church, and Demon Rum are the tools of the Devil. As the Devil’s tools, they are tearing Americans from their moral roots. The parades target neighborhoods of immigrants to demonstrate the power of white supremacists. Their stake in America flows from the pioneers who built the country and bequeathed to their own children a priority right to control the country. “America for Americans,” they tout.
Joe the Boss turns back to Charlie and finishes his wine.
“You talk to Yale,” he says. “I want to know what he thinks of this blowhard in Brooklyn.”
* * *
Charlie calls the doorman of his uptown apartment to have his car brought around. He checks his look in the hall mirror, making sure everything is in place. It is. The elevator takes him to the lobby. The lunch crowd fills the street outside.
The whine of the six-cylinder, high-compression engine of the Chrysler Maxwell is unmistakable. Charlie gives the driver a five-dollar handshake and climbs behind the wheel. He swings the car out into traffic and heads toward the Brooklyn Bridge, which spans the great divide between Castellammarese ambition and Joe the Boss’ hold on Manhattan’s Italian rackets.
Charlie’s mind turns to Coney Island, where he will meet with Yale and try to squeeze blood from the tight-lipped turnip. Yale, one of Brooklyn’s most ruthless killers, prefers to keep his opinions to himself. Yale has taken up residence in the Citadel Coffee Shop since his old club burned to the ground. His stiff, round collar and heavy brown wool suit mark him as chronically Italian. He looks up as Charlie comes through the door and rakes the thick shock of hair that falls across his forehead to the side with a sweep of his hand.
Yale says, “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Charlie says, “Joe the Boss is interested in what you know about Salvatore Maranzano. He figures we might be able to help each other.”
“He’s a real saint, that guy,” Yale says. “What should I know?”
Yale looks around his cafe. The locals have come and gone. The place is dead.
Charlie eyes the Young Turk sitting next to Yale, the eager Napoli of whom he speaks. Adonis sports a black suit, white Sulka shirt, and Deco tie. His hair is slicked back, his face clean-shaven. He grabs the arm of the girl serving the table and whispers in her ear. She smiles. He winks.
Charlie rankles at the smooth ease with which Adonis sways the woman.
“Let’s not play games,” Charlie says. “You know Brooklyn like you know your wife’s face. Salvatore Maranzano ain’t makin’ no bones about how much he hates Joe the Boss.
He’s trouble. We both know it.”
“Lovett was trouble,” Yale says of the Irish white-hander bent on controlling Brooklyn’s docks. “Willie ‘Two-Knife’ Altierri buried a meat cleaver in his skull. After that, Lovett’s brother-in-law was trouble. Capone put an end to that. There’s always trouble.”
Yale’s pinky ring clinks on the handle of the coffee cup he raises to toast his insight but it doesn’t erase the fact that, a few weeks after the white-handers were killed, the Harvard Inn went up in smoke. The predominantly Irish fire brigade was unwilling to save Yale’s rundown, two-story dancehall on Seaside Walk.
Yale says to Adonis, “Wait outside.”
Adonis leaves the table.
Yale says, “Joe the Boss must be shaking in his boots for him to send you over here to talk to me about the Sicilians. You wanna know about Sicilians? Check out the docks. Maranzano is smuggling soldiers from Palermo. He’s a smart fella. You figure a guy like that is gonna be content taking orders from a coward like Cola Schiro? That little wimp pisses his pants at a loud fart.”
Yale lights one of his cheap cigars, filling the coffee shop with its stench.
Yale continues, “I got no truck for a guy like Maranzano. I worked too hard for what I got to hand it over to somebody else. If Joe the Boss has any sense at all,” he rolls his eyes in disbelief, “he’ll make his move while he has the chance. This guy ain’t gonna roll over and play dead.”
Charlie stands and thanks Yale for his time.
In the crisp winter afternoon, Joe Adonis leans against the building’s cool brick front careful not to wrinkle his suit. He smokes and, as the skirts walk by, flirts.
“The real scoop is Maranzano’s connections to Cascioferro,” Adonis says to Charlie, flashing an easy smile.
Charlie says, “Don’t tell me anything out here in the open. You don’t know who might be listening. Meet me on the boardwalk at two in the morning. And don’t be late. I ain’t in the mood for freezin’ my balls off cause you’re in the sack with some broad.”
By midnight, a drizzle has slicked up the streets, but by 1 A.M. it has ended. Adonis leaves the cafe at 1:50 and makes his way to the boardwalk. The Maxwell idles under a street light. Windshield wipers swipe at the rain. Adonis hikes up the collar of his overcoat and walks up to Charlie’s car. He taps on the driver’s window.
“Get in,” Charlie says through the crack.
Adonis slides into the passenger seat bringing with him the smell of Yale’s cigars.
Charlie says, “Jesus. It ain’t bad enough I gotta smell them cheap cigars around Yale, you gotta stink up my car, too? Open the window.”
Charlie releases the handbrake and lets out the clutch. The Maxwell’s engine beats smoothly as he drives away. The amusement park fades from view. Darkness surrounds the car.
Adonis rubs his hands in front of the heater vents trying to take the chill off.
Charlie says, “Here’s a piece of advice; never let nobody know what you’re thinking. You might find yourself takin’ the rap for something you didn’t do.”
Adonis coughs up an excuse. He waxes lyrical about the politicians in Yale’s pocket then he attempts a joke about a politician and prostitute.
Adonis says, “The prostitute gives you something for your money.”
“Polly Adler tells the same joke,” Charlie says.
“Polly’s joke is about wives and prostitutes,” Adonis says.
“You got it all figured out, don’t you, Joe? Listen to me and listen good. Whatever you got to say to me, you say to me alone, not out on the street corner where everybody can hear our business. Got that? Think before you say something you’re gonna regret. The action you got in Brooklyn is small potatoes.”
Adonis says, “Yale is just as strong as Joe the Boss.”
Charlie says, “Don’t make me laugh. This ain’t about Yale, anyway. Me and Meyer Lansky wanna bring you along in our business. Understand? I took care of my business with Yale. Now I’m taking care of business with you. You wanna stay in that rundown flea-bitten joint of Yale’s or you wanna come uptown with us? Make up your mind. But you come with us, you follow our rules. We don’t stand for no shit. You do things the way I tell you to do them. No questions asked. Got that?”
Adonis shifts in his seat. He doesn’t really get Charlie, who is sitting almost on top of the world yet everything about Charlie is low key: his car, his clothes, the way he handles himself. In a room full of guys, nobody would even notice one of them is Charlie Lucky, the trusted right arm of Joe the Boss.
Charlie says, “Joe the Boss wants to see you. He’s gonna bring you in under his wing but you’re going to be with me. You’re my doing. I’m taking the responsibility.”
Another uncomfortable silence.
Adonis says, “If you really wanna know what’s going on with the Castellammarese, call Willie Moretti. He’s a loudmouth anyway. A guy like you calls him, he’ll be all over himself to spill what he knows so he can look good.”
“You trust what he knows?” Charlie says.
“With a grain of salt,” Adonis says.
“Are you as good a fixer as they say?” Charlie says.
“That ain’t hard,” Adonis says. “Why do you think I’m always after the broads? These guys, give ’em a few bucks and night on the town and they’ll give you what you want.”
Charlie gives him a hard look.
“How’s your relationship with Capone?” Charlie says.
“Friendly. Why?”
“If I bring you up to him, I don’t wanna get no backlash,” Charlie says. “You wanna hit Lindy’s? I’m starving.”
“The Jew joint?” Adonis says.
“I’m hooked on the G-Man Special,” Charlie says.
Charlie parks a block away. Lindy’s is jammed with the Broadway crowd.
From nowhere, Ben Siegel appears. “What the hell are you doing here?” Benny says.
“Slummin’,” Charlie says.
Benny looks at Adonis. “I’d expect you to be at the Lenox Club. They got broads that…well, what the hell am I telling you that you don’t already know?”
Adonis winks. Benny is aroused by the notion of picking up broads at the Lenox.
“You guys go on,” Charlie says. “I don’t need Joe anymore.”
By 6 A.M., Charlie is at the Claridge Hotel talking shop with Meyer Lansky over coffee and doughnuts.
“You were right,” Charlie says confessing the value of Joe Adonis. “He goes all the way back to the early days when Capone was part of Yale’s mob. By then, I was already hooked up with Joe the Boss. Joe A. and Al are still tight.”
Meyer says, “Are the rumors true? Has Capone been knocking over Yale’s shipments?”
“That I don’t know,” Charlie says.
Meyer says, “An alliance with Chicago would be useful.”
Charlie says, “Only the feds can cross state lines and only for a federal offense. The feds are busy chasing outlaws, not bootleggers.”
Meyer says. “Something isn’t right. I can’t put my finger on it yet.”
* * *
On March 29, President Coolidge appoints a new U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York. Buckner couldn’t compete with the millions of dollars spent on bribery, perjury, and oath violations, and so he resigned. Thus, the padlocking business shifts from Emory Buckner to Charles H. Tuttle, who vows to pursue bootleggers as relentlessly as dope peddlers.
Salvatore Maranzano busies himself with building an army of illegal immigrants while Arthur Flegenheimer, who calls himself Dutch Schultz, and his partner, Joey Noe, make their presence known in the Bronx. Flegenheimer runs his business from a musty saloon. The joint stinks of stale beer and spent cigarettes and urine courtesy of too many drunks who couldn’t hit the toilet bowl.
Meyer hails a cab. He and Benny are bound for Harlem and the Dutchman’s little nest. An assortment of Italian and Irish immigrants fills the bar. Meyer takes in the collection of thugs the Dutchman has in h
is mob. They sit around a table shooting the bull. Benny recognizes Eddie McGrath from the docks, an Irish guy with sway among his countrymen. The Dutchman counts on McGrath’s influence to smooth the way for his moves on the Bronx docks.
A slender Jew with a calm face leaves the card game to greet Meyer and Benny.
“Bo Weinberg,” he says extending a hand to Meyer.
Weinberg breaks into a full smile. The Dutchman emerges from the back room. He rambles toward Meyer with the slow shuffle of a caged gorilla. An over-stretched gray jersey shirt bulges uncomfortably under the cheapest of Sears’ suits.
The Dutchman says to one of the boys at the table, “Go get me some cigarettes.” The Dutchman turns to Benny. “What are you lookin’ at?”
The Dutchman’s eyes shift nervously between Benny and Meyer and then between Meyer and Weinberg. The smile drops from Weinberg’s face.
Weinberg says, “This is Benny Siegel and Meyer Lansky. You know, the Bugs and Meyer mob.”
The Dutchman’s face flushes bright red. “You come in here to fix beer prices, too?”
Benny says, “This is a friendly visit, Arthur.”
“Arthur?” the Dutchman says. “Nobody calls me Arthur.”
The Dutchman leads Benny and Meyer to the back room. The room is littered with bookie notes wrapped in adding machine tape held together by rubber bands. Newspapers, racing forms, wildly scribbled notes on horses and numbers gleaned from the wire broadcasts cover the rest of the mess-filled table. A metal lockbox sits next to the ledgers.
The Dutchman says, “You didn’t come for no tea party.”
Weinberg stands at the doorway and clears his throat.
“You got my cigarettes?” the Dutchman grunts.
Weinberg lays the carton of cigarettes on the big table in front of his boss. The Dutchman rips open the box and tears into a pack. He lights up and leans back in his chair. He sucks his cigarette dry.
Meyer says, “The word on the street is that you are moving on the docks in the Bronx.”
“When I do, I’ll alert the press.”
Meyer says, “We’re interested in making a deal with you.”
A Bloody Business Page 20
