A Bloody Business

by Dylan Struzan

  A Model A roadster pulls up and honks. Benny is at the wheel, come to rescue the recalcitrants.

  “Get in,” Benny says. “You look like a couple of lost cocker spaniels.”

  Meyer shakes off the indignation and climbs into the back seat. Red follows.

  Benny says, “That bastard sure could run.”

  This gets the boys smiling.

  “He told the cops that Charlie sent him spiked chicken,” Benny says. “Said that’s the way with Italians.”

  “Why would Charlie send a spiked chicken to the hospital?” Meyer says. “What’s Charlie got to do with it? It’s a made-up story.”

  “Ingrate,” Benny says. “Why didn’t he turn me into the cops? I was the shooter. Fucking coward, that’s why.”

  He powers the roadster over the bridge and through town and then back to the Lower East Side, pulling quickly into the Cannon Street garage. Meyer sits silently in the back seat, his mind racing over thoughts of what he should have done. Where did he go wrong with Barrett? And then he has it. He felt pity for the underdog and very nearly went to jail for his miscalculation of Barrett’s loyalties. Meyer quietly acknowledges the flaw in his character. Taking a chance on someone is always a risk. Sometimes you lose.

  * * *

  Weeks pass and then a month. Meyer stands in line at the change booth of the Horn & Hardart. He steps up and drops two dollar bills on the counter. The redheaded nickel-thrower behind the cage pulls nickels from the tray without so much as a twist of the head to double-check what her fingers have done. Meyer removes his hat and scoops the nickels into the crown.

  He peruses the bank of little windows showcasing high-quality food for a fistful of nickels, then drops enough change to fill his tray with baked beans, Salisbury steak, creamed spinach, a bowl of rice pudding, and a cup of coffee.

  Charlie Luciano and Al Capone are huddled in conversation at a table in the middle of the massive dining room, continuing an ongoing conversation about Frankie Yale and the hijackings he is supposed to be behind that robbed Capone of certain booze shipments coming in through Atlantic City. Long ago, Capone accepted that Charlie and Meyer were far more than partners. Meyer is obviously what the Italians would call Charlie’s consigliere. When push comes to shove, the partners inevitably come to similar conclusions on how to deal with a problem, Meyer coming up with strategy and Charlie with logistics.

  Meyer navigates the room, defending the cup of hot coffee with his elbow. He takes a seat at the table with Charlie and Capone.

  Charlie says, “What do you want me to say, Al? The Prince of Pals ain’t so princely? That ain’t news. We know why he gave people cash and it wasn’t from the generosity of his heart. It was hush money that made Yale a pal to the neighborhood. Is it worth the trouble? That’s the question we gotta consider. We got access to all the booze you want.”

  Capone snarls and gnaws on a cigar. “That ain’t the point,” he says at last. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

  “Sometimes the principle is gonna foul up somethin’ important,” Charlie says.

  Capone says, “You gotta put your foot down with these guys.”

  The Broadway crowd coming out of the theaters is lured by the thirty-foot wide stained glass window of fruit and flowers that glows brighter than a genie’s lamp. The automat fills with chorus girls, musicians, and press agents happy to dine where ten cents buys a slice of huckleberry pie and a nickel gets a cup of piping hot coffee.

  Meyer stirs three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee.

  Charlie says to Meyer, “Al thinks we’re too soft.”

  Meyer says, “Compared to Chicago, I guess we are.”

  Capone says, “You and me go way back, Charlie. Let’s not pretend we don’t know how these things work out. The Prince of Pals has gone too far.”

  Capone unconsciously strokes his scar. The implication is not lost on Charlie.

  “He’s jealous,” Meyer says.

  “Who?” Capone says.

  Meyer says, “These old Mustache Petes have one thing on their mind. They want to be on top. You’re the biggest thing to hit Chicago. You’re sitting on top of the world while the prince is sitting on the beach worrying about how he’s going to skim more money from the neighborhood. What do you think goes through his mind now that you have more than he does? You owe him for everything you have. He sent you to Chicago. Right? He wants a piece of all you’ve done. If you don’t give it to him, he’s going to take it himself.”

  Charlie nods. “Meyer’s catching on to these greasers.”

  Capone turns to his cherry pie and gashes it with his fork, drawing off an extra-large bite.

  Jimmy Walker tramps through the front door surrounded by an entourage of entertainers and Tammany politicians. His mob works the dolphin spouts for the French-drip coffee that Frank Hardart personally roasts and grinds daily. Walker catches sight of Charlie Luciano and Al Capone and steers his group in the opposite direction. He doesn’t need that kind of publicity.

  Capone looks up and grunts.

  Meyer makes short work of the baked beans and Salisbury steak.

  Charlie says, “It’s the Calabrese in him. When I was a kid, my Ma always warned me about the Calabrese. She’d tell me how they steal the figs off the trees of their enemies. ‘That’s how farmers get revenge,’ she would say. ‘They steal the crop and bust up the trees.’ He can’t take you down no more, Al, so he strikes where he can. He’s crazed. He wants revenge for all the pie he didn’t get in life.”

  Capone says, “That’s plain stupid.”

  Meyer nods to Walker. “It’s getting a little crowded, don’t you think?”

  Charlie wolfs down what’s left of his huckleberry pie, then the boys rise quietly and slip away.

  In the quiet of the Claridge, over brandy and Cuban cigars, they get down to business.

  Capone says, “I put a guy in place to keep an eye on Yale, see if it was him jacking my booze. Yale made the guy. I give my buddy the green light to do what hadda be done. He missed. Next thing I know, my guy’s dead and Yale’s struttin’ around like the cock-of-the-walk. I got a little revenge of my own to serve up so don’t be surprised when you find Yale in the obituaries. If we put Joe Adonis in Yale’s place, we all benefit.”

  Charlie says, “Joe the Boss will never go for it. ‘Keep ’em down and you keep ’em working for you.’ That’s his motto. He’ll split the mob up to dilute the power. Besides, we gotta play it low key. Puttin’ Joe A. in Yale’s place ain’t to our advantage at this juncture. The death of a guy like Yale is big news. You let Joe A. move up the ladder, the papers will have a field day speculating. Once a guy winds up in the headlines and public opinion turns against him, he don’t ever get free. I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’ you don’t already know.”

  “I been in the headlines,” Capone says. “Didn’t hurt me none.” He puffs on his cigar for a long minute. “This cocksucker is stealin’ my dough and I don’t let nobody get away with that. I’ll make sure Joe A. ain’t nowhere near this when we make our move.”

  “Your thoughts, Meyer?” Charlie says.

  Meyer agrees it’s good for Capone to deal with Yale. Local police cannot cross state lines.

  Meyer asks, “If Joe the Boss splits up Yale’s mob, who will he favor?” Charlie throws out a couple of names, more greasers.

  Charlie says, “It doesn’t matter who Joe the Boss puts in place. We’ll deal with it when the time is right.”

  Capone follows the twists and turns of their conversation as Charlie ties a formidable noose around the neck of Joe the Boss. Whatever the two partners are planning, it spells the end for Joe the Boss.

  “Anthony Carfano is the guy I want to see come up the ladder,” Capone says at last. “You don’t gotta worry about him.”

  The conversation stalls.

  Then Charlie says, “Jesus Christ, no kidding? Carfano? He’s been hustling booze since the early days.”

  “How do you think Yale knew where my bo
oze was coming from?” Capone says.

  Capone is restless. He looks at his watch.

  Capone says, “Where the hell is Joe A.? We was hittin’ the town, tonight…I’ll give you the heads-up. You make sure Joe A. and Carfano got a good alibi, huh? I got an itch needs scratchin’. If Joe A. ever shows up…”

  Just then Joe Adonis walks into the suite.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Capone says. “I thought we were going clubbing. Whadya waitin’ for, sunrise?”

  “I was lining up a few things,” Adonis says. “Sometimes it takes a little finesse. Come on, the broads are in the car.”

  Capone turns to Charlie with a smile.

  “It’s our turn,” he says. “Do what you gotta do. I’m with you.”

  Capone hustles Adonis out the door.

  Charlie turns to Meyer.

  “Well how do you like that?” he says.

  Meyer says, “Make sure Joe A. is close to Carfano when this thing goes down. Another thing, Albert Anastasia is over in the Brooklyn docks. He and the Dutchman have bumped heads a few times. Maybe we can smooth things out. Make sure they respect each other’s territory. I’m sure Joe the Boss doesn’t want to open a can of worms on the docks.”

  Charlie says, “Anastasia is with a guy named Mangano. Don’t worry about it. I’ll whisper in Joe’s ear. He’s a smart guy when it comes to doling out territory.”

  Spring turns into summer. A sweltering heat wave sweeps through the city. Joe Adonis pulls up in front of Carfano’s house in his Willys and honks. Carfano looks out the window of his middle-class Brooklyn house and waves. Carfano, the dawdler, takes his time coming out.

  Adonis drums the steering wheel and swelters in the summer heat. His eyes wander around the Willys. Not his style. The Willys is a fine car…for a doctor or a lawyer with upscale aspirations and no glamor. Excellent for a professional showing success without the nerve to flaunt it before others. A Stutz Bearcat, now that’s a car and the broads love it but Charlie has insisted on everyone playing it low key and so Joe Adonis contents himself with the Willys.

  He honks again.

  Carfano finally exits the front door and stops on the stoop to adjust his tie. He looks over the neighborhood before deciding to strut down the steps. He pauses in front of the Willys, unbuttons his jacket, and tugs at the brim of his fedora the same way Edward G. Robinson does it in The Racket, the latest hot ticket on Broadway.

  Adonis grinds his teeth.

  “What took ya?” he snarls as Carfano slides into the passenger seat. “I’m gettin’ heatstroke out here, for God’s sake.”

  Adonis hits the gas and sails off to Harlem. The beat of Duke Ellington’s band fills the street with energy. Inside, the jungle beat sways the audience. A shapely black woman, Adelaide Hall, wearing a flowing white silk dress, makes her way out onto the horseshoe-shaped stage. The audience quiets as she belts out her latest song. Joe Adonis, playing it low key, refuses the seat at the front of the stage in favor of a less conspicuous spot.

  Jimmy Durante concedes to a guest appearance. For forty seconds, the orchestra pounds out a vaudevillian tune while Durante rants.

  Bubby Miley comes forward as Durante exits the stage and the orchestra dives into “Creole Love Call.” Bubby wails his trumpet in a long series of wah-wahs while Adelaide Hall’s haunting voice echoes the trumpet’s call. The dance floor fills.

  Adonis pops the cork on a Champagne bottle and sends the contents to two women at a neighboring table. Before the bottle is empty, he and Carfano have joined them. The foursome dance and drink and dance some more.

  It’s four in the morning. The Cotton Club gives way to a Plaza suite. After room service, a hot shower, and another bout in the sack, Adonis gives the girls cab fare and sends them on their way.

  Charlie meets Adonis and Carfano at Lindy’s for a very long lunch. This is a different show, the one that keeps Carfano occupied and publicly visible for the afternoon. Shortly before 4 P.M., the Brooklyn police receive a phone call about the black sedan with four men who have chased and overtaken Frankie Yale, “the Beau Brummell of the Brooklyn underworld,” and shot him dead.

  * * *

  Inspector Sullivan and Captain Ryan part the crowd gathered around the crime scene in front of a Brooklyn home. The car carrying Frankie Yale has jumped the curb and smashed headlong into the sidewall of the steps in front of the house. Rubble, bricks, a hedge, several small trees, and a displaced planter are strewn across the yard.

  The crash is barely thirty minutes old. It shook the family inside as they celebrated a bar mitzvah. The police were called. Inspector Sullivan heard the news and raced to the scene himself. Frankie Yale is slumped over the steering wheel. The stench of fresh blood fills the car. Sullivan reaches in and pushes Yale toward the seatback. Yale’s head flops to the side. It is the first time the inspector gets a good look at Yale’s reputed penchant for fine clothes and diamond jewelry.

  “Jesus,” the Inspector says. “And I can’t even afford a decent steak.”

  “We’re on the wrong side of the law,” the coroner says. “Unless you’re corrupt and then it ain’t half bad.”

  The Captain takes a break from interviewing witnesses to ogle the diamonds.

  “Five’ll get you ten it was Capone’s American boys done the job,” the Captain says.

  “What makes you think so?” the Inspector says. “My money’s on Joe the Boss.”

  “Too slick for Joe the Boss,” the Captain says.

  “You call this slick?” the Inspector says.

  The Captain says, “Most of these witnesses put Illinois or Indiana plates on the shooters’ car. Revenge killing? All those rumors about Yale hijacking Capone’s liquor might be true especially since there was a Thompson submachine gun involved.”

  “How do you know?” the Inspector says.

  “Some of the witnesses heard a rattle, like a Chicago typewriter, they said.”

  “Keep that under your hat. I’ll give Capone a call,” the Inspector says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to stop by for tea and tell us why he wasn’t involved.”

  The Captain says, “I’ll work on Joe the Boss. If Joe don’t cooperate then maybe the bullets will tell us something. And yeah, haul in Capone, too. Let him know we made the connection to Chicago.”

  “You’ll need to contact Miami to subpoena him,” the Inspector says. “He wasn’t anywhere near New York today or any other day for quite a while.”

  The Captain frowns, “Technicalities are killing us all.”

  Yale’s body is unceremoniously pulled from the car and laid on a blanket at the bottom of the stoop. The coroner signals for a gurney. He pulls the jewels from Yale’s body.

  “Who’s gonna sign for this stuff?” the coroner says, pointing to the jewels that once decorated the corpse.

  The sparkle of seventy-five brilliant diamonds on Yale’s belt buckle would give even Tiffany pause. Then there are the two diamond rings and the diamond stickpin.

  “Jesus,” the Inspector says again.

  The coroner says, “You shoulda called for an armored car. I’m not risking my neck over this. Give it to somebody with a gun.”

  “You know what gets me?” the Inspector says. “This guy walks around the neighborhood droppin’ cash like penny candy. He gets the nickname Prince of Pals. How do you like that? What do you think they call us?”

  The Captain says, “Look where it got him. Our job is to find the killers.”

  “In your dreams,” the Inspector says. “In your dreams but don’t let that stop you.”

  A copper, hands on hips, poses among the debris with the crashed Lincoln and the dead Yale. Cameras pop. Yale is loaded onto the gurney and slipped into the coroner’s wagon.

  The thirty-five-year-old gangster, the Beau Brummel of Brooklyn, won’t be doing any further business in this world. His soul, wherever it is going, will have to go it alone. His bullet-riddled remains, with half an ear blown off, missed
out on the sacred Eucharist. The priest is useless now. No lighted candles, no holy water; no clean napkin; no key of the tabernacle; no final anointing; no dominus vobiscum; in short, no last rites for the man credited by the police as one of three assassins “who invaded the flower shop of Dean O’Banion and killed that outstanding figure of the underworld.”

  It turns out that Yale was taking care of business at the Sunrise Club, his speakeasy, when a call came in. Yale told his buddy that something was wrong with his wife and he was leaving to take care of her. He jumped into his brand new, coffee-colored Lincoln coupe. Shots crashed through the rear window of Yale’s sedan not long after he left the club. He swerved onto 44th Street in a defensive maneuver but failed to evade the assassins.

  The four men in the black sedan who showered the Brooklyn streets with bullets didn’t stick around to scrutinize their handiwork. They sped off, leaving Yale’s Lincoln to ride out its momentum at the hands of a corpse. The car jumped the curb and then plowed into the front steps of Solomon and Bertha Kaufman’s home, sending pedestrians scurrying for their lives.

  An abandoned Buick matching the description of the car loaded with shooters is found a few blocks away. Inside are the assault weapons: a .38 caliber revolver, a .45 automatic, and a sawed-off pump shotgun. The police give the rundown to reporters.

  In Miami, Capone is served with a subpoena. A world of theories floats around town. The consensus seems to be that Yale’s gang was hired by Capone to guard Capone’s alcohol shipments coming through Brooklyn and Long Island City. The shipments had been regularly hijacked so Capone asked Yale to provide protection. That’s the story, anyway.

  Brooklyn mourns. The underworld parades its sorrow with streets lined with mourners. Joe the Boss calls his advisors. Charlie Lucky is among the elite that hear the news firsthand. Joe complains about the police suspicions that caused him to be hauled in for questioning then pontificates on what he calls ‘the situation.’ He praises Al Capone for getting rid of the back-stabber. With Yale out of the picture, Joe the Boss can bring Brooklyn under tighter control just in time to nip Salvatore Maranzano’s ambition in the bud.