Frank Costello makes sure Frank Erickson makes the rounds talking about the bigger possibilities with gambling. The big Swede wines and dines the idea of the countrywide wire service. He sees the plan the way most guys see the sunrise, a force of nature that shines on all men. He presents his ideas complete with risk, premium, and payoff, beginning with the twenty-nine racetracks scattered around the country.
“It’s like this,” he says. “Annenberg provides the racing news: charts, tips, workout reports, handicappers’ selections, odds, past records, track conditions, weights, rider information. Whatever a bettor or bookie needs to know, the Racing Wire puts it in print. When a race is running on the East coast, everybody on the West coast can listen as the race progresses. It’s great for our business. Win or lose, everybody pays the bank.”
That’s one news item. The other, the more important as far as Meyer is concerned, is the discussion about settling matters in ways that avoid violence. Charlie has brought his most powerful guys with him, as has Meyer. As agreed, their mobs set the example. They act like gentlemen. It seems to be contagious.
Capone asserts that he’s cleaned up the botched massacre by executing the men responsible, Albert Anselmi and John Scalice. Apparently, Joseph Guinta was thrown in for good measure. The story goes that the three men were shifting their allegiance to Joe Aiello, that cocksucker. The brags John Scalice threw around Chicago before his demise made the story easy to swallow.
In a grand gesture, Capone agreed to allow Joe Aiello to ascend to the presidency of the Unione Siciliana. The illusion Capone projects is that gangsters in Chicago now answer to a higher, saner power.
Privately, Capone tells Charlie and Meyer, “I took your advice, Charlie. I’m goin’ away for a year. I got it all worked out. I gotta let the public see that I’m willing to let bygones be bygones.”
The deals continue. Meyer brings Jimmy Alo to Nig Rosen in a more formal arrangement. At Meyer’s suggestion, they set their sights on open cities, especially those on the West Coast: San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Reno.
At the end of the conference, Capone slaps Meyer on the back and says, “Son of a bitch, you put one helluva show together. I got a little show of my own coming up. Keep your eyes peeled.”
Anne and Meyer enjoy dinner at the Breakers. The waiter brings a bowl of hot rolls.
Meyer eyes the menu. Anne orders soup with kneidlach, roast chicken, knishes, and candied sweet potatoes.
Meyer nods, “Make that two.”
It’s a postcard honeymoon if Anne can forget the image of Meyer standing next to Al Capone. But she can’t. Tomorrow is life as newlyweds in New York City.
* * *
Capone climbs into the back of his touring car, Frankie Rio at the wheel, and leaves Atlantic City. Fifteen miles south of Camden, New Jersey, they pull off the highway and stop at a roadside diner. Something is wrong with the car or, rather, something is going to be wrong with the car.
Rio kills the engine and turns to Capone.
“Are you sure about this, Boss?” he says.
“I’m sure, Frankie,” Capone says. “Now call Jack before I change my mind.”
Rio hikes the collar of his coat and leaves Capone in the car with two bodyguards. He glides into the diner like any other Joe.
“You got a phone?” he says. “We got car trouble.”
The waitress nods to the side door.
“Out back,” she says.
He grabs a toothpick from the dispenser at the cash register and leaves through the side door. He calls Jack McGurn.
“We’re dropping off the car now,” he says. “You know where.”
Rio reenters the diner.
“You got a commuter to Philly?”
“A couple of blocks north,” she says. “You can’t miss it.”
Rio tips his hat and leaves.
“O.K., Boss,” he says to Capone. “It’s all set.”
The boys head for the station. They take the commuter to Philadelphia. Once in town, Capone buys rail tickets to Chicago. The lag time between their arrival and departure affords a good excuse to scuttle over to the Stanley Theater to catch a movie. Capone pats his coat pocket making sure the snub nose .38 is in place. They walk to Nineteenth Street and Market.
The Stanley’s overly exuberant marquee that covers much of the Market Street facade announces Voice of the City starring Robert Ames, who plays an escaped convict, and Willard Mack, the detective tasked with hunting him down. It is a story of betrayal and unlikely partnership. Capone laughs out loud. How much better can it get?
Rio buys two tickets for the movie. Capone looks out over Fourteenth Street and tells the other two boys to get lost. It doesn’t take the two detectives long to show up at the theater. They flash their badges.
One of the detectives approaches Capone. There is no trouble. Capone knows what to do. He and Rio hand over their weapons. They are cuffed and driven away. Within sixteen hours of their arrest, they are sentenced to terms of one year each.
And then the show begins.
A four-page article in The Literary Digest quotes Capone as saying he had visited Atlantic City to sign a peace pact between him and the Bugs Moran gang. The article runs a fourteen-point peace pact on which Capone and Bugs Moran have supposedly agreed.
“Everybody signs on the dotted line,” Meyer had told Al. “The fourteen points are bullshit, of course. You’re not going to do any of those things. But certain things will need to be done to give the public peace of mind.”
“What things?” Capone said.
Johnny Torrio had suggested giving Joe Aiello the Unione. The fight for power over the Unione was an insignificant war anyway.
“The violence on the streets is what’s got everybody upset,” Charlie had said. “Tame it down. Bugs Moran ain’t got the stomach for war like he had before. Taking out his brother-in-law changed him. You can see it in his eyes. I ain’t tellin’ ya what to do but we got a situation that ain’t goin’ away anytime soon. It’s this or the war goes on and the government steps in. G-men are already sniffing around. If we all agree to sign on the dotted line, then we all toe the same line. That’s just good business. We agree to let bygones be bygones. No more revenge. We settle differences professionally. Get rid of the machine guns. We gotta look like businessmen. Your boys know how to conduct themselves. That’s the important part.”
“You have a wife and a son to think about,” Meyer said. “A good boy, from what I hear.”
“I idolize that kid,” Capone said.
Charlie said, “Give him the life none of us got.”
News of Capone’s arrest spreads across the country. Charlie takes a copy of the New York Times to Joe the Boss. Joe sits behind his oversized mahogany desk considering the details of his rackets in New York. In his estimation, he has come a long way. With some bitterness, he knows his success is due, in no small part, to Charlie Luciano’s bootlegging and drug running and he fears Charlie is growing too powerful.
Charlie sits in the high-back chair that faces Joe’s desk. He passes Joe the newspaper. The headline reads: Capone Enters Jail to Serve One Year. The article reports the obvious. Capone was picked up for carrying a concealed weapon outside of a theater in Philadelphia. Capone has whined to the press that he has not “had peace of mind in years.” Still, the paper reports, “The whole affair went off so smoothly and quickly that it left astonishment in its wake.”
“Walsh was the judge,” Charlie says. “They call him a hanging judge.”
Capone gives a press interview touting a truce with the Irish mob. He says a peace compact was signed in Atlantic City. He connects the dots between himself and Bugs Moran. Chicago’s liquor business will no longer be fought on the streets of the city.
Joe the Boss furrows his brow.
“What am I supposed to make of this,” he says.
Charlie says, “Chicago isn’t going to stand for no more gunmen. Al don’t have no choice but to lay low for a while.”
Joe says, “Capone is crazy. You can’t fight no battles when you can’t look your enemy in the eye. How is he going to help me from jail?”
“There’s more than one guy in Chicago that we can count on,” Charlie says.
Joe says, “It’s all this Atlantic City business. What are you doing with the Jews, Charlie? Don’t be quick to make bedfellows with those not your own kind.”
Charlie says, “The Jews are the best bootleggers. That’s why we do business. I ain’t never told you otherwise.”
Joe looks at Charlie and worries. Maybe he yearns for the throne. Maybe Salvatore Maranzano has a point: the Jews have corrupted his Sicilian loyalties.
“I got a job for you. Bring Frank Costello and Joe Adonis back here,” Joe says. “We got something to discuss.”
Charlie nods. The cozy relationship he once enjoyed with Joe has gone sour. Charlie hikes downstairs to the alley where Vito waits in a parked car. The clouds overhead let off a drizzle that soaks the cobblestones and turns the dust on the car to mud.
Vito says, “Everything O.K., Charlie?”
Charlie says, “You know how these greasers are…suspicious of everything. We gotta find Costello and bring him back here.”
By the time Charlie and Vito collect Frank Costello and Joe Adonis and make their way back to Brooklyn, Al Mineo has joined the party.
“I’m gonna make this simple,” Joe says. “I’m giving you my blessing for this new setup with the Jews on one condition. You swear a loyalty oath to me.”
Al Mineo lays a gun and a knife on Joe’s desk and then stands off to the side like some altar boy assisting the officiating priest. Charlie does his best not to look surprised. Joe asks Charlie if he vouches for Joe Adonis and Frank Costello. Charlie nods.
“Do you vow loyalty to our family?” Joe says to Charlie
Charlie rubs his hand across his scar.
“I ain’t one to criticize,” Charlie says. “I always tell you straight. I’m tellin’ you straight now. I ain’t never done nothin’ to compromise this family. No kinda ritual will change that. No kissin’ the ring or cuttin’ the finger or recitin’ no words is gonna make me keep my word any more than I already keep it. And I don’t trust nobody that says any different.” He casts a glare at Mineo. “Either you trust me or you don’t. I vouch for these guys that they’ll be loyal. If they cross the line, I will deal with them personally even if it means takin’ them out of this world. They’re my responsibility.”
Joe ponders Charlie’s stance. He looks at Mineo, the rejected puppy.
“It’s like a baptism,” Mineo says.
“I ain’t religious,” Charlie says. “An oath don’t change nothin’ that doesn’t already exist.”
“I’m satisfied,” Joe announces. “You know the penalty if you stray.”
“I got it all straight in my head,” Charlie says. “And you boys?” he turns to Vito, Joe A. and Frank Costello. “You boys understand the stakes here? You know if you ain’t gonna be loyal it means somebody will be hunting you with a pistol and that somebody’s likely to be me.”
The boys nod in unison. Joe dismisses them all and settles back into his daily routine. He never cared much for rituals anyway.
Days later, when Charlie tells Meyer about the ritual, he repeats what he said, “An oath don’t change nothin’.”
Meyer says, “If it puts his mind at ease and takes the onus off you, what the hell do you care? Let him have his rituals. We’ve got business to do.”
* * *
Jack Diamond flounders after the death of Arnold Rothstein. Rothstein elevated the schlammer, and deprived of the Big Brain, Jack is forced to fall back to his own uninspired level in life. He finds himself little more than a tough guy in a very nice suit. Losing the drug deal set him back plenty. His mob takes to hijacking booze to fill the needs of his club, the Hotsy Totsy, the sole remnant of his life with Rothstein. When that isn’t enough, Jack moves the mob to Green County where they easily run over the local bootleggers like squirrels on a highway.
The Dutchman suffers a series of hijackings at his beer drops and blames Jack for the inconvenience. Jack ambles around Green County in a snit. He’s restless. The Hudson Valley lacks the sophistication to which he has grown accustomed. He misses the nightclub and the action of the big city. He reads the bullshit story about Al Capone and the Irish truce and spits.
“No self-respectin’ Irishman, let alone Bugs Moran, would ever agree to no peace pact with Al Capone, not after the massacre,” he tells his boy. “All Capone has to do is turn his back and he’d find a knife in it.”
He paces and plots. Miles and miles of the Catskills’ rolling green hills stretch all around him, an island of green that holds him hostage. He feels marginalized. The insult to Bugs Moran becomes his cause. Jack wants, needs, to show the Jews and Italians that they were wrong for leaving him out of the negotiations in Atlantic City. He wants to punish them for their ignorance. Jack collects the newspapers describing the massacre and relives the carnage as though he was there. His laments fall on Moran’s brother-in-law, James Clark, who was among the dead.
“What the hell? James didn’t have a gang,” Jack says. “Capone wants peace…What a load of shite. Come on, boys, we’re going home.”
He heads for New York.
On July 13, Jack swaggers into the Hotsy Totsy Club in a redhot rage.
“Goddamn Rothstein,” Jack says to his buddy, Charles Entratta. “I shoulda been the one to put the bullet in him. Not McManus. Coppers. The whole family. I wonder how they’re feeling now with their shiny badges all tarnished from this scandal.”
Jack orders another round of whiskey, Bushmills, the only whiskey that comes to America on its own steamship. It’s a proper whiskey for a proper toast.
He raises his glass and says, “This one’s for you, Eddie.” He gulps the shot down. “They just couldn’t let you die in peace, could they! Goddamn bastards.”
Eddie was Jack’s brother. Eddie had tuberculosis. He was a lunger with a bad prognosis. The doctor prescribed Colorado, which proved to be nearly as bad for his health as New York. Driving through the country, Eddie’s car was filled with over a hundred bullets. It was a miracle the bullets and the ensuing crash didn’t kill him. He came back to New York to recover. In the end, it was the weather that finished him off.
A loud bang yanks Jack from his memories. William “Red” Cassidy is at it again. Adrenaline kicks in. Jack is on his feet. He won’t tolerate the disrespect while honoring the memory of his brother.
“They’ll let anybody in this joint,” Cassidy says, his gaze boring a hole through Jack’s mourning mood.
Jack, not the kind of guy to allow reason to get in the way, seizes the moment. He pulls his revolver and shoots. Cassidy stumbles and grabs for his own revolver. Cassidy’s bar pal jumps from behind the stumbling Cassidy and fires at Jack. A volley of shots sends patrons scurrying for cover. Jack’s partner, leveling several shots at Cassidy, pulls at Jack’s arm.
Cassidy and his pal lie dying on the floor.
“Let’s go! They’re done for,” he shouts.
Fifty people witness the event. When the police come around, nobody can remember much. Jack is indicted on a charge of first-degree murder in the deaths of Cassidy and Walker. Within six weeks, the club’s manager and three waiters turn up in various parts of the city dead, riddled with bullets. By October, the authorities are still cracking down on everyone in the bootleg business. Jack remains in custody serving his time in the Tombs.
* * *
The phone rings in Meyer’s apartment. It is early morning and Meyer is still in bed with Anne by his side. Meyer dons his slippers and pads to the living room.
“Hello?”
“You better come now,” a raspy voice says. Vito Genovese. “I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”
Meyer hangs up, rustles through his closet, and throws on a clean shirt and tie and a lightweight suit.
“What is it?” Anne says.
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“Go back to sleep,” Meyer says.
“Another one of your gangster friends?” Anne says.
“Go back to sleep,” Meyer says.
“When are you coming home?” Anne says, sitting bolt upright as she gathers the silk sheets and comforter around her legs.
There is panic in her voice. No one would guess she is six months pregnant. She lives on saltines and black coffee.
“Call your mother,” Meyer says slipping on his shoes.
Anne is still screaming as the door closes.
“I don’t want to call my mother!”
Vito Genovese is waiting at the curb. Meyer jumps into the idling car.
Vito says, “Charlie’s had the shit beat out of him. It’s bad, Meyer. Cops picked him off the beach, took him to Richmond Memorial. I got a guy up there now checking things out. Charlie wants to see you. He damn near had his head cut off.”
Vito’s guy, a bruiser named Harry wearing an orderly’s outfit, waits near Charlie’s room as the doctors tend to Charlie’s wounds. Vito flags Harry down and the threesome huddle in the stairwell at the end of the ward.
Harry says, “The doc’s still stitching up his neck. The cops are talking about taking him in on a grand larceny charge. They know who he is and they’re hoping he’ll spill his guts while he’s still loopy. They’re taking him to a precinct in Manhattan, a lineup. They want him to identify his assailant. And then they’re gonna try for a larceny charge.”
Meyer hands Harry a roll of bills.
“Don’t worry about that,” he says. “You get a place where he can lay low for a while. Don’t let him go back to his apartment until we know who’s behind this. Get something nice, a place where he can sit in the sun and look out the window. Get a doctor. Make sure he brings morphine. I want the doctor there waiting for Charlie, not Charlie waiting for him.”
Vito says, “I know a broad, just the right type. Polly’s broad. She’s a nurse. She can pick Charlie up from the precinct.”
Charlie is shuffled around from hospital to precinct to lineup. The police try but can’t get the grand larceny charge to stick, as Meyer knew would be the case. They have no choice but to let him go.
A Bloody Business Page 31
