A Bloody Business

by Dylan Struzan

  “Do I look like I have a crystal ball?” Charlie Berns says. “I’ll tell you one thing, people are going to need a drink now more than ever.”

  Broadway’s neon signs make a hazy appearance in the mist that shrouds the city. They trudge to potential locations within walking distance. They want to see what these places look like at night, the way their customers will see them when the Puncheon closes its doors. They reject several before finding one that looks promising at 21 West 52nd Street. 21, 42—they can only hope the new club isn’t just half the success the old one was.

  They head back to the Puncheon to break the news to their customers. The regulars are unhappy. But Jack and Charlie accept their fate. You can’t stand up to a Rockefeller and win. The Puncheon Grotto will be rubble, a mere anecdote of Prohibition, and Rockefeller’s center will be born.

  * * *

  Charlie Lucky, not to be confused with Charlie Bern, steps from his Murray Hill apartment building right around midnight. The drizzling rain has cleared and given way to a black canopy studded with pinpricks of light.

  “Taxi, Mr. Ross?” the doorman says.

  Charlie looks around. It is a good three miles to Joe the Boss’ penthouse. That’s how far up in the world Joe has moved, twenty minutes by cab, an hour on foot.

  “It’s a good night for a walk,” Charlie says.

  Charlie heads north on Park Avenue. At Times Square, he hits a glut of mink and ermine. The Broadway crowd disperses into the local speakeasies like hungry vultures scenting a kill. Charlie stops to light a cigarette. This is his country, his realm. He knows what it takes to keep a good business going. He rubs the scar on his face and doesn’t feel so lucky.

  A month has passed and still he wonders who, besides the Irish cops that beat him, could be behind the trouble. His head swirls with rage. Maybe Meyer is right about the Rockefellers. Maybe the drug trade isn’t worth the risk. Or maybe the Rockefellers are completely innocent. He laughs at that joke. Maybe Joe the Boss is to blame. Maybe Joe doesn’t like his underling’s strength or cash flow. Or maybe Al Mineo has been whispering sweet nothings about Charlie into the Boss’ ear, triggering an ancient response. Keep ’em hungry and you keep ’em working for you. Loyal. Anything less and you take them out. Whatever the truth, Charlie doesn’t need or want the trouble he has earned from the publicity.

  He shakes off the illusion that he will ever know the truth and starts enumerating the men standing in the way of his success. Before he finishes, he is at the uptown apartment of Joe the Boss.

  Charlie boards the elevator.

  “Penthouse,” Charlie says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The vestibule where the elevator boy deposits Charlie is filled with the nutty aroma of opium. Charlie knocks on the door. Joe’s manservant, a burly guy with the manners of a Hun, ushers him in.

  Charlie wades through smoke-filled rooms littered with Joe’s guests who are stupefied beyond redemption. The manservant sees Charlie to the balcony where Joe stands overlooking Central Park. He sips wine from the old country and pats himself on the back for his success. His rackets cover Manhattan like a dragnet. At fifty and still alive, he figures he is strong enough to demand the respect of the Castellammarese. The Upper 80s, as these blocks of the Upper West Side are known, harbor the warm glow of insulated arrogance.

  Joe gestures to his guests. Manhattan’s finest have come to enjoy the party favors of the man in the penthouse. The rich and powerful sprawl across couches and lounge on chairs. They scoop Beluga caviar with small mother-of-pearl spoons onto perfectly toasted bread and sip Russian vodka, then wash it all down with an opium chaser.

  Joe says, “You want to chase the dragon?”

  “I gave it up for Lent,” Charlie says.

  “Lent is a long way off,” Joe says. “Maybe a glass of wine? In vino veritas, Charlie. Your face is healing nicely. How is the neck?”

  Charlie shrugs.

  Joe waddles from the balcony to his private office. Opium paraphernalia is spread atop his heavy oak desk.

  Joe barks, “We’re expanding the opium business. Make sure we have plenty of men on the street. The Jews don’t own the trade anymore.”

  “You mean Arnold Rothstein?” Charlie says.

  “If that’s the dead guy, that’s who I mean,” Joe the Boss says. “You see these people? They can afford whatever they want and what they want is opium.”

  “And whiskey,” Charlie says.

  “Yes,” Joe says. “Whiskey and opium are good bedfellows, eh? With that kind of business, a man can control the world. I see by the look on your face you don’t approve. I don’t need nobody telling me which way the wind blows. That’s high society out there, not a bunch of Lower East Side bums. We give them what they want.”

  Joe opens a silver container that holds the opium paste. The lid is decorated with the yin-yang motif and the cartouche on the side, as Joe points out, reads “Good Luck” in Chinese. Joe pokes at the paste with a long needle and withdraws a pea-sized ball which he holds over the flame of an opium lamp. The opium bubble swells and turns golden. Joe stretches the gooey mass into long strips and continues to cook it over the lamp. When it reaches the right texture, he rolls it back into a ball and then jabs the little ball into the bowl of a bone pipe carved with the figures of two dragons chasing each others’ tails. He takes a deep pull and then extends the pipe to Charlie. Smoke swirls through the room. The heady aroma beckons Charlie back to a long, lost dream.

  Charlie shakes his head.

  Joe says, “Opium is the gentleman’s choice. We sell opium to gentlemen and heroin to the bums in the ghetto. Get ’em hooked. Who’s gonna care about one less foot-dragger?”

  Charlie says, “I ain’t gonna smoke with you tonight, Joe.”

  Joe takes the tray, the paraphernalia, and lamp to a side table next to a lounge chair. He sprawls and heats the opium and puffs on the bone pipe.

  “In vino veritas,” Joe says. His small laugh sounds curdled. “What are you afraid of, Charlie? What you might say? Don’t worry, there is no truth in wine or opium. Only escape. People smoke to run away from truth. They numb their senses and fill their minds with beautiful lies. But we know the truth, Charlie, you and me. We know the truth and we live with it.”

  Charlie says, “Whether we live or die has nothing to do with truth.”

  “Remember what I told you,” Joe says, his face pinched suddenly into a mask of impatient command. “We are expanding our operations. Take care of it.”

  Joe waves Charlie off and takes another pull on the pipe. Charlie watches Joe fade into the dragon’s dream and then slips from Joe’s apartment. He walks the paths in Central Park. It takes nearly an hour to lose the stench of Joe’s demands. After the long walk in the cold of the park, Charlie heads to the automat to appease the rumbling in his stomach. The great wall of little windows beckons with servings of mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, baked ham, chopped steak, coconut pie. The place buzzes like the zoo on a Saturday afternoon. Ever since the market fell, stockholders with empty palms have left off the high-end eateries in favor of the lowly automat. No shame here.

  Charlie rummages for a handful of nickels and lays claim to a bowl of clam chowder.

  Meyer strolls through the front door and straight to the dessert section. He slides his loose change into the slot and takes a custard pudding. On second thought, he buys one more. He looks around for a table and sees Charlie.

  Charlie says, “What are you doing here?”

  Meyer says, “She’s got a craving.”

  Meyer drops into a chair. His eyes are bloodshot.

  “Women,” Charlie says with a chuckle.

  “What would you know?” Meyer says. “Whores don’t have babies.”

  “They’re women, ain’t they? Lots of broads get knocked up. You don’t gotta marry them.”

  Meyer enjoys a cigarette. He grabs the spoon next to Charlie’s coffee cup and dips into the custard.

  “You have to do the
right thing,” Meyer says.

  “Yeah,” Charlie says. “Coffee?”

  “Sure,” Meyer says, throwing a handful of nickels on the table. It’s going to be a long night.

  The coffee is hot and fresh. Charlie sinks three spoonfuls of sugar into his cup.

  He says, “I seen Joe the Boss tonight. He wants to expand the drug business. I got no choice but to do what he says.”

  “You always have choice,” Meyer says. “You just don’t like the consequences.”

  “Dead ain’t a consequence,” Charlie says. “It’s a condition.”

  Meyer says, “Guys came back from the war hooked on the stuff. That’s what made it popular. You’ve seen hoppies. Nobody wants that in their life. You’ve seen enough kids ruin their lives. What kinda guy wants to encourage that? Walk away. There are plenty of other guys willing to take the risk. I’m telling you, Charlie, the politicians are turning the public against the stuff.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said?” Charlie says. “You gotta understand one thing, even among the Italians, dealing drugs is frowned on. It’s considered low class. The old greasers won’t have nothing to do with the stuff. Joe ain’t like that. You should hear the old greasers run him down.”

  “So, that’s your answer,” Meyer says.

  “What was the question?” Charlie says.

  “Sooner or later you’re gonna have to get out from under this guy. From what you’ve been telling me, the deck is getting stacked against him. What’s the lineup, Charlie? Who’s with him and who’s against him?”

  “Tom Reina is against him, that’s for sure,” Charlie says. “He told me Salvatore Maranzano has set up a war chest and is looking for contributions.”

  “The wannabe Caesar wants a war?” Meyer says, almost delighted.

  “If you were in his shoes, wouldn’t you?” Charlie says.

  “Do they have enough strength?”

  Charlie shrugs. In his earlier estimation of his enemies, he hadn’t looked at opposition in quite this way. Meyer pushes the empty custard bowl to the side of the table. He sits back and downs the last swallow of coffee. This could be the chance for which he’s been waiting. The war will take more than strength; it will take wits.

  Charlie runs through the Italian split.

  “Maranzano is at the top of the heap in Brooklyn these days. Guys like Mangano and Profaci will side with him. Mangano is nothing. He has no choice but to go with Maranzano. He doesn’t have the strength to stand on his own. Profaci is another story. He has his own business and don’t want no partners muscling in on his business. He will throw some money at Maranzano’s war chest but he won’t stand up and start a fight with Joe the Boss. Joe the Boss has a couple of guys on his side. Carlo Gambino follows Al Mineo around like a puppy. And there are others. Maranzano is gonna have to have a pretty good plan before he makes any moves.”

  “And Chicago?” Meyer says.

  “Capone considers himself Joe’s ally,” Charlie says. “But there’s plenty of Sicilians in Chicago that don’t like Joe or Al. And there’s Cleveland and Detroit. Joe wants to exert his influence over these guys but they don’t want nothin’ to do with him.”

  Meyer listens. The Cleveland Mafia meeting had taken Meyer by surprise. The Americanized guys on the street never think twice about the old dons because the dons are strictly neighborhood thugs. The Cleveland meeting exposed their ambition to expand and their ability to organize.

  Charlie says, “I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen. Masseria can’t afford to let this little Caesar get too strong. Caesar wants the whole shebang. Joe will have to show he has superior strength.”

  “Then Joe will have to strengthen those around him,” Meyer says. “That’s good for us.”

  Charlie’s web is made up of powerful guys with small but tough mobs. Adonis has forty, maybe fifty guys around him. Costello, with the help of Willie Moretti, has carved out a space in the Bronx. Vito Genovese and his boys go wherever Charlie goes. All these guys see Charlie as a fair dealer. They will muster around him if there is trouble, as long as they believe he has a good chance of coming out on top.

  The war over New York’s rackets is like a game of chess. The pieces line up. The pawns are organized to protect the big guys behind them.

  “Trap the king,” Meyer says.

  “What?” Charlie says.

  Meyer gives Charlie a quick chess lesson. Control the center. Develop your pieces. Protect your king. Castle quickly. In the process, give your opponent’s king no way out. Checkmate.

  “I haven’t seen Jimmy Alo around,” Meyer says.

  “That’s cuz he’s on the lam,” Charlie says. “One of his guys was in the can. He went to visit the guy. Next thing the cops know, the guy’s got a gun.”

  “I see,” Meyer says. “I know a lawyer.”

  “Jimmy ain’t gonna want to go back to the can. I can’t ask him to do that.”

  “I’ll see what can be done. Then we’ll ask Jimmy what he wants to do,” Meyer says.

  “You need him for something?” Charlie says.

  “You need him,” Meyer says. “You’re gonna need the Irish, maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon.”

  Meyer scans the automat. The crowd has dissipated. The lonely corner where they have been sitting and discussing the politics of mob life is all the lonelier. Charlie stacks his empty plates. Meyer notices Anne’s neglected bowl of custard.

  “Stalemate,” he says glancing at his watch. “I’ll never hear the end of this. Call me in the afternoon. I’ll know the score for Jimmy by then.”

  * * *

  Jimmy “Blue Eyes” Alo is biding his time in Westchester where he enjoys a good relationship with the local sheriff. Jimmy distributes beer and runs the numbers racket. No one in Westchester would know that the NYPD is looking for him for questioning.

  Charlie and Meyer drive out to Westchester and meet Jimmy outside of town. They take Jimmy’s Chris-Craft runabout for a trip to Long Island Sound and stop at David’s Island. The usual steamboat excursions are closed for the season. The shore is abandoned. They wander the grounds and poke their noses into the buildings of Fort Slocum that once tended the wounded during the Civil War.

  Meyer fills Jimmy in on the goings on in the city. He asks about Jimmy’s business in Westchester. Jimmy laughs. Business is good. He and Eddie McGrath keep the flow of booze running smoothly. Everybody is happy.

  Meyer says, “We’d like you to come back to the city.”

  Jimmy swallows hard and looks at Charlie.

  Charlie says, “I told Meyer about your trouble.”

  Jimmy looks at Meyer who stands calmly, carefully weighing his words in the afternoon breeze.

  “Charlie and I have been talking. We’re going to be making some moves. We’d like your help.”

  Jimmy sighs in relief.

  “Whatever you need,” Jimmy says.

  “It might not be that simple,” Charlie says. “We got a greaser war brewing.”

  “That ain’t nothin’,” Jimmy says. “My guys are your guys.”

  Charlie says, “What about the Irish? There’s a lot of ill will between Italians and Irish.”

  Jimmy says, “That’s common knowledge.”

  “But they respect you,” Meyer says.

  “Yeah, I guess they do,” Jimmy says.

  “Can we count on the Irish to back us up when we move?” Meyer says.

  Jimmy is quiet. It is a big question. The answer is uncertain.

  Meyer says, “We want to bring you along. We think you can influence the Irish, identify those who will cooperate. Your case isn’t as bad as it looks on the surface. I spoke with a lawyer and he thinks he can get you off. At the worst, you’ll do a year.”

  Jimmy bristles, “I don’t need a repeat performance in Dannemora. I’ll be moving up the ladder with two strikes. One more and I’m gone for life.”

  Charlie says, “They can’t prove you slipped the gun to the guy in the can. You got that on your sid
e.”

  Jimmy says, “They can indict a ham sandwich.”

  Jimmy isn’t so much a cynic as he is a realist. At twenty-three, he is no stranger to hard time and the assaults that brings into a kid’s life.

  Meyer grabs a cigarette and looks out at the Hudson River.

  Meyer says, “Your parole officer is looking for you. The PD is looking for you.”

  Jimmy says, “I’d like to work with the Irish but I ain’t lookin’ for no bum’s rush.”

  “You had a concealed weapon. That’s a violation of the Sullivan Act. That’s a one-year sentence. The lawyer is sure he can get you off especially since you can’t be forced to testify against yourself. That’s in the Constitution, the Fifth Amendment.”

  Jimmy says, “They had the priest come to me when I was in the can before. Wanted me to turn in my associates. I told him to go fuck himself. Fucking Siberia up there in the winter.”

  He gives a long, dark gaze. The memory of his prison life still haunts his daylight hours.

  Jimmy says, “What if the other guy talks?”

  Meyer says, “There’s a law in New York. Nobody involved in a crime can testify against any other party that was involved in the same crime. If he does, and they try to use the evidence, you’re free on a legal technicality because they violated your rights.”

  “Never stopped them before. Where’d you hear that?” Jimmy says.

  “A good lawyer,” Meyer says.

  Charlie says, “You can trust Meyer. We ain’t telling you what to do. You gotta do what you think is best. If you want to come along with us, then you gotta go back to New York and straighten things out with your parole officer. That means you’re gonna get picked up for questioning. Our lawyer will go along with you, make sure your rights are not violated. Listen to him. He will make sure they don’t trick you into saying anything that will incriminate you.”

  “You had a concealed weapon?” Meyer says. “Maybe the guy in the can is an excellent pickpocket. Maybe somebody else got the pistol and gave it to the guy. Whatever they think happened is all speculation on their part. They can’t prove a thing.”

  Charlie says, “If they can give a guy like Al Capone just one year on a weapons charge, think of how easy it will be for you.”