A Bloody Business

by Dylan Struzan

  “Half an hour,” Charlie says and hangs up the receiver.

  He’s done in ten and sends the blonde packing with fifty bucks. Charlie showers, puts on a clean shirt and suit. Out on the street, he hails a cab.

  Duke Ellington is in his third year at the Club. The jungle theme, successful from the start, is now ever-present in the stage show. Charlie wades through the crowd and finds Adonis at a front-row table ogling the all-black chorus line. Madden’s rule of thumb: no dancer can be darker than a paper bag.

  Charlie takes a seat and watches as the dancers gyrate. Adonis discreetly relays the message. Tommy Lucchese and Tommy Gagliano want to meet with Charlie. Willie Moretti, who circulates freely picking up gossip among the Sicilians, has told Adonis that the guys in Reina’s mob think Vito Genovese, Charlie’s underboss, was sent to take care of Reina.

  “Is that it?” Charlie says.

  He considers the situation. If he is going to play the game, he needs to know what these men are thinking. Gagliano is Old World, born in Corleone, Sicily. Lucchese was born in Palermo. With Willie Moretti in the mix, Maranzano is sure to be involved behind the scenes. He searches for a pack of cigarettes.

  Duke Ellington and his orchestra take the stage and shake the house with something they call the “Jubilee Stomp.” The chorus line, clad in white satin shorts and matching halter tops dotted here and there with green glass gems to match their long feather tails, kicks its way through a new routine.

  Charlie waits for the set to end.

  He says, “Tell them I’ll get back to them.”

  Adonis says, “One more thing. Maranzano is calling a meeting in Brooklyn.”

  Charlie nods. “Keep your ear to the ground.”

  Adonis eyes the two women sitting at the table next to them.

  They have no apparent escorts. He sends them a bottle of Champagne that is greeted with a smile. Just as he is about to make his move, Jimmy Alo walks up and takes a seat beside one of the girls.

  “That son of a bitch,” Adonis says. “He’s moving in on my dime.”

  Charlie shakes his head. He has wrestled with the dragon of his jealousy and finds himself content with Polly’s whores. He watches Joe A. make his move on the girls. Two girls. Two men. These women are no Dumb Doras. The real question remains, who has lured whom. Charlie doesn’t care. He’s got bigger concerns.

  “Thanks for the Champagne,” Jimmy says to Adonis.

  Duke Ellington moves into another song. The chorus line pounds across the stage and then back again. Owney Madden comes down to the dining room and takes a seat next to Charlie.

  Madden says, “I was just talkin’ with Jimmy Alo. He wants to put Ellington on the radio. It’s the new thing. He’s got a guy at William Morris. You know him? He was best man at Jimmy’s wedding. Jimmy’s convinced this would double business overnight.”

  “Would it?” Charlie says.

  “Look around,” Madden says. “What would I do with more people? Besides, you can’t see a chorus line on the radio.”

  Charlie shrugs. “You gonna do it?”

  “What choice do I have?” he says.

  Madden excuses himself. Business calls. Charlie leaves the broads to Joe Adonis and Jimmy Alo and steps outside to hail a cab. At Broadway and 34th, he gets out, walks through a cigar store, and drops a nickel in the pay phone in the back. Gaetano Gagliano, the guy who was Tom Reina’s second in command, answers the call.

  Charlie says, “I hear you wanna talk.”

  “Yeah,” Gagliano says. Disgust fills the vacuum of his reply. “Meet me at Tommy’s joint in the Bronx tomorrow at noon.”

  Charlie says, “I tell you where we’re gonna meet, and when.”

  Charlie hangs up and calls in one of his boys. They meet at the automat.

  “Tomorrow morning first thing I want you to run a little errand for me,” Charlie says. “Be at the office at six.”

  Bright and early the guy shows up at Charlie’s office, where Charlie and Tommy the Bull are waiting.

  Charlie says, “I want you and Tommy the Bull to pick up a couple of guys for me. You know Tommy Gagliano and Tommy Lucchese? Go get them. Bring them to the South Street Seaport. I don’t want no games. Don’t give them time to think or make any phone calls. Get them to South Street. I’ll be there. If you ain’t there by nine-thirty, I’ll figure something went wrong.”

  By eight-thirty, Gagliano and Lucchese are at the South Street docks watching small fishing vessels offload their fish for Manhattan’s restaurants.

  Gagliano says, “I ain’t gonna beat around the bush. Were you responsible for what happened to Tommy?”

  Charlie says, “You know I can’t answer that.”

  Gagliano says, “Fat Joe is pushing himself to head up our family. He says Joe the Boss wants it that way. We ain’t gonna listen to nothin’ the Boss has to say. If he’s behind this, he’s gone too far.”

  Charlie says, “Why get caught up in a vendetta that’s between Joe the Boss and Salvatore Maranzano?”

  “Joe the Boss put us in the middle,” Lucchese says. “He’s forcing us to take sides and if we gotta choose, it won’t be Joe. It’s gonna be Maranzano. Maranzano don’t want nothing from us. All he’s asking for is respect for the Sicilian fathers.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. All these old greasers are cut from the same cloth. Maranzano’s got a war chest, don’t he? He expects all you guys to pony up. He’s already got his hand in your pocket and you don’t even know it.”

  “Look, Charlie,” Lucchese says. “We don’t want no trouble with you. It’s Joe the Boss that’s the problem. We ain’t gonna stand for Pinzolo telling us what to do. We thought you should know.”

  There it is, a declaration of independence against Joe the Boss.

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Charlie says. “Do what you gotta do but think of the consequences before you make your move. Nobody knows where all this is going to wind up.”

  Gagliano stares into Charlie’s eyes hoping to find the truth about Charlie’s guilt regarding Reina’s death. It’s an old Sicilian trick. Charlie stares back. His dark eyes reveal nothing one way or the other. The conference is over. Charlie heads back to the garage wondering if he should have tried a different approach, if he could have put forth a philosophy of peace. Gagliano and Lucchese return to the Bronx. One thing sticks with them, Charlie’s dismissal of their treason. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Charlie said. So it would seem to these men that Charlie doesn’t wholly agree with his boss.

  Meanwhile, at the Sabatini bakery, Fat Joe Pinzolo hems and haws with Joe the Boss over cannoli and espresso. He tries to convince Joe the Boss that he has control of Reina’s mob but they both know it’s a lie. Fat Joe is not in control. Joe the Boss sees his failure and worries. With every new ally, Salvatore Maranzano grows stronger and that is surely bad for business.

  “They will do as they are told,” Fat Joe insists.

  Joe the Boss fumes silently.

  * * *

  Salvatore Maranzano rides through the streets of Brooklyn in the back seat of his armored Cadillac. A second car, filled with soldiers, follows behind. The cars cut dirty ruts through the freshly fallen snow. Maranzano straddles the machine gun, keeping an eagle eye out for trouble in the form of Joe the Boss or his henchmen.

  Two bodyguards protectively flank Maranzano. On one side is Joe Bonanno, also from the old country, linked firmly to Maranzano by his admiration of Maranzano’s great intellect. On the other side, a recruit fresh off the boat bringing news from the now-imprisoned Cascioferro.

  “The Italy we knew no longer exists,” the recruit says in Italian. “The Blackshirts have taken control of everything.”

  The car’s driver maneuvers deftly along the icy roads. His destination is a restaurant located at the foot of the Manhattan Bridge on the Brooklyn side which Maranzano calls “a little taste of home.” The soft yellow box of a building displays a pretense of elegance. It seems out of pl
ace among the piers and warehouses that line the river. The car skids to a stop close to the entrance. Joe Bonanno is the first to exit the car. His feet plunge into heavy slush. Icy water fills his shoes, drenching his socks and putting his feet into a deep freeze.

  “There goes forty bucks,” he says of his new shoes.

  Maranzano steps from the car. The slush runs around the high rubber overshoes he wears. Snow continues to fall. The soldiers in the second car pour out of their vehicle and slog their way to the restaurant’s kitchen entrance. The kitchen is used to the drill. Nothing is spared, from flour bins to the simmering soups and sauces. Everything is checked to ensure the safety of their family father.

  Maranzano strolls toward the eatery like a conquering hero. He pauses to admire the string of lights dotting the Manhattan Bridge. On the other side of the East River, the city twinkles like a miniature scene in a glass globe.

  “You see that?” Maranzano says with one arm outstretched. “The golden door. Brooklyn is just the beginning.”

  The soldiers trudge out from the kitchen. They stand at attention, hands folded to the front and feet slightly apart. They nod that the building is safe to enter.

  Crisp white linens line the tables. Waiters scurry to accommodate the large group. Maranzano indicates a place in front of a large picture window. He looks out across the river and imagines Joe the Boss looking back, gloating over his control of the Italian rackets. Several tables are pushed together. Maranzano takes a seat at the head of the table.

  The chef looks out from the kitchen. His cousin is Al Mineo and now that his cousin has aligned with Joe the Boss, the chef worries. Surely Salvatore Maranzano knows about Mineo’s treachery. He closes his eyes and gathers his strength and then comes out to greet the great man who is taking over Brooklyn.

  “You honor me with your presence,” the chef says taking a deep breath. “Tonight, we have minestrone and fish soup. My cousin get frostbite, the fish is so fresh.” He laughs nervously. “I make my grandmother’s ravioli and my great aunt Dori’s Torta de Mele. I think tonight you like the ricotta ravioli with meat sauce. My grandmother never serve ravioli without meat sauce. Maybe you like a little marinated eggplant to start?”

  “Si.” The Don nods his approval. “And some wine from Sicily. I want to taste the land of my birth.”

  “I bring it right out,” the chef says.

  Maranzano surveys the restaurant and the men guarding his life. His soldiers, for the most part, are young, strong, and barely fluent in English. They rank last in America’s manual labor force but first in Maranzano’s pick for war. By any standards, it is an impressive exhibition of force.

  The other diners in the restaurant recognize the entourage. Excitement fueled by fear fills the air. All this satisfies Maranzano’s longing for power. On this side of the river, in this restaurant, he has no equal.

  He turns to Joe Bonanno and says, “The police have connected Frankie Yale’s murder to the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, no?”

  Bonanno listens with rapt interest as Maranzano recites facts from newspaper article after newspaper article. New York City Police Commissioner Whalen has announced the results of the ballistics test. The bullets brought from Chicago are a “definite and positive match” with the Yale bullet. For the first time, the New York police department cooperates with the Chicago police department. It is a coup d’état of sorts, an investigation driven by the new science and poised to overthrow the powerful Al Capone if the evidence can reach high enough up the ladder.

  Maranzano says, “Neapolitans and Calabrese have no couth. We will hope the police take care of these barbarians so our friend, Joe Aiello, can advance his position in the Unione Siciliana. Capone will finally get the message not to meddle in the affairs of New York.”

  Dinner is served in convenient waves. Eggplant and antipasto followed by minestrone. After the soup is the rather unusual pairing of the pasta and meat sauce. Maranzano sends his compliments to the chef. Marinated artichoke hearts come next. Finally, the table is filled with espressos and an apple torte.

  Locals come and go. Maranzano sits back with brandy and a cigar. He turns his attention to the new soldier.

  “Antonio,” Maranzano says, “after tonight, you are Al Mineo’s shadow. Where he goes, you go. I want to know everybody he sees, what he talks about, what business he has with Joe Masseria, the bigwig in Manhattan. I want to know how many times he screws his wife before he goes to sleep. I want to know everything. Capisce?”

  Antonio nods. The next day, he rises early and parks near Mineo’s home where he can clearly see the front door. Mineo leaves the house around nine o’clock, Antonio in tow, keeping a record of every stop, every face. For days Antonio follows Mineo and each night he returns to his small apartment, sits in the kitchen, boils water in his Napolentana for espresso, and transcribes his daily scribbles into a small notebook. Angela, his wife, sits on the musty couch and flips on the radio.

  “Yoo-hoo, is anybody?” Angela calls.

  Antonio rolls his eyes. Not again. Angela is hooked on The Goldbergs. She turns up the volume on the radio.

  “Yoo-hoo, is anybody?” Molly Goldberg hollers from the radio.

  “Yoo-hoo, I’m practice my English,” Angela yells to Antonio.

  The Goldbergs invades the small space. Antonio tries to ignore the intrusion. For fifteen minutes, while the episode airs, he records everything he remembers of Mineo’s day: his morning stop at the bakery, a brief meeting with Joe the Boss that had something to do with Fat Joe Pinzolo, a stop in the Bronx to collect his share of the numbers racket, a visit to Pinzolo, a long lunch with Charlie Luciano at the Villa Nuevo, an afternoon at his office with regular visits from his underbosses, and finally dinner with the wife whom he enjoyed at least once before going to sleep.

  Angela pulls the sleeves of her sweater over her hands and walks the five steps from the couch to the table where Antonio sits scribbling in his notebook. She snuggles against him. Antonio frowns.

  She says, “What does that book have that I don’t have?”

  Antonio says, “Not now. I need to think.”

  She throws her arms around his shoulders and rubs up against him, “What can be so important?”

  He bristles, “If I mess this up, I die.”

  Angela shrugs off his concern. She swings around and sits on the table in front of him.

  “What kind of man would kill you for making love to your wife?” she pouts. “You say he is from Italy. In Italy making love is not forbidden like in America.”

  The espresso cup tips sideways sending a wash of coffee over the table. Angela’s skirt is soaked along with the Mineo notebook. Tension fills the air. Angela looks at Antonio in horror and then breaks out laughing. The lovers embrace and waddle to the couch, a tangle of arms and legs and passion.

  A knock at the door sends them scrambling. Antonio answers the door.

  “Scusami,” Antonio says pushing his hair back in place and tucking in his shirt.

  Maranzano scans the small apartment. Angela disappears into the tiny bedroom. Antonio wipes the coffee-dampened pages of the notebook. Maranzano flips through the pages. He makes a note of Mineo’s contacts then slides the notebook into his pocket.

  Antonio drops his head.

  Maranzano says, “Next time you start thinking with your pene instead of your head, make sure you’re not taking care of my business.”

  “Si,” Antonio says.

  “Never hang you head,” Maranzano says with a slap to Antonio’s cheek. “Not even in shame. You don’t know who is watching. If your enemy sees you shamed, he will know you are weak.”

  Antonio brings his eyes to meet Maranzano’s, clenching his jaw in closed-lipped defiance. Maranzano nods his satisfaction.

  “Remember that feeling,” Maranzano says. “Use it the next time you are tempted to let a woman tell you what to do.”

  Maranzano leaves with the small black notebook. He orders the driver to take him to Cola Sch
iro’s home. Maranzano has long since dismissed the quivering skeleton of a man from his position as head of the family if not officially then at least in his own dealings with the man.

  Schiro takes Maranzano to the quiet of his library, where they discuss the family’s business.

  “Joe the Boss has demanded a tax,” Schiro says.

  “How much?” Maranzano says.

  “Ten thousand,” Schiro says.

  “He’ll bleed us dry,” Maranzano says. “What are you going to do?”

  “I will go and see Stefano. He will tell me what to do.”

  Stefano Magaddino is still, respectfully, the father of the Brooklyn family.

  “Stefano is four hundred miles away. What does he know of our troubles? Can his arm reach to Brooklyn?”

  Schiro says, “We cannot take matters into our own hands.”

  “Call a meeting of the fathers. We do not need Stefano to deal with this man who disgraces our tradition.”

  Schiro’s eyes widen. He has made the estimation, and rightly so, that the Castellammarese are not strong enough to take on Joe the Boss, Peter Morello, and Charlie Luciano. Ten thousand dollars is a small price to pay when compared to the cost of a war and smaller still for the price of one’s life. He does not need to call a meeting of the Sicilian fathers.

  The phone rings.

  Schiro’s housekeeper appears at the door of the study.

  “Signore,” she says. “It is for you.”

  Schiro takes the phone. The news is bone-chilling. His knees wobble to the point of collapse.

  “Gaspar Milazzo has been shot,” he breathes at last. “He is dead.”

  Maranzano grabs the phone. These are men of his tradition. He must get to the bottom of things.

  “Gaspar was in the fish market with Sasa Parrino when he was shot. We do not know who fired the shots,” the voice on the other end of the line reports.

  Maranzano’s jaw tightens. His eyes narrow.

  “This is a declaration of war,” he says.

  “I beg of you,” Schiro says. “I will call Stefano. We will decide as a family.”

  Maranzano hangs up the phone. Milazzo’s death is the spark he needs to light the fire under the complacent Sicilians.