“Please,” Schiro utters. “Call Stefano.”
But his pleas fall on deaf ears. The stoic Maranzano relishes the idea of being called away from daily life to live wildly in the heat of war, huddled in safe-houses, forsaking the luxury of Simmons comfort for raw ticking stuffed with anything cheap enough to leave behind when the enemy sniffs out the hideout.
“Can’t you see what is going on?” Maranzano says. “Joe the Boss wants to exterminate us all. We must stand up and fight for what is ours.” He looks at the quivering Schiro. “‘Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once.’ Tell me, Cola, when you look in the mirror, do you find a corpse staring back?”
Cola hangs his head. Maranzano says nothing more.
* * *
Arthur Flegenheimer, otherwise known as the Dutchman, closes the ledgers on his desk and shoves them in the safe before heading to the john. The mirror over the sink reminds him of his long day. He splashes water on his face and wipes it off with a sour-smelling towel.
“Where the fuck’s a clean towel?” he screams.
His armpits reek. He sloughs off his wrinkled jacket and drops his dirty shirt on the floor.
“Where are those towels?” he shrieks.
Bo Weinberg plays nursemaid to the Dutchman’s demands. He passes the Dutchman a fresh stack of bleached white towels neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. The Dutchman rips the paper and throws it to the ground, stomping it underfoot. The Dutchman is a contradiction in terms, a slob with a fetish for cleanliness. He runs a towel under the faucet and rubs it with soap.
“Where’s my shirt?” he yells.
“Hanging on the back of the door,” Weinberg says.
The Dutchman swabs his armpits and throws the towel to the floor and then repeats the process until his pits pass the sniff-test.
“Get my car,” he says. “I’m goin’ to the bath house.”
It is three o’clock in the morning and the New York Racquet and Tennis Club on Park Avenue is still open for business. Bo Weinberg drives the Dutchman to the club, where the Dutchman indulges in a Turkish bath. The harder he’s scrubbed, the better he feels. After half an hour of this treatment, he wraps a towel around his waist, pops chewing gum in his mouth, and ambles off to the steam room, his flat feet slapping hard on the tile floor.
Charlie Luciano sees him coming and chuckles.
“Watch it, Arthur. I seen a guy bust his skull wide open fallin’ on this tile.”
The Dutchman drops onto the hard seat like a polar bear landing on a cold fish. He wipes his forehead and stares at Charlie.
The Dutchman says, “You ever figure out why them cops beat you, Charlie? You get behind on their graft?”
“Them guys didn’t need no excuse,” Charlie says.
“I heard they was lookin’ for Jack Diamond. Everybody knows that double-crossing cocksucker ran back to the Catskills right after he shot them guys at the Hotsy Totsy. Charlie Entratta coulda walked free if he hadn’t a broke parole. They got him on associating with known gangsters. Who the hell is he gonna associate with? Choir boys?”
“Didn’t Jack shoot them guys after he came back from the Catskills?”
The Dutchman is suddenly quiet, a great pensive mood sweeps over him. He hates being wrong and hates even more being corrected. Charlie leans his head back and soaks up the heat. His shoulders relax and calm sets in.
Suddenly, the Dutchman jumps back to life.
“Whatever way it was, Diamond’s back in town and up to his old tricks,” he says. “I got five bullets in the bastard and he’s still causing me trouble. I woulda paid the bum what he wanted. Ain’t no skin off my nose. Not now, not after Joey was killed. I ever see his face, I’ll blow it clean off.”
Jack has been the nagging sore on the belly of the Dutchman’s oyster nearly since the beginning. The Dutchman wants him gone. The Dutchman generally gets his way. The Dutchman shifts in his towel and scratches his crotch.
“Whores,” he says. “As if I ain’t got enough problems I got this one, too.”
“Jesus,” says Charlie. “Show some respect. You ain’t the only guy that comes here. Take care of yourself, for Christ’s sake. And next time you want to get laid, go to a class joint where the broads are clean. Forget about the fifth-rate hotel tramps.”
“Why pay for silk when cotton is just as good?” the Dutchman says. “One pussy’s the same as the next.”
“Apparently not, Arthur. If you want a good whore, you gotta spring for it. Call Polly Adler—after you get cleaned up. I don’t need your troubles falling on me.…Did you talk to the Guy lately?”
“About what?”
“The meetin’ at Costello’s office,” Charlie says.
“Yeah.”
“Do us all a favor,” Charlie says. “Take care of yourself before you show up.”
Chapter Eighteen
Winner Takes All
SUMMER 1930
Cola Schiro coughs up the ten-thousand-dollar tribute and delivers it to Joe the Boss. Maranzano howls in disbelief. Peter “the Clutch Hand” Morello has allied himself with the detestable Mr. Joe, and that brings him more allies. Schiro still shivers at the grizzly Ignazio Lupo, known simply as the Wolf, who worked together with the Clutch Hand to remove their opposition. Enemies of the Morello gang were dismembered and shoved into barrels that were abandoned in back alleys or left on street corners or shipped to nonexistent addresses in another city with no one to perform the last rites.
Schiro frets and Maranzano fumes. Joe the Boss riffles through the envelope of cash, ten-thousand dollars’ worth of sweet-smelling success. The acquiescence renews his staying power as he cruises the streets of Little Italy. He sees the Castellammarese as broken, disjointed, and quarreling. His thoughts turn to calculating. Salvatore Maranzano will not go quietly. He has greater ambitions than Cola Schiro ever imagined. Joe the Boss senses the need to school the arrogant Maranzano on criminal etiquette. He sends word to the budding Caesar demanding a “friendly” meeting.
Maranzano, in an egocentric haze, is convinced that Joe the Boss fears the strength of the Castellammarese and that’s why Mr. Joe requested the meeting. Maranzano calls together the family fathers of his clan. Like a man crowned with a laurel wreath before the fact, he espouses his rage for the self-appointed rival capo di tutti capi and his cohort, Peter Morello. He declares he will meet the enemy face-to-face and gauge the fear behind his eyes. The fathers oppose the move. They are free to go about their business. What’s ten thousand dollars to their millions. Maranzano tears their complacency to shreds.
In anticipation of the meeting, Joe the Boss brings in Italian delicacies: Cassata Siciliana; cannoli; a silver, gilt and ivory sugar bowl and milk jug atop a gold-framed mirror; and a row of gleaming forks and spoons. An oversized spray of fresh flowers sits atop the sideboard.
Maranzano arrives with Joe Bonanno in tow, a carefully chosen companion as Bonanno is Stefano Magaddino’s cousin, and Maranzano thinks the famiglia tie will show Stefano Magaddino’s solidarity with their cause, but Joe’s bodyguards stop Bonanno at the door. Maranzano alone enters the room. Mr. Joe shows off his rich man’s view of Central Park. Peter Morello lights a cigar and calls for espresso. Maranzano takes a seat. He is fresh, neatly groomed, organized. Morello is stern, unyielding, hardened from life and prison. Mr. Joe is confident but clumsy. His fat paunch strains the buttons of his vest.
Like giddy schoolgirls, Mr. Joe and Peter Morello circle the table and help themselves to cannoli. Morello takes a seat across from Maranzano. Joe the Boss speaks first. He gets right to the point. War would be foolish. As businessmen, they must accept recent events and work together.
Morello speaks of the changes in Italy now that Mussolini has waged war on the Italian fathers. In other words, now that Cascioferro is behind bars, the power of the Castellammarese is greatly diminished. Morello sees the rage in Maranzano’s eye and grins.
The meeting, however, i
s not about Maranzano. It is a ploy to get Stefano Magaddino to come to Manhattan in order to prove that Stefano, and not Maranzano, is still the head of the Brooklyn clan. The gauntlet is thrown down. Maranzano agrees to go to Magaddino. The Clutch Hand then confesses that the murder of Milazzo was done at his behest claiming Milazzo’s intention was to kill Mr. Joe. The move was made in retaliation.
Maranzano shifts in his seat. With a surge of adrenaline, the general in him emerges.
After Joe the Boss calls for cordials, Maranzano collects Joe Bonanno and, in the car home, settles back into his rhythm.
“They are all dead men!” he says. “You will see.”
Unwittingly, Mr. Joe and the Clutch Hand have thrust Maranzano into his element. He packs a small bag, stuffs it into the Cadillac’s trunk, and kisses his wife goodbye. Maranzano, Joe Bonanno, and two bodyguards wind their way to Stefano Magaddino’s Buffalo estate. The land is sprawling and green, wide open country where a man can see in all directions. The town rides the Canadian border separated by the raging Niagara Gorge. Stefano and Maranzano settle into a small café that overlooks Niagara Falls. Over a hearty lunch of meatball sandwiches and minestrone soup, Maranzano doles out the details of the friendly meeting.
Maranzano narrows his eyes. “Gaspar’s murder will be the undoing of them both. Morello fears us, Stefano. I could smell the fear on him. When he made his threats, it was as if he were pleading for mercy.”
“Why would Peter Morello fear us?” Stefano says.
“Because he knows he is on the losing side. Mr. Joe will destroy all who follow him. Mr. Joe claims the role of the capo di tutti. Even in that he slaps us in the face, calling himself boss of bosses. He sends word to you through me. Fear. He commands you come to New York for a clarification meeting or there will be bloodshed. Fear again.”
Stefano Magaddino calls for another espresso and watches the raging water tumble over the falls.
Stefano says, “If he came crawling to me on his belly like the snake he is, I wouldn’t give him the time of day.”
“If you do not come to Manhattan, there will be war,” Maranzano says, almost gleeful at the prospect. “Morello has given me that assurance.”
There is darkness in Maranzano’s eyes and readiness. The time is right for war.
“Then we must prepare,” Stefano says.
Maranzano lays out his plan. The Sicilian orbit has been disturbed by the atmospheric drag not only of Joe the Boss but also Al Capone. Capone’s release on March 17 signaled the return of Joe Aiello’s problems. The New York Times may have buried the news of Capone’s return to Chicago on page four among items of lesser interest and fashion ads but the news was not ignored by Salvatore Maranzano.
Maranzano says, “We have three enemies to neutralize, Mr. Joe, Peter Morello, and the Scarface who continues to interfere with the Unione Siciliana. We must clip his wings before it is too late and the Unione becomes the bastard child of a Neapolitan.”
The afternoon fades into conversation of Old World politics and New World realities and other theories of relativity. They pass days in strategic discussions.
“You have my blessing to do what is necessary,” Stefano says, to Maranzano’s delight.
Charlie Lucky takes the news to Meyer and Benny at the Claridge.
Charlie says, “Joe don’t trust nobody but Peter Morello now.
The old greasers will stand up for Stefano.”
Meyer says, “You have a pretty good sense of who is going along with our plan and who isn’t. This is where the game gets interesting. When we make our move, all the other boys should make theirs. We take out the troublemakers all at once or our plan won’t work. We give the signal. Let the dominoes fall where they may.”
Charlie nods, “Joe expects Capone’s support in this war but Al’s got trouble of his own. A big Sicilian concern is trying to control the South Side of Chicago. It’s the same guy who put a contract out on him. And the Chicago police are still waitin’ to see if the peace pact between him and Bugs Moran is real.”
Benny says, “He’s gonna need eyes in the back of his head.”
“He ain’t got time to fight his battles and those of Joe the Boss, too. Has it struck you as kinda odd that you and Salvatore Maranzano are alike, Meyer?”
“I’m nothing like Maranzano,” Meyer says.
“You’re both great strategists,” Charlie says. “I can see it. He comes from the Old World with all that history. You come from…where do you come from?”
“Grodno,” Meyer says. “I grew up with the pogroms of Bialystok. The czar’s soldiers took everything. I guess that influenced the way I think.”
“Why you’re always for the underdog,” Charlie says. “Ain’t it interesting that the guys call you the Little Guy and then you turn around and fight for the little guy.”
Meyer shrugs. “I guess so. I never thought of it that way.”
Charlie leaves the Claridge and drives out to Brooklyn, where he passes the afternoon at a Sicilian hangout fishing for contact with the Castellammarese. Joe Bonanno swings by around four o’clock in the afternoon for a few cups of espresso and a taste of antipasto. Charlie invites him to sit at his table. For the next two hours, they shoot the breeze and lament the discord among Italians. Bonanno quotes Caesar and spouts Maranzano’s philosophy as though it is his own. Charlie listens and nods, drawing his comments from things gone wrong in Italy that can be avoided with the application of honor in America.
Bonanno says, “New York is going to erupt, mark my words.”
Charlie says, “And when the dust settles? Do we go back to fightin’ or do we work out our differences like gentlemen?”
“If all men were men of honor, all men would act like gentlemen,” Bonanno says.
Charlie says, “That’s the way it should be but that ain’t never the way it is.”
“You don’t think Maranzano can do it. You don’t think he can change things for the good,” Bonanno says.
“Let’s just say I been around too long to underestimate the ability of things to go wrong,” Charlie says. “Let me ask you this…let’s say Maranzano is the right guy to lead your family. Let’s say he comes to power, so to speak. What do you think he’s gonna do?”
Bonanno sits in stunned silence. He ponders the question. Finally, the dutiful follower says, “Bring honor to our tradition.”
“How does he do that?” Charlie says. “What we gotta do is find a way to protect our interests without interfering on other guys tryin’ to do the same thing.”
“Yes,” Bonanno agrees. “And that is exactly what he will do.”
Joe the Boss sends for Charlie and commands him to visit Tom Reina’s mob to do what Fat Joe Pinzolo has been unable to do, quiet things down. Tommy Gagliano and Tommy Lucchese have split from the gang and started their own splinter group. Gagliano, the quiet diplomat, has no use for publicity and thus forsook the gathering of Sicilian fathers in Cleveland.
Charlie seeks out Gagliano first.
“These guys want to be big shots. What did they expect to happen in Cleveland? Bunch of Italians who barely speak English driving their fancy cars to a swanky hotel! For Christ’s sake.”
Charlie says, “They said they were there for the Unione Siciliana.”
“That’s bullshit and we know it. The life expectancy of the Unione president is a very short one anyway,” he says. “Why bother?”
“Joe the Boss wants you and Lucchese to make nice, stop all this nonsense with Joe Pinzolo,” Charlie says.
“Fuck him and that fat pig Pinzolo,” Gagliano says. “Who is he to meddle in our business?”
“Is that what you want me to tell Joe?” Charlie says.
“Charlie,” Gagliano says, “I ain’t got no beef with you. You can tell Joe this ain’t Sicily. He ain’t no capo de tutti capi in my book. I run my own mob.”
“These old Mustache Petes don’t get that idea,” Charlie says.
“Then fuck the whole lot of them,” Gaglian
o says.
Charlie takes a breath, “Tommy,” he says, “we’re gonna make some moves. You got a level head. I’d like you to keep it on your shoulders. Can you settle the dispute for now while we work things out?”
“We?” Tommy says.
“Better if you don’t know who I’m talkin’ about,” Charlie says. “Just trust me.”
It’s difficult for Gagliano to agree but the diplomat in him agrees to try.
The pushing and shoving between Joe the Boss and Salvatore Maranzano escalates. Meyer calls a meeting of his New York partners and associates. It’s a small group of the heavy hitters that gather at Frank Costello’s office in the Italian section of East Harlem.
Costello’s headquarters resembles a model office, something put together to lure the reluctant shopper into thinking this is the look to have. Draperies hang on fancy rods. One perfect oak filing cabinet sits in the corner. A basalt and marble fireplace burns hard wood that crackles peacefully while keeping the room warm. Over the fireplace hangs an Allen Saalburg painting, mountains in Burma, donated in appreciation for a favor rendered. Someone has gone and completed the office furniture list: desk, chair, floor lamp, pen holder, fine pens, phone, desk set. It’s all there, complete in its contents but somehow hollow, like it’s all just for show, which it pretty much is.
A gangster’s roundtable of allies fills the room at Charlie’s behest. Frank Costello, Vito Genovese, Joe Adonis, Benny Siegel, Lepke Buchalter, and Lepke’s strongarm, Gurrah Shapiro, the Dutchman and Bo Weinberg, Owney Madden and his partner, Big Frenchy DeMange. It is not by chance that the Italians, Jews, and Irish have representation. This concerns them all.
They gather around a small conference table set off to the side. It is a tight fit. Costello plays host with hot coffee and Cuban cigars.
Charlie says, “It ain’t no secret that the Sicilians are gearing up for war. The war is mostly between Joe the Boss and Salvatore Maranzano, some of you might not know who Maranzano is. He came over from Italy a while back and took over the Brooklyn family that used to belong to Stefano Magaddino. Remember him? If not, it don’t matter. What matters is this, if these guys go to war, we’ll all be targets sooner or later. You can count on a lot of greaser violence. That means the coppers will all be up our asses tryin’ to control the murders. These guys brought their war over from the old country but it’s the same old problem. Maranzano has been smuggling his paesans into Brooklyn. We gotta decide right here and now to work together so this thing goes our way…not their way. I’m sure you heard about the shootings among the Italians.”
A Bloody Business Page 38
