A Bloody Business

by Dylan Struzan

  Somehow Italiano manages to beat the odds and lives. More determined than ever, he joins with Maranzano to seek retaliation.

  * * *

  Al Capone creates a web of outposts around Chicago. The police call the outposts “machine gun nests.” Capone boasts that Joe Aiello will be dead before Thanksgiving. Aiello makes the rounds among his paesans making his own plans to remove Capone from the face of the earth. He visits his friend, Pasquale “Presto” Prestogiacomo. He tells Presto that he is going to go to Mexico for a visit, just until things settle down between Joe the Boss and Salvatore Maranzano. The fact remains that while Al Capone holds the prized title Public Enemy Number One, Joe Aiello is not far behind, ranked at number seven on the Crime Commission’s hit list.

  They sit at the kitchen table and talk softly about the war that is raging in New York. Capone’s brag has Aiello worried. Presto promises to watch over Aiello’s rackets. Aiello thanks his friend and then calls for a cab. The cabbie pulls up to 205 Kolmar and walks up to the apartment. He stares at the buzzer plaque at the front door. All the card plates are missing so he returns to his cab and waits for the fare.

  Aiello leaves the building through the alley door. From a second-story window across the street from Presto’s building, a submachine gun explodes with a torrent of bullets that sprays the street below. Aiello is wounded but not cut down. He makes a mad dash for the front of the building, darting into a passageway. A second machine gun nest erupts. Giuseppe Aiello falls to the ground and bleeds out in a matter of minutes.

  He is taken to Garfield Park Hospital as a matter of formality. After hours of tedious work, the coroner says with certainty that the 57 bullets dug from the victim’s body were the sole cause of death.

  “You coulda sunk him in Lake Michigan with that much lead,” Capone says. “Congratulations, boys. I know it wasn’t no picnic waiting for that bastard to show his face. Why don’t you go to Florida and enjoy the sunshine for a couple of weeks?”

  Salvatore Maranzano fumes. The North Side Alcohol King who contributed $5,000 a week to Maranzano’s war chest will be sorely missed.

  Charlie Lucky sends flowers. He picks up a celebratory meal from Nuova Villa Tammaro in Coney Island. The food is still warm when he arrives at Joe’s safe house. Joe the Boss opens a bottle of Champagne and celebrates.

  The following day, Charlie makes a beeline for the Cannon Street garage.

  Charlie says, “Aiello’s murder was a big deal. That’s like Joe the Boss losing Capone’s support. No telling what this will kick off in Chicago, or here. Tommy Lucchese says Maranzano makes a lot of promises but, so far, he’s still taking everybody’s money and stuffing it into his war chest. It sounds like he’s spread pretty thin.”

  “I’d like to be a fly on the wall while Caesar works this one out,” Meyer says.

  “These old greasers are hemorrhaging money on this war. They’ve got soldiers stashed everywhere and runners on the streets. Everybody is involved. Cabbies make the best scouts. Good tips mean good rewards. How long can these guys afford to keep this up?”

  “They’re both eager to bring it to an end,” Meyer says.

  “Maranzano made a six-month promise to his men,” Charlie says.

  “Six months?” Meyer says.

  “This guy is looking to create his own Sicilian Vesper,” Charlie says.

  “That makes it in the spring,” Meyer says.

  “That’s right. That’s when it happened in Sicily.”

  “If Maranzano is still around in the spring, then we know it’s time to get rid of Joe the Boss.”

  “How do you figure?” Charlie says.

  “This guy doesn’t like to be wrong. He’s interested in making a statement. He wants everything to be historical. If both greasers are still at war in the spring, you can be sure Caesar will give you the nod to take out your boss.”

  “Then we do a little Vesper of our own. We give the signal and all the mobs clean house just like we agreed. Once for all time. After that, no more killin’ without permission.”

  Meyer nods.

  * * *

  Joe Valachi’s stakeout finally yields paydirt. Joe the Boss Masseria and Stephen Ferrigno walk through the garden of the Alhambra Apartments where Valachi has been hiding in a ground-floor apartment. Valachi can’t believe his good luck.

  “Are you sure?” Bobby Doyle says as Valachi peeks through the blinds.

  “I think so,” Valachi mutters.

  “Well go and find out.”

  “It’s him,” he tells Doyle returning to the apartment. “I’m sure of it.”

  The three men crouch in the apartment waiting for Joe the Boss to slip up and step in front of a barrage of bullets.

  Finally, Stephen Ferrigno slips out of the apartment with Al Mineo.

  “Shoot, shoot,” Bobby Doyle shouts.

  Buster pulls the trigger. Others are sucked into the fray. A volley of bullets crisscross the courtyard. Bodies fall. The boys in the first-floor apartment flee. Nobody wants to be left holding the shotgun when the police arrive.

  Al Mineo and Stephen Ferrigno are shot dead. Whoever else was at the conference in Ferrigno’s apartment have escaped.

  Joe the Boss walks along Holland Avenue and thanks God for his good luck. The Man Who Dodges Bullets still has the touch. He smiles and stands a little taller.

  “Racketeer War Hinted,” the Times says. It’s the first official acknowledgment of what’s really going on. Meyer folds the paper and lays it on his desk as Benny strolls in from a run to New Jersey and a check on their warehouse supplies.

  A fifty-mile gale sweeps torrents of rain through the city. Meyer stokes the potbellied stove, sits back, and relaxes.

  “Joe the Boss escaped Maranzano’s trap,” Benny says. He sounds almost disappointed. “You think Maranzano is going to win this war?”

  The flames of the fire lick the inside of the iron stove and send occasional sparks spewing through the grate.

  “Maranzano is smart,” Meyer says. “Smarter than Joe. Joe reacts. He is all emotion. Maranzano calculates. He makes a good general. It’s Charlie that’s getting buffeted around in this storm. He’s caught in the middle of this thing.”

  “Charlie’s got the respect of his men,” Benny says. “These old greasers got nothing to gain from taking him out. Don’t they know that?”

  “Maranzano is a thinker,” Meyer says. “He can see how powerful Charlie is. It would be a mistake to kill Charlie. Maranzano isn’t as savvy as Charlie about what life is like here. It’s an uphill battle for him. He needs Charlie if he is going to conquer this town. I’ll bet on it.”

  “Then he won’t take out Charlie,” Benny says.

  “Oh, he will,” Meyer says. “Just not yet. Eventually. Only one guy wins at chess.”

  “When we take out Maranzano, let’s do it at his office. Nobody will expect that, least of all the blowhard himself.”

  Meyer says, “I have to think about that.”

  Benny says, “We’ll go in as cops. Who’s gonna stop a cop?”

  “Accountants,” Meyer says. “Jews make better accountants than cops. Leave the cop business to the Irish.” Meyer pauses and then says, “We get some friends of ours in the police department to spread a rumor about an audit. The Chicago boys are sweating it out while the government goes through their accounts looking for anything that will indict them. Let Maranzano sweat it out, too. He’ll be anxious and won’t notice the Colt under your jacket.”

  Benny likes where this is going.

  “That’s good,” he says. “That’s really good. You fuck around with Charlie, you fuck around with us all.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Oh, Come All Ye Faithful

  CHRISTMAS 1930

  It’s early November and the situation in the Italian world is still red hot. The Castellammarese continue the hunt for Mr. Joe but Joe remains elusive. The strength of his enemies has grown dramatically since Peter Morello was shot and killed in his East Harlem
office. Joe had felt comfortable and nearly invincible up until then. He had relied not only on the Clutch Hand’s strength but on his wisdom. The Clutch Hand knew the streets. He knew how to intimidate men. He had style.

  To compensate for his loss, Joe the Boss surrounds himself with soldiers and worries about their trustworthiness. He mourns his bad luck and takes out his anger on the butt of a cheap cigar.

  Charlie Lucky wades through the sea of security at Joe the Boss’ safe house. The soldier to whom this home belongs has sent his family packing off to his mother-in-law’s. Joe stands in front of the small fireplace and warms himself. The house has a pleasantly modest touch. Doilies protect the arms of the sofa and chairs. A Victrola in the corner next to the fireplace plays Caruso. It is 2 A.M. Joe the Boss reaches over to close the doors of the Victrola’s speaker box. The mighty voice of the great tenor jars Joe’s frazzled nerves as he sings a duet from La forza del destino.

  Verdi’s vision of the Power of Fate fails to lift Joe’s spirits.

  “I was at the Metropolitan opera when he sang this,” Joe says. “What a voice the man has. ‘Life is hell to those who are unhappy.’ Truer words have not been spoken.”

  That Charlie never cared to personally hear Caruso sing is sacrilege. And now it is too late. Caruso has been dead for nearly a decade. What is left of the great tenor’s voice sits on rigid shellac discs.

  “Our destiny is to die,” Joe says to Charlie. “Are we not men of war? And if we are, we are meant to die on the field of battle. I fear I may have dodged my last bullet.”

  Charlie says, “All them operas are nothing but love stories and the worst of it is the lovers never get around to loving. They all die one way or another. It don’t seem to me our situation is anything like an opera.”

  After all, Joe the Boss is not on the street taking chances. He huddles with advisors and plots revenge and sends other men to do his bidding. He has soldiers on the rooftop, in the adjoining apartment, across the street, in parked cars. They have one purpose: protect the life of this one man.

  Charlie pulls out a cigarette. Joe parts the closed curtains and peeks at the silent street below. One of his soldiers gives an ‘all’s clear.’ The record ends. Joe the Boss lifts the needle to its cradle.

  Joe says, “How many times I tell them not to make a signal? That’s how people find out where I am hiding. What moves a man to run around Brooklyn pretending he’s Napoleon Bonaparte?”

  Charlie says, “I believe you mean Julius Caesar.”

  Joe ignores the correction. “Did you get Ben Gallo? That’s what I want to know. Is he dead?”

  “Shot in the back,” Charlie says.

  “Is he dead?” Joe falls into the chair across from Charlie. “Tell me.”

  Charlie doles out the story like crumbs to a beggar.

  “The boys took in a show. Smiles, I think it was. You know that musical with Fred Astaire and Bob Hope. I saw them one night at the automat. Astaire was dancing all over the place. He musta been rehearsing.”

  Joe says, “What do I care about actors? This is life. Life and death.”

  “Right,” Charlie says. His boss is restless, anxious. “Gallo was shot in the back. That’s the story. He died on the spot. You can read about it in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Joe paces the small living space. Silently, he calculates the Sicilian’s losses. Will it be enough to end this ridiculous war? It was not for Maranzano to come to a new country and lay claim to Joe’s territories. That’s not how these things work.

  He says, “What was it you told Tom Gagliano and Tommy Lucchese?”

  “About Pinzolo? I told them exactly what you said…you give your blessing to Pinzolo.”

  Joe drops the philosophical meandering. The dragon he chases is the job of keeping the Sicilians from coalescing into a single, unmanageable mass. Maranzano chooses to defy him. This kind of treachery cannot stand.

  Joe says, “Find the Sicilian responsible for this madness and kill him. You know who I am talking about. This war will only end when one of us is dead. I want to see his brains decorating a Brooklyn sidewalk. Then we’ll see how bold the Castellammarese are.”

  Charlie says, “Maranzano has a lot of loyal soldiers that are eager and hungry.”

  Joe the Boss resents the rebuttal. He questions Charlie’s allegiance.

  “If I die, you die right along with me,” Joe says. “Maybe you don’t understand how this man thinks. Maranzano will never trust you or anybody in our family. When the boss dies, everyone around him dies right alongside him. You. Adonis. Moretti. Costello. We all die. Maranzano’s men found me, didn’t they? Why can’t we find this bastard and annihilate him?”

  Act II has only just begun. The plot is not yet fully revealed. The battle between Joe and the wannabe Caesar takes center stage. Charlie is on the sideline. He chooses not to put Joe Adonis in harm’s way, or Frank Costello, for that matter. And there’s an uneasy truth here. Maranzano is better at fighting this war than Joe the Boss is.

  Charlie says, “This guy’s like a priest to his soldiers. It ain’t likely they’ll turn him in or screw up in public and reveal his whereabouts. Hell, the guys with him don’t go out no more than he does and Maranzano don’t go out at all. He communicates by phone. Only the guys with him know where he is. These are the same guys he had with him in Italy. They were soldiers there and they’re soldiers here. People in the neighborhood work for him, too. Grocers, taxi drivers, you name it. They’re all informers.”

  Joe bristles at this reality. His gut tells him the situation is terrible, intolerable, and unmanageable but not impossible. Never impossible. He can and has outsmarted the Sicilian Caesar. Joe has dodged bullets. Has his nemesis? Joe’s mind runs back to Italy, back to his youth, to his own days as a soldier.

  “Caesar is bunking with his men,” he says. “Wherever you find his men, make sure someone is there to keep an eye on them. You will find his nest. Don’t do nothin’ else until that’s done. Send Vito to do the job. He has the knowledge. The Camorra came out of Naples. His guys will know how to do the job. Get this son of a bitch before he gets me.”

  Charlie nods, “Don’t worry. We will get the son of a bitch no matter how long it takes.”

  Charlie wants the war to end as much as anyone. He talks to his underboss, Vito Genovese, a man of action and brute force.

  “I’ll cover your interests,” Charlie says. “I’ll make sure your guys get their end of everything. You find Maranzano and let me know where he’s hiding.”

  Vito nods, jumping at the chance to defeat the Sicilian’s arrogance. But December rolls around and still Salvatore Maranzano is nowhere to be found.

  Vito despairs, “This guy is squirreled away too tight, ain’t nobody seen him and those that have ain’t talkin’.”

  He is displeased. Irritated. He made a gamble and lost. Is it possible that the Sicilian Mafia has outwitted the Neapolitan Camorra? Vito sent out fingers across Brooklyn. Nothing concrete returned to him. He decides that Caesar must not be in Brooklyn.

  The same day, Albert Einstein, his wife, and a small entourage board the Belgenland and head across the Atlantic Ocean. On the cold December morning the ship makes port in New York, the famous German scientist is ushered on deck and poses in front of the white exterior walls of the passenger compartments. The wind tousles his hair. Einstein focuses on the task at hand. He has arrived on the shores of America to reaffirm his faith in the ideal of a Jewish homeland. With his interpreter at the ready, Einstein faces the lineup of reporters and photographers.

  Red Levine follows the Professor’s brief visit with the passion of a devotee. Mayor Jimmy Walker officially welcomes Einstein in a ceremony at City Hall. Levine makes sure he is part of the crowd cheering Einstein on. After the ceremony, Red cuts a path to the Claridge Hotel to see Meyer, the one guy that completely shares his passion for a Jewish homeland.

  “If I could be anyone in this world,” Red says, “I would be Albert Einstein. Where does a brain lik
e that come from? If I lived a thousand years, I’d never be half that smart.”

  “You want to be a scientist?” Meyer jokes.

  Red bows his head. His heart is with Israel.

  Meyer says, “It’s a good thing for Zion that you became a bootlegger or we would still be sitting in the ghetto making someone else rich. How much have you contributed to the Zionist fund? Huh?”

  Red nods.

  Uptown, Anne Lansky dances around the tall Douglas fir delivered minutes ago to her apartment. Boxes of Blooming-dale ornaments spill across the floor: silver bells, snow-flocked red balls, a rosy-cheeked German Belsnickel Santa dressed in a red felt jacket and blue felt pants, bow-tied gold ribbons, green powdery glass pinecones from Japan, and a plethora of silver icicles.

  Chanukah is days away. Not that it matters. Anne is doing her best Ada Hector Christmas while Buddy busies himself with a Fire Chief tin car Anne picked up from Schwarz Toy Bazaar on 23rd Street. Buddy is a quiet child who alternately watches his mother’s antics and sleeps. When he needs feeding or changing, the nanny comes to his rescue.

  Anne bounces from box to box laboring over each decision of what to put where. It is just after two o’clock and the sun is beginning to blaze through the room’s picture window that overlooks Central Park. Bells and balls dance with reflected light.

  Anne clicks on the radio and dials in Paul Whiteman, who fills the house with “Joy to the World.” The maid sings along and dances with little Buddy in her arms. Tree branches bow under the weight of the ornaments. “O, Holy Night” follows Whiteman’s song and then “Savoy Christmas Melody,” a fox trot that lightens the mood. Anne kicks up the volume.

  A knock at the door interrupts the joy of the season. Anne shuts the radio off. The maid answers the door while Anne slides the Menorah onto the long table in front of the window so that Israel’s light can shine for all to see. She is just in time.