The Dutchman hears the news and bellows for DeRosa, his heavyset lieutenant who has a proclivity for inflicting pain.
“Take out those cocksucking turncoats. All of ’em. I’m done dancin’ with these guys. Teach these fucking micks who’s the boss.”
DeRosa looks at Weinberg and nods. They hit the street in a near gallop, climb into a stolen apple-green Model A, and head for the Bronx.
DeRosa says, “We got two madmen at war with each other.”
“One madman,” Weinberg says, “and one goddamn turncoat.”
“Vincent’s brother drives through Harlem every day, down St. Nicholas Avenue. He’s the guy we target. If we’re lucky, Vincent will be in the car with him. Two birds with one stone.”
Weinberg says, “Then let’s hope it’s our lucky day.”
They circle the Bronx and then come back around to the Dutchman’s headquarters to pick up another shooter. Weinberg drives. They park along Peter Coll’s route. Right on schedule, Peter drives by, alone. Weinberg follows in quick pursuit. DeRosa hangs out the window and takes aim. Four bullets fly through the windshield and slam into Peter’s chest. He is D.O.A. when the coroner arrives.
Vincent Coll is inconsolable. For an hour and a half, he wails and screams and smashes his fists into walls and cupboards and closet doors. Then he goes mute. Numb. His mind reels. When he was seven years old, he watched his mother die. Before he was twelve, he had watched five of his siblings die. After that, his father turned Vincent and Peter over to the state of New York and disappeared. Now he’s got no one. Fucking no one.
Vincent Coll wipes his eyes.
“The Dago war is gonna look like child’s play when I’m done,” he says.
Somewhere around eleven o’clock in the evening, he and Fats McCarthy head for the first beer drop on Coll’s list. Madden’s driver doesn’t notice Coll’s dark shadow coming up behind him.
Coll slams a .38 into the driver’s left temple. The driver goes pale but Fats McCarthy keeps him on his feet.
“Ah, no,” Coll says. “I’ve got a job for you. Leave the beer and get to work ripping this truck apart.”
Coll drops a bag of tools.
Coll says, “I said tear this fuckin’ truck apart or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
Coll uprights an abandoned chair and parks himself in it, the .38 trained on the driver. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, balances on the back two legs of the chair, and lights up.
The driver attacks the truck with a vengeance. Every strut and filter, every tank and hose, every brake and tire, and every spring and gasket is strewn across the landscape. Coll breaks his newfound silence with a hysterical laugh.
“Get outta here,” he says. “If I see you with the Dutchman again, it’ll be you laying all over this field.”
The driver runs while Coll takes potshots at him as he flees.
Within the next seventy-two hours, Coll and his gang demolish ten trucks and a hundred-fifty slot machines. The Dutchman sends DeRosa to find the bastards.
“If you wanna live to your next birthday, you’ll find them bums,” the Dutchman says. “I wanna know where they eat, sleep, and shit.”
Coll’s men know every inch of the forty-two square miles that make up the Bronx. They anticipate the Dutchman’s every move. They count on the Dutchman sending guards to the beer drops.
Coll and his gang start making the rounds. It’s sheer luck that they spot DeRosa before he spots them. The next morning, DeRosa is found in his car, flopped over dead, nine bullets heavier. The Dutchman rages out of control. He sends a new recruit on a beer run.
“And keep your goddamn eyes open!” he says.
Jacapraro creeps through the Bronx praying he won’t be noticed.
He parks the beer truck and steps out. He turns up the collar of his jacket and then opens the back of the truck, gets ready to unload the beer. Suddenly he feels a .38 in his ribs.
“Play nice and you might make it through the night,” an Irish voice says.
Jacapraro swings around with a wild punch that lands a left hook. The gun fires once. Jacapraro grabs his chest and staggers backwards.
Three more shots and Jacapraro is dead. They park his dead body in a sedan on Stratford Avenue. A few miles away they ditch the truck.
Coll picks up the boys, drops them at home. The next day they’re at it again. Coll’s only solace comes in the arms of his German-born lover, the only woman strong enough to understand he can’t give up the fight.
They go at their rough play until the sun comes up. Then Coll moans and rails over the need for cash.
“Get a couple of cop uniforms,” Lottie tells Vinnie.
He forgets his desperation and pushes her down on the bed.
“Let the rich make a little contribution to the Irish cause,” she says, luring him closer.
He looks into her big blue eyes.
“What?”
“Take something they care about, enough that they’ll pay to get it back,” she says.
“You mean booze?”
“Jesus, no, not booze,” she says, rising up and leaning on her elbows. “I’m talking about taking people, Vinnie. You want money, right? You dress the boys like coppers and put them to work grabbing celebrities. People who can pay.”
Coll says, “Ah, Lottie, I love ya. You’re a goddamn thinker.”
“So who are we going to grab?” she says.
Coll sits on the side of the bed, pushes his hair back into place. “George Jessel or Eddie Cantor?”
“And that radio announcer, too, N.T.G. He was suing Western Union for a hundred grand because they didn’t get a deposit to the bank in time.”
“A hundred grand?” Coll whisks Lottie into his arms and kisses her hard on the lips.
* * *
Charlie and Meyer take Jimmy Alo for a boat ride on one of Frank Costello’s luxury cruisers. They motor along the Sound and talk.
Charlie says, “We’re all taking a lot of heat on account of Vincent Coll. What do the Irish say about what’s going on?”
Jimmy says, “The Irish used to own this town.”
Meyer says, “They still pretty much own this town. They have Tammany Hall and most of the police department.”
“That ain’t how they see it,” Jimmy says. “They want the beer business and their share of the policy rackets. They understand Coll takin’ back what was his before the Dutchman and Terranova took over.”
“There’s plenty of room for everybody,” Meyer says.
“Tell that to the Dutchman,” Jimmy says.
“Are the Irish lining up with Coll?” Charlie asks.
“Nah,” Jimmy says, watching the coastline go by. “He’s too, uh, unstable. That’s what I heard. He ain’t got many friends. He’s a bully, you know what I mean? Got a chip on his shoulder.
Who the hell knows why.”
Charlie stops the engine and lets the boat float.
Charlie says, “You got a lotta Irish guys around you. What I’m gonna tell you is strictly between us now. Me and Meyer are working together to take out Salvatore Maranzano. We need to know if the Irish are going to be with us or against us. We ain’t askin’ for an answer right now. The beer war is spilling a lot of violence into the streets. When the time comes for us to make our move, we don’t need the heat from the beer war interfering. We figure that Maranzano is going to start making his moves. He’s got plans. If he starts tryin’ to take over our rackets, he’ll be joining Joe the Boss.”
Jimmy says, “If? That guy ain’t never gonna be anything but trouble.”
“Do the Irish feel the same?” Meyer says.
“They don’t know about these greasers like I do,” Jimmy says. “But they been around the block with them. Wars on the waterfront and the like. There ain’t no love lost between the Irish and the Italians.”
“But they trust you,” Charlie says.
“Oh, sure,” Jimmy says.
Meyer says, “If Maranzano crosses th
e line, we’re going to take him. Benny is in charge. We’re pretty sure he’s going to try to get rid of Charlie and all the Americanized guys. You’re part of this, too. You want to send one of your guys along with our boys when we make our move, that’s fine.”
Jimmy nods, “All right. My guys will be all for what you’re going to do. The Irish aren’t gonna weep over one less greaser. They got respect for you and Charlie. They want to keep what’s theirs. Who can blame ’em for that?”
Charlie turns on the engine and swings the cruiser toward Oyster Bay, where a driver is waiting at the dock.
* * *
Salvatore Maranzano slips into a tub of hot water. Too many nights on bad mattresses have left him tired and sore. The war of liberation is over. After months of deprivation, he lies back to enjoy a fat torpedo sending waves of smoke racing along the surface of the water. A hot bath, a good smoke—it soothes his war-weary mind.
Holding the cigar in his dry hand, he sinks his head into the watery silence and looks up at the blurry Jesus hanging on the wall in front of the tub. He closes his eyes, letting warmth penetrate the folds of skin. He conjures the moment of Joe’s death and wonders if Charlie Luciano made sure the old windbag acknowledged his defeat and saw that Charlie Luciano had been turned by the Castellammarese war hero.
In the silence, he remembers Mussolini’s banner cry against the Mafia: Ferro e fucci. Steel and fire. Mussolini announced to the world that the Mafia was dead, slain by steel and fire, and that no force would be able to revive it. Mussolini was wrong. Victory runs in Maranzano’s veins and controls his destiny. Of this he is certain.
He rises for a breath and takes another draw on his cigar. He’s won the war but not the totality of Sicilian allegiance. He wants to see the troops, the clan of the Castellammarese that will form his Praetorian Guard. If history has taught him anything, it is that all powerful men endure small beginnings before becoming great leaders.
He decides on a hall on Washington Avenue as a good location for his coronation. It looks harmless, a place where locals go to listen to bands and to dance. A party will not be out of place. A crowd of Italians will never be noticed.
Maranzano rises from his bath, dries, and slips into a freshly starched shirt and a clean, new suit. He calls for his driver. He has the uneasy sensation that he’s being watched. The sooner he has the Sicilian fathers on his side, the better.
He stops at the Washington Avenue hall and goes over his needs with the proprietor.
“Get rid of these tables and chairs,” Maranzano says. “I will bring in my own.”
Maranzano pads the rental fee and hands it off with a handshake. Fear keeps the proprietor from counting the profit in front of the Brooklyn boss. He squeezes the bundle of cash in his pocket and deems it sufficiently thick. No questions necessary. He hands over the key with a discreet bow. Maranzano dismisses him with the flick of a wrist and then turns to his driver.
“Nicky,” he says, “go to the church and ask Father Bruno for ten or twenty paintings…pictures of Jesus and the Virgin Mary and all the saints. I want them hung all over the walls. Get Anthony to help you. He has an eye for these things.”
“Yes, Sir,” Nicky says.
“And Nicky,” Maranzano says, “get a cross, too, a big one. Take Anthony’s truck.”
Nicky and Anthony round up the holy relics. Maranzano searches his attic for the piece de resistance that will adorn his stage, an X-shaped chair like the ones used by Roman commanders during long campaigns. The history lesson will be lost on the Americanized boys but no matter. The hand-carved lion heads on each arm are sure to lend the correct air to the ceremony.
Anthony is dutifully hanging the giant cross at the back of the stage when Maranzano arrives at the hall with the Savonarola chair.
“Anthony, what do you think of this chair?” Maranzano says.
Anthony takes a long look at the chair. He thinks it is old. The finish is cracking. The seat is small, cramped, and hard. The floral motif carved along the chair back looks more like something his grandmother would fawn over. No doubt about it, the chair is a piece of junk.
“It is very nice,” Anthony says.
“But what do you think of when you look at this chair?” Maranzano says.
Anthony comes down from the ladder and takes a closer look.
“Only a man of great power could honestly rest his arms on the heads of lions.”
“Bravo,” Maranzano says, placing the Savonarola center stage.
“Why are we hanging pictures of Jesus?” Anthony asks.
“Remember what happened in Cleveland when the fathers tried to have a meeting at a hotel?” Maranzano says.
“Sure, I remember,” Anthony says. “Joe Profaci had to grease a lot of politicians that day.”
Maranzano says, “It is best not to rely too heavily on bribes. We are making history but not the kind that should fill the newspaper. Look out the window. What do you see?”
Pushcart vendors line the street. Traffic snarls. A local flat-foot is on patrol. A large crowd has gathered at the bank on Freeman Street.
Anthony turns back to Maranzano and shrugs, “You mean the people trying to get their money before the bank folds?”
Maranzano says, “You see everybody and nobody. We don’t want people walking by wondering what a large congregation of Italian men might be doing. When they look in they will see the saints. They will think we are a religious order. You must use your head for these things.”
The boys finish hanging the paintings and Maranzano places the Savonarola in front of the six-foot cross. The illusion is striking. Maranzano is satisfied. That night, when he crawls into his cozy bed and snuggles to his wife, he breathes a sigh of contentment. He takes his wife in his arms. Her body is smooth, albeit a little worn from childbearing and time. He makes love to her, secure in the sense of his personal honor and then the new Caesar sleeps like a baby.
On the other side of town, among those that fearlessly followed Joe the Boss into battle, a new fear surfaces. They have heard of the dinner Maranzano is holding for the four men that hold the most power in New York: Joe Profaci, Vincent Mangano, Gaetano Gagliano, and Charlie Luciano. The dinner is a celebration of the end of the war. Now that Joe the Boss has slipped into the earth at Woodlawn Cemetery in Queens, the men left of the Masseria family look at Charlie Luciano and wonder.
“What does Charlie Lucky want?” the fat man says into the phone.
The fat man drove Joe’s widow to the church and then to the cemetery and now takes pity on her cries for revenge.
Joe’s eldest son replies on the other end of the line, “This treacherous bastard…but the phone is not the place for this conversation.”
The fat man agrees. Phone calls fly between the remnants of the gang. Like a gaggle of old women, they gossip over Charlie Luciano’s intentions. In the dead of night, they slip out of the city and congregate at a summer house in Long Island. They gather around the massive oak dining table and air their grievances. The fat man heads the table, fancying himself the heir apparent.
“What does Charlie want?” the fat man says, this time to the entire complement of his cronies.
Joe the Boss’ eldest son says with assurance, “Control.”
They squabble over the lucrative rackets Joe the Boss has left behind. Women come and go with plates of ziti and antipasti and wine. As the men fill up, the discussion dies down. Espresso and brandy infuse a sense of compromise into the conversation. They wander out to the large patio.
“What does Charlie want?” the fat man repeats.
“Charlie doesn’t want anything,” the Quiet Don, Tommy Gagliano, says. “He says he’ll leave us to our business if we leave him to his.”
“How do you know this?” the fat man asks.
“I asked him. He told me,” Gagliano says.
“And you believe him?” Joe’s son says. “Just like that, you trust the man who murdered his own boss.”
“I’ve got no
reason to doubt him,” Gagliano says.
“My father was a great man,” the son says. “What we have, we have because of him. His biggest mistake was that he allowed the Americanized men to stand side by side with him. Charlie Luciano brought them in. Don’t forget that. My father tolerated this new country but he never forgot the old ways. His heart was always Sicilian. Charlie Luciano has forsaken his true obligations. Why else would he side with the enemy?”
“Let’s not bullshit ourselves,” Gagliano says. “Your father was a ruthless killer. We do what we have to do. Let’s not hang Charlie on the cross just yet. What would you have us do…continue the war until we are all dead? Have any of you been approached by Charlie? Is he trying to take anything from any of us?”
The family head from Brooklyn says, “Charlie Luciano might have pulled the trigger but it was Caesar himself who pulled the strings when he offered amnesty. Why didn’t Charlie kill Maranzano when he had the chance?”
Joe’s son nods, “Charlie sold us out. He deserves whatever he gets and I, for one, am happy to give it to him. You can bet that Salvatore Maranzano would be pleased for us to do the job ourselves, to take out the man who killed his boss.”
The fat man laughs, “That’s just the excuse this Caesar needs to put a contract on all of us. If you killed Charlie, Vito Genovese would take revenge. Let Caesar get rid of the traitor.”
“What makes you think he will get rid of Charlie?” Joe’s son says.
“How can he trust a man who was willing to kill his own boss?” the fat man says. “He will find a reason to do away with him. In the meantime, the best armor is to keep out of range.”
Joe’s son says, “Then we make Charlie the head of our family. Let him deal with Maranzano. When the wine of their romance matures, the wineskin will burst, and we will be the ones to enjoy the juice, eh?”
A Bloody Business Page 46
