“Charlie controls the Tenderloin,” the fat man says. “It is a temptation Caesar will not be able to resist.”
The Quiet Don says, “Maybe the American men are right. Maybe Charlie did us all a favor. He stopped the war so we could all go about our business. Keep to your business and Charlie will keep to his. I’ll tell you who you should fear, the man among us who wants to be the new boss.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the fat man says.
The debate continues back and forth for a solid week. In desperation, they head to Charlie’s Central Park West apartment and offer him the position of family head.
“Gentlemen,” Charlie says, “I’m sure this offer is as hard for you to make as it is for me to accept so let me ease your minds by respectfully declining.”
“We didn’t make the choice,” Joe’s son says. “You made the choice when you killed my father. Salvatore Maranzano sees you as the one who has taken over. If we refuse you as head of the family, Maranzano will seek to destroy us all.”
Charlie laughs at the suggestion.
“Salvatore Maranzano has exactly what he wants, control of the Brooklyn Castellammarese.”
The room is suddenly silent. The odds have shifted. The band of leftovers is relegated to relying on Charlie’s strength for their survival.
Charlie says, “I don’t want nothing from you except that you leave me to get on with my business while you get on with yours.”
There is something easy about Charlie that soothes the fear-driven members of the family who relied on the power of Joe the Boss and Peter Morello.
“This new Caesar,” Gagliano says, “he has called a meeting of the prominent Sicilians in New York and ordered the family heads to assemble their soldiers. Will you attend this meeting and stand up for us?”
Charlie ponders the request. He knows these men and what they are capable of doing. They stood by Joe the Boss in the face of bitter odds. The Quiet Don makes a good point. Everyone in the room knows the significance of Maranzano’s Bronx meeting. It would be a mistake not to solidify their bond if for no other reason than to let Caesar know he does not rule all of New York.
Charlie says, “We’ve had enough of war, and so has Caesar. He thinks he won the war but that don’t mean he controls us.”
“We would make it worth your while to take over as boss,” Joe’s son says.
“I appreciate the offer but I don’t want to be no boss,” Charlie says. “If Maranzano wants to think of me as a father, I ain’t gonna tell him otherwise. But between you and me, we ain’t got no boss. We are allies.”
Charlie is talking but they are not listening. The tribe relents and accepts Charlie as an ally but in their mind’s eye they see him as the new boss. Charlie manages their confusion by offering them a drink and toasting to a new era of plenty. The tribe shuffles off to their respective homes hoping for the best but planning on the worst.
Charlie throws on a coat and meets Meyer Lansky at the men’s club blocks from his house. The club was once the hangout of Harvard grads but necessity has brought down the requirements for membership a notch or two.
“I don’t got enough trouble without taking on that kind of bullshit,” Charlie says to Meyer, slouching across the tile seat of the steam bath.
Trouble comes in many forms these days. The untidy problem of Vincent Coll has recently been complicated by the addition of Jack Diamond who, like Coll, needs cash. Jack has put pressure on the owners of the 21 Club. They have refused his advances and, in response, Jack Diamond has put out a contract on the club owners’ lives.
“Maybe Jimmy can handle this,” Meyer says. “He’s a good negotiator.”
“I’ll set it up for tomorrow, the usual place,” Charlie says. “After this I got a peace conference to attend.”
Meyer stands and tightens the towel around his waist. He doesn’t need the details of a Sicilian peace conference. He needs an antacid. After a shower and a shave, he slips into his suit and stops at the small dining room for a cup of hot water into which he stirs six Bell-Ans tablets. He downs the bitter concoction.
Charlie joins him and says, “Caesar took an office at Grand Central. How do you like that?”
The train station boasts a “city within a city.” It houses commercial establishments, a police station, changing rooms, private offices, and apartments. But there is more to Maranzano’s choice than convenience. The limestone-clad southern façade is modeled on a Roman triumphal arch. Mercury, the god of commerce, is supported by Minerva and Hercules. The symbolism is not lost on Italians who value their history. Minerva and Hercules represent mental and physical strength. The would-be Caesar has found the perfect palace to back his claim of Sicilian superiority.
Meyer says, “He can rent a place anywhere he likes, it doesn’t make him a god.”
Vito Genovese picks Charlie up from the club and takes him to a restaurant on Times Square, an upscale place with a private room where the New York Mafia heads of state, as defined by Salvatore Maranzano, gather. The hardwood floors, dark chocolate walls, and stiff leather chairs create an air of substance. Outside, the city shimmers.
Charlie sits between Joe Profaci and Vincent Mangano. Across from him is Tommy Gagliano. At the head of the table is Salvatore Maranzano. Five families. Maranzano is keeping it simple, manageable. The Mafia fathers break bread and raise Champagne glasses high.
“Gentlemen,” Maranzano says in Italian, “we have been victorious. Let us celebrate with a meal of peace. Salute!”
The food comes in waves. Oysters on the half shell. King crab legs. Antipasti. Maranzano seizes the occasion to elevate the Sicilian ethic. After all, everyone present, save Charlie Luciano, is a transplant from the old country.
“I hope you can see the wisdom in what I am about to propose,” Maranzano says.
Before he comes out with the proposal, Maranzano bobs and weaves, throwing a barrage of platitudes that stroke the egos of the Sicilian fathers.
“I propose we form a Commission,” Maranzano finally says. “It will function like the Senate in Rome. It will be comprised of the five family heads. When we have a problem, we come together and resolve the problem.”
Maranzano lauds the qualities he values in each man. Profaci’s loyalty bailing out the men that were pinched in Cleveland is praised. Profaci’s thriving olive oil business maintains valuable ties to Italy. Vincent Mangano holds the title of executioner which is highly useful when it comes to controlling the conflicts among the Irish on the waterfront. Tommy Gagliano is the epitome of quiet deception. He maintained the guise of loyalty with Joe the Boss Masseria while orchestrating his downfall. And Charlie Luciano is the power that controls the Americanized men.
Maranzano says, “It is not by chance that each of you has risen to head a family in America. We are destined for great things.”
Champagne and wine and cigars and port follow, then the war stories. Maranzano weaves a web of loyalty and oaths and obligation, of wealth and exploitation, of a Promised Land and untapped opportunity. His Commission will be filled with soldiers in the fashion of the Roman legion. Capos, sottocapos, capodecinas, and decini. The street units will gather the spoils of war for presentation to the men of honor who will, in turn, be sure the soldiers have everything they need.
“In this way, we spread our influence all across this country. We bring men of honor to every city. This will give us the strength we need to succeed.”
Charlie takes a long look at the man who intends to marshal the Sicilians by means of military conscription.
Maranzano says, “Destiny demands we come together and mend the past. Only this way can we command the future.”
The greasers raise their glasses.
* * *
A swarm of black touring cars invade the Bronx. Rough-looking men, dressed in expensive handmade suits, pour through the streets and head for the hall on Washington Avenue. In spite of Maranzano’s predictions, locals do take note of the intrusion. Gossips dawdle at the e
ntrance to the hall. Inside, Maranzano straightens the paintings and hushes the gathering mob.
A guy on the sidewalk, who would otherwise go unnoticed, catches Charlie’s eye. It isn’t his Sears and Roebuck suit or his worn shoes that make him stand out from the crowd. It is the large sandwich board he wears with a blaring message: RELIGION IS A SNARE AND A RACKET. The old man maneuvers the unwieldy missive through the gathering mob like some cumbersome weight on his conscience.
Walking by, Charlie says, “You ain’t gonna make many friends with a message like that, old-timer.”
The old man jabs a handbill in Charlie’s direction and says, “The truth is never popular.”
Charlie pockets the handbill and, with Vito Genovese and Joe Adonis flanking him, he ducks into the rented hall. Frank Costello is not far behind.
Joe Valachi, heavyset and looking more like a schoolyard bully than a man of war, stands wide-eyed at the spectacle of Maranzano’s religious façade. He pokes his mob father, Joe Profaci, in the ribs and points to a painting of St. John gazing heavenward, clad in a radiant robe, hands clutched in prayer.
“You suppose St. John was brought in for the war, too?”
Profaci frowns at the physical contact.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” he says.
Valachi says, “See the fire floatin’ between his hands? Don’t it remind you of the oath? You know, how you say your vows and then burn the paper. The paper floats up just like that.”
“Sure,” Profaci says. “It’s a holy communion to take your vows. Don’t forget it.”
Charlie makes his way to the stage and drops an envelope on the growing pile of tribute gathering on the table next to the Savonarola chair.
Ciro Terranova whispers into Charlie’s ear, “Did you see this one coming? Says he has to replenish the war chest. I heard the Big Man himself sent six grand from Chicago. What war is Maranzano planning next?”
Nearly five hundred men are crammed into the hall when Maranzano nods to the door attendants. The doors are closed and locked. No coming in. No going out. Maranzano takes center stage.
He projects his voice like an actor quieting the crowd, and he’s speaking in his native tongue. His message is clear. The war of liberation has changed everything. There is a new structure. Soldiers will now answer to their family heads. They will be held accountable for breaking the rules. Accountability includes death when the infraction involves certain of the new rules like talking with one’s wife about Cosa Nostra, touching another man’s wife, fighting with another member in anger.
Maranzano makes it clear that death is the penalty for not obeying. Death. The word reverberates in Charlie’s ears. He sees the wisdom but also the treachery rolled into Maranzano’s philosophy. The words are familial. Flattering. The bad guy is dead. Forget the past. This is a new day. “We are all brothers.” Five hundred soldiers are distributed among the five family heads. But no matter how you cut up the pie, it is still Maranzano making the rules. And the rules are obey or die.
Ciro Terranova, who swore vengeance against Maranzano for the death of his nephew, turns to Charlie. The idea of forgive and forget is not part of his vocabulary. The man who shot Terranova’s nephew is standing a few feet away. Joe Valachi, aka Joey Cargo, squirms and glances side to side.
Finally Maranzano completes the litany. “I am the father of the Castellammarese,” he says.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Play Nice with Others…or Else
SUMMER 1931
Vincent Coll sits in the middle of Dutch Schultz territory guzzling beer in a Harlem saloon. He hasn’t shaved for days. Jack “Legs” Diamond sits across from him wishing he wasn’t downwind. Coll watches the suds slide down the side of his glass and laments the day he heard about the guinea meeting in the Bronx.
Coll says, “The hell with the guineas and the Jews. I say we go over to the Chop House right now and finish what you started with Joey Noe.”
“Watch your mouth,” Jack says, scanning the saloon.
“You afraid one of these barflies is gonna flutter over and whisper in the Dutchman’s ear?”
The saloon is half-empty and harmless by Coll’s standards. Jack is warier. He’s been stung before by undercover cops and rival gang members posing as innocent diners, wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Coll calls for another round.
He says, “What I woulda given to see the surprise on Noe’s face when you let him have it. You set him up and then you knocked him down. Sheer poetry, my friend. And the Dutchman with nothing to do but weep. What a sight that musta been.”
Jack leans back and smiles. The memory of the ambush at the Chateau Madrid pleases him, which is more than he can say for the beer in his glass. He longs for the old days when he was working for Rothstein and the drug business hummed along gainfully, the days before he was cast adrift to fend for himself.
Arnold Rothstein had hired him and his brother because they were ruthless. Rothstein thought he could harness their wildness. That was just another of a long line of miscalculations on the part of Rothstein, who thought everyone listened to reason and that he was at the center of reasonableness.
When Jack shot Joey Noe for invading the beer business in the Bronx, the Dutchman blamed Rothstein. It’s the law of the street. Whatever a guy does reflects on his boss. The Dutchman expected Rothstein to take care of business but he didn’t. And then Rothstein died.
After that, Jack tried to establish a relationship with Charlie Lucky. It never took. Jack can’t resist the temptation to blow a relationship to hell and back. Jack is like that, desperate and stupid. Now he plies the other Jack and Charlie, the owners of the 21 Club, for protection money and tries to hold on to his territory in the Bronx. That’s why he had to shoot Joey Noe and that’s why he clings to his association with Vincent Coll.
Coll raises his soupy blue eyes and yells, “Two more, and then two more, and two more!” He trails off. “It was bad luck them coppers pinchin’ eight of my boys. Bad luck, I tell ya. And if that weren’t enough, they found our heaters. Took the whole lot of them.”
“What did you expect,” Jack says. “What the hell were you thinking, trying to grab a radio personality for ransom?”
“We need the money,” Coll says. “It ain’t that hard to understand.”
“It isn’t the kidnapping,” Jack says. “It’s the ridiculous notion that you can grab a celebrity and nobody is gonna notice. You gotta get your head on straight. We live in one world and they live in another. If you’re going to grab somebody, make it somebody the cops don’t give a rat’s arse to protect. Get that through your thick mick head!”
A pack of black performers fall into the bar. The noise swells. Coll blinks hard trying to focus on Jack and the empty beer glasses. The bartender sidles up to the table and clears the mess. He taps his finger three times hard on the beer-soaked wood, holding back a new round until someone coughs up enough cash to cover the tab.
Coll stares at Jack. Jack pulls a wallet from his breast pocket and lays a bill on the tray.
“It’ll take more than that,” the bartender says. “He’s been in every day for a week. I ain’t got no more credit for a guy on the lam.”
Jack drops a fin.
“You’re right,” Coll says. “You’re goddamn right. I was a fool.”
The bartender nods, leaving the pints to soothe whatever it is that ails Vincent Coll.
“Of course, I’m right,” Jack says.
“We’re washed up,” Coll says. “Suckers on the downhill side of blown-out opportunities. Me with all the bad luck in the world and you a magnet for bullets.”
Jack stiffens. “Don’t put the whammy on me! Fifteen bullets and not a one could bury me.” Jack knocks on the table. “What’s wrong with you? You tryin’ to jinx my future?”
“What future,” Coll says. “We got no future. We got a guinea moving in on one side and a German Jew on the other. What they don’t get, the coppers steal. What have we got when ou
r own kind works against us?”
“Get off it. The greasers aren’t interested in the beer business. You ain’t seein’ the big picture. The Dutchman ain’t as invincible as he likes to think. Here’s the kicker. You and me don’t even have to make a move. That Caesar in Brooklyn is gonna do it for us.”
“What are you talking about?” Coll says.
“Are you blind or just stupid,” Jack says. “Harlem is full of guineas. This guy, Salvatore Maranzano, he wants the Italian policy racket. He’s not going to sit around while a Jew bilks the guineas out of millions of dollars. I’ll bet my dear mother’s wedding ring on it.”
Coll smiles. The waning ember of his ambition explodes with a new idea. He knows the Dutchman’s business. Information like that can garner a bundle of cash from the new Caesar, enough to put him back in business in a heartbeat.
Coll says, “Spot me a couple hundred. I’m good for it.”
“Jesus, I just got hit by a bunch of revenuers. Put the pinch on Madden, why don’t ya?” Jack finishes the pint in front of him and stands. He gives Coll the once over and shakes his head. His kinsman is drowning in his sorrows. He peels a C-note from the roll of cash in his pocket and slides it to Coll.
“Don’t say I never give you nothin’,” Jack says. “Go home, Vinnie. Sleep it off. Take a shower and wash the cobwebs out of your head.”
Jack is out the door before Coll can object.
Coll stumbles to the cramped bathroom, hangs his head over the sink and turns the water on full-blast. He aches for a good score. Jack’s words swim through his miserable thoughts, piranhas in search of a carcass. Diamond had offered to sell Joey Noe the beer business but Joey had just laughed. It was hard to say which of the bullets killed him, the one that tore through his chest or the one that lodged in his spine. Either way, he lingered for a month before he passed on. Joey Noe got what he deserved.
“Now there’s an interesting expression. Passed on to what?” Coll mutters to the reflection glaring back at him from the aging, freckled mirror.
A Bloody Business Page 47
