A Bloody Business

by Dylan Struzan

  “We’ll need a band,” Julian says. “Do these guys really come this far south?”

  “They’ll come as far as they’re told to come,” Jimmy assures him.

  Back in New York, Meyer runs down the business plan. Gambling has to be run square. None of this Capone stuff. Word spreads fast about crooked joints. Whatever is done is done right. It’s only common sense. He likes the idea of gambling in Florida. Saratoga has been good to him but it is strictly upscale clientele. Florida will be different. Florida will cater to the common man. Meyer puts his money on the line.

  * * *

  May arrives with clouds and the probability of evening showers. Frank Costello sits at a dining table at the Waldorf and hovers over the front page of the New York Times.

  Three items in the paper pique Frank’s interest.

  The first item is labeled “Great Transit Monopoly.” Frank has followed Samuel Seabury’s investigations from the moment Roosevelt brought Seabury back to continue the fight against New York’s corruption. As the lead investigator of the Hofstadter Committee, Seabury has laid bare, among other things, the attempts of the Equitable Coach Company’s bid to control New York’s transportation system. If successful, the Equitable estimates they will make a ten-year profit of nearly twenty million dollars. Senator John Hastings has received a third interest in the project. The Senator, for his part in clearing the way, stands to make $200,000 a year. There’s another $6,380,000 that will come from his 70,000 shares over the next ten years.

  Mayor Jimmy Walker shows up in the list of complicit politicians, too. Costello shakes his head. Samuel Seabury is systematically dismantling Tammany Hall’s grip on the City and, along with it, much of Costello’s political power.

  Costello lingers over a second cup of coffee and the next item of interest, the presidential primaries. Franklin Delano Roosevelt has not yet been confirmed by the Democratic Party. The vote is split between Roosevelt, Al Smith, and Speaker Garner. Roosevelt has made known he opposes Tammany’s grip on New York City.

  While the democrats argue, President Hoover shifts the blame for the worsening economy to an ineffective Congress. The public rallies behind him. The hope for a “dry” president lingers in the air with the fragrance of spring blossoms.

  Costello rubs his head and squares his shoulders and takes the next piece of news on the chin.

  Al Capone is no longer a guest of the Cook County jail. His hope for a commuted sentence has been dashed to pieces by the Supreme Court’s denial of his petition for appeal. Capone is heading to the Atlanta Penitentiary. He tells reporters that he is “glad to get started” on his sentence—eleven years, plus an additional six months for a contempt charge.

  Frank Nitti steps up to lead the Chicago mob.

  Costello calls for a third cup of coffee and turns to the Sports section of the Daily News. Lou Gehrig connects his first four times at bat and nearly a fifth time in the ninth inning. Finally, something Costello can cheer about. And there’s a bonus. The Kentucky Derby will be heard on the radio thanks to the National Broadcasting Company and the Columbia Broadcasting System. This will increase betting. Costello signals to one of his runners.

  “See what you can find out about the Derby. I want to know if any of the horses have a chance at the Triple Crown. I wanna know who looks best for the Derby and the Preakness. Get that information to Walter Winchell pronto. And make sure the information is passed on to J. Edgar Hoover.”

  Mr. Schedule checks his watch. Three minutes to ten o’clock. He folds the newspapers into a tidy pile, takes the napkin from his lap and places it on the table, and then heads to the Waldorf’s barber shop for a shave, haircut, manicure and shoeshine. Once groomed, he opens himself to meetings with assemblymen, judges, racketeers, moguls, mayors, democrats, republicans, anyone…everyone. Costello’s philosophy is simple. A favor granted is a favor earned.

  Louisiana’s Senator Huey Long is the first in line. The King-fish, as he is called, wants to organize gambling in New Orleans so it will bring in revenue to fund social programs. Huey Long calls his operation “spreading the wealth.”

  “Little children need education,” he says. “We need roads, bridges, hospitals, schools. You, Mr. Costello, can help me make these promises a reality.”

  Long is energetic, captivating, and determined.

  “New Orleans has a long history of gambling,” he says. “I believe we can make things happen for the good people of this country if we work together. Mr. Costello, I’d like to consider you a friend of Louisiana and this good country of ours. Do I have your attention?”

  Costello nods, “I might be able to put you in touch with someone.”

  “I believe you can. I certainly do. We have many poor people in this country. I intend to see them get their fair share of the American dream. Sir, I thank you for your time.” Long reaches into his vest pocket and procures a business card that he hands to Costello. “When you find that man who can help the great state of Louisiana, give him my number. Have him call me anytime, sir. Anytime.”

  Huey Long continues on his way. Costello calls the man destined to help Louisiana and Huey Long spread the wealth. His name is Philip Kastel, the same man who has placed 25,000 slot machines throughout New York City.

  Kastel is suave, no-nonsense, and practical. He wears the title “Dandy” Phil like he wears a white linen suit on Memorial Day. Dandy Phil scouts around Louisiana and New Orleans and finds a potentially profitable situation.

  “Huey Long is no saint,” he tells Costello. “We can make plenty of moves but we’ll need Charlie Lucky. The Italians are strong in New Orleans and have been for a long time.”

  “I’ll send Willie Moretti to talk to the Italians,” Costello says.

  Kastel frowns, “This is bigger than Willie, Frank. We’re gonna need Charlie and the Little Guy, too. They got respect and they got strength. And they ain’t greedy.”

  Frank’s ego sizzles. Kastel leaves it alone. Costello checks his watch. He’s most likely to find Meyer and Charlie lunching at Dinty Moore’s. He hails a cab and soon enough he is walking through the green double doors of James Moore’s restaurant.

  Moore says, “If you’re lookin’ for the boys…” He nods toward the upstairs room.

  Costello sits with Meyer and Charlie. He lays out the conversation with Huey Long and the estimation of the gambling opportunities in New Orleans according to Dandy Phil Kastel.

  Costello says, “There’s a Sicilian in New Orleans by the name of Corrado Giacona. I can send Phil down with Frank Erickson to get things going but without Giacona’s nod we’re just asking for trouble.”

  Charlie says, “It’s his town. Before we come in, he’s got it all to himself. I’ll talk to him and let him know we’re interested. Give the guy a percentage of whatever the take is and make sure he knows who’s bringing the envelope to him. And Frank, never fail to give him what you promise. If you do, it will reflect badly on all of us.”

  Costello thanks Charlie and heads back to the Waldorf.

  Meyer says, “We’ll never see a dime from this.”

  “Swamps and mosquitoes,” Charlie says. “Let him have it.”

  Meyer says, “Nevada repealed their ban on gambling last year. I’m sending Nig Rosen to take a look around. I’d like Jimmy to go along.”

  “Nevada?” Charlie says.

  “We fly the Hollywood crowd over. They step into an air-conditioned casino. Spend the night. Fly home. And it’s all legal.”

  Charlie says, “Sandstorms and rattlesnakes.”

  * * *

  By September, Gentleman Jimmy has danced his last waltz with Samuel Seabury and Governor Roosevelt. He calls his trial a travesty and, with a single sentence, resigns as Mayor of the City of New York, effective immediately. FDR sighs in relief. The bitter debate between Walker and Roosevelt gradually dissipates and then disappears.

  Paul Lansky is born healthy and happy. God’s judgment has been lifted from the Lansky household.

&nb
sp; November brings the presidential election. Franklin D. Roosevelt sweeps the electoral votes, 472 to Hoover’s 59. The new president is eager to dispense with Prohibition so he can sit down and have a proper drink, legally. Repeal looms on the horizon. Depending on which side of the tracks one finds oneself on, the news is either good or hauntingly awful.

  Ever the optimist, Flo Alo, detecting the shift in her friends, decides it’s time for a getaway.

  “A cruise,” she says at a Lindy’s lunch. “If it’s good enough for Jimmy Walker, it’s good enough for me.”

  “I have a tiny baby,” Anne says.

  Flo says, “It’s a weekend trip. It’s cold in New York and heavenly in Havana. Booze cruise. It’s all the rage.”

  “Paul is two months old,” Anne says.

  Flo says, “Grandma can watch the boys for a weekend! You aren’t nursing, are you? If you are, bring Grandma and Paul and let’s go.”

  Esther says, “A Christmas booze cruise. Your mother will die! Let’s do it.”

  Anne laughs.

  Flo says, “I once saw Clark Gable on deck on one of our cruises.”

  Anne hems and haws for a good five minutes before finally relenting to the pressures of the life of luxury. Over the next two weeks, the girls shop. And shop. Nothing is out of bounds. Anne buys a Madeleine Vionnet silk dress, because she can and because she has lost her baby belly and because all the girls are doing it. The silk is creamy smooth and makes her feel like a million bucks. Then Anne finds a matching Lilly Dache hat. Bingo. Jake, Meyer’s brother in the fur trade, contributes a white mink shawl. The girls spend hours in the salon: pedicures, manicures, and waved hair.

  With suitcases loaded to bulging, they board the Morrow Castle cruise ship headed for Havana and settle into their respective staterooms. Just past the twelve-mile-limit, the waiter brings Champagne to all those taking in the breeze on deck.

  The frigid air sweeps across rosy cheeks and bundled passengers. Soon enough they are cruising by the Bahamas and relaxing over lobster dinners.

  Anne raises her glass in a toast.

  “Here’s to Prohibition. May bygones be bygones,” she says.

  Esther, the more practical one, says, “Not too far gone. I’ve grown accustomed to this life. Next up is Paris. I’m taking French lessons. You should, too.”

  Meyer says, “Don’t you think you should learn English first?”

  Esther glares, “What’s the point of having money if you can’t better yourself? Do you imagine we should cease becoming fully formed people?”

  Meyer says, “What does speaking French have to do with it?”

  Esther says, “For me, it is something. For you, apparently nothing. For our kids…they have a shot at a different life. Don’t be a hypocrite. You want that for Buddy and little whoever we have here. We eat the best food. Wear the best clothes. Why not speak French and become Continental?”

  Benny says, “That’s the bubbles talking.”

  Esther says, “I asked Meyer a question. Why not?”

  Meyer says, “You can’t hide who you are…or where you’re from. Sooner or later people find out and then what? You live and die on what these people think of you and I’m telling you, you don’t want to know what they really think. They don’t want you in their clubs or on their streets or in their hair. Money doesn’t buy you a way in. Do you know why they give kids an I.Q. in school? Speaking of speaking French. The French had the test created to help them identify mental retardation. You know what the leisure class expected from the test, why they gave it to all of us school kids? They thought they would find out they were intelligent and entitled to their riches and that the rest of us would prove to be idiots destined for nothing more than to slave in their mills. When we surprised them with high I.Q.’s, they dismissed the test. I bet you didn’t learn that in French class.”

  Flo, a little nervous over Meyer’s reply, asks Jimmy to dance.

  “Hold on,” Jimmy says.

  Esther considers Meyer’s point and then says, “We’re not so different, you and me. You think we are but we aren’t. We came from the ghetto and we’re not going back. You are mistaken if you think I care about their clubs. You hate the establishment, not me. I may hate what they do at times but there are still decent people in this world. You don’t want to get in; you want to get even.” Esther raises her glass, “Well, here’s to getting what we want…whatever that may be.”

  Meyer says, “I said I don’t find a need to be accepted by those that set the gold standard.”

  “To each his own,” Esther says. “I figure you and Benny and Jimmy take care of one side of the tracks and we girls take care of the other. What will you do when Repeal takes all this away?”

  Meyer says, “Rudyard Kipling said it better than I ever could. ‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you…’ I’ll keep my head. Will you?”

  It’s a standoff that loses steam once the ship docks in Havana. The city is sophisticated. The couples stroll along narrow streets barely wide enough for one car let alone the hordes of people wandering from shop to open-front shop where the climate puts beauty parlors, flower shops, grocery stores, and cigar stores within arm’s reach.

  Meyer buys a box of cigars. The girls indulge in perfumes and soaps.

  Flo and Jimmy take everybody to Sloppy Joe’s Bar, renowned among tourists. The place is packed. A long mahogany cabinet, maybe the longest in the world if legend holds, spotlights the bar’s collection of booze.

  “Take your time,” Flo says. “It’s Cuba, not New York.”

  Sloppy Joe, Jr., the four-year-old son of the owner, prances across the bar carrying Champagne cocktails to tourists.

  “Cute kid,” Benny says but he doesn’t mean it.

  “Drink up,” Flo says. “We’re off to El Floridita. And then La Bodeguita del Medio. After that, you can go home content unless you want to stay here and eat ropa vieja which means old clothes and tastes about the same.”

  Benny says, “My mother has been cooking that for years.”

  Esther says, “Relax, this is Cuba, not New York.”

  * * *

  Abe Zwillman, the guy that used to take protection money from pushcart vendors to chase off pilfering thugs, mostly Italian, sits in his Claridge Hotel office a few doors down from the Bugs and Meyer headquarters. It’s been a long time since he beat up a kid taking advantage of an old man. During that time, the man known on the streets as Longy has made a success of himself. His nails are manicured. His hair swept back in neat wavy rows. He controls a vast portion of New Jersey’s gambling and bootleg operations.

  What’s got Abe hot and bothered is the news he is receiving from one of his booze runners in Jersey. Some mob guys associated with Max Greenberg and Waxey Gordon are making moves on their beer customers.

  Zwillman sighs. He doesn’t relish a war. For God’s sake, the wars have finally stopped. But Gordon’s mob is tough, ruthless, and filled with ex-cons. The Maxey-Waxey combo is more than capable of bumping off the competition, making themselves the only show in town.

  “Maxey always was a cretin,” Zwillman says.

  The runner says, “Customers are throwing their business to the cretin. They don’t want no trouble, either.”

  Zwillman says, “How much are we losing?”

  The runner scowls. “Too much.”

  Zwillman says, “Let it go for now. Come back tomorrow and I’ll have an answer for you.”

  Zwillman gathers his wits and walks down the hall to see Ben and Meyer. He tells them what’s going on.

  Benny says, “Fucking ingrate. We coulda made his life miserable after Buckner but we didn’t. We gave him Jersey. I’ll talk to him.”

  Zwillman says, “You can’t talk to a guy like Waxey.”

  Meyer says, “When Benny says he’ll talk to him, he isn’t doing that much talking.”

  “Oh,” Zwillman says.

  Charlie Lucky walks in. “Am I interruptin’ someth
in’?”

  A waft of Pinaud Lilac cologne floats through the room.

  “Might as well take a seat,” Benny says.

  Charlie notices Zwillman’s tie.

  “Are those bull’s-eyes?” he says.

  Zwillman looks down at the black, blue and white concentric circles cut in half by the tie’s fold and laughs.

  “I guess they are,” he says. “Never thought of it that way.”

  “What can be worse than that tie?” Charlie says.

  Charlie hears Zwillman’s predicament. Benny stands and paces the room. Boxcars of liquor, their liquor, come through Jersey. They have warehouses in Jersey full of the booze they’ve been storing away for the days when Repeal sets in. The unholy trifecta in Jersey, the combined might of Waxey Gordon, Max Greenberg, and Max Hassel, threatens their distribution arm and their livelihood.

  Meyer says, “Hoover’s got the Department of Justice working to pin a tax evasion charge on Waxey.”

  The papers are full of the news. Investigators have tracked down two million dollars deposited into five separate bank accounts that could only be related to something illicit. The government claims the money belongs to Gordon and pressures the Hoboken banker for information. The banker refuses to answer the government’s demands. He is charged with contempt of court and sentenced to 90 days. The U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals backs the judgment. Frederick S. Lang of the Jefferson Trust Company must either turn over the information he has on the deposits of the fictitious Harry Forbes or go to jail.

  “What are you saying?” Benny says.

  “Waxey would be crazy to make a war out of this when he’s under that kind of scrutiny,” Meyer says.

  Benny laughs, “Since when did Waxey have any common sense?”

  It doesn’t matter that Waxey and Maxey rake in millions annually. It doesn’t matter that they lost count on their fingers and toes of the total sum of breweries and distilleries they own.

  The wind howls along Times Square and rattles the hotel windows. The neon of the automat flickers in the distance. A cloudburst drenches the city with a pounding rain.