Capone

by Laurence Bergreen

  As Al passed his days deep in delusion, oblivious to the world at large, the press still covered the Capone phenomenon, though with a new ghoulish fascination. As a former inmate of Alcatraz and a victim of syphilis, he was doubly stigmatized. Even the newspapers were reluctant to print the word syphilis, preferring to use the gentler term paresis to describe his condition. There was talk of his “brain paralysis” and “chronic nervous system ailment.” To respond to journalist inquiries, the family selected John “Mimi” Capone to act as spokesman. Two years younger than Al, John had only a marginal involvement in the rackets. As the most nearly legitimate member of the Capone family, he was thus the most respectable and presentable. John discharged his awkward assignment capably enough, telling curious reporters that Al was “tickled to death” to be back home in Florida and explaining, “We arrived . . . after driving straight through in about twenty-eight or thirty hours. We left secretly because we didn’t want anything to happen that would aggravate Al’s condition”—a polite way of saying that the family did not want Al to be killed now, after the long years in prison.

  Although the Capone family lived peacefully and privately, the Miami office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation kept the compound under surveillance and reported its findings to J. Edgar Hoover. FBI agents interviewed neighbors, and unnamed members of the Capone household who were in position to observe Al at close range. The result of their prolonged investigation was a lengthy file that painted a full portrait of Al Capone in his premature dotage, surrounded and protected by his extended family. The household, according to the FBI report, included Al, his wife, Mae; his son; Mae’s sister, Muriel; and Muriel’s husband, Louis Clark. “It was determined through informants that Muriel and Louis have the complete confidence of Al and Mae Capone and are fully aware of the past and present activities of the Capone family,” the report observed, noting the presence of two domestics, a “houseman” named “Brownie” Brown and a maid known as Rose. The Capones maintained an unlisted phone number, 5-5050, and just one automobile, a “1941 aquamarine colored Pontiac sedanette . . . which is used as the family car.” There was no sign of any weapons on the property, no rifles, revolvers, or machine guns, only an “old, but exceedingly alert small fox terrier dog . . . which barks when anyone approaches the gates.”

  The FBI also maintained a permanent vigil over the other members of the Capone family living in the vicinity, especially Capone’s only child Sonny, who was beginning to make his way in the world. Albert Francis Capone was still hard of hearing, the legacy of his father’s syphilis; despite his disability he had entered Notre Dame in 1937, going by the name Al Brown, which was, pathetically enough, one of his father’s old aliases. He was living out the highest ambition of Al Capone and many other racketeers: to see their sons grow up and attend college, become real Americans, and enter business, politics, one of the legitimate professions—in short, to assimilate. The irony was that Sonny was unable to follow this path precisely because his father was “Scarface” Capone. Not long after the young man entered Notre Dame, his true identity was discovered, and the embarrassment forced him to drop out. All the love and concern Al had lavished on his son could not protect Sonny from the notoriety of the Capone name. Through this inescapable stigma the sins of the father were visited on the son.

  Returning to Florida, Sonny entered Miami University under his own name and worked haphazardly toward a degree in business administration, which he finally received in 1941. The following year, according to the FBI account, he moved from Palm Island to his own home with his wife, Ruth, and their two children. At the same time he became involved with the war effort even though he was classified 4-F because of his deafness. The report continued: “He operated a floral shop on Miami Beach from September 1941 to March 1942 and is presently employed by the War Department at the Miami Air Depot, having entered on duty there August 9, 1943, as a mechanic’s learner at a salary of $1,200 per annum. He is now employed in the aircraft engine line assembly at a salary of $2,680.00 per annum, attached to the maintenance division.” The inevitable question was whether Sonny Capone would become a racketeer himself, but for the moment the FBI was satisfied that the young Capone was completely legitimate, exactly as his parents wished. Their report stated:

  An examination of his personnel record at the Air Depot reflects that he is viewed as a conscientious employee who has at no time exhibited any tendencies to be other than a normal, law-abiding citizen. . . . From all sources it was determined that ALBERT [i.e., Sonny] has never been involved in any illegal activities, gangsterism, or enterprises of his father. It is known that both AL and MAE have made a determined and conscientious effort throughout the life of the boy to shield him from such influences that surrounded AL and to preclude any possibility of his, ALBERT’S, falling into a life of crime. It is apparent that MAE has exerted a great deal of effort to see that ALBERT led a clean life.

  Nonetheless, Sonny remained attached to his parents, as the family life unfolded under the watchful eye of the FBI:

  There is an extremely close bond between AL CAPONE, his wife, ALBERT, and ALBERT’S family. It is, of course, well know than the CAPONE family is a closely knit unit, AL and MAE make numerous visits each to ALBERT’S home, and on days which these visits do not take place, ALBERT and RUTH usually have dinner with AL and MAE several nights a week. It is known that one of the paramount interests in AL’S present life is the welfare of ALBERT’S two children, for whom he is constantly purchasing gifts. This feeling, of course, is equally shared by MAE who supplies RUTH with money on numerous occasions to augment the income of ALBERT, RUTH is presently expecting another child. . . . It is known that RUTH M. CASEY, mother of ALBERT’S wife, is a chronic alcoholic, causing considerable embarrassment to the entire family, but she has no interest in attempting to remedy her present condition. . . . Al is a habitual cigar smoker, preferring 25 cent Coronas. He leaves the house almost daily, sometimes attends to the shopping and accompanies his wife to drive up to his son’s home for frequent visits.

  So much had changed in the Capone family since Al’s parents—Gabriele, a barber, and Teresa, a seamstress—had emigrated from Naples to New York half a century earlier—so much violence, notoriety, and tragedy—but one thing had not changed. The Capone family endured, and campanilismo endured. Indeed, on Palm Island the definition of campanilismo expanded to include various members of the Coughlin family, who braved the Capone stigma to be at Mae’s side. Mae’s brother, Danny Coughlin, had business interests strongly suggesting that he was at least on the fringe of the rackets in Miami, for he was associated with the local Bartenders’ and Waiters’ Union and ran a couple of restaurants, Winnie’s Little Club and Winnie’s Waffle Shop—both named for his wife Winifred. “It is known,” the FBI reported, “that police characters, confidence men, hoodlums, and visiting gangsters are habitues of both establishments.” How much Danny understood is open to question, for he was afflicted with a severe drinking problem, to the chagrin of the Capones and the Coughlins alike.

  For all its tranquillity, life on Palm Island was not quite so pleasant and innocent as it seemed. A constantly changing cast of racketeering characters came down from Chicago to visit the Capone family. They made small talk with Al and did business with Ralph and John Capone, who continued to look after the family interests. Even when it knew the names of the visitors, the FBI was frequently unable to identify their role in the post-Capone rackets. Then there were the suspicious phone calls to Chicago, of which the FBI was also aware through its extensive wiretapping of the Capone household, but once again the purpose of these messages eluded federal agents. Attempting to learn more, they would “interview” Mae from time to time, but she did an admirable job of feigning ignorance and blocking the course of their inquiries even as she presented the appearance of wanting to help. One thing was certain, however. Every week Ralph Capone sent a registered letter to Mae from his hunting lodge in Mercer, Wisconsin. Each letter contained a check in t
he amount of $600 made out to Mae Capone. As far as the FBI could tell, this was her only source of income, and no doubt it was but a tiny fraction of the organization’s revenue from the Chicago rackets.

  Like Mae, everyone in the Capone home lived in fear of further inquiry into those rackets, especially by federal agents. “The CAPONE family hold no particular regard for local law enforcement agencies, but have an exceedingly respectful fear of any Federal investigation, particularly one conducted by this Bureau,” the FBI boasted.

  In the spring of 1944, the Capones’ relatively peaceful existence in Florida was shattered when one of the younger boys, Matt, got into a bad scrape up in Cicero. Of all the brothers, he had seemed the most likely to escape the racketeering environment and make something of himself in the legitimate world, but he had failed to live up to those aspirations. Now thirty-six, Matt spent his days running the Hall of Fame Tavern in Cicero and putting on weight; he might as well have hung a sign around his neck reading “Noaccount younger brother of a once-famous gangster.” On April 18, two employees at the Tavern, Jens Larrison and Walters Sanders, got into a brawl over a $5 bill supposedly missing from the till. There were perhaps twenty people in the tavern at the time, and as they later told police, they saw Sanders push Larrison into the back while Matt looked for something in a drawer. Next thing they knew, the place reverberated with the sound of gunfire. Matt took off, and police found Larrison’s corpse in an alley far from the scene of the crime. Wanted for questioning, Matt compounded his problems by going into hiding, and his absence gave law enforcement officials an excuse to go snooping through the Capones’ affairs all over again. They turned up nothing of interest, and the case against Matt Capone collapsed when the star witness, Sanders, also disappeared. After a year, Matt resurfaced, his aspirations to legitimacy thoroughly discredited. From then on, law enforcement authorities all knew Matt Capone had once been involved in a murder, and the event would shadow him for the rest of his life.

  Notably absent from Palm Island—and from the FBI files—were Capone’s mother, Teresa, who continued to reside on Prairie Avenue in Chicago, and Mafalda, the only Capone sister. She remained in Chicago, where she ran a bakery and catered weddings and other family affairs. In her later years, she became, in the words of a Capone family intimate, “a rough customer. Ornery. She cussed a lot. She was altogether different from Al, who was cool, calm, and collected, at least until he got his dander up. She ran the show, not her husband. She was heavy, but still good-looking.”

  In contrast to the profane Mafalda, Mae Capone became increasingly pious as time went by. She rarely ventured out by herself except to attend Mass, which she did at least four times a week at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Miami Beach. One can only surmise what blessings, what forgiveness, what mercy she requested in her prayers. Of all the Capones, she was the most diligent observer of the code of omertà; not once did she yield to the temptation to give an interview in defense of her husband.

  At the beginning of 1945, Al Capone became one of the first civilians to receive penicillin as a treatment for syphilis, although, as his doctors knew, his disease was too advanced for him to gain any real benefit from the treatment. In April, the ever-vigilant FBI noted his continuing disintegration: “Al speaks very rapidly, slurring his words together with a slight Italian accent and is exceedingly difficult to understand. . . . He constantly hums, whistles and sings while engaged in conversation, and it is difficult for him to coordinate his thoughts, moving rapidly from one subject to another in disconnected fashion. He has become quite obese but is very active, walking with jerky movements. . . . He is, of course, shielded from the outside world by Mae.” In sum, the Capone family considered Al to be “mentally ill and incapable of handling serious or weighty problems, and efforts are made on all sides to humor him as far as possible. He is pampered to a considerable degree and is believed to still view himself as the underworld king he once was in Chicago, becoming greatly excited and irritated when his every wish is not immediately fulfilled.”

  As the Capones adjusted to exile in Florida, their old allies and enemies in the Chicago rackets made news, beginning with the spectacular murder of Edward J. O’Hare, one of the government’s most valuable informants. It was O’Hare, Capone’s silent partner in dog tracks, who had warned Frank Wilson that the jury set to hear the income tax case was fixed, thereby prompting Judge Wilkerson to bring in a new jury. Had O’Hare kept silent, there is every reason to believe that the original jury would have acquitted Capone. Since the trial, O’Hare had conducted his dual career as a racket-backed sports promoter and as a government informer, and he had prospered. He continued to manage racing interests for the Capone organization—with the end of Prohibition and bootlegging, those interests had become more important than ever—and in return for his loyalty he had been appointed president of Sportsman’s Park in Stickney, and he had secretly become a director of the newly formed Chicago Cardinals football team, for whom he negotiated and affixed his signature to a lucrative radio contract. Although it was no secret that O’Hare maintained close ties to the Capone organization—the information cropped up every so often in the Tribune and other newspapers—he escaped prosecution in part because he honored his deal to keep Wilson supplied with information and in part because he conducted himself like a legitimate businessman rather than a hoodlum. Not only that, but his adored son, Butch, had made it to Annapolis, graduating as the specter of another world war loomed. The other important person in O’Hare’s personal life was his mistress (his “fiancée,” in the newspapers), Sue Granata, whose brother rather conveniently sat in the state legislature. In token of their relationship, O’Hare wore a treasured memento she had given him: a watch inscribed “Amor Sempiternus [Love Everlasting] Ed-Sue.”

  During the days just prior to Capone’s release from jail, O’Hare had been carrying a pistol, a .32-caliber automatic, suggesting that he feared reprisal for having become a snitch. Although none of the other government witnesses in the Capone tax trial had been killed, O’Hare’s case was special, for he alone had voluntarily come forward, and his warning to Wilson that Capone’s men had gotten to potential jurors had undoubtedly altered the course of the trial. Still, O’Hare went about his business as usual. On Wednesday, November 8, eight days before Al Capone was released from jail, O’Hare left his office at Sportsman’s Park, entered his car, and was driving himself along Ogden Avenue, a busy Chicago thoroughfare. He was planning to leave for Florida, where he was developing new racetrack ventures. His pistol lay on the seat beside him, and his wallet contained just $53. Suddenly a car sped past him, and one or more gunmen fired two rounds of buckshot, instantly killing O’Hare, whose car veered out of control, jumped the curb, and charged along a set of trolley tracks, finally crumpling against a trolley pole. In all respects, the murder of Edward J. O’Hare had been the work of professional assassins, and despite intensive investigation their identities were never discovered. After his death and the revelations that O’Hare had been both a front man for the Capone organization and an informer, it was suggested—through never confirmed—that his death was intended as a gruesome “gift” to Capone on his release from jail.

  After his father’s death and the wealth of scandal it generated, Butch O’Hare, now a Navy fighter pilot, was determined to redeem the honor of the family name. His great moment arrived in the early, desperate days of World War II. On February 20, 1942, while piloting a Grumman F-4 “Wildcat” over the Pacific, he encountered nine Japanese twin-engine bombers. Taking his plane through a series of dives and loops, he managed to shoot down five of the Japanese bombers and to disable a sixth; the other three were downed by aircraft carrier fire. This feat of bravery earned him the distinction of becoming one of the first true heroes of the war, and in April he received a Medal of Honor; President Roosevelt described Butch O’Hare’s actions as “one of the most daring, if not the most daring single action in the history of aviation.” Edward O’Hare did not live to see his
son’s medal, nor did he ride beside him in the parade Chicago gave for him, nor did he witness the strange coda to these events. When the cheering died away, Butch startled everyone by returning to action in the Pacific, always seeking another moment of heroism, although it seemed to some that he wanted more than mere heroism, that because of the exceptional burden his father had placed on him, he was seeking martyrdom. He finally found it on November 26, 1943, when his plane was shot down in the South Pacific, never to be recovered. He was twenty-eight years old at the time of his death, and he received a fitting memorial. In 1949, Chicago’s newly expanded airport, known as Old Orchard Field (a name that survives only on Chicago-bound baggage tags marked “ORD”), was renamed for O’Hare, whose father’s involvement with Capone had been forgiven or forgotten by then. The dramatic christening ceremony was highlighted by a mock bombing raid and a skywriter spelling out his name in the air. The prime mover in the campaign to name the airport after Butch O’Hare was none other than Colonel McCormick, the publisher of the Chicago Tribune, who had once waged an earlier campaign against Butch’s father’s business partner, Al Capone.

  The violent death of Edward O’Hare offered convincing proof that gang warfare persisted in Chicago and that Capone himself—or those around him—had good reason to fear for his safety. There would always be the possibility that some enemy of his who had been lying in wait for eight years, or longer, was now preparing to avenge some wrong by taking aim at him. Furthermore, even though Al had retired from the rackets and from the world in general, the Capone family certainly had not. Ralph continued to act as the nominal head of the clan, and he continued to exert influence in Chicago. Although the Capones had long ago quit the Lexington Hotel, which had fallen on hard times, Ralph owned interests in nightclubs and hotels throughout Chicago, especially on the South Side and in Cicero, those traditional Capone strongholds, and in Mercer, Wisconsin, where he maintained a bar. Age had mellowed “Bottles,” and he was now known not as Al’s loutish, insecure brother but as an elder statesmen of the rackets, a link by virtue of his name to the late, great Prohibition era. In fact, the entire period was coming to be seen with increasing tolerance and even a touch of nostalgia, as if its murderous gangsters—“Scarface,” Dion O’Banion, “Hymie” Weiss, Jack “Greasy Thumb” Guzik, Frank “The Enforcer” Nitti, Fred “Killer” Burke, “Big Jim” Colosimo, “Machine Gun” Jack McGurn, “Bugs” Moran, “Schemer” Drucci, and so many others—were no more than colorful scoundrels, their lives a bloody vaudeville.