My more immediate concern was the Mad Mick, who’d gone to ground somewhere after the Frenchy nab, but was still causing trouble. He was plenty sore when his brother Peter, who was almost as crazy as he was, had bought it from Bo Weinberg, and had put a number of Dutch’s torpedoes in the ground in revenge. This was making Dutch look bad, especially with my money burning a hole in his pocket. Costello and the others put the finger on him to solve the problem. Then Vincent did us both a favor.
About six months before Bo put Legs to sleep, Coll had tried to take out one of the Dutchman’s business associates in East Harlem, fella named Joey Rao. Rao ran Italian Harlem from his stronghold up in the East 100s, enforcing Dutch’s policy racket and making sure no other mugs muscled in. Fleecing superstitious Negroes, who’d bet their mother’s birthday as long as they could figure out how to express it in three digits, was child’s play, and that was such easy money that the Dutchman was facing renewed competition from the blacks themselves, Bumpy Johnson and Stephanie the voodoo queen foremost among them. I didn’t have a dog in that fight, but I needed stability on my Harlem flank, because if the colored took over completely—and the white women refused to go up there, except when they didn’t—we all had trouble. People were starting to make noises about not wanting to go uptown, what with the bad element and all—why some black people were so violent was beyond me—and Frenchy and I had once or twice discussed whether we should relocate the club down to the 50s, where many of the others were, but I decided that would be an insult to Mr. Jack Johnson.
Rao had orders to shoot Vincent on sight, which I guess Vincent musta heard about because he decided to preempt Joey. On a hot July day Coll and a carful of his boys came roaring around the corner of East 107th, where Joey and a buddy were walking, and blasted everything that moved.
Joey was no fool, and when he heard the screech of accelerating tires, he knew it was Death coming looking for him, so he and his pal jumped into a stairwell as the hail of lead began. Buncha kids weren’t so lucky. Coll peppered ’em with .45s, putting five in hospital. One of them, Michael Vengalli, had his stomach blown away. He didn’t make it.
Well, the papers went wild. “Mad Dog Coll,” they dubbed Vincent, and everybody in the city was out for his blood. It was a real dumb play, death-warrant dumb. The Outfit put a price on Vincent’s head, which, when you stop to analyze it, was really a price on our heads, me and Dutch, because it was our territory, which added a certain urgency to our search for Vincent.
That snoop Winchell somehow got a load something was up, and runs an item that a planeload of gunners was flyin’ in from Chicago to rub out Coll. Naturally, everybody wants to know where Winchell got this information, not to mention what’s he doing broadcasting it, and since he hangs around my clubs, I had to go to bat for him, because as much as I dislike reporters, I figured rubbing out the most famous Broadway columnist in the world was not a good move. Winchell was a cheap schnorrer, but he wasn’t no Jake Lingle, the double-crossing reporter Capone had whacked a couple years earlier, which meant that he could be bribed, cajoled or terrorized, depending.
I don’t know whether Coll’d been drinking or just readin’ the papers, but the next day—it was February 9, 1932—my private phone at the Cotton Club rang, and Fate decreed that I would be there to pick it up.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Vincent Coll.”
“I’m talking to a dead man.”
He guffawed a little in that stupid way of his. I could hear a dame in the background, giggling as well, and I decided they were both stinko.
Above my desk was the “Be Big or Be Dead” sign. I liked it so much I’d had it framed, pigeon shite and all.
“So I read in the papers. Remind me to pop that nosy punk Winchell. How do they let him write this stuff anyway?”
“They say it’s a free country.”
I could hear his breathing as he thought about what he was going to say next. “How much d’you think you’re worth?”
“To you or to my Mother?”
“Don’t get smart with me, Madden. Your day is done. You and Dutch, you’re finished. You don’t have the guts anymore.”
“I said that once to a mug, Vincent. You know what happened?” Dead silence on the other end of the wire. “He and his boys put eleven slugs in me. So I guess, looking back, he did have the guts after all.”
“I gotta go.”
“I thought you wanted to talk business.”
There was some muttering at the other end of the line; him and Lottie Kreisberger, the fat chorus girl he married for no apparent reason, were talking.
“Call you back in ten minutes. Be ready with a price.”
Coll rang off, I buzzed Frenchy and I was on the blower to Dutch in the Bronx seconds later.
“I found him.”
“Where?”
“Don’t know quite yet. He’s going to phone me in ten minutes. Make that nine minutes.”
“So what good’s that do me?”
“Don’t be daft. Frenchy will have the call traced. I’ll keep Coll on the horn. Where’s Bo and the lads?”
“One of the clubs, midtown somewhere, I dunno. Hard to keep track of Bo these days.”
“Find him. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Or maybe Lucky will get us.” That was the Dutchman’s notion of humor.
“Stand by, Dutch,” I said, ringing off.
Frenchy and I sat for a moment in silence. It was a nice office, all done up in wood and leather. I liked it plenty.
“Ever think about gettin’ out of this, Owen? The rackets, I mean. Leave it all behind, go somewhere healthier…you know, sweeten the odds?”
I was playing with a silver cigarette lighter Mary Frances had given me years ago for my birthday. I hadn’t seen her for a while. “Too late for anything else now.”
“You sure?”
The phone rang. I signaled to Frenchy to get our friends at the phone company on it PDQ.
“Yeah?”
“What’s the answer?”
I knew I had to keep him talking. “Still totin’ things up.”
“What’s takin’ ya?” I could hear noises in the background, voices, traffic, so I figured he was in a public place.
“Look, Vincent,” I said, stalling. “Your folks are from Kildare. Mine’re from Galway and Clare. Do you think they ever imagined how their sons would turn out?”
“Who cares about Ireland when we’re talking about money?” He was pronouncing his words very carefully, trying to give the impression he was in control.
I looked over and saw George nodding on the other line and writing down some numbers. Then he rang off and gave me the high sign.
“My father died trying to get out of Ireland. Okay, England.”
George stuck the piece of paper under my nose: “London Chemist’s, W. 23rd Street.” I pantomimed for him to call Dutch, but he was already on the case.
“I’ve come up with a number.”
“Give it to me.”
“Keep your pants on.” Frenchy flashed me another high sign and I knew we had him, if I could just keep him yakking. “Here’s how I figured it out.”
“Hurry the fuck up, I haven’t got forever.”
He was sure right about that. “Do you want the dough or don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“So listen. I figure if Frenchy was worth thirty-five grand, then I gotta be worth more, right?”
“That’s what I was thinkin’.”
“And then I thought what’s one of our favorite tools of the trade?”
“Gimme a hint.”
“I’m talking ordnance here.”
“Huh?”
“Weapons. Bullets, you know—”
“You mean .45s, like the kind tommy guns shoot?”
“Now you’re using the old noodle, Vincent. Forty-five is my number. Yours too.”
In the background I could hear the sound of the shop door opening and some rapid footfalls. I presse
d my ear against the receiver as hard as I could.
“Hey, what is this?” I wasn’t sure whether Vincent was addressing his last words to me or to them, not that it mattered.
“Good-bye, Vincent,” I said, but the shooting had already started.
They lit up Vincent but good, Bo Weinberg and a couple of his playmates did. At the autopsy the coroner counted fifteen steel slugs in various parts of what was left of the Mad Dog, not to mention the countless others that had gone clean through him while he was trapped in that call box.
Seven shots through the right arm, four in the left, to make sure he wouldn’t be able to return fire. A couple in the forehead, one of which wound up drilling its way through his body and into his heart. And of course one in the brain. Except for its glass front, which was shot to hell, the phone booth emerged surprisingly intact. That is the mark of the professional, which Bo Weinberg most certainly was.
A cop named Sherlock—this is God’s honest truth—happened to be passing by and chased the gunmen on foot, then commandeered a cab and ran with them up to about 50th, where they disappeared. I sent the flatfoot a bottle of my best champagne anonymously, in tribute to his moxie.
The other end of the line was still alive, although the man on it wasn’t. I broke the wire at my end, and that was that.
“What a tough break for the Mick,” I said.
“He musta done something wrong.”
“Let’s celebrate.”
Frenchy already had the champers open. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, not bothering about a glass. It was the only time I ever saw him take a drink.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Two days after Vincent bought it, I was entertaining Frank Costello at one of my clubs. I saw Winchell off in a corner, having a drink with some dame, and he looked up to see Frank sitting down with me. After what I’d done for him, Winchell knew better than to shoot off his mouth, but I gave him a quick shake of my head and he returned a brief nod, which translated into English meant you don’t see nothin’ and you bet I don’t.
Frank was hard to miss, with a nose that looked like it belonged on someone else’s face, and the first time you looked at him you made him for a mug, which he of course was. But Frank spoke very well, in more or less complete sentences, which was unusual for a wop, and his voice had a kind of authority to it that was lacking in Charlie Lucky and Meyer. Frank was a born diplomat, able to shuttle back and forth among the various dukes and barons of New York and the other cities, mediating conflicts, parceling out new territories and new business, and generally keeping his eye on the ball, which was that the whole world was ours, if we didn’t blow it. Of all the fellas I met in my working life, not counting the ones that worked for me, I think I liked Frank the best, and I still see him down here in Bubbles, more than anyone else from the old days.
“We’re all thrilled the way things have worked out,” Frank was saying.
“Bo Weinberg is a very good worker.”
“Leaves a job site in tip-top condition,” agreed Frank, knocking back one of my beers. “You could use a guy like that.”
Now, that was a sore spot. My guys were not exactly geraniums, but there’s a difference between a torpedo and a Michelangelo, and with Johnny and Art gone I was short on artists. After he got out of jail, Hoppo moved out west for his health; Art worked for me for a while, but it wasn’t the same.
There was one new kid I liked, thought he had a lot of potential, fella named Charlie Workman, a Lepke protégé who was so crazy-brave his friends called him Charles the Bug. The thing I liked best about the Bug was that he could shoot with both hands, just like the way Monk taught me, and pretty much not miss anything.
“We all could,” finished Frank, wiping his lip daintily with his napkin. Frank had class.
“I don’t think Dutch would take too kindly to any recruiting efforts.”
Frank gave me one of those wise-counselor looks. “It may not be up to him.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Listen, Owney,” said Frank, dropping his voice and shoving that big hound-dog face of his close to mine. “I like you a lot. You know that. Hell, everybody likes you. But there’s pressure on its way and we gotta do something about it, or somebody’s gonna feel the heat and we ain’t gonna be the ones, if you catch my drift.”
I caught his drift, a can of corn if there ever was one. The upcoming presidential campaign was shaping up as a dogfight between the two Democrats, Al Smith and Frank Roosevelt. Once friends, they had become bitter enemies—what a surprise in politics. Roosevelt had promised his old boss that he’d stay out of it but then of course changed his mind. Especially since in the aftermath of the stock market crash and the Depression, Monk’s pigeon, Hilda, coulda beat Hoover. Which just proves that even among the so-called better class of people, back-stabbing and double-crossing were the norm and not the exception.
“Who’re we boosting?” I asked.
“Tough call,” replied Frank. “Al’s always been a friend to Tammany and so has Roosevelt. But Al can’t win—the country still ain’t ready for a Catholic President, especially not some mug from the Lower East Side. Frank Roosevelt, on the other hand, he’s got class. Plus he’s stupid.”
That was hard to believe. “Stupider than the Big Fella?”
“About the same. Anyway, we think we have a better shot with him.”
That sounded good to me, although I was still peeved at Roosevelt for turning down my pardon, which I took as both a stupid and an unfriendly thing to do.
“Roosevelt’s got a problem, though,” said Costello, and he didn’t sound happy.
“Besides dumb, what?”
“It ain’t what, it’s who. It’s us.”
That made sense. If Roosevelt was going to run for President, he’d have to put some distance between himself and the less savory aspects of New York politics. We were long since used to our friends pretending not to recognize us in public, but what we weren’t used to was those same friends being actively hostile.
“Frank’s called Olvany, Curry, Hines and the rest up to Albany and given them the word. He’s got to look tough on corruption. Judge Seabury’s expanding his inquiry into a full-fledged commission, and the word is no one’s safe. Not even Jimmy Walker.”
That seemed ridiculous to me. “Roosevelt wouldn’t dare take on Beau James. He’s the most popular mug in town. Without New York City there ain’t no New York State, and without New York State there ain’t no nomination and without—”
“Maybe,” said Costello. “And maybe it don’t matter. The point is Frank needs to hang a few scalps on his belt.”
“So did Geronimo.”
“Which brings me to my second piece of bad news. After Roosevelt’s elected President, the new Governor, Lehman’s, going to appoint Dewey special prosecutor and bust up the rackets. First guy he’s going after is the Dutchman.”
“But Dewey’s a Republican,” I objected.
“Unlike us, pols always figure it’s better to have the other side do your dirty work for you.”
I saw their angle and didn’t like it. Now I was trying to figure out our angle. “So why are we thinking of supporting Roosevelt?”
“So we can control whose scalp gets took and whose don’t.”
I thought it over for a minute. That was putting too much trust in politicians, in my book. I’d rather trust a Hudson Duster. “What if he’s a rat?”
“What if we ain’t got a choice?”
I was still thinking about what Frank had said when I got home. It was times like this that I wished May was around, that she hadn’t gone off and done that dumb thing she did, that she was free to leave her husband’s home and come spend the night with me, the way she did when we were a team.
I was sitting in my chair, lost in thought, when the telephone rang. I’m Irish enough to believe in spirits, fate, etc., and I’ll tell you the truth, I thought it was May, calling to say she was sorry, that it had all been a terrible
mistake, that I’d been right all along, but when I picked up the receiver, the person on the other end of the line was not my sister but my lawyer.
“You sitting down? You really oughta be sitting down on account of the news, not very nice news I’m afraid, but the only news I got, sitting down, as I was saying, on account a the news I got to give you, so are you sitting down, I mean is your rear end in the chair, because brother it’d better be.”
“It was until you called. It’s up now.”
“Okay, forget the sitting-down part, here’s the news: the Treasury Department is about to indict you for tax evasion, just like they did Capone and Waxey Gordon and here comes the Dutchman too, the way I hear it and my ears are just fine, thank you very much.”
“How much do they say I owe?”
“Seventy-three thousand five hundred and fifty-three dollars and no cents.”
“Pay it.”
“Too late. Even if we pay, they still want a pound of tush. But that’s not the worst of it.”
“What could be worse?”
“Oh much. I just heard the parole board has issued warrants for Gustave Guillaume, Jeremiah Sullivan and Terry Reilly and other employees of the Hydrox Laundry.”
Guillaume, a tough gunner we called Little Frenchy, on account of he was littler than Big Frenchy, and Sullivan were both paroled murderers; Reilly was a burglar. All of them were on the payroll.
“So?”
“So what’s the matter with you, they’ve already talked to Izzy Levy.”
“Good. He’ll cover for me.” One of the conditions of my parole had been that I get a job, and so on paper I was working for the Hydrox Laundry in Brooklyn. The fact was I owned it. The fact was that Israel Levy was working for me. And the fact was that he was a relative of Judge Aaron Levy.
“That’s just it, he blew it. When they shook him down about you, he told ’em he never heard of you, didn’t know you from Adam, you get the picture, deny, deny, deny. Thought he was doin’ you a favor and here we are, sad day in this great land of ours when you try to do a mug a favor and it backfires.”
And All the Saints Page 34
