by Paddy Kelly
“You think I ain’t thought ahead? There’s a dozen guys with inside info on what I been doin’ fer you. And there’s a certain lawyer with a sealed letter and instructions to go public if there’s any monkey business, should I go to trial.” This guy’s not as dumb as as I thought. “Now, I played it straight with you right down the line. And I’ll keep playin’ straight with you, Commander. But I gotta be here long after this war is over and you go home and retire. And them guys in the DA’s office don’t give two shits about me, you or the man on the moon, so long as they get up the next rung of the ladder and get a shot at makin’ governor.”
In light of recent events, Haffenden could find no flaw in Lanza’s argument. “Does that mean you’ll still help me out where you can?”
Lanza felt the sincerity in the request. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll tell you who’ll get you access to the whole fuckin’shootin’match.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Charlie Lucky.”
“Luciano? Lucky Luciano?”
Lanza smiled.
“But he’s outta circulation, in prison somewhere. For life, according to our information.”
Lanza stood and slowly stepped away from the table. “Yeah, hold onto that dream, brother. Sorry I can’t be of any more help, but I won’t do you or your project much good if they throw me in jail.”
The Commander remained seated to digest what he had just been told, and Lanza patted him on the shoulder as he walked past, heading for the elevator back down to street level.
Haffenden considered his next course of action, then left to locate a phone.
“Captain MacFall, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir, Captain MacFall has left the building. May I put you through to someone else?” Nikki’s pleasant voice responded on the other end of the line.
Haffenden thought for a moment. “Yes. Put me through to Commander Marsloe’s office.”
“One moment, sir.” The Commander could hear the buzz of the line, and after it rang three times, a voice answered.
“Yeah?”
“Tony?”
“No, wait a minute. I’ll get him.” He heard the receiver being laid down and a short time later Marsloe was on the line.
“Hello, who is this, please?”
“Tony, it’s me, Haffenden.”
“Charlie! What can I do for you?”
“Who answered your phone?”
“Ah, just one of the treasury guys. What can I help you with?”
“You worked on the Mafia stuff in Hogan’s office, didn’t ya?”
“I was the resident expert on Sicilian affairs, yeah, why?”
“I need an organisational flow chart. A sort of an order of battle if you will, and – ”
“Charlie, that’s gonna be kinda hard.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t have one.”
“You telling me the best intel service in the world doesn’t have the skinny on a bunch of gangsters?”
“Ah… that’s about it, Haff.”
“Well, who does?”
“Only one person that we know of.”
“Well, who the hell is that?”
“The head of the Mafia.”
“Christ, Marsloe, give me a break! Who the hell is the head of the Mafia?”
“Well… we’re not exactly sure.”
“Sicilian expert, huh? In the largest prosecutor’s office in the world? What the hell did you do? Swap lasagne recipes?”
“Hey, don’t take it out on me! We could take a page, ya know”
“Shit, sorry, Tony. I been running into a coupl’a walls lately, that’s all. Thanks anyway.”
An hour later, Commander Haffenden was back on the line to MacFall explaining the situation with Lanza. He couldn’t mention names on the phone but he made it clear that the DAwould have to be consulted for some background information to kick-start the new phase of the operation. Haffenden tried, unsuccessfully, to convince MacFall to approach Hogan on his behalf.
“Sir, we go back to those guys with hat in hand and they’ll use that leverage for every mile it’s worth!” Haffenden pointed out.
“We’ll have to do something to preclude that, I suppose.”
“Sir, I’m certain if we both go over there together…”
“What’s this ‘we’ jazz? You got worms? Charlie, I told you this is your show. You’ll have to handle it. That’s that. Now I’ll call around and grease the skids, but I highly suggest you plan on being over at the DA’s office in the a.m., Commander. Clear?”
There was a pause before Haffenden answered. “Aye-aye, sir.”
“And Haffenden, whatever you do don’t bring up the wires. Those people have no appreciation for flamboyance!”
“No sense of humour, huh?” Haffenden couldn’t fight off the grin involuntarily creeping over his face.
To the Commander’s pleasant surprise, when he rang Hogan’s office a short time later, the secretary informed him she was to give him an appointment at his convenience; that the District Attorney instructed her to leave the schedule open. They agreed on two o’clock that afternoon and Haffenden hung up suspicious and bewildered. Grease the skids? He must have sent over a fifty dollar hooker with a lobster dinner!
Commander Haffenden was not a politician. He’d never had the slightest interest in politics. He was a sailor, first, last and always. Consequently, he would not deduce that Captain MacFall never spoke to Hogan. That he never had to. Instead, the DA’s motivation came from a phone conversation designed to employ a different angle of attack. In fact, the skid-greasing was by way of Fiorrello LaGuardia’s office. The mayor’s secretary conveyed the message, and Hogan’s schedule parted like the Red Sea.
When Haffenden entered Hogan’s office that afternoon, he found it would be a three-way meeting. He wasn’t comfortable with that so he asked to speak to Hogan alone. Gurfein, with a hurt puppy look on his face, stepped through the door into the reception area.
“Big boys only, huh?” The secretary didn’t bother to turn around as she made her remark to Gurfein, who flopped down onto one of the over-stuffed sofas and picked up a magazine.
“Shut up!”
“Snappy comeback,” replied the secretary, as she continued to type.
After explaining what he needed from the DA, Hogan asked who the mystery man was. Haffenden cocked himself back in his chair and was amused at the expression, which bordered on shock, on Hogan’s face.
“Luciano! That may not be doable, Commander.”
“Let’s start with where he is. Where do we find him?”
“He’s a lifelong guest of the Gray Bar Hotel.”
“Which branch?”
“Clinton State Penitentiary, up in Dannemora.” The Commander began taking notes.
“We’ll use the Lanza strategy. Who’s his lawyer?”
“He had a whole team of them. I can have somebody look them up for you later. But they won’t do you any good. You’re wasting your time.”
Haffenden ignored the advice. “What’s the procedure?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There isn’t one. With Lanza, we were dealing with a free man. Luciano will never see the light of day again. You’re dealin’ with a crook of a different colour!” Hogan smirked at his own joke but Haffenden was in no mood to shadow-box.
“Look, Hogan, I’m gonna make this thing happen with or without you. So skip the bad jokes and give me the chain of command.”
Hogan was irritated but running out of excuses to stall. “Commander Haffenden, understand what you’re up against. Since you have to go through his lawyer, or lawyers, you’ll have to let them in on your little op. Then, convince them to lend a hand. They’re no doubt gonna bitch about money, and when you tell them they gotta do it outta the goodness of their hearts, they’re gonna disappear like a bunch of drunk sailors on payday. Next, if you somehow miraculously convert them into believers and they see the light, they gotta convince Luciano, w
ho can neither be believed, depended on, or trusted in any way shape or form.” Hogan began to pace the floor as he spoke.
“Don’t pull any punches, Hogan. Tell me what you really think.” “The best is yet to come! At this stage of your little safari, you’ve got to convert Commissioner Lyons, the state prison commissioner, and sell him into your travelin’ roadshow. Now, he will no doubt run it by the Governor, who by the way just happens to be the man who put Luciano where he belongs.”
“So what you’re tryin’ to say is…”
“Good fucking luck, Commander.” Haffenden tried not to flinch.
“So where do I find the name of one of the lawyers?”
“I’ll have Gurfein reference it for you and give your office a buzz.”
“That’s all right. I’ll wait,” Haffenden said firmly.
Hogan had no idea how far he could push Haffenden. However, at this point he calculated that the officer was willing to go the whole way to call his bluff. Or, worse yet, he had all the backing he needed to accomplish his goal. The DA was finished playing political chicken.
“I think I remember a name. Polakoff, Moses Polakoff.”
Haffenden continued to take notes. “How do we get a hold of him?” he enquired.
Hogan buzzed his secretary. Afew minutes later Gurfein entered the office and handed a slip of paper to Hogan.
“If you want to save some time, we can call him now and try to set something up.”
“Yes, that would be helpful, only don’t tell him I’m here or what this is about.”
Gurfein placed the call and it went through right away. However, after that it was an uphill battle. When Polakoff was told it involved Luciano, he declined right away. As far as he was concerned the case was closed. He complained about taking it all the way up through the Supreme Court and having lost. Finally, he fell back on the excuse that he really didn’t know Lucky that well, that he only acted as his lawyer along with the others and that he really wasn’t interested in approaching Lucky about anything.
Haffenden got the gist of the conversation and wrote a message to Gurfein while he was listening to Polakoff make his case to the DA’s assistant. It suggested that Polakoff use an intermediary to contact Luciano. After five more minutes, Polakoff was persuaded. Round one to the Navy. However, Polakoff emphasised two points. One, that the contact would remain nameless for now, and two, that he, Polakoff, would make no guarantees.
Just before Lanza was about to embark on the first peaceful night’s sleep he’d had in three weeks, the phone rang. It was Big Jimmy. Socks was quick to relay that he was no longer in business with the Feds.
“So Jimmy, are we okay or what?”
“Yeah, Socks. That’s real good news.”
“But are we okay?”
“You mean like okay okay?”
“Yeah, like okay okay!”
“Yeah Socks, we’re okay. There’s just one ding we gotta get straight between us though.”
“What’s that, Jimmy?” he asked with trepidation.
“You don’t tell nobody I asked you fer diss! You got that?”
“No problem, I swear! Now what the hell is it you want at two-fuckin’-thirty in the a.m.?”
“I want you to go back ta that joint on Mott Street, Morrelli’s, and get me that recipe fer Cannolies. Ya know, the big ones wit the extra cream. Can you do that, Socks? I’ll wack anybody ya want. No charge!”
“I’ll see what I can do, Jimmy. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Chapter Fifteen
Doc sat at the kitchen table while Mrs Birnbaum excused herself to get a fresh package of tissues. He explained to her what he had found out about the mysterious behaviour of her husband, but it didn’t seem to sink in right away and the tears kept coming. Although he was happy at the way things turned out, he was very uncomfortable in the presence of a crying woman. Any woman.
“You mean to tell me my Ira isn’t playing hoochie-coochie mit da bimbo?” she sobbed in between tears.
“No, Mrs Birnbaum, he’s not. As a matter of fact, according to my notes… ” Doc took his notepad out and made sure his client couldn’t see the blank pages as he flipped through them. “He’s working on something very special. Very hush-hush.” Mrs. Birnbaum appeared more composed as she went to the stove and prepared some tea.
“Why he is suddenly doink this on Pearl Harbor?”
“That’s when we had to mobilise the military, Norma. That’s when the shi… that’s when things started to get crazy.” Suddenly she began to cry again. Christ! Doc thought to himself. You give them bad news, they cry, you give them good news, they cry! Doc had no idea what to do, so he stood up.
“Mrs Birnbaum… Norma, are you okay?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so reliefted.” She walked over to Doc and hugged him as she cried uncontrollably, allowing her two weeks of pent-up emotions to escape. “I’m so reliefted, yet I’m so ashamed dat I didn’t trust him!”
Doc held her at arms length as if she were a baby with a loaded diaper as he floundered for words of comfort.
“I don’t know vhat I vould do vithout my Ira.”
Doc helped her back to her seat and squatted down in front of her. Holding her hand, he explained.
“Norma, it’s all over. It was just a big misunderstanding. Talk to Ira tonight. Tell him what you told me, okay?”
“Tell him I didn’t trust him? He vould die!”
“I don’t think so, Norma. I think you’ll be surprised at how he acts.”
“Ya dink?” she reluctantly enquired.
“More than I dink! What? Ya dink I don’t know from love?” They both laughed. “Maybe do something nice for him. Make you feel better, too.”
Jesus! Doc the marriage councillor. Louie would die laughing! It was time to leave.
“I have to go, Norma.”
Norma composed herself. “My Ira! A secret agent!” she said proudly.
“Well, I don’t know if I would… ”
She looked up at him. “Vat, Mr Macquen?”
“Nothing, Norma. You just have a big surprise for Ira tonight when he gets home, and enjoy the evening.”
“Ven he gets home! Dare is no way to know when he is getting home!”
“Don’t worry, I think I can help. He’ll be home for supper tonight.” Doc finally had an excuse to call Nikki.
“I haven’t paid you, Mr Macquen! I’ll get my cheque book.”
“Norma, that’s alright. Put it in the mail.” Doc’s protest was too late. Norma was back in a minute with the chequebook. She wrote and chatted like a schoolgirl talking about her first date. Doc fought back the smile.
“Supper! Dat’s the perfect idea! Ve have some candles and I make him his favourite! Pigs’ knuckles and black bread!”
“Norma! I thought you and Ira were Kosher?”
“Kosher smosher!” She bent forward as she handed Doc the cheque and whispered in his ear. “He dinks I don’t know from him and his friends sneakik off to York Street to that goim delicatessen once a month! I know! But I don’t say nuthink. Who he’s hurtink?” As she stood up straight she issued a warning. “You don’t say nuthik about pigs’ knuckles!”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Once again he protested when she handed him the cheque, trying to explain that he really didn’t do anything but follow her husband for a day. She persisted and Doc suddenly had a horrible premonition that she might start crying again, so he accepted the payment. Mrs Birnbaum thanked him three more times before he finally managed to get through the door.
Once outside in the midday sun, Doc decided to walk for awhile, and think about his future as a PI. With no new commissions on the horizon, things didn’t look good. He reckoned that once he reached the south side of the park he’d call Nikki.
As he was thinking things over, he passed a garbage can, stopped and took Norma’s cheque out of his pocket. He didn’t feel good about taking so much money for this job in the first
place, but when he thought about what he’d said to Louie, he had to do it. He tore it up.
Ira got a helluva a surprise when he got home.
Doc used to wonder why his father always took long walks when he was troubled. It had been a while since he had done it himself. By the time he walked to 58th and Third from the Birnbaum’s, he not only felt completely relaxed, but comfortable enough to call Nikki and ask her to talk to Ira’s boss about letting him get home early tonight – and maybe he just might accidentally let drop he had nowhere special to be on Saturday night.
However, the love gods were not smiling on Doc that morning. Shortly after entering the phone booth, while rummaging through his change in search of a nickel, his attention was caught by three men sitting at a side table in a small restaurant across the street. The guy on the left was unknown to Doc; however, the one sitting at the centre of the four top was the famous Meyer Lansky, Lucky Luciano’s best friend and partner since childhood. The figure which made the picture so curious was the man trying so desperately not to be seen.
“Doc, where you at, man?”
“Midtown, Redbone, on the East side.”
Redbone was talking to Doc from his improvised
Redbone was talking to Doc from his improvised office in the basement of 1929. Sitting in between the drainpipes of the utility room and sipping his mid-morning, regular coffee, Redbone spoke to his favorite tenant. His telephone was a discarded receiver wired to the primary telephone junction box on the wall.
“What’s you need, Doc?” Redbone always spoke in a slow, comfortable rhythm.
“Doesn’t your nephew work up here somewhere, Redbone?”
“What’s the name’a the joint you at?”
Doc peered across the street. “Kitty’s Koffee Kafé, all spelt with K’s.”
“Must be somebody don‘t know no English!”
“Must be, brother. Ya know it?”
“Never hoid of it, Doc. What’s it near?”
“I’m right in the middle, between 58th and 59th, near the Queensboro. Ah… about a block from Bloomingdale’s.”
“Bloomingdale’s, das it. Leon works at the lunch counter at Bloomingdale’s. Da won downstairs.”
