Operation Underworld

by Paddy Kelly

  “Yeah, I read that too.” Louie sat back and yawned. “They sure stepped on that story.”

  Doc looked at Louie while digesting the offhand remark. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, one day it’s front page news all over the world, next day there’s one paragraph on page two or three, and then, the story vanishes. Like it never happened. But she’s still sittin’ out there like a beached whale.”

  “Ya know what struck me funny? The API reports the eyewitness, Eddy Sullivan, saw the fire start from the welder’s torch. But nobody ever mentions the welder, where he is, what he was doing, or who he is. And to top it off, the papers all said Eddy Sullivan’s a carpenter. There’s no wood anywhere near that part of the promenade deck. What the heck was a carpenter doin’ there?”

  “Doc, I’m startin’ ta smell the same thing you are.”

  “What’s that, Louie?”

  “Not a clue, Doc, not a clue. But there had to be a reason for that DA goin’ into Third Naval District Headquarters yesterday.”

  McKeowen sat back in his chair and gave a tilted nod to Mancino.

  “Louie! I take back almost everything I ever said about you! Let’s copy all the Normandie stuff, the rest of the DAstuff and get some lunch. I think you might have something!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Murray Gurfein was not a happy DA as he stepped off the passenger train onto platform 12 at Penn Station. The cold, damp air was scant relief after two and a half days travel roundtrip to Albany. He had been sent there by Hogan in an attempt to avert a head-banging contest between the City and the State.

  Hogan deduced Lyons was not over the moon about cooperating with the Navy and their little venture, and was attempting to force the issue back onto the New York City DA. Hogan was getting tired of being tangled up with the FBI, the USN and now the State Correctional Facilities Office and wanted out of the net.

  To cover his own ass, Lyons sent a memo requesting “firm” backing from the NYC DA’s office. So rather than post a letter, even a certified letter, Hogan thought it more prudent to send a representative and, since Gurfein was already in the middle of it, Hogan volunteered him for the mission.

  Commissioner Lyons was none to happy about this counter strategy and, to show his deep appreciation, he sent Gurfein back with a laundry list of restrictions to be given to the Navy before he would consent to their little adventure. In this manner he was able to assure himself he hadn’t lost any authority, and was able to keep the DA in the game for insurance against any future accusations of wrong-doing.

  Gurfein cursed the cold. Then he cursed the baggage handlers for not being able to find his luggage. Then decided to go into the station and look for Hogan. The DA expected his arrival and cabled the hotel in Albany that he would meet Gurfein at the Whistle Stop, a coffee shop in the main concourse of the station.

  As Gurfein walked towards the café, weaving through the crowd with the intermittent blasts of the public address system echoing through the terminal, he wondered at the complexity of the civilian chain of command, and how much trouble it was to get anything done in the tangle of bureaucracy. At this level everyone had their own agendas, and before anything was allowed past them, they had to assess it in terms of its value to them.

  In the military chain on the other hand, at least outside of DC, something was ordered done, and it was done. Next task, thank you very much.

  “Murray!” It was Hogan. He was sitting at a table outside the café waving at Gurfein.

  “How was the trip?”

  “Complete shit! Next silly question.”

  “Speakin’ of shit, you look terrible! You okay?”

  “Thanks for the update, boss. Look, these clowns can’t find my luggage, so let’s get this over with. You can take off and I’ll catch a cab back to the apartment.”

  “Yeah, sure. Look, don’t bother coming in today. Take the rest of the day off.”

  Gurfein had no intention of coming back in anyway. On the other hand Hogan didn’t give him the day off out of the kindness of his heart. Hogan did it because he wanted the rest of the day to assess the situation after he talked to his underling. Also, he knew Gurfein would be useless to him for the rest of the day, anyway.

  “Talk to me about Lyons.”

  “Well, for starters – ” Just as Gurfein began to speak, a waitress interrupted them. Hogan ordered two regular coffees and the girl disappeared through the maze of tables.

  “For starters, Sing Sing’s a no go.”

  “Why, for God’s sake? It’s maximum security and it’s real close.”

  “That’s probably the reason. He wants it perfectly understood we’re on his turf.”

  “Is that the feeling you got from him?”

  “No. That’s the words I got from him.”

  “Did he say that?” Hogan was shocked.

  “Verbatim. Next issue. It’s probably going to be Great Meadows.”

  “Hell, that’s ten to twelve hours from here!”

  “For us. For him it’s right up the road. Less than two hours from Albany. He wants us on a short leash.” Gurfein had had hours to consider these possibilities while sitting alone on the way back to the City.

  “You don’t think it’s just a matter of keeping a low profile up there?”

  “C’mon! Which of the four high security prisons is less high profile than the rest? They’re all the same. Besides, that ain’t all.”

  “I can hardly wait for the rest.”

  “All visitors will be required to give twenty-four hours advance notice of arrival, and on arrival register with proper identification.”

  “That’s standard for any prison.”

  “And all visitors will be required to be fingerprinted.”

  “That I’d like to see.” Hogan rearranged his chair, crossed “That I’d like to see.” Hogan rearranged his chair, crossed his legs and folded his hands behind his head. “I told Haffenden he was pissin’ in the wind.” Gurfein took a long drink of coffee.

  “That ain’t the whole shootin’match.”

  “There’s more?”

  “As I left, he called his secretary in. There was no one else in the hall, so… “

  “So, like a good little DA, you eavesdropped.”

  “I took my time putting my coat on. Lyons calls the Warden at Great Meadows, fills him in and then tells him he’s gonna get a memo. He’s to keep track of everything and everybody, and send it all back to Lyons. The same day. They’re gonna set up a special courier system. Nobody’s to know about this except him and Childs.”

  “Who’s Childs?”

  “Warden at Great Meadows.”

  “Why the hell does he want all that the same day? It’s all gonna be in the register, anyway?”

  “Apparently he don’t trust the register.” Hogan finished his coffee, had a short think about what to do and came to a conclusion.

  “Well Murray, ya done good, thank you. But I’ll tell ya what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna dump this back in Haffenden’s lap, and bow outta the spy business. We’ve wasted enough resources. Time, money and, worst of all, it’s gonna be months before we get another phone tap on a suspected racketeering charge, unless we’ve got photographs of them committing the crime.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got called into chambers yesterday. Judge Puzo is not amused that after two months we got nothing from Lanza’s phone tap. He rescinded the order and lectured me about the basic right to privacy.”

  “Puzo lectured you on privacy? That’s like a politician lecturing a hooker on ethics!” Gurfein finished his coffee and, after standing up, told Hogan he’d be in early tomorrow. They parted company and Hogan headed for the main exit.

  Gurfein rode a cab back to his mid-town apartment cursing the baggage manager who had informed him it would be a day or so before they located his bags, which had inadvertently been put back on the train to Albany.

  Gurfein vowed never again to curse a baggage handler. At
least not out loud.

  The weary, middle-aged warden slumped in his chair behind his desk and was annoyed that he had to yell twice before the senior guard responded and came into his office.

  “Where the hell you been? You think I got nuthin’ ta do but wait on messengers? Get this god-damned notice to 92168 now!” The senior guard of the Clinton State Penitentiary figured he’d had too many years in grade to run messages, especially to scumbags like 92168.

  He took the piece of paper from the warden, said, “Yes, sir,” in a smart, obedient tone and exited the office. It was only a matter of minutes before an unsuspecting younger prison guard crossed his path and was handed the message with the explanation, “I’m too old ta go lookin’fer this fuckin’bum. Go find him and see that he gets this!”

  The young guard immediately recognised the well-known number and started off through the huge maze of halls and chambers. From the elevated structure which housed the warden’s office down into the exercise yard, the guard made his way through the general population and into the wood shop. No one had seen the sought-after inmate, and if they had, they wouldn’t have gone out of their way to tell the rookie screw. Down through cell block D into cell block B and across the north yard he searched for the prisoner he might one day tell his grandchildren about having met.

  Twenty minutes after the guard’s hunt began, it ended in the laundry. Amidst the noise and humidity of the huge tumble dryers, the messenger found the man he sought.

  “MR. LUCIANO! EXCUSE ME, MR. LUCIANO!” He was compelled to yell over the loud thrashing of the laundry machines. The inmate turned slowly and the pock-marked face with the droopy right eye stared back at the errand boy. Removing his work gloves, Luciano took the message and read it.

  “Well, whata ya know?” Despite the fact he was a native Sicilian, and spoke the lingo perfectly, his English was characterised by the dialect of the neighbourhoods of the Lower East Side where he grew up.

  The next morning Lucky was packed two hours ahead of schedule.

  “Hey, Lucky. What’s the skinny?” His cell-mate was surprised to see him preparing to leave.

  “My guys finally fixed it fer me ta get moved down state.”

  “Not bad, Charlie! Help ya get a handle back on the operations!”

  “Dat’s da general idea.” Lucky cinched the ropes on the dark blue, canvas bag, threw it over his shoulder and reported to the cell block chief at nine on the nose.

  He was escorted to the yard under armed guard, and rumours ran rabid throughout the prison. The stories ranged from expensive lawyers having paid a judge, to key witnesses having recanted their testimony.

  Lucky was surprised to see six other inmates preparing to be transferred along with him. Surprised, but not suspicious.

  “Okay scumbags, dump ’em!”

  The prisoners were obliged to empty their bags into the dirt, and wait for a guard to rummage through their belongings. Weapons were the primary concern. Money or anything of value the guards thought they could get away with stealing, the prisoners hid on their bodies. This was a safe strategy as pat-downs were rare.

  The guards conducting the search were the two who would make the trip with the prisoners. The younger one stood in front of Luciano, and looked down at his still full bag. He then stared nervously at the older guard making his way from the other end of the line.

  “Lucky, ya gotta empty your bag!”

  “I ain’t dumpin’my stuff in the dirt, kid.”

  “But you’ll get my ass in a sling!” the guard pleaded. Lucky looked at the kid and shook his head. He bent over lifted the bag and opened it wide.

  “Here, stick ya hand in there and wiggle it around.” The kid was reluctant, but the other guard was only two prisoners away.

  “Go on, kid. I ain’t got nuthin’ in there, anyway. Anything I want I can get down state.” The guard complied and then quickly ordered the men on his side of the line to repack their bags and mount the bus.

  Roll was taken before they boarded, and again a half hour later as they went through the gate while the bottom of the bus was being searched. Finally, nearly an hour after the line-up, they were on the road.

  The seven prisoners were huddled in the middle seats of the vehicle, with one of the two guards brandishing a 12-gauge pump at each end of the bus. The only excitement for the first four hours was when the guards occasionally swapped positions.

  Lucky figured the ride would be about eighteen hours which meant at least two stops for fuel and toilets. Food was stored in the back of the bus, and the fat, senior guard was already rooting through the packages liberating the cookies from the lunch boxes.

  As there was no highway system, the roads were very rough and the trip wore on through a seemingly endless mass of mountainous terrain. The heater in the bus hadn’t been serviced for years, and threw off just enough heat to remind the men they were cold.

  At about six hours into the trip the fat guard stood and walked to the front of the bus. He pushed the young guard aside, and looked at the prisoners, shotgun on his hip, in his best Gary Cooper pose.

  “We’re coming up on halfway. We’re gonna pull over, get gas and then one by one you pieces a shit can get out and take a leak. Don’t nobody move till I say so.”

  They pulled over and he got off the bus, followed by the young guard who stationed himself next to the driver‘s seat at the door.

  “Hey, Lucky!” It was the small guy across the aisle. “Thought you said ’bout eighteen hours?”

  “Somethin’s fishy,” Lucky muttered, as he kept looking around through the windows.

  The big guy in the last seat offered his contribution. “Lucky, I’ll tell ya somethin’else. These hills ain’t gettin’no smaller. If we was goin’ down state, it’d be gettin’more flat like.”

  Lucky began to wonder what the plan was.

  “Porky Pig ain’t gonna tell us nuthin’,” the small guy offered.

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Lucky assured the rest of the crew.

  After twenty minutes of Porky playing footsie with the even fatter female cashier in the gas station, the men were allowed off the bus one at a time until it was Lucky’s turn.

  The kid stood facing Charlie with his shotgun at high port as Charlie faced the woodline, back to the kid, and pretended to take a leak.

  “Hey, kid. Where the hell we headed, anyway?”

  “I’m not supposed to talk to you guys!” He looked around nervously as he spoke. Porky Pig was in the back again, stuffing his face with a Baby Ruth.

  “C’mon, kid. Nobody’s gonna lock ya up! We’re gonna find out anyways. What’s the deal?”

  “For some reason the Warden’s really pissed off!”

  “I like it already! Keep goin’.”

  “These other guys are a cover. You were supposed to be the only guy transferred.”

  “What?” Lucky twisted around to look at the kid. The bus driver climbed back onto the bus and into his seat.

  “C’mon, Mr. Luciano! Porky’s gonna get pissed!”

  “Youse call him that too?” The fat guard finished his second Baby Ruth and banged on the window.

  “Everybody calls him that, even the Warden. Let’s go.” The kid moved away and Lucky took his time pretending to do up his trousers.

  “So how long to Sing Sing?” Lucky asked as they mounted the bus.

  “We ain’t goin’ta Sing Sing.” The kid followed him back to his seat and leaned forward. “This bus is goin’ to Great Meadows at Comstock,” the kid whispered back. Lucky hesitated a step, and then continued to sit.

  Late that night, in the yard of his new home at Comstock, Lucky stood with the other six prisoners. Powerful floodlights allowed the new guards to search the prisoners’ bags one more time. They stood in the cold for another twenty minutes until the head guard came out and gave them the usual welcoming speech.

  Short guy said he could tell right away that it was the head guard, because the knees on his trousers were
worn out. He must have whispered a little too loudly because his crack earned him a punch in the kidney with a rifle butt. Eventually, they were shown to their cells.

  Lucky thought it unusual that the Warden hadn’t asked to see him yet. The Warden’s welcome speech was always good for a chuckle. It was pretty much the same spiel as the guard’s, and although he had only been in two different prisons, both in the last twenty-four hours, Lucky had heard that all Wardens’ speeches were identical. They must come down from the top. However, because of his notoriety, Luciano knew he would receive a special welcome.

  A few days later Lucky’s wait was over. He was summoned to the Warden’s chambers. The guards escorted him to a room, but it wasn’t the Warden’s office. To add to his sense of curiosity, he was left alone in the room, without a guard. He had never heard of that before, anywhere. So he waited.

  Luciano’s claim to fame was that he is generally accredited with putting the ‘organised’in organised crime. Prior to his arrival in the food chain, criminals were more or less congregated in large gangs, spread across the country, mostly east of the Mississippi. Luciano’s younger, more Americanised gangsters replaced the ‘Moustache Petes’, as the old traditional Sicilianos were derogatorily known. These older types fought national syndication until Luciano, who fully understood the financial benefits of the American corporate structure, reorganised the ‘Mob’ into the Siciliano Unione. He accomplished this by downsizing the Mafia on September 11, 1931 in an organised simultaneous execution of approximately forty non-cooperating rival members. It would take nearly two decades before the FBI linked the murders.

  After about fifteen minutes the door opened, and despite all the things he had been through, Luciano was awe-struck. Falling back into his chair, his mouth dropped open and for one of the few times in his life, Salvatore Lucania was speechless. Meyer Lansky, chaperoned by Moses Polakoff, entered the room.

  Polakoff gave a cursory greeting and moved to a far corner. After a few minutes the boss regained his composure and stood with a smile on his face.