Operation Underworld

by Paddy Kelly

  “This dough is phoney.”

  Doc sat back and slowly smiled. Redbone downed his drink, sat back in his chair and offered his assessment of the situation.

  “Sumbitch!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  There’s little mystery about why authors such as James Fenimore Cooper and Washington Irving chose the mountainous terrain of upstate New York as the locale for their classic legends. The spectacular cliffs, magnificent waterfalls and plush forests combine to create a fairytale landscape.

  The breath-taking scenery, however, was completely lost on the official messenger cautiously making his way by motorbike through the frozen mud of the winding mountain roads. Intermittent towns and villages offered the only relief from the unpaved roads, and the icy drizzle which began to gently fall greatly hampered the likelihood of his reaching his destination before dark.

  An hour after dusk, mammoth courtyard spotlights reflected the mud-splattered 1939 Indian and its frozen rider as they pulled in through the twin steel doors guarding the main gate of Great Meadows Prison. A short time later, a sealed plain manilla envelope was pulled from one of the brown leather saddlebags and handed to Medford T. Childs.

  Warden Childs was a third generation correctional facility employee, and Southern Baptist. In the unlikely event a prisoner assigned to his prison had any doubts about whose playground they were in, Childs considered it his ‘God appointed’ duty to take any and all remedial measures.

  “Lawson!” Childs called out. One of Childs’ many rules was that an armed guard would be posted to him twenty-four hours a day regardless of where he was. His wife wasn’t very fond of this rule, but what the hell, they had been in separate beds for nearly twelve years.

  Lawson entered the office. “Yes, sir?”

  “I got us a couple new memos here from the Coo-missiona’. Says here one of ’em, dat we’s no longa allowed ta give solitary for more than thuty days at a time. Take note.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “From now on, solitary will be thuty days on, one day off, followed by thuty days on.”

  “Sounds fair to me, sir.”

  “Get me that Luciano fella up here, and close da doo. Don’t let nobody in here ‘til I’s finished.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lawson left to find Lucky and Childs had opened the red envelope which was also contained in the delivery. It was a follow-up memo to the one he had received only a few days prior instructing him that Luciano would be permitted visitors other than those usually allowed. However, this memo was more direct.

  Dated: 6 March, 1942

  To: Warden Medford T. Childs

  From: Commissioner of Prisons, John A. Lyons

  Warden Childs, you are hereby directed to obtain, in a discreet manner, the names of all persons who make contact with the prisoner known as Luciano. You will then, via special courier, send me said names, dates and times of visits. If you have any questions please contact my office.

  Childs filed the memo in a locked filing cabinet drawer and sat back in an uneasy frame of mind to wait for Luciano.

  It was suppertime so Lawson knew right where to find Lucky, and as he entered the large noisy dining hall, he headed for the front of the room, and made his way to the centre of one of the thirty-two seat dinner tables. Lawson spoke in a general manner, avoiding eye contact, despite the fact he stood directly in front of the head of the Unione.

  “Luciano, you are requested to report to the Warden’s office.” Following his announcement, Lawson moved to the centre aisle to wait for his charge. Lucky took his time finishing his food, as several other inmates seized the moment.

  “How the hell is a man gonna get his nutrition if you Screws keep on interuptin’ us durin’mealtime?”

  “Hey, errand boy, go tell Childs Mr Luciano is utterwise occupied dinin’ wit his esteemed enterage.” In a matter of seconds, everyone at the table was involved to one extent or another in the growing ruckus. Two shotgun-toting guards patrolling the overhead catwalk closed in towards the disturbance.

  There was never any real threat of trouble. The inmates were simply practising the time-honoured tradition of harassing the guards.

  Lucky moved as slow as he could and still be considered in motion, to give his crew maximum exposure time at the guard, and as he pushed away from the table he overheard a muffled conversation in progress, to his immediate right. A slightly built inmate was talking to another.

  The man spoke softly, but in the lulls of the harangue party occurring around him, Luciano’s ear picked up the words, “secret meeting”.

  By way of attracting his attention, Lucky made eye contact with a man at the end of the table whose nose pointed in several directions at once. Lucky nodded to the covert conversation, the nose nodded back and Lucky accompanied Lawson to the exit door.

  Upstairs in the warden’s office, Lucky sat in front of the desk listening to Childs while he was told, for the second time since his arrival, that his status in gangland meant absolutely nothing at Great Meadows, and Lucky had better get used to it.

  Medford T. Childs was attempting the well-known intimidation tactic. He may as well have asked Adolf Hitler to attend synagogue.

  Lucky got his name after being discovered by Staten Island police late one afternoon, staggering down a roadway severely beaten and bleeding. His nickname, as well as his droopy right eyelid, were a result of having been one of the few known individuals to have survived a gangland ‘ride’. The authorities knew who he was when they found him and, after two days of grilling, he couldn’t be intimidated by the police into telling them who had done it.

  What chance did Childs have?

  “And let’s get one more thing perfectly clear, Mr Luckiano, I won’t stand for any trouble in dis here prison! I don’t want no problems!” Childs’melodramatic presentation was interrupted by a knock on his door.

  “Come in!” It was Lawson. “What is it?”

  “Sir, we have a problem.” Childs glanced at Lucky.

  “What kind of a problem?”

  “There’s a party here to visit the prisoner, but they won’t comply with the visitor’s regulations.”

  “You got any friends that don’t make trouble, Luckiano?!”

  Five minutes later, Childs was downstairs in the visitors’ area consulting with his supervising guard while sporadically staring through the thick glass of the monitoring booth at the three would-be visitors. The guard explained the source of the problem. Staring back at the warden were Polakoff, Lansky and Lanza, all three with cigarettes hanging from their mouths.

  “Send the lawyer up to my office,” Childs instructed the guard.

  Unfortunately for Medford, on inviting Polakoff to his office he failed to take into account how annoyed Polakoff was by the forty-five minute wait he had already endured, by the fact he was haunted by the late night drive back to the City, and that, to cap it all, he was now being told he had to go to the warden’s office just to get permission to see his ex-client for which he was being paid absolutely nothing. When he was invited to sit down in front of the warden’s desk, Polakoff refused and considered the mandatory invitation the last straw.

  “Now look here, Childs! I been a lawyer a helluva lot longer than you been a prison warden, and I don’t give a damn about your excuses!”

  “Mr Pole-acoff, I am truly apologetic about your dee-lay. However, we have polocies in place foo your protection.” Childs’ response reflected a demeanour which was as transparent as it was comical.

  “Bullshit! Understand one thing, Childs. I and my guests are gonna get in to see Luciano, and we’re gonna do it tonight and we’re gonna do it without you getting our fingerprints! And you can take that to the bank, god-damn it!” Polakoff surprised himself with his own outburst and walked across the room to sit down. Then watched as warden Childs placed a phone call on his private line.

  Lansky and Lanza were still in the waiting area and working on their second pack of smokes. The two were increasingly uncomfortab
le with spending so much time in a prison and although neither one wanted to say it, both toyed with the idea that it might be a set-up.

  Polakoff could not be sure of whom the call was to, but he listened attentively to the short conversation.

  “Is he in your office now?” the voice on the other end of the line enquired.

  “Yes sir, he is.” Polakoff knew instantly, it was Childs’ boss. The warden was talking to Commissioner Lyons.

  Unknown to Polakoff, everything had been arranged. Or so Lyons led everyone to believe. Lyons calculated that if he were going to be strong-armed into playing this high stakes game of allowing high-profile criminals to visit the boss of the high-profile criminals, he had no intention of entering into it without a trump card. He wanted a name on which to hang blame when the day came. And Polakoff was as good as any.

  “Tell him we’ll waive the fingerprints but not the register. Tell him he has to sign in and out, and he will be required to accompany all visitors from now on. And he takes full responsibility for their actions. Any other questions?”

  “No, sir. I’ll make it all perfectly clear to him.”

  Childs terminated his conversation with Lyons and proceeded to top off Polakoff’s evening by making “it” all perfectly clear. As he spoke in a regimented, bureaucratic tone, Polakoff resolved to make something perfectly clear to the New York City District Attorney when he returned downstate, in the morning.

  Around half past eleven that evening they finally got to talk to Lucky, but there wasn’t much time before they had to leave, so a date was set for another visit in a few days.

  Earlier that day Lyons had considered drawing up a list of organised crime members he would forbid from coming to see Lucky. Number one on that list was to have been Meyer Lansky. That’s when the future founders of the international drug cartel got their next lucky break. Lyons abandoned the black list idea.

  Socks reached across his desk and picked up the phone on the second ring.

  “Watchman’s Protective.”

  “Hello, Socks. How’s tricks?”

  Lanza was unpleasantly surprised by the voice on the other end of the line. “Commander! What can I do for you?”

  “Just wonderin’ how ya been since our last meeting.”

  “Fer Chrissakes, Commander, keep it ta yerself, will ya? We got friends on the line!”

  “Not anymore, Socks. We took care of that. But there is something you and I need to take care of.” The Commander’s voice was laced with an unnerving calm.

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “I understand you had a little visit to Comstock?” The silent pause on Lanza’s end confirmed Haffenden’s intelligence.

  “I was invited ta see the Boss. What the hell, I ain’t seen him since he went up. Dat’s six years ago. Don’t bust my chops.”

  “I’m not bustin’ ya, Socks. I just need ta know where ya stand. You told me you wanted out, next thing you’re going upstate with Polakoff to see Lucky.”

  How the hell did Haffenden know I went upstate? Did the prison guys tell him? Or maybe it was Polakoff? Socks recalled that Lucky sent word that he was not going down for his impending indictment, and regained his confidence.

  “Look, Commander, I said I was out and I am. Gimme a break will, ya?”

  “Just checking in, Socks. You will let me know if you hear anything. Won’t ya?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die, Commander,” Socks mockingly added.

  “Nice talking to you, Socks. Say hi to the rest of the family.”

  On this particular morning, people who would normally seek to avoid J. Edgar Hoover in the course of their daily routine sought him out. He gave a record number of project approvals that day, returned greetings and even spoke politely to Rollins. At least at first.

  “Mr Rollins, would you please come into my office?” Hoover requested as he passed Rollins in the hallway. Rollins followed him into the office and Hoover closed the door and settled in behind his desk.

  “Has the New York report arrived yet?”

  “No sir, not yet. The courier won’t be in until six o’clock this evening.”

  The report Hoover was referring to detailed the apprehension of two German spies. The arrest of the enemy agents was unrelated to Commander Haffenden’s operation and so would give Hoover no break in that direction.

  The element that was responsible for his chipper morning attitude, however, was the high profiled, high speed pursuit through Times Square by his agents prior to the arrest.

  There were no shots fired, no private property damaged and no one was injured. The Germans simply surrendered when they saw they were surrounded.

  The newspapers consumed the story with their predictable vim and vigour, and it was the impending positive press J. Edgar savoured. He wanted to thumbprint the report before forwarding it to Jackson or the Joint Chiefs, and he would award the agents a special commendation, personally.

  “As soon as it arrives, find me, I’ll be in the building. Sign for it yourself. Also prepare me a flight for day after tomorrow. I want a press conference at the award ceremony in New York. Make sure all the national dailies are there, too.”

  “I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem, sir.”

  “I’m gonna push those three commendations through the chain so – ”

  “Four, sir!”

  “What?”

  “There were four agents directly involved in the arrests. Not three.”

  “Better still! Anyway, take care of the details.”

  “Already started prepping the paperwork this morning, sir. The forms will be ready to fill out by eleven.”

  “Good. Now tell me what you found.” Hoover prepared himself for more good news.

  “Found, sir?” Rollins braced himself, as he tried to stall.

  “Yes, found! On the Bridges affair!”

  “Oh! The Bridges affair! Of course, sir. I didn’t understand at first.” Hoover gave Rollins that what-the-hell-are-you-waiting-for look. “From which agency, sir?”

  Hoover stared at Rollins wondering if the man still understood the English language. “You didn’t do it, didja? I told you to make some calls and you were afraid so you didn’t do it!” The old J. Edgar slowly began to emerge.

  “Well, I did do it, sir. But… there were some unexpected snags.”

  “What snags? Either you made the calls or you didn’t! Either you found something or you didn’t! This ain’t the god-damned Shadow, Rollins! I don’t know what evil lurks in the hearts of man! Did you find something, yes or no?”

  “Well… yes… and no, sir.” Rollins crossed his legs as if to protect himself.

  “Your’re PISSIN’ME OFF!” Several silhouettes could be seen in the hallway through the frosted glass of the office door, milling about as if there was another reason besides listening to Hoover unload on Rollins for being there. “If you people can’t find work, I’LL DAMN WELL FIND SOME FOR YOU!” The silhouettes vanished and J. Edgar turned back to Rollins. “Talk to me!”

  “Sir. I contacted all the agencies you directed.” Rollins sought desperately to maintain damage control. “Starting with the New York City District Attorney’s office. They said they would not release any information to anyone in the Department Of Transportation except the director. Next, I found the representative for California and I called his office in the name of the FBI. They told me the representative was unavailable for comment. Then later, when I called back under a different auspice, the records clerk told me they had no record on file concerning a complaint from a Harry Bridges.” Rollins could see the wheels turning in Hoover’s head. “In desperation, I even called the American Communist Party headquarters in San Francisco to talk to Harry Bridges. Do you know what they told me, sir?”

  “Pray tell me what, Ollie?”

  “Sir, they told me that Mr Bridges had never been to New York. That his district was only in northern California. It’s as if it never happened. Now how about that?”


  Hoover fell back into his high-backed chair. “Shit!” There was somebody else in the game. After an uncomfortable pause, J. Edgar rested his folded elbows on the desk and brought his hands in front of his face. He spoke to Rollins in a calm, controlled voice.

  “You did good, Rollins. You did real good. Sorry about jumping on you. You understand, sometimes I’m under a lot of pressure. What with the war on and all.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rollins was shocked by the metamorphosis. “I understand. Is there anything else?” Rollins sought to exploit the window of opportunity, and escape.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Get me those numbers for the people you called before you go.” In his mind, Rollins was already out the door. “I assume I don’t have to tell you, this never happened.” “What never happened, sir?”

  Two and a half minutes later Hoover’s secretary came into his office and handed him a sheet of paper with the names, numbers and locations of the pertinent people involved in the covert investigation that half of Washington and most of Brooklyn knew about. He would place the calls himself to verify Rollins’ information.

  J. Edgar didn’t know it, but he was about to have a bad phone day.

  Chapter Twenty

  “At this very moment, we have the most extensive network of anti-espionage agents ever assembled in the history of the bureau. They are combing the city to thwart any and all anti-American activity where ever it might arise.” Hoover took an appropriate pause to allow a fresh wave of excited applause to erupt. He was speaking in a small auditorium of the New York Headquarters of the FBI to an audience of agents, civilian employees, press and a hodge-podge of local politicians who were riding the shirt-tails of the recent FBI success. The cadence of the delivery in his speech was well rehearsed.

  “The efforts of these four heroic agents is only the tip of the FBI iceberg. There are untold numbers of agents working the streets round the clock so that you, your loved ones and the rest of America can sleep in peace.” More frenzied applause.

  It was March the ninth. Exactly one month to the day of the burning of the Normandie, and the numbers of operators on the streets were nowhere near what he wanted his newspaper and radio audiences to believe. Ironically though, the numbers were far greater than he knew.