Operation Underworld

by Paddy Kelly

  “Before I present the awards to these brave men, I’d just like to say how great it is to be back in your great city.” The applause was now wildly out of control and never really died down until J. Edgar concluded his remarks about New York.

  “And I hope while I am here I’ll get a chance to see if Central Park really has gone to the birds.” Hoover smiled and the crowd looked puzzled, then slowly began to applaud.

  “What the hell does that mean?” a reporter in the back of the room leaned over to a colleague and asked.

  “The little guy’s attempt at humour, I guess,” came the bedazzled reply.

  Hoover presented the commendations to the four agents, each got a chance to say how happy he was to be working with the FBI and fifteen minutes later, the mutual admiration continued in a small reception room across the hall from the auditorium.

  The following hour and a half was an annoyance to Hoover, but not completely unsatisfying. He enjoyed the attention and the opportunity to espouse the untold merits of himself and his organisation. However, by the second hour, the gathering had deteriorated into a flesh-pressing session. After considering several reasons to excuse himself, he explained to his bodyguards that he wanted a breath of air and stepped out into the afternoon daylight.

  It seemed colder than last month when he was in New York and he was compelled to do up his topcoat and raise his collar. Looking up into the grey afternoon sky, Hoover sensed a feeling of restlessness in the air.

  After a few minutes, the bodyguards found him standing in the doorway of the building and asked if he was okay. Hoover replied that he felt like a little walk and would meet them back at the seventh floor suites in an hour or so. The agents left and headed back to the room at the Astor.

  J. Edgar took a walk, for about two minutes. Or more precisely, the time it took him to walk around the corner to Second Avenue and hail a cab.

  “Central Park. Near the zoo.” Hoover had now transitioned to a clandestine frame of mind and so was brief and to the point when instructing the taxi driver.

  “So whatta ya think ’bout Brooklyn?” Hoover had already opened his window part way to allow the cab driver’s cigar smoke to filter out. As the unshaven middle-aged man attempted to make small talk, Hoover became irritated.

  “I don’t follow baseball.” The driver missed the hint.

  “Iz dat right? Myself, I couldn’t make it tru da week witout da local scores. My wife… you married, Mac?”

  “Central Park, and skip the chit-chat!”

  “Okay! Don’t get defensive, fella.

  “Okay! Don’t get defensive, fella. Just tryin’ ta make conversation!”

  “Don’t!” Hoover incensed the taxi driver who, for the next ten blocks, continually glanced in the rear view mirror attempting, in vane, to place the face staring back at him. Finally, after ten puzzled minutes, he realised who he had in his cab.

  “Hey! I know you!” Hoover stared back at the mirror. “You’re that writer guy with the column for the forlorn lovers in da Times!” Hoover made no response. “Ain’t that right? C’mon! You can tell me! Jeez! Wait till Gladys hears about this!”

  The Transverse Roads crossing Central Park from east to west are numbered. Transverse Road Number One is the most southerly drive and connects East and West 65th and 66th Streets. Hoover instructed the driver to drop him on the east side of TR One.

  For a man just out for a morning stroll, J. Edgar moved with a definite sense of purpose. There was no urgency in his stride, however he seemed to know exactly where he wanted to go. After a short walk down the gravel path, he reached his destination, the most well known zoo on the eastern seaboard.

  The Victorian design of the Central Park Zoo attracted many visitors, but was relatively quiet that morning. As he strode through the turnstile of the entrance gate, a retiree volunteer worker yelled after him. “Hey, mister! That’ll be ten cents!”

  Hoover ignored him. Checking his watch, he saw that he was ten minutes early for the twelve o’clock meet. Halfway down the path, a policeman approached him from the rear and tapped him on the shoulder with his billy club.

  “What’s a matter, Mac? You think you’re better’n everybody else, or you just can’t afford a dime?”

  Hoover turned around, and the patrolman knitted his brow in a signal of vague familiarity. Remaining silent, but flashing his small gold badge, Hoover detected no signs of the shock he expected to see on the officer’s face. The officer dutifully inspected the bifold identity, and decided it really was the head of the FBI, thanked him in a curt manner and walked away. Hoover thought again how much he hated this god-damned city.

  Standing beneath the blue and gold umbrella of a hot dog cart, he paid the vendor for a hot dog and a soda and ate his early lunch as the Glockenspiel over the gate of the Children’s Zoo chimed twelve o’clock. It was time and so he headed for the aviary.

  The chief FBI agent’s comment about Central Park having gone to the birds meant nothing to the assembled crowd in the auditorium that morning. However, it wasn‘t a throwaway line, either. It had meant something to an individual downtown listening to the radio broadcast of the awards. It offered the details of a meeting he had been waiting for all week long. At the conclusion of the broadcast, the individual switched off his radio and left to catch the subway north to the park. He had been listening to Hoover’s awards ceremony from his office.

  His office at No. 90 Church Street.

  At half past eight that morning Shirley had received an urgent message via courier from the New York City DA’s office. It was for the Commanding Officer of the Intelligence branch. Hogan didn’t know about the Hotel Astor office and so sent the handwritten message to Church Street. It was short and to the point: M. P. out of game. Row with Prison people. States he desires no further contact with either of our offices. Good luck. Hogan.

  “Office of Moses Polakoff, attorney-at-law. How may I help you?”

  “Mr Polakoff, please.”

  “May I ask whose calling pa-lease?”

  “Haffenden, Commander Haffenden, US Navy.”

  “One mo-oment pa-lease.” Haffenden hated this politicking bullshit. He didn’t give a damn if he ever made Captain, but the fact that the home defence front depended on his operation warranted him wooing Polakoff back into the game. After a short pause, the secretary came back on the line.

  “I’m sorry. Mr Polakoff is not in at present. Would you like to call back at a later date?”

  “Look, sister! Here’s the skinny. You put your boss on the line pronto or in thirty minutes I’ll have more agents over there than Chinamen on Mott Street, savvy?”

  “Please hold, sir.” A moment later Polakoff came on the line.

  “Who the hell is this?” he demanded.

  “Mr Polakoff, it’s Commander Haffenden. Sir, it’s urgent that we – ”

  “Urgent? I’ll tell you what’s urgent! It’s urgent that you stop calling here, that’s what‘s urgent! And it’s even more urgent that you understand if you call me again or threaten me in any other way, I’ll show you how I do business! We have nothing to discuss!” Polakoff slammed the receiver onto the hook

  “Well, that didn’t go as well as expected,” Haffenden said out loud to himself, replacing the receiver. Typical Monday morning. He began to realise what Hogan had been talking about.

  Accustomed to patriotic co-operation by others, Haffenden had difficulty accepting the fact that his keystone operator had just jumped ship. Worse yet, he realised that the entire operation was hanging by a slender thread, just as funding was renewed and an increase in personnel was authorised.

  He rose from his desk and made his way out of his office suite at the Astor, to the balcony of the mezzanine. He walked to the rail overlooking the lobby and racked his brain for an angle, some way to get Polakoff back in. What the hell was he going to tell MacFall? What the hell was MacFall going to tell Washington? “Thanks for risking your political careers on a shaky operation, boys, but it f
ell apart.”

  Haffenden held the message in his hand as he looked down and watched the hotel guests mill around in the lobby going about their business. A small group of businessmen exited the elevator, hungover and wearing green paper hats, carrying small replicas of the Irish Flag. Eight days to Saint Patrick’s Day, he thought to himself. Easy to lose track of time on this job.

  He glanced at two of the Naval Intelligence agents stationed on sentry duty. Dressed in casual clothes, they sat at a table in the corner of the lobby discussing baseball. Haffenden checked his watch, nine forty-five, turned away from the balcony and went back into his office. Then a smile slowly made its way across his face as he remembered being told that Polakoff was a Navy veteran.

  A few minutes later a bellhop informed the two agents that their room was ready, and they made their way to Haffenden’s office.

  “Gentlemen, we have something of a crisis.” The two men stood in front of his desk as the Commander spoke in that calm but firm tone which had become the universal hallmark of a military leader addressing his troops in time of peril.

  “You are to go to Church Street, they’ve been notified that you’re coming, go to the reception desk. There’ll be a manilla envelope for you. On a separate piece of paper will be an address. Moses Polakoff, a lawyer, it’s his office. He leaves for lunch every day between half past eleven and one. Follow him, call me immediately with the name and location of the restaurant.” The agents exchanged glances. “Do not open the folder. Do not let him see you and, if he hasn’t left by two o’clock, call in to me.”

  “Here or Church Street, sir?”

  “I’ll be here until you call. Questions?”

  Both agents shook their heads.

  While J. Edgar Hoover was finishing his hot dog in the cold, surrounded by furry little animals, Moses Polakoff was finishing his prime rib lunch, in a warm, comfortable restaurant, surrounded by sharks.

  Eddie’s Steak House, next to Saint Benedict’s on 53rd, was a popular place for mid-town lawyers to meet and bill their clients. Apparently, Eddie was the only one to notice the irony of so many lawyers congregating so close to a church on a regular basis.

  Commander Haffenden’s agents met him at a Greek fast food stand a half a block west on Ninth Avenue. One agent huddled across from Eddie’s in a doorway, shivering and swaying back and forth to keep warm, while the second agent took his turn in the Greek place, warming up with coffee.

  “What’s the story?” Haffenden asked by way of a greeting.

  “He went in about an hour ago. Met with some other suits, probably lawyers. They had a drink, he ordered lunch and is eating alone. Goody is gonna give us the high sign when he’s done eatin’.”

  “Good work.”

  “Sir, if you don’t mind me askin’, what’s so special about an old lawyer?” The Commander looked at his agent and reasoned he would know about Polakoff’s critical relevance to the operation one way or the other.

  “He’s the only way we can get into Great Meadows to contact Luciano. They want a lawyer with the visitors all the time.”

  “Can’t we just get another lawyer?”

  “It would take weeks to set up, the state people would fight us tooth and nail, and Luciano wouldn’t trust anybody else at this stage. I don’t think I would, either.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  Agent Goody waved from the doorway down the block.“You want us to go in with you, sir?”

  Haffenden took the manilla envelope from the agent. “No. You two stay here and warm up. Eat your lunch and wait for me.”

  “Any idea how long it’ll take?”

  “If this morning is any indication, I’ll be back before your souvlaki gets cold.”

  Polakoff had just flagged a waiter for the check when Haffenden approached him from behind and laid the sealed envelope on the table in front of him. It was obvious it contained some sort of folder or official record, but the lawyer was too experienced to be taken off-guard. He ignored the document.

  “Looks like what we have here is a slow learner. I told the DA and I’m tellin’ you for the second time today! Take a walk!”

  “Mr Polakoff, all I want to do is talk.”

  “Oh yeah? Near fifty years on the bar and I’ve never heard that line. C’mon Commander. Dig deeper.”

  “I could have orders cut to reactivate you back into service.”

  “Good luck! I’m way past the age limit and you know it.”

  “They raised it for the duration of the war.” Polakoff narrowed his eyes and stared at Haffenden, who had now taken a seat directly across the table from him.

  “Yeah and by the time the court case comes up, the war’ll be over.” The waiter placed a small silver tray containing Polakoff’s bill on the table as he passed by.

  “Look here, Hafffenden. I’m a private citizen. You can’t just go around threatin’ people, hopin’ ta get what you want by arm twistin’.”

  Haffenden readjusted his position and eyed the envelope to see if it elicited a reaction from the lawyer. Again, no joy.

  “Reactivating you, even to fly a desk, wouldn’t really be in the best interest of either one of us, Moses. Think of the good of the nation. The bad guys who are out there tryin’ ta sabotage the war effort. Think of the lives we… you could be saving!”

  “You really are a slow learner, aren’t you? Apparently you forgot what I do for a living. Let me remind you. I argue. With some of the sharpest minds in the country. Your arguments are pathetic. There are a helluva lot more guys in Washington sabotaging the war effort than you’re ever gonna catch in this town, Buster.” Polakoff spoke like a man who wanted to get something off his chest. “All their bickering and self-serving interests, while patriotic young men are dying by the thousands. Don’t wave the flag at me!”

  “Moses, the human angle?” Haffenden was losing ground faster than he thought possible.

  “More bullshit! Not one single life has been lost that can be attributed to domestic enemy sabotage. The Normandie is a perfect example. Contradictory statements by eyewitnesses, conflicting reports in the press, a mysterious welder. Reports from the Navy, the Department of Transportation, the City and the DA’s office and what’s the upshot? ‘Still under investigation’! You got no more idea what happened to her then you do Emilia Earhart, fer Christ’s sake.” As he finished delivering his last salvo, Polakoff rose and began to put on his coat.

  “Aren’t you curious about what’s in the envelope?”

  “I could care less.” He picked up his briefcase, took the check and turned to leave. Haffenden played his desperation card.

  “Hey, Moses!” Polakoff glanced over at Haffenden who remained sitting at the table. “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “All that stuff about saving that kid from getting executed during the last war?”

  Polakoff hadn’t thought about that case for nearly a quarter of a century. “What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”

  “At one time you gave a damn about something.”

  “You must’ve dug pretty deep to find out about that one, Commander.” Polakoff ignored the cashier as she attempted to hand him the change from his twenty. Instead, he walked back over to the table, sat down and, without releasing his briefcase or removing his coat, began to speak to Haffenden.

  “They were gonna put that kid to death for something they knew he didn’t do. An eighteen-year-old boy, with a wife. A young man who volunteered to fight their war. But they needed a scapegoat to patch things up with some other clowns on the British side.”

  “Is that when you resigned your commission?”

  “That’s when I woke up.”

  “Woke up?”

  Polakoff leaned forward, one elbow on the table and spoke to Haffenden with a renewed intensity.

  “You don’t remember the good old days, Haffenden. Murder, robbery, extortion. All the crimes that made this country great. Now it’s drugs. In the arm, under t
he tongue, up the wazoo fer cryin’ out loud! It’s a fucking cancer! This country will never recover. It just means bigger, better and more heineous crimes. I’m glad I won’t be around to see it.”

  “Are you suggesting that we’re helping usher in this new super crime wave you foresee?”

  “No, not suggesting it at all. I’m saying it outright! What the hell do you think is going on up at Great Meadows? You think for a New-York-City-second those bums give two shits about you and your top secret operation? Those bastards have forgotten more about working both sides of the fence than you and I will ever know!” He sat back to take a breath, then continued the lecture. Haffenden was enamoured with Polakoff’s passion.

  “They’re not interested in helpin’ you unless it’s helpin’ them. They’re consolidating the Unione to strengthen and regain the control they lost when Lucky went up the river.” Haffenden was no dunce, certainly he had thought about this angle of the operation. He just didn’t think it was so obvious to those on the fringe.

  “And as long as school’s out, Satch, let me ask you this. You think there’s not gonna be a public outcry when the truth comes out about this operation? Heads will roll! The first schmoe to stumble down the path who thinks it’s politically expedient to expose anyone involved in your little spy ring, will be singin’ like Bing Crosby at a War Bonds concert! And he won’t give a rat’s ass about the nation’s best interest, whether it’s now or after the war. Lucky knows it’ll be your side to leak the news, and that means anybody with anything on him will be in trouble.” Both of the men sat quietly for a moment. Polakoff was embarrassed he had cursed so much. “That’s why I’m against this shit.”

  Haffenden sat in silence, considering his defeat. He needed final confirmation. “I hate to pose the question, Moses. But I have no choice. Does this mean you’re not going to help us?” Haffenden became conscious that his hand rested on the envelope and quietly let it slide off. He took a deep breath. A blank look came over his face and he stared out of the window.