The Last Brother

by Andrew Gross

  “That so? You know, Mendy, I’ve been standing up to him since I was twelve years old.”

  “You have, huh?” Mendy chuckled, but not with any levity in it. “Well, I don’t have to tell you, do I, Morris . . . you ain’t twelve anymore. You feshtayn?”

  Back in his office, Louis Buchalter called Gurrah over to his table. “You know, Jacob, I’m thinking I’ve been a nice guy to that man for a long time now.”

  “Too nice, if you ask me,” Shapiro replied. “He’ll only go around making problems for us. You’ll see.”

  “We all go back a ways, that’s all. So maybe I have cut the guy some slack. And Mendy’s always had a hard-on for the guy’s brother. But I’m starting to think my goodwill has reached its limit. He’s got workers . . . ?”

  “Plenty. Plus a shop up in Kingston, I’m told. A hundred more up there.”

  “A hundred, huh . . . ?” Louis Buchalter pursed his lips. He let out a breath. “So maybe it is time we find out just how tough Mr. Raab really is.”

  “Just say the word.”

  Buchalter got up and straightened his jacket around his shoulders. He gave his partner a shrug, as if to say, All right, go ahead now. It’s your call.

  “You want we do it hard or by the book?” Gurrah pulled his large frame up from the chair.

  “By the book” was how a union normally organized a company. Start pressing the flesh, promise the world—better wages, more time off, more bathroom breaks. Picket the factory until the owners gave in.

  “Hard” was how they’d done it to Manny Gutman.

  “You choose, Jacob.” Louis Buchalter put on his Panama. “Just get it done. And don’t be a pig about it. There’s dues to be had here.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  That same day, in a different part of town, Special Prosecutor Thomas E. Dewey stood at the window of his tenth-floor office in Lower Manhattan and looked across the city. It was big, raw, booming—buildings shooting up everywhere in spite of the Depression. But it was also a city in the grip of a menacing contagion.

  There was the newly formed crime syndicate: Luciano, with his gambling and prostitution rings. Dutch Schultz, who, with the end of Prohibition, traded in bootlegging for his new racket—the numbers, not only preying on the innocent, who bought their tickets with the hope of an early Christmas, but manipulating the payoffs, pocketing hundreds of thousands a week. Lepke and Anastasia, with their control of the garment and longshoreman unions. And a wave of dead bodies from their vicious new syndicate, known as Murder, Incorporated. The governor had pushed him. Do whatever you have to do. Just clean it up. Take whatever resources you need to do the job. Dewey said to him, only if I have full control. “You have it,” Governor Lehman replied. “Just do whatever you have to do.”

  And early on, Dewey had had some successes. Turning informants on their bosses, tapping phone lines. He’d handed Dutch Schultz to the Feds twice on trials for tax evasion. And they had him dead to rights until the bootlegger’s attorneys convinced a judge to move the trial out of Manhattan. Dewey had even gotten a crony of theirs, Leon Weinberg, to turn on Murder, Inc., until the witness ended up in a free fall from the tenth-floor hotel room guarded by three of New York City’s finest.

  The bastards’ money and influence spread everywhere.

  But now he had a team of sixty. Handpicked men. Lawyers, cops, tax accountants. People he knew he could trust. Who shared a mission. If these murderers were allowed to show they were stronger than the law, it would be the end of society as we knew it. It was like an ineluctable clash of forces, Dewey called it—two unmovable powers coming together. And there would be but one winner. One winner. And for once it would be the law. He’d had Schultz lined up for conviction twice, and twice he’d wiggled out. Dewey wouldn’t miss the chance again.

  He went back to his desk and opened the file he’d been paging through a moment before. He stared at photos of the unrepentant killers he would soon see in jail. Schultz was Number One. The bootlegger had left a trail of a hundred bodies to get where he was. Then Lepke. He and his murderous crime partners killed with guns, garottes, ice picks, clubs, even tossing victims out of windows. Then Dewey would move on and throw the full force of the law against Luciano himself. The head of the crime commission. One by one they all would be brought down.

  The gangster wouldn’t be known as Lucky anymore.

  There was a knock on Dewey’s office door. “Come on in,” he said, closing the file.

  One of the young lawyers who had fought to be assigned to his staff, Irving Weschler, stepped in. The kid was raw, chubby, a bit rumpled; he always wore a suit that didn’t quite fit. Not a Harvard or Yale guy like so many of his outfit, but rock solid when it came to the statutes. And he was as eager as they come. The young lawyer stepped up to Dewey’s desk. Dewey could see the kid was nervous. Who wouldn’t be? He’d never even addressed the young man directly before.

  “You asked to see me, Mr. Dewey?”

  “Sit down, Counselor. Don’t be nervous. You may be just the man for one of my assignments.”

  “I’d be honored, sir.” Weschler’s eyes came alive.

  “You’re a local lad, I’m told.”

  “That’s right. From the Lower East Side. Born and bred.”

  “Pulled yourself up from nothing through your own hard work. Brooklyn Law. Graduated top of your class, I’m told.”

  “Third.” Irv shrugged with a modest smile. “But the only one not currently teaching, I’m told.”

  “Well, academia’s loss is our gain, then. So you know what we’re going after on this task force? Organized crime, of course. Both in their traditional venues—gambling, prostitution, murder . . .”

  “That’s why I asked to be a part of it, sir. It’s an honor to be on the team.”

  “Excellent. But then there’s the entirely new activities the mob seems to be involved in today. Extortion, intimidation, labor fraud. Anastasia’s got the dockworkers in his back pocket; Schultz, the restaurant trade. And this Buchalter figure—Lepke, as he’s now known—he’s got the garment unions. We’re talking extortion, price fixing. Restraint of trade.”

  “Yes, sir.” Irv waited for him to continue.

  “And as you may know, Counselor,” the special prosecutor put his palms on the desk, “a racket cannot exist for long without being fueled by three things. It’s oxygen to them. The first, of course, is political protection. Someone in power has to be watching out for them. Protecting them. And you can be sure these particular groups have it in spades—people on their payroll in all levels of the government and police.

  “Two, they need witnesses who are terrified to speak out. Who are subject to brutal acts of retaliation, to get them to either back down or recant their testimony.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And three, Mr. Weschler,” Dewey said, leaning forward. He knotted his dark brows. “Lackluster and indifferent law enforcement. Even worse, where the motives of such law enforcement, let’s just say, may not be the same as yours and mine. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you, son?”

  “I believe so, sir.” Irv nodded, waiting to hear where this was leading.

  “So how do we bring down these men? You may well have your own ideas. One, we catch them in the act. In their criminal enterprises. Which is often difficult because of reasons two and three, just mentioned. Either the will to prosecute is not strong, or the witnesses against them recant, through pressure, or, worse, are never heard from again. We can also try to turn their associates further down the lines of authority against them, by lessening their sentences if we have them dead to rights, or through relocation, if necessary. But those situations only present themselves every once in a while, and it’s been more than once, of course, that such an accuser doesn’t quite make it to trial. Alive, that is.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Or, there’s another way.” Dewey opened his file. “We can go after the very source of their enterprise. Hit ’em right where it hu
rts.” He dropped his fist on the table. “In the pocketbook. I’m told you know your antitrust statutes.”

  Irv nodded. “That was my expertise at the district attorney’s office.”

  “So then you know that to invoke federal antitrust laws, which is where I’m hoping you’ll see I’m heading, the racketeering activity must be of such a character as to restrain interstate commerce through the following: the creation of monopolies, through an acquisition or the merging of competing enterprises; the maintenance of monopoly status through the implementation of price fixing, the establishment of retail prices through agreements with jobbers and dealers. And lastly . . .”

  “Lastly, the furtherance of the above by agreements between buying and trade associations, including labor unions.” Irv finished where the special prosecutor had left off.

  Dewey smiled, his mustache widening. “I can see you’re a young man who wants to make a difference. Yes, the unions. And that’s exactly where we’re going to hit them, Counselor. That’s where these bastards are the most vulnerable. You’re familiar with what’s going on with the dockworkers, Teamsters, and the various unions in the garment trade, the Amalgamated Needle Trade Workers Union, the Fur Dressers Protective, and the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union?”

  “Loosely familiar. I know there’s been infiltration on the part of certain criminal groups and some physical intimidation along with it.”

  “Intimidation . . .” Dewey smiled. “If you mean people who resist being hurled out of eighth-story windows and taking over competing unions through brute force, yes, there’s been intimidation, Mr. Weschler. There’s been that in spades.

  “But what you may not know is that these garment associations are then forcing their members to buy raw materials and trims only through union-sponsored suppliers. At prices they artificially set. If they don’t, they suffer severe consequences: firebombings, stench bombs. Even cracked knees and split heads. Besides assault, battery, malicious vandalism, and extortion, in terms of antitrust laws, it’s also clearly price fixing, Mr. Weschler. Restraint of trade.”

  “But the problem as I see it, sir,” the young lawyer spoke up, “is that, to my knowledge, violations of these statutes are ordinarily only punishable by a fine not to exceed five thousand dollars and a year in prison, if convicted. That won’t put them out of business.”

  “That is true. A mere slap on the wrist. But multiple violations, Counselor . . .” The special prosecutor wagged his index finger. “Let’s say a dozen, all wrapped into the same prosecution. We can hit them hard and we can hit them right where it hurts—in the bank account. And that’s why I’ve asked you here.”

  “If you want me to bring myself up to date with the statutes behind these cases I can get started right away,” Irv said, eager to prove himself.

  “I don’t need you to bring yourself up to date, Mr. Wechsler. At least, not yet.” Dewey came around the table, opened the file that he’d had in front of him, and dropped two photos on the desk.

  “You know these people, Counselor?”

  “I know who they are, of course, sir.” One was Louis Buchalter. The other—flabby cheeks, dull, mirthless eyes—was his henchman, Jacob “Gurrah” Shapiro.

  “I’m going to bring these two sonovabitches down, Counselor. You understand? So what I want from you, sir, is not your expertise, but to take advantage of that local knowledge I spoke of earlier, and any associations, shall we say, that you may have.” Dewey punctuated his point with an unflinching stare. “The associations of your kind.”

  “My kind, sir . . . ?” Irv looked at him quizzically.

  “Find me someone in this garment business who will talk to us. Someone who has faced intimidation by these men, first hand. I want a witness, Counselor. Someone who’s either fool enough, or gutworthy enough, to go up against the bastards. And preferably the latter.” Dewey laid the photographs of Lepke and Shapiro out side by side. “Can you find me that person, son?”

  Irv looked into the gangsters’ somber, empty stares. “I think I can, sir.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I’m finished, Morris,” Manny Gutman said from his hospital bed. His neck and face were wrapped with gauze, only a slit opening for his eyes. His wife, Helen, sat by his side. “The doctors say I ought to recover. I guess I just won’t be putting my face in the sun so much anymore . . . ,” he said, coughing a laugh. “No need.” Then his eyes welled up with what Morris saw as heartbreak and he looked away. “I’m old enough to understand the writing on the wall when I see it. Look what happened to Abe Langer. In a way, they were kind to me.”

  “I wish I had been there,” Morris said, seething inside.

  “And you would have done what?” Manny said. “They had guns and clubs. Got yourself killed is all. Like you almost did with that silly stunt of yours, going out there.”

  Morris heard the anguish in his friend’s voice. “You can rebuild, Manny. You’ve got more friends in this business than anyone.”

  “Rebuild?” He laughed and let out a hacking cough, his lungs still raw. “With what? You saw the state of things. Our insurance won’t exactly cover half of what we lost. And anyway, what for? There’s no future in it for me anymore. I tried working with these goons. If I buy from them, sooner or later my business dries up and falls apart anyway. And if I don’t buy . . . ,” he snorted and put a hand to his bandaged face, “then there’s more of this.

  “Anyway, I’m a garment maker, Morris. I can’t stand up to them. Helen and the kids, all they want is for me to do the smart thing and be safe.” He turned and put his hand over hers. “Right, darling . . . ? We’ve had a good run, right? I have some money stashed away. I’ve always wondered what life would be down South. Everyone’s going to Miami. You’re a father now. You understand. So don’t jeopardize what you have, trying to play the hero.”

  “I understand by giving in to them, it only makes them stronger,” Morris said. “In a way, Abe Langer was right about what he said.”

  “Abe Langer is dead,” Manny said emphatically. “And you’ll be too, if you don’t smarten up. Even if he was right, now, what does it matter? These are not regular yiddishers we’re dealing with here. They’re cutthroats. They’d just as soon shoot you as shake your hand. Anyway, it’s not my fight anymore. It’s for people like you to figure out what to do. Though, I advise you, you better watch your step and don’t be a hero, Morris. I know you.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Better than you know yourself. But you want to know my biggest regret? Besides having to close my doors. It’s my workers. Many of them have been working for us their whole careers. They trust me like a member of the family. You think these bastards give two shits about where all this leaves them? They claim to be a union—a union of greed and filth, maybe. If I could spit, I would spit on the floor.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take some on,” Morris said. “The rest, I’ll ask around. See what I can do.”

  “Thank you.” Manny reached out and patted Morris on the arm. “No one ever said you weren’t a stand-up guy, Morris. My old friend Menushem Kaufman would be proud of you, God rest his soul.”

  “Though he never once gave me a good word.” Morris smiled. “Even at the end, he would call, all the way from Arizona, and insist I was leaving money on the cutting table, and how long can a style possibly be in pleating if you know this job so well? Anyway, I’m not going to let ’em just walk away and get away with it, Manny, whatever you say.”

  “And you’re going to do what, Morris?” Manny tapped his forehead. “This isn’t a time for heroes, it’s a time to be smart. You’ve got a good thing now. You know yourself, you can only avoid this for so long. Sooner or later they’ll be onto you too, and then . . .” Manny shrugged. “And then you’ll have to make up your own mind what to do.”

  Morris got up. He gave Manny a pat on the shoulder. “Get well fast, old man. I’ll look into your staff for you. I’ll be back to see you soon.”

&nbs
p; “Be careful,” Manny Gutman called after him. “Helen and I, we don’t want to be going to your funeral.” He laughed darkly. “At least not before you find the rest of my staff new jobs.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Irv Weschler sat across from Morris in a booth at Lindy’s, between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth and Broadway. They sat in the back, the bright lights of Broadway flashing in from outside. Irv had called and reached out to him. He’d moved away from the Lower East Side and out to Brooklyn a couple of years ago. “So how are things in the old neighborhood?”

  “I don’t know.” Morris shrugged. He picked at a slice of apple pie and Irv had a plate of their famous cheesecake, and coffee. “Other than to see a manufacturer now and then, or a fabric guy, I really don’t get down there much anymore, any more than you.”

  “Well, we’re all proud of you, Morris. My mother says you’re doing better than anyone we know.”

  “Yeah, and how would she know . . . ?”

  “From your mother, of course. How else? She said you’re the man of the family now.”

  “I’m just working hard. Doing what I know how to do. But anyway, you’re the real big shot, Irv. Fancy law degree. Working for the DA’s office. Even your suit fits you now.”

  Irv laughed. “And you got yourself a great wife. Remember, I was there the night you met. And now a kid too.”

  “And another on the way.” Morris took a sip of coffee. “But you really didn’t ask me here to butter me up, did you? If so, here’s a roll.” Morris pushed across a basket of bread.

  Irv put down his fork with an expression of chagrin, as if Morris had seen right through him. “No. I didn’t. I have some news too. I’m actually no longer with the DA’s office. I’m with Thomas Dewey now. You know him? He’s been appointed head of a task force by Governor Lehman. To battle organized crime.”

  “I read the papers.” Morris nodded. Everyone knew Dewey’s name. A hard man, but someone who couldn’t be bought. Or stopped. Driven. “Congratulations. It sounds important.”