by Tim Newark
“People, who after being filled with morphine and cocaine, and after having spent hours smoking a pipe of tobacco mixed with opium, came to pass the time at the gambling tables in order to still feel the ultimate emotion of a game of chance which was protracted until morning, when the first light of dawn showed their faces pale and emaciated; to whom the last glass of whiskey was like a blow of the mallet that was brought down on their foggy head and on their trembling legs.”
Police were bought off raiding these clubs by a glass of whiskey and graft, or la mazzetta, as it was called.
“When one of the customers of the more dangerous [clubs] would lose and the boys would not know if he was laughing or crying they would call me,” said Gentile, “and I would approach him and using a very gentle manner, I would bring him outside to breath [sic] pure air and after that give him a gift of $10 for the next day’s lunch and would order my boys to accompany him to his house. This is how the tragic comedy went on.”
By the summer of 1935, Luciano was getting irritated with bonding prostitutes. He believed there wasn’t enough money in the trade to justify the constant attention it was demanding from him. Flo Brown witnessed his anger at a basement restaurant in Chinatown. She listened as Fredericks told Luciano that some madams were proving difficult and holding out on paying bonds to him.
“Why don’t you get the madams together?” said Luciano. “You know I told you before that being nice to them isn’t any good.”
“Well, you know how it is,” said Fredericks. “It is tough now, and I thought if I could talk to them it might be better.”
“You can’t talk to them,” barked Luciano. “They’re too stubborn anyway. Get after them. Step on them a little bit.”
At this point, Little Davie Petillo reassured Luciano: “We will take care of it.”
Later, in the fall, they met again at a Chinese restaurant in the Lower East Side. This time the problem was Dewey and his proclaimed crusade against vice in the city. Flo Brown heard Luciano complain further about the bonding racket, saying it was little money and a big headache. Luciano didn’t like his name being mentioned so much by bookers and everyone in the business. Brothel owners would run downtown and try to get to him so they didn’t have to bond.
“I don’t like the idea of having my name mentioned like that,” scowled Luciano. “I’m tired of having these pimps running around to get out of paying the lousy bond.”
He knew his personal freedom and prosperity depended on hiding his name from the authorities, and he didn’t want every madam in town putting it about.
“Why don’t you give it a chance a while,” said Little Davie.
“We will straighten it out.”
“I don’t know,” said Luciano, “this Dewey investigation [into the vice racket] is coming on and it may get tough, and I think we ought to fold up for a while.”
Davie told Luciano he was just fed up because a number of brothels had been shut and the income was going down, but once the heat was off, it would pick up again.
“It would be better if we quit awhile,” said Luciano, “and started over again when things were quiet. We could even syndicate all the places like they do in Chicago and instead of three or four combinations having the syndicate as they do in Chicago there would be only one in New York—us.”
Davie said he believed that the Dewey investigation would pick up only a few phony bondsmen and they’d be satisfied with that.
“Well, all right then,” said Luciano, “let it go for a couple of months and if things are the same we will have to let it drop.”
But Luciano had plans for the prostitution business and mused on it over the meal. He could see that sex was like food—a constant demand for it.
“We can take the joints away from the madams, put them on a salary or commission, and run them like a syndicate, like large A&P stores, and there won’t be any bonding or booking of houses.”
This was the visionary businessman in Luciano, trying to turn his brothels into an efficient commercial concern that dominated the market—just like the A&P supermarkets that first opened in Canada in 1927 that led the food retail sector at the time.
Luciano liked to spend the winter months in Miami, Florida, at the racetrack. Through Lansky, he had been investing heavily in the local gambling rackets. When word got to him in February that Dewey had pulled in a whole crowd of prostitutes, madams, and bookers, he decided to follow Dutch Schultz and disappear. His chosen hideout was Hot Springs, Arkansas, a place renowned for its Mob-backed casinos and amenable law-keepers. Every so often in the past, he had dropped by and spread money around to ensure an ever ready welcome for himself.
Since February 3, 1936, between eight and ten assistants had worked exclusively on the Luciano case in Dewey’s Woolworth Building office, working day and night, weekends and holidays. More than 120 witnesses were in prison and a further 300 witnesses—who were neither prostitutes nor criminals but with some information to give—were questioned. With the mountain of testimony gathered, Dewey was ready to take on Luciano. Copies of all this material still fill sixty-six boxes today in the New York City Department of Records.
Luciano would be indicted with twelve other defendants who were key members of the Combination: Tommy Pennochio, David Petillo, Jimmy Fredericks, Abe Heller, Jesse Jacobs, Benny Spiller, Meyer Berkman, Peter Balitzer, Al Weiner, David Miller, Jack Ellenstein, and Ralph Liguori. Luciano’s aliases were listed as Lucky Luciano, Charles Lucania, Charles Lane, Charles Reid, and Charles Ross, the latter names used when he lived in hotels. The first of ninety counts made against Luciano and the other defendants by the grand jury of the county of New York was for the “crime of placing a female in a house of prostitution with intent that she shall live a life of prostitution.”
The paucity of other offenses that could be held against Luciano is underlined by the FBI’s own file on him during this period. They knew he was a key player in the underworld but had surprisingly little detailed information on his activities. An FBI memorandum dated August 28, 1935, described “Charles Luciana, called ‘Lucky’” as “the leading racketeer along Italian lines. Is very powerful and made considerable money in liquor.” It had a statement made by an anonymous individual who declared that “Meyer Lansky and Charles Luccio [sic], alias ‘Lucky’ is the head of the underworld in New York City.” Their files said he was the boss of a Lower East Side gang, operated chiefly in beer and liquor, and had business connections with Lepke and other Mobs. It referred to Luciano’s trip to Europe with Jack Diamond in the summer of 1930 as part of a conspiracy to smuggle narcotics into the U.S.
Aside from that, the FBI rap sheet said he had been arrested on thirty-five occasions prior to 1936, including minor offenses such as traffic violations. More serious offenses included being charged with felonious assault on December 29, 1926; assault and robbery with a gun on November 17, 1928; grand larceny on October 17, 1929—but on all occasions he was discharged with no further action against him. On February 28, 1930, he was arrested in Miami, Florida, and charged with operating a gambling game, carrying a concealed weapon, and vagrancy, but he was later released. On February 8, 1931, he was charged with felonious assault, but again he got off. Nothing seemed to stick to Lucky. It would be up to Dewey to contrive a better assault on the gangster.
To make the most of his accusations against Luciano, Dewey had ensured the passage of an important piece of New York State legislation that would help him prosecute the mobster for a seemingly minor series of crimes, but ones that cumulatively would pay off with a bigger sentence. It was dubbed the “Dewey Law” and was signed into the books in April 1936.
“Today, crime is syndicated and organized,” he explained. “A new type of criminal exists who leaves to his hirelings and front men the actual offenses and rarely commits an overt act himself. The only way in which the major criminal can be punished is by connecting to him those various layers of subordinates and the related but separate crimes on his behalf.
Dewey’s Law allowed the joining of numerous similar offenses in one single indictment with an appropriate heavier sentence on conviction. So, Dewey had the law and he had the evidence to put Luciano behind bars for a long time, but come April 1, 1936, he didn’t have the accused.
Dewey had a judge issue a warrant for Luciano’s arrest based on fleeing New York State to avoid prosecution for extortion against Al Weiner. On April 1, two detectives strode up to Luciano on the boardwalk of Bathhouse Row in Hot Springs. He was in the company of local chief of detectives Herbert Akers. Luciano was put under arrest and taken to the Garland County Jail. Anticipating that Luciano had more than enough money to post bail instantly on a modest sum, Dewey had requested that bail be set at $200,000, but Luciano was one step ahead of him, having a friendly judge set bail at a mere $5,000, which Akers ensured was handed over just a few hours later. Before Dewey even got the news of Luciano’s arrest, he was back out on the streets of Hot Springs and thinking about a swift getaway to Mexico.
Dewey next sent out one of his key aides to urge extradition, but his plane hit bad weather and he had to continue his journey by rail. Three days later, by phone and through his agent on the ground, Dewey managed to convince the local judge to order the rearrest of Luciano and this time without bail being set. Dewey also recommended that the no-nonsense Arkansas attorney general Carl E. Bailey make the trip from Little Rock to oversee the case personally—being far removed from the cozy conspiracy in Hot Springs. In the meantime, smart local lawyers hired by Luciano tried to halt his removal to Little Rock. As he waited the outcome of their maneuverings, his cell in the Garland County Jail was made comfortable by Detective Akers, who brought him pillows and sheets from the nearby hotel. To underline his lack of concern, the mobster had a supper of spaghetti and fried chicken in the company of the local sheriff.
The story of Luciano’s custody in Arkansas made news around the world. “Luciano is alleged to be the head of the ‘Vice Ring’ in New York City,” said the London Times, “and has been described by Mr. Dewey as ‘the most dangerous and important racketeer in New York, possibly in the whole country.’”
When Bailey arrived in Hot Springs with a fugitive warrant to take custody of Luciano, the local sheriff refused to hand him over, saying that the prisoner’s status required clarification. In retaliation, early on the morning of April 4, the governor of Arkansas ordered twenty Arkansas state rangers to invade the prison at Hot Springs. Armed with machine guns and rifles, they pushed aside the local sheriff and extracted Luciano from his comfortable cell, driving him the fifty-five miles to the state capital. There, he was placed in a less agreeable prison with bail set at $200,000. But still the game wasn’t up and Luciano’s lawyers put further barriers in front of Dewey. This time, they threatened to appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court to prevent extradition from Arkansas. They presented a new writ of habeus corpus, and the federal judge granted them ten days to apply to the circuit court of appeals. As part of the condition of this process, Luciano’s attorneys had to give twenty-four-hours notice of the appeal hearing. On April 16, they forgot to do this. But Dewey didn’t forget.
One minute after midnight on April 18, Dewey’s men escorted Luciano out of jail and put him on the train to New York. Attorney General Bailey delayed the Little Rock midnight train by fifteen minutes to allow his removal from the state. Handcuffed and bewildered, Luciano was heard to shout out, “I’m being kidnapped!”
The train arrived at Penn Station just before 9:00 A.M. and Luciano was greeted by a mob of journalists and flashing cameras. He told them his name was “Lucania” and he was “sore as hell.” A little later, Lucky’s current girlfriend, Gay Orlova, dressed in diamonds and fur, was asked by reporters for her comments.
“Lucky was a dear,” she told them, “and I don’t believe any charges, especially that one about compulsory something or other. It just doesn’t sound nice. Not like Lucky at all.”
9
LUCKY ON TRIAL
At 5:50 P.M. on April 18, 1936, in room 139 of the New York County Court House, Luciano and Dewey came face-to-face over the matter of setting bail for the mobster. It would set the tone for the subsequent trial—one of merciless retribution.
The court clerk solicited the plea. “Charles Luciano, alias Lucky Luciano, alias Lucky, alias Charles Lane, you have been indicted by the Extraordinary Grand Jury on four separate indictments, each charging violation of the penal law, section 2460. How do you plead: guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty,” said Luciano.
Dewey stood up and said bail should be set at a higher figure than the originally suggested $200,000. He argued that since Luciano had been arrested in Arkansas, he had engaged in a costly series of legal maneuvers to avoid facing charges in court and this should be reflected in setting higher bail.
“The business of this defendant is far-flung,” explained Dewey, “and brings in, to my certain knowledge, a colossal annual revenue. His interests are, of course, much more varied than those involved in this indictment. It is well known that he is the head of the Italian Lottery, which is a nationwide lottery, which brings in a huge revenue. He is reputed to be, and I believe it to be true, one of the individuals who derives the largest source of revenue from the policy racket in New York City. He is, beyond question, or, rather, his henchmen are, beyond question, actually operating a number of industrial rackets in New York City.”
This was the moment Dewey had been waiting for. The case was about so much more than the vice charges Luciano faced—Dewey wanted to portray him as the head of organized crime in New York, and it is this vision of Luciano as master criminal that stuck for the rest of his life.
In the courthouse, Dewey proceeded to list the mobster’s illegal income. “His operations include drug peddling,” he said, “for which he has once been convicted, and I understand and believe that he is one of the largest importers of drugs in this country. His operations in connection with so-called bookmaking, which he has stated to be his occupation, include not personal bookmaking, as I understand the facts, but being the head of a large syndicate of bookmakers, and the conducting, through his various subordinates, of places where bets may be placed in large volumes by members of the public.”
The income derived from all these rackets led Dewey to ask the judge to set a far larger bail of $350,000. Luciano’s attorney was Moses Polakoff and he reeled at the size of the figure—a third of a million dollars.
“The sum mentioned by the district attorney is a staggering sum,” said Polakoff. “It appears to me that it is attempted to use bail to punish the defendant, and not to ensure his presence here for trial.”
Polakoff condemned the “strong-arm methods used by the prosecution” to bring Luciano to court from Hot Springs, but the judge wasn’t interested in that. Once he heard Polakoff’s case, he followed Dewey’s recommendation and set bail at $350,000.
The Luciano trial began on May 11, 1936, and would last almost four weeks. He stood on trial alongside his fellow defendants. It took place at the state supreme court building in Foley Square in southern Manhattan, not far from the Lower East Side. Policemen armed with machine guns and tear gas guarded the corridors and snipers watched the windows. Supreme court justice Philip J. McCook presided over the crowded courtroom. The weather was hot and humid with the temperature on some days getting into the eighties. It took two days to select the jury. It was a sensational event for the city and the daily New York papers were full of the testimony.
Dewey took center stage for what would be the greatest t
rial performance of his life. He began by admitting the weakness of his case.
“Frankly, my witnesses are prostitutes, madams, heels, pimps, and ex-convicts,” he told the jury. “Many of them have been in jail. Others are about to go to jail. Some were told that they would be prosecuted if they did not tell the truth. I wish to call to your attention that these are the only witnesses we could possibly have brought here. We can’t get bishops to testify in a case involving prostitution. And this Combination was not run under arc lights in Madison Square Garden. We have to use the testimony of bad men to convict other bad men.”
To help the jury understand the complex criminal relationships of the case, Dewey had a chart set up showing the organization of the Combination, with Luciano at the very top of the pyramid, with the Mott Street gang next, headed by Tommy the Bull, and the bookers at the bottom.
At the outset, three of the thirteen defendants pleaded guilty—the bookers David Miller, Al Weiner, and Peter Balitzer—and they turned witness for the state, giving evidence against the accused, but this didn’t always go smoothly. Weiner admitted that his testimony had been given on the basis that he would be given leniency and sent to a jail “where I won’t be murdered.” Another witness, called “Good-Time Charlie,” recanted his testimony at the last moment—it turned out later that he had been bribed by the Mob with a gambling concession in the Adirondacks.
It was the prostitutes and madams—like Cokie Flo—who proved to be the dynamite for Dewey’s case. They presented a detailed and upsetting picture of the vice business and how the Mob exploited it, with Luciano at the very head of the organization. When Luciano’s defense denied that he knew any of his fellow defendants, apart from Petillo, Dewey brought in a succession of witnesses, including hotel staff from the Barbizon-Plaza and Waldorf-Astoria, who swore they had seen him in their company.
