by Russo, Gus
Mooney was corroborated in part when a hidden FBI bug picked up Curly Humphreys bragging in 1964, “The trick was to get to Tom Clark. He had the power to see that the New York indictment was vacated. But he had a lot of problems with that. What a cry would go up if the ’Capone guys’ were dismissed. Finally a deal was made: If he had the thick skin to do it, he’d get the next appointment to the Supreme Court.” Clark played along, and when the next Supreme Court opening came two years later, on October 3, 1949, Clark indeed received Truman’s nomination to the nation’s highest court. The Chicago Tribune immediately responded to Clark’s appointment, noting “Clark’s utter unfitness for any position of public responsibility and especially for a position on the Supreme Court.” The paper called for Clark’s impeachment when it editorialized, “We have been sure of Clark’s unfitness ever since he played his considerable role in releasing the Capone gangsters after they served only the bare minimum of their terms.” A few years later, Congress’ massive Kefauver hearings on organized crime would call the episode “an awesome display of the syndicate power and ability to wield political influence.” The FBI’s hidden mikes overheard Humphreys’ more prosaic summary: ’Attorney General Tom Clark was always one hundred percent for doing favors.’
Though the early parole and the appointment of Clark were two of the major scandals of the Truman presidency, no one ever pursued the linkage of the Outfit and Truman beyond the hamstrung congressional probe. Therefore, it was never learned how the Outfit was able to guarantee that Truman would go along with Clark’s court appointment. And it will likely never be proved that Truman himself personally prevailed upon his appointees to spring Ricca and his pals. It is worth noting that President Truman had a record of granting highly questionable pardons, many of them to members of the Pendergast machine, not to mention the 1945 pass he granted Nick Schenck. Most of Pendergast’s paroled thugs had been convicted of participating in the Kansas City voting fraud that not coincidentally helped place Truman in the Senate.8
In Truman”s defense, Mafia expert Hank Messick wrote, “Truman was just too busy with the United Nations, the cold war, and the state of the economy to pay much attention to internal corruption.” Truman himself was conflicted concerning his path to the Oval Office. He told his wife, “The terrible things done by the high ups in Kansas City will be a lead weight on me from now on.” About one of his political fixes for Pendergast, the distraught Truman wrote, “Was I right, or did I compound a felony? I don’t know.” Perhaps the most trenchant summary was written by historian and Truman expert Richard Lawrence Miller: “The fanatic, unthinking, and eternal devotion Truman demanded from everyone ever associated with the Pendergast machine has no justification in normal American political practice or in the history of Kansas City politics.” In later years, as Miller wrote, Truman engaged in internal dialectics “to ease his own guilty conscience about his role as an honest front protecting the power of thieves and murderers.”
The bust-up of the Hollywood extortion scam caused many to conclude that the Outfit had ceased its hegemony in the movie capital. That assumption could not have been more erroneous. With their associates now permeating every facet of the movie industry’s craft and teamster unions, and with labor negotiator Sid Korshak still in place manipulating the unions and studios like chess pieces, the gangsters’ presence in Hollywood was as strong as ever, if less blatant. “We’re not about to turn our back on so much money and power,” said Mooney Giancana. “Besides, those guys [Cohn, Mayer, Warner] are more than business contacts . . . they’re our friends now. Rosselli’s got them in his pocket.” Giancana’s assessment was dead-on. After his release from prison, Johnny Rosselli was sponsored right back into the motion picture business by, of all people, Joe Schenck, who had also been imprisoned during the Hollywood shakedown and had supposedly been extorted by Rosselli’s Chicago bosses. Working as a producer at Eagle Lion Studios, Rosselli cranked out hit gangster films that were noted for their realism.9 In short time, he moved into the legendary Garden of Allah bungalow apartments, home to stars such as Humphrey Bogart and Edward G. Robinson. As if making up for lost time, Johnny went on a starlet-dating binge, romancing the likes of Lana Turner, Betty Hutton, Donna Reed, and Virginia Hill, girlfriend of the recently whacked Ben Siegel. On the side, Rosselli continued loan-sharking to the stars, with millions of Outfit lucre loaned out to juiced-up actors with gambling problems. The technique remained a tried-and-true method for the hoods to get off-the-books shares of stars’ careers.
It was even obvious to the children of the Outfit members that the gang’s stature in Tinseltown had not diminished one whit. As she later recalled, then fourteen-year-old Antoinette Giancana, Mooney’s youngest daughter, was given a personal tour of MGM’s facilities by top producer Boris Pasternak in 1949. Pasternak saw to it that she was introduced to such stars as Jimmy Stewart and Spencer Tracy. Llewella Humphreys, Curly’s only child, spoke of a studio head who escorted her and her mother, Clemi, onto Joan Crawford’s closed set. Suddenly, the feisty Crawford, whose past had been secreted by Rosselli, acted the diva: “Get those two out of here,” she fumed. “I will not have it on my set. It’s closed.” Whereupon the studio honcho shot back, “Either they stay or you go, and you are through in the movies.” Llewella’s photo scrapbook holds photographs of the youngster with Jimmy Stewart, Tony Bennett, and Fay Wray. Lest there be any confusion about the Outfit’s continued influence in Hollywood: When teenaged Llewella needed an escort to her high school prom, she asked her daddy if he could arrange for Frank Sinatra to be her date. One call from Curly and the bobby-sox idol was on the next plane to Chicago.
Not all of the favors given to Outfit members were the result of intimidation, real or implied. Many successful upperworld habitues genuinely liked most of the Chicago bosses, many of whom preserved Capone’s tradition of Good Samaritan beneficence, freely sharing their ill-gotten wealth with the downtrodden. One only has to stay in Chicago for a day to find octogenarians with tales of gangster-style humanitarian ism. It is generally agreed that Curly Humphreys was the “nicest hood” ever to make the Public Enemy List. Not only was Humphreys beloved in Oklahoma by the Native Americans whose cause he championed decades before it became chic, but he was known in Chicago as a man who quietly helped anyone in need. FBI reports note that Humphreys was the one gangster who looked after just-released convicts who needed jobs, and who made certain the Outfit gave pensions to widows and disabled associates. A telling example of Humphreys’ silent altruism occurred in 1950, according to a number of retired Chicago police officials. Informed by a friend on the force that a relative of Attorney General Tom Clark’s had gotten into a legal jam with the park police, Curly contacted park police chief Ot Lewis and persuaded him to deep-six the written complaint. Humphreys then met with the complainant, paying him off to drop the charge. When asked if this was Humphreys’ way of returning Clark’s parole board favor, a park police retiree said, “No. It was just typical Humphreys - just doing the right thing to help a guy.”10
As the nation entered the Fabulous Fifties, so did many of the Outfit bosses enter theirs. Fittingly, the underworld barons began to aspire to less demanding lifestyles, wishing to spend more time with their families and hobbies. Some contemplated a life away from the stresses of the “business world,” hoping to enjoy the fruits of their labor in comfortable retirement. One by one, however, they would learn that getting out was exponentially more difficult than getting in; by now, too many associates and their families were dependent on their founders’ continuing leadership.
Joe Accardo was so enamored of the easy life that he made one ostentatious purchase that caused a good degree of friction between him and his cohorts. For years, the Accardo family had lived in a modest ranch house at 1431 Ashland Avenue, in the Chicago suburb of River Forest, where Joe was known as a beer distributor. In 1951, Accardo decided he deserved a home fit for a king, which in many ways he was. Curly Humphreys, the avowed apartment dweller, was am
ong those who warned against such an extravagance. “The smart money don’t go to the suburbs,” Curly said. “You and your family will stick out like a sore thumb and the feds will always know exactly where you are.” Jake Guzik, now in his sixties and semiretired, agreed with Curly and stayed at the Chicagoan Hotel when in town. Guzik bought his dream house on San Marino Island, off the Miami coast, far from the prying eyes of Chicago police and the feds.
Ignoring Curly’s counsel, Joe purchased a red-roofed, twenty-two-room mansion at 915 Franklin Avenue (also in River Forest), just two blocks from his pal Paul Ricca. At the price Accardo paid, $125,000, the home, which came to be known as the Palace, was a steal. It had been built by a millionaire manufacturer in 1930 for $500,000; four decades after Joe’s purchase, it would sell for almost $2 million. Curly’s wife remembered that “Curly was mad as hell at Joe after he bought the Palace. He didn’t speak to him for weeks.”
Accardo’s stone palace was a local showplace, far and away the most opulent home in a neighborhood of impressive dwellings. Its amenities included high-vaulted rooms, an indoor pool with a garden on its roof for Joe’s queen, Clarice, a gun and trophy room, a pipe organ, a walk-in safe, wood spiral staircases, carriage and guest houses on the backyard half-acre. The property was encircled by a seven-foot-high, wrought-iron fence and two electrically controlled gates. But even this much opulence was not enough for Accardo. After moving into his new digs, Joe installed a $10,000 black onyx bathtub and an indoor, two-lane bowling alley. He had the plumbing refitted with gold fixtures and added a massive barbecue pit to the backyard. Even Mooney Giancana’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Antoinette, was taken aback by the garish spread, “It was almost obscene the way he flaunted his wealth,” she later wrote. “He reminded me of some medieval Sicilian godfather dispensing baronial favors from his stately, wood-paneled library filled with valuable and classical gems that I bet he never bothered to open, let alone read.”
The Palace’s backyard would become the scene of legendary Fourth of July cookouts, attended by all the Outfit leaders, foot soldiers, and their families. Typically, these patriotic frolics were surveilled from the other side of the iron fence by a gaggle of curious press and Chicago detectives. Joe liked to entertain his guests by toying with the prying officials. One year, a detective yelled from the periphery, “Hey, Joe, you gonna have fireworks?” Feigning shock, Accardo answered back, “Certainly not, Officer, that would be illegal.”
Sharing the new home with Joe were his wife, Clarice, and their four children: Anthony (born 1936), Marie (1939), Linda Lee (1941), and Joseph (1946). Both of the Accardo boys were adoptees. Clarice, like her husband, was an opinionated leader, assuming the responsibilities com mensurate with her role as the Outfit’s first lady. Afternoons at the Palace often found Clarice hosting teas with the spouses of other gang bosses. From her wives’ club, Clarice regularly gleaned information useful to her husband and the orderly running of his business. “Joe’s wife told him what the gang’s wives said,” recalled one Outfit member. On one occasion, Clarice informed Joe that Scotty Stevenson, a foot soldier married to a Capone relative, was neglecting his family. Stevenson was summoned to Accardo, who pulled the subordinate aside. “I’m paying your wife from now on,” Joe decreed. “You will get paid by her. If I can’t trust you to take care of your family, how can I trust you to take care of my business? This shit keeps up and you ain’t going to be around.”11
Accardo, who was never known to cheat on Clarice, was especially terse with members who flaunted their infidelities in public. Although discreet liaisons with mistresses were tolerated, men who brought pain or dishonor to their family were dealt with harshly - often beaten, or ousted from the gang altogether. The transgressions were not only frowned upon for moral reasons; as Joe was well aware, the antiphilandering edicts also served a pragmatic function. Consequently, Accardo was heard to scold more than one adulterer, “You’re embarrassing us.”
Marital woes were not confined merely to the lower-level members of the gang. In 1951, the Outfit’s chief strategist began a seven-year affair with a dice girl who would eventually become the next Mrs. Murray Humphreys. With Curly’s wife, Clemi, and daughter, Llewella, living full-time on their Oklahoma property, Curly had been spending increasingly longer periods alone in his Chicago apartment, where he had free rein to indulge his weakness for young blondes.
During this period, Curly frequented numerous Windy City bistros, among them a Near North restaurant called Ye Olde Cellar Club, where Jeanne Stacy was among the most attractive of the dice-rolling 26 game girls. Stacy was born Betty Jeanne Neibert in St. Charles, Missouri, in 1928. By the time she was seventeen, she had the looks of actress Tippi Hedren and the independent spirit and razor-sharp wit of Mae West. Seeking adventure, the teenaged Neibert, now using the name Stacy, headed for Chicago, where she quickly hooked up with a third-tier Outfit bookie twenty-five years her senior named Irving Vine, whom she married after a short courtship. “It was a marriage of convenience,” Jeanne explains today. “I was a minor when we got together, and I needed a place to live. We shared the rent, and for the last three years we weren’t even a couple.” The marriage to Vine, an underling of slot and jukebox king Eddie Vogel, lasted six years, and Stacy soon fell in with Humphreys.
When Humphreys first eyed Jeanne Stacy in the Rush Street restaurant, he merely admired the youngster from afar. “I was a teenager when I came to his attention,” Jeanne recalls, “so he didn’t make any moves. He waited till he was ready, till the time was right.” The “right time” turned out to be a scene worthy of the film Married to the Mob. At the time, Curly’s driver, Hy Gottfried, had been carrying on his own affair with another pretty blonde who lived in Stacy’s building. Gottfried devised moneymaking schemes for the Outfit, often with unreliable cohorts. Curly was once heard to remark, “I spend half my time straightening out this guy [Gottfried] with the boss.” Gottfried’s tenuous purchase with Accardo made his adultery all the more perilous. “Hy’s wife eventually found out about his girlfriend and hit him over the head with a bottle of beer,” Stacy says. “He blamed me. He thought I had told his wife.” Fully aware of Joe Accardo’s decree about keeping infidelities secret from the wives, Gottfried was furious that Stacy might have jeopardized his standing with the boss (to say nothing of the harm it caused his marriage). “He wanted to mug me, break my arms or something,” Stacy remembers. “One day, while he’s driving Murray, he comes by my place to do a drive-by. When Murray saw it was me, the dice girl, he called it off. He told Hy, ’You can’t hit a sweet little thing like that.’” Humphreys’ attraction to the young dice girl was coupled with Stacy’s obvious preference for older men: Curly was a full twenty-nine years older than the liberated Jeanne Stacy. Soon, Stacy and Humphreys, whom she always refers to as Murray, began seeing each other on the side. Few women can say that they met their future husbands at a drive-by where she was scheduled to be his victim.
The combined stress of his illicit affair and his pressure-filled role as the Outfit’s mastermind took its toll on Curly. According to his FBI file, Humphreys suffered the first of a series of heart attacks in 1950. Upon his admittance to the hospital, the fifty-one-year-old gangster guru gained notoriety among the facility’s staff. As recounted in Humphreys’ FBI report: “When he was questioned about whether he had hospitalization insurance by the admitting officer, he pulled out a roll of $100 bills and waved them around, demanding, ’Is this hospitalization enough?’ This story made the rounds of the hospital, so that very soon everyone who worked there was aware of the identity of Humphreys.”
1. Among his Chicago clients was Mike Potson, the former manager of (Big Jim) Colosimo’s Cafe. At the time, Potson was a known Outfit gambling boss with IRS problems.
2. In addition to Accardo, Lansky, and Luciano, others in attendance included Vito Genovese, Joseph Bonanno, Albert Anastasia, Joe Adonis, Carlos Marcello, Santo Trafficante, Moe Dalitz, Doc Stacher, and Longy Zwillman.
3.
Tales abound of Sinatra’s associations with hoodlums, going back to his days running the streets of Hoboken, New Jersey. In fairness, at the time of Sinatra’s emergence as a singer, there was no practical way of avoiding making some accommodation with gangsters, who controlled much of the entertainment industry. But Sinatra clearly went overboard with his affinity for the hoods. Senate investigator Norman Polski wrote: “Mickey Cohen, Frank Sinatra, and a Jimmy Tarantino were believed to have operated the Hollywood Nite Life Magazine, and were closely associated in the fight racket with [the Outfit’s] Barney Ross . . . In the latter part of 1949, Sinatra was supposed to have provided a $75,000 bankroll to back a fight that was held on the West Coast. It is believed he worked in close contact with [Los Angeles mobster] Mickey Cohen and Blinkie Palermo, manager of [boxer] Ike Williams.” Sinatra’s 1,275-page FBI file is loaded with the crooner’s connections to the mob, the strongest of which appears to be with Chicago’s Fischetti brothers, with whom Sinatra became extremely close in the midforties. Sinatra’s first wife, Nancy, was a cousin of a top hood in New Jersey boss Willie Moretti’s gang.
