by John Gardner
Capone’s smile faded for a second, then he put his head back and roared with laughter. “Ya think so, kid? Ya think I’m the boss, huh? Well, let me tell ya, I am in a manner of speakin’. But I do the donkey work round here. Now listen good. If anyone comes snoopin’ around and asks ya what I do, ya tell ’em. I’m the bouncer. That surprise ya?” He laughed again. “I’m the hired help. But with a lotta responsibility. Also, if any strangers ask ya, my name’s Al Brown. Okay?”
“Okay.”
The laugh still echoed in Louis’ head when he left the room. Carlo was waiting for him, together with a short, dark man. The latter was to drive them over to Burnham, an area just on the southern city limits.
He hefted his cardboard suitcase in his hand, following Carlo and the driver down the stairs into the still empty main lounge of the club. He had no doubts as to what The Four Deuces really was. A speakeasy, where people came to get illegal booze and, probably, a girl for a couple of hours. He, Louis Packer, who had been Louis Packensteiner, was now mixing with men who broke the law daily. He was certain of that: they would be bringing in bootleg liquor; selling if, making it, even stealing it.
The same men with whom he now associated probably did much more than just supply booze and women. He knew enough about the crime gangs in New York. These people would be into all the rackets—extracting revenue from shopkeepers, running gambling games, and all the other things. They were a kind of men who paid off old scores with heavy baseball bats and guns. His eyes were open.
They were halfway towards the door that led to the entrance of the club when the noise of voices came from the lobby: the outside door opening and several people talking. Three men came in, brisk and businesslike, walking as though they knew where they were going and what they were there to do.
Carlo touched Louis’ arm, as if warning him. Two of the men were tall, burly, and dressed in smart dark coats and black fedoras. Each had his right hand firmly stuffed into a pocket. The third man walked slightly ahead of the other two—bouncy, determined, a short man wearing a double-breasted gray street coat, with a hat to match. He was neat, looked very sharp, energetic, and had small piercing eyes which seemed to look everywhere at once.
Carlo gently drew Louis back as the trio approached. The shorter man could have been a banker, or a real-estate agent. He had the look of a successful businessman about him. A man who was used to giving orders and getting his own way. He was a leader.
“Carlo,” the short man nodded a greeting.
“Afternoon, Mr. Torrio.” There was great respect in Carlo’s voice.
“Al in?” the man asked. The accent was harsh East Side New York. He did not raise his voice which, to Louis, made him different. Men he knew who spoke with an East Side accent usually talked loudly, shouting, drawing attention to themselves.
“He’s upstairs, Mr. Torrio.”
Torrio nodded, then looked at Louis. “What we got here?”
“Friend of mine,” Carlo explained. “Louis Packer from New York. He’s a pianist; gonna work with me over at The Barn. Mr. Capone checked him out.”
Torrio looked at Louis, who could sense danger in the man’s eyes. “Keep ya nose clean, kid. Do as yer told, and we’ll see ya okay.” Torrio hardly paused in his stride during this exchange, and the two men with him did not even look at Louis.
Outside, the wind blew gustily from the lakeside. The Four Deuces was situated on South Wabash Avenue, almost in sight of the lake, and a couple of blocks from the Loop district—the gin and sin area in this part of the city.
“Herbie, I have to tell you that I was a little frightened. I did not really know what would happen next.”
“So, what did happen?” Herbie wanted things to move along at a good pace, and the old man looked tired.
“First, Carlo gave me money. Then he took me to get my hair cut.” He shrugged and gave a sad little smile.
In the car, Carlo passed over a couple of twenty-dollar bills. “Al says I have to give ya this.”
Louis pushed his friend’s hand away. “I got money, Carlo. I don’t need it. I got money of my own.”
Carlo rested his hand gently on Louis’ lapel. “Ya got money?” His eyebrows raised. “Yeah, what ya got? A few hundred lousy bucks?”
A few hundred, yes, Louis told his friend.
“Listen, Pianist.” Carlo leaned back, waving the two bills under Louis’ nose. “Yer gonna need every cent of what ya got: and if ya play things right, yu’ll make a goldmine. Save the little money ya got. Al sees his boys okay. Yu’ll double what ya got within the week.”
Louis frowned and took the bills. “Mr. Capone told me that he was only the bouncer for The Four Deuces.” He said it quizzically, as though questioning his friend.
Carlo laughed. “Sure. Any trouble and that’s what Al is, the bouncer. He’s Johnny Torrio’s right-hand man. Johnny works out the deals and does the talking. Al sees that everything’s run neat and tidy. Both of them were Five Pointers in New York. They say that’s why Torrio took Al into his outfit.” He seemed about to continue, but the car pulled up outside a little barber shop with a sign that said, “Amato Gasperri. Prop.”
They were greeted by the same man Louis had seen earlier in the day, wearing the barber’s apron in Capone’s quarters. It was a small shop, with a long rack of shaving mugs above the mirrors fronting the barber chair. A lot of the mugs had names neatly painted onto them in gilt.
“Hey, come on in, Carlo, and you, gentleman.” Amato ushered them in with a broad welcoming smile. “Some of the boys were here, but they gone now. They come in. Take shave. Play some pinochle. They gone now.”
“Mr. Capone says to shave my friend here. Ya keep him in mind, Amato. He is Louis, The Pianist. Ya know how Mr. Capone likes the hair done. Neat, okay?”
“Sure, sure.” The little balding man bustled around, showing Louis to the chair, draping the sheet over him, making certain he was comfortable. Louis had never been treated like this at a barber shop in New York.
“I see you okay. Nice a boys. All a Mr. Capone boys nice a boys. All come here once in a while, eh, Carlo.”
Louis watched the mirror, seeing Carlo sit down and light a cigarette. Then his eyes strayed to the rack of shaving mugs. The first one on the rack bore the name “Jim Colosimo.” Under the name a cross had been painted in black.
“I was sorry to hear about Mr. Colosimo.” Louis aimed the remark at Carlo, and immediately felt the atmosphere change: a tension in the barber’s manner. The little man was poised with his comb and scissors over Louis’ head. He seemed to be waiting for Carlo’s reaction.
“Yeah. Yeah, it was a bad thing.” Carlo spoke as though Louis had mentioned someone he did not know. It was an indifference he had not expected.
The barber relaxed. “I closa da shop for the funeral. You didn’t a come to the funeral?”
“I was in New York.” He was aware that he had made some kind of terrible error.
“Soma funeral, I tella you. Everyone there. Alla people from Mr. Capone and a Mr. Torrio there also.”
Carlo shifted. “Just do the hair, Amato. Do the hair, give him a shave, make him look a million dollars. We got shopping to do.”
“Then, my dear Herbie, Carlo took me out and bought me clothes like I had never seen before. Three suits off the peg; three more I was measured for, and the material was chosen. He bought me shoes, shirts, ties, socks, overcoat, raincoat. The works. Mr. Capone was paying for it all, he said. Hundreds of bucks in an hour or so. All down to Alphonse Capone. I felt like a king. Then”—the old Maestro leaned over and clutched Herbie’s wrist—“then, Herb, in the car going out to The Barn, he gave me the real score. He told me what had happened, what was happening, and what he thought was going to happen. It was horrific. I had landed myself in the middle of a pit of vipers.”
“But you didn’t take the first train out, did you, Louis?”
Passau shook his head. “I’m maybe a little crazy. But in those days I wasn’t that c
razy. Capone had already made some kind of investment in me. I had to stay. At that moment, there was no option. But, I tell you, Herb, I was there with some of the most dangerous men who ever walked the earth.”
“Tell me about it, Lou. Just go on and talk.”
“Lunch,” said old Louis Passau. “Lunch, and then I’ll tell you what I was told, and what happened. Jesus, I feel the fear from it even now.”
(16)
“YOU EVER SEE THAT movie, The Godfather, Herbie?”
“Yes. Saw all parts. One, Two and Three. Read the book also. Couldn’t put it down, like the ads say. Very graphic.”
“Let me tell you, Herb.” Passau was into his stride again, after eating the rest of the Lancashire Hotpot, which Herbie had frozen overnight then nuked in the microwave. There had been two good-sized portions left. Passau took one and a half of them, without even asking if Herbie had enough. Herbie was unfulfilled in the lunch stakes. But, as with most things, Passau appeared to have no conscience.
“Let me tell you,” he continued, “I worked with those mob guys in Chicago for six years, and The Godfather doesn’t tell it right. It’s like the comedian says about Robin Hood. He didn’t steal from the rich to give to the poor. He stole from everyone and kept everything. You ever hear that?”
“Never heard it.”
“Well, this is just like those mob guys. In The Godfather they talk about the honored society, respect and the rule of omerta. …”
“Explain omerta, Lou.” Herbie knew exactly what omerta was, but he felt pretty pissed about Lou Passau eating all the Hotpot. He could really have done with a whole plateful for himself. It was also good interrogation technique. Let the client prattle on: paddle up tributaries away from the main stream, then yank him back to the things that really mattered. Big Herbie was sure that something very important in Passau’s life had happened during the Chicago days, and he was going to be the first to hear of it.
“Okay. Omerta is the law of silence. In plain talk, you don’t snitch on your fellow gangsters.”
“You don’t grass.”
“What’s with grass, Herb? Grass is like pot, isn’t it? Dope? They weren’t into dope.”
“Not in England, Lou. In England they call a snitch a ‘grass.’ They even had a guy did a police program on TV. He showed all the stuff the cops had recovered from robberies, and did reenactments of crimes so that witnesses might remember things. The crooks called this guy ‘Whispering Grass.’”
“The English are crazy. But so were the guys in Chicago, and those guys were evil. The evil empires are all the same: if they’re religious, criminal or political—and I know political, Herb. As you will hear, I know political in depth—or shallows, whichever way you want to put it. These people, they’d be funny if they weren’t so deadly—like Hitler and Stalin would’ve been funny. Cruel clowns, bumping into each other; barbarous buffoons, murderous madmen. There was no honor, no respect—except through fear—and no courage. Look, I am saying this even though I left the city before things got really bad. These Chicago guys were a mess. A really ridiculous mess, and I first knew that when we finished buying up the clothes stores and got back in the car to drive out to The Barn in Burnham. Carlo gave me the lowdown that very first day.”
In the rear of the automobile, Carlo brought his face close to Louis and talked, almost in a whisper, as though he did not want the driver to hear everything.
“Listen, Lou. Between them, Johnny Torrio and Capone got this city sewn up.” He went on to explain that, like New York in their boyhood days, Chicago was divided into various territories. The South Side was run by the Genna family; the North Side—between the lake and the Chicago River—was the preserve of an Irishman called Dion O’Banion, who had a partner, Hymie Weiss. “Far South Side is the O’Donnell brothers,” Carlo told him. “The eldest, Spike, pulled a five stretch in Joliet; his brothers were at The Four Deuces this morning. They saw ya, Pianist. Steve, Walter and Tommy. Me, I don’t trust them. I guess Johnny Torrio was set for a sitdown with them today.”
He went on to say that another O’Donnell family—“No relation to the O’Donnells I to ya about already”—ran part of the West Side.
“Herbie, by the time we got to The Barn out in Burnham, my head was reeling with names. There was Saltis, Touhy, Druggan, the Lake Gang, Ralph Sheldon, Bugs Moran—he worked with Dion O’Banion. Deany we called him. I hadn’t even got the geography of the place worked out, so how was I to figure the various territories?”
When they arrived at The Barn—which was a huge converted warehouse—Carlo opened up a side door, and the driver, who acted like a deaf mute, helped Louis in with the suitcase and the packages of clothes. There was a very large main room, with a bar at the far end, flanked by two doors. Carlo led the way to the one on the right, motioning to the door on the left, which he said was the way to the kitchens and the rear of the place. “We’ve got a big loading bay and storeroom back there. We live up here.” They entered a long room, dim and dark, though Louis made out the shape of a piano near the stairs. At the top of the stairs there was a wide landing with two door-studded corridors leading back towards the front of the building. Louis heard girls talking, and some laughter.
Directly facing the stairs was the door to Carlo’s domain: an office, with an apartment behind it. “We open at ten. Ten at night, that is,” Carlo said, as though this was a perfectly normal time to open a business. “Ya share with me for the time being. Now, ya probably know, I’m the head bouncer here. This is my preserve, but ya share it with me, Pianist. I have to show ya the ropes, because we’re old buddies. That’s what Mr. Capone tol’ me. But, listen good, when the action starts, ya do exactly what I tell ya, right?”
Louis said that was fine by him.
The Packensteiner place in New York was an outdoor privy compared to Carlo’s apartment.
There were good rugs on the floors, and the bedroom contained two beds: a huge double bed, and a small cot under the window. “If I’m busy, ya can drag the cot into the other room,” Carlo grinned. “Or go and bunk in with one of the girls, maybe. But there’s rules about the girls.”
In the living room a large ornate mirror decorated one wall, and a sunburst clock glittered on another. There were nice pictures and the furnishings were mainly mahogany, with stuffed armchairs and a Chesterfield which looked very cozy. Under the mirror stood a large and flashy cocktail cabinet.
“You do yourself well, Carlo.” Louis again felt like a country cousin. He was just not used to this kind of opulence.
“Ah, it belongs to the outfit.” Carlo shrugged. “Play things right, Pianist, and yu’ll get the same. Drink?”
Louis said he would have a lemon soda and Carlo laughed, “Look, kid, this isn’t hooch I keep here. It’s not the spiked stuff. I got the real McCoy, not the rotgut we serve to the Joes downstairs.”
Louis said he would stick with the lemon soda.
“Ya gotta lot to learn, Pianist.”
“I know I do, and I’m looking for you to teach me, Carlo.” He thought of the moment of tension in the barber shop when he had mentioned Big Jim Colosimo’s death. “I guess I put my foot in my mouth talking about Colosimo out loud at the barbershop.”
“Nah, don’t think about it. It’s just we don’t talk much, not about what happened.”
“What did happen?”
“It was inevitable. Everyone liked Big Jim. He was good to me, like to everyone else. Christ, it was Big Jim who brought Torrio out from New York. You knew Torrio was his nephew some way?”
Louis shook his head.
“Well, Big Jim had the place buttoned up. Ya know, City Hall, the cops, everyone. He ran all the places down on the Levee—the joints, cathouses, everything, and he had his café. Most famous place in town. Everyone who was anyone went to Big Jim’s. Actors, politicians, opera singers, he liked opera singers a lot, like Al. Liked listening to music on the phonograph: Verdi and Puccini mostly. Hell, that’s why Al had ya play that Aida t
hing. That’s Al’s favorite, just like Big Jim. But Uncle Jim just didn’t move with the times. Now, Johnny Torrio had a real eye to the future. He saw the dough that could be made when prohibition came in. He used to say, ‘No laws’re gonna keep this city dry. The suckers’ll need someone to supply the booze, and they’ll need somewhere to drink it.’ He called it the law of supply and demand. Far-seeing man, Mr. Torrio. But Big Jim was getting old. Set in his ways. He went along with things when the Volstead Act came in, but his heart wasn’t in it. Sure, he helped organize the liquor business and, with his connections, it was easy. But, as the boss out here, he lacked imagination. Torrio said he didn’t have the flair for it. Torrio saw there would be trouble among the various setups if Big Jim remained boss. So Johnny did the only thing …”
“You mean, Johnny Torrio had him … ?” Louis looked aghast.
“Never say it out loud, kid. Don’t even think it. But I guess that’s what happened. The cops couldn’t make it stick, but the word is that Torrio had Frankie Yale come down from New York to do the job. The Sicilians’re very thick here. Ya gotta remember that, and it was only good business. There was nothing personal in it. There wasn’t no other way.”
Louis felt a little sick. “So, Torrio took over?”
“Oh, he did more’n that. Johnny Torrio expanded. He got all the boys together. Shrewd, Pianist, very shrewd. He saw what was happening, like truckloads of booze being hijacked, shootings, smashing up other people’s joints. So he had them all together, a big sitdown, and they worked out a deal—like not operating in other people’s backyards, and making sure trucks could pass through each other’s areas without getting hijacked. He made sure all the joints were supplied regular, and by the right people. It makes for a quiet life, I’ll tell ya. For a while there was a regular war going on here. Johnny Torrio was the peacemaker. He’s the big man around town. People respect him.”
“I tell you, Herbie, that straightaway there, in The Barn, I wondered if I’d got myself into a situation over my head. Stealing a few hundred bucks from my old man’s store; screwing Ruth in the stockroom; even the dangers of crossing some gang turf on my way to see Aaron, this all paled next to what Carlo was talking about.
