by Sam Giancana
That night, Chuck lay awake thinking about the opportunity Mooney had offered. It did sound great—but he was afraid the motel might fold if he didn’t keep a tight rein on the business. He couldn’t stand letting Mooney down again. If the motel folded, he’d be out on the street again, without a steady job. The motel was a sure thing.
On the other hand, Mooney’s couriers made big money. Five, ten thousand a job. One guy he knew was going back and forth to New York and clearing more than that each trip, and it was pretty simple, too. According to Mooney, the courier delivered diamonds and jewelry to George Unger, the fence, in exchange for cash. Nice and neat. Nothing to it really. For his trouble, the courier was making over a hundred thousand a year. Of course, if the guy ever got caught with all that stolen merchandise, he’d be sent up the river forever.
Using this same routine for Tampa, New Orleans, and Vegas would probably work—if anybody could pull it off, Mooney had the connections to do it, but it was a lot bigger than the New York deal. Chuck thought it might be too big. The money would be even greater—his mind raced, thinking about making a couple hundred thousand a year—but so was the risk.
He looked over at Anne Marie, sleeping next to him, and quietly got out of bed. He lit a cigar and ventured out into the comforting stillness of the living room.
Mooney had never failed at anything. Chuck couldn’t think of a thing, not one. But this national deal—and with Asia and Cuba and God knows what on top of it—Chuck could hardly conceive of such an operation. He even wondered whether Mooney was in over his head, but he quickly dismissed that as counter to everything he knew about his brother. He could only assume that the deals overseas were related to drugs and gambling, maybe politics, maybe some secret spy shit.
One thing that troubled him was that Mooney actually thought he could control the United States government, actually work with the guys like undercover partners. Chuck thought Mooney was either crazy or he was really on to something. And at four o’clock in the morning, Chuck was too foggy-headed to know which. He turned it over again and again in his mind and finally came to the only logical conclusion: Mooney wasn’t crazy; he had a tiger by the tail. And he had to know a lot more than he was telling. God knows, he could be vague sometimes. The Outfit, Howard Hughes, Vice President Nixon, the FBI, secret agents—it all sounded like some fucking spy story. And Chuck had a feeling the stakes were high, that a guy could pay with his life in a deal like this.
He looked around the darkened room. He and Babe were really beginning to get on their feet. So far, he’d managed to make a good living with Mooney without crossing the line; recently, he’d even come to believe it was possible. But if he agreed to take on this other job, he felt it would be like cliff diving—there was no telling how deep he’d get in and no telling what was beneath the surface. He could be jeopardizing everything: his wife, his family—his life. “If you do crime, you gotta be ready to do time,” Mooney used to bark at him as a little punk. Was a couple hundred grand worth it? He thought for a while about what it would mean to lose everything he had with his little Babe. They had one little boy and a baby on the way. He lit another cigar.
Chuck was still sitting up when the sun spilled through the lace curtains and the birds began to sing outside the window.
“What on earth, Chuck?” Anne Marie exclaimed when she saw him sitting bleary-eyed in the chair.
He thought she always looked so beautiful first thing in the morning, like a new rosebud, all fresh and pink.
She tied her terry-cloth robe and smiled sympathetically. “You want a cup of coffee?”
He held one up. “Already made it.”
“My God, you look exhausted . . . what’s wrong?” She sat down on the French provincial sofa across from him and, ready to listen, folded her hands in her lap expectantly.
But he’d already made up his mind that he wouldn’t discuss this with her; what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her—that was a rule everybody learned to live by. You didn’t tell your wife anything, ever.
“Nothin’, I just couldn’t sleep.”
“Chuck, look who you’re talking to. . . . I find that hard to believe. Is everything all right at the motel? Are you and Mooney all right?”
“Yeah, the motel’s fine . . . Mooney’s fine. Hey, everything’s fine. Okay?” Irritation was creeping into his voice. He wasn’t in the mood to be interrogated or pushed. “Like I said, everything’s fine.”
She knew him pretty well, Chuck thought. There wasn’t much that would leave him sleepless except Mooney. It had always been like that—from the time he used to lie awake thinking about Mooney’s escapades as a kid.
Anne Marie suddenly giggled and stood up. “I’m starving,” she said, placing one delicate hand on her rounded stomach. “And you know what?”
“What?”
“This baby is hungry, too. . . . Are you? You want breakfast? Maybe you’ll feel better.”
He took one look at her smiling down at him and wondered whether he could go through with it; it meant risking everything. In the final analysis, that was what Mooney was asking him to do. Still, as much as he loved Anne Marie, as much as he loved his kid and the one on the way, he knew what his decision would be. He would do whatever Mooney asked. Sighing, he got up to get ready for work.
Chuck was caught off guard when Mooney sat down in the motel office later that morning and said, “I got another guy to handle that job.”
“You did?” Chuck’s heart sank—he hadn’t been totally convinced he wanted the job, but not getting it was worse. Mooney must have thought he couldn’t handle it; his decision to use someone else could only mean that. He tried his best not to show his disappointment and said, “Well good, I’m sure it’ll go fine with somebody else, right? Who’d you get?”
“Father Cash. He’s perfect . . . nobody’ll ever think twice about a priest carryin’ dough.”
“A priest? Isn’t this pretty big for a priest?”
“Pretty big? Pretty big? Chuck, you have no idea. Chicago’s gonna go international in a big way. Man oh man. Pretty big? I started thinkin’ about how the Church has its fingers in all the same pies”—he laughed—“or should I say, countries, that we do. The Philippines, Mexico, all over the world—”
“Except the Arabs,” Chuck interrupted.
“Hey, I got this all handled, includin’ the Arabs. Listen, the U.S. government is gonna help us and we’re gonna help them.”
“Help how? And besides, even if they do help . . . how can you be sure of that?”
His brother sighed and reached his hand into his trouser pocket, emerging with a small coin. He held it up between two fingers and said, “See this?”
“Yeah.”
“Here, take a good look.” He tossed it across the desk.
Chuck caught the coin and instantly realized it was old, ancient in fact. Mooney was always buying antiquities. He’d become quite a connoisseur of rare books, Dresden porcelain, and the like, so Chuck was only mildly intrigued. “Yeah, what’s this supposed to be?”
“It’s an old Roman coin, Chuck.”
Chuck fingered the coin, turning it over again and again, and then tossed it back to his brother. “That’s real nice, Mooney, but what the hell does it have to do with what we’re talkin’about?”
Mooney leaned forward. “Look, this is one of the Roman gods. This one has two faces . . . two sides. That’s what we are, the Outfit and the CIA . . . two sides of the same coin. Sometimes our government can’t do shit on the up-and-up. Sometimes they need a little trouble somewhere or maybe they need some bastard taken care of. . . . Jesus, they can’t get caught doin’ shit like that. What if people found out? But we can. Guns, a hit, muscle . . . whatever dirty work needs to be done. We’re on the same side, we’re workin’ for the same things . . . we just look different. So . . . we’re two sides of the same coin. Right now we’re workin’ on Asia, Iran, and Latin America. Someday, Chuck, we’ll be partners on everything. If you think we
had Truman . . . let me tell you . . . we got this deal sewn up. Ike, all he does is play golf.”
“So that’s what you like about the guy,” Chuck teased.
“Shit, he’s a pigeon . . . it’s Nixon that’s got the power. He’s the one with the backing of the big money, like Hughes and the guys in California and the oilmen in Texas. . . . Hump says Nixon’s gonna call us if he needs a little hardball behind the scenes.”
“Really?”
“Really. From now on, you can call me Sam Giancana, civil servant.” He chuckled with pleasure and leaned back in the chair, putting his feet up on the desk. “We’ve got it made, Chuck.”
“Maybe you should see if you can get a government pension?” Chuck said, grinning.
“You think so?” he replied, and they both laughed. “Yeah, I like that idea. . . . I’ll have to check on that.” Mooney stood up to leave. “I got an adorable friend comin’ over in a while. Same room all ready?”
“Yeah . . . it’s all yours. But listen, would you do me a favor? Tell the other guys to stop usin’ so many towels when they come over here . . . the laundry bill is through the roof. What the hell does a guy need five towels for, anyhow?”
Mooney smiled. “You really like workin’ this place, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you’re doin’ a good job. Don’t worry about the other deal . . . you just take care of this joint.” He handed him a roll of bills. “Here, go celebrate. And tell Anne Marie she’d better have a boy for me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Over the next weeks, Chuck wrestled with his conflicting feelings about losing the other job. He had to admit it was nice being off the hook. The risk involved would have been more than he would have liked. But he couldn’t help feeling that for some reason he hadn’t cut it in Mooney’s eyes. He wasn’t sure what it was or what he had or hadn’t done. But he was certain of one thing: His dream of ever becoming Mooney’s equal was getting further and further away.
That spring, the government appeared to be moving in exactly the direction Mooney had indicated. There was a Latin American meeting in March about the communist threat in Guatemala. “We’re gonna take care of that,” Mooney said, tipping his scotch with a knowing smile.
In April, Ike made a speech about dominoes, comparing them to the tenuous political situation that existed in the Southeast Asian countries and saying that if the United States allowed even one country in Asia to fall to communism, the rest were sure to follow. Hearing that, Chuck jokingly asked Mooney whether he’d been playing golf with the President again.
“No, I don’t have to,” Mooney said with a bit of a swagger in his step. And then, suddenly serious, he remarked, “You don’t believe that bullshit do you? I mean about communism? The CIA stirred up some shit to give us an excuse to go in and take over, that’s all. People sure eat up that up, though, don’t they?”
“Well, there is such a thing as communism,” Chuck retorted. “And Communists do want to take over the world. That’s a fact.”
“Watchin’ your RCA again, huh?” Mooney cracked. “Wise up, will you? The United States wants to take over everything, too. And it’s not to sell apple pies and flags to a bunch of fuckin’ slant-eyed bastards or Mexicans, either. Our guys in charge don’t give a fuck about the people in those countries; all they want is to line their pockets. Shit, I can be a millionaire just off the mess in Guatemala.”
“Okay, then, so what do you know about Guatemala? Don’t go bullshittin’ me, now, just to make a fuckin’ point. Okay?”
Mooney laughed. “You’re gettin to be a regular doubtin’ Thomas, aren’t you? How fuckin’ long have you known me? Huh? How long? I just know how the real world works, that’s all.” He grinned sheepishly. “Well, maybe I do have an inside track on a few things.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Our government wants an uprising in Guatemala . . . but they need guns for a rebellion. And we supply ’em out of our guys down south.”
“Why don’t they just get the army to do that?”
A mortified look crossed Mooney’s face. “Because then everybody would know what they’re plannin’ . . . that’s why. This shit is top secret, Chuck. You hear what I’m sayin’? Top secret.”
Chuck couldn’t think of anything to say to that. He didn’t know where the hell it was all going, but he had to believe this was all part of Mooney’s plan. He was getting it all wired. Whatever it was.
CHAPTER 15
There are some moments that hang forever suspended in time. Chuck thought the day of Angeline DeTolve Giancana’s funeral was certainly one of those. Two weeks before, on April 10, 1954, she’d suffered a cerebral embolism while in Florida, and now the woman who’d introduced him to the finer things in life, to what was right and proper, lay cold and pale before him.
Swathed in a cherry red organza dress—they said the fashion designer Georgianna Jordan had been up all night personally hand-rolling and stitching its delicate layered hems—Ange reminded Chuck of a hothouse blossom that had closed its petals too soon.
Her death had been totally unexpected, although some said inevitable, because she’d suffered from rheumatic fever as a child and doctors had warned that her heart had been weakened by the illness. But for all practical purposes, as long as Chuck had known her, she’d lived her life normally—dancing, swimming, doing whatever her whims told her.
Years later, when people related stories of Ange’s frailty and domestic suffering, Chuck would angrily dismiss them. On the contrary, he insisted, his sister-in-law had lived a charmed life, saved from the difficulties of housework and cooking, thanks to an endless string of maids, housekeepers, and cooks. She’d been graced with a lifestyle enjoyed only by the truly wealthy, albeit one that was, out of necessity, low-profile. Perhaps the only thing she hadn’t been was loved.
But if asked, Chuck believed there wasn’t a person present who wouldn’t say with all sincerity that Mooney had treasured Ange more than any other woman. He had given her everything a woman could ask for and more—in her closets hung rows of furs; in her jewelry boxes rested hundreds of precious gems. She’d wanted for nothing because, Chuck thought, she’d settled for second best.
The tentacles of the thousands of glittering objects his brother had placed before her over the years, just like the diamond collar now sparkling around her throat, had slowly entwined her, choking out all youthful desire for romantic love, and left her satisfied with a Porthault linen as her bedmate. It had all worked out just as Mooney had planned. Except she had died.
He looked over at his brother’s face; it was properly drawn and stoic. Even if Mooney wanted to cry, he wouldn’t; there were too many men who now waited in his shadow, hoping for some sign of weakness. He would be anything but weak. But then, Chuck wondered, what was his brother feeling? Thinking? Had he loved Ange and just not been able to express it with anything other than material gifts? Or had she simply served as a necessary fixture, a dutiful and proper wife who was little more than one rung on the ladder of his goals? It was possible even Mooney didn’t know the answer to that question.
Throughout their marriage, his brother had knocked Ange around if she got out of bounds, had romped with countless other women—all more physically beautiful than his wife. In truth, although he’d been discreet, she’d known about Mooney’s philandering right from the beginning; she’d had a choice, although Chuck doubted she ever realized it. She could have left. A part of him wondered why anyone would leave such material wealth. But another part of him questioned the logic of such an existence. He had to believe Ange had resigned herself to a marriage of image and convenience—while Mooney did as he pleased. It was a trade-off. Usually, Chuck thought it was a fair one. But seeing her in death, he found himself wondering whether, despite all appearances of marital bliss and material prosperity, his sister-in-law hadn’t lived a life as hollow as the priest’s voice that echoed throughout St. Bernadine’s Church at that very moment. And then, at only forty-three,
that life was over.
The weeks following Ange’s burial were solemn, and spring came and went without much notice. In his wife’s memory, Mooney donated a marble and mahogany communion rail to the church and announced he was building a mausoleum. Out of respect, the guys maintained a somber facade in his presence, waiting for some cue that said things could return to normal.
It didn’t take Mooney long to get back to work; there were too many deals to be cut, too many deals to be closed. In life, Ange hadn’t curbed his cross-country travels, nor would she in death. To assure the freedom he needed to maintain his business, he turned over all household duties to Ange’s sister Anna Tuminello and her daughter and husband, Marie and Jim Perno. By June, he’d detached himself completely from any familial obligation regarding his daughters, entrusting the Pernos to oversee their upbringing.
Doing so caused Mooney little regret; he’d all but given up on the rebellious nineteen-year-old Annette, who now, to his dismay, called herself Toni and wanted to be a movie star. He found her spoiled, confiding to Chuck, “I guess I gave her too much. She’s selfish and sneaky. . . . She lies all the time. Really, she’s an embarrassment, because I never know what she’s gonna do or say.” Bonnie and Francine, however, continued to be his obedient and loving daughters and, consequently, he rarely spoke of them at all. “Women and children should be seen and not heard,” he’d often say. “That’s what’s right about Bonnie and Francine and wrong about Annette.”
Just when things seemed to be returning to normal and Mooney was back in the swing of things, seventy-three-year-old Antonio suddenly died. And on July 27, Chuck found himself attending his father’s funeral.
Like Ange’s funeral, all the big guys were there and many came in from out of town to pay their respects. There were the assistants to the mayor; city councilmen and aldermen; state congressmen and senators. If anything, their presence demonstrated his brother’s increasing national power; if Outfit guys didn’t fly in, they sent flowers. Chuck thought it was quite a tribute to a man who’d risen up from poverty as the son of an immigrant street vendor. Respect—and demonstrating it—was a funny thing with Outfit guys. It was a code they lived by.
