by Sam Giancana
“Sam, I know you’re close with Frank Costello . . . and I have a problem . . . a misunderstanding, really, with him.”
Still playing naïve, Mooney replied, “What kind of problem?”
“Well, there’s a misunderstanding between Costello and me concerning some property. It’s gotten blown all out of proportion.”
“Misunderstanding?” Mooney raised one eyebrow.
“Yeah, you see, he wants me to be the front man on a piece of property and—”
Mooney cut him off. “Well, can’t you do that?”
Kennedy’s hands clenched into fists and, suddenly defensive, he retorted indignantly, “Look, I’m in a sensitive position given my son’s political career. You understand?”
“You owe Costello, don’t you?”
“Hell no,” Kennedy snapped.
Mooney’s eyes narrowed and a scowl crossed his face. He waited to speak, puffing on his cigar for a moment. “Hell no?” He leaned forward. “Joe, what exactly does that mean, ‘Hell no’?” He shook his head. He wanted to laugh at the man’s arrogance but didn’t. “You made money with Costello, didn’t you?”
Kennedy sat upright in his chair and said sarcastically, “Hey, Sam . . . I was there at the beginning. They rode my coattails.”
“Yeah, and I know whose coattail you rode.” Mooney chuckled at the sheer audacity of Kennedy’s statement.
“Well, anyway,” Kennedy continued, his hands now twisting in his lap again, “I haven’t talked to him, hoping he would go away.”
Mooney laughed outright. “Go away? You ignored the man?”
“Hey, like I said . . . I can’t afford the association right now. And my son Jack can’t afford the association right now, either.”
“That’s an insult, Joe.” Mooney stood up and stared down at the man. Kennedy made a move to stand. “Sit down,” Mooney barked. “What the fuck were you thinkin’? Huh? You’ve insulted Frank Costello. How do you think he’s gonna react?”
“I already know. He has a contract out on me.”
“Well, what makes you think I could do anything about it? Or for that matter . . . would want to?” He glared down at the Irishman.
Kennedy’s demeanor softened. “Hey, Sam. Everybody knows you’re the power outside New York. You’re the only one who can get Costello off my back. He doesn’t understand . . . not at all.” He shook his head.
“And how is that?”
“Well, my son Jack is moving up in politics. . . . I’m hoping he’ll be President someday. Now, I can’t jeopardize that, can I?” He looked up at Mooney and shrugged his shoulders. “Can I?”
“I noticed your kid’s been makin’ quite a name for himself.” Mooney turned to look out the window.
“He has.” Kennedy rose from his chair and walked across the room to Mooney’s side. “He has . . . and he’ll continue to . . . as long as some ugly skeleton doesn’t pop out of a closet. That, my friend, would be political suicide.”
Mooney spun around. “So what do you want me to do about it?”
“Talk to Frank . . . make him understand. I’m a marked man if you don’t get this contract called off.” He placed one bony hand on Mooney’s shoulder and lowered his voice to a nasally whisper. “But if I live . . . I can help my son get to the White House. Isn’t that what we’ve all wanted all along? A guy on the inside?”
Mooney turned his back to Kennedy to face the window once again. “So let’s assume I talk to Frank. . . . I see no benefit to Chicago, here. I’ve heard nothing today that leads me to think that . . . that you can promise me anything in return for my assistance.”
“I can. And I will. You help me now, Sam, and I’ll see to it that Chicago . . . that you . . . can sit in the goddamned Oval Office if you want. That you’ll have the President’s ear. But I just need time.” There was an urgency in his tone. “I get pushed and I don’t think my son has the experience, or the contacts, to see him through a presidential race. Do you understand now why I want you to talk to Costello?”
Mooney turned to look him square in the eye. “Let me see what I can do. But I want your word that the day your son is elected . . . that’s the day that—”
Kennedy interrupted: “That Sam Giancana is elected, too. He’ll be your man. I swear to that. My son . . . the President of the United States . . . will owe you his father’s life. He won’t refuse you, ever. You have my word.”
That afternoon at the Thunderbolt Motel, a fan on the bar whirred in the background as Mooney recounted the story to Chuck. It was an unusually warm day and beads of perspiration glistened among the lines, slowly deepening with time, on Mooney’s tanned face.
Certainly the fact that Joe’s son Jack was now in his second term as senator hadn’t escaped Mooney; he was being groomed for the White House. And the prospect of having such power—a man so tied to him in the Oval Office—was a temptation greater than anything he’d ever experienced. He told Chuck they’d play it safe in 1956 right up to the end—they’d play both sides, make contributions to each candidate, and then he’d simply sit back and wait.
He broke into a broad smile when he’d finished. “Hey, give me a Gordon’s on the rocks,” he cried to the bartender from his perch on the stool next to Chuck.
“Gordon’s? Since when did you start drinkin’ gin?”
Mooney picked up the glass and took a sip, then smacked his lips dramatically. “Right now, that’s when.” He grinned. “From now on when I have a gin, it’s Gordon’s . . . to remind me that Joe Kennedy will sell anything to save his own skin. His liquor business, the Senate, the presidency . . . the White House . . .” He lifted the glass and tipped it toward Chuck. “Even his own son.”
That night, Mooney put in a call to New York. The contract was off on Joe Kennedy.
CHAPTER 16
“I’m a very patient man,” Mooney said, smiling. He laid the newspaper, dated November 3, 1956, down on the bar. “Besides, right now it’s all the same . . . Nixon’s been good to us.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Shit, there’re already rumors goin’ around that it’ll be Jack Kennedy versus Nixon in sixty. We can’t lose with two candidates for President like that.” He sipped his coffee and looked over the cup’s rim, eyes twinkling. “Or should I say, I can’t lose?”
Mooney was unconcerned in early December when another of Joe Kennedy’s kids, Bobby, visited Chicago for a little snooping into labor racketeering. But, as chief counsel to the Senate Select Committee on Improper Activities in the Labor or Management Field, the thirty-one-year-old left the Midwest having reached a disturbing conclusion: Corruption and organized crime were rampant among the nation’s labor unions, particularly within the Teamsters. And with that in mind, Bobby Kennedy vowed to bear down on Teamsters International president Dave Beck, Detroit’s Jimmy Hoffa, and Chicago’s Joey Glimco.
“Old man Kennedy’ll set him straight,” Mooney said, sneering. “This country’s got bigger problems than labor unions. He should be down in Alabama doin’ somethin’ about Martin Luther King and all the trouble he’s stirrin’ up. Marcello tells me King’s a Communist . . . wants the colored to take over the whole fuckin’ country. Bobby better get his little East Coast ass down south if he wants to do somethin’ useful.”
Inexplicably for a man who was counting on the labor vote for the 1960 race, Joe Kennedy didn’t deter his ambitious son. And on January 30, 1957, at Bobby Kennedy’s recommendation and urging, the McClellan committee was formed.
The word back to Chicago through Murray Humphreys was, “Don’t worry . . . Joe Kennedy promises he has everything under control.” Taking Kennedy at his word, Mooney went about conducting business as usual, traveling to inspect his interests in Florida, Cuba, Central America, and Las Vegas.
Since taking over the motel, Chuck’s life had swung into high gear. He’d bought a six-flat apartment building in Berwyn, and purchased a lot in Inverness, an elite suburb of Barrington, on which he planned to build a sprawling three-bedroom home. He drove a snazzy li
ttle red 1957 T-bird, which sat next to the family’s luxurious black Oldsmobile, took his beautiful dark-eyed wife on weekly whirlwinds of Chicago’s downtown nightclubs, and wintered in Miami at the Fontainebleau.
Unfortunately, the rewards that came with being a Giancana were often overshadowed by Mooney’s snarling temper or icy aloofness; Chuck still couldn’t predict his brother, even after all these years. In the afternoon, Mooney might drop by the Thunderbolt Motel sporting his legendary “tight shoes” and grumpily order a drink—and by nightfall, he might be on Chuck’s doorstep in Berwyn holding a gift box.
Often he called Chuck at home to make amends after an unusually nasty outburst. He never said that was why he was calling or that he was sorry—a word Chuck didn’t think existed in Mooney’s vocabulary—but nevertheless, his motives were obvious when he said, “I got somethin’ for you, Chuck . . . get over here.”
One such event in February 1957 stuck in Chuck’s mind because it was so extraordinary. Mooney had been especially irritable earlier in the day, scowling and swearing at anyone within range of his bar stool. But, true to form, later that night he called Chuck at the lounge, barking his order like a drill sergeant. “Get over here,” he said. “I’m tired.”
No wonder Mooney was tired, Chuck grumbled to himself; it was after one in the morning. But he’d do as he was told. He would have preferred going home to bed rather than playing audience to one of Mooney’s monologues. But Mooney couldn’t wait until morning, Chuck reminded himself as he gulped down a cup of coffee on the way out the door.
Secretly, Chuck aspired to greater things; he’d made up his mind that when the time was right, he’d go into building and become a full-fledged contractor. The thought of losing the chance by insulting Mooney was enough to start the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
By 2:00 A.M., he was wide awake, sitting across from his brother at his desk in Oak Park. Mooney, dressed in a gray silk robe and slippers, smiled back at him mischievously. Then with a look of casual arrogance, he lifted a large brown paper bag from the drawer.
“Here, take a look,” he invited, tossing the bag at Chuck. It landed with the heavy thud of metal.
Chuck peered in and squinted.
Mooney laughed and took the bag. “Here, get a good look,” he said, dumping a mound of tangled gold and silver and sparkling stones on the desktop.
“That’s real nice,” Chuck commented, nodding. Actually, he thought the stones were gaudy and garish—the emeralds too big, the diamonds ostentatious and gargantuan. Costume jewelry, he thought to himself, and he wondered why Mooney would make him come all the way over at this hour of the night to look at such obvious junk.
“Take one,” Mooney offered. “Here, look at this one . . . a canary, seven carats . . . it’s the smallest of the bunch.” He held out a ring.
Chuck inspected it closely and then handed it back with a smile. “They sure are big,” he said, motioning to the jewelry Mooney was spreading out on the desktop before them. “Why’d you get costume jewelry?”
Mooney raised his eyebrows and let out a howl. “Costume jewelry? Costume jewelry? Is that what you think?” He doubled over with gales of laughter.
“Well, yeah . . . isn’t it?” Chuck said, feeling like an idiot. He hated it when Mooney did that. “Shit, the stones are so big . . . I thought—”
“You thought this stuff was fake?” Mooney wiped his eyes and leaned forward, with the ring in his open palm. “This is the real fuckin’ McCoy, Chuck.” He waved at the jewelry with his smoldering cigar. “All of it.”
Chuck didn’t know what to say. He felt like a fool, but it was an honest mistake; he’d never seen diamonds and emeralds so mammoth and he doubted whether most of America had, either. “Jesus, I had no idea. It’s real, huh?” He took the ring from Mooney and examined it with renewed appreciation, turning the glittering golden diamond in the light. “It’s beautiful. Beautiful.” He handed the ring back, adding, “But Mooney, what the hell are you gonna do with this stuff? Some of these stones must be over fifteen carats.”
“Yeah, they are.” He paused and added, “Think these’ll make a woman happy? There’s over five million in jewelry right here.”
“She’s gonna be a lucky lady, whoever she is, that’s for sure,” Chuck said, whistling.
“Yeah, but you get first pick . . . take one.”
Chuck surveyed the table thoughtfully. He was hesitant; he didn’t want to insult his brother, but he also didn’t want to appear greedy, and therefore he chose the smallest, least impressive of the lot. “The canary diamond,” he said. “Anne Marie will love it.”
“It’s all yours,” Mooney said, grinning, and put it in his hand.
That was the last time Chuck saw or spoke of the fabulous cache until four years later, when singer Phyllis McGuire turned Mooney’s head and his brother confided, “Remember all those twenty-carat rocks I showed you? I gave Phyllis every fuckin’ one . . . and more.”
Mooney’s generosity knew no bounds. He was on top and he was enjoying the hell out of it. “Spread the wealth, that’s my philosophy,” he’d say with a wink. When he was in one of his better moods, he’d tell Chuck, “Hell, you can’t take it with you.”
Scarcely three weeks after Chuck had walked in the house with the canary diamond ring, Mooney called with a mysterious request: “Pack up Anne Marie right away and bring her over to Dago Frank’s . . . there’s a surprise for her there.”
“Surprise?” Anne Marie’s eyes lit up like a little girl on Christmas morning. “What could it be? What’s Mooney up to now?”
Chuck had no idea, but he obeyed Mooney’s directive without question. They called a sitter for the children and in less than an hour were comfortably sequestered—along with a half dozen other Outfit wives—in Dago Frank’s living room.
Dago Frank was well known among the Outfit guys for his high-quality trove of stolen goods. He was a jovial Italian who’d become Mooney’s favorite Chicago fence. “If you want it, Dago Frank either has it . . . or he can get it.”
Oddly, it didn’t bother the women that the gifts of jewelry and furs that found their way into their hands were mostly hot—stolen from other women’s closets. They learned to take without asking where it all came from; that was the mark of a good wife. The gifts were simply their reward for silence and obedience. Should a twinge of guilt assault their sensibilities, it was quickly salved, lost amid so much glitter. “A diamond’s sparkle can blind a woman to a lot of things,” Mooney was fond of saying.
Full of anticipation, the women looked on as Frank strode over to a large, round Queen Anne table placed in the center of the room. He smiled a broad, toothy smile, and with one slender ringed hand, he ceremoniously removed a linen tablecloth, revealing a virtual treasure of gold and silver studded with every imaginable gemstone.
A gasp went around the room. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of gold and silver trinkets: rings, charms, bracelets, earrings, necklaces. It was like a pirate’s chest had been opened before them.
No one moved from their chairs; everyone was speechless.
“Well, what are you waitin’ for? Take what you like,” Frank admonished, chuckling. Mooney’s gift was having precisely the desired effect. “Get up, will you all . . . and try some on. Take whatever you want . . . it’s Mooney’s gift.”
A flurry of thank-yous crisscrossed the room for the next hour as the women oohed and aahed and sorted and traded among themselves.
When at last they were finished, Dago Frank smiled and said, “Hey, now that you ladies have gone through the jewelry, how’d you like to see some other merchandise? It’s for sale, but you know I’ll treat you right.” Without further comment, Frank pressed an unseen lever and the wall swung open, revealing a well-lit hidden room.
“Oh, my, look at that,” Anne Marie exclaimed. She’d never seen so many gorgeous furs in all her life. There were dozens upon dozens of stoles, capes, and full-length coats and wraps hanging on rack after rack
.
The other women gushed over the coats but decided to leave without a new fur for warmth that night. Anne Marie, however, spotted a lynx walking coat that was the most beautiful fur she’d ever seen.
“Oh, Chuck, can we buy it? Please?” she pleaded.
He never could resist his little Babe and he certainly wouldn’t deny her something so magnificent; she wore it home that night.
“Wait ’til all your friends see you in this.” Chuck whistled admiringly as she snuggled into its deep softness.
Like her other friends, Anne Marie had her nails and hair done weekly, dressed her two little boys in Eton suits and matching playsuits, enjoyed facials, pedicures, and frequent jaunts to Neiman Marcus, Marshall Field’s, and her own dressmaker.
Her drawers were filled with Chanel sachets, dainty lace peignoirs, lingerie sets, silken hosiery, and dozens of stylish gloves. Her shelves held row upon row of the finest shoes, boots, and handbags, as well as beautiful hats of all sizes and descriptions. The latest fashions—from trapeze dresses, sheaths, chemises, bubbles, and Chanel Italian knit suits to cashmere Givenchy cowl-neck sweaters, car coats, tapered slacks, and toreadors—hung in her closets.
A collection of gems filled her jewelry boxes. There were glittering cocktail rings, bracelets, earrings, brooches, and necklaces. And there were her treasured fur coats of lynx, beaver, mink, and lamb.
Likewise, Chuck had only the finest money could buy: elegant Douppioni silk suits, Ivy League blazers, dozens of trousers and fashionable narrow silk ties, madras sport shirts, cashmere sweaters, fedoras, Italian leather boots and loafers. Following Mooney’s lead, he possessed countless diamond and gem-studded tie tacks, cuff links, watches, and rings.
Chuck and Anne Marie both agreed life could only get better. They were young and on their way up, with two beautiful children. They were going to build a brand-new home in a posh section of town. They had money to spend on nightclubs and trips. Occasionally, Chuck might daydream about being a contractor or stop to think about where he was headed, but largely he believed he was already there. The American dream, complete with a fluffy white toy poodle, lived at his house. “What more can a guy ask for?” he exclaimed to Anne Marie one day as he turned a hamburger on their backyard grill.
