by PJ Eiden
“When I was a young lad, my father was a mobster, too. I never understood why. I’m not sure he did either. It was the business he knew, and from time to time, he saw it pay pretty well. But it was a far too dangerous way to support a family.
“A family needs much more from you than money. They need safety, stability, and time with you. Eventually, both my parents and my brother died. My father had not considered this possibility, nor had he prepared for it.
“This fact changed me forever and now I run a different sort of show. Some think it’s tough to get into this gang, while other gangs will hire anyone who comes along. I surround myself with crackerjack men to run a clean operation and work together to survive.
“Our mission boils down to this: We play a part in the entertainment business. We help the hardworking people of Chicago unwind and have fun. Our job is to run liquor and tobacco distribution for a good portion of the North Side. We deliver when promised and keep thieves away from both our supplies and our customers. Once a speakeasy owner trusts us, they often want us to arrange their bands and performers. We work with the best.
“While they are busy serving patrons, we keep the fun going. It’s simple. It’s also dangerous.
“In a perfect world, a fifteen-dollar case of whiskey crosses the border from Canada to be sold to one of our joints in Chicago for ninety dollars. Unfortunately, this amount of money attracts every sort of thief and hoodlum imaginable. They are all after us and the booze. You can top things off with the federal raids and state’s attorneys trying to make a name for themselves, too.
“Our business is different than others. There are things we aren’t willing to do. We don’t run brothels and don’t believe in them. None of us will sell or use drugs like opium or cocaine. We will not be hired assassins, but we do defend what’s ours. And finally, we don’t beat on our customers. Turns out, they aren’t very loyal if you do.
“There are two hundred men in a dozen different crews working for the North Side. From time to time, we agree to partner with a few of them for larger projects. It’s part of the deal we’ve signed on for.
“Now, within our group, we share profits when times are good. Today, times are very good!”
The men broke into cheers. One yelled, “Remember, Hank. We don’t take any wooden nickels around here!”
Hank smiled. “We also take care of each other when times are bad. We each agree upfront never to cross anyone in our crew or skim from the take. If you do, there are no second chances. None.
“Besides making money, ultimately, our goal is to stay alive long enough to enjoy it. We trust each other with our very lives.
“It’s simple. It’s how I run things. Are there any questions?”
Hank made eye contact with each of them. He stopped at Bernie. “Bernie, you’ve been around here the longest. Do you have anything to add?”
“No, Hank, you know your onions.”
“Well, if not, here is one for each of you. Which is more important? To get rich, or to get out alive?”
The faces in the group turned serious.
“Of course, you might say getting out when you’re rich is the best answer.
“It’s true, but it puts you more at risk. I want to talk to you now about planning an exit strategy for when things turn from bad to worse. Mark my words, someday, when we least expect it, they will.”
Hank stepped down and moved closer to the men. “We each need to save for an early retirement, which could occur at any time.”
He walked over and pointed out the bandages still wrapping Remi’s head. “What if you get banged up tomorrow and have to quit? Would you be ready to be out of work awhile or move to a new town somewhere if you had to? This business is a merry-go-round. If you stay on the ride long enough, the music will stop for you one day. I know a lot of guys who thought they got rich in this business. But after a stretch in prison, they came out with nothing. Others had moved in and taken everything while they were in the slammer.
“It’s amazing how easily it disappears unless you park some of it out of sight. My sister and I became destitute teens when our father was killed.”
Hank used four brass tacks to pin a wrinkled Chicago map on the side of the barn. The guys gathered around taking seats on old crates and small drums. He drew a heavy line around the North Side boundaries on the paper. “This is the area where we do business. You need to memorize these streets. Outside this area is no man’s land for us. We stay out of there.
“We run things from Howard Street up here on the northside of Roger’s Park, dropping south on Kedzie and the Chicago River to make our west boundary down to Randolph Street on the south.” His finger trailed the boundary as he talked. “While we own everything between the river and the lake from Roger’s Park down to central Chicago, there are other crews from the North Side to help cover this. Be sure to speak to me before you work any fresh land.”
Vinnie spoke up. “Hank, it’s all well and good for us to stay on our side. But, what about thieves that cross a bridge?”
“That is a good question, Vinnie. Now, if some dimwitted Andy Gump from the other side of the river peddles his swill in our neighborhoods, we need to crush him right away. Once they take root, it’s hard to pull the weeds from your garden. Stay on top of maintenance work.”
Willy added, “I’d start by cracking some melons of the guys who bought the outside booze.”
“Hold on a minute, Willy. I can see how you might feel that way. But unlike the garlic squads from across town, we don’t shake down our speakeasy owners. If they buy someone else’s booze, we hit hard against those suppliers. Otherwise, our rivals keep bouncing around trying to steal more accounts, too. It’s better to attack the knuckle heads directly, typically by stealing their loads.
“If things get worse, we try to remove the leader of the gang. It’s a risky move that can open a larger fight.
“I want to switch subjects now and talk about trust. Our customers trust us. What do you think they trust us for?”
The group volunteered, “Quality booze, class acts on the stage, and deliveries when promised!”
Hank called on Nick. “Nick, what else do you think they need?”
Nick felt the eyes on him. “Protection to keep the other gangs away?”
Hank nodded. “Yes, I like it.
“So how do we do this? We all know, we’ve been getting hammered lately while making deliveries. So, we’re going to change a few things.
“First, we’re going to stop acting like a military supply line. We won’t use the big trucks for merchant deliveries anymore. Those mules haul a lot of booze but are too slow and make an easy target. When they get hit, we risk too much.
“No, we’ll bring those loads into warehouses and like a racehorse runs, do our drops with cars rather than trucks. We’ll move faster and stay light on our feet to get in and get out. We want to be hard to catch up with, so we’ll need more cars and more of you to be runners to make this work.”
The guys looked back and forth at each other.
“The change shouldn’t hurt anything for our dry goods. The cigar lines are easy to cover by keeping some stock in each car.
“Now Bernie is going to say some things about a new game plan for routes.”
Bernie stepped up to the map. “Guys, whether we like it or not, other gangs are watching us. When they see the chance to steal our loads, they will, and we could get shot at in the process. It’s a miserable business.
“So here’s what we’ve gotta do: Keep throwing them off by changing routes, days of the week, the time, the vehicle, the driver, and more. I mean everything has to change, and often. I’d even switch to running the whole route backward from time to time or arrange some drops early in the morning. Our customers know this is a dangerous business, and they will work with you.”
Vinnie nodded his agreemen
t.
Bernie continued, “Now, for a warning. If you decide to use the same route twice in a row, you might get away with it. But every time you repeat it, the risk that you are going to get hit rises.
“Am I being clear?”
All heads nodded.
Chapter 8
Sieben
Decades earlier, Michael Sieben built a multi-story brewing house in the German style with a handsome brick facade at 1466 North Larrabee Street. When the prohibition curtain fell in 1920, the Sieben family was put out of the beer-making business.
Dean O’Banion and Johnny Torrio were both rivals and partners. They both could profit by working together to exploit the thirst created by the Eighteenth Amendment. It was the perfect storm for mobsters, a prosperous new world begging for a drink while banning all legitimate breweries from providing it.
The street-smart Irishman and the Italian businessman couldn’t have seemed more different. Yet there were mutual benefits for working together. The unlikely pair took over the brewhouse as partners with a deceitful promise to make non-alcoholic beer. It was a hand-shake agreement to peacefully divide Chicago and prevent gang wars.
Dean’s Irish curiosity was killing him. “Why, did Sieben give it up?” It seemed mad a master brewer would walk away from business when there was no competition.
Torrio thought it was obvious. “We’ll get our way, Dean. The horse is out of the barn now for Sieben. He can’t brew anymore under the new law. Furthermore, it took years to pass the amendment and no one knows how long it could last. So he released his men.”
“I assume you know a few of them?”
“Yeah, I did.” Johnny dug through paper in the brewing office file drawers and produced the former employee list. He waived the page in the air. “Right here.”
O’Banion smiled. “The first step will be to get a few good guys on our payroll.”
Torrio had devised a plan. “This is how we’ll make it work. First, make small batches of the non-alcoholic stuff for a month or so. This is not what people really want but legitimate we must look. Maybe we could make some root beer for kids, too.”
Dean agreed, “Old man Sieben and the cops will be snooping around when we first get going. We should keep some stuff around here for show.”
Torrio finished explaining his plan. “Once the parade is over and things settle down, we’ll brew small batches of real beer, but still packaged with the fake-beer labels. It will take some time to get the process down. Afterward, we can do what we want. I don’t think we should let anyone pick up at the brewery for now. Let’s truck it out to our own warehouses and relabel it there.” Torrio snickered at the thought. “We can each claim to have the best beer in the city. No one needs to know it’s the same stuff!”
Dean’s face was hot. His hand shook as he dialed the phone number. The phone rang several times and finally a voice crackled in from the other end, “Hello, who is this?”
“Hey Johnny, it’s finally you! This is Dean. Where have you been the last month? Are you dodging my calls? I left you messages.”
Torrio sighed. He might as well get this call over with. “I’ve been a little busy, Dean. I didn’t know you needed something.”
“Oh, yeah? No one told you I called? Well, I did several times, and I am again right now!”
“Jeez, cool it, Dean. It’s not too good for your health to get so wound up.”
“What’s that? You could say I’m a little hot under the collar. You’re right.”
“What's the problem? Is the brewery running OK?”
“Yes, the brewery is still running fine now after two years. But you and I have a much different problem. It’s those scums, the Genna Brothers, who you call friends. They are all over my map selling cheap liquor to my best accounts. Accounts who normally pay me a premium!”
Torrio sighed again. “Hey chum, sorry about your luck. This sort of thing happens to all of us. I have my own set of problems.”
“Not so fast— This is your problem. We had an agreement. You keep your crews working on your side of the river, and we do the same. Then all should be at peace in the land.” Dean wasn’t done yet. “Unfortunately, this isn’t happening today. Your pals are working on the wrong side and they are killing our business! You’ve gotta keep your dogs on a leash or somebody is going to get hurt. I mean soon!
Torrio was silent as he didn’t want to upset the powerful Genna family with such a trivial matter. They ruled Little Italy and the Near West Side with an iron fist.
Are you going to take care of this, or should I?” Dean’s fiery Irish temper boiled over. To him and his gangs, it was open season on Genna liquor shipments. The hijacking attacks would begin in earnest.
Trust was a rare commodity in the bootlegging business. Dean kept his own insurance policies. By the spring of twenty-four, he never missed the monthly appointment. Dean rolled his car in to park along the curb at Halsted Street. The officer inside the bakery shop set his newspaper down and left a steaming cup on the table. He emerged, scanned the street in both directions, then approached the idling car.
The policeman leaned down inside the open passenger window.
“Afternoon, officer. It’s gonna be a warm one today.” Dean reached inside his suit coat and retrieved the thickened envelope. He shifted the car back into gear but held the clutch.
The officer, still leaning in the car window, folded the envelope flap open, and ran his thumb across the bills. “I’ve got something.”
“What’s that?” Dean stared straight ahead through the windshield, reached down, and turned the car engine off.
“The Farmer’s Almanac says the weather is about to get even hotter over at Sieben.”
Dean turned his head to face the policeman directly. “What do you mean?”
“Your little brewing enterprise with Torrio is on the list.”
Dean felt his face flush. His eyes narrowed. “Get it off the list, now! That’s our arrangement.”
The policeman watched a passing freight truck lumber down the street. “Sorry, you don’t have a get out of jail free card on this one. The chief is leading the charge himself. I can’t stop it.”
Dean fumed. “How much time?”
“You got a couple of weeks. They’re coming for you on Monday, May 19.”
Dean closed his eyes. The knuckles of his left hand turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. He clenched his other in a fist and pounded the wheel repeatedly. “My name is on that building lease.”
The officer stood upright again. “Not my issue pal. Unless you like wearing horizontal stripes, I’d retire soon and leave town.”
The looming raid consumed Dean’s thoughts. Sieben had been their premier source for high-quality beer. Stress began to eat away at him until he couldn’t think about anything else. He tried midday drives to take his mind off the police officer’s prediction.
His friend Earl Weiss decided to tag along one afternoon with a trunk of beer. Their drive ended at an empty city park.
By physical stature, Weiss, was not an impressive man. Slightly below average in height with an unremarkable build, he had brown hair, bulging eyes, out-turned ears, and a sober grim face. Indeed, he might have matched the basic profile for a community dogcatcher.
But despite his looks, Hymie, as his friends called him, was a fiercely loyal man, especially in times of trouble. “Dean, you’ve got to find a way out of this mess with Torrio.”
Dean struggled with just two hours of sleep. “Yes, Hymie. Now tell me something I don’t already know. I’m on the lease. Johnny and I are both going down for this. But, more time in prison isn’t an option for me.”
Weiss paced around on the lawn and offered Dean a foaming bottle of beer. Dean stared at the Sieben label.
Hymie uncapped another. “I might have something.”
Dean rested against
the fender of the Studebaker and took a sip. “What do you got in mind? I’ll listen to anything at this point.”
The pair started a slow walk.
“This might sound mad but, what if you could sell your share of the brewery before the raid?”
Dean stopped walking. “Why would I ever? It would kill our business.” He studied the bottle in his hand. “We need more beer, not less. I don’t want to sell out!”
Weiss nodded. “I know we need the beer, but after the nineteenth of May we have to face the fact it won’t matter because the brewery will be locked up. This train has already left the station.”
Dean set his bottle on a park bench, walked over to the car, and kicked a white-walled tire. “You have an interesting idea, but it could be almost impossible to find a new buyer within a couple weeks.”
Hymie threw his empty back into the open trunk. He liked using provocations. “Well, how might we?”
Dean rubbed his hands together. “I don’t know.”
“What would keep you out of prison? There must be someone who’s after more beer.”
Dean smirked. “Well, wait a minute. If I was going to sell my share, there’s really only one buyer that makes sense—Johnny. But if he won’t listen to me about getting the Gennas under control, why should I think he’ll listen to me if I offer to sell out?”
Hymie took his time. “Because this is different. Very different.”
Dean dug for more. “Why do you think so?”
“First, because you know about the coming raid, but he doesn’t. Second, he will call you back about the brewery because this is high quality beer. He’ll jump at owning the entire source!” Hymie tapped on the car fender. “The question I have is how can you convince Johnny you’re serious about selling your share? He’ll ask, why you’d be crazy enough to sell out of a great business when there is a shortage of supply?”
“That’s a good one.” Dean began to pace. “I may need a night or two to mull this over.”