by PJ Eiden
George swung his arm over the seat and turned to face Hymie. “It’s like old times with Dean, eh?”
Hymie smiled. “Your boy confirms he’s there right now?”
Moran nodded. “Yes, he’s there having lunch.”
“Curious, how did your boy get in to see him and get out without bullet holes in his back?” Hymie asked.
“It’s the damnedest thing. Even though Capone’s crews swarm the place every day, the restaurant is still open to outside diners. Maybe it’s some sort of cover for them. So, we sent one of Hank’s young guys in unarmed three days in a row to pick up some lunch orders. Today, he saw Capone seated in the back section along the right side. He’s got guards with him,” George said.
Vincent Drucci nodded. “Easy as shooting fish in a barrel?”
George raised his hands in the air. “Sure, lets clean them out!”
Hymie leaned forward over the driver’s seat. “You clear on the plan, Vincent?”
“Yes, we’re the decoy car. We’ll roll up first, and you two light up the area with gunfire to clear off any thugs on the street and make them panic. The rest of our cars will hold back a block at Cicero Avenue. Once we tear out of there, our guys will be waiting for Capone and his thugs to come running out,” Vincent said.
George added, “There’s no way Capone is going to sit idle or hide inside when they get hit at headquarters.”
Hymie agreed. “This should work.”
The office was a hostile place. Hymie was fuming. “What the hell happened, Vincent? How did we miss Capone?”
Vincent closed his eyes. “The lead driver for the second group didn’t wait long enough. The Outfit wasn’t outside yet when our cars rolled up and started shooting.”
George kicked an empty liquor crate sending it crashing into the wall. “Capone and his goons hit the floor or slid out the back during the bombardment. Our guys knocked out the windows and plastered the place with machine-gun fire, but they were spraying bullets around, not aiming at anyone in particular. It was as if they never used a full automatic before. They put a couple of people in the hospital. One didn’t even work for the Outfit.”
Hymie stood next to the table still as a statue. He shook his head at the newspaper displayed in front of him. “Not only are we the laughingstock of today’s headlines, now we’ve poked a sleeping bear!”
Over in Cicero, Al Capone leaned on his desk with both hands. He looked at Frank and Jack seated across from him. “I don’t get it. Someone, please tell me why these guys are still in business? We’ve cut the head off the organization, and it grew right back. What’s keeping them going anyway? Now, they’re even more dangerous and getting bold in broad daylight.”
Frank Rio was a trusted advisor. “The ghost of Dean O’Banion seems to still be alive. I’m told, Weiss, was a close friend. He acts like his own brother died.”
“They almost buried Torrio. He’s lucky to be alive. Now they took a close swipe at me?” Capone slammed his fist into the hard wood. “Frank, if you hadn’t shoved me down on the floor when you did, I’d have eaten lead for lunch! We have to tear down their organization. It starts at the top.”
Capone’s face turned sour. He tapped the city map on the table. “Weiss is dumb enough to use the same office as O’Banion did. Get whoever you need, set a trap for him, and make no mistake, Weiss is gone. Take care of it, boys.”
Chapter 24
Checkmate
Making powerful friends was a key to survival in the Chicago bootlegging business. So, risky as it was, in October 1926, Earl Hymie Weiss, his attorney, the attorney’s investigator, and two bodyguards settled in a courtroom to watch a jury selection. Weiss was determined to help his new ally Joe Saltis beat a murder charge. Hymie provided the money for Joe’s defense, collected the juror’s names and those of the witnesses. Hymie could create leverage to keep a new friend out of prison. Such was often the practice of the day. That afternoon, as the hearings came to an end, the men headed to the North Side’s office above Schofield’s floral shop to make their plans before the trial.
In typical Hymie fashion, he parked his Lincoln across the street from the office near Holy Name Cathedral. Fresh out of the court room, his mind was preoccupied with how they would sanitize the witness testimony and sway the jury members. Everyone had a price. He would work out those details once the attorney and his investigator were on their way. The other men parked along Superior Street and headed across State Street toward the office. As was typical, Hymie was fearlessly in the lead.
As they neared Schofield’s Floral Shop, the creak of a second-floor window being raised in the rooming house next door might have been the only warning. It would be odd, on a cool October day, for residents to open a window. At that moment, Hymie faced the business end of Jack McGurn’s submachine gun as it trained on him from no more than fifty feet away. McGurn was Capone’s right-hand for delivering retribution. It was far too late to even draw a pistol or try to run back across the street. In an instant, forty-five caliber bullets rained down on Hymie. Boom, boom, boom. He slumped on the sidewalk in the afternoon shadows of the same floral shop where his friend Dean O’Banion was slain.
With Vincent Drucci taken down at the hands of police during the struggle to re-elect William Thompson as mayor, George Moran was next in line to lead the North Side Gang. Under Mayor Thompson, Chicago reopened for mob businesses like gambling and racketeering with the police caught between freewheeling mobs and city officials who were paid to look the other way.
Capone now had a lopsided share of the booze business. He was raking in millions and strutting around in public like Chicago’s unofficial king.
It infuriated Moran.
Chapter 25
How Much?
George met Hank at Clay Street. It was Christmas week 1926. Hank greeted him at the door. “Morning, George. The boys told me you were here. What’s the occasion?” Hank glanced around to see if the boys left things in fair order. “Do you want some coffee or bourbon to start the day?”
George surveyed the room. There was a tattered map on the wall, a heap of gambling tickets stacked on a small table, and two rifles leaning in a corner. “No, I’m all right. So, what’s going on with you today?”
Hank sensed there was a specific purpose for the visit.
“Nothing big. We’ve got a run coming in from Detroit, but the boys have it under control. We are working on a shot-up car over at the warehouse, and I was going to see a guy about a new gambling option. It turns out people like to bet on baseball and team sports.”
“OK, I want to go someplace quiet where we can talk. Hank, can I tear you away for a while?”
Hank could clear his schedule with ease. “Yes, sure. You wanna step into my office? It’s pretty quiet back there.”
George had a different type of conversation in mind. “No, I’d rather get out and stretch our legs. Let’s head downtown.”
“All right by me. I’ll grab my coat.”
George lingered near the door. “I’m parked out front, so jump in and you can ride along. Have you ever been to the Tribune Tower?”
Hank thought for a moment. “You want us to go talk to the newspapers?”
“No, you’ve got this all wrong. I have an idea and want a quiet place to discuss things with you.”
“OK, boss, whatever you say.”
Hank whistled as they parked the car on Michigan Avenue. The skyscraper towered over them. “She’s a real beauty.”
George agreed. “Around here, this is the tallest mountain we can climb.”
The elevator chimed its way to the observation level on the twenty-fifth floor. “You ever been up here, Hank?”
“No, I can’t say I have.” Hank made his way through the glass door out to the deck. He stood there admiring the castle-like stonework encircling the building. He rested his elbows on the concrete perim
eter railing. “This is quite a place. You have a view of the whole world from up here.”
Hank paused a moment. “Say, you aren’t thinking of throwing me off the building or anything are ya?”
“No, is there some reason I should?”
“As you know in our business, we don’t invite people to the top of tall skyscrapers unless there’s a purpose.”
George smirked at the statement. “It’s just a fine day to take a look around from up here.”
The men gazed at the city sprawled out beyond the concrete railing.
“The streets below us are pretty tiny from up here and the river looks a little different,” Hank said. “I mean, the way it snakes through the city. Look at all those freight boats. I had no idea so many companies were moving their crates on the water. I guess it beats the street traffic. Do you think it could help us sneak liquor in?”
“There’s more than streets and rivers I’m looking at. Let’s grab a chair for a minute.” George walked to a couple of chairs set against the building and took a seat.
Hank followed and propped his foot against the side of a copper pipe.
George wasn’t one to mince words. “Hank, how is life in the shadows for you?”
Hank’s brow furrowed at the question. He thought about his role of directing the small crew of booze runners.
George slid his hat off his head and perched it on his knee. He ran his hands through the sides of his hair and interlaced his fingers together at the back of his head. He leaned his chair back on two legs and looked at Hank. “I mean, it’s clear to me you are a natural leader. You do a better job of this than any crew boss I’ve worked with. As a result, your men are loyal. They do what you ask. And you all trust each other.”
“Yes.” Hank tapped his chest through his open coat. “I like things this way.”
George believed he was about to state the obvious. “Do you realize it’s unheard of in this business?”
Hank was a calm port in any storm. When things got tough, he remained objective and tried never to let his emotions take over. He believed everyone made mistakes from time to time. Everyone. But he also believed what a person did next determined the level of respect the men had for you.
“Yes, but don’t tell anyone. I don’t want people to think I’m soft or something.”
George shook his head and chuckled.
“Serious question. Let’s talk about what you want.” George rose from his chair, donned his hat again, and Hank followed him to the railing.
George pointed toward the horizon. “Look out there. This is a big city now, and it’s getting bigger every day. I read in the papers this week we have three million people living here now.”
Hank nodded. “Sure, even since I’ve been around, the suburbs have grown and grown.”
George wanted clarity from his rising star. “While we’ve got a nice chunk of business to the north, west following Lake Street out toward Union Park belonged to the Genna boys. Being the good neighbors like we are, you know what’s left of them has been scattered to the wind now.”
Like a black-and-white photo, Hank could still see Tony Genna’s body crumpled on the sidewalk the day they took him out. Tony’s fancy coat and cordovan leather shoes were spattered with blood.
“Moving a bit to the south, the Druggan Gang has a chunk.” George made a slow swing with his arm toward the left. “Terry Druggan and Frankie Lake are a mix of Irish and German. They work out of the back of the Little Bohemia Café. They have direct connections and substantial ownership in beer breweries. Rumor has it, they make so much beer they are selling barrels to other gangs.”
Hank stared out over the suburbs in the distance. The number of criminal-owned businesses never ceased to amaze him.
“Everything from there to the southwest out toward Bridgeport and Brighton Park along with a slice along the lake, Torrio has now handed off to Capone,” George continued.
Hank’s eyes widened.
“Hank, we can never take our eyes off him. That scum had O’Banion and Weiss executed, and you know he has his sights set on me, too. None of us can be too careful.” George’s forehead showed the wrinkles of a man who lived with limited sleep.
Hank closed his eyes and made no reply. In his mind, he could still see the swarms of people dressed in black at the graveyard for Weiss’s burial service.
George was close to finishing his view of the gangland. “The Southside O’Donnells have a solid 40% share of Chicago. But they are at war down there now, especially beyond the Union stockyards. They’ve had many loads of beer stolen. What’s worse is they force saloon keepers to buy from them exclusively. If they won’t buy, they’ll bust up the joint along with the owner himself. They inflict excessive harshness, but if you want to run a saloon on the southside, you do business with the O’Donnells, period. Now, when their beer gets hijacked, those saloons are between a rock and a hard place, but they wouldn’t dare think of bringing in other stock.”
Hank smiled politely but wondered if George was becoming greedy or was pushing to get Hank out of his hair.
“There are a half dozen other gangs spread around the city, too, but they’re smaller. At some point, the big guys will get tired of letting them have a share,” George continued.
Hank looked at the gray afternoon sky. The sun was hiding from the winter snows decorating the edges of streets and sidewalks.
“I don’t mean to push you into a corner on this. But, Hank, how much do you want?”
A cool breeze raced up the face of the building. It was a bit unnerving for Hank as this conversation signaled a change in George. The deaths of the North Side leaders weighed on George. It was understandable. He was, however, the last survivor.
“Excuse me, George. What did you say?”
George repeated his question. “I want to know, Hank. How much of this city do you want? Should you and I divide this kingdom up?” He said it with a twist of generosity. “Are you tired of working for someone else yet?”
Hank bristled at the thought. Countless men had already died defending the small corner of the world they claimed now. The notion the Northsiders would go to war to take over the whole city seemed absurd.
George leaned in closer and half-whispered in Hank’s ear, “What do you consider winning?”
Hank believed he and George held vastly different views. “What is winning, George? Is it a pile of money, owning lots of businesses, or some other riches? How about running a big area like the whole west side?” Hank withdrew and turned from the spanning city beneath them. He stood staring at the ornamental masonry that crowned the building. “My question is, how much is enough? Every man has to ask himself the question at some point. We live in a world of plenty right now, but this won’t last. Look at O’Banion and Weiss. What good did it do them? The same can be said about my father and my brother. Some say my mother was a victim, too. And who’s next? To me, survival is winning!”
He looked out over the city once more. “I know, I could build a huge crew, and we could take on the Druggan Gang, Capone, and a bunch of others. It would take many men and an ocean of bloodshed at my hand. How many would be killed on both sides in the process? To grab a big stake in this city, hundreds of men would die. Maybe more. I won’t be a monster. The thought of it torments me. I couldn’t live with myself.”
Hank thought about Allen and Rem who had survived the ambush gun battle. “No, I don’t think my guys are expendable. I handpick each one of them and work to teach them the business, including how to protect themselves. I make sure they have the skills to survive and get their fair share.”
George had not found the same success. “So you treat them like family members?”
“How else would I treat them? My father made a real mark on me before he died. In some ways, I’m a reflection of him. To be in my gang, you must be somewhat like me. Respect and tr
ust are things you earn.”
“I generally don’t get that close to most of our men. I don’t think about these things the way you do, but I can see why you do it.”
Hank rose and put his hands in his coat pockets. “I could be bitter about the life I was dealt.” He began to pace the deck area. “Let’s face it, my family was murdered. But I won’t let anger or vengeance define me. I step back, try to learn from it, and channel the energy to become smarter. I believe there has to be a better way, or my father taught me nothing. This hellish goldmine is temporary. Either you die trying to play the game carelessly, or if you last long enough, the government men step in and shut things down. The only way to win is to get out alive. All those flowers you see at the gangster funerals are a sad reminder of the fact you can’t take it with you when you’re dead.”
Hank tore into the heart of the matter. “George, I know I have the stuff to be a mob boss. I believe I could be a great boss and probably a very rich one. But I like the number two spot. At least the way you run the business I like it.
“You give me freedom and a say in how we run things. We won’t do contract killing. We won’t exploit women. I don’t understand men who do. We don’t sell poisoned liquor. So, if I’m proud of what we sell and how we sell it, why would I ever leave all this to go out on my own?”
George found Hank to be more complex and intentional than O’Banion and Weiss had been. Hank calculated his moves and considered risks. George liked his methods a lot. He had to admit, he didn’t do as well himself.
For a few moments, the winter sun pierced the veil of gray clouds shrouding the sky. The slivers of light streamed down on the men. Hank realized the value of his situation for the Northsiders. “So, I teach each guy to have the best chance of survival. This is my mission. No, I don’t mind being number two. I think it’s the smartest place for me to be. No, I don’t want my own slice of Chicago. I’m happy keeping the heat off your back, keeping the business running, and leading these guys. The attorneys we pay can help keep you on the right side of the prison bars.”