by Glenn Beck
Three imposing men entered the room and took stations near the entrance. A gorilla in a pin-striped suit is still a gorilla, but this trio of simians obviously belonged to somebody with a lot of swing. Soon another man appeared—balding, shorter, and stockier than the others.
When his eyes caught this last man, the track manager dropped what he was doing and stood like he’d been called before a hanging judge.
No one spoke up immediately, so Eddie broke the silence.
“We’re in the middle of a meeting here, fellas. Can I help you with something?”
The shorter man smiled humorlessly.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve heard that you can.”
“You’ve heard I can what?”
“Aw, let’s not play coy, counselor. I’ve heard that you can help me with something.”
Eddie blinked, and got to his feet. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“You don’t, but you should.”
The man gave only the slightest gesture and the track manager hurried from the room, followed closely by Owen Smith, who was well-known for his ability to take a hint.
The three big guys also left and closed the door, leaving Eddie and the sharply dressed stranger alone. Only then did Eddie notice the scars that trailed down the other man’s face. It looked as though at some point in his youth he’d lost a fight with a broken bottle.
Eddie put out his hand. “I’m—”
“I told you, I know who you are.”
They shook, and it felt to Eddie like he’d gripped a cold shank of Easter ham. “So, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m looking to buy myself a little piece of this track,” the man replied, “and some people downstate are making things very difficult for me.”
“And?”
“And I hear you’re a guy who can make things easy.”
“I’m embarrassed to say that you’ve still got me a bit confused,” Eddie said. “Who are you?”
The man laughed and pulled the track manager’s rolling chair around the desk. He motioned for Eddie to sit, and then he did, too. “You talk real classy. That’s good. I like that.” His smile began to fade as he continued. “Yeah, I can tell you’re a college man, but here’s something I guess they didn’t teach you in school. See, when you do business in Chicago, the first thing you’ve gotta do is choose a gang. Fortunately you got real lucky this time, because the gang chose you.”
Eddie found that his mouth had grown uncomfortably dry. “And what gang is that?”
The man’s next words were spoken low, as if he thought there might be a lawman listening from behind the drawn curtains across the room.
“Pleasure to meet you, Easy Eddie,” he said. “I’m Al Capone.”
Uptown Chicago
August 9, 1927
Eddie worked his way through the noisy crowd at Capone’s favorite club, the Green Mill Lounge, glad-handing the VIPs and passing out tips like peppermint candy. He gave a wave to part owner Jack “Machine Gun” McGurn and got a respectful nod in return. Eddie had his new girlfriend on his arm, an illegal cocktail in his hand, and the band was playing “The Best Things in Life Are Free.” He thought that it had been a hell of a day so far.
When they reached Eddie’s table, the one always reserved near the stage, they sat and waved for the waiter.
“A gal down at work called this place ‘the blind pig,’ ” his girlfriend said, shouting over the music. “Why do you think she called it that?”
“It’s an old-time name for a speakeasy,” Eddie replied, “from the last century. Back in your grandfather’s day, they’d get around the law by putting a carny attraction of some kind in a room in the back—you know, a two-headed chicken or a three-legged cat—”
“Or a blind pig?”
“Right. And so they’d make you buy a ticket to see the pig, and then they’d give you the whiskey for free. No sale, no crime, see?”
She nodded, and smiled, clearly impressed.
“Thinking up stuff like that; it’s kind of what I do for a living,” Eddie said.
“That’s very clever.”
“And you’re very pretty.”
“Aren’t you sweet,” she said. She gave him a kiss and a wink and then turned in her chair toward the stage to listen to the band.
Eddie watched her for a moment or two. His divorce had been finalized not long before, and though the parting had been fairly friendly, it certainly hadn’t been a picnic. He thought of his boy, now a teenager, and his girls. The thought of them made him think hard about how his life had changed. A lot of dirty water had flowed over the dam in the last three years.
But a good man doesn’t go bad all at once.
His alliance with Capone had started small. Eddie had smoothed the way for deals to establish front-businesses for Big Al, his lieutenants, and, from behind the scenes, the big boss, Johnny Torrio. He’d told himself for a while that he wasn’t doing anything that any other capable attorney wouldn’t do for his clients. But, eventually, he faced the facts: a man couldn’t so much as walk across the street with Capone and stay clean. He was the King Midas of crimes and scams; everything he touched turned to possible jail time.
Even at the track—a seedy enough hangout to begin with—Capone wasn’t satisfied with simply gambling; he had to cheat. His favorite sure thing was to feed seven of the dogs a Porterhouse steak before a race and then bet heavy on the last, hungry dog. That was always good for a laugh and a hundred-dollar ticket at twenty-to-one odds.
All the while, little by little, Eddie had traded in his principles for riches, and each step downhill had certainly seemed like a worthy bargain at the time.
But then his affair with the mob took a giant step forward.
Early in 1925, Bugs Moran and the North Siders tried to assassinate mob boss Johnny Torrio. They’d shot him to hell right outside his home; but he’d lived. When he’d recovered, after a brief stint in prison for operating a bootleg brewery, the man they called “the Fox” had finally seen enough trouble. He left for Italy with his family and turned the reins over to his longtime protégé, Alphonse Capone.
On that same day Eddie had also received a promotion he’d never signed up for. One minute he was just a lawyer with a few loose connections to organized crime. The next he was the reluctant chief counsel to the new underworld king of Chicago.
From across the packed dance floor, Eddie noticed a stern-faced man sidling up to the bar. Maybe it was just his discount-store haircut, but he didn’t seem to fit in with the festivities. Then another oddball joined him, and this one definitely had Johnny Law written all over his ugly face. It was beginning to seem like a real good time to be somewhere else.
Eddie leaned to his girl and whispered, “Do you want to get out of here?”
“Where to?”
“Across town,” he said, giving her a sly, suggestive smile. “Come on, I want to show you around my office.”
It was a quick drive to Cicero, and when they’d climbed the stairs to Eddie’s private haunt he could tell that she was impressed.
That corner office where he and Capone had first met three years ago was now Eddie’s opulent base of operations. It was stocked full of things he’d always dreamed of one day owning: art, sculptures, handmade furnishings, and all the rarities and luxuries that dirty money could buy. The massive leather divan alone was worth more than Mayor Kelly’s touring car.
Hundreds of impressive cloth-bound volumes crowded his floor-to-ceiling shelves: casebooks and federal statutes, precedent opinions, lofty treatises, and details of many tens of thousands of regulations.
These books made for a classy backdrop, but they had a practical use as well. Unlike most attorneys, who used these books as a guide to the narrow letter of the law, Easy Eddie used them as a vast encyclopedia of loopholes, exploits, and artful legal dodges.
While others in his profession might advise their clients from the top floors of a high-rise building downtown, Eddie’s one-ma
n firm overlooked the homestretch of the dog track at Sportsman’s Park.
Eddie had been told that many doors would open for him when he became a big-city lawyer. It was true; some of these doors led to politics, some to corporate power, some to a judge’s seat, and others down troubled streets and the never-ending fight for the rights of the common man.
But there’s one more door, an old, dark one, way down near the end of the hallway. That’s the one Eddie found, standing open just a crack, when he’d first hung out his shingle. He knew damn well he shouldn’t look at it, much less swing it wide and walk right through—but he’d done it anyway.
“Hey, Eddie?”
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
“I never get out to the track and I love it here. Do you mind if I go down and make a bet?”
“Don’t mind at all.” He walked over and handed her a hundred, then gave her a pat on the bottom. “I’ve got a box right on the finish line. Just tell the boys you’re with me and they’ll get you whatever you want. Go on, I’ll join you in a few.”
When she was gone he sat at his desk. There were things to be done, as always, but he had no desire to do them at the moment. He poured himself a drink from the flask in his top drawer and before long he was lost in his thoughts again.
With Eddie’s growing wealth had come the free time he’d always wanted. But, by the time 1927 rolled around, it was far too late to save his status as a family man. All his business travels, along with his wandering eye, had finally run his marriage into the rocks. But, despite the rifts his choices had created, Eddie continued to provide for his kids, and held out hope that he could be a positive presence in their lives, however small that might be.
He’d bought his soon-to-be ex-wife and the kids a fine new home and tried to make up for the neglect of his fatherly duties through financial support. The girls, he was convinced, would be fine; their mother had raised them right. It was his son who’d proven to be a cause for concern.
Eddie saw a lot of himself in the boy. And that wasn’t a good thing.
• • •
Eddie had tried to teach his son the right things; things that a normal, at-home dad would be there to pass along. He taught him to play fair, to stand up to bullies, and to protect those unable to protect themselves. He taught him how to box and wrestle, and he took him to the shooting range until the boy had become an outstanding marksman. He took him flying, often talking their way into the cockpit so his son could try his hand at the controls. He’d tried his best—at least that’s what he told himself—but on one recent visit, he realized that his best hadn’t been good enough.
His son was also called Eddie, in honor of his wayward dad, but around the neighborhood he’d been picking up nicknames better suited to the billiard hall or the jailhouse than the Harvard Club. The kid was becoming lazy and spoiled as well, acting as if a cushy address on Easy Street were the only place he ever dreamed of living.
These early warning signs were enough to convince the elder Eddie that it was past time for a major change. Last month he’d put his foot down: the boy would leave St. Louis immediately and enroll in the Western Military Academy in Alton, Illinois—far from the ne’er-do-wells he’d begun to associate with, and near enough to his father’s Chicago home that the remainder of his youth could still be well supervised.
Eddie finished his drink, stood, and gave himself an approving onceover in the mirror by the coatrack. As he walked downstairs to join his girlfriend in the stands, he quietly hoped that, for the first time in a long time, he’d made the right decision.
It may have been too late for Eddie to pick the right door in life, but his son still had a chance.
Sportsman’s Park
Cicero, Illinois
Early June 1930
Whether or not Eddie’s concerns for his son had been justified, a few years later it seemed that his efforts had paid off. One of those early nicknames had unfortunately stuck, but other than that, young Eddie Jr. had grown into a confident, disciplined, square-shouldered cadet, ready to graduate with honors and set out on his own path. Where his ambitions had once involved a couch and a comic book, the boy now wanted to make it to the United States Naval Academy.
At last, things seemed to be looking up.
But, as so often happens to those who boldly stray to the wrong side of the law, just when things look their brightest, the devil is coming for his due.
Eddie arrived at his office on this warm June morning to find the feds waiting. That seductive door he’d opened long ago had slammed shut behind him. The good cop sat him down and brought him a coffee, and then the bad cop laid out their ironclad case. He was to be arrested on an old bootlegging rap, and the G-men were confident that a number of serious tax irregularities would surface in the run-up to the trial. When it was over Eddie had little hope of ever seeing daylight again.
Unless.
Naturally, it wasn’t just a crooked Chicago lawyer they were after; the going price for those was a dime a dozen. No, J. Edgar Hoover wanted Al Capone and he wanted him bad. He’d sent his men to talk to the one insider who could finally help them put him away.
In return for information, Eddie would dodge the current charges and be assured of leniency toward any minor crimes that might come to the government’s attention in the future. Then they told him about the icing on the cake: despite his father’s sullied reputation, it would be arranged that his son would receive the necessary congressional nod to be approved and admitted to Annapolis. Without their influence, they assured him, the son of a gangster would never have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting into the U.S. Naval Academy.
In truth, even without the threat of prosecution, Eddie had been considering making such a move on his own for quite some time. From a business standpoint, Capone had become a major liability and a constant thorn in his side, leaving no room for any legitimate enterprises. The offer to get his son into Annapolis was appealing, but he wasn’t even sure if these guys could actually pull it off. On the other hand, they could definitely sling enough mud to keep his son out of the academy if they didn’t get what they wanted.
It didn’t take long for him to consider his options. After only a moment or two, Easy Eddie nodded and smiled, and did what he did best.
He made a deal.
Sportsman’s Park
Cicero, Illinois
November 8, 1939
By the clock on the wall, Eddie had been lost in his memories for quite a while. He blinked a time or two, and the past faded away.
The waning daylight through his tall windows had grown dim and warm, and the hallway outside his office was still. In fact, it was so damned still it seemed that every last employee must have gotten a whispered word to go home early and avoid the line of fire.
Eddie knew there was no doubt that he’d done what he set out to do. In the end, however, he had to admit there wasn’t a lot to be proud of. Over the years he’d lied and swindled nearly every working day. He’d kept ruthless criminals on the streets and let innocent men be sent to rot behind bars. He’d been an accessory to felonies and even murder—though he’d never actually pulled the trigger himself—many times over. He’d lost his wife, neglected his children, and nearly watched his boy drift into a lowlife existence of sloth and ill-repute.
Eddie was too much of a realist to accept the idea of redemption, especially for the kind of man he’d become. The best he could hope for was that he’d soon be forgotten, and that, for the sake of his son, the name they shared wouldn’t forever be synonymous with infamy and shame.
The newspaper lay open on his desk, and the headlines spoke of dark days to come. It was an uncertain world he’d be leaving behind. Hitler was consolidating Poland and turning his eyes toward new conquests. President Franklin Roosevelt had just declared the United States to be resolutely neutral in the war that was surely on the way, but that position couldn’t last much longer. Eddie knew as well as anyone the workings of the criminal mind: some mad
men will never stop unless someone stops them; sooner or later the United States would be drawn in. As a sailor, his son would no doubt be a part of whatever terrible battles were in store.
But whatever was coming, Eddie knew he wouldn’t be around to see it. His partner had a special knack for dealing with his enemies. Ten years before, Capone had invited the North Siders to a Tommy-gun party down on North Clark Street. It had been a St. Valentine’s Day that Bugs Moran and the rest of Chicago would never forget.
That was it, then. All his memories had been revisited and nothing was left to do but stand up and face the music.
He walked to the sideboard, poured and downed a last short scotch and water, and felt once more for the pistol under his overcoat. As he walked out through his office door he paused and smiled. The irony was not lost on him: This door, the one that he’d walked through and changed his life, was also the one he’d walk through to end it.
• • •
Eddie was pleasantly surprised when he opened the back exit and wasn’t immediately cut down by machine-gun fire. As he started his car there was a moment of relief when the bench seat didn’t instantly explode beneath him. But then, about halfway home, he saw the dark sedan approaching from behind.
It was hopeless, he knew, but as that car slipped closer he stepped on the gas and decided to give them a good run for their money.
Traffic ahead was stop-and-go, but Eddie flashed his lights and laid on the horn and people seemed to get the message. He pumped the clutch and downshifted and heard his tires squeal as he rocketed through a space so tight he clipped off his outside mirror. Unfortunately the car behind matched every dodge he made, and more than once they got close enough to bump him good and hard from behind.
After a high-speed mile or two up Ogden Avenue the sedan managed to pull up alongside him. He was hemmed in with nowhere left to turn and no way to go any faster.
He looked to the side, straight into the barrel of a shotgun, and saw behind it a face that he recognized from his many years on the wrong side of the law. He wasn’t surprised. That’s the way they do it; they take care of their own. And then there was a double-barreled flash, a spray of glass and metal, and far less pain than he imagined. He was already dead when, seconds later, his car slammed into a trolley pole by the side of the road.