Joe Bruno's Mobsters - Six Volume Set

by Bruno, Joe

  Even though the New York Times, which employed two reporters who said they actually saw Brodie jump, reported Brodie's swan dive off the Brooklyn Bridge to be quite true, in fact they were all in on the caper. What really happened was this:

  One of Brodie's confederates on the Brooklyn Bridge, upon receiving a signal from another accomplice on the dock, dropped a dummy loaded with iron clippings into the water below. At this point, Brodie was hiding under a pier in a small rowboat. As soon as the dummy hit the water, Brodie dove from the rowboat into the water, and he swam to the spot near where the dummy had sunk. Brodie's three pals in the rowboat rowed to where Brodie had swum, and they picked him up.

  The rest is history.

  Suddenly, a nobody named Steve Brodie became an instant star in New York City. Trying to cash in on his fame as much as he could, Brodie became the centerpiece of an exhibit at Alexander's Museum. To further inflate his fraudulent image, Brodie performed a series of stunts similar to the one he staged at the Brooklyn Bridge. In each stunt, Brodie was pulled from the water after a purported jump from a severe height, but not once did anyone not involved with Brodie actually see Brodie make the jump. After each stunt, Brodie received more newspaper coverage, which further amplified his daredevil image.

  Brodie pulled one stunt too many, when after one faked jump, he disappeared completely, leading the suckers who bought Brodie's exploits in the first place to believe that he had died by drowning. When Brodie resurfaced in a Bowery bar a few weeks later, the newspapers figured they had been had, and they refused to give Brodie any more press coverage.

  Brodie tried to resuscitate his image by actually trying to perform a stunt he said he would do. Brodie considered himself a strong swimmer, so he announced to the world he would swim the rapids in Niagara Falls. Dressed in a rubber suit, Brodie was lowered by a rope into the frigid waters. But as soon as Brodie’s toes settled into the drink, panic set in. Brodie, in a frenetic state and figuring his daredevil days were over, begged to be pulled back into the boat by the rope. And that he was.

  So much for Steve Brodie – daredevil.

  Not being able to fool the public any longer, Brodie figured it was time take up Moritz Herzberg's offer of buying Brodie a saloon. In 1890, Brodie opened “Steve Brodie's Saloon” at 114 Bowery near Grand Street. The saloon became an immediate success with the sporting crowd. Boxing celebrities like John L. Sullivan, Jim Jeffries, James Corbett and Tom Sharkey (all of whom later would become world heavyweight champions) frequently hung out in Brodie's joint. Brodie was always on hand to shake a hand; sometimes even tending bar himself.

  Behind the bar was a huge oil painting which showed Brodie courageously making his imaginary swan dive off the Brooklyn Bridge. To add veracity to a mendacious non-event, next to the oil painting was a framed affidavit signed by the “boat captain” who supposedly had fished Brodie from the East River.

  Surrounding Brodie's oil painting were nonsensical signs, spouting such inanities as, “The Clock is Never Right,” and “We Cash Checks For Everyone,” and “$10,000 in the Safe To Be Given Away to the Poor,” and “Ask the Bartender For What you Want,” and finally, “If You Don't See What You Want, Steal It!”

  Steve Brodie's Saloon consisted of three separate rooms. The front room was reserved for the neighborhood rabble who had swaggered inside for a cool libation. The two back rooms were for Brodie's pals and members of the press whom Brodie had on his pad.

  And there were plenty of them.

  The entire floor of all three rooms was inlaid with silver dollars, to give the impression that only the rich and mighty bent an elbow at Steve Brodie's Saloon, which was certainly not the case. But image is everything, so Brodie kept the press up to their gills in booze, and he stuffed a few bucks in their pockets to boot.

  Tour buses made Steve Brodie's Saloon one of their must stops (Brodie paid the tour bus drivers well too).

  As soon as the tour bus arrived in front, the tour guide would proudly proclaim, “Ladies and Gentlemen, you are seeing one of the most historic scenes in this great city. That, ladies and gentlemen, is Steve Brodie's Famous Saloon. You have all heard of Steve Brodie, the man who made that terrible leap for life from the Brooklyn Bridge to the East River below and lived to tell about it.”

  CA-CHING!

  Soon, the entire tour bus crowd rushed inside Steve Brodie's Saloon to see a piece of history, and of course, to spend a few bucks buying Steve Brodie's booze.

  Every once in a while, when the mood hit him, Brodie would wear a tattered suit, which he claimed was the exact one he was wearing when he made his “fearless jump.” Then, if someone bought a round of drinks (and someone always did), Brodie, his chest puffed out a full two feet, would solemnly regale the crowd with a blow-by-blow description of his gallant leap into the murky waters of death.

  Quite frankly, Steve Brodie had no shame.

  In 1894, Steve Brodie, still trying to capitalize on his ill-founded fame, appeared in a play called On the Bowery, staring, of course - Steve Brodie. The play originally was conceived to star a local 5-foot-2-inch pugilist called “Swipes the Newsboy” (real name Simon K. Besser). However, Swipes accidentally killed a fellow boxer in the ring, which subsequently landed him in jail, because at the time boxing was illegal in New York City. So in stepped Steve Brodie, and the part was rewritten to accommodate Brodie's interesting life.

  The play opened in Philadelphia, made a stop in Brooklyn, and then finally found its home at The People's Theatre at 199 Bowery, right down the street from Steve Brodie's Saloon. The play was basically a hokey mess of disjointed scenes, one of which took place in an exact replica of Steve Brodie's Saloon. Predictably, at the play's climax, Steve Brodie jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge to save the heroine named Blanch, who had been hurled into the frigid waters of the East River by the wretched villain Thurlow Bleekman.

  In On the Bowery Brodie even got a chance to display his singing talents, or lack thereof. His heart-rendering rendition of My Pearl caused tears to flow from theatergoers eyes. The words of which were:

  My Pearl is a Bowery girl,

  She's all the world to me,

  She's in it with any girls 'round the town,

  And a corking good looker, see?

  At Walhalla Hall she kills them all,

  As waltzing together we twirl.

  She sets them all crazy, a spieler, a daisy,

  My Pearl's a Bowery girl.

  Applause!! Applause!! No tomatoes, eggs, or shoes, please. This is a respectable establishment.

  With the play a resounding success, Steve Brodie's Saloon was even more popular than before. With his newfound wealth, Brodie substantially upgraded his attire. Brodie now lorded over his saloon resplendent with a five-carat diamond ring on his finger, diamond studs instead of buttons on his shirt, and a gold watch and chain, hooked onto his belt loop and slipped into his front pants pocket.

  But alas, Brodie's wealth and success were short-lived.

  On January 31, 1901, Steve Brodie died from complications due to diabetes. The man who had “jumped” from the Brooklyn Bridge was only 40 years old when he left this earth.

  However, after Brodie's death he became more famous than ever before. Not wanting to disparage a dead man's name, the rumors of Brodie's chicanery concerning the Brooklyn Bridge dive became almost non-existent. In fact, a new American phrase was coined: “Pulling a Brodie,” or, “Taking a Brodie,” which meant doing something dangerous, or maybe even suicidal.

  In 1933, Hell's Kitchen actor George Raft portrayed Brodie in The Bowery, a film directed by Raoul Walsh. In this movie, Raft (Brodie) attempts to stage a fake jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. With a crowd of 100,000 people congregated at the bridge, and with a dummy all set to be thrown in the river, the dummy inexplicably disappears.

  Raft's young accomplice, aptly named Swipes (played by child actor Jackie Cooper) tells Raft, “They were hip to us so they copped it.”

  Raft shrugged his shoulders, and not w
anting to disappoint the panting crowd, he made the daring jump into the drink himself.

  And to the applause of the crowd, George Raft (Steve Brodie) survived.

  Kiddies, this happens only in the movies.

  Connors, Chuck – The Mayor of Chinatown

  Chuck Connors was a scam artist of the highest caliber and the most famous white man in Chinatown history. Because of his gregarious nature, Connors was called the “Mayor of Chinatown,” even though Chinatown had its own elected Chinese Mayor, Tom Lee, the leader of the On Leong Tong.

  George Washington “Chuck” O'Connor claimed he was born on Mott Street in Chinatown, but most likely was born in 1852 in Providence, Rhode Island.

  Telling the truth was never Connors's strong point.

  When Connors was a teenager, he changed his last name from O'Connor to Connors. Rumor had it that “Connors” had less of an Irish ring to it than “O'Connor,” and the Irish were strongly associated with the police for whom Connors had no fondness.

  Connors's early nickname in Chinatown, for some reason, was “Insect,” but he soon was called “Chuck” by everyone, because he loved to cook chuck steaks by hoisting them on a stick and searing them over small fires he set in the streets of the Bowery and Chinatown. At various times in his wacky life, Connors was also called the “Sage of Doyers Street,” and the “Bowery Philosopher.”

  As a young boy, Connors enjoyed tormenting the Chinese men by pulling on their pigtails, and then making his getaway by sprinting through the streets, usually with an angry Chinaman chasing him with a big knife. As a teenager, Connors learned to speak Chinese, which eventually endeared him to the Chinatown population.

  As he grew older, Connors became a professional pugilist, and then a bouncer at Scotchy Lavelle's joint at 6 Doyers Street. Connors also frequented Tom Lee's dive at 9 Bowery, affectionately called “The Dump,” which was said to have “the dirtiest species of white humanity ever to be found.” (Strangely enough, even though there were dozens of bars in the Chinatown area, some even owned by Chinese men like Tom Lee, hardly any Chinese people frequented these places, preferring opium dens as their mode of relaxation and inebriation.)

  During this time, Connors palled around with a Chinatown street thug named Big Mike Adams. Whereby Connors was playfully mischievous concerning his actions with the short and slim Chinese male population, Adams was downright deadly. Working as an enforcer for the local tongs, Adams bragged he killed a slew of Chinamen by decapitating them with his huge knife. Once in full view of dozens of witnesses, Adams forced three Chinamen onto their knees in broad daylight. Then, as the crowd screamed in horror, he decapitated them one by one. Adams's big piece of work was when, working for a rival tong, he decapitated Hip Sing Tong leader Ling Tchen.

  After it became clear Adams was out of control, Connors kept his distance. As Adams became more belligerent against the Chinese, Connors developed a closer relationship with them. Adams lost much face when he was attacked on Pell Street by a drunken Hip Sing gangster named Sassy Sam. Adams, supposedly a tough guy, ran through the Chinatown streets screaming like a little girl, as Sassy Sam, swinging a Chinese ceremonial sword, chased Adams. This sign of weakness was Adams's undoing.

  A few weeks later, Adams was found gassed to death in his Chinatown apartment. With the windows and doors in Adams's room closed off, someone had inserted a small rubber tube into the room's keyhole. The rubber tube was attached to an open gas jet in the hallway. That someone was believed to have been Chuck Connors, who did the job as a favor to his Chinese friends.

  After Adams's death, Connors decided that maybe the streets of Chinatown were not too safe for him anymore. Adams had friends in Chinatown, and Connors heard rumors that they were gunning for him. His incessant drinking was also a hindrance to Connors's health, so Connors moved uptown to start a new life.

  No drinking. No doping. No more heavy-handed work.

  Soon, Connors met a woman he liked named Nellie, and he married her. To support himself and his wife, Connors took a job as a conductor on the Third Avenue El. During this period of marital bliss, Nellie taught Connors how to read and write.

  But alas, the education of Chuck Connors came to an abrupt end, when Nellie died suddenly. As a result, Connors went back deep into the bottle. One day Connors got so drunk, he was shanghaied onto a ship, which set sail for London, England.

  In London, Connors escaped his captors and hid in the inner city of Whitechapel. Connors made friends with the local costermongers, who were people who sold fish and produce from street stands and carts.

  Connors absorbed and copied the local culture, and when he returned to his old New York City haunts, he was dressed smartly in the costermonger attire of bell-bottom trousers, blue striped shirt, yellow silk scarf, and a blue pea coat, resplendent with big pearl buttons, which also traveled down the seams of his trousers.

  Connors's transformation included a little song he had learned on the other side of the pond:

  Pearlies on my front shirt,

  Pearlies on my coat,

  Little bit of dicer, stuck up on my nut,

  If you don't think I'm de real thing,

  Why, tut, tut, tut.

  The “little bit of dicer” Connors wore on his head was a derby two sizes too small, instead of the traditional costermonger cap which was frowned upon by the Bowery residents.

  It was around this time that Connors became a bit of an eccentric (if he wasn't one already). With no visible means of support, Connors became best pals with Police Gazette publisher Richard K. Fox. Fox owned a row of buildings on Doyers Street, and he let Connors live at 6 Doyers Street rent free, as long as Fox could regale his readers with the real and imagined exploits of “The Great Chuck Connors.” Fox even co-wrote Connors' autobiography called Bowery Life, in which he called Connors the “Mayor of Chinatown,” which solidified Connors's reputation for life.

  According to Luc Sante's wonderful book about the underbelly of New York City entitled Low Life, Fox's writings about Connors “was included in a series that otherwise ran mostly to boxing, wrestling, club-swinging, and poker manuals, was illustrated with photographs of Chuck in typical costume, striking poses (cigar in corner of mouth; one hand pointing forward with index, or back with thumb; the other hand in coat pocket with thumb sticking out; legs set apart, one forward, one back; pail of beer at the ready).”

  The text of Fox's writings is dotted with many of Connors's unique colloquialisms, such as:

  Here's to me new graft. I'm one of dose guys now wot gits

  ink all over his flippers and looks wise. Say, it's a cinch,

  and I've got some of dem blokes wot writes books skinned

  a mile.

  Or, Connors's musings on what he would do if he became a millionaire:

  Me headquarters would be de Waldorf, but I would hev a

  telephone station in Chinatown, so I could get a hot chop

  suey w'en I wanted it quick. Ev'ry mornin' at 10 o'clock – or

  near dere – I'd call up me Chat'am Square agent an' tell

  him ter give cologne ter der gals an' segars an' free lunch ter

  der gorillas. Ev'ry bloke dat wuz hungry would have a feed

  bag an w'enever he wanted it. How does dat grab yer?

  With no visible means of legal support, Connors had to find himself a quick way to make a buck. And he did so by becoming, what was called in those days, a “lobbyglow”: Chinese slang for “tour guide.” Connors worked the Bowery area, where there was some competition for his services. However, Chinatown, because of Connors's closeness to the Chinese leaders, was Connors's exclusive territory. No other lobbyglow would dare enter Chinatown with his customers.

  Connors specialized in what was called “the vice tour,” where Connors would take his customers to seedy venues to witness the depravity of the Bowery and Chinatown. While other lobbyglows took any curiosity seeker who could pay the freight, Connors, because of his fame as the Mayor of Chinatown, speciali
zed in bringing celebrities from all walks of life on his tours. Some of Connors's customers included Sir Thomas Lipton, novelists Israel Zangwell and Hall Caine, actors Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, and Anna Held, and Swedish and Danish royal families. Of course, because of Connors's cache in the Chinatown and Bowery areas, he was able to charge higher prices than his competition, especially to the swells just noted who could certainly afford it.

  During Connors's “vice tour,” he would regale his customers with stories of hatchet murders and white slavery. But the highlight of Connors's tour was when he showed his customers the inside of a real-life opium den. These dens, of which Connors had several, were, in fact, total fakes. Connors employed several Chinese accomplices to stage his fabrications.

  Two of Connors's cohorts were George Yee and his wife Blond Lulu. As soon as Connors gave them the secret knock on the door signaling his impending entrance with his crew, George and Lula would fake a drug-induced stupor, while smoking something purported to be opium, complete with the exotic aromas.

  Then, as the tourists watched in amazement, Connors's assistant would proceed with a solemn monologue, spoken through a megaphone, saying, “These poor people are slaves to the opium habit. And whether you came here or not to see them, they would have spent the night smoking opium as you see them doing it now!”

  Then on cue, Yee would stop smoking and stagger to his feet. Yee would start dancing slowly, gyrating his body in a suggestive way, while singing a little ditty entitled Alle Samee Jimmy Doyle. Connors would tell his enthralled customers that this was unimpeachable evidence that Yee had become crazed due to the effects of his non-stop opium smoking.