Giordano was beside himself when they met the following evening at the cafe. All he could say was, “Good, good.” When they parted, Carlo opened the envelope passed over by the gambling chief and counted one thousand dollars. To celebrate, he spent the next two nights in a fancy brothel.
Over the following three years, Carlo completed five contracts. One more was performed for Giordano, then the parlor owner asked if he would help out a friend of his. Carlo agreed on the condition that Giordano handle all the details. On his way home from the meeting, Carlo chuckled at the thought that he now had an agent, like a movie star.
For his fifth kill, Carlo was paid three thousand dollars. He used only his forty-five, and all skulls were cracked like melons before he walked away. That fifth kill was completed two days before his accelerated graduation magna cum laude with a Bachelor of Science degree.
During this period, Giordano had moved up the ladder of the underworld hierarchy. He used his influence to obtain a position for Carlo with one of the foremost accounting firms - which quietly handled much of Capone’s legal-type enterprises. The pay was good - forty-five dollars a week. The day he began to work, he started night school to learn law. Soon Giordano approached him to take on another contract.
Carlo shook his head. “All that is behind me, Signor Giordano. From now on I wish to work only with the point of a pencil.”
An affection of sorts had sprung up over the years between the twenty-one-year-old public accountant and the gray-haired, bow shouldered, seventy-year-old gambling chief. Giordano nodded his head in understanding and ordered them both an anisette.
Two years later Carlo passed his certified public accountant’s examination with flying colors. Shortly afterwards, at the age of twenty-three, he met Ernestine Brochelli at a bazaar put on by her church. It was not by accident. For the past year Carlo had sought the names of eligible girls for marriage. Realizing that his family background was quite mediocre, he did not set impossible standards or aim too high. But certain prerequisites were required. The girl had to be Italian, old Italian, not the new fancy dancers. She must have a degree of money in her family. Certain names were discarded because the families were too wealthy, for Carlo had no illusions as to his qualifications. He was taller than most Italians, but his thick black hair came low on his forehead, his nose was fleshy, and his teeth were yellowish no matter how often and hard he brushed them. He had spoken grammatically poor most of his life, so now he talked slowly and deliberately to guard against lapses. To many he sounded dull and slightly stupid.
He was attracted to Ernestine because she was a shy, old fashioned girl, not beautiful, but still pleasant to look at, and was the only child of a man who owned a thriving business. Being a cripple, she would appeal mostly to opportunists who aimed for a comfortable job with her father’s company, so his competition would not be severe.
He bided his time for a proper occasion to meet her. His first step was to join her church, which he entered quietly for Sunday mass and left as unobtrusively. It took just two weeks for the congregation to comment about the rough-featured but well dressed man who attended services alone. A month later the church held a bazaar where Ernestine was assigned a booth to sell candies.
Carlo bought a box of candy, spoke briefly to Ernestine, then walked off. In sight of her booth, he passed the candies around to the many children running underfoot. Soon he was back to her booth to buy another box of sweets. They spoke a few extra words during this sale. By the time Carlo purchased and distributed four boxes of candy, Ernestine understood that behind Carlo’s slow, deliberate speech was an intelligent brain. In turn, Carlo received a bit of a jolt to find that, being unable to engage in many activities because of her leg, Ernestine had concentrated on developing her mind. In those short four conversations, she revealed that she knew art, music, world events, politics, and even enough of baseball to mention that Joe McCarthy had visited the bazaar earlier. She did not brag nor act the snob. In fact, Carlo had to take the lead in the conversations. Also, by the time the four boxes of candy were expended, the word had spread among the other booths that the twenty-eight-year-old Ernestine had found a beau.
The next Sunday, he raised his hat in greeting as she entered the church. She nodded pleasantly in return, and her father, a short barrel of a man, and her mother, a tall, well-groomed, quiet looking woman, also nodded courteously.
The following Sunday, Ernestine responded to Carlo’s salutation by stopping to introduce her father and mother. The conversation was brief, casual. Carlo was invited to dinner that very evening.
By the second dinner at the house, Emanuel Brochelli had gathered enough information about Carlo to invite him a third time. Carlo’s family was poor but honest. Carlo had worked his way through school to become a certified public accountant and was now studying law. Brochelli knew the value of good accountants and lawyers, and the combination of the two was dynamic. He came upon stale reports that Carlo had been a roughneck when he was a youngster, but all kids were. The two years of working as a Marker for Giordano was, in Brochelli’s eyes, an asset, for he had used that job merely to earn enough money to enter an honorable profession. That he was now employed as a glorified bookkeeper for a firm which dealt with Capone’s organization was again understandable - it was the means of paying for a law degree. Brochelli was not opposed to the underworld. He disliked their violence and bad manners, but they made good business. As an olive oil importer and distributor, and an important one at that, he had been the target of underworld groups many times. No Italian in the world can go through a single day of cooking without olive oil, so his was a key business. He also imported canned peeled tomatoes and tomato sauce, but these items could be competed against by Italian families raising their own supplies in back yards and by local farmers seeking a market. But his tomatoes were special, for they came from his native province of Catanzaro and were, as he was fully convinced, the finest in the world.
He existed and thrived in the olive oil business by paying protection money to whichever organization was strongest at that time. Whenever a new face appeared at his door with veiled threats beneath the flowery phrases, Brochelli calmly said he would be perfectly happy to sell his products to the new people or take them in as partners on the condition that he obtain a better percentage than he was presently getting, and the new face must deal with his old partner. At the few times when the new face demanded that Brochelli himself tell the old partner to get lost, Brochelli picked up the phone in his presence and placed a call to his partner to explain matters. Two or three times Brochelli had been battled over like a tasty bone between two dogs, and men had been injured. But he had survived and prospered.
Carlo and Ernestine were married in the fall of 1928. Brochelli and his wife were in seventh heaven at how well the newlyweds were getting along. This was not sham on Carlo’s part, as his respect for his wife grew by leaps and bounds until it became a deep, lasting love. On her part, Ernestine’s day began when Carlo walked in through the door and went into hibernation when he left for work.
They settled in a fine, three storied brick house that Brochelli bought and furnished, and in the ensuing months the olive oil importer and his son-in-law became friends and confidants. Brochelli asked Carlo several times to join his business, but Carlo graciously declined. Since the age of nineteen, he had nurtured a secret plan, and every step since taken was directed towards its realization. As a certified public accountant, he had been moved along by his company from the boring job as a glorified bookkeeper to preparing audits and balance sheets of various enterprises that Capone’s lieutenants controlled. His income was over one hundred and twenty dollars a week. The money was not the important motive, for he had tucked away in post office bonds almost fifteen thousand dollars. It was his reputation. He was known throughout the organization as a man who did his work with an efficiency that defied error and with a close-mouthness bordering on muteness.
The following spring, Carlo resigned his
job, they moved to Boston, and he enrolled in the Harvard Business School. The competition and courses were severe, but he had the marks and ability. They rented a large apartment, bought a new sports coupe, splurged on new wardrobes. All was fine, they had no money worries as Brochelli was backing them.
Six months later, Brochelli was bankrupt.
Carlo had sensed that the economy was soft, but was unable to put his finger on it. He was only a man with a sharp pencil, just one quarter of the way through courses which could have explained some of the reasons. He did mention a time or two to his father-in-law that too much was being produced too fast for the incomes of the people to absorb, but Brochelli, now a millionaire on paper, decided to accumulate five million dollars, close out his affairs, then spend the rest of his days fishing with the grandchildren he expected from Ernestine every other year or so.
Black October wiped him out to the last penny, his stocks, olive oil and tomato business, house, furnishings, cars, and his prized collection of gold coins. Fortunately, Carlo’s house had been placed in his and Ernestine’s names, so that escaped the disaster. They drove home at once to move Brochelli and his wife into their house. On the first night, Carlo fed his broken sixty-year-old father-in-law a light Italian supper, then led him into the living room and got him drunk. The next morning he drove him to the post office and turned over to him ten thousand dollars of his bonds. Brochelli wept all the way home, but his shoulders had straightened.
“It makes no difference how bad conditions get,” said Carlo. “The families must have olive oil. Start again.”
And so he had, buying small quantities and peddling it to the shops which remained open and from door to door. Whereas he had last dealt with thousands of gallons, he now sold by the half pint and pint.
Carlo and Ernestine returned to Boston. They moved to a tiny one room apartment, sold their car, and Ernestine worked as a librarian to help meet the bills. Carlo moonlighted as a bookkeeper, but the demands of his courses afforded little enough time for that. It was a harsh winter. Ernestine had a miscarriage and took two months to recover. Money was rationed out carefully by Carlo to last the two years required by Harvard.
The second year was better. Brochelli was staying afloat, and had even put on a salesman to assist him. He finally found a buyer for Carlo’s house, sent his son-in-law the money, then moved his wife and himself to a small apartment. Carlo returned most of the money with instructions to hire one or two more salesmen.
Carlo completed the graduate school with honors, an MBA degree, and a new awareness of where success in any enterprise lay. They returned to Chicago, moving into an apartment near to Ernestine’s parents. Once they were settled, Carlo invited Enzio Giordano, his wife, and his parents-in-law to supper. Ernestine and her mother labored a full day to make it just right. The meal was excellent, the wine mellow, the twisted rope cigars rich with flavor.
While the women washed the dishes in the kitchen, Carlo presented his plan to Giordano. The gambling capo knew he had been invited for a talk. He looked forward to it because he liked and admired Carlo. He also knew of Brochelli and respected him. Carlo’s marriage into the Brochelli family had met with Giordano’s approval.
“Signor Giordano,” said Carlo. “In two years, at the next presidential election, a Democrat will go into the White House. The party can lose only if it nominates a fool. With that inauguration will come the end of prohibition. Most people know that, and think the bootleggers will be finished. 0n the contrary, legalized sales of beer and whisky will offer many times the profits. The question is what will be done with those profits. They earn very little in banks and nothing in safe deposit boxes. They should be put to work. That is why I took the courses I did. Accountants are important people, but more important are those who can invest these sums of money to make large profits. There are just so many distilleries which can be built, so many trucks a man can operate, so many bars which can be opened. At the present time everyone is poor, so there are many uses for the money. But soon an excess will be built up. The excess of one man may not be great. It cannot buy the properties and businesses where important profits can be obtained. But if several men pool their excesses, a great deal can be accomplished. That is my goal, to put these excesses to work.”
Giordano listened carefully. His eyes flicked to Brochelli. The small man was staring at his son-in-law with surprise and admiration.
Giordano knocked off the ash from his rope cigar. “What would you do with the money, Carlo?”
“I would buy into businesses which have great expansion potential. For example, manufacturing dresses. Until recently, cutters made a single piece at a time. Now there are machines which cut up to a hundred pieces at one stroke. Gas and oil distribution. In ten years the highways will not be able to carry the number of automobiles which will be built. Gasoline stations will be urgently needed. More and more homes and businesses are converting their heating and energy systems to oil. The same distributors will have that market also.” He smiled at Giordano. “If competing distributors are forced out by aggressive means.” Giordano smiled back. “The depression may take a number of years to overcome. Land is cheap and will become cheaper. But in time prices will rise and there will be an expanding population seeking land. The best buys now are resort areas; around the lakes, along the New Jersey coast, in Florida. The motion picture industry needs money desperately. As the depression worsens, people will turn to movies for their amusement.”
Carlo leaned forward. “But there is another reason that a man like me is needed, and for a purpose much more important than profit. Shortly before I completed my courses at Harvard, I was approached by a representative from the Treasury Department’s Bureau of Internal Revenue. He asked if I would be interested in applying for a position with the bureau.” Giordano’s eyes narrowed. “It was quite evident that they didn’t know what kind of clients my former firm here handled. That is understandable as the firm is very discreet. But what they wanted accountants for was most revealing. Over ten years ago they formed a highly confidential group called the Special Intelligence Unit. It was first designed to search out dishonest Internal Revenue agents. Now it’s being used to trap people like yourself, and they are employing methods that you wouldn’t believe are possible, even up to the point of reconstructing an entire day’s activity of a bank to trace one small check. I tell you, Signor, as sure as you are seated here, that many of those in your business will soon be sent to long terms in prison for income tax evasion. To protect yourselves, you must destroy all your records, have new books prepared to explain where your income is coming from, and hide for a period of time all the assets you own which could be used to convict you.”
“Must I be without a car, or a comfortable home, or a good wine rack in my basement?” asked Giordano dryly.
“Not at all. The excess monies will be placed in a Swiss bank account. The name of the depositor is a closely guarded secret. From this bank you borrow your own money. You use this money to buy into a business. This business pays you a salary, expenses, and a profit. From these legal sums you buy the car and house and wines.”
Giordano ground out his rope cigar and folded his hands. “And from these businesses, the dresses and oil and land, you make a good profit?”
“Yes. Some will be short term profits, others will take longer.”
“Suppose you do not make the profit?”
Carlo smiled. “Then you should remove the investment manager.”
Giordano chuckled. “That goes without saying, my friend. Do you want me to tell this to Capone?”
“No. Capone is beyond this. He thinks he is out of reach of the law. He will probably be one of the first to be sent to prison.”
Giordano’s eyes became hooded. “Do not speak that way too loudly, Carlo,” he cautioned.
“I am among friends so I can say what I know is true. The ones I would like to speak with are Capone’s capos.”
They talked far into the night. When G
iordano got up to leave for home, he nodded his acceptance to Carlo.
By the end of the summer, Carlo had begun revamping the books and accounts of half a dozen capos in Chicago. He did not do this alone, but built up a staff of close-mouthed accountants to help. Actually, he had formed his own Special Intelligence Unit to counter that of the Bureau of Internal Revenue. Every book and paper was controlled. No notes were permitted to be taken. Each piece of incriminating evidence was burned by the capo himself so he could be certain nothing fell into the hands of the Treasury agents.
Carlo personally went over every asset of the capos. Cars were sold and new ones bought in the names of other people. Houses were mortgaged, predated loans were arranged with moneylenders who could stand an audit to correspond with large deposits carelessly made in banks. Explanations were prepared for withdrawals and expenditures. Amended tax returns were submitted with payments to cover income impossible to conceal.
The capos grumbled at the inconvenience and expense, but went along with Carlo. Two blew up and told him to get lost. Worst of all, the excess fund was not an immediate success. The capos entrusted only small amounts to Carlo, which forced him to move on the fringes of the business world rather than go for the jugular. He made a profit, but nothing like these high-living capos were accustomed to. Still, they remained with him, considering all this as merely a bit of insurance.
Capone’s trial, conviction and sentence to prison that fall for income tax evasion shocked the underworld like no other event. A mad scramble began by all mobsters to cover their tracks. When early the next year two of Carlo’s capos were audited and cleared without penalty, they threw a celebration which was the talk of the town.
I Contadini (The Peasants) Page 19