“That’s it?” Benny says. “Twenty-four ounces! And Congress just passed the law…no more medicinal beer.”
Charlie says, “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Benny. You think the Irish flatfoots are gonna turn in guys makin’ beer? Hell would freeze over first.”
Benny says, “I wouldn’t want to be a druggist right about now. The government sends agents out to check certificates. Longy told me about that. He took an office at the Claridge, you know. Just down the hall from us. We’ve got a real syndicate taking shape.”
Meyer turns to Charlie, “What business does Capone have in town?”
Charlie nods to Adonis to spill the contents of Capone’s latest dilemma.
Adonis says, “You heard that Big Jim Colosimo was bumped off. The boys figured they were on easy street without him holdin’ them back. All they gotta do is get a handle on the Irish who run the North Side but who are working their way into the Italian neighborhoods. Torrio wants to make nice with the Irish, which ain’t makin’ Capone the least bit happy. The Irish got the coppers and the politicians. How are ya gonna make nice with guys that have that kind of power? Capone calls in Frankie Yale for support. And Yale tells Capone that the president of the Unione Siciliana is sick and ready to die. You heard of the Unione Siciliana, right? It gives a lot of power to these old greasers. The president has a clear path for putting his fingers into everybody’s pockets. Yale wants Capone to put a guy in the Unione but Capone ain’t Sicilian and the Unione is strictly run by Sicilians. Capone is backing a guy named Angelo Genna, which has the Sicilians in an uproar. Nobody trusts Capone or Genna.”
Charlie says, “Yale’s booze funnels through Chicago to Brooklyn. That ain’t the end of the story. Joe the Boss sees Yale getting stronger with these ties. Now he wants in on the action. He wants Capone to swear his allegiance to him instead of Yale. He’s the Boss. He wants everybody to toe the line under him. That’s why Capone is coming to town. There’s a lot of turmoil. That’s Chicago in a nutshell. Hell, I bet Maranzano was sent over from Italy because of this whole thing. Joe the Boss looks weak in Brooklyn. Why not send in a guy who can take over?”
It’s bad news all around as far as Meyer can see. Mining the wealth of Prohibition depends on bootleggers having a good rap. The pieces of the puzzle are, at best, murky and the solution resembles a plan to organize hell. The war will be a boon to the Reformers but for bootleggers, the public outcry will force the government to get involved, which can only be bad news.
Meyer grabs a bottle of Bordeaux from his desk, Chateau Latour, 1899. “Jack and Charlie sent over a bottle of wine from the Red Head in the Village. They bring it in for the high-society types. This stuff is older than we are. Whadya say we see what all the fuss is about?”
Charlie pulls a piece of Victorian hardware from his pocket, a finger-pull corkscrew with a heart shaped center that looks more like stepped-up brass knuckles than a tool for fine wine. Meyer gives him a look. Charlie shrugs. “It comes in handy.”
Meyer sends the gimlet screw deep into the cork and pulls. The cork slides out with a pop. He pours the wine into four Mason jars he keeps in his desk drawer. The wine is a light brick color. Even without a chance to breathe, it hits the nose with its sensuous bouquet. Benny doesn’t notice. He and Joe Adonis chug the pour and ask for more.
Meyer says, “Beware the Ides of March.”
“Whatever that means,” Benny says, raising his pinky into the air and chugging another round.
“It means, we got a fifty-fifty chance of not living as long as this wine,” Red says.
Chapter Seven
Always Touch Base
LATE 1924/1925
Al Capone hops a train and winds his way from Chicago to New York’s Penn Station. He’s got an appointment in Coney Island, a meeting with his old boss, Frankie Yale. Yale’s hangout is the Harvard Inn, a two-story brick building on Seaside Walk. It is the same place where Capone got his face slashed seven years earlier for admiring one of the Harvard Inn patrons who had the misfortune of having what he considered to be a “nice ass.”
The “nice ass” blushed. Her brother, having had one drink too many to maintain his hold on reason, chose to take a piece of Capone’s face with the edge of his knife. It took an act of god, namely Joe the Boss, to settle the dispute. It was ruled that a guy has a right to defend his sister. End of story.
Capone enters through the grimy front door and looks around. The club hasn’t changed at all since the day he fled to Chicago. He makes his way across the dance floor to a back table where Yale holds court. Yale wants to know what’s going on in Chicago. He wants to know why Johnny Torrio paid Dean O’Banion $500,000 for O’Banion’s share of the once Sieben, now George Frank Brewery, on Pacific Avenue, which resulted in the luxury of the mick’s betrayal. He wants to know why he isn’t getting more booze. After all, it has been nearly five years since Capone and Torrio set up housekeeping in Chicago at Frankie Yale’s behest.
Capone listens to Yale gripe. He still respects his mentor. Yale smirks that a well-heeled gangster like Johnny Torrio could have stepped into such a wide-open mick trap.
“It was a setup,” Capone says.
Five-hundred big ones, Johnny, O’Banion had said, and the joint is all yours.
Torrio laid down the five-hundred in good faith. Chump change. That’s how O’Banion had backed out of his partnership with Torrio. About a week later, Elliot Ness and his boys stormed the brewery. The newspapers had a field day. The Evening Dispatch ran the story: Beer Runners Fall Into Police Hands. Two hundred fifty barrels of beer, ten motor trucks, seven automobiles, and thirty men were captured. Ness hit the front page with a bang.
“Did Torrio think that treacherous old mick was on the level?” Yale shouts.
“O’Banion had a cop on the inside who tipped him off that the brewery was going to get raided but the guy didn’t know when. Ness spotted the dirty cop and took him out of the picture. Maybe that’s when O’Banion decided to pull out and let Johnny take the hit. It was a good business move on O’Banion’s part. I mighta done the same thing myself. Ness busted in, all right, but he got nothin’. The story was all a fabrication for the press. You know the reason for that. If Ness don’t get publicity, he don’t get no federal money and then what’s he gonna do for a livin’?”
Yale yells for ziti and another pitcher of cheap beer. When it arrives, he pours two pints, one for himself and one for Capone. Capone guzzles the beer. His head swims with the dull thud of his days at the club working under Yale. Frustration etches the furrows of his brow. Torrio might have made the blunder of the decade but at least he isn’t cheap.
Capone says, “Johnny is too soft on the Chicago micks. Peace, peace, peace. That’s all he thinks about. O’Banion don’t give a shit about peace. He’s a cocksucking North Sider, for God’s sake. Johnnie’s got the idea a partner ain’t gonna take advantage. This ain’t fucking Wall Street. I saw the betrayal in O’Banion’s eyes. His head got away from his hat. Them Irish had a good laugh. We grease the cops with a couple hundred bucks; O’Banion comes right behind us with a grand. They run both sides of the law. You know what I mean? Only one way to deal with a cocksucker like that.”
Like oil and water, Capone and O’Banion don’t mix and now the smooth White Hander has upset the police cart in his own favor. The hell with the Italians.
The Calabrese Yale, with mick problems of his own, nods. “I sent Johnny to Chicago to take care of things…to ensure we would get our fair share of the booze coming across the border. If Johnny can’t do the job, you know what to do.”
Capone holds his silence in a long stare and then says, “I know you want this double-crossin’ mick gone as much as I do.”
Yale sloughs off the invitation to do the job.
“O’Banion tried to frame you and Johnny for Duffy’s murder,” he says. “You gonna own Chicago or fuck around with micks?”
Capone scowls.
Yale says, “Angelo Genna will take control of the U
nione as soon as Merlo drops dead. Merlo was never worth spit. He put the kibosh on the O’Banion hit. The Gennas wanted O’Banion taken out way back but Merlo wouldn’t have it. Good riddance, I say. When Merlo croaks, you can take care of O’Banion.”
The Unione Siciliana was meant to settle problems, just not these problems. Merlo is dying of cancer. His days are numbered. Capone sits back and lights a cigar. He brushes the ash from the sleeve of his brilliant green suit.
“Here.” He tosses Yale a Cuban torpedo. “Have some decency. Don’t smoke them cheap cigars in my face.”
Yale takes the cigar. He lights up and catches a glance at the scar on Capone’s face left by Frankie Galluccio’s knife. Scarface checks his watch. By all counts, he has been in Yale’s club too long.
Capone says, “You oughta come to Chicago and pop O’Banion yourself. Cops can’t cross state lines. It’s simple. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”
“Peg Leg Lonergan,” Yale says. “That’s my price.”
“Done,” Capone says.
“What about Johnny?” Yale says.
“Let me worry about Johnny. He will go along with the plan. I’ll make sure of it. Now if you don’t mind, there’s a couple of Jewish guys sluggin’ it out at the Garden tonight. This I gotta see. Ain’t nothing like a couple of Yids knockin’ the shit out of each other.”
Capone musters a convincing smile but it is the brutality behind the dark brooding expression that captures Yale’s approval. After all, he schooled Capone. He knows what Capone can do.
Capone skirts the dance floor and exits through the front door. Outside is Frank Galluccio, the guy that sliced him all those years ago. Galluccio leans against the wall of the club shooting the bull with Joe Adonis. They amuse themselves by keeping count of the natural blondes, Jezebels, gold diggers, vampers, and teases that walk into the club.
Capone says, “You wrinkle your suit leaning against a wall like that. Makes you look like a bum. Get the car, Frankie. We’re done here.”
Galluccio runs for the town car.
Capone slides into the back seat. He takes quiet revenge by making Galluccio his driver. Capone figures that Galluccio is uncomfortable with Capone breathing down his neck. He’s right.
“Get in,” Capone says to Adonis. “Madison Square, Frankie. And step on it.”
“Yes, sir,” Galluccio says.
Frankie drops them at a little slop house where Adonis and Capone meet up with Meyer and Charlie. They swarm a small table. A kid no more than fourteen waits the table. The kid collects the orders.
Capone says, “Prohibition is a whore, gentlemen, and she don’t care who rides her. All these new guys off the street, they only understand one thing. They wanna earn. The trouble with them old greasers is they don’t wanna share, not even when there’s plenty to go around.”
The cook slaps ladles of chili into scuffed white bowls. The kid lines them up his arm and delivers them to the table. He brings hot coffee, hot dogs, and baked beans. Afterward, apple pie just the way Capone ordered.
Capone drags a napkin across his mouth and says, “Where’s the broads?”
Benny says, “Don’t worry.”
Charlie says, “Polly’s broads. They’re at the Claridge.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Capone says.
It’s a good hike to the hotel, enough to let the chili settle. Capone makes time with the whores. Twice satisfied, he sends them packing.
Charlie says, “Joe A. said you wanted to talk.”
Capone says, “I just come from meetin’ with Frankie Yale. Now that me and Johnny took care of the obstacle, Yale wants to call the shots. He is hot and bothered over the Unione Siciliana in Chicago. He wants Joe Aiello to succeed Merlo but it’s gonna be Angelo Genna. Take my word for it. I got no use for Aiello, that piece of shit. Fuck him. If I’m pullin’ strings, then I’m gonna put my own guy up there. What the hell is Yale thinking? Brooklyn ain’t big enough no more? He wants Chicago, too? I didn’t get rid of Colosimo just to put another greaser in his place.”
Meyer says, “What about Johnny? Who does he favor?”
Johnny Torrio fancies himself a diplomat. He, like Meyer, wants to get the violence off the streets.
Capone says, “He’s a fool. You see where diplomacy got him, don’t you? Making deals with the Irish. I’m married to an Irish girl. There ain’t no negotiating. The North Siders ain’t interested in a peace deal.”
Meyer says, “The last greaser war got us the Italian Squad. Lieutenant Petrosino was put on the street to eliminate the Mafia.”
Charlie says, “There’s a new guy in Brooklyn. When Mussolini started going through the villages torturing the Sicilians into turning in the Mafioso, he and Joe Profaci fled. They’re two big Dons. Maranzano brought his soldiers with him. He sees himself as some kind of general. There will be a war but who needs the heat? We got enough publicity agents.”
“Are you with me or not?” Capone says.
“Use discretion, will ya, Al?” Charlie says. “That’s all I’m askin’.”
“I own the goddamn politicians,” Capone says. “I pay ’em enough, don’t I?”
“We make enough, too,” Charlie says. “We run a very lucrative business.”
Madison Square Garden is packed with nearly thirteen thousand frenzied fans. It is the non-Jews who come out in droves to watch Jack Bernstein, the aggressive scrapper from Yonkers. They want to see him get knocked out. The problem here is that Bernstein doesn’t go down easily, not even when he is offered two-and-a-half times the amount he would earn legitimately. Jack refuses to go down without a fight. Tonight, he squares off against the Rockford Sheik. Bernstein sizes up his opponent, the boxer who refused to get wafted into dreamland with a single wallop. Bernstein hopes to succeed where Sidney Terris failed.
The boxers shake hands and return to their corners. The odds favor Bernstein. The bell rings. Immediately the two fighters go in close. The Sheik squeezes the smaller Bernstein making it impossible for Bernstein to get off a good punch.
Capone chomps his cigar in eager anticipation.
Bernstein and the Sheik dance around the canvas. The Sheik is clever. Bernstein has trouble landing his blows. Round after round they clash, bashing each other mercilessly, both too stubborn to go down. It is a match of wits and strength.
In the twelfth round, the Sheik lands a right that leaves Bernstein stunned and wondering what day of the week he’s in. The referee sends the Sheik to his corner and declares him the winner by TKO.
Frankie Galluccio chauffeurs Al Capone and Joe Adonis to the Cotton Club. Then he takes them and the two broads they’ve picked up to the Moroccan. After that, they hit the Plaza and then order room service. A few hours later, Frankie takes Capone to Penn Station.
Capone steps from the car and says, “Give my regards to your sister.”
* * *
The ailing president of the Unione Siciliana finally succumbs to his death sentence. Frankie Yale heads to Chicago to pay his respects, at least that’s the story he tells. He and two others pay a visit to Dean O’Banion’s flower shop to order flowers for the Merlo funeral. While they are there, they take the opportunity to shoot and kill Dean O’Banion.
Capone orders $8,000 worth of roses…from Dean O’Banion’s flower shop. Torrio drops another $10,000. The Mayor, the State Attorney, the Police Chief, and Cook County board president escort Merlo out of this world as his pallbearers. “Bloody Angelo” Genna sends his condolences to the widow and steps in as the new president.
The Catholic priest recites the Lord’s Prayer and three Hail Marys in O’Banion’s memory.
A copy of the Chicago Tribune is spread across Meyer’s desk.
Meyer says, “Dean O’Banion is stretched out in a coffin clutching his favorite rosary…all dressed up with no place to go.” He sneers. “The Catholic Church refuses to let him be buried among the faithful.”
“They had no problem takin’ his money, though, did they!
” Charlie says, punctuating the end of O’Banion’s influence in Chicago.
When the balmy ocean breezes give way to bitter cold storms in Atlantic City, Meyer sends Nig Rosen over to pay a visit to the local sheriff. The town is dismal. The fat lady languishes in Florida. The diving horse grazes in a Kentucky field. “Little Egypt” is missing. The Harem Revelers no longer dance. The roller carts serve as little more than wicker baskets in which the local snakes lay eggs. The place is a ghost town.
“What do we need with Atlantic City,” Nig Rosen had said when Meyer first talked to him about using the city as a port to bring in booze shipments, but the sheriff was making sure everyone knew “The World’s Playground” was open for business year-round. It was Moe Dalitz who first heard the call and he passed it on Longy Zwillman who passed it on to Meyer who passed it on to Rosen.
The value of Atlantic City consists of sixty miles of rail running from the Jersey shore to Philadelphia. The Philadelphia and Atlantic City Railway transports tourists. Moe Dalitz thought the sheriff would be interested in more lucrative commodities. Rail service goes both ways—in and out of Atlantic City. Access spreads influence. Meyer asked Nig Rosen to oversee the possibilities.
It turns out that Sheriff Nucky is eager for business. Rosen sets things up and, before you know it, he’s walking the boardwalk along the Jersey shore with some of Meyer’s guys, waiting for the speedboats coming in from the mothership.
Sammy pays three bucks to see two old mousers with cat-sized boxing gloves taped to their front paws. At the bell, they come out hissing and biting. The bout lasts about a minute, a disappointment greater than Bernstein’s knockout by the Sheik.
“Fried clams?” Sammy says to Rosen.
Rosen moans, “I’d rather eat shoe leather.”
Heavy gray clouds roll across the pier and head out to sea.
“Come on,” Sammy says. “I’m freezin’ my balls off out here.”
The clam house is a small walk-in joint with scarred wooden floors and fading posters on the walls. A drizzle dampens the boardwalk. The boys take refuge in the restaurant. Rosen orders coffee.
A Bloody Business Page 13