“Is this Charlie Lucky’s idea? Send a Jew to Philadelphia? Keep the guineas in New York?”
Meyer says, “Charlie and I talked it over. I want you to handle our action. This isn’t your personal Diaspora. It’s a job.”
Rosen cranes forward and scoops spoonfuls of soup.
“We’re gonna need that guinea friend of yours,” he says at last. “You trust him?”
Meyer says, “You don’t have to worry about Charlie. When summer rolls around, take your wife for a nice vacation in Atlantic City. Make your moves from there.”
The conversation three tables away boils over again, this time about the Scopes Monkey Trial.
The old man says, “It took that jury only nine minutes to override the Constitution of the United States!”
Meyer says, “Pack a bag and meet me at Penn Station at six.”
* * *
The taxi deposits Meyer and Charlie at the main carriageway of Penn Station at 5:30. They disappear into the bustle of a thousand passengers making the mad dash through seven acres of travertine-covered steel supports. Steel stairs to the lower platform disperse the crowd among rows of idling trains.
Meyer pays cash for three tickets to Philadelphia then checks his Omega Militar wristwatch. Time is on their side.
“Coffee?” Meyer says.
Charlie looks at the huddled hordes packed tightly among the wooden benches and nods.
Nig Rosen enters the station and weaves his way through the crowd to the arcade where a small cigar shop serves as a meeting place for these expeditions. Sunlight filters through the sloping, glass-paneled roof illuminating the way to the arcade. Meyer and Charlie pick up Rosen from the cigar shop, then fall in line at the café where eager customers eye the crowded counter.
A whistle blows. Steam pours from a departing train. The concourse bustles like a beehive in mid-spring. Two waitresses scurry between the stainless-steel wall of the kitchen and the long, snaking counter that cuts the room into four even sections. The boys shimmy up to an open space. A bleached blonde in a tight black uniform stands on tiptoes to reach across the counter and pour the coffee.
In a twang that speaks of farmland she says, smiling, “What can I get you boys?”
Meyer says, “Just coffee.”
Rosen says, “What kind of sandwiches have you got?”
Fifteen minutes later, Rosen wraps half a roast beef sandwich in a triple layer of paper napkins and they’re off for their connection.
The Limited rattles through a hundred miles of rolling green hills then pulls into the City of Brotherly Love. Despite the late hour, Max “Boo Boo” Hoff is at his desk. Hoff runs his business from the second floor of the Sylvania Hotel. The room is burdened with clutter and smells of pastrami, newsprint, and beer. The walls are filled with a haphazard array of photos and newspaper clippings, a plethora of shots of Max and his corral of fighters.
Max wears a freshly pressed houndstooth suit, the kind made from cashmere, with a three-button jacket in place of the traditional two. The wiry boxing promoter paces a well-worn semicircle defined by the black tether of the heavy telephone held fast in his right hand. Max’s ear is pressed hard to the phone’s receiver. He grunts inauspiciously into the phone then spots Rosen coming through the door, two other men behind him. Max drops the receiver from his ear making an easy catch with his left hand and gives the giant of a shtarker the once over. Max knows the value of a good pair of fists.
Max says, “You ever think of getting in the ring?”
His bowtie bobs up and down along his Adam’s apple as he speaks.
Rosen furrows an insulted brow not because he resents the question but because he disdains the Marquess of Queens-berry rules. Fair play is strictly for suckers.
Max lifts the receiver to his ear and waves the boys toward a worn-out couch slammed against the back wall. Rosen swats a stack of newspapers from the couch. A mudslide of newsprint fills the floor.
Max says, “Jack, I gotta go.” He punches the phone’s switch hook and bawls, “I had those papers in order.”
Rosen says, “Now they’re outta order.”
Max stiffens and musters an insincere smile. He and Rosen go way back to the old neighborhood. Max knows better than to cross the giant Jew.
Meyer says, “We didn’t come all the way from New York to stir up trouble.”
The hand-tailored suit, freshly polished oxfords, Sulka shirt, and satin-banded fedora begs to differ.
“Then what did you come for?” Max says.
“I’m Meyer Lansky and this is my business associate, Charlie Luciano.”
Max raises an eyebrow unsure what to make of the Jewish/Italian alliance. He listens.
“Yeah? What brings you to the cradle of liberty?”
“Respect,” Meyer says without a moment’s hesitation.
Max steps back. His gaze moves from Meyer to Rosen to Charlie and back again. His chest expands like an outraged puffer fish.
Max says, “I knew a rabbi once who used to say, ‘Beware of those who come bearing respect.’ Should I be worried?”
“Let’s cut the bull,” Rosen says. “You know who these guys are.”
Every Jewish bootlegger along the Eastern seaboard knows of Meyer Lansky. As Charlie likes to say, ‘those that need to know, know.’ It is a small world.
“We’re making a few connections in Philadelphia,” Meyer says. “We want you to know that Nig Rosen represents our interests. We know you’re connected to Waxey Gordon and we want you to know we respect that alliance. We’re not here to step on anybody’s toes. If you have a problem, we want you to talk to Nig about it. He’ll work things out.”
That’s how the conversation begins, with Max doing most of the listening and Meyer doing most of the talking. Eventually, the Italian in the room becomes clearer. It comes as no surprise to Max that Italians are moving quickly and heavily into bootlegging. Given half a chance, the Italians will squeeze the Jews from the field.
Meyer says, “What do you want from this business?”
Max says, “The same thing you want. Money. You think I’m in this for my health?”
That’s when the discussion turns to Waxey Gordon’s troubles with the law.
Max says, “I don’t care what happens to Waxey Gordon as long as it doesn’t happen to me.”
“Rejoice not at thine enemy’s fall,” Meyer says, “but don’t rush to pick him up, either. The game is getting rougher, Max. It’s not just getting out to the twelve-mile limit that’s changed things. It’s the guys involved. I’m sure your fighters are good for collections at the local bars but what are you going to do when some of these guys want to put you out of business?”
Max chuckles. It’s finally plain what this business is all about and he’d be a fool not to take advantage of an obvious protection racket.
“Well, maybe that’s right.” He shrugs. “Hey, you hear Tunney and Dempsey are going head to head right here in Philadelphia? That’s right. His agent got the booking. Most people like the sluggers like Dempsey because they don’t understand thinking fighters like Tunney. Don’t get me wrong. Tunney’s got as solid a left jab as Dempsey ever had but Tunney doesn’t waste his blows on the air. He lays out his fight like a chess game. Every swing he takes tells him where his opponent is strong and where he isn’t. He dissects the guy bit by bit. When he’s sure he’s figured out the weakness, boom, he lands the punch that ends the fight. I’m putting my money on Tunney. How about you?”
“A C-note on Dempsey,” Rosen says slapping a hundred-dollar bill on Max’s desk.
Max digs through the cash in his pocket and calls the bet. The money goes in an envelope that Max labels and shoves into his desk. The hour is late. Meyer and Charlie make a move for the door.
Max says, “You hear about George Remus?”
Who hasn’t? The tale resounds nightly around every Jewish mother’s dinner table. The famous Cincinnati lawyer turned bootlegger took up with a golden-haired shiksa named Imogene
. And now that he’s in jail, she’s in charge of all his money and money-making opportunities. Meyer’s relationship with Remus goes way back to the beginning when Remus got those first “certificates of withdrawal.” Meyer thanks his good sense for keeping Rothstein as the go-between standing between him and Remus.
Charlie laughs out loud. He has long held that a gangster should avoid marriage at all costs. He likes to say, “Why pay for a house in Yonkers when you can rent a room at the Plaza?”
“Remus was indicted for a thousand violations of the Volstead Act,” Max says. “I didn’t know there were a thousand violations. Hey…” He hesitates. “I heard…I heard you have the connection…for the certificates.”
“You interested?” Rosen says.
“I could be,” Max says.
“Doctors don’t prescribe much beer,” Meyer says.
“Maybe I’m branching out,” Max says.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Meyer says. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Two years in Atlanta,” Max says. “Ain’t so bad for the haul Remus made. He’ll get back on his feet again.”
“Sure,” Rosen says. “He can salvage what’s left of his business once Imogene and the federal agent she’s in bed with finish selling off everything.”
The boys bid Max goodbye and stroll along the streets of Philadelphia in search of a good diner.
“You think he’s on the phone to Waxey?” Rosen says.
Meyer says, “Waxey is a beer peddler just like Max. If I were in his shoes, I’d be thinking about padding my own account and not Waxey Gordon’s.”
After lunch, they check into a couple of suites on the top floor of the Sylvania Hotel. Everybody winds up in Charlie’s room for a strategy session based on tomorrow’s agenda with the leading Italian in town, Salvatore Sabella. He’s another guy from Castellammare del Golfo, Sicily. Charlie is hoping the thirty-four-year-old Sabella will see the value in an alliance with him and Meyer. It is a stretch.
“What about this Sicilian…what’s his name?” Rosen says.
“Sabella,” Charlie says. “He was sent to Philly by one of the Brooklyn families to get a foothold in the Italian rackets here. He’s plenty strong, this Sicilian. Has a soft-drink café. Brings in olive oil and cheese. Tough son of a bitch, too. When he was fourteen he killed the butcher he worked for cause the guy would beat him for not working hard enough.”
Rosen takes note. Sabella is not Italian. He’s Sicilian and part of the clan that has settled in Brooklyn. Charlie’s prickly situation comes clear. The wannabe Caesar, Maranzano, is turning the tide against Joe the Boss by asserting his dominance over the Sicilians’ clan. Charlie is Joe the Boss’ emissary. He needs to tread persuasively but lightly with Sabella.
“Why are you meeting with this guy?” Rosen says.
“Respect,” Charlie says. “If I’m going to make moves in his town…”
“Since when is this his town?” Rosen says.
“You gotta show respect,” Charlie says. “That’s how the Italians handle things. These Sicilians got hair triggers. Joe the Boss is breathing down their neck in Brooklyn. We let him know we ain’t interested in taking over his territory. Just play along.”
Rosen shakes his head. Meyer lights another cigarette.
“It’s America,” Meyer says. “There’s plenty for everybody. When we were kids, we were all robbing and stealing. It was the Wild West. We’ve been handed an opportunity on a silver platter. If we play it right, we all get rich.”
“Ha!” Rosen says. “And if we don’t?”
He has a point. Violence is the backbone of ghetto life and criminal occupation.
“You want to open up gambling in Philly?” Meyer says. “You’re going to need Sabella’s cooperation. Cut him in for a piece. It’s cheaper than a war and who needs the publicity?”
Outside, a patchwork of office lights shine on vacant desks. Streetlights burn brightly over near empty streets. It is 3 A.M. and Philadelphia has closed its eyes for the night.
Charlie pours whiskey and drops ice cubes into the glasses.
Meyer says, “Nig, there’s a few things you gotta understand about this move. It isn’t the same as when we were kids. I didn’t bring you along to muscle these guys…unless that’s needed, later. This is a business first and we’re gonna conduct it like a business. It’s better to get cooperation.”
Rosen says, “You think you’re going to get cooperation from Sicilians?”
Meyer says, “We’ve got connections all over the country because of Charlie. We watch out for the guys we’re connected with and they watch out for us. You’ll be meeting guys like Sabella now. Philadelphia might be your oyster. We’re bringing in Jews and Italians. Listen close. If Charlie says this guy is a friend of ours, it means he is a close associate, an ally. If he says this guy is a friend of mine, it means he’s with Charlie one-hundred percent. You introduce people, then you bring them along the same way. Everybody who needs to know will understand what that means.”
“When you want to make a deal with an Italian, come to me. The deals you make with the Jews are between you and Meyer,” Charlie says. “Everybody is trying to make a buck. You wanna make a deal, you ask the guy if he wants in on it. He says ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and that’s it. Everybody puts their cards on the table. That way, there ain’t no misunderstandings later.”
Meyer says, “Protection only goes as far as that deal. Whatever else the guy has going on is up to him. It doesn’t have anything to do with our business.”
“Ain’t our problem,” Rosen says. “I get it.”
Meyer says, “You’ve got the idea but not the whole picture. When I say something has to be done a certain way, it has to be done just that way. You don’t have to understand. We’re working things out, me and Charlie. Sometimes you won’t understand until later. That’s the way it has to be for now.”
Rosen nods. He swigs back a glass of whiskey and lights a cigarette. No territory. Connections. It’s an outright criminal democracy. In this business, you can rise. In a hierarchy, a rising star is sure to get knocked back in place.
“Tomorrow, Charlie handles Sabella,” Meyer says.
“O.K.,” Rosen says. “And later?”
“Come to me first if you have a problem,” Charlie says.
“I got the protocol,” Rosen says. “Is that it?”
“That’s it,” Meyer says.
Rosen crushes the butt of his cigarette and yawns.
He says, “What about spreading payola around the casinos? We still doing that? Paying off the neighborhood for good measure?”
“Yeah,” Meyer says. “Twenty-five, thirty bucks goes a long way for the common man. Nobody is gonna beef if you’re running a respectable establishment.”
“Business as usual,” Rosen says. “I don’t know about you gents but I gotta get some beauty sleep. Don’t get up. I’ll show myself out.”
“We’ll meet downstairs at eleven,” Meyer says.
The next morning Nig Rosen is waiting in the lobby when Charlie and Meyer step out of the elevator. He stands, tosses his newspaper on the chair where he was reading, and the three of them make their way outside to grab a cab to see Sabella.
The Castellammarese clan is tight. Salvatore Sabella, fleeing a murder charge in Italy, made his way to the U.S. in 1911. Stefano Magaddino, the big cheese in Buffalo, is his father-in-law. Magaddino used to run the Brooklyn family that the wannabe Caesar is now wooing. Magaddino lives in Buffalo for the same reason Sabella lives in Philadelphia rather than Italy. Famiglia. Joe the Boss flexes his strength in Brooklyn but Joe is not famiglia.
Joe Adonis, as part of Frankie Yale’s mob, is keeping an eye on the escalating tension in Brooklyn. Yale has nothing to do with the Castellammarese but plenty to do with Brooklyn. Nobody knows just how much power the wannabe Caesar intends to grab from Magaddino but their mutual hatred for Joe the Boss is indisputable. It is the force that binds them. Charlie Lucky, who wants to stay that way, holds o
ut an olive branch to Sabella in the hopes that the Sicilians will see him as an ally rather than an enemy.
“Let him earn,” Charlie says.
“And what’s our connection?” Rosen says.
Meyer says, “Charlie and I are partners. In Sabella’s world, that makes us ‘friends of ours.’”
A cab pulls up in front of the hotel. The gang jumps in. Charlie gives the address of Sabella’s soft drink café. The cabby shivers. He knows the café is nothing more than a thinly disguised speakeasy where the city’s gangsters do business from booths inside. It is a short ride from the hotel to the café.
Meyer and Nig Rosen wait outside while Charlie meets with Sabella.
Charlie tells Sabella about the Jews, points out the cab through the window, and says, “I vouch for them myself.”
Sabella rankles.
“I heard you were in bed with the Jews,” Sabella says, “but I wouldn’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” Charlie says. “You’re hearing it straight from the horse’s mouth. I got business with them. These guys are friends of ours.”
“That remains to be seen. What do Jews know about olive oil and cheese?”
Charlie says, “They know a helluva lot about whiskey. Me and Meyer are putting Nig Rosen in Philadelphia. He will be moving booze around the city. I figure you gotta be interested in that.”
Sabella stares out the window at the Jews.
He says, “I got wine coming in from Italy, what do I need with whiskey? You can’t trust a Jew. They’ll rob you blind. What kind of shit are you trying to get me involved with? Joe the Boss put you up to this? Another trick to get the Sicilians under his thumb?”
Charlie breaks a smile. “You afraid of the Jews?”
“Whatever gave you that idea,” Sabella squawks.
“They’re sharp businessmen. I personally vouch for Meyer. He’s my partner in the bootleg business. If he says he’ll do somethin’, he’ll do it. You have a problem with Nig Rosen, you call me and Meyer will take care of it.”
Sabella looks out at the Jews again.
“They look shifty,” he says.
“Bullshit,” Charlie says. “They ain’t no more shifty than the motley throng coming through unguarded gates. You got that little piece of historical reference?”
A Bloody Business Page 16