A Bloody Business

by Dylan Struzan

  “Your Jewish friends teach you that?”

  “What if they did?” Charlie says. “The point is that none of us are really welcomed here. We can get our asses kicked back to Italy anytime they want. Why not make the most of it while we’re here? Whatever we got going, we got more when we got it together. You wanna come along for the ride? No pressure. You do what you want to do but ignoring bootleg is, in my opinion, a mistake. You can do your business for the Italians but you’ll make a helluva lot of money in bootleg.”

  “What’s your proposition,” Sabella says.

  “Let Meyer and Niggy come in and we’ll talk business.”

  Sabella nods and the negotiations begin.

  * * *

  The day before Christmas, Al Capone’s seven-year-old son is stricken with a severe mastoid infection that leaves him irritable and lethargic. His ear bulges and droops. Gooey pus dribbles out. The doctor covers the boy’s ear with gauze.

  “He needs surgery right away,” the doctor says.

  Capone calls a New York surgeon and then checks the schedule for the Limited. The boy whines and screams from Chicago to New York City. They race to the hospital where Capone’s surgeon is standing by. Dutifully, Capone and his wife wait as the boy goes under the knife. When Sonny is safely nestled in his mother’s arms, Capone heads to the Adonis Social Club for a pre-Christmas break from domesticity and an opportunity to take care of a little business.

  On Christmas Day, the Times informs the people of New York that the leader of the White Hand Gang, Peg Leg Lonergan, is dead, killed at a ramshackle Brooklyn cabaret on Twentieth Street. In other words, the Adonis Social Club. The newspaper warns of the probability of a serious gang war between the Irish and the Italians now that the White Handers have suffered the loss of their leader and two of his “aides” who were also killed by the rival gang.

  Capone reads the morning paper and smiles, pleased with the night’s work. Meyer reads the news and sighs. The violence is too close to home. He folds the paper and wanders to the window of his flat. Snow gently falls on the streets below and, along with it, a hush. The Chanukah spirit evades him. Christmas, too, for that matter. His mind prefers to busy itself with the chance that Frankie Yale has cashed in on his deal made with Capone, Dean O’Banion’s murder in exchange for Peg Leg Lonergan.

  Meyer heads to the Claridge where Benny punches numbers into an adding machine and Adonis stands by the desk.

  “What went on last night?” Meyer says.

  “I was there,” Adonis says. “That loudmouth Lonergan came in shooting off his trap. Too bad for him Al Capone dropped by. A couple of broads came in, Irish girls. They were with Italian guys. You know Lonergan. He can’t hold his liquor or his tongue. He yells at the girls like they’re a couple of sailors: ‘Fer chrissake!’ He tells them to get out and come back with white men. His boys fall out laughing. These guys come to the club to give the Italians a hard time. It’s a sport. What the hell? The Irish love a good fight. He should just slap Yale and get it over with but the goddamn mick’s gotta get stinking drunk before he walks into the club and roughs up the clientele.”

  Meyer listens calmly with no hint of his inner concerns.

  “He sees Capone and shouts,” Adonis continues, “‘I can lick the whole bunch a ya single-handed.’ Capone doused the lights. Bullets flew. People dove under tables.”

  Meyer says, “Was this Capone swapping with Yale for the murder of Dean O’Banion?”

  “Nah,” Adonis says. “It just happened.”

  “That’s a lot of heat to bring down on the neighborhood,” Meyer says.

  “The Astors don’t hang out in Brooklyn. Nobody gives a damn what happens there.”

  Meyer says, “The common man cares. Don’t kid yourself. He’s got sons and daughters on those streets. If you’re connected to the trouble, we all fall under scrutiny. You should think of that. Buckner is happy to add us to his little black book. We won’t be able to walk down the street without a tail. Who needs it? If you’re smart, you’ll play it low-key.”

  The hard-nosed Adonis finds the revelation hard to swallow. Meyer’s words are not so much wisdom as they are a mother hen trying to corral her chicks.

  Adonis says, “The Irish problem has been neutralized. Ain’t that good enough?”

  Meyer says, “Where’s Capone?”

  “He’s gone back to Chicago. He’s got his alibi. He was at the hospital with his kid, for Christ’s sake.”

  * * *

  December bleeds into January. Rosen gets busy making connections in Philadelphia. He shuttles back and forth to Manhattan. Meyer keeps up appearances at the Cannon Street garage. He pulls on a heavy wool sweater and lights another cigarette. He has an hour to peruse the newspaper before the Mutt and Jeff Club meet at Ratner’s but the newsboy is running late. Meyer will have to wing it without the knowledge of today’s news if the boy dallies much longer.

  “Dry law conspirators heading to court!” the kid yells, jumping indoors from the winter storm.

  He gives his head a toss, shaking wet snow from his brown cap and then folds a paper and sends it sailing through the air toward Meyer’s desk. It smashes into a cup of coffee. Meyer looks up from the mess. The kid is gone.

  The brown stain highlights the news: W. V. Dwyer, J. J. McCambridge and 59 others indicted for conspiracy to break dry law, some also indicted for sending men to sea in unseaworthy vessel and for bribery of Coast Guard. E. Caperton accused of using airplane to direct rum ships…

  It is the biggest Prohibition bust ever and still there is no word on the street regarding Hans Fuhrmann, the ship captain who is slated to testify against Waxey Gordon.

  Meyer reaches for a cigarette. The pack is empty. He throws on an overcoat and slogs to the corner market.

  “Can you believe it?” says the brassy brunette behind the cash register.

  Her hair falls gently to her shoulders. Her eyes pierce the icy gloom of the January storm that spreads a shiver through the shop.

  “As mild as May,” she says, a Marlboro dangling from between her fingers.

  She adjusts the shawl collar of a white lace blouse and tugs at the ends of the sleeves. Her name is Anne Citron and her father owns the store. Meyer knows of her but has never been ballsy enough to speak with her.

  “Who needs an icebox when you’ve got January?” Anne prods. “I see they got the gunsel twins, Waxey and Maxey. I’m sure you know that by now.” She picks at a piece of tobacco on her tongue. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that the government only rounds up criminals of ‘exotic origin’?”

  “What?” Meyer says.

  She winks. Picks up a small brown bag and rattles it toward the bootlegger.

  “I could offer you an almond. My father gets them from a cousin in Israel but you don’t look like the kind of guy that celebrates Tu B’Shvat. My cousin worries that those of us born in America are losing our identity. Eretz Yisrael and all that.” She raises her eyebrows, gives Meyer the once over. “Almond?”

  Anne shoves her pack of Marlboros across the counter to Meyer.

  Meyer laughs. “The British gave Yisrael to the Arabs.”

  He takes a cigarette and lights up.

  “Arabs, shmarabs,” Anne says. “Look.”

  She peels back the heavy curtain that separates the market from the back room. The yeasty beer smell that permeates the shop finally makes sense. Anne rips a blanket from atop a sea of gallon jugs.

  She says, “What will we eat in the seventh year? Grain, what else? Bran hops, molasses, yeast and water. Eleven percent beer!”

  Meyer stares at the jugs in wonder. This is a woman after his own heart.

  “The perks of being a grocer’s daughter,” she says. “George Washington’s recipe was in the paper. I thought, what the hell? A lotta people come in here looking for booze.”

  “Not Jews,” Meyer says. “Jews are looking for whiskey. And nobody wants to get poisoned.”

  “Are you calling me a lousy cook
?”

  “You want into the bootleg business?”

  “You have to know somebody who knows somebody. Do you know somebody?”

  Meyer says, “What time do you close this joint? The Marx Brothers are playing at the Lyric.”

  “What time?”

  “Seven-thirty?”

  “I’ll think about it,” she says.

  * * *

  Nig Rosen is deep into a plate of blintzes when Meyer steps into the deli. He doesn’t even bother eavesdropping on the morning kvetch.

  “We’ve got a problem with Sabella,” Rosen says. “His guys hijacked a couple of our shipments.”

  “What does he say?”

  “Not guilty,” Rosen says.

  “How do you know he did it?”

  “It was our guys on the trucks,” Rosen says.

  “I’ll talk to Charlie. What else? How’s Hoff?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Hoff. He’s a smart fella. Part of something is better than all of nothing. I heard Waxey Gordon made a deal with a Jersey mayor.”

  “Hague,” Meyer says. “A thin-lipped teetotaler. What’s he doing making a deal with a bootlegger?”

  “The straitlaced types are always trouble. He squeezes the balls of his employees until they cough up a nice little kickback. Gordon is right up his alley.”

  Gordon has located his new business headquarters a stone’s throw from Jersey City and right next door to the end of the rail lines.

  Meyer says, “That’s not good news. Dalitz brings his freight cars through that yard by Elizabeth. It wouldn’t be hard for Gordon to make trouble for us. Be sure you contact Dalitz with the news.”

  “Done,” Rosen says.

  They spend the afternoon cruising Jersey City and the surrounding towns. Meyer makes a mental note of each town’s relationship to the rail yard. By the time they finish, it is nearly 7:30. Meyer has barely enough time to make it back to the grocer’s shop to pick up Anne.

  The Lyric Theater is standing-room only but somehow, Anne surmises the how, Meyer has procured front-row seats. A bell rings from behind the stage curtain.

  The crowd settles and the curtain slides open. On stage is the Hotel De Cocoanut.

  “We want to see you, Mr. Schlemmer!” a bellboy calls.

  The audience howls. Schlemmer is the Broadway equivalent of schlammer which is Yiddish slang for a person who beats people up. Groucho, the unscrupulous Florida land promoter known as Henry W. Schlemmer, takes center stage. The bellboy approaches him. He wants to get paid. A volley of jokes ensues.

  With that, vaudeville officially invades Broadway.

  * * *

  The sixty men indicted for conspiracy to break the dry law come to trial. Dwyer and 23 others plead not guilty to the charge of sending out a boat that is not seaworthy. Hans Fuhrmann, the elusive sea captain, is shot to death in a New York hotel while waiting to testify against Waxey Gordon. Suicide, the medical examiner calls it. Murder, his widow says, but no one is listening.

  Charlie kicks back in his Mulberry Street office and reads the latest news on the case. The phone rings. Joe the Boss is demanding Charlie’s presence. Charlie hoofs the ten minutes to Joe’s Lower East Side office. The Boss waves Charlie to the hardback chair against the wall. Joe stares out the window and puffs the last of his Cuban torpedo. The smoke fogs the window and adds to the yellow haze on the walls.

  Charlie scans the room and stops on the picture of the young bride that hangs behind Joe’s desk. She wears a soft, white dress and long white gloves that cover her elbows, white stockings and white shoes. Her veil sits atop a head of thick black hair and cascades down her back to the floor. A bloom of fresh flowers adorns her left arm. Her face is the picture of innocence.

  An uncontrollable chuckle escapes Charlie’s being.

  Joe the Boss turns to confront the source of Charlie’s amusement.

  Charlie quickly points to the photogravure of the Isola Bella that hangs beside the bride. “Manhattan ain’t nothin’ like Sicily, eh?” he says.

  Joe contemplates the Dragon tree that rises from the dry, rocky hillside above the island’s small bay. Then he looks at the bride.

  He says, “That is my Mama. We spring from the rocks, huh? We have to be tough to survive. Sally.” The Boss uses Charlie’s Sicilian name whenever there are Italian troubles to be dealt with. “You see what we have in Brooklyn? I want you to take care of this problem. Cola Schiro is supposed to be the father to this Castellammarese clan but he is a weak man. This we know. Salvatore Maranzano knows it, too. I know this Maranzano from Sicily. He was with Don Vito Cascioferro. You remember him, Charlie? Cascioferro? The devil has his soul. Ferro and Maranzano are up to no good in Brooklyn. Go to Brooklyn and sit down with Schiro. See what’s in his eyes but watch out for that due-facce Maranzano. He gonna have the same smooth words as Cascioferro, who used to say, ‘You have to skim the cream off the milk without breaking the bottle.’ Then he pretends he is interested in protecting the business of his victims. I know his business, this Maranzano. He will put on a good face for his victims. Let us remove his mask before he gets too strong.”

  Charlie arranges to meet with Cola Schiro at a Brooklyn restaurant but when Charlie arrives, he finds Salvatore Maranzano has taken Schiro’s place.

  Charlie says, “Where’s Schiro?”

  “The weather,” Maranzano says. “Schiro is not well. You will excuse him for his absence.”

  Charlie summons Vito Genovese with the wave of his hand.

  “Go get Schiro,” he says to Vito and Vito is gone.

  Charlie orders espresso, stirs in two spoons of sugar.

  Maranzano says, “Perhaps the worry has made Schiro ill.”

  Charlie says, “What does Schiro have to worry about?”

  Maranzano says, “Joe the Boss is putting pressure on him. He expects tribute. You must know this for yourself.”

  Charlie says, “How has this become your business?”

  Vito escorts a worn-down Schiro into Charlie’s presence.

  Charlie says, “When I call you, you come.”

  Schiro nods. Maranzano watches the compliant family head with disgust.

  Maranzano says, “We are men of honor. The Castellammarese stand as one. Who is Joe the Boss to insist that we come at his beck and call?”

  Schiro musters strength and says, “We have heard disturbing news from our friend in Philadelphia.”

  Charlie looks at Schiro then at Maranzano and back to Schiro again.

  Schiro stutters, “S-S-Sally Sabella…”

  “Do you have business with Sabella?” Charlie says.

  Schiro says, “There are certain Jews in Philadelphia telling him how to handle his business. Sabella says these Jews are with you.”

  Maranzano pushes Schiro’s trembling hands aside and sets his glare on Charlie.

  Maranzano says, “These Jews claim to have your blessing. Salvatore Sabella is a man of honor. We are bound by our honor to each other. You can see why this would be troublesome news. We want to know if this is true.”

  Charlie continues to look at Schiro.

  “Does Salvatore Maranzano speak for you now?” Charlie says.

  The little man trembles. His eyes drop in defeat.

  Maranzano says, “Out of respect, I speak for the family. I have more experience in these matters. It is none of my business how Don Masseria runs his family. It becomes my business when he involves the men of our tradition.”

  Three years of smuggling soldiers from Italy into America has emboldened Maranzano, who relies on the old ways to empower him. He spreads hatred of American ways, calling Joe the Boss a traitor to their tradition. Joe has a mob of disparate backgrounds where Maranzano has a family of pure Sicilians.

  Charlie says, “What is your business with Salvatore Sabella?”

  Maranzano leans forward and cups his hands over Charlie’s. Charlie pulls away. Maranzano musters a fatherly voice.

  “I am suggesting Don Masseria not make the same
mistake that Mussolini has made. Mussolini thinks he will break the Sicilians by subjecting them to his will but he is wrong. Torture makes the heart resolute. Fear must come only by respect. Without respect, a man is nothing more than a butcher. Mussolini sends out Cesare Mori to instill fear and enforce his will. Mori butchers men who do not stand together. We stand together. You must know the things of which I speak.”

  He sits back confident he has made his point using Mussolini’s henchman as his example. Mori has made his way through Sicily with nothing more than two boxes the length of a man’s legs, a leather belt, and a gas mask. With this device, he struck fear in the hearts of the opposition.

  Mori’s torture device has a simple technique. Bind the arms behind the back. Stretch the man over the boxes stacked one atop the other, strap the thighs tight with the leather belt and secure the chest with a rope run under the armpits. Ankles are secured by two iron rings attached to the boxes. Place the gas mask on the man’s face and fill it with salt water. Even the most stoic of Sicilians tends to confess to any sin at this point. If not, a quick tug on the rope, smashing the head on the ground, does the trick. Whipping and burning the feet, twisting the testicles, pulling out fingernails, or applying a vice to nearly any body part leaves Mori with a perfect record of confessions.

  Maranzano says, “A father must think about the needs of the family. A father must maintain order. It is difficult to lead. Not everyone is suited to the job. Julius Caesar said, ‘War gives the conquerors the right to impose any condition they please upon the vanquished.’ We have not been vanquished. If Joe the Boss wishes to be a father over the Castellammarese, let him prove his worthiness not by demanding tribute but by becoming a man of honor.”

  Charlie says, “You walk the neighborhood and come to places like this for the same food your mother cooked. You hear news of the old country. It is all very clannish but don’t let this illusion of Italian camaraderie fool you. Outside is America.”

  Joe the Boss listens to Charlie’s report with the disdain of a rebuffed lover. Joe uses Mussolini’s estimation of the Sicilian mindset, “‘Sicilianism is a mental illness.’” And then, resolute, he adds, “We prepare for war.”