A Bloody Business

by Dylan Struzan

  “What kinda deal?”

  “We’ve got shipments coming in from Europe,” Meyer says.

  “And?”

  Meyer says, “You’ve got the numbers racket up here?”

  “I’m strictly in the beer business,” the Dutchman says.

  Benny says, “Ain’t that Irish typically? The beer business?”

  “You worried about the Irish all of a sudden?” the Dutchman says. “They got plenty of power…gumshoes everywhere and Tammany politicians. But I got my connections.”

  “Can you handle our shipments or not?” Benny says.

  The Dutchman sizes up the interest and decides it’s a good move to work a deal with the Bugs and Meyer mob.

  “I’m in business, ain’t I?” the Dutchman says.

  The Dutchman shoves another cigarette in his mouth and lights up. His two-bit shirt and four-dollar suit covered with ash rubs Benny the wrong way.

  Meyer says, “What’s your take?”

  “Five percent,” the Dutchman says.

  Benny gives Meyer a glance.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Meyer says.

  The Dutchman goes back to his scratch pad and figures.

  Meyer stands and nods to Benny.

  “What a schlub,” Benny says, stepping outside. “Who does he think he’s kidding about the numbers racket? You see that saloon?”

  “He’s a schlub with Irish connections,” Meyer says. “Weinberg knows the score. Get to know him. He’s a guy that can be reasoned with.”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “The way he shook my hand,” Meyer says.

  * * *

  September 22 rolls around. Dempsey gets his rematch with Tunney at Soldier Field in Chicago. Al Capone puts fifty grand on Dempsey to win. For six rounds, Tunney holds the lead in points. Then Dempsey pins Tunney against the ropes. Two rights and then two lefts to Tunney’s chin and Dempsey has the champ staggering. He throws four more punches. For the first time in his career, Tunney finds himself dazed and on the canvas.

  Tunney grabs the rope but doesn’t get up. The referee orders Dempsey to a neutral corner but Dempsey hovers over Tunney. A good offense is a good offense.

  Five seconds pass, maybe more, before Dempsey moves off and the referee begins the count. By the time the referee reaches “nine,” Tunney is on his feet.

  In the eighth round, Tunney puts Dempsey on the canvas and the cycle begins in reverse. Even though Tunney doesn’t immediately take a neutral corner, the referee begins the count on Dempsey. The fight ends with Tunney holding on to his title as Heavyweight Champion of the World but the controversy over the count has just begun.

  Capone shrugs off his losses and gathers his entourage. He has a standing reservation at the Bella Napoli Café. On his way out of the stadium, he runs into the president of the Unione Siciliana in Chicago. He invites the president to join him at the Napoli. The president gladly accepts.

  Capone drops into his Cadillac and insists Joe Adonis ride with him.

  “Dempsey was robbed,” Capone says. “It is a cryin’ shame.”

  “The referee was paid off,” Adonis says. “No doubt about it.”

  Capone growls.

  “I heard Charlie was bringing you into the fold,” Capone says. “You like the idea?”

  Adonis gives a nod.

  The Cadillac rolls up to the Napoli. The local riffraff is confronted with two choices: leave or get locked in while Capone enjoys his meal. Joe Esposito, the Napoli’s chef and owner, doesn’t mind. It’s all part of the show and Capone more than compensates for the imposition. Most of the clientele stay and collect stories to tell their grandchildren.

  Esposito busies himself in the kitchen. He romances the flavors of food like most men romance women. He brings out the antipasto, the primi, the secondi, and the contorni. Capone and his cohorts eat and drink and eat some more. When it is time for the dolci, Esposito brings out Ossa del Morti, or Bones of the Dead, even though All Soul’s Day is weeks away. He places the sweet bread shaped like a skull and tibia and frosted in white in front of Capone.

  Capone roars, “My mother used to make this for me when I was a kid.”

  Capone takes a detour into the kitchen to talk to the chef, then returns to the table and stuffs himself into hog heaven.

  Adonis brings the story of his evening with Capone to his new partners: Charlie, Meyer, and Benny.

  “It’s another goddamned Sicilian nightmare,” Adonis says. “There’s a fight for the presidency of that damned Unione. A guy named Joe Aiello is making his moves. This Aiello guy is close to the wannabe Caesar in Brooklyn. He wants the Unione to remain strictly Sicilian. Capone wants to bring all the Italians together and call it the Italo-American National Union. Turns out the cocksucker Aiello approached the chef at Capone’s regular restaurant and offered him thirty-five grand to poison Capone.”

  The details read like a Greek tragedy. Aiello brought five of his best men to the Napoli. Over bowls of lentil and escarole soup, they vented their frustrations about the Unione and Capone’s meddling. When Esposito served a main course of capon the criticism of Capone grew hotter and bloated, insulting Capone’s manhood and power, calling him a castrated chicken. After the meal, Aiello went into the kitchen, as he often did and always with the same purpose, to praise an outstanding meal. And then he did the unthinkable. He told Esposito to make a special treat for Capone and lace it with prussic acid. For taking care of business, Esposito would earn a cool $35,000.

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” Aiello had said. “It will all be over in a matter of minutes. We will all be better off without this gorilla, eh?”

  Adonis says, “Esposito thought, ‘I should live so long.’ He trembled at the thought of Capone coming in for dinner knowing about the bribe. You can imagine. And then he came up with the idea of how to tell Capone of Aiello’s treachery. He made Bones of the Dead for dessert, showed Capone the vial of prussic acid Aiello had left behind, and whimpered ‘I’m a cook; not an assassin.’”

  “Poor bastard,” Charlie says.

  “Capone went into a fit of rage. When he finally settled down, he told Esposito to leave town until the matter was settled. When Aiello found out that Esposito skipped town, he upped the contract to fifty grand.”

  Charlie says, “Aiello is a dead man.”

  “And then what?” Meyer says. “Another Sicilian war?”

  “At least in Chicago,” Benny says.

  * * *

  The first to try to collect Aiello’s bounty is Tony Torchio. Jack McGurn cuts him down before he can even get close to Capone.

  Four guys follow Torchio.

  Capone’s bone pile grows.

  Joe Aiello turns to the Irish mob run by Bugs Moran. The peace treaty between Capone and Moran is instantly shattered.

  The news floats around Manhattan like the mist on a fall evening, reaching everywhere.

  Samuel Bronfman flies into town to wine and dine the powerful Jewish bootleggers. Meyer Lansky escorts Anne Citron to Lindy’s where they meet Longy Zwillman from New Jersey, all 6’2” of him, and his blonde date. For all his wealth, Zwillman maintains a modest veneer. For the life of him, Samuel Bronfman cannot understand why but it doesn’t really matter. Bronfman has Canadian whiskey and Lansky and Zwillman have the market.

  Bronfman pours a round of Champagne and launches into a rant on the Dempsey-Tunney bout.

  “Dempsey was robbed,” he says.

  Meyer says, “Dempsey should have taken a neutral corner.”

  “Hogwash,” Zwillman says. “The ref was paid off. The ref started counting Dempsey out before Tunney went to a neutral corner.”

  Meyer says, “Tunney wasn’t standing over Dempsey when he went down.”

  Bronfman says, “Who’s the better fighter? That’s what everybody wants to know. That fight didn’t prove anything.”

  Meyer says, “Tunney took a break. His point: ‘Why would anyone want to get up early in the same ring with Jack Dempse
y?’”

  Zwillman says, “It’s a goddamn fact that Tunney got to sit on his backside an extra ten seconds. To a boxer, that’s an eternity.”

  Bronfman spends half his time in Canada and half of his time in Manhattan. The law requires it. He’s a citizen of Canada. Now that he’s in Manhattan having dinner with his distributors, he goes back to the consequences of Buckner’s Knickerbocker raid.

  Bronfman says, “Madden must have inherited all of Dwyer’s beer business. He’s gotta be the top Irish dog.”

  “He does all right,” Meyer says.

  Bronfman says, “Frank Costello got off easy. My father never got any respect. Distillers passed out money to anyone who would open a bar in the hotel. We thought that was grand.”

  Zwillman laughs at the whitewashing Bronfman gives the family brothel.

  Bronfman says, “The distillers were the smart ones. They wound up with all the money. Distilling is a science but blending is an art.”

  “Aging is the science,” Meyer teases, remembering the early days of Bronfman’s business when he used formaldehyde to age his whiskey.

  Bronfman says, “I’m buying Seagram’s. I’m going to make it the most popular brand in America. Let the Europeans wallow in their history.”

  Zwillman says, “You’re buying a reputation.”

  Anne puts down her cigarette and says, “Sam’s buying yikhes.”

  Bronfman says, “Prohibition won’t last forever. It didn’t last in Canada. It won’t last in America. It’s worth too much in tax money. You should be thinking about life after Prohibition.”

  Meyer says, “Puritans still run this country.”

  Bronfman shakes his head, “Finances run everything.”

  Zwillman says, “We’re bringing in twenty-two thousand cases a month through St. Pierre. Sam wants to put the squeeze on the supply so that once the deal goes through with Seagram’s, he’ll put his whiskey away to age.”

  “What do you mean squeeze the supply?” Meyer says.

  “Rotgut will disappear when Prohibition ends,” Bronfman says. “You see that, don’t you? Yikhes or not, with Seagram’s we’ll have warehouses full of top-shelf whiskey. If you’re smart, you won’t distribute all you’ve got. Hold back some cases. When the supply dwindles and the demand rises, you will make a fortune.”

  “We’ve got customers…orders,” Meyer says.

  “So what?” Zwillman says.

  The proposition leaves a bad taste in Meyer’s mouth. He’s built his reputation on supplying only the best. Nobody knows when Prohibition will end or even if it will end. The reformers could keep this going for years. Store more than you need and thieves break in and steal.

  Bronfman says, “I’ve made a deal with a guy. He grew up in the Scotch business. He’s got the nose, Meyer.” Bronfman taps away at his own. “I’m bringing him in to create a new blend. We’re going to change the world of whiskey.”

  “Ha!” Anne says. “Even in Canada they won’t take in a Jew with a nose.”

  “Who won’t?” Bronfman twists his face in confusion.

  Anne says, “Do you really think you can buy your way into polite society?” She gives Bronfman a cockeyed grin. “Say it ain’t so.”

  Bronfman says, “Money talks.”

  Meyer says, “Never loud enough.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The House Always Wins

  AUGUST 1927

  Like a bear emerging from hibernation, the Dutchman rattles and bumps his way to a Bronx beer drop in a beat-up, aging jalopy. He is obsessed with his 1923 Model T Runabout. He believes the Lizzy, this Lizzy, with the modified cylinder head, oversized carburetor, upgraded manifold and fuel pressure system that transformed the 20-horsepower L-head engine into a fuel-burning, ass-hauling demon, will deliver him from all evil.

  Although Henry Ford promises a sleeker, more powerful Model A that will be priced at a “reasonable” $385, the Dutchman curses Ford and the last of the Model T’s scheduled to come off the assembly line in June. The Dutchman gruffly resents change.

  “If it ain’t broke, don’t replace it!” he growls at Weinberg, his right hand and strong-arm, who drools over the new top-of-the-line Town Car with a water-cooled, 4-cylinder engine.

  Weinberg says, “The pleasure of a nice vehicle offsets the pain. What’s fourteen hundred bucks to guys like you and me?”

  With a cold stare the Dutchman says, “What kinda sucker you take me for?”

  The Dutchman doesn’t have anything against Weinberg, or Henry Ford, for that matter. He just likes things to stay put.

  He pauses along his journey where the Hutch dumps into the East River and sniffs at the air. He knits his brow into a fierce tapestry of concentration and confusion. A garbage barge lumbers dutifully on its way out to sea. The dock commissioner wasn’t thinking of Dutch Schultz when he had the Hutch dredged to a depth of twenty feet to open the five-mile stretch of river to business, manufacturing, shipping and rail service.

  The Dutchman’s partner in the Hub Social Club, a fast-talking, deal-making dynamo named Joey Noe, wants to expand. The adding machine in the Dutchman’s head tallies the cost. If he controls the shipping and rail along the small towns that dot the river from Scarsdale to Eastchester Bay and makes a connection with Meyer Lansky, his profit could double, maybe triple. The mere thought of all that cash makes his fingers break out in a sweat.

  He punches the gas and beats a path to the docks where Eddie McGrath waits, impatiently, for the arrival of a whiskey shipment coming in from Ireland. Eddie’s connection to the homeland runs through Owney Madden, who took over Big Bill Dwyer’s action when Dwyer retired after the bootleg trial.

  Eddie scans the horizon but finds only the sun inching its way into view. The Dutchman pulls his jalopy into the empty field across from the docks. The field is littered with old newspapers and an assortment of idle men keeping warm over oilcan fires.

  A flock of black birds scatter as the Dutchman trudges across the field. He snorts at the line of longshoremen waiting for breakfast at the small café kitty-corner to the docks.

  Eddie flicks a cigarette butt to the ground. He stares at his watch and then looks back at the horizon. The Dutchman walks up behind him.

  “Where’s the booze?” the Dutchman says, his haircut flopping in the breeze.

  “Who the hell knows?” Eddie shakes his head calmly. “Ship captains aren’t bankers, ya know.”

  The Dutchman paws at his stinging eyes.

  “Chili peppers,” Eddie says. “They’re unloading them on the next dock. Those guys get the worst of it. Saw a guy once with a face looked like a baboon’s butt. His wife hadda come walk him home on accounta his eyes were swollen shut. Makes you wonder what he did to piss off the dock boss that much.”

  “I’m goin’ for coffee,” the Dutchman says without a trace of emotion. “Come get me when the ship comes in.”

  The sign above the café door reads “Breakfast All Day.” The Dutchman elbows his way to a place at the counter. The server swabs up crumbs and coffee rings.

  “Tough luck about them anarchists,” the server says referring to last night’s electrocution.

  Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti, accused and convicted of the anarchist plot that blew up Wall Street, are dead. The papers say so.

  The Dutchman says, “Coffee and a roll.”

  The server throws an extra day old roll on the Dutchman’s plate.

  He says, “You think they blew up Wall Street? Everybody says they were innocent. Helluva thing, that explosion. They still got pock marks on the buildings.”

  The Dutchman dips the stale roll into milky coffee and fills his mouth. The chummy server scowls and moves on.

  A barrel-chested Irishman barges through the labor pool and taps the Dutchman on the shoulder. The Dutchman spins around grabbing the cold steel of the handgun in his pocket.

  The Irishman holds up empty palms. He is the dock boss with whom the Dutchman has an agreement for favored treatment
of the load coming in from Ireland.

  The Irishman says, “You got my money?”

  The Dutchman says, “You got my shipment?”

  The Irishman flashes an easy smile and says, “It’s only a matter of time so why don’t ya be a good sport and pay up.”

  A bushy shock of gray hair on either side frames the Irishman’s tanned face. A steely, shifty look fills his eyes.

  The Dutchman drops a nickel on the counter.

  “Outside,” he says.

  They step out into the humid August morning. The dispatcher, perched high on a warehouse roof, hikes a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He searches the river then looks down at Eddie. Nothing.

  An idling tug churns the briny waters, unleashing a stench of seaweed and decomposing garbage. Eddie sheds his suit jacket and loosens his tie. He checks his watch. Even a captain avoiding the Coast Guard should have had enough time to make it to the docks by now.

  The Dutchman turns to the barrel-chested Irishman and says, “Eddie will take care of your end once he gets the goods. That’s our arrangement. That’s the way it will stay.”

  A cocky Italian passes by them heading for McGrath. His suit jacket is basic black, his trousers gray, his shirt white and freshly laundered. He wears it unbuttoned at the neck and with no tie.

  Eddie dwarfs the Italian by a good six inches.

  “How did you know where to find me?” Eddie says to the Italian, who didn’t rat out his accomplices in a jewel heist four years earlier.

  The Italian, a guy named Jimmy Alo, is an asset. Since his release from prison, he’s been on more than a few payroll heists with Eddie and the boys.

  The dispatcher yells through a megaphone, “Here she comes.

  Here she comes.”

  Eddie tosses the morning paper aside. It lands with the above-the-fold story showing: Sacco and Vanzetti put to death early this morning; Governor Fuller rejects last-minute pleas for delay after a day of legal moves and demonstrations.

  Jimmy reads the headline and snorts. The anarchists never stood a chance. Somebody had to be punished for the Wall Street debacle. Jimmy watches as the idling tug throws off its bowline and noses toward the incoming freighter.

  Eddie says to Jimmy, “I might have something for you if you play your cards right. You see the guy coming our way, the slobby looking guy? That’s the Dutchman. When he gets here, keep your mouth shut. I’ll do the talking.”