Jimmy nods.
The Dutchman makes quick work of the distance between him and Eddie. He gives the Italian the once over.
“Who’s this?” he says.
“He’s O.K.,” Eddie says.
“How long before the shipment is unloaded?”
“An hour or so,” Eddie says. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“See that you do,” the Dutchman says. “When you’re done, I got business for you in Jersey.” Again, he gives Jimmy an up-and-down look, nods in his direction. “Can he handle himself?”
“Sure,” Eddie says.
“Come by the saloon and bring your friend.”
The Dutchman passes the dock boss’ payoff to Eddie and then he’s gone. Moments later, the Dutchman’s Lizzy tears across the field and out onto open highway.
The freighter nuzzles up to the dock.
Eddie says, “You mess up…the Dutchman will kill us both. This ain’t like the joint. There ain’t no bulls to stop a fight. No solitary confinement to cool things off.”
“The bulls never stopped nothin’,” Jimmy says.
The longshoremen swarm the freighter’s cargo hold like ants on a picnic pie. Eddie’s booze is the first to come off the ship. The barrel-chested dock boss plants his beefy hands on the back of Eddie’s neck and gives him a friendly shake. Eddie passes him the envelope. The older man flips through the stack of bills, satisfied.
Within the hour, Eddie has a fleet of trucks packing off to a variety of the Dutchman’s drops around town. The last load he keeps for himself. With an address scribbled on a scrap of paper, he gives Jimmy the task of making sure the booze gets to a Hell’s Kitchen warehouse.
“My brother-in-law, Johnny Dunn, is waiting. I’ll get with the Dutchman and see what he wants. Stay with Johnny until you hear from me.”
Jimmy climbs into the driver’s seat of the old beater of a truck cloaked in a bakery disguise. “Quality First” reads the back panel. Trays of bread line the back window. Jimmy grabs a loaf and wags it out the window at Eddie.
“Can you eat this stuff?” he yells.
Eddie laughs, waves him on, and then heads for his tan Chrysler Series 80 cabriolet.
“You lucky bastard,” he mumbles to himself turning over the engine.
He hunkers down behind the wheel and makes it to the Dutchman’s saloon in record time. His step is quick. He passes the boys at the table, gives a quick knock on the Dutchman’s doorframe, and then pokes his head into the back room where the Dutchman and his second in command sit shooting the bull.
“What took ya so long?” the Dutchman says. “And where’s the guy I told you to bring along?”
Eddie says, “I sent him to get his piece.”
Eddie figures even a guy like the Dutchman respects the Sullivan Act, which penalizes anyone caught carrying a gun without a permit with a year in prison.
“When I tell ya to bring somebody, you bring him,” the Dutchman says. He scribbles a note on a scrap of paper and hands it to Eddie. “There’s a guy muscling in on our joint. You know the place?”
Eddie nods. “In Jersey.”
“Take care of this bastard and don’t come back until you do. I don’t care how long it takes.”
Eddie holds in a sigh. This better be worth the time it takes to get to Jersey, knock some sense into the guy, and get back. It’s Eddie’s anniversary and the wife is going to be plenty sore when she finds out that he won’t be around to celebrate.
Bo Weinberg says, “Before you do too much damage to this piece of shit, make sure he’s not with Zwillman’s mob. If he is, we talk to the Little Guy to straighten it out.”
“And if he’s with Gordon?” Eddie says.
“He don’t walk home,” the Dutchman says.
The Little Guy is Meyer Lansky. That’s what he’s being called these days, the Little Guy or just the Guy. That’s how powerful he has gotten. This is the first time Eddie has heard the Dutchman defer to anybody. The thought puts zip in Eddie’s step.
Eddie climbs into the Chrysler and revs the engine. Just an hour ago he was feeling lucky. Now it’s back to normal. If only this was November. The Holland Tube is scheduled to open in November. This is August. The tube would let Eddie zip over to Jersey and back quickly. He might even make his anniversary celebration. But as it is, Eddie will have to take the ferry or bum a ride across the Hudson from a friendly rumrunner. The delay will cost him dearly. He assesses the roll of bills in his pocket. Not quite Tiffany’s but probably a pretty good gold necklace with a charm.
He makes a beeline across town for Johnny Dunn’s operation in Hell’s Kitchen. Johnny and Jimmy are kicking back enjoying a beer when he arrives. The floor is littered with empty bottles.
“Jesus!” he says at the sight. “What kind of help are you gonna be if you’re pissed?”
“Ah, relax,” Johnny says. “Those are from the boys. Jimmy barely touched the stuff.”
Eddie makes a phone call then looks at Jimmy and says, “We got work to do. You got a rod on you?”
“No,” Jimmy says.
“Well, we ain’t got time to change that. Come on, let’s go.”
The seatback is Eddie’s private vault. Tucked in the springs and horsehair is a metal box just big enough to hold a Colt .45 and two clips of ammunition. Eddie slides the semi-automatic pistol to Jimmy who takes note of the details: 1911, U.S. Army. The wooden grips are barely worn. The action tight. Jimmy loads a clip and cocks the gun for action. He slides the extra clip into his coat pocket.
Eddie says, “We’re going to Jersey. There’s a guy puttin’ the bull on one of our joints. It’s my business to take care of him. If you ain’t up for it, let me know now.”
Jimmy smiles. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do.”
They stop at Moore’s for cabbage and corned beef and arrive at the dock just in time to catch the ferry across the Hudson with the rest of humanity. On the Hudson side, a pack of kids, stripped down to their underwear, escape the heat by jumping from the landing.
Eddie flags the guy he called from Johnny’s office for the ride to Max’s bar, the Paradise. Max is preparing for the Friday night crowd. He sees Eddie and breathes a sigh of relief.
“Paradise ain’t what it used to be,” Max says in confidential tones.
He yanks the cuff of his shirt over his hand and rubs out a water mark on the glistening mahogany bar. The locals gather around the sizeable slab to be entertained by Max who prides himself on his ability to predict a customer’s preferred drink by their occupation. Longshoremen drink beer. Single-minded accountants drink single-malt whiskey, but not the pricy stuff. Accountants, Max contends, want something sensible like Glenlivet.
“For you, Eddie, a Scofflaw,” Max says with a grin.
The drink is a combination of rye, dry vermouth, lemon juice, and pomegranate grenadine so-called because of a contest run by Delcevare King, Harvard man, who paid $200 in gold to the person who coined a word for the “lawless drinker of illegally made or illegally obtained liquor.”
“Just some cold water,” Eddie says. “We’ll drink when the job is done. What can you tell me about this guy that’s botherin’ ya?”
“Skittish guy,” Max says as he sets up the water. “Very shifty, if you know what I mean. Normally I wouldn’t bother you with somethin’ like this. I can take care of myself, you know. I won plenty of rounds in the ring. But I got customers to think about and, well, I just don’t need this kinda trouble, Eddie. I figure that’s what I pay you for.”
Eddie downs the water then gestures for the pitcher.
“You did the right thing,” Eddie says. “When is he comin’ back?”
“He didn’t say…specifically,” Max says. “But I don’t think he’s the dallying type. From the way he looted the till, I’d say he’s a desperate character. Maybe a hoppy.”
That’s another blow to Eddie’s evening. What are the chances a hop-headed druggie will strike the same place twice? Eddie looks around the bar.
Two old drunks exchange sloppy smiles over beer and cigarettes.
Eddie says, “O.K., Max. If this guy shows up, he won’t be around until you got enough to steal so me and my friend are gonna take a seat in the back and wait. Give us a pitcher of beer and a couple of dirty glasses. You go about your business like we wasn’t even here. Let’s not tip our mitt to this guy.”
Max nods.
Eddie and Jimmy take a table deep in the shadows. Eddie pulls out a cigarette. Through force of habit, he hides the flare of the match’s igniting phosphorus behind cupped hands. He takes a long draw from the cigarette, leans back in his chair, and fiddles with the matchbox. On the cover it reads, “The Aristocrat of Harlem.” A dancing silhouette of a long, lean, and ample-breasted woman, arms waving high above her head, holds his attention.
Eddie says, “If you had to choose, which would you go without, booze or women?”
“I been without both,” Jimmy says referring to his stint at Dannemora.
“But if you could choose,” Eddie pushes.
“I’d take the broads. You can have the booze.”
Eddie says, “There’s the difference between the Irish and the Italians.”
Jimmy says, “Maybe if the Irish got laid more often they wouldn’t fight so much.”
“You’re one to talk,” Eddie says.
Jimmy Blue Eyes is Jimmy’s nickname acquired for the shiners he sports from the brawls he engages in around town.
“Should be Jimmy Black-and-Blue Eyes,” Eddie mocks. “How come you aren’t running beer? There’s a lot of wide-open territory around Westchester and White Plains. I can get all the beer you can peddle.”
“Payrolls are good business,” Jimmy says. “Nobody wants to take a bullet for somebody else’s cash. Besides, they’re insured. How the hell did you wind up in with a German Jew? I woulda thought you’d be in with Madden.”
Eddie nods, “The Jews control the whiskey business. The Irish bring it in but the Jews got us when it comes to distribution. While you been in the can, they’ve been busy organizing things. You ever try to organize the Irish? Besides, Madden’s more interested in nightclubs.”
“You mean chorus girls,” Jimmy says.
Eddie laughs as he dances the matchbox across the table.
He says, “Listen, when this guy comes in, we get the jump on him before he knows what’s going on. You go to the left and I’ll go to the right.”
Eddie lights another cigarette and checks the time. The door of the Paradise swings open. A blade of light slices through the room. Jimmy snaps to attention. Three and a half years in Dannemora has left him edgy. The Paradise’s door closes behind a shapely blonde with bobbed hair. She coasts over to the bar.
“A sidecar,” Max says.
She nods.
“Relax,” Eddie says. “This guy would be an idiot to show up before the cash register is full.”
Max brings a clean ashtray and a pitcher of water to Eddie’s table. Regulars come and go. The place hops with noisy drunks. Max pours and polishes and entertains with jokes picked up from the burleycues on Forty-Sixth Street.
By 4 A.M., a handful of soused souls with legs too rubbery to walk home are all that’s left of the crowd. No sign of Max’s hoppy. Just as Eddie begins to wonder if Max’s story has been concocted to cover a little skimming, the skittish, shifty extortionist finally shows up. He is tall and nervous and alone.
Although it is August and the Paradise is as hot as a Caribbean island, this scarecrow is dressed in a heavy wool suit. The knees bag, the sleeves are too short. The only item remotely suited to the man’s frame is the plaid “gentleman’s” cap.
He steps up to Max and says, “Where’s my dough?”
Max lifts a stack of bills from the register then flashes a look in Eddie’s direction. He swallows hard at the realization that Eddie and Jimmy are gone.
“A little light,” the bastard says.
And then Eddie and Jimmy are on him. The cold metal of the Army-issue weapon digs hard into his ribs. Eddie grabs the cash and rocks the interloper backwards with the twist of an arm.
The guy screams, “Do you know who I am?”
Eddie says, “The guy who’s just made the biggest mistake of a very short life. This joint belongs to the Dutchman and I’m closing your account.”
The scarecrow trembles; his knees buckle. Eddie keeps him from tumbling to the ground by hustling him through the back door and into the darkness of the back alley.
Eddie says, “Now listen and listen good. If I ever see you around here again, I’ll take your legs right out from under you. You’ll be rollin’ around on one of them wheelie carts like the soldiers out there who got their legs blown off in the war. You got that?”
There is nothing but wide-eyed terror on the scarecrow’s face.
Eddie throws the guy hard against the brick wall of the club, torquing his arm behind his back until the tension of the joints is stretched to near breaking.
Eddie says, “Who are you with?”
“Nobody,” the guy says. “It’s just me.”
Eddie pauses, wondering if the guy is lying or telling the truth. A lone figure of a man appears from the shadows of the alley.
“He’s alone,” the man says.
“Dennis?” Eddie says.
“He won’t bother you anymore,” Dennis says. “I’ll see to that.”
With a kick and a shove, Eddie sends the scarecrow flying.
Dennis steps into the light. He is a world away from New York but the Irish in him sparks quickly with Eddie.
He grins and says, “The guy is a real cake-eater. He wouldn’t touch a hot stove. What brings you to the Jersey shore?”
“He was putting the bull on one of our establishments.”
“You want me to take care of him?” Dennis pulls a bottle from his inner coat pocket and waves it at Eddie. “This stuff’s shite anyway, real rotgut. But it’s great for lightin’ up a place like a Roman candle. I know where he lives.”
Dennis has the gift of lobbing a petrol bomb with the accuracy of a Babe Ruth home run.
Eddie says, “Last time you nearly blew yerself up.”
Dennis rubs his scarred right hand.
“I was a bit pissed,” he says.
Eddie says, “I don’t need none of your shenanigans coming back to haunt me.”
Dennis says, “Have it your way. Did ya see the headlines today? Sacco and Vanzetti…”
Dennis does a mock electrocution, arms and legs shaking and tongue hanging out.
“Say, whadya think, were they really the guys that bombed Wall Street or just a couple of suckers takin’ a fall for the real guys? I know a guy says Vanzetti hated his father. Hated the Church, too. Couldn’t take all the restrictions so he joined up with the anarchists and boom! There goes Wall Street. Go figure. Hey, you wanna go for a proper drink? There’s a great little joint down the street.”
“I’m already in the dog house,” Eddie says. “The Missus.”
“You’re wound too tight. You’ve always been wound too tight. A little anarchy is good for the soul,” Dennis says.
“You’re one to talk,” Eddie says. “Come on, the Paradise owes us. Let’s see what the bartender would serve an anarchist. The ferry don’t run until the sun comes up, anyway.”
* * *
The National Prohibition Law hearings before the Subcommittee of the Committee on the Judiciary United States Senate, sixty-ninth Congress, in April of 1926 resulted in no noticeable change to the landscape of New York’s bootleggers.
Representative Mead has done the math. It will take seventy-five million dollars to enforce the law in New York alone. That’s over five hundred million dollars for the entire country.
Rather than throw good federal money after bad, the senators choose to amend the amendment in such a way that the burden of enforcement is shifted to the states:
Sec.2. Any person who transports or causes to be transported into any State any beverage prohibited by suc
h State as being an ‘intoxicating liquor’ shall be punished by the United States by imprisonment for not more than ten years or by a fine of not less than $10,000 nor more than $100,000, or by both such fine and imprisonment.
The Advocate runs a contest of its own: twenty-six dollars to the person who can come up with a clever phrase for an “unalterable, die-hard dry.” Miss Katherine Greene Welling of New York City comes up with the winning contribution, “Spigot-Bigot.”
Jimmy Alo pokes around the small towns just outside of the Bronx and finds a sheriff willing to take a bribe. Within days he is running Madden’s No. 1 brew to the local saloons. The business makes enough for him to buy a brand new 22’ Chris-Craft runabout. He and Johnny Dunn strip away the green leather passenger seats to make room for whatever they happen to be running.
They take the Chris-Craft out to the twelve-mile limit where bootleggers swarm the motherships in a feeding frenzy. Over twenty ships are anchored and open for business. They fill the Chris-Craft with rum and gin coming up from the Bahamas and cruise in and out of the inlets along Long Island Sound. The high-gloss varnished mahogany bow reflects a bouncing moon. The 150-mile trip back takes them to the Bronx docks under Irish control.
Some of the Irish longshoremen take offense at the cocky Italian’s presence.
“What are you bringing this guy around here for?” one of them says to Eddie. “Guineas multiply like rabbits. You let one of them on the dock and pretty soon you get an invitation to get lost.”
“He’s with me,” Eddie says, trying to ease the tension.
Jimmy ties off the runabout and hefts a case of rum onto the dock.
“Everything O.K.?” Jimmy asks Eddie.
“Everything is fine,” Eddie says.
“Everything ain’t fine,” the biggest dockhand says. “We had enough of you ginzos around here.”
Without thinking, Jimmy rushes in and plants his fist hard into the Irishman’s gut. The Irishman folds forward and wheezes. Jimmy repositions himself, a ramrod ready for action. The wheezer swings and lands a meat-tenderizing blow to Jimmy’s jaw.
A Bloody Business Page 22