“Amein,” the congregation responds.
“Amein.”
Rothstein’s casket is taken to Union Field Cemetery in Queens and nestled next to his brother, Harry. His marriage to the Catholic Carolyn is forgotten and forgiven now that they are forever separated in death.
Amein.
Abraham Rothstein, the man who could not settle the strike in the garment district, makes peace with his God. His son is no doubt in Gehinnam, the place of spiritual purification. Abraham lingers at the gravesite hoping that his son will do the right thing, pay his dues over the course of the year ahead of him. If the price paid is enough, Arnold Rothstein’s soul will be free to ascend to Olam Ha-Ba, the world to come.
Amein.
Arnold Rothstein fades from front page news as the presidential election, a race between a Catholic and a Quaker, heats up. The moment Herbert Hoover dubbed the Holland Tunnel the Pope’s conduit to the White House, Rothstein had placed his wager on Herbert Hoover to win. He had no illusions a Catholic could ever beat the odds. He stood to make a cool half a million dollars, $570,000 to be exact, when the Catholic Al Smith was defeated.
In death, Rothstein’s ship comes in. Herbert Hoover wins by a landslide, 444 electoral votes to Al Smith’s 87. Only one problem, nobody knows where Rothstein’s winning ticket has gone.
Carolyn, Rothstein’s shiksa wife, wails.
Legs Diamond, Rothstein’s bodyguard turned drug-dealing partner, wanders through his midtown apartment and laughs out loud. He laughs that McManus can’t lay his hands on the $570,000. He laughs that the police think McManus might be innocent. He laughs that two million dollars in narcotics that was part of his deal with Rothstein was seized in a raid on an “alleged Rothstein ring.” He laughs that Arnold is gone and along with him the biggest deal of Legs’ miserable life.
Legs says, “What a dub.”
The waiters at Ratner’s Deli dish up the daily news like knish at a Bar Mitzvah.
“They said the Black Sox Scandal would kill baseball. It’s the Babe’s first season with the Yankees and already he’s hit 54 home runs and three more in the World Series. Baseball’s dead! Without Arnold Rothstein, rest his soul, the game would be dead. He should have lived one hundred twenty years,” one waiter laments.
“People are gullible,” another complains.
“Methodists want a dry country,” the first says. “It’s wet and dry, not Catholic and Protestant.”
“It is always about religion,” a customer chimes in. “You, being a Jew, should know this.”
Meyer ignores the chatter. There are bigger fish to fry. Moses Annenberg is taking the Racing Wire nationwide. There are intricacies to this dance that need to be worked out between him and Charlie. Meyer makes plans to spread their network from New York to California.
“It’s worth millions,” Meyer says to the small table of Jews and one Gentile.
The waiter brings fresh coffee, takes everybody’s order. Doesn’t bother to hide his disdain when Charlie says, “Bring me ham and eggs.”
A look passes among the Jews: Meyer, Benny, Lepke Buchalter, Gurrah Shapiro, Abe Zwillman.
“No ham,” the waiter says to Charlie.
“Bacon then,” Charlie says.
“No bacon, either,” the waiter says.
“Then bring me whatever it is you got,” Charlie says.
The gauntlet has been thrown down. The waiter hustles off to the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, the waiter returns loaded down with plates of blintzes and bagels and potato pancakes with applesauce. The waiter slides a plate of eggs to Charlie and then a plate of Gefilte fish.
Charlie pokes at the white fish patties.
“What’s this?” Charlie says.
Everybody laughs, even Charlie.
“Gefilte fish,” the waiter says and turns on his heel.
“Fish?” Charlie says.
“This is a kosher deli,” Lepke says.
“Whadya gotta do to get bacon?” Charlie says.
“You don’t get bacon,” Lepke says. “Jews don’t eat bacon.”
Charlie says, “You’re kiddin’ me, right? You guys eat bacon all the time. I seen ya. You got Pig Market right down the street.”
“It’s called that because there’s everything but pigs in the market,” Benny says. “Pigs aren’t legal.”
“Pigs ain’t legal? Now I know you’re pulling my leg,” Charlie says waving down the waiter.
The waiter ignores him.
Benny waves his hand over the Gefilte fish. “Take this away,” he says. “Bring him something he’ll enjoy while he’s still smiling. Trust me, you don’t want him rummaging through the kitchen looking for something he likes.”
The waiter skulks back to the kitchen. Benny turns to Meyer.
“What’s this with the wire?”
“We are going to spread the joy of gambling across the country,” Charlie says.
Benny squints, “What the…what are you saying?”
“Annenberg,” Charlie says. “He tussles with the politicians over the right of the little guy to bet away from the track. He says the people livin’ in poverty got a right to take a chance on getting free from their humdrum lives. Says it isn’t right to deprive the little people of a chance to be lucky, on or off the track. He’s got a helluva line of bullshit.”
Meyer says, “Reformers will never let it happen. They’ve got a line of bullshit, too. They say they want to protect the guys that go broke gambling. The only guys getting rich are those who control the betting. I’ve called Costello so we can all sit down with Erickson and work this thing out. Charlie is sending Jimmy Alo to check on the gambling joints out west. I’ve asked Nig Rosen to go with him.”
The waiter returns with roast beef that has been thinly sliced and cooked to a crisp finish. He slides the plate next to Charlie while keeping an eye on Benny’s reaction. Benny takes one look at the dish and busts out laughing and slaps Charlie on the back. The stiff-necked waiter sighs relief.
“Never disrespect one of my friends again,” Benny says to the waiter.
* * *
December kicks in, and with a little help from Bergdorf Goodman and the housekeeper, Charlie Luciano’s apartment begins to exude the Christmas spirit. An eight-foot tall Christmas tree adorned in gold and silver dominates the living room. A trailing green vine tied lovingly with a giant red bow hangs on the mirror above the fireplace. Red and gold ribbons twine through a pine garland that stretches from one end of the mantle to the other. Four red candles set in silver candlesticks dot the table where two golden reindeer sit peacefully next to a silver coffee setting. And for good measure, scattered around the couches and chairs are special Christmas pillows with laughing Santas and holly and reindeer.
Charlie shuffles from the bedroom to the living room still in his silk pajama bottoms, silk robe, and fleece-lined slippers. He barely notices the infusion of joy. The morning paper sits folded next to the silver coffee pot. Charlie pours a cup of coffee and settles into an overstuffed chair. He cracks the paper open.
The housekeeper rustles through the refrigerator whistling her version of Mamie Smith’s “Crazy Blues.”
She yells from the kitchen, “You want blueberry pancakes this mornin’, Mr. Ross? I done froze them berries you liked so much this summer.”
Charlie Lucky, aka Charles Ross for purposes of his rental agreement, yells back, “Yeah, Bessie, and make extra. We got company today.”
“Yes, suh,” she says, and then under her breath. “Don’t I know it?”
The news of George McManus’ indictment for the murder of Arnold Rothstein fills several columns. The article ends with McManus’ plea: Not Guilty.
Charlie grins. Tammany is pulling hard on the strings of the judicial system. The beefy Irish gambler will do no serious time if he does any time at all.
Pots and pans clang in the kitchen.
In the bedroom, Polly Adler’s whore stretches between the silk sheets of the oversized bed. A fif
ty-dollar bill waits on the nightstand. The boys mock Charlie saying he makes fifty-dollar whores out of two-dollar whores. The whore smiles and then stuffs the bill into a small silver mesh bag.
She pads to the bathroom and fills the tub with bath salts and hot water. The aroma of sizzling bacon tangles with the smell of perfumed bubbles.
The phone rings. Charlie puts down the paper and takes the call. Willie Moretti, big-mouthed guy who is avoided but tolerated, is on the line with news. Willie is Frank Costello’s cousin and that alone affords him some clout.
“Frank told me to call you personally,” Moretti sings into the receiver.
Charlie listens.
“You seen the Plain Dealer?” Moretti says.
“When would I see the Plain Dealer?” Charlie says.
Moretti explains. The Cleveland Plain Dealer has rolled out the story of a police bust on an alleged Mafia meeting that was taking place at the Hotel Statler. Twenty-seven men of Italian descent were in attendance. Several were taken into police custody. Moretti, busting with facts, gives Charlie an earful.
“Profaci is up in Cleveland now, bailing out the guys that got pinched. They’re calling it a Unione meeting to cover things up.”
“A Unione meetin’?” Charlie says.
“It ain’t a total lie,” Moretti says. “What else are a bunch of wops holed up in a Cleveland hotel gonna call it? They come up with the story that they’re all members of the Unione Siciliana, businessmen getting together to help each other out.”
Moretti laughs uneasily. The power of the new Sicilian hierarchy forming in Brooklyn has him nervous. Unofficially, Moretti is considered the strength behind his cousin, Costello, but truth be told, Moretti relies on the more powerful Charlie Lucky to back him up should he ever be faced with a situation. After all, Frank Costello has enjoyed a long alliance with Joe the Boss and Charlie Luciano. Why shouldn’t he?
Charlie says, “Who called this meeting?”
“I think it was Joe Porrello. I heard he needs the old Mustache Petes if he’s gonna survive in Cleveland. The Porrellos got plenty of enemies. The meetin’ never got off the ground, though. Some gumshoe spotted the wops right away. Porrello hadda pull thirty families together to put up their houses for collateral just to get everybody out of jail. I wonder what he’s thinking now. Good idea or bad idea?”
“How many did you say?” Charlie says.
“Twenty-seven,” Moretti says.
“Cleveland,” Charlie says. “At the Statler. What the hell.”
Moretti says, “Only thing I know is that Joe Porrello is kissing everybody’s…well, I ain’t gonna say it on the phone. He’s got the corn sugar market up there. He wants to keep it. Maybe he figures all that booze coming across Jew Lake is putting a dent in his profits. I don’t know.”
The sparks that fly through Moretti’s brain don’t always connect in a useful way. Charlie accepts the comment at face value. The bootleggers that buy Porrello’s corn sugar for their stills aren’t in the same market as those running Canadian whiskey across the border.
Charlie says, “I’m sayin’ why meet at a place like the Statler? That’s high society.”
“You got me there, Charlie,” Moretti says. “It would take a blind man not to spot that many wops in one place.”
“Thanks,” Charlie says and hangs up the phone.
Charlie puts George McManus on the back burner and ponders the implications of a Mafia meeting in Cleveland. Then he calls Meyer.
Charlie says, “The usual place? About an hour?”
“Sure,” Meyer says.
Polly’s girl walks from the bathroom snugged in a towel. Charlie looks up with a smile. She straddles his lap, knees sinking into the soft sides of the chair’s cushion. With furtive fingers, she tugs at the belt on Charlie’s robe. The robe falls open easily. She runs her hands down Charlie’s chest, unfastens his pajama bottoms, and begins a slow gyration of her hips.
Charlie says, “I ain’t got that kinda time, Doll.”
She throws out a pout. He yanks off the towel and stands up. His pajamas fall to the floor. He bends the whore over the chair. Five minutes later, he’s in the shower and the whore is on her way home. He skips the blueberry pancakes and leaves the joy of Christmas to the housekeeper. He meets Meyer at a small market in the Village.
Bread and rolls are piled high on the shelf behind the counter. Shanks of ham and tubes of salami dangle from the ceiling. The cool case exhales great meaty breaths each time the sliding door slams shut. Ham, tongue, roast beef, corned beef, and bologna sandwiches roll out with the precision of a Ford factory assembly line.
Charlie ponies up the cash for two pastrami sandwiches.
The guy behind the counter says, “You think George McManus is gonna get the chair for killing the Jew?”
Charlie shrugs, “I guess they gotta prove he did it first.”
Outside, Meyer smokes and waits. Charlie pops out of the market and snaps the paper-wrapped sandwich to Meyer. They stroll along First Avenue discussing the news.
“I got a call,” Charlie says in between bites. “There was some kinda wop meeting at the Hotel Statler in Cleveland.”
“What kind of wop meeting?”
Charlie drops the news of the Sicilian meeting in small doses as he and Meyer press on through Midtown and the Theater District and finally Hell’s Kitchen. Kids rummage through garbage and kick tin cans and snarl at the strangers.
“Maybe thirty guys were there,” Charlie says. “Supposedly a guy named Porrello wants the Sicilian fathers’ nod to take over the city. That ain’t far-fetched. These guys like everybody kissing their ring and all that shit.”
Meyer doesn’t like the sound of it. It doesn’t take an Einstein to theorize that the Sicilians are organizing on a national scale. With Joe Profaci and Vincent Mangano, two big New York fathers, making a show at the meeting, this is something Meyer needs to understand.
Meyer says, “Does this have anything to do with Yale?”
“They don’t give a damn about no Calabrese. Good riddance, you know what I mean? But don’t think their world wasn’t shaken by the hit. If Capone can take out a guy like Frankie Yale then everybody’s fair game. They’ll stick out their chests but you can be sure they’re gonna beef up the soldiers around them.”
Meyer says, “There’s sure to be a backlash against Capone’s guy as president of the Unione.”
“You can bet that grain o’ sand ain’t makin’ no pearl. Where there’s power, there’s scheming and killin’. Let’s see, Anthony D’Andrea was the guy at the top in the teens. He got bumped off and Mike Merlo took over. Him and Torrio worked together for the betterment of Chicago, so to speak. That’s how Torrio and Capone got their foot in the door with all them politicians. Then Merlo died a’ cancer. That was ’24, I think. One of the Gennas stepped in and proclaimed himself president of the Unione. A year later he was dead. Natural causes,” Charlie smiles, “a bullet from the Irish. Then Amatuna declared himself president which Big Al objected to. Amatuna dropped dead in a barber chair from too close a shave, plus two bullets in the chest. That’s when Al backed Lombardo as president. Moretti says that Lombardo was at the Statler with the rest of them Sicilians which just goes to show you how they like to keep their cover. The president of the Unione would have to be there, wouldn’t he? Profaci was there. You remember me talking about Profaci. The guy’s got a chapel in his house with a hand-carved replica of the altar in St. Peter’s Basilica so’s he can atone for his sins. It’s a wonder he ever gets outside. He’s among the guys that got pinched in Cleveland. Now he’s helping arrange bail for everybody. I can tell ya that he ain’t interested in no trouble. He’s got a good business bringin’ in olive oil and tomato paste for the Italians. He’s glad to be away from Mussolini. He ain’t like Joe Aiello who has his eye on Chicago. I’d make an even bet that Aiello was at the party, too. When that many Sicilians get together, you can be sure they’re scheming to take over the world.”
&
nbsp; Meyer follows Charlie’s story. The greasers brought the Black Hand business to America and subjugated the Italian neighborhoods. Once they got their hands in everybody’s pocket, they never let go.
Meyer says, “What does Joe the Boss make of all this?”
“He wasn’t invited. That’s the first thing. The Sicilians don’t like that his mob is mixed up with non-Sicilians. By now, I figure Joe’s meeting with Al Mineo to see what he knows,” Charlie says. “It could be that the Sicilians are plotting to overthrow Joe the Boss.”
Meyer crushes his spent butt on the sidewalk then kicks it into the street.
“What kind of move will Joe make?” Meyer says.
Charlie says, “No doubt he will tighten the reins on the Brooklyn clan. Demand tribute. That’s how these old greasers think. Money makes them feel like they’re getting the honor they deserve. Brooklyn has to decide if they’ll fall in line. When Cola Schiro was in charge, they did as they were told. Maranzano is a different animal. Greaser feuds go way back to the old country. A grudge is for life. Who knows what these guys have against each other, if anything at all. Maranzano fancies himself another Caesar. He’s smart, Meyer. And he’s got the Sicilians on his side.”
It’s not something Meyer wants to hear but there it is anyway. This pushing and shoving between the greasers could turn New York into another Chicago. As the death toll grows, the cry of the public will reach the ears of those in power to do something about it.
They stop at the piers to watch the luxury liners dock. Tugs dance along the Hudson vying for position to take on the next great ship. It is a first-come, first-served business the Irish have dominated ever since the Fighting McAllisters made their stand. Without the small tugs, the big ships cannot maneuver in or out of berths. In this case, it pays to be small.
Meyer is quick to appreciate the irony. His mob is small in comparison to those of the lumbering Italian families. He has allies rather than relatives, agreements rather than obligations. His mob is quick, limber. He and Charlie have been trading favors with Chicago for years. If the Sicilians organize, they will do the same. The inevitable headlines could easily make business too hot to handle.
A Bloody Business Page 27