A Bloody Business

by Dylan Struzan

  “Where do you want to go?” he says.

  “Somewhere with a good, stiff drink,” she says.

  The Grotto, where Jimmy Walker is already entertaining half of New York society, is a short walk from the theater. They settle in. Anne orders a Manhattan.

  She tells the waiter, “Don’t be stingy on the refills, either.”

  Anne downs one round. The waiter brings more. She toasts to Jimmy Walker. She toasts to Prohibition.

  “Let’s stick with toasting Israel,” Meyer says.

  Anne gives a soft snort. She rolls her eyes then stares at her empty glass. Minutes pass before she looks up and directly into Meyer’s eyes.

  “Shit, Meyer. I’m pregnant,” she says.

  Meyer’s stomach turns. His mind goes numb.

  * * *

  The reception hall on the Lower East Side is nothing short of spectacular. The walls have been given a fresh coat of paint. The floors shined to a brilliant gloss. Tables, covered in white linen, fill the room. Long tables spread with a buffet of everything kosher edge the room.

  Benny stops in front of a wall mirror to check his tie. Both he and Meyer have forgone the traditional kittle, a white robe worn over the suit as a symbol of purity.

  “Why are we doing this again?” Benny says looking around the hall. “Oh, yeah, cause you knocked Anne up. Now we’re both diving into the semblance of respectable men.”

  “There are no unwilling victims here,” Meyer says.

  Benny readjusts his tie again.

  “There’s cautious and then there’s you,” Benny says. “You’re in a league of your own. You think Anne knows what she’s marrying into?”

  “You think Esther does?”

  “She had me pegged from the beginning,” Benny says. “Esther knows which way the wind blows. You can count on that.”

  The first of the guests arrive. The men greet Meyer and Benny with handshakes and slaps on the back. Women giggle slyly. The hall fills with noisy anticipation.

  Anne and Esther enter the hall from a back room. Anne appears angelic in a white dress adorned with three rows of lace ruffles that fall from the waist. Lace covers her arms and a band of lace skirts her neck. She wears white stockings and white shoes. Her head is covered with white lace, cloche-style, tied at the ear and allowed to fall to the shoulder and back. It is simple by Fifth Avenue standards but brighter than most Lower East Siders can afford.

  Esther wears her mother’s wedding dress, something borrowed, a throwback to days in Eastern Europe, but not so much as to be unfashionable. The something blue is the garter around her stockings. Around her neck is something new, a simple pearl necklace Benny purchased from Tiffany’s.

  The girls cut through the crowd and cling to their soon-to-be husbands. The entire assembly migrates to the outdoor patio where the chuppah, a small canopy supported by four poles, has been erected. Meyer and Benny take their place under the chuppah.

  The rabbi nods to the mothers of the brides and grooms. It is their job to come forward and break a plate reminding everyone assembled that, as Humpty Dumpty already knows, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men cannot put a broken plate back together again, nor a broken marriage, nor a scandalized reputation, nor anything else that gets shattered along the way.

  The brides are escorted to the chuppah by friends and family amidst song and lighted candles. They circle the grooms three times. The rabbi offers a blessing that is sealed with the first cup of wine shared by the bride and groom.

  This elicits a smile from the otherwise somber Red Levine. His mind wanders back to the first time the boys protected mevushal wine. Red never expected any of them would live this long but here they are anyway.

  The rabbi offers a sanctification prayer.

  Ring in hand and visible to the chosen witnesses, first Meyer and then Benny recites, “Behold, you are betrothed unto me with this ring, according to the Law of Moses and Israel.”

  They place the rings on the forefingers of their wives’ right hands.

  Anne feels a tickle in the pit of her stomach as the rabbi reads from the ketubah, the ancient marriage contract. The rabbi holds up the ornately hand-decorated documents for all to see. The ketubah assures the bride that her husband will fulfill his duties: procreative, protective, financial.

  Seven blessings are required over the second cup of wine. The brides and grooms drink again and then a glass is placed on the floor and crushed ceremoniously underfoot by the grooms.

  The crowd yells, “Mazel tov!”

  The celebration kicks into high gear and runs late into the night, long after the newlyweds leave for their honeymoons. About midnight, Meyer and Anne step from their car into the cool sea breeze of Atlantic City. A white-gloved doorman at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel yanks the suitcases from the car while Anne takes in the ocean view.

  “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Lansky,” the manager says, stepping from the hotel. “We have prepared the Presidential Suite for you. If there is anything you need, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  Anne wanders through the suite. She flops on the bed. Opens the closets. Picks up the exotic triple-milled French soaps of lavender, chamomile, and honey. Runs hot water in the giant claw-footed tub then throws handfuls of pink sea salts on top of it. She drops her travel clothes in a pile and slips into the bath.

  Meyer pokes around the suite. A mink coat is draped over a bedroom chair courtesy of Nucky Johnson, who makes his home in an eight-room suite in this very hotel. Nucky runs the city out of this hotel.

  “Something for you,” Meyer says bringing the coat into the bathroom.

  “Where did that come from?” Anne says, sponging hot water across her shoulders.

  “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  He hangs the coat on the hook on the bathroom door and walks out to the balcony overlooking the ocean. Waves sway back and forth along the shore.

  “I’m going to take a walk,” Meyer yells to Anne.

  He strolls along the empty boardwalk. A blend of carnival music and a barker’s ballyhoo streams from the direction of Steeplechase Pier. A couple of hawkers in clown suits shoot the breeze in front of the two-story clown face with the cavernous mouth that forms the entrance.

  Lucy the Elephant is on display next door, all six stories of her. During the season, dances inside run from 9 P.M. to 1 A.M. In May, the dancehall is still closed. Long lines of roller chairs wait for the season to begin. A photo postcard in a store window touts the pier’s diving horse act.

  Advertisements fill the sky. Lipschutz sells cigars. SHAVE YOURSELF, exhorts a message from Gillette Safety Razors. EGYPTIENNE STRAIGHTS CIGARETTES. ELGIN WATCHES.

  Meyer heads back.

  The next morning, the newlyweds rise early and head downstairs after breakfast in their room. The sun burns through the clouds. Meyer sees a familiar face among the few passing along the boardwalk, that of Owney Madden. Neither acknowledges the other.

  Later in the day, Meyer and Madden huddle near a pile of abandoned fish nets and speculate what sort of reactions they will get from the guys coming to the meeting.

  “Have you seen anybody else?” Meyer says.

  “Yeah, a few of the guys are around,” Madden says. “This place gives me the creeps, though. It’s too quiet for my taste. A good jungle show would do this town some good.”

  Capone is the next to show up, along with his financial advisor, Jake Guzik.

  “I heard we got company,” Capone says. “G-men are sniffing around. Who tipped them off?”

  “They won’t find anything,” Meyer says.

  At the chowder house, Meyer asks Nucky Johnson, “Have we got G-men around town?”

  Nucky assures him that Harry Houdini himself couldn’t have broken through the town’s security.

  Anne is out for a walk, too. She stops to introduce herself to Nucky.

  “Mrs. Lansky,” she says, brushing her ring hand along the lapel of the mink.

  Nucky
says, “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  “Kinda stinky around here, isn’t it?” she says.

  Meyer says, “The fishing nets are just below us.”

  Anne leans against the rail of the boardwalk.

  “Wasn’t that Al Capone I saw walking along the boardwalk? The entire hotel is gossiping about him,” she says.

  “Probably the whole town,” Nucky says.

  She says, “What do you think of our new president?”

  “Hoover?” Nucky says. “Any guy that thinks he can rid the country of poverty is ambitious. I wish him the best of luck.”

  “You know what made Hoover so popular among the Jews?” she says.

  “I have no idea,” Nucky says.

  “He promised them a chicken in every pot.”

  * * *

  A hundred and fifty miles away, in a small restaurant in Little Italy, Al Mineo dines with Joe the Boss. The conversation is heated but respectful.

  “You let Charlie go to Atlantic City with all those Jews?” Mineo says.

  “What business is it of yours?” Joe says.

  “How can anything good come from business with Jews?” Mineo says.

  Joe puts down his fork and wipes his chin.

  Mineo says, “Who am I to tell you what to do with your own men? I am nobody. You are Joe the Boss. You have made New York your oyster. It is no secret that Salvatore Maranzano would like the pearl inside that oyster. He calls to the Sicilians. If Charlie is steadfast, like you say, then he will not mind taking a loyalty oath. It is the way of men of honor with their underlings. Let the men show they can be trusted. The boys watch to see what kind of man you are. You deserve the respect of your men. This is what Salvatore Maranzano understands. All his men take loyalty oaths.”

  Joe says nothing. He finishes his veal and then orders dessert.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We All Sign on the Dotted Line

  MAY 1929

  The sun beats on the thick gray clouds that hang over Atlantic City. The clouds refuse to budge. They remain impenetrable, unyielding. The sixty-six thousand residents sigh. Business will not pick up until the sun fills the sky.

  Anne dons her new mink coat. She and Meyer take to the near-empty boardwalk. Anne breathes in the magic of open spaces, and yet it’s not without some unease. Manhattan, a city of seven million, offers anonymity. Here, walking this way out in the open with nothing to shelter her prompts the anxiety of exposure. Meyer seems unfettered by this discomfort. They have the perfect cover story, just another honeymoon couple out strolling the boardwalk.

  Meyer holds his head erect as though he is on top of the world and runs through the moves that have gotten him to this moment. Charlie calls it the Atlantic City Conference, a gangster gathering of sorts that will, hopefully, tame the beast of street violence that plagues their business. Meyer has asked the right questions of the attendees. His propensity for understanding how far the criminal mind is willing to go in a compromise has served him well. “What do you want from our cooperation?” “What will it take for you to make a deal?” “What will break the deal?” “What do you expect in return?” The odds for dissatisfaction are greatly diminished when the endgame is clearly understood.

  “A successful partnership is predicted by a good contract,” Aaron Sapiro had said. “A good contract manages expectations well.”

  Meyer spent time visiting allies and associates in Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit, St. Louis, and Boston. Whenever Italians were involved, Charlie came along. The Racing Wire breathed new life into old negotiations. The massacre undermined deeply rooted beliefs on the subject of street violence. Meyer was quick to propose cooperation. His reasons run deeper than anyone imagines. He is not only interested in spreading a web of gambling connections across the U.S.; he has plans to make Charlie the man in New York. This is the beginning of Meyer’s moves, a considerable undertaking, and he can’t wait to get started.

  The dominoes of a major conflict between Joe the Boss and Salvatore Maranzano have already begun to tumble. Old ways will give way to the new. The Atlantic City Conference is the melting pot that has the potential to solidify a sizeable amount of manpower. Success here means violence can be contained and the government can return to looking the other way.

  Al Capone believes he is a major part of the new face of crime, organized crime, a business not dissimilar to Wall Street and the rest of American capitalism. He arrives with his boys from Chicago, which emphasizes the ongoing teamwork between Chicago and New York. The future depends on what happens here in Atlantic City.

  Anne snuggles into Meyer’s arm as they walk. The Loop-the-Loop clacks under the strain of a single car bobbing along the wooden track. At Abe Klein’s delicatessen, Meyer sees Charlie and Vito Genovese talking shop over the remains of a couple of pastrami sandwiches. Meyer suggests a deli is as good a place as any for lunch.

  A kid, maybe ten years old, slops a mop head around the gritty restaurant floor and then stops for a long, curious look.

  “Keep your eyes on your work,” Abe shouts.

  While Meyer orders tongue sandwiches and near beers for him and his bride, Charlie and Vito head out to the boardwalk. A dozen girls play at the ocean’s edge. Their jersey tank suits, stretched to the limit, catch the attention of the men on the boardwalk. Fortunately for all parties concerned, the beach censors are nowhere to be found.

  Vito heads back to the hotel and Charlie settles into one of the many benches along the boardwalk. He spots Capone, registered here as Al Brown, in a pea-green suit and white fedora walking toward him, Jake Guzik by his side. Guzik keeps track of Capone’s cash flow and has come to be known as Greasy Thumb Guzik for the way he greases politicians.

  “I told ya he’d be here,” Capone says, slapping Guzik on the back. Capone gulps in the ocean air like a fighter on the ropes. He tells Charlie, “I seen ya watchin’ the broads. It ain’t Palm Island but it ain’t Lake Michigan either. Jesus, that water’s gotta be cold. I hope they don’t freeze nothin’ of importance out there. My guys are lookin’ to enjoy a little entertainment later.”

  He drops on the bench alongside Charlie. The bathers run from the shore and huddle in a small circle high up on the beach. They smoke and giggle and talk shop.

  The youngest of the girls says, “One of the guys wanted me to put it in my mouth.”

  Her giggles are a transparent attempt to hide her inexperience. Capone edges closer to the boardwalk railing trying to hear what it is the girls are giggling about. Already he has his eye on one of them.

  The redhead says, “That ain’t the half of it, Sister. Some of these guys got requests you could never imagine. You’ll get used to it.”

  Another of the girls says, “I heard about a dame that beat a murder rap cause her husband was insisting on a little cock-sucking action.”

  She is no more than eighteen and sports an infectious smile. Her hair color comes from a bottle of Nestle Colorinse left on too long.

  The first girl laughs, “Who kills a guy over sex?”

  “Swear to God,” the eighteen-year-old says.

  The redhead readjusts the contents of her swimsuit and then catches sight of Capone, who offers an approving nod.

  Capone turns back to Charlie. “I ain’t seen the Bernsteins. Are they coming?”

  “They’ll be here,” Charlie says. “Meyer talked to all them Jews around the lakes.”

  Guzik, a Jew himself, nods.

  Capone finds himself relaxing in the sea breeze. The peace jars him. He is still not sleeping well at night. The photo of the seven men lined up against the brick wall and machine gunned to death that graced the front page of the Herald Examiner haunts him. Headlines rage about a city out of control. In the early morning hours of May 8, three bodies were found on a lonely road near Hammond, Indiana. They were badly beaten and shot to death. The coroner had never seen such disfigured corpses. At first, the incident was pinned on the North Side gang as retaliation for the massacre, but a few day
s later, blame shifted to Capone. Word is that Tony Accardo, dubbed “Joe Batters” by Scarface himself, settled Capone’s displeasure with three traitors. The weapon used? A baseball bat.

  Meyer joins the group.

  “The girls have gone shopping,” he says.

  “We was wonderin’ about the Bernsteins,” Charlie says.

  “Haven’t seen them,” Meyer says.

  Capone says, “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have some business to attend to.”

  He leans over the railing and shouts.

  “You girls better get outta them wet clothes before you catch cold. I got a room full of towels and a pack of boys would love to dry you off.”

  “Showtime,” the redhead says and the girls rise as one.

  Capone heads for the President Hotel: six-hundred-fifty luxury rooms, indoor and outdoor pools, private terraces, Turkish baths, and service with a smile. There’s no smile on his face, though.

  “What’s with the big guy?” Charlie says, not bothering to hide his concern. “He don’t seem on top of his form.”

  Guzik hesitates. It’s just the three of them and though he would like to dodge the question, everybody’s future could be jeopardized by Capone’s condition.

  “The big guy is hearing voices,” he nearly whispers. “Not just any voices. It’s Bugs Moran’s brother-in-law calling out from the other side. Maybe it’s just a phase. But better you hear it from me than someone else.”

  Charlie exchanges a glance with Meyer. If Capone goes down, Paul “the Waiter” Ricca is the guy most likely to inherit the top position among Capone’s mob, him or one of the Fischettis by dint of being both tough and Capone’s cousins. Ricca will see to it that any deal formed under Capone will continue in existence as long as he has a say. The Fischettis, it’s harder to be sure.

  * * *

  The Atlantic City Conference runs along informal lines. Negotiations occur as a matter of course in walks along the boardwalk, over hot dogs and beer, at champagne celebrations in hotel hot spots, while discussing the value of one whore over another, wherever the men mingle. Conversations boil over and cool down.

  Roller chairs rattle across the planks of the Steel Pier. Theaters buzz with the promise of comedy and jazz.