A Bloody Business

by Dylan Struzan

  Frank Costello says, “I don’t even walk the streets anymore. Everybody associated with Joe the Boss has become the target of the Brooklyn boys.”

  “What didn’t make the Daily News were the two Sicilians who were gunned down in a Detroit fish market. One of those guys used to be part of the Brooklyn mob a few years back. Joe the Boss was behind the assassinations. Salvatore Maranzano means to use this situation to get rid of Joe the Boss.”

  Vito says, “Sicilians are always scheming. They don’t like Neapolitans and they don’t like the Calabrese. That goes for Jews and Irish, too. We all got trouble.”

  Charlie says, “We don’t need no greaseball war in New York but that’s exactly what we’re gonna have. The sea is parting. You’re either for Maranzano or he sees you as against him. He’s called a meeting of the family fathers to finish what they started in Cleveland. Since Joe the Boss admitted he was behind the Detroit murders, you know that’s gonna be on the agenda, even though Joe called it self defense.”

  Meyer says, “Maranzano uses the idea that the honor of the Castellammarese has been sullied.”

  Charlie says, “This guy is already polishing his bullets.”

  Meyer says, “There’s something else you should know about. The Chicago Crime Commission has created a public enemy list designed to enforce the law by stigma. Capone is Public Enemy Number One. A bunch of his guys are on the list, too.”

  “So what?” Madden says.

  Meyer says, “Once the police connect Frankie Yale’s shooting to the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, the stigma washes back on us if we become known as bootleggers.”

  Frank Costello very nearly gasps. He fancies himself a legitimate businessman. The local politicians rely on his favors. He can’t afford to be associated with Chicago’s Wild West massacres.

  “Don’t worry,” the Dutchman says. “You won’t have to get your hands dirty.”

  Madden says, “Capone’s worst nightmare might be the tax collector. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  Charlie says, “He don’t own much on paper. If they pinch him for what he does own, he’ll pay a fine. That’s what the rich do. He ain’t goin’ to jail for that.”

  Lepke says, “So what’s the plan?”

  Meyer says, “Charlie and I are keeping a close eye on what’s going on between Joe the Boss and the Brooklyn Castellammarese. We’re asking that, no matter what happens, you don’t make a move without checking in with us.”

  The Dutchman grunts, “I ain’t steppin’ aside for no wop if he makes a move on me.”

  The room swirls with smoke and ash and overconfidence. Conversations swell and diminish over what should and shouldn’t be done.

  Charlie says, “Me and Meyer will take care of the greasers when the time is right.”

  Owney Madden worries, “These old bulls have been killin’ each other as long as I’ve been alive. How are you going to change that?”

  Charlie says, “Trust me, we want these guys outta the way as much as you do.”

  Madden says, “You got my vote, Charlie. Do what you gotta do.”

  The meeting winds down and begins to disperse.

  Vito says to Charlie, “You need me to take care of anything?”

  “I’ll get in touch with you later, Vito. We got a lot to discuss.”

  Meyer stops Lepke at the door. “There’s an Italian guy who’s looking for action in the garment district. Can you throw him a bone?”

  Lepke considers the request then says, “Give me a couple of days. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  Frank Costello wonders out loud, “What are the odds of pulling this thing off?”

  “I give us a fifty-fifty chance. But keep it under your hat. We don’t want nobody getting nervous,” Charlie says. “And Frank, we’re gonna need your help with some of the local politicians when all this goes down.”

  Costello says, “Nobody will miss these guys, Charlie.”

  “If we do it right,” Charlie says, “nobody will even notice they’re gone.”

  * * *

  Meyer and Benny stop in at the Dutchman’s hovel. Not much has changed since the last time they visited. The Dutchman’s thugs sit around a corner table playing cards while Flegenheimer huddles in his office sorting the profits from his rackets. Bo Weinberg wanders through the saloon keeping an eye on business. Bo tips his hat to Meyer and nods toward the back room. Meyer and Benny follow the nod and step into the Dutchman’s domain.

  “What is it this time?” the Dutchman says. “Your Italian friend send you?”

  Meyer ignores the insult.

  “You don’t think much of the Italians, do you, Arthur?” he says.

  The Dutchman says, “Who gives a shit? I run my own business; they run theirs.”

  Bo Weinberg is drawn to the conversation. He leans against the door jamb and smokes a cigarette. Cold sweat seeps through the brick exterior of the saloon and casts a chill over the room. Meyer rummages for a pack of cigarettes and lights up. The Dutchman relinquishes his hold on numbers calculations. Bo offers him a cigarette. The Dutchman grabs the entire pack.

  Meyer says, “I’m giving Benny the job of getting rid of the Brooklyn problem. We’d like to use Bo on this job.”

  The Dutchman bolts upright in his chair. He turns to look at Weinberg. The last thing the Dutchman wants is to cross swords with the calculating and volatile Siegel but Weinberg is his guy, not Meyer’s…or Benny’s. Weinberg smiles. He’s in his element with Benny. The Dutchman sees the comradery and grouses.

  “What do you need Bo for?” the Dutchman says.

  “He’s got a cool head and a dead aim. When the greasers make their moves, and they will, then we’ll make ours…if they haven’t taken each other out by then.”

  “We?” the Dutchman says.

  “Me and Charlie,” Meyer says. “In this case, Benny and a few guys of his choosing.”

  “You and the Italian. Ain’t that chummy? Why Bo?” the Dutchman says.

  “Meyer already told ya,” Benny says. “Ain’t it obvious?”

  “It ain’t obvious to me,” the Dutchman counters.

  “Charlie will take care of Joe the Boss. It’s only right,” Meyer says. “Jews should take care of the wannabe Caesar in Brooklyn. You have the toughest mob in Harlem. Lepke has the garment district. I’m asking for one of his guys, too. There will be four Jewish guys and one Irish guy. It sends a message. You fuck with Charlie you fuck with all of us.”

  Suspicion overcomes the Dutchman’s better judgment. He gives Weinberg the once-over and then turns back to Meyer.

  Benny says, “We ain’t proposing marriage, for Christ’s sake.”

  Weinberg shrugs, “Let’s get these bastards.”

  “Let the Italians take care of their own dirty work,” the Dutchman says.

  Meyer says, “It’s in all our interests not to let this guy get too much power. He wants to control the docks. Cooperation now will save you trouble later.”

  The Dutchman thinks hard. He moves on instinct and very little gray matter.

  He says, “You gonna get one of Waxey’s boys?”

  Meyer says, “Waxey’s got nothing to do with it.”

  The Dutchman grunts. He turns back to his ledger and the ancient Burroughs adding machine with the wobbling number keys battered and worn loose by the pounding of his merciless fingers.

  “O.K.,” the Dutchman sighs. “But I don’t want no funny business.”

  Meyer says to Bo, “Drop by the garage tomorrow. Benny will fill you in.”

  Weinberg shows up at the Cannon Street garage the next day.

  Benny revs the engine of a Model A that Sammy has modified into a fast getaway car. Red Levine waves Bo over to the vehicle.

  “Come on,” Benny says. “We’ll pick up Lepke’s guy and take a ride. I’ve got it all mapped out. Four Jews. We’re gonna take Caesar down in broad daylight.”

  Benny is tough and ruthless. A man of action: independent, self-directed, and competiti
ve. That’s why Meyer put him in charge of taking down the wannabe Caesar. It’s poetic justice to have the great general face an unpredictable adversary. Benny possesses a nimble intelligence. He lives in the moment. A tiger on the prowl willing to wait out his opportunity but when he moves, he brings with him great power and focus. Meyer admires this in Benny.

  Weinberg hops into the Model A and Benny tears out of the garage. The plan is a good one. Although Maranzano busies himself with knowing all the men in his tradition, he has forgotten there are more than Italians interested in his plans. It’s the blind spot of his ego not to notice what does not concern him and Meyer has noticed this trend to his advantage.

  * * *

  While Benny prepares the hit team, Meyer and Charlie turn their attention to Al Capone. They join the line of human cargo waiting to board the Broadway Limited heading to Chicago. The train leaves New York at 2:55 P.M. They settle in for the ensuing twenty hours of swaying and thumping as the heavy steel train powers across eight hundred miles of track. In the morning, they will present their strategy for getting rid of the greasers to Public Enemy Number One.

  In the quiet of the drawing room that joins their sleeping compartments, they wrap their minds around the Chicago situation.

  “The Ghost of Christmas Past ain’t lettin’ loose of the big man’s brain,” Charlie says.

  Charlie is referring to the syphilitic corkscrew bacteria that are working their way through Capone’s heart and brain and driving him slowly insane.

  Meyer says, “He should be consulting a doctor instead of a medium.”

  “It’s too late for a doctor,” Charlie says. “We gotta focus on the power behind the throne.”

  Meyer says, “McGurn?”

  “You saw the papers. He’s on the public enemy list right alongside Capone. If they take Capone, they’ll take McGurn right along with him. Guzik won’t skate free either. Who will take the throne when Capone falls? That’s the question. I heard that Maranzano is turning heads talking about creating a Senate like they had in Rome. He’s calling it a Commission.”

  Meyer says, “It’s a good idea, Charlie. I told you the Jews have a court that helps people work out their problems. Here’s the key. They work as a body, not one guy telling everybody else what to do.”

  Charlie says, “That’s not how Italians work. Kiss the ring, do the ceremony. You’d think it was the Catholic Church!”

  Meyer says, “So let them have their traditions. You can’t take a child from his mother’s tit until he’s ready to go. Cut them off from that and they’ll resent you. When we take these guys, we’ll create a vacuum. They have to have somebody to look to and that somebody has to put an end to the senseless killing right away.”

  Charlie says, “There ain’t no controlling these guys.”

  “The Commission, Charlie. You’re Sicilian.”

  “The hell with that,” Charlie says. “I don’t need the publicity.”

  “You’ll be Public Enemy Number One on Caesar’s list in no time at all,” Meyer says with a grin.

  “That ain’t funny,” Charlie says.

  “When this guy sees how strong you are, the first thing on his mind will be to cut you down to size. When that happens, you have two choices: die or take control. Didn’t you tell me that self defense is a legitimate reason for killing someone?”

  “These guys got all the words,” Charlie says. “Honor. Tradition. It’s all bullshit. If they had any honor, they wouldn’t bleed the boys dry. How can you honor a guy that’s robbin’ ya? That’s the problem right there.”

  Meyer says, “If Maranzano manages to bring the fathers together, your first move is to demand your position right along with the rest of them.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Switch sides. When war comes and Maranzano looks strong, you offer to take out your boss. Maranzano won’t flinch. His ego is satisfied that you asked and he gets rid of Joe. It’s what he wants more than anything else, your allegiance and Joe dead.”

  “Jesus,” Charlie says. “But what if it’s Joe the Boss and Morello that win the war?”

  “Then we come up with another plan,” Meyer says. “If it comes to that. Will it?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Charlie says. “These guys are loose cannons. You don’t give them what they want, you insult their honor. Maybe that comes from the old days of feuding. Who the hell knows? Honor covers a multitude of sins. That’s what I know.”

  They head to the dining car where white tablecloths, crystal service, silver settings, and porcelain vases overcome the sensation of tight quarters. The waiter’s white jacket, white shirt, black pants, and black bowtie further contribute to the illusion of a superb dining experience. The waiter heads to the table, impervious to the unrelenting swaying.

  He says, “Tonight we are serving Lobster Newburg, Lemon Trout Almondine, Pepper Pot Louisianne, and sizzling New York steak. That comes with baked potato Parisienne and savory green beans. What can I get for you gentlemen?”

  Charlie says. “What’s Parisienne about the potato?”

  “Fancy words for butter and parsley, sir.”

  Charlie says, “Steak and baked potato. And coffee.”

  Meyer nods.

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter says and glides back to the galley.

  The train rumbles and whistles through Pennsylvania. This is farmland, inhabited by the people who, in a blind self-righteous zeal that appeared to be backed by the word of God, made Prohibition possible. By the time the train travels through the fields of Ohio, they are done with dinner and back in their car.

  Meyer says, “Whatever else happens, you have to get out of the drug business.”

  “Ain’t I heard this lecture before? ‘I’ll never have the respect of the Sicilians until I do. I won’t be trusted. It’s the way it has to be.’”

  Meyer says, “You won’t have the luxury of dreaming after we make our moves.”

  “Maybe I don’t care if the Sicilians respect me,” Charlie says.

  “Charlie, you are going to be the man,” Meyer says. “Wait and see.”

  The night train whistles and wails. Charlie and Meyer move to the observation car and smoke cigars. They sleep. Wake. Shave. They put on clean shirts and drink hot coffee. They indulge in poached eggs, toasted bread, and rashers of bacon. They plot and revise and strategize.

  Charlie says, “If Maranzano gets Profaci and Reina’s guys on his side, he gains a lot of strength.”

  “And their allies in Chicago?” Meyer says.

  “The turmoil between Capone and the Chicago Sicilians is to our advantage. If they’re busy dealing with Capone, they won’t be able to throw as much strength to the Sicilian mob in New York.”

  The train rolls into Chicago’s Union Station. Two of Capone’s best, Rocco and Charlie Fischetti, meet Charlie and Meyer at the station. Rocco sinks boxing tickets into the breast pocket of Charlie’s jacket. It is a quick alibi in case anybody notices a couple of New York gangsters in Chicago.

  “The boss is waitin’,” Rocco says, neither anxious nor burdened by the idea.

  The Lexington Hotel, a ten-story building at the corner of Michigan Avenue and 22nd Street with four-hundred-fifty rooms and a claim of being one-hundred percent fireproof, is Capone’s home away from home.

  Tony Accardo, a Thompson by his side, keeps watch in the hotel lobby. Charlie nods to Tony as they walk past.

  The Big Man’s operation spreads through the Lexington like kudzu, climbing, coiling, and trailing through the third, fourth, and fifth floors. Capone has the necessities of gangster life: a shooting gallery, secret passages, and hidden vaults. Tunnels spread out like tentacles from the basement to neighboring taverns and whorehouses. No one is ever seen entering or leaving the hotel unless they want to be seen.

  Suite 530 is Capone’s personal refuge. A chandelier with smoked glass globes floats above a large oriental carpet. A stuffed deer head and two stuffed elk heads hang over a faux fireplace. Gold and reddi
sh pink wallpaper form the backdrop for portraits of George Washington and Chicago’s mayor, William Hale Thompson. The room reeks of insincere hominess.

  “I made that guy what he is today,” Capone says.

  “You knew George Washington?” Charlie replies.

  “Big Bill ain’t no George Washington and that ain’t half bad. He sure as hell knows how to take a bribe. We orchestrated the Pineapple Primary on his behalf,” Capone laughs. “And worth every penny.”

  Grenades fueled the election that won the label. Sixty-two bombings prior to the primary. Two politicians killed in action. Capone wears the victory like a badge of honor. Rocco takes a seat by the fireplace and listens to Capone wax poetic about the affair. Charlie Fischetti hands Charlie Lucky the latest issue of Time, featuring his boss on the front cover. The caption reads Alphonse (“Scarface”) Capone beneath a photo of the man himself flashing a genial smile.

  “You got me beat, Charlie,” Capone says, rubbing his finger along his scar.

  “Fifty-five,” Charlie says. “If I remember, you only got thirty.”

  “Twenty-eight,” Capone growls. “And these bastards gotta make a big deal of it on the cover of Time. How come Sigmund Freud didn’t get no nickname when they ran his story?”

  “How much you wanna bet your face sells more magazines than his?” Charlie says.

  Capone doesn’t want to think about Sigmund Freud or psychoanalysis. “You see the new kid in the lobby?”

  “Tony Accardo?” Charlie says. “Sure, I seen him.”

  Capone says, “I call him Joe Batters. The kid’s got real talent with a baseball bat. I’m thinkin’ of bringing him up the ladder. You ever need a hitter, give me a call. I’ll send him over, only don’t show him to the Yankees. They might try to recruit him.”