Capone lets out a belly laugh then summons three girls from the adjoining room. They glisten in the summer heat. The silk of their garments sticks to their flesh. Capone grabs the robust blonde wearing black silk suspender shorts and a puffy blouse. She falls onto the sofa and into Capone’s arms.
“You got a nice ass,” he growls with a slap to her derriere. “Don’t let nobody tell you otherwise. You broads get lost for a couple of hours.”
“Whatever you say,” she says in a slow, Southern drawl.
She rises and the three girls leave arm in arm.
“I’m in the mood with that one,” Capone says before turning unusually serious. “It’s tougher than it used to be. Everybody’s got their hand out. The cops, the press, the Sicilians…fucking Sicilians. A pain in everybody’s ass. I come home and I still got goddamn Aiello running around offering a bounty for my head. He figured I was washed up so he slipped back here to insinuate himself. That’s the kinda coward he is. He thinks I lost my grip. That’s why you’re here, ain’t it? Fucking Sicilians. Fucking scars. I’ll tell you something, Charlie, a hundred years can pass and you’ll still want revenge on the guy that cut you.”
“Al,” Charlie says, “we got a delicate situation in New York.”
“You always got a delicate situation in New York,” Capone says. “When are you gonna do what needs to be done?”
Charlie says, “We’re lookin’ to take care of the troublemakers once and for all.”
The comment stops Capone in his tracks. For one brief moment, the syphilitic corkscrews lose their grip and Capone’s mind snaps to attention.
“I’ll be damned,” he says.
Charlie says, “We’d like your cooperation while we work things out. That’s why we’re here. I’m asking you in all due respect, if you got something that needs taking care of in New York, consider lettin’ us take care of it.”
A grin fills Capone’s face.
“Fucking cocksucker prancing around Brooklyn dreaming about another Sicilian Vesper? Won’t he be surprised. I like this, Charlie. I was beginning to wonder if you had it in you anymore.” Capone shoves the butt of his cigar into an ashtray and turns to Meyer. “You heard of Vespers? It’s like evening prayers. Something Catholics do. The Sicilian Vespers, that’s history. When the Pope crowned a French prince and made him king of Sicily and Naples, the Sicilians mounted an insurrection. It was back in 1282, or something like that. A bunch of farmers killed off most of the French on the island. They call it the Sicilian Vespers. It’s a big deal with the Sicilians. Supposedly they struck while the French were saying their prayers, vespers, you know. The Neapolitans didn’t fight off the French. That’s where I come from, Naples. The Neapolitans used the French and Naples got to be a great city. The Sicilians wanted the Neapolitans to kill the French. They never forgave us for gettin’ rich instead of gettin’ dead.”
Charlie peels off his jacket and hangs his head out the window to escape the heat.
“It’s human nature,” Meyer says.
“I’ll tell you what’s human nature,” Capone says. “Two minutes after I get outta the can, Brooklyn’s new Caesar sends word, you got that? Salvatore Maranzano sends me a warning that I better keep away from the conflict in New York. Now you come telling me to stay outta your way?”
Capone puffs hard on his stogie.
Charlie pulls his head back inside and says, “Al, I ain’t askin’ you to steer clear. I’m askin’ you, with all due respect, if you would let him hold on to the misconception that he’s in control while we pull the rug out from under him.”
Capone studies Meyer and then Charlie. They have the gleam of war in their eyes and this pleases Capone. Again, he lets out a belly laugh.
He says, “I heard Joe Aiello is hiding out with his cousin in Buffalo. When the going gets tough, the chickens run to the farm, eh, Charlie? When he comes outta hiding, I’m going to blow his fucking head clean off and watch his body run around the barnyard.”
Charlie shrugs, “Do what you gotta do; just don’t do it in New York. That’s all I ask.”
Big Al rubs the back of his neck with his chubby fingers. He hasn’t slept well since James Clark started reaching out from the grave. James Clark, whose face was obliterated by the blast of a shotgun on Valentine’s Day, who was Moran’s second-in-command, is keeping Capone up at night. The Big Man fights back with moans and threats but Clark continues to haunt his every dream. Nobody talks about it, especially Rocco, but they hear Capone’s screams in the night.
Capone says, “If it was anybody else…”
Charlie nods, “I appreciate your cooperation, Al. I’ll be thinking of you when we take Joe the Boss. By the way, we got an idea we’d like to run by you. When this thing goes down, we got the opportunity to set some new rules. Maranzano wants to build a Commission made up of the Sicilian fathers. It ain’t a half bad idea.”
“I don’t need nobody tellin’ me what to do in my own town,” Capone says.
“Naturally,” Charlie says. “He’s talking about a Commission with him as the head. We got the idea of a Commission of equals. When somebody crosses the line and things get mixed up between mobs, we need a way to keep the peace. Everybody west of the Mississippi answers to Chicago. Everybody east of the Mississippi answers to New York. The mobs must sit down and work out their differences like gentlemen. No more killing without permission.”
“You got big dreams,” Capone says. “There ain’t no way this will stop the violence.”
Charlie says, “I ain’t no fool, Al. You know me long enough to know that. But if we don’t have an arrangement, we’re gonna have anarchy the same as we got now. This ain’t workin’. It brings heat on everybody. There’s gotta be rules we can all agree on that even bosses are accountable to.”
Capone throws his arm around Charlie’s shoulder.
“Jesus Christ, Charlie, what got into you? I got a proposition. A friendly wager between you and me. Whoever loses takes the other guy to dinner. If I get Aiello first, you owe me. If you get Joe the Boss first, I owe you. Whadya say?”
“You got a deal,” Charlie says. “One you’ll probably win.”
* * *
The Dutchman slams the newspaper down on his desk. Babe Ruth is pulling down an all-time high salary of $80,000 and he still can’t dig the Yankees out of the hole they’re in. Why this bothers the Dutchman baffles the imagination.
Bo Weinberg says, “Give him a break, Arthur. The Babe lost his wife last year in a fire. How’s a guy supposed to deal with a situation like that?”
“Estranged wife,” the Dutchman says. “He was remarried four months later. What’s that got to do with baseball, anyway? What you don’t know about the Babe’s new wife is that she’s got him on a tight leash. The Babe don’t need no nursemaid. He needs to get laid by all them broads or he don’t got the juice for the game.”
Weinberg checks the news. The July 4th game against the Washington Senators ended in defeat. The season stands at 43 losses and 28 wins. Lou Gehrig, fourth in the batting lineup, can’t seem to bring in any runs.
“They ain’t gonna make it to the World Series this year,” the Dutchman says. “They gotta free up Babe so he can get laid and then they gotta get a new pitcher. You got any idea how much money we would rake in takin’ those bets! Maybe you oughta go out there and take the Babe to a good whorehouse.”
The Dutchman ratchets the handle of the monstrous Burroughs adding machine. Numbers measure his success in tangible terms of dollars and cents. He doesn’t like what he sees.
Weinberg says, “You don’t waltz into professional baseball and take the star player to a whorehouse. They already got guys for that.”
The Dutchman isn’t listening. Profits are down. He’s counting on the Italian lottery to boost them back up but he’s running into trouble. There are thirty black policy banks in Harlem and the big ones aren’t letting go of their grip on the game.
“Are them bankers lining up?” he says.
“I’m working on it,” Weinberg says.
The Dutchman says, “I ain’t lookin’ for no battin’ average. Take care of it.”
“The small-timers are bowing out.”
“Yeah? What about James Warner? And that black broad, Stephanie St. Clair, and her pimp friend?” the Dutchman says.
“One guy don’t wanna play ball. He’ll see the light soon enough.”
“One guy? Black or white?” the Dutchman says punching in a new set of numbers.
Weinberg says, “The color of his heart or the color of his skin?”
“Don’t try to be funny. It don’t suit you,” the Dutchman says. “Get Jimmy Hines to take care of the dumb mick.”
“Jimmy has his hands full with Seabury,” Weinberg says. “Besides, it’s not a mick. It’s a guy named Alejandro Pompez, a black banker. They call him Alex. He’s no fool. He owns the Cuban Stars and the New York Cubans.”
“What the hell do I care what he owns?”
Weinberg says, “He’s got clout in Harlem.”
The Dutchman stops punching numbers. His eyes narrow and his nose twitches in disgust.
“I ain’t takin’ nothing off no nigger.” The Dutchman is up and moving around his cramped office.
“He’s an attorney,” Weinberg says.
“He ain’t no saint,” the Dutchman says. “I’m goin’ to the Oswasco Democratic Club. Go get the nigger and bring him to me.”
Weinberg gathers up his brother George and heads for the small club where Pompez operates his bookmaking rackets. The neighborhood is poor and dark by complexion. The two Jews stand out not only for the way they look but also the way they walk. They swagger with an air of trouble. Kids jumping rope stop and stare. A group of black men follow behind them as they make their way to the club. Pompez, a dapper man in his mid-thirties, is in a back room playing cards with three bodyguards.
Pompez looks up from his card game. “I already told you no. Now go on, get outta my establishment.”
The bodyguards stand. The club comes to a standstill.
“This works better if you don’t resist,” Bo Weinberg says.
Pompez laughs.
“Your boss sent you out here to fetch me? Is that the game you’re playing, boy? Fetch? I thought you Jews ran the world.”
Bo Weinberg says, “The Dutchman didn’t take business courses at Harvard. He’s making it comfortable for you. A gentlemen’s discussion at the Oswasco.”
“Shit,” Pompez says. “The Dutchman ain’t never gonna be no gentleman.”
Weinberg waits, assessing his options. If he pulls his .38, things will get ugly fast. He decides to avoid the morgue through reason.
“I’m just the messenger. Shooting me won’t stop the Dutchman so why are we playing cat and mouse?”
“You’re sweating,” Pompez says.
“I’m wearing a suit in the middle of July,” Bo Weinberg says.
Pompez stands. His boys rally.
“I’ll drive myself, if you don’t mind,” Pompez says.
Bo Weinberg agrees to the compromise. The Weinbergs follow behind Pompez.
The Democratic Club, a Tammany stronghold, has the appeal of a snake-charmer on market day. It is dark and musty and stinks of fraud but nobody seems able to turn away from the show.
The Dutchman is drinking beer with Solly Girsch, a Harlem policy banker with influence. The familiar face is intended to convince Pompez that protection money is money well spent. Pompez takes a seat across from the Dutchman. The two men lock gazes.
“Five hundred dollars a week for the privilege of staying in business. Think of it as a tax,” the Dutchman says.
Pompez puts on his best courtroom demeanor.
He says, “I have no need of a partner and I won’t be bullied into playing ball with you, Mr. Flegenheimer. My paltry business is not big enough for your concern.”
Whatever hint of humanity the Dutchman might have had is completely gone. His glare is hollow, an all-consuming void that threatens to swallow Mr. Alejandro Pompez and his paltry business. The Dutchman doesn’t flinch, doesn’t wonder about his demands, doesn’t care.
The Dutchman says, “Five hundred dollars a week in exchange for your life. You’ll still be able to afford your fancy clothes and cheap broads.”
Pompez stands and returns a blank face.
“I assume I will be hearing from you soon,” Pompez says.
Once he’s gone, the Dutchman says to Weinberg, “What was so hard about that?”
Weinberg says, “It must be your winning personality.”
The Dutchman stands a round of shots for everyone. It is what businessmen do. His new attorney, Dixie Davis, has told him so and the Dutchman has taken his word as law. For the first time in his life, his suit is not from Sears, an extravagance for which Mr. Davis has lowered his usual twenty-five-dollar fee.
The Dutchman says, “Go get Ison. And when we’re done with him, we’ll deal with the Policy Queen. I’ve had enough of her shenanigans.”
But Stephanie St. Clair refuses to yield to the Dutchman’s advances. In a bid for autonomy, she has taken out an ad in the Harlem newspaper claiming the Dutchman is trying to steal her business. Tall, tough, and fast-talking, the French immigrant is sure that her gang, the Forty Thieves, can rout the bully.
“Roughing up broads ain’t good for business,” Weinberg says, showing his soft spot.
The Dutchman says, “I decide what’s good for business.”
Weinberg looks at his brother and then heads toward the door.
* * *
Charlie Luciano digs through his duffel bag after returning from Chicago and retrieves the envelope that Al Capone gave him to convey to Joe the Boss. Charlie thumbs through the stack of hundred dollar bills. The envelope feels light. He pads out the contents with more bills until the envelope feels fat and rich. He slips the packet into the inner pocket of his jacket and catches a taxi uptown to Joe’s penthouse.
Joe the Boss listens quietly while Charlie relays the troubles Capone is having in Chicago. He laments the sad fact that Joseph Aiello is still running free and most likely hiding in Buffalo while holding out a contract on Capone’s life.
Charlie hands over the fat envelope. The tribute is intoxicating.
“Cola Schiro has disappeared,” Joe says. “He’s smarter than I thought. Stefano Magaddino refuses my gesture for peace. Now I know why. Aiello is whispering in his ear. Stefano doesn’t realize that Maranzano is a terrier at a rat hole waiting to seize the Brooklyn family.”
“He wants more than Brooklyn,” Charlie says.
The tune is music to Joe’s ears.
“Joe Parrino will take over and calm the talk against me among Reina’s boys,” Joe says.
“He’ll have a hard time of it,” Charlie says. “I don’t care what nobody says, no Sicilian ever forgives his brother’s killer. These guys got memories like elephants. It don’t matter that you didn’t pull the trigger. It don’t matter that you didn’t pull the trigger on the gun that killed Sasa Gaspar that day at the Fish Market. Gaspar and Magaddino were allies. They worked the Brooklyn rackets together, and Magaddino won’t forget.”
To some degree, this is good news for Charlie. Stefano Magaddino and Salvatore Maranzano will always want Joe the Boss dead. If they get to the job before Charlie, that’s one less situation to deal with.
Joe paces back and forth and wonders if Peter Morello was right in telling Maranzano that they are responsible for Gaspar’s death. He steps out onto the balcony and takes in Central Park. The hum of the city drones in the background.
“I am going into hiding,” Joe says, at last. “You will watch my interests. That is my decision.”
“Whatever you say,” Charlie replies.
“I knew you would understand. Now, my friend, let’s take one last trip to Coney Island. Absence will be much easier on a bellyful of calamari.”
Joe the Boss has pushed the Castellammarese too far. He fears Stefano Magaddino’s react
ion so he will go into hiding and leave Charlie to hang in the wind and draw off the heat.
They settle into a late afternoon meal at Gerado Scarpato’s restaurant. Charlie watches the boss eat. Joe skirts the issues. He is entrenched in his afternoon ritual. Scarpato looks on, making sure the boss gets whatever he wants. Joe relaxes. He signals to Scarpato for espresso and cards.
Charlie loosens his necktie that tugs at the scar from the fifty-five stitches that remind him of the October night in 1929. He shuffles the cards and deals.
Chapter Nineteen
Now Is the Summer of Our Discontent
SUMMER 1930
Three days of triple-digit temperatures and high humidity and the residents of New York are ready for Bellevue. Those who can have taken refuge at the seashore. Those who can’t swarm theaters and restaurants where man has triumphed over summer’s reign of terror with something called refrigerated air. Architects celebrate by designing windowless buildings. The New York Times runs a pie-in-the-sky story promising “germ-free atmospheres and artificial sunlight for those who must spend much of their lives at work indoors.” Of course, this news is not meant for those laboring in factories.
Joe Bonanno slings his suit jacket over his shoulder and sets out for his beloved Brooklyn restaurant on 84th Street. His shirt wilts across his chest as he walks. He wipes the sweat from his face with his handkerchief. Bonanno has spent the last few days visiting with one of his cousins, discussing the ins and outs of Maranzano’s master plan. They are thrilled.
The small café fills daily with Italians who gather to discuss politics and economics and wolf down gobs of marinated artichokes and homemade pastas. A worn awning shades the front window. Cardboard signs on the windowsill tout the daily specials.
Bonanno pauses to catch his breath from the walk. The heat has left him woozy. Charlie Luciano, suit jacket off and shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbow, is seated at a back table guzzling ice water. He sees Bonanno and waves him back. Bonanno dabs his forehead. It would be imprudent to dismiss the underboss of Joe Masseria this late in the game.
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