A Bloody Business

by Dylan Struzan

  “How come you ain’t at Lindy’s?” Charlie says. “They got cool air over there.”

  He nods toward Manhattan and the luxurious lifestyle.

  “I could ask the same of you,” Bonanno says.

  “Luigi’s ravioli,” Charlie says.

  Enough said.

  Luigi’s wife, Gina, pounds out the rhythm of a hard-working woman with her stiff Oxford spectator pumps. She wears a neatly pressed readymade dress and bobbed hair. Not Fifth Avenue but definitely, now, American.

  “Luigi, he make cold escarole and bean soup,” she says, delivering two bowls, one for Charlie and one for Joe Bonanno. “I bring you antipasti, too, no? And then we see what else.”

  Charlie says, “What’s the pasta?”

  “What you think?” She winks. “Luigi make you ravioli, don’t you worry.”

  She makes her way back to the kitchen. Charlie digs into the soup.

  Bonanno says, “I heard that Joe has gone into hiding.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Charlie says.

  “It’s all over the street.”

  “Are you looking for him?” Charlie says.

  Bonanno shakes his head.

  “Aren’t you concerned?” Bonanno says. “If Joe is afraid for his life. Why aren’t you?”

  “Me?” Charlie says. “I got nothing to be afraid of. Besides, Joe the Boss calls the shots. Hey, I hear the Castellammarese are pretty sore that Joe insisted on Pinzolo as the new head of Tom Reina’s family.”

  Gina brings the antipasti. Charlie spreads roasted tomatoes and grilled eggplant on a piece of toasted bread.

  Bonanno says, “The Clutch Hand should have known better but his good sense has failed him. The problem with Mr. Joe is that he lacks values. The way Tommy was gunned down, in front of his aunt’s apartment, is that the act of a true father? Salvatore Maranzano has strong values. He would never do a thing like that. Even to a man who opposed him.”

  Charlie raises his eyebrows. “His aunt’s house? He was gunned down in front of the apartment of his mistress. I guess Tommy didn’t share Maranzano’s values either. Maybe that’s why he was gunned down. Who knows who pulled the trigger that night?”

  Bonanno turns his gaze to the antipasti.

  Charlie says, “Joe ain’t gonna win no popularity contests. Everybody can see that. But these old guys aren’t interested in what nobody else thinks but them. Joe has his reasons for backing Pinzolo. Maybe guys like you and me would handle things differently. Maybe if we were in their shoes we’d do just what they do.”

  Bonanno says, “You pay Joe.”

  “Plenty,” Charlie says. “It’s like a tax, the cost of doing business. It keeps things quiet, so to speak. Don’t you kick in to your family?”

  Bonanno snorts and lays out a list of grievances against Mr. Joe, Peter Morello, and Fat Joe Pinzolo, the latest greasy spot on the tablecloth of “Our Tradition.”

  Firemen pull up in front of the restaurant. All attention turns to the truck and the men climbing off it to the street. The fire they battle is not one that burns down buildings but one that overheats the local kids. They uncap a hydrant. Water blasts into the sky and then falls mercifully to earth, soaking the pavement and sidewalk. Neighborhood kids swarm to the oasis. The restaurant goes back to its conversation.

  Bonanno says, “A little spark gives birth to a big flame. If Mr. Joe had treated Joe Aiello with respect when they met in Chicago, we wouldn’t be in this situation today.”

  “Joe Aiello ain’t no saint,” Charlie says. “As I understand it, and I’m just speaking about what I’ve heard on the street, there’s a lot more to this than Joe Aiello’s wounded ego. Let’s start with the game Aiello is playing with Al Capone. Aiello demands Joe control Capone. Does he really think Joe the Boss has control over Chicago? Even if he wanted to, he can’t tell Capone what to do. The Pope himself couldn’t get Big Al to walk away from his rackets in Chicago. And what about the three musketeers? You know who I’m talking about.”

  “Guinta, Scalice, and Anselmi?”

  Charlie says, “Who knocked those guys off? I heard the Sicilians who didn’t want them mixing with Capone.”

  Bonanno says, “Capone killed those men.”

  “Sicilians bashed their heads in and then shot them for good measure.”

  Bonanno says, “Scalice and Anselmi were in on the massacre.”

  “Are you sayin’ that the Sicilians paid them back because they rubbed out guys from an Irish mob? Then maybe it’s true that Aiello has allied himself with the Irish to get rid of Capone.”

  Bonanno is silent.

  Charlie says, “Look, maybe Maranzano don’t see the difference between Sicily and America. There’s a lot of mobs here and each one has its own territory. Trouble comes in when somebody wants to cross the line and take over somebody else. You get what I’m sayin’? The Castellammarese are expanding into bootleg. Those territories are already settled. If you cross that line, you have to pay for the privilege of working in somebody else’s territory.”

  Bonanno says, “The way it looks to us, it’s Mr. Joe that’s crossing the line.”

  “And you want to be left alone,” Charlie says. “I hear that but like I said, there’s a lot of mobs around and they ain’t all Sicilian. You gotta respect that or there’s trouble. Maranzano has a lot of big words but he don’t got a handle on what makes New York New York. Maranzano thinks he can take what belongs to the Jews if Italians are involved. He’s got a head like Al Capone. He wants to control it all. It ain’t gonna happen. What is yours? What is mine? What is the Dutchman’s in Harlem? The Commission don’t take the Dutchman into account, so what happens when the Castellammarese start movin’ in on his territory on accounta the Italians there too? I already know what Maranzano thinks. What I wanna know is what you think.”

  A chill runs up Bonanno’s spine. The half-truths he’s been throwing around have fallen flat. He conjures an ambiguous reply, striving for neutral ground.

  Bonanno says, “We came to America for freedom and found another Mussolini. You call him Joe the Boss. We call him Mr. Joe because he isn’t our boss. We will defend what is ours.”

  Charlie says, “If Maranzano tries to install himself as head over all the families, there will be war. Are you going to support him in that?”

  “The Commission is a great idea founded in Roman history. It is meant to solve problems, not create them,” Bonanno says. “Someone has to break Mr. Joe’s yoke.”

  “I’ll tell you a little secret. There ain’t gonna be no cooperation between Joe the Boss and Salvatore Maranzano. They’re two bulls fighting for control of the golden heifer. One ain’t no different from the other.”

  Bonanno says, “We don’t want anything from anybody except to be left to our own business.”

  Charlie signals Gina to bring a bottle of wine. She pours two glasses.

  “I think we can agree to a world without Fascism,” Charlie says.

  Bonanno nods, “Salute!”

  * * *

  “Pack a bag,” Maranzano says after listening to Joe Bonanno’s description of lunch with Charlie. “We’re going to Long Island.”

  Within an hour, the Cadillac pulls up in front of Bonanno’s building. Maranzano rolls down the back window.

  “Get in, Peppino,” he says, waving his broad hand in Bonanno’s direction.

  The driver takes Bonanno’s duffel and places it in the trunk next to Maranzano’s bag and a large metal box that holds ammunition for the machine gun. They head across the East River and out to where breezes blow and air is tolerable.

  Maranzano settles in for the ride. He turns to Bonanno and asks for a repeat of the conversation.

  “What was your impression?” Maranzano says. “He said many things but do you really believe he will turn against the overstuffed capo di tutti? Perhaps he was testing your loyalty.”

  Bonanno says, “Charlie Luciano has no respect for the old man. If he respected the Chinese, he would defend h
im, but he does not. Don’t you think that’s telling?”

  Mr. Joe has been dubbed “the Chinese” by Maranzano. It’s an old trick. Erode respect for your enemy by lowering his social status in the eyes of others. Maranzano creates a caricature of Mr. Joe to insult him: “His face is so fat, his eyes squint like a Chinaman’s.”

  “Indeed,” Maranzano says. “Indeed. Tell me, Peppino, are you going to become a citizen of this country?”

  “I am thinking of it,” Bonanno says. “There is no place for me in Italy as long as Mussolini rules the country.”

  Maranzano laughs. “How true. But why this country? Why not Canada? There is no Prohibition in Canada.”

  “Yes, and we are making a very good living off Prohibition, aren’t we?”

  “We are indeed,” Maranzano says. “And this is why Mr. Joe demands tribute. If we were like the other mobs, he would not even notice we exist. But we are not like other mobs and this is what irritates the glutton. We are a powerful family and we must remain united. We are going to visit the other men of honor. They must see who Mr. Joe really is and reject him. Tell me, Peppino, what did Charlie say to make you think he does not approve of Mr. Joe’s actions? What were his exact words?”

  “We talked about so many things,” Bonanno says. “It is hard to remember just exactly what he said that gave me the impression. He did say that he is not interested in bulling anyone. That was his word. Are you familiar with the term?”

  Maranzano shakes his head.

  “No matter,” Bonanno says. “He said it was too bad that we are headed for a war.”

  The first stop Maranzano makes is the summer estate of Vito Bonventre. The estate sits on the south side of the island in the town of Seaford where a small group of islands buffer the shore from the Atlantic Ocean. The location is perfect for offloading booze of all sorts, including wine from Italy. Any small launch can squeeze through Jones Inlet and hide from the Coast Guard, if necessary. The Coast Guard, however, is content with the graft so Bonventre’s boats come and go freely.

  Bonventre takes his ease on the patio, watching his grandchildren splash in the pool while he waits for his guests to settle in. The cook brings fresh bread rolls and lemonade spiked with mint. The afternoon sun flirts with the trees in a dappled dance that casts shadows across the land.

  Maranzano is the first to join Bonventre. He delivers the news that Cola Schiro has gone into hiding. With no small amount of pride, Maranzano confides that he was voted to lead the family.

  Bonventre watches the children play.

  Maranzano starts again, “Joe demanded a ten-thousand-dollar tribute. Cola Schiro paid him. Then he demanded Stefano come to New York for a clarification parlay.”

  “He has no power over our family business,” Bonventre says. “What kind of parlay? Clarification of what?”

  “Has everyone in New York grown fat and complacent? Mr. Joe and the Clutch Hand took responsibility for the death of Gaspar in Detroit. He intends to devour our tradition.”

  “Relax,” Bonventre says. “Please, you will upset the children. The families in Detroit will avenge Gaspar’s death.”

  Vito Bonventre reaches for the lemonade. He is comfortable and, at this age, disinclined to involve himself in Maranzano’s feud.

  “Tell that to his four children,” Maranzano says. “You can’t trust these men. They have a war machine.”

  “He has a couple of thugs who intimidate the weak when the need arises.”

  Maranzano says, “I have looked in his eyes and I see what he wants. The Clutch Hand works him like a puppet. I knew of the Morello family in Sicily. The Clutch Hand was born in Corleone. He made his money counterfeiting. When he came to America, he spread out. Ignazio Lupo did his dirty work then and he does it now. The Clutch Hand has his fingers everywhere. Why not? He has been here for three decades. He will swallow us all.”

  Bonventre says, “You say Cola has paid the tribute? Then let it be. We would be wise not to stir the contempt of the Clutch Hand or Ignazio. They are nervous men. If he has not bothered us for three decades, why believe he will start bothering us now?”

  “Forget Lupo,” Maranzano says. “Joe will have us under his thumb or he will kill us all one by one.”

  “Why would Joe Masseria want to kill me?”

  “You are the richest among us,” Maranzano says. “Killing you would eliminate the money that might otherwise be used against him in war.”

  “War? You worry too much. He would not dare to kill me. I do not threaten him or his aspirations. What would I gain by a war with Joe the Boss, or Peter Morello for that matter? Would you have me abandon my family, my business, and put my life in danger just to wage a war? You young men, you are too quick to the mattresses.”

  “Complacency is the old man’s disease,” Maranzano says. “This fat boss with slits for eyes will not be still forever. Even Charlie Luciano has turned from his boss.”

  “How do you know this?” Bonventre says.

  “I have ears to hear what is being said on the streets of New York,” Maranzano says.

  “Be careful of rumors,” Bonventre says. “Tom Reina jumped into your conflict and got himself killed. I will make my own assessment of business in our world.”

  “Am I to blame for Sasa Parrino and Gaspar Milazzo, too?” Maranzano says.

  “Are you suggesting Chester LaMare is Joe Masseria’s puppet, too?”

  “The Clutch Hand took responsibility for the murder. Now Mr. Joe insists Sasa’s brother head our clan when I was the one elected by our family,” Maranzano says.

  “We are a long way from Sicily. In America, there is plenty of room for everyone. As your success grows, you will see things differently.”

  “You are blind to the truth,” Maranzano says.

  Bonventre stares at the trees and then slowly and with determination he tells Maranzano, “We must call a meeting of the fathers at once. I put this in your hands. You know what you have to do.” He stands. “Right now, I am going to take a swim.”

  The next morning, Maranzano bids Bonventre goodbye and then, along with Joe Bonanno, heads for the luxurious estate of Joe Profaci. Profaci, ever the statesman, welcomes Maranzano while Joe Bonanno waits outside with Profaci’s bodyguards.

  The large living room with oversized beveled-glass windows that open to a garden dense with trees and shrubs is a welcoming place for Maranzano and Profaci to exchange pleasantries. But Maranzano is not content with chitchat. Still running hot from his encounter with Bonventre, Maranzano gets quickly to the point.

  “I am worried about Bonventre,” he says. “He is unprepared when he should be alert. He must take precautions to protect himself from this maniac but instead he swims with his grandchildren.”

  Profaci says, “I lost everything when I left Italy. The state took it all. Look around. We have come to this country and made good. Why do you want to stir things up?”

  “We are men of honor. We stand together.”

  Profaci says, “I have spoken with the fathers and they oppose this war of yours. It is you that must stand with us.”

  “I know you have no respect for the man who calls himself the Boss. Are you going to stand by and let this…thief roll over our family? Will you do nothing to help us?”

  “Call a meeting and we will discuss the matter.”

  “Discuss, discuss. Is that all anyone has to say? We must take action or our inaction will condemn us all.”

  * * *

  The Dutchman takes aim at Stephanie St. Clair in Harlem. As if her accusations in the local newspaper were not enough, she has taken aim at the corruption in the Harlem police precincts.

  For that, she was slammed into the Women’s Workhouse. Upon her release, she set off to Sing Sing to visit her ally, Bumpy Johnson. Bumpy runs numbers, pimps, burgles, and regularly spends time in jail. At last count, he has spent nearly half of his thirty years in prison. Bumpy doesn’t quote from The Divine Comedy or The Prince. He doesn’t make a pretense for h
is crimes. But he does try to convince Queenie that a deal with the likes of Dutch Schultz is inevitable.

  “Bumpy,” she says, “you better get your ass on up outta here. Harlem numbers are mine. Colored folks gotta stick together. You know as well as I do that we’re the only ones can take back what belongs to us.”

  “Darlin’,” Bumpy says, and he moves as close to Queenie as jail space allows, “you know I’m right. You just don’t want to hear those words.”

  She leans forward until her face is barely an inch from his.

  “Bumpy,” she says, “you don’t want this gruesome old white boy floating around Harlem for the rest of our lives, do you?”

  “Our lives won’t be worth spit if we try to stop him,” Bumpy says. “I got a hot head and it lands me in all kinda trouble but I ain’t got no death wish. The Dutchman’s got the cops, bail bondsmen, lawyers, and all kinds a court officials in his pocket. He’s got ties to the big New York mobs. We ain’t goin’ broke if we work with the Dutchman but we’ll surely die if we work against him.”

  “I thought you liked it hot, Bumpy. You ain’t one to lay down and take a beating from no white man. I know you been talkin’ to that Schultz strongarm, Weinberg. Did he put you up to trying to sweet talk me into giving up?”

  He says, “They’re Jews and they stick together. They’re as tough as they come.”

  “Since when?” she says.

  “Queenie, a man don’t spend half his life in Sing Sing and come out without having some say in how his life is gonna end. Part of somethin’ is better ’n all of nothin’. You heard of the Bugs and Meyer mob? Trust me, you don’t want Benny Siegel comin’ for revenge.”

  “I’m betting that Mr. Arthur Flegenheimer don’t want nothing to do with Samuel Seabury.”

  Bumpy gives Queenie a hollow stare.

  “That’s right. I got the call. Mr. Seabury wants me to testify about what’s been goin’ on in Harlem,” she says.

  “Oh, Queenie, don’t do it,” Bumpy says. “You go in there, you’re opening up a door you can’t close again. This whole thing can come back at you. Lay low until I get outta here. Then we can talk. Then we’ll do something about Mr. Arthur Flegenheimer.”