“I’d make a bargain with the Devil if that’s what it takes to spit on the Dutchman’s grave.”
“I hope you live long enough to get that chance,” Bumpy says. “Go home, Queenie. Think things through. You play ball with the Dutchman for a few years, bankroll as much as you can. You’ll have more than enough to duck out.”
“Harlem is my home,” Queenie says. “I got no place to duck out to.”
The Queen goes back to Harlem. She mixes a drink and climbs out onto the fire escape. Over a red-hot sunset, she mulls Bumpy’s proposal. The sun sets and the sky turns to gray. Her thoughts turn to Martinique, 1922, when she stuffed every penny she had into her purse and set out for America. The numbers racket has been good to her. She wears fine clothes and dines in the best restaurants. She has taste and respect.
She sets the empty glass on the windowsill and watches the traffic below. Blacks who migrated northward to escape the repression of the south fill the sidewalks with rowdy passion. They are poor and disillusioned. Drifts of people fall into the local clubs. Music and laughter rushes through the streets.
The more Queenie sees, the more she wants Schultz dead.
Alex Pompez is in the middle of a card game when she barges into his club. He waves her off. She sits, cross-legged, on a tabletop waiting for him to finish his hand. She is wearing a fitted silk dress, high heels, and large-brimmed brown hat.
“Somebody’s gotta stand up to that white man,” she says, tiring of the wait.
Pompez’s men laugh and keep playing.
“Stephanie,” Pompez says, folding his cards and leaving the game, “I have looked in the eye of the enemy. Give him his due.”
“I’ll settle for my foot in his big, fat Jewish ass,” she says. “Are you going to sit there while this man runs us all out of business?”
Pompez’s men look to their boss.
“What is it you expect me to do?” he says.
She stands and takes a place in front of Pompez. Her voice is low and focused.
“We pool our resources,” she says coolly. “We do what he does. He strikes us. We strike him. He takes our runners. We take his. If we must, we close down his bankers. Blow up his beer drops. Hell, just do anything to let him know we ain’t gonna lay down.”
“It’s a high-stakes game,” Pompez says. “We’d be betting with our lives.”
“Mon ami,” she says, “we have always been betting with our lives. I heard you met the beast at the Democratic Club. If I was there, I would have spit in his face. What did you do?”
Pompez faces the Queen.
“Women are not allowed in the club. It’s men only, so I don’t see how you could spit in his face.”
Her eyes flare and her skin flushes.
She says, “I am sitting down with Samuel Seabury. You know of him? He’s heading the Hofstadter Committee investigating corruption in the courts and police departments. I’ll give him an earful. I would hate to have to tell him about your operation, too.”
Pompez sighs. “What is it you want from me?”
“Take one of the Dutchman’s runners. Let him know us colored folks stick together.”
Pompez sends out two of his thugs to target the Dutchman’s runner. The kid, not more than thirteen years old, makes his way through a small neighborhood collecting bets. Queenie watches the kid and the shadows that follow him from a second-story window. He stops to take a bet from an old man who plays daily. The man digs through the worn pocket of his pants for the penny he is betting to get him out of poverty. Players choose a series of three numbers hoping to match the last three digits of the New York Stock Exchange numbers at the end of the day. The runner records the bet in his policy book and drops the penny in his leather pouch.
“O.K.,” the runner says. “Tomorrow, Al.”
“Tomorrow you’ll be bringin’ me my winnings,” Al says. “I got it this time. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Yeah,” the runner says and moves on.
He’s been collecting bets for six months and dreams of becoming a policy king. When he brings his bets to the Dutchman, he watches with wonder as Abbadabba Berman, the Dutchman’s accountant, grabs numbers from the air like a magician. At night, he runs figures through his head to repeat Abbadabba’s trick but always fails miserably.
He rounds the corner to the next street. Two black men block the sidewalk. He steps into the street to get around. The men grab the kid and push him into a back alley.
“What you doin’ here in Harlem, boy?” the taller one says.
He grabs the policy book and looks through the bets. He grabs the leather pouch holding the loose change and upends it. Pennies, nickels, and dimes fall to the ground.
“We’re gonna have to teach you a lesson,” he says.
He delivers a sharp kick to the kid’s knee. There is a loud crack. The kid’s leg buckles and he falls onto the hard brick. Pain surges through his body. The men work him over. A gash to the face. A kick to the ribs. More kicks to his broken leg. The kid lies on the ground battered and bloody.
“Get the fuck outta here, white boy. We don’t want your kind sucking up our policy game,” the tall one says.
The men laugh and then walk away.
The Dutchman gets wind of the beating. He and Bo Weinberg drive over to the kid’s house. The kid is laid up in bed with a cast on his leg.
“I can do my job,” the kid says. “You don’t have to worry about that, Mr. Schultz. I’ll be on my feet in the morning.”
“Who did this?” the Dutchman snarls.
The kid says, “I never saw them before.”
Weinberg says, “If you saw them again, could you identify them?”
“Better believe I could,” the kid says.
The Dutchman smiles.
He says to Weinberg, “Deal with it. Now.”
* * *
Meyer reaches for his bankbook. Ada Hector is in the house and Anne is hanging on every word.
“These curtains will have to go,” Ada says. “They simply will not do.”
Ada walks through the house pointing out Anne’s mismatched sense of design. She makes notes in a leatherbound journal while Anne follows helplessly behind. Ada is Manhattan’s latest whirlwind, an interior designer that is making her way through the pocketbooks of uptown New York.
Ada says, “I see why you called me, Mrs. Lansky. This apartment cries out for the touch of a professional. I don’t know how you’ve managed to live with this décor for so long. I’ll have my assistant gather up samples so we can set up an appointment. Will your maid be home this week, in case I need to make a measure?”
“Yes, of course,” Anne says.
Ada slips the leather journal into an oversized tote.
Meyer waits near the front door, pen poised over a blank check.
“Oh, no, no, Mr. Lansky,” Ada says. “No need for that. I will include my visit in your statement. I couldn’t help but notice that you have quite a collection of books in your den. Are you a studious man?”
“I like to read,” Meyer says.
“Fine, fine,” she says. “These are important things to know.”
“As long as the chair is comfortable and the lighting is good,” Meyer says.
“Yes, of course,” Ada says with a forced smile as she dips behind her big-brimmed hat. “Very nice chatting with you. Now remember, Anne, as much as you might be tempted, don’t buy anything until you clear it with me.”
Anne leans against the closed door. Meyer stands with crossed arms.
She says, “You’re always trying to undermine my authority. You want our son to grow up with the best, don’t you? He shouldn’t have to feel different from the other children at school.”
“Bad curtains don’t leave scars, Anne.”
“Ada is decorating Esther’s place and Flo’s, too. You don’t see Benny or Jimmy standing around with a checkbook. I want this, Meyer. I need this. Buddy needs this.”
Meyer says, “Why don’t you take
Buddy to the toy store and fill his life with the things he likes?”
Anne says, “You spoil him, Meyer. You spoil him and you torment me.”
* * *
Vito Bonventre saunters through the kitchen of his Long Island estate. Salvatore Maranzano’s visit is the furthest thing from his mind. Breakfast is on the table: a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, frittata, basket of hard rolls, and a container of goat cheese. Bonventre pours coffee from the silver pot and, as his wife enters the room, he pours a cup for her.
Bonventre says, “Rockefeller is building again. He’s got twelve acres for something called Radio City in midtown. Television. Can you believe he is putting two hundred fifty million in such an enterprise?”
She shrugs. “Where is the fruit? It’s summer. Where is the fruit?”
Bonventre kicks off his shoes and rolls up his pant legs.
“Forget the fruit. Let’s take a walk on the sand,” he says.
They dawdle along the beach picking up shells and driftwood until the sun burns through the clouds and then they find a place on the patio where they enjoy sweet rolls and espresso.
“Don’t go,” she says. “We haven’t enjoyed ourselves this much since we were children. Can’t we forget about obligations just for a little while?”
Bonventre takes his wife’s hand and pulls her up from her chair. He hums a familiar tune as he twirls her around the patio. The music in his head stops.
“What is it?” she says.
“I must go,” he says. “I have business that requires my attention. But I won’t be gone long. I promise, cara mia. Come with me. We will make Brooklyn our honeymoon suite.”
She rolls her eyes. It is the middle of summer and Brooklyn is no honeymoon.
Bonventre brushes the sand from his feet, slips into socks and shoes. He lingers for a moment caressing his wife’s long dark hair and then he is gone. As the distance between them grows, his mind turns to the business at hand. A liquor shipment never made it to port. He suspects foul play and, since Maranzano brought it up, wonders if Joe the Boss is at the root of his problems.
It’s a balmy day in Brooklyn, seventy-five degrees, when he pulls into the driveway of his Brooklyn home. Before he can reach the front door, he is shot dead.
News of the funeral hits the second page of the New York Times. Nearly two hundred mourners are expected to gather at Mount Carmel Roman Catholic Church to grieve his passing. Detectives in the Eastern District and Greenpoint areas beef up forces in preparation for warfare.
Before the funeral, Joe Adonis meets Charlie at the Mulberry Street garage.
“Did you see the paper?” Adonis says. “Police are preparing for feud murders like the ones ten years ago.”
“They better get ready for more than that,” Charlie says.
“Morello?” Adonis says.
“He and Joe the Boss have been, shall we say, consulting with one another. It’s best if you steer clear of the funeral.”
“That’s easy. I didn’t get invited,” Adonis says. “It’s not like we were friends.”
Charlie reads the news, all three paragraphs. Then he calls Meyer.
In the Lansky apartment furniture sits in the middle of the room, covered with dropcloths, while workmen sling strips of wallpaper onto makeshift sawhorse tables and slather it with paste. The smell is sickly sweet.
Meyer says to Anne, “You think this is good for the baby?”
“He’s fine,” she says.
“Why don’t you call Flo or Esther and get some fresh air.”
Meyer grabs his jacket.
“What shall I tell the cook?” Anne says half-panicked.
“Bring a gas mask.”
Meyer meets Charlie at the usual bench in Central Park.
“Anybody know who’s behind this?” Meyer says.
Charlie says, “It doesn’t matter. Bonventre was a cornerstone to the Sicilian community. Joe A. came by earlier. Maranzano called a mandatory meeting of the Castellammarese. They went out to Profaci’s place on Long Island. This is going to fan the flames of Maranzano’s war. The fact that Fat Joe has taken over Reina’s old mob will just add to the fervor.”
“When Pinzolo is eradicated it will be Joe’s turn to retaliate,” Meyer says. “Like dominoes.”
“This could take months,” Charlie says. “It could take years.”
“If I was Maranzano and I found out Joe the Boss went into hiding, I’d assume I have a pretty good shot at taking him down.”
“You wouldn’t be wrong,” Charlie says.
* * *
Peter Morello’s East Harlem office is modest, by all accounts. A few sticks of furniture, nothing special, a desk, chairs, a table. It is functional, not magnificent. At the end of the day, Morello is only interested in the cash receipts collected from various construction sites in the Bronx and Harlem.
It is a slow, hot August afternoon and the conversation in the office is as dull as the day. Half the population of New York is still at the seashore. The other half is in Saratoga drinking mint juleps and gambling. A friend of the Clutch Hand, Giuseppe Periano, is hanging around the office biding his time while he waits for the boat that will take him back to Italy.
Morello’s collector shows up with a small valise full of envelopes.
He says, “If you want bigger contracts, then you should talk with the architects. Kick back a few bucks to them. That’s how you get to the big scores. The architect will have his clients eating out of your hand.”
Morello makes a mental note. Tall buildings are gold mines. They require iron workers, plumbers, electrical workers, cement, and so on. They make great paydays.
Morello goes through the stack of receipts his collector has brought back. Profits are not as rich as he would like. A knock at the front door interrupts the count. Morello looks at his watch. Ten to four. He isn’t expecting visitors. The street below his second-story window shows nothing more than an endless parade of foot traffic. He steps to one side and cracks open the door.
Two gunmen crash their way into the room. They open fire. The occupants are sitting ducks. In a flash of gunfire, four bullets rip through Morello’s body. He goes down. The shooters empty fifteen rounds into the room that variously hit Morello, the collector, and Giuseppe. Giuseppe staggers across the room to get away. He dives through the second-story window and falls to the sidewalk below. The fall kills him instantly. One of the gunmen stands tall over Morello and takes aim. He fires one shot through Morello’s forehead. He pauses to enjoy a moment of glory, Peter Morello dead once and for all.
The collector is left bleeding on the office floor. Nobody really cares if he lives or dies.
The Times article stretches across two pages. “Harlem Racket Gang Murders Two in Raid.”
Word spreads through Brooklyn that Joe the Boss’ war chief is dead and that Joe the Boss is still in hiding. The Boss has been crippled. This is good news for Tommy Gagliano, who still refuses to acknowledge Joe Pinzolo as the new boss of Tom Reina’s old mob.
* * *
Joe waits out the war in a stripped-down apartment longing for his uptown penthouse. He sees his army as formidable. He’s tired of onions and bread. Suddenly he has an epiphany. He makes a call to Charlie Lucky.
“Meet me in Coney Island,” he says. “You know the place. I wanna talk to you.”
By the time Charlie arrives, Joe has secured the restaurant inside and out. A dozen of his soldiers, trusted confidants who have fought with him on many occasions, are stationed outside each entrance. The only warm bodies inside the restaurant apart from Joe and Charlie are the chef and his wife.
Joe is twitchy. His life is on the line. Someone drops a plate in the kitchen and Joe jumps. His nerves are shattered.
“Everybody has gone crazy,” Joe tells Charlie. “It’s the doing of these Castellammarese. They boast of respect. There is no respect! If they had respect, they wouldn’t have killed Joe Pinzolo. What did he do but try to help them with their business?�
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Charlie says, “The newspaper said Tommy Lucchese leased the office where Pinzolo was killed.”
Joe the Boss curses in Italian.
He says, “Lucchese leased the office months ago. They were planning this all along. They wanted to draw me into this fight. I will show them who’s boss. I want you to go to Chicago. Tell Capone that he has my blessing to take out that no good Joe Aiello. Tell him he can’t do it fast enough as far as I am concerned.” Joe nods, “Eat. It is sacrilege to let pasta get cold.”
“I’ll say three Hail Marys on Sunday,” Charlie says.
The blasphemy does little to deflect Joe’s rage over Maranzano’s recent victory. He figures, rightly so, that Stefano Magaddino and Joe Aiello are pumping money into the wannabe Caesar’s war chest. Joe the Boss trembles with rage. No one kills Peter Morello and Joe Pinzolo with impunity. Case closed.
Charlie says, “With Aiello out of the picture, Maranzano won’t have as much capital to work with.”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” Joe says. “Take Aiello out. That’ll put a crimp in this war. We got Bonventre, didn’t we? He was stuffing the war chest. Now he’s gone. We take out Aiello, that’s another big bankroll gone. Let’s see them fight when they can’t afford soldiers.”
* * *
Joe the Boss taps Peter Morello’s soldiers for his next move. Their target lies in Brooklyn, two of Bonventre’s associates, Patsy Tango Dauria and Frank Italiano, whose sphere of influence grew the minute Vito Bonventre died. They have heard that Joe the Boss is in hiding, a fact that emboldens the belief that Brooklyn is Maranzano’s town.
“Cut the legs out from under him,” Joe the Boss tells the soldiers. “The longer they walk around, the more money they gather, the easier it is for them to keep fighting.”
Morello’s boys roll through the neighborhood Dauria and Italiano have been known to frequent. They are spotted walking along Liberty Avenue. The driver stops a block away and two gunmen hit the streets.
Point blank, the gunmen fill the rivals with bullets, sixteen slugs for Dauria and nine for Italiano. The crowd on the street expands and then contracts. Police shove people aside to get to the bodies and assess the damage. Dauria is lying unconscious in the gutter. Italiano is nowhere to be seen. A trail of blood leads the policemen to a hallway off Linwood Street. Eventually they come upon the unconscious body of Frank Italiano. Meanwhile, Patsy Dauria is transported to the hospital. Twenty-four hours later, Dauria is dead.
A Bloody Business Page 42