Gagliano takes the problem back to his underboss, Tommy Lucchese.
“Maranzano wants the Harlem numbers racket. Isn’t the Dutchman cozy with Charlie Lucky? If Maranzano routs the Dutchman, he’s cutting off Charlie’s influence in Harlem,” he says. “Any way you look at this, it sounds like another war.”
Lucchese leans back and sighs.
He says, “Every dime we make will go to support his war.”
“Here’s something else. Maranzano wants us to make loans on his behalf. He says who gets the money,” Gagliano says.
“Fuck that,” Lucchese says.
“He’s Old World,” Gagliano says. “He thinks he won the war and now he’s the boss of everything.”
“Are we back where we started?” Lucchese says.
“I don’t know,” Gagliano says.
Lucchese grumbles his discontent. When his boss leaves, he calls Charlie Luciano.
Charlie says, “What’s your number there? I’ll call you in fifteen minutes.”
Charlie arranges a hasty meeting with Meyer. He calls Lucchese and tells him to meet them at the Claridge.
“Watch your back,” Lucchese says and hangs up.
Meyer meets Charlie at the office.
Charlie says, “I don’t remember it being this hot for this long. Remember when we used to cool off in the river?”
“That’s before we knew what they were throwing in it,” Meyer says.
“I got a call from Tommy Lucchese,” Charlie says. “It looks like the war in the Bronx is going to get hotter. Maranzano is about to make his move on the Harlem numbers racket.”
Lucchese knocks on the door. Charlie invites him in.
Lucchese looks Charlie in the eye and says, “There’s a list and you’re at the top.”
“How do you like that?” Charlie says. “I was just telling the Dutchman the same thing. So there really is a list. Listen, tell Meyer what you told me.”
“Maranzano moves around this town like Pancho Villa,” Lucchese says. “He’s got half a dozen bodyguards around him. He’s got a machine gun mounted in a bulletproof car. The Archduke of Austria toured with less firepower. He hasn’t paid any of the soldiers like he promised he would. He keeps talking about war and conquering our enemies. He thinks he is in charge of everything. Bossing everybody around. He’s trying to get in touch with Coll. It’s like Aiello and the Bugs Moran mob. They made an alliance to get rid of Capone. Same thing. Since Coll is killing off the Dutchman’s guys, I think Caesar is going to try to use him to take out everybody on his list. That means you, Charlie, and Costello and Joe A. and a lot of other guys.”
Meyer looks at Charlie. Charlie nods.
“Are you ready?” Meyer says to Lucchese.
Lucchese knows there’s a plan to take out Maranzano but lacks the details.
Meyer says, “Here’s how it’s going to go. Capone is facing charges on tax evasion. That’s big news. It’s also been in the news in New York. The government has their own list of fifteen hundred racketeers. The list includes Jack Diamond, Dutch Schultz, Vannie Higgins and Larry Fay. Make sure Maranzano is aware that the same federal men that got Capone have come here to get us. Let him get nervous. Our friends in high places will leak the information that Maranzano is on the list. Our guys will come in dressed as IRS agents. We need you to tell us when. We want to hit the office at a time when it is least populated.”
Lucchese nods. He’s ready to play his part.
“Maranzano had a good idea with the Commission,” Meyer says. “His trouble is that he wants to be at the top.”
Charlie says, “We been talking about a board where everybody is equal. Each family takes care of itself. Keep your nose in your own business. Use the Commission the way it’s supposed to be used, when there’s a problem between families. Then the fathers get together and work it out. But no one is on the top, tellin’ anyone what to do.”
“You’re talking to Sicilians, Charlie,” Lucchese says.
“Two of the biggest Sicilians around will be dead. What’s the body count already? They purged themselves. There isn’t that much more that needs to be done. We can’t stop the killing but we can make business a little more civilized,” Meyer says.
* * *
Walking through Grand Central Terminal in broad daylight is Salvatore Maranzano’s greatest pleasure. At eight o’clock every morning, he comes through the 42nd Street entrance under the gaze of Mercury, Minerva, and Hercules. The main concourse is alive with the dance of a thousand commuters occupied with the business of life. Maranzano stops to help a little boy who has dropped a toy train. Joe Valachi stops for newspapers and coffee.
There is no rush on Valachi’s part. He nods to his boss and heads to the café where he orders a large breakfast and reads the news. He bides his time chatting up the waitress until it’s time to check in with his boss. Maranzano gives him the afternoon off. A little after noon, he heads down to the Oyster Bar for lunch. Lucchese, who has been on hand for Maranzano’s morning meetings, tags along.
They settle in at the Oyster Bar’s long counter and order soft-shell crabs, coleslaw, and beer. The guy behind the counter grabs near beer from the cooler under the counter and flips off the caps for his customers. Valachi takes a swig.
“That’s some piss poor imitation,” he says.
Three cops a few seats away give him a look. Valachi goes back to his crab. The cops finish their clam chowder and laugh over the fate of some poor unfortunate they put away. Maranzano’s name pops from their boisterous conversation.
Valachi strains to eavesdrop on the conversation but can’t make out the details. The cops get up to leave.
“You’ll find me in the privy,” one of them says.
“Good idea,” another says.
The blue suits head for the john.
Lucchese gives a nod to Valachi, “Follow ’em. See what you can find out.”
Standing at the porcelain troughs, the blue suits talk about the upcoming audits and how they’re going to laugh their asses off watching the racket guys squirm. The performance is worthy of a Broadway play. The talk centers on Frank Wilson, the accountant who has been calculating Capone’s net worth and expenditures. Word on the street is, after three years of undercover work, the Chicago Outfit is about to be taken down. Ballistics has tied a machine gun used in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre to the slaying of Frankie Yale. It is only a matter of time before the Italian kingpins in New York face a similar fate. Maranzano’s is one of the names thrown around as they piss and flush and wash their filthy cop hands.
Like a teenage girl who has just experienced a run-in with Rudolph Valentino, Valachi races back to Lucchese with his news.
“I gotta get back,” he says.
When Maranzano hears, he ducks into the silence of his office and begins to sort papers. Valachi and Lucchese sit on the couch in the reception area trading glances. Eventually Maranzano calls them in.
Maranzano says, “Are you sure they’re coming after me?”
Valachi shrugs, “They mentioned you along with Capone. They said there’s a crackdown all over the city on accounta all the violence. You know how Seabury’s been tryin’ to clean up the corruption. It’s all part of the deal. All the big guys. The Dutchman. Larry Fay. Owney Madden.”
“How did they get my name?” Maranzano says.
“I don’t know,” Valachi says. “They were talkin’ about the Seabury investigations and all them interviews.”
“Who do we know that can back up the story?” Maranzano says.
Lucchese says, “I know a couple of guys.”
Maranzano says, “This is a real estate office. The police come in here, it should look like one. Understand? Nobody brings guns to the office.”
But the auditors don’t show. Time drags on. Maranzano begins to relax. The oppressive heat breaks, just about the time Maranzano manages to get word to Vincent Coll on a matter of mutual interest, their combined desire to eliminate the competition.
Maranzano makes Coll a generous offer from the coffers of his war chest. For the extra income, Coll is happy to accept contracts for all of Maranzano’s problems. Vincent Coll slips in and out of the ninth floor of the New York Central Building with a large deposit on a new life.
Salvatore Maranzano calls Charlie Luciano and requests a clarification meeting to be held in his Grand Central office on September 10th. Charlie agrees to the meeting, which is intended to clear up the territories in dispute in Harlem.
“You’ve got the go-ahead,” Charlie tells Meyer.
The four Jews and one Irishman destined to change the course of organized crime are called in. Meyer watches with eager anticipation as the assassins don the garb of IRS agents.
Meyer says, “You have the stiletto?”
Red Levine says, “If you want to give the guy a buckwheat, why not take him out to Coney Island and do it right?”
“This isn’t a buckwheat,” Meyer says. “This is a message to anybody who thinks he’s going to set himself up as Caesar. We’re taking him down in his office so everybody knows nobody is out of reach. It’s a history lesson. Caesar always dies in the end.”
Benny says, “You want us to wear togas, too?”
He shimmies the sheath in place along the small of his back then arranges the stiletto’s handle to make sure it is positioned correctly. Satisfied with the easy release, he focuses on the 1911 Colt, making sure the chamber is cocked and ready for work. Jack Adams, the guy from Jimmy Alo’s mob, drives the getaway car.
“Plug ’em,” Charlie says. “Lucchese says there’s maybe half a dozen guys around him and one girl at the front desk.” He looks at Gurrah Shapiro, “Put ’em up against the wall and hold them there. They don’t get killed. Gagliano has drawn off Joe Valachi for the day.”
The boys add silencers to their weapons and Bo and Red are given knives.
“Keep it tight, Benny,” Meyer says. “We don’t need the newspaper blowing this thing out of proportion.”
Benny laughs. “Let me get this straight. I’m stabbing and shooting the strongest Mustache Pete in New York and you don’t want it blown out of proportion? That’s funny. This will go down as the greatest mob hit in all of fucking history.” Benny shakes his head as he slides the Colt into a modified shoulder holster. “What the hell was that line again, Meyer? Liberty, freedom, and what?”
“Liberty, freedom, tyranny is dead,” Red says. “It’s fucking Shakespeare.”
Jack Adams rips the cover from the stolen car parked in the garage. He checks the tires and starts the engine like he’s done every day since the car was appropriated for the Maranzano hit. Sammy has fiddled with the engine so the car can outrun just about anything.
Jack releases the hand brake and rolls the car forward. Four Lower East Side gunsels, from each of New York’s powerful Jewish mobs, pile in. Briefcases line the floorboard.
At 3:45 in the afternoon, four accountants hit Maranzano’s office on the ninth floor. They put seven men and one female against the wall.
Gurrah says, “Keep it zipped and nobody gets hurt.”
Benny, Bo Weinberg, and Red Levine push their way into Maranzano’s office. Benny pulls the stiletto and plunges it into Maranzano’s belly. It stops at the hilt. Bo and Red follow suit, plunging their knifes into the staggering Sicilian.
“Liberty, freedom, tyranny is almost dead, you fat cock-sucker,” Benny says. “Did you really think you were going to get away with screwing the Jew mob out of business?”
Maranzano grabs Benny by the throat. His grip is strong. Benny struggles to pull him off. He rips the stiletto from Maranzano’s body and plants it again and again into his abdomen. Maranzano falls forward, clearing his desk with wild swipes of his arms. Benny and Red slam Maranzano backwards. He falls into his chair. Benny starts blasting.
Weinberg holds a .38 to Maranzano’s chest and fires.
“Let’s get out of here,” Benny says.
They retreat through the outer office, releasing their hostages. The secretary runs to Maranzano’s aid while the seven men flee.
Over the next few days, the ranks of the New York families are purged of Old World thinking. Not many have to die. The New York Times connects Maranzano’s killing with an alien smuggling ring and then to Chicago because a couple of hats which bore Chicago hat store labels flew off the assassins as they ran out the door.
Charlie tells Meyer, “The Night of the Vespers is finally over. The peasants revolted and got their land back. We don’t want no more bullshit.”
When the dust settles, Charlie sets up a celebratory dinner at the 21 Club.
Jack Kriendler works the 18-inch wire that releases the lock that allows the two-ton brick wall to slide open. Behind the wall is the wine cellar. A large table sits in the middle, decked in high style with the club’s best linens and tableware.
Charlie, Joe Adonis, Vito Genovese, Meyer Lansky, Benny Siegel, and Jimmy Alo make their way into what is fondly called “Jimmy Walker’s hideaway.” Frank Costello gloats over the fact that it was his idea to disguise the cellar that is actually located in the basement of the neighboring building. He lets everyone know he arranged for the electronically controlled disappearing bar upstairs that drops all liquor bottles down a chute and away from the club. You can’t get arrested for fumes.
Jack lets him brag. It is good business.
The cellar not only holds the wealth of the club, it displays the vested interest of some of New York’s finest clientele. Cubbyholes from floor to ceiling line the walls, each filled with bottles of wine. Most sport bronze tags but there are also some with small pieces of tape with handwritten names or, in Charlie’s case, numbers. Charlie takes a seat at the long dining table. Behind him the cubby labeled “312,” Charlie’s personal stash for special occasions, several bottles from which are already on the table, ready for pouring.
Charlie says, “We might have Frank to thank for this cozy hideaway but we got a few other guys to thank tonight for a different kind of freedom.”
Jack Kriendler personally pours the wine for Charlie’s party, a fine French Bordeaux. Then he disappears, closing the two-ton wall behind him.
Charlie raises his glass. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever get to enjoy this stuff. I got one guy to thank. That’s Meyer Lansky. Without him, we’d all still be swimming in Sicilian swill. Gentlemen,” he says, “we did it.”
It is a cheer heard around the city but most deeply felt by Meyer. The days of squalor are so much water under the bridge, and a wild-hair of an idea that brought Meyer and Charlie together, fostered by a “noble experiment” gone wrong, has brought them both to this pinnacle of success. Though it’s an unusual pinnacle, what with it being celebrated in hiding, underground.
Charlie points to the neatly wrapped boxes at each table setting.
“A little something for you boys,” he says. “A token of my gratitude.”
Inside each box is a gold watch.
The meal begins with blue points and a lobster cocktail followed by pâté de foie gras and supreme of melon maraschino. Then soup, a potage of new peas. Roast prime ribs of beef Jardiniere. A family-style collection of vegetables and potatoes au gratin. Desserts range from peach melba to caramel custard. A demitasse settles the load before the girls come in.
Vito says, “You deserve to be the boss. Look what you done.”
Charlie says, “Get that idea out of your head. I don’t need that kinda trouble.”
Vito says, “This ain’t the end of the trouble. There’s a Mad Mick running around town.”
Charlie pours another glass of wine. He looks down the blouse of the girl on his lap.
“That’s for another day. Right now, I’m gonna enjoy the night.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
A Snowball’s Chance
FALL 1931
The Night of the Vespers is not so much an excuse for personal vengeance as a cleansing of Old World domination and thinking. Meyer’s philosophy is simple and to
the point. Don’t kill more than is necessary. Don’t draw attention. Do what is best for everyone. Thanks to the war, most of the Old World powerhouses are already gone.
Stefano Magaddino enjoys an unannounced absence from his Buffalo estate in order to meet Charlie Lucky in Manhattan and discuss private matters. Charlie’s place looks lived in. Books are scattered around the room. Jazzy music plays on the radio. There is the lingering scent of perfume from a scarf left behind by one of Polly’s girls. Magaddino smiles at the telltale sign of Charlie’s lifestyle even though he disagrees with Charlie’s insistence on an unattached life.
“Congratulations, Lucky,” Magaddino says.
Charlie says, “It wasn’t luck that kept me alive. It was Meyer’s insight. If it was up to me, I’d a blown everybody away from the beginning, but then we’d never really know what kinda guy Salvatore Maranzano turned out to be, would we? Meyer kept tellin’ me to wait. You know how hard that is for a guy like me? The final straw was gettin’ word that Maranzano was ready to bump us off. We struck first, that’s all. Self-defense. The Jews did a helluva job. A helluva job. We took a big chance but it paid off.”
“Power went to Salvatore’s head,” Magaddino insists, not at all sorry that Brooklyn is voting on a new father.
The fact is, Stefano didn’t like the direction Maranzano was taking the family. He was a source of contention and conflict from the beginning. Magaddino notices the wear and tear in Charlie’s face. The war was hard on all of them. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.
“You got stugots,” Magaddino says not expecting a reply. “We’re all better off for it.”
Magaddino is tough. Ruthless. But somehow reasonable by Mafia standards. That’s what keeps him alive. That’s what kept him from making a move on Maranzano before the time was right.
Charlie says, “If you ask me, Maranzano never got over what happened in Sicily when Mussolini came in. He came here but he couldn’t manage to live and let live. The guy was always afraid somebody was gonna take somethin’ away from him. He couldn’t trust nobody. That’s why he had to be in control, of everything. He ain’t in control no more. What’s Caruso gonna do now that Maranzano’s gone?”
A Bloody Business Page 49