Jimmy the Stick

by Michael Mayo

  NEW YORK CITY

  I probably wouldn’t have got into the liquor business if it hadn’t been for Spence. And of course Meyer Lansky. I was there at the creation, as they say.

  Truth is, Lansky was the smartest man I ever knew. I met him for the first time on a Sunday afternoon in the fall of 1920.

  By then I’d carried a lot of messages for A. R., and delivered enough bribes and payoffs to have a simple understanding of politics and economics. I knew which men were so secure that they didn’t care if anyone saw them taking money. They’d tear open their envelopes right in front of me. Some would count carefully. Some thumbed through the tattered bills. I also knew men who were both embarrassed to be taking the money and thankful to see me. They tucked it away quickly and quietly.

  Mother Moon had been right. My adorable little Mick mug made it easy for me to walk into any police station or Democratic Party office without drawing undue attention. Always polite and smiling, I could have been anyone’s nephew or grandson. The men who knew what I was really doing made sure nobody bothered me. Rothstein was the important middleman that the Tammany boys used to keep their distance from the other, rougher racket guys.

  I was also pretty good at fading into the woodwork. I could disappear in any crowd. My size helped. A. R. sometimes had me hang around during his marathon pool matches and poker games in case he had to conduct any of his other business dealings and needed a private message delivered. That’s when I learned to read, picking up newspapers that were always lying around, first the funnies, then the sports pages, and finally the regular stories. That’s also when I first started writing down words I didn’t know, and looking them up in the dictionary at the public library. And that’s where I watched A. R. become increasingly bitter and nasty during the games. My main work was carrying money and messages. I had nothing to do with Rothstein’s casinos, and I never went with him to Saratoga or any other fancy places. I worked strictly in the city. Sure, there were other guys who did that too, but I was the best, and I’m not bragging when I say it. A. R. always made sure I was available for the most important jobs.

  On the street, I was on my own. Word was out that I worked for Rothstein, and that meant I was carrying money or something else almost as valuable. I learned to be even more suspicious than I was during my Liberty Bond days, and I spent hours scouting out different routes to the places where Rothstein sent me. I can’t say that I knew all of New York, but I was pretty familiar with a few hundred streets, alleys, sidewalks, hallways, back lots, broken fences, and walkways, all leading from one place to another. And I knew them in combinations most people never heard of. I was still most comfortable when I was on foot in moderate to heavy crowds. That’s when a kid with my size and speed could really move. I figured that I was the fastest thing on the street, except maybe for a hungry dog. I could outrun and outmaneuver any adult.

  And I loved it. Yes, there were times when I was scared. Once, when I wasn’t paying proper attention, I almost ran into a bunch of older guys, four raw-boned brutes waiting for me outside Henri’s Restaurant. I was carrying a packet from A. R. for the headwaiter. I saw the men too late to make a simple U-turn. They were right in front of me, only an arm’s length away, the four of them fanning out across the sidewalk.

  Without thinking, I sped from a trot to a run and cut toward the widest space I could see. One fellow reached out to grab at my coat and tore at the sleeve but hardly slowed me. I was weaving up the sidewalk when a chunk of pavement sailed past my head, and I heard running behind me.

  I turned at the next cross-street and tried to figure out where I was and if there was anything close that I could use against these guys. Yes, the newsstand, just past the next corner. Without slowing too much, I reached into my pants pocket for the switchblade I carried along with the knucks. Not yet, I thought. Wait. I was tempted to look back to see if they were as close as they sounded, but that would have slowed me down. I rounded the corner at Third, and there it was—a long, open stand along the curb with hundreds of magazines and newspapers on display, and wooden boxes full of soft drinks on the ground.

  As the first of the brutes barreled around the corner, I swept an armload of magazines at his feet. The guy slipped, and I closed in with the knife, slicing him across the face. I was aiming for the eyes but got him on the temple. He was bleeding but he didn’t slow up until I smacked him in the mouth with my knucks. By then, the proprietor of the stand was yelling and I was half a block away.

  I didn’t deliver A. R.’s packet to Henri’s until later that afternoon, and that night I went back to the magazine stand to give the guy a five-spot. Hell, fair’s fair.

  Rothstein had been in Europe for a month when I heard he was back and wanted to see me. Sunday afternoon, Room 502, Park Central Hotel.

  I got there, and found a waiter was setting up a warming tray with half a dozen covered dishes, and a table for two with a heavy white tablecloth. A. R. was talking on the telephone, and motioned me to a chair by the window. I sat uncomfortably, my feet not quite reaching the floor. Rothstein wore a new dark-gray suit, a bow tie, and a white shirt with a collar that almost reached his round jowls and chin. His face was freshly shaved, and he smelled of something sweet and soapy. He finished his conversation and turned to me.

  “How’ve you been, Jimmy? Listen, it’s important that I break bread with the young man I’m meeting this evening. But I’m also expecting a call that I can’t put off. Depending on what I hear, I’ll need you to go down to Lindy’s to deliver a message to Abe, then come right back.”

  I nodded. Simple enough, but as it turned out, the phone never rang that night.

  “Did you eat?”

  I shook my head.

  “Fix yourself a plate. And by the way, pay attention, you might learn something.”

  I slid off the chair and carefully raised the polished metal covers from the dishes. I’d seen them before, looking through the front windows of lobster palaces and hotels, but I’d never actually handled such exotic food. There was something that looked like a little chicken and tasted just as good, cooked carrots, frilled browned mashed potatoes, and spinach—all delicious. I tried some kind of fish with the head still attached, then a small spongy cake. I piled a plate high, carried it back to my armchair, and dug in with a large spoon.

  There was a knock at the door, and a wary young man of about eighteen came in. He held a hat and wore a herringbone overcoat. Rothstein greeted him all warm and friendly. “Mr. Lansky, so good to see you again. Let me help you with that.”

  Lansky’s expression was guarded. He lit a cigarette, scanned the room, and stared at the kid balancing the full plate on his lap.

  “That’s Jimmy Quinn. He’s all right. Runs Mother Moon’s shooting gallery and takes care of things for me. We can talk freely in front of him. I’m afraid I have some other pressing business that can’t be put off. I don’t want us to be interrupted, but certain parties may need to speak to me. If they call, I’ll have to get messages to other parties. Timing is essential. I’m sure you understand.”

  Lansky nodded. I knew enough to realize that this must be pretty important if A. R. was meeting this guy at the hotel instead of the deli, where he usually conducted business.

  They sat across the white tablecloth but didn’t eat. A. R. began by saying, “We’re both sporting men, and I have a proposition that’s going to change your life and make you wealthier than you ever dreamed.”

  I could tell that the younger man was interested but was trying not to let it show.

  A. R. launched into his tale, all about laws that would make alcohol illegal. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Close the saloons? Not sell beer? That made no sense. If anybody but Mr. Rothstein had said it, I’d have thought the guy was nuts. Remember, I was nine at the time, maybe ten. So I watched the two men and realized I’d never seen A. R. in such good light. I’d never heard him talk so much either. As I remember it, Lansky hardly said a word. Maybe he didn’t need to sinc
e A. R. was doing the pitch.

  “Somebody is going to sell liquor, and if that somebody corners the market on quality goods, he’ll be able to charge just about as much as he wants to.

  “I know you’re working with Ben Siegel and Sal Lucania—”

  This time Lansky interrupted, “Charlie Lucania. He don’t like Sal, says it’s a girl’s name. He’s Charlie now.” This was years before he changed Lucania to Luciano.

  Rothstein shrugged. So what? “But unlike other Italians, he doesn’t mind working with us, or so I’ve heard.”

  Lansky nodded. “You heard right. Charlie’s OK. We’re interested in making money. The rest is bullshit.”

  “That’s exactly what I want to hear, because there is more than enough to go around if everybody sticks to business.”

  A. R. described a new world I couldn’t even imagine. They’d buy good liquor where it was legal, and bring it to New York in their own ships. They’d anchor offshore and carry the booze in on speedboats.

  “Do you understand the quantities the public will demand? No matter what the law says, people are going to drink. You won’t have trouble moving the stuff. You’ve already got the trucks at your garage. You’ll have to take care of the cops in every city, but that’s simply the price of doing business. You pass it along to your customers. It all comes down to money. Now, let me explain how this will work. . . .”

  A. R. went into details about Cuba and Nassau and islands in Canada and how they’d use them as their bases. I didn’t understand a word of it. I knew that Brooklyn and New Jersey were on the other side of the bridges, but I’d never been to either one of them. The world beyond the Hudson and the East River was a complete mystery to me.

  They talked for about six hours with Lansky raising occasional objections that A. R. easily answered. I listened to what they were saying the whole time, eating away at the food that the men simply ignored.

  “If I’m wrong and people really don’t want to drink anymore,” A. R. said, sounding doubtful, “we’ll go out of business right away. But if I’m right, the demand will be much more than one man can handle. I’ll have to have partners.”

  And so he did, putting together Dutch Schultz, Longy Zwillman, even Capone—all helping to distribute the goods. And everything A. R. said about the demand for alcohol came to pass, and the market was so strong they cut stuff with other stuff you don’t want to know about. Not that I had anything to do with that personally, you understand, but I know guys who did. Anyway, the point is Meyer Lansky said yes, and that’s how I got into the bootlegging business. Eventually. About a year later, toward the end of the winter of 1921, I was in the basement shooting gallery practicing with a Browning Hi-Power when I heard a sharp rap on the thick door. It was Fanny—Fantan Perfect Jasmine Moon, Mother Moon’s daughter.

  Lately, I’d been getting odd pleasant feelings when I was around her, just like the feelings I experienced when looking at the dress forms that long-ago afternoon. Only, these sensations were much stronger and more distinct. But nobody messed with Fanny unless it involved business. She made the payoff to Patrolman Tommy O’Brien every Wednesday, the transaction taking place in her room in private.

  That afternoon, when she opened the door in the basement, I saw that she had someone with her, a big shape that lumbered down the steps to the dimly lit gallery. It took me a moment to recognize Spence, returned from the Great War in France. This time Fanny didn’t wander off to her movie magazines. Instead, she paid rapt attention to everything Spence said. If I hadn’t been so happy to see him, and if I’d had any chance at all with her, I’d have been jealous. But then, he had that effect on most women.

  “Goddamn, Spence.” I grinned at the big guy. “Where the hell’ve you been? I went to the parade when your outfit came back. I looked real careful but didn’t see you.”

  “Yeah, well.” He ducked his head, looking a little sheepish. “I wasn’t in that parade. There was this misunderstanding, you know how it is.”

  “We heard they’d locked you up. What’d’ya do?”

  “It was nothing. It wasn’t even me. There was this card game and some money went missing . . .”

  “How much did you clear?”

  He laughed. “Less than a yard. Damn, it’s good to be back. Let’s get the hell out of here and get something to eat.” I locked up the automatic and the ammunition, and snuffed out the lamps. Fanny watched carefully as Spence and I left.

  Out on the street, I could see that he’d filled out. In the years he’d been gone, he’d grown even taller and more solid through the chest. The unfocused teenager had become sharper, maybe even clever. But he still walked with that long, loping stride, his hands jammed in his coat pockets, and hunched against the cold.

  It felt good, really good, just to be walking with my big pal. It made me feel grown-up, now that I was almost ten.

  “What are you up to, Jimmy? I heard you been working for Arnold Rothstein. Not bad. Were you in on the Series fix?”

  “I did my part. Carried messages back and forth. He told Mother Moon when to place bets so we made some side money too.” Actually, she made a lot of money.

  We went to Lindy’s, A. R.’s new favorite deli, and had pastrami sandwiches and cheesecake. The waiter knew me, and so he treated us both with more abuse than usual, which was great. Spence was impressed. After we finished, I asked about the war.

  He shook his head and said, “I can’t tell you how bad it was. First they sent us down to South Carolina where it’s hot as hell, and they made us march and train with machine guns, carrying all that goddamn equipment like mules. Then we go to France where the damn cooties give you scabies.”

  “Did you kill a bunch of krauts?”

  “None that I know of. They had these high-pressure hoses that would spray burning gasoline across the trenches. I didn’t get caught in any of them but saw guys who did. And the other gas, the mustard gas, that was worse. I’ve never seen so many men and animals slaughtered for nothing. I was about the shittiest soldier in the whole goddamn Army. That’s why I kept getting busted, but,” he brightened, “one good thing did happen.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I learned how to steal trucks.”

  “You did? That’s great! I know a guy who’ll take ’em off our hands if we can get good ones. Goddamn, let’s do it! Right now.”

  Spence laughed and said, “Jimmy, you’re a pip, you really are.”

  We paid and left. On the way to the Bronx, where traffic wasn’t so clogged, Spence explained what we wanted to do. Ideally, we’d find a truck fully packed with valuables like cigarettes and tobacco, left idling while the driver chatted with a waitress in a café. We’d hop in and just drive away. Or we’d find trucks making deliveries. A lot of drivers were careless and left keys in the ignition. But, Spence said, Fords were easy enough to start without a key. All we really needed was a minute or so to jigger the ignition, and the balls to do it.

  This was the first time I’d been out of Manhattan. We walked down a street of two-story houses and small stores, and passed several trucks before Spence settled on a green Brierley’s Grocery delivery job. He said it was a half-ton Ford, and he’d worked on dozens of them. There were two guys in it, a driver and his assistant. We followed for a few blocks until they double-parked in front of a store.

  Spence punched me on the arm and said this was it. The two guys opened the back, pulled out a hand truck, and loaded it with boxes. As soon as they were inside the store, Spence sauntered around to the passenger side, then slid over to the driver’s seat. I stood by the open door, blocking Spence from the sidewalk. It seemed like he stayed under the steering wheel for an hour. Why was he taking so damn long? What the hell was he doing? Were there cops around? No, don’t turn around, I told myself. Not now. No matter who’s there, you’d never run out on Spence.

  Then he was up, working the pedals and a lever as the engine coughed and caught. I jumped in. Spence signaled with his left hand, pulling s
moothly away. I waited for someone to yell behind us, for loud orders to stop. But we drove on across the intersection and became part of the traffic. Several blocks later, I realized I had been holding my breath.

  “Now, what do we do with this thing?” Spence asked.

  “Go down to the Lower East Side.”

  We left the truck in a Ludlow Street lot and walked down Broome to Canal Street. The garage was on the corner, almost under the Williamsburg Bridge. The place looked to be closed but I could see lights through the worn areas of its black-painted windows and could hear the clatter of tools.

  I rapped hard on the door and the noise stopped.

  A guy opened up a little spy door to snarl, “Whaddayawant?”

  “I need to talk to Mr. Lansky.”

  “Who’s you?”

  “Jimmy Quinn.” The little spy door snapped shut.

  Spence leaned over and whispered, “Who’s Lansky?”

  “Meyer Lansky. He works with Mr. Rothstein bootlegging booze. He also likes to work on cars. They say he can juice an engine and outrun anything the cops got.”

  “You and the goddamn Jews. I swear, Jimmy,” he clapped me on the shoulder, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you was a hebe. But if you say Lansky is a right guy, that’s good enough for me.”

  The door opened and a big man in dirty coveralls jerked his head for us to come in. There were about half a dozen cars in the place, most being worked on, and one being cleaned with a high-pressure hose. Lansky wore coveralls and wiped his hands with a rag. Three other guys in ties and shirtsleeves were playing cards at a desk, smoking cigars. I recognized Ben Siegel and Charlie Lucania. Siegel was a big teenager who looked at us suspiciously. Lucky seemed friendlier, with a pockmarked face that lit up when he smiled, and made you want to trust him. He used that smile a lot. The third guy was stocky, with a long weaselly face and weak eyes. He said, “Who’s this fuckin’ Mick kid?”

  Lansky said, “It’s OK, Vito. He’s a runner for A. R. What’s your business, kid?”

  “My associate and I have come into possession of a half-ton Ford truck, and we thought you might be interested in taking it off our hands.”