by Phil Growick
“Don’t worry about anything, Charlie. We got you covered. We’ll talk with Clay about this, too. Geyshluffin,” Lansky said as he walked out. Those last words were Yiddish for “go to sleep.”
On the ride back to Manhattan, Lansky turned to Siegel seated next to him in the rear. “I didn’t want Charlie t’ know, but this can really spell trouble. When we’re back we’ll get a hold of Clay. I got some ideas of what happened and I wanna go over them with you and him.”
“Good,” Siegel said. “But I just wanna make somebody dead.”
Sidney Reilly Meets Sidney Reilly
Even though Reilly had been exquisitely trained to bury feelings and emotions when on assignment, he was not on assignment now. He had just boarded the Brookland and he actually believed he felt the proverbial butterflies in his stomach. And, he thought, if he felt this way now, just how would he feel gazing upon Tatiana once again, and little Sidney, for the first time?
Normally, it would take about two days from New York to Nassau, but with its stops along the way to deliver and pick up cargo, it would take Brookland four. Then a few more hours by local boat or ferry to Eleuthera. To Reilly, the incongruity of a mere four days equating with the eternity of four days caused him to smile to himself.
At last, he was in Nassau and he wasted no time in securing a small, private boat to bring him to Eleuthera, which would take only two to three hours. Once docked, with the instructions and directions I had given him, Reilly knew it best for him to walk to the Romanov compound on Winding Bay, and not to hire a conveyance to bring him there. He arrived in another hour’s time.
He skirted the main path of the house and slowly walked up the gentle incline to the right, eyes fixed on the house for any sign of the Romanovs and trusting his peripheral vision to alert him of anyone else.
There were busy workers who seemed to pay him no mind. But there was one who watched from the shade of a banana tree as Reilly passed by. The man followed quietly from some distance without Reilly knowing, so intent was Reilly on seeing Tatiana and Sidney.
Then, as he passed the main house and could see around to the rear, he let out an audible gasp. There, not fifty feet away, were Tatiana, baby Sidney, and the Grand Duchesses. Marie was tickling Sidney on a large white blanket while Tatiana and the others were watching and laughing as baby Sidney, only six months old, laughed.
It was Anastasia who spied Reilly first, and as had just happened with Reilly, she let out a gasp. Tatiana, Marie and Olga looked at Anastasia, then looked in the direction that she was looking and all gave out loud gasps.
Tatiana seemed frozen as she stood staring at Reilly; as frozen as was he. Then they ran at each other with ecstatic velocity. That was the precise term used by Reilly when he told me about their reunion.
The man watching Reilly simply turned and went back to his spot under the banana tree.
The Grand Duchesses were all now crying, as were Tatiana and Reilly. All, but baby Sidney who may have sensed his father’s presence and was laughing loudly as Reilly lifted him in his arms, high against the azure Eleutheran sky and quietly said, “My son, my son. If only you knew how much I love you.”
Tatiana took hold of Reilly’s shoulders as he held baby Sidney and laughed and cried as she repeated, “Your father is home, your father is home.” Then, to herself, “You are home, you’re here.”
Marie went to take baby Sidney from Reilly so that he and Tatiana could further embrace and kiss, but Tatiana pushed her away gently. “No, Marie, let the father and son be together. Let them feel each other. Let them love.”
It was at this point that the Tsar and the Tsarevich, Alexei, now quite a young man of fifteen, came out of the main house and were also taken aback at what they saw.
Alexei, once again not thinking as he should to protect himself, went running to the happy group. Luckily, there was no incident. As Tatiana scooped up baby Sidney from Reilly, Alexei held Reilly in the tightest hug he could muster as he proudly whispered, “Reilly. Pretty strong now, huh?”
“And who is this man holding my grandson so?” asked the Tsar with an immense grin and dressed as a peasant of the fields; which he had loved to do in the gardens of the Livadia Palace at Yalta.
“It’s Reilly, Papa; don’t you recognise him?” Alexei asked, in a now more mature and masculine voice.
“Of course, I do, of course, I do,” the Tsar said as he gently patted Alexei’s back.“My word, Colonel, how did you get here? Are you all right?” asked the Tsar as he gave Reilly the two kiss greeting.
“Father,” said Tatiana, “please, not now. I’m sure there will be plenty of time for Sidney to tell us everything. But for now, I just want to be alone with him and our son. And that means you, too Alexei. Don’t bother him now.”
With that, Tatiana put her arm around Reilly’s waist and they walked away from the house, away from the Tsar, away from the Tsarevich, away from the Grand Duchesses, across the beautiful lawn and sat on a bench facing the sea. Away from the entire world.
Alexei joined the Grand Duchesses who had stopped their happy crying and were now just smiling at the reunited family. The Tsar returned to the house.
In a beautiful, white and lavender solarium, facing that same serene sea, the sun illuminating the room till it glowed as if in a fairy tale, the Tsar went to sit with the Tsarina. He took her hands in his as she sat staring blankly out the window, her once-thick chestnut hair now almost completely gray.
“Sonny. Sonny,” the Tsar gently said, calling her by his loving nickname for her. “Reilly is here. He’s come back. He’s with Tatiana and baby Sidney.”
The Tsarina turned her face to him, but her expression was still blank. She was sinking father into her own, deep dimension.
How Lucky Can You Get?
Once back on home territory, Lansky and Siegel sat down with Holmes at a table in Lansky’s trucking company office. Lansky reported on the state of Luciano’s health and what had happened to him.
“From what you’ve described,” said Holmes, “Charlie is lucky to be alive.”
“Hey, that’s good. That’s real good,” said Siegel laughing. “From now on Charlie is gonna be ‘Lucky’. Lucky Luciano. I bet he’s really gonna like that.”
“I think he’s gonna like it better if you call him Charlie, like always,” reasoned Lansky.
“So, John, I got some ideas on what happened, but I’d like to hear what you think,” Lansky said to Holmes.
“Yes, well, from what you’ve related, we have a number of possible scenarios and one overarching question which may provide an answer: why was Charlie left alive?”
“Yeah, that’s the big question. Like I said, I have my ideas but I wanna hear yours.”
“Me, too,” said Siegel.
“All right, then, these are my thoughts. If Maranzano suspected Charlie of duplicity, what happened was a message delivered that he could be killed whenever Maranzano chose. But he was left alive because Maranzano wasn’t entirely sure; and if Charlie were telling the truth about serving him, then he was certainly worth more alive than dead. And now he would truly fear Maranzano.
“If it was Masseria who had this done, the same holds true. Which leaves us with a rather profound conundrum.”
“What’s this conderbum crap?” Siegel asked.
“It’s a puzzle, a riddle. And right now, it looks like none of us can solve it,” Lansky said.
“Unfortunately,” said Holmes.
Upon that, it seemed as if stilted silence had taken sway. Lansky and Holmes could do nothing but look at each other, as if by that simple act one of them might deduce why what happened, happened.
“One thing’s definite, though,” Siegel said, “since we can’t be sure who did that to Charlie, they both gotta die. And the sooner the better because I don’t wanna end up like Charlie or worse an
d I don’t think that either of you do, too.”
“I believe that Ben has grasped the central point quite nicely,” Holmes said.
“Yeah, I agree. We’ll start planning this now, but we don’t do nothin’ till Charlie’s back,” Lansky said.
“That would be most efficacious,” agreed Holmes.
“Goddammit, Johnny, can’t you just talk English?” asked Siegel with some exasperation.
“Hey, I don’t even know that word,” said Lansky with a smile and a shrug, easing the tension.
“It means that you are one hundred percent correct, Meyer. Your idea is the most efficient for our purposes.”
“Great. I can’t wait for Charlie to get back,” said Siegel.
Holmes then got up from his chair, went to a large cabinet he knew was used to house Meyer’s alcohol, retrieved some glasses and some scotch and returned to the table, setting the glasses carefully down in front of Lansky and Siegel, with one where he would be sitting. He then proceeded slowly to pour the scotch into each glass, never taking his eyes off the scotch as it fell, circled the table and sat, head down, looking at his glass of scotch.
At first, Lansky thought Holmes’ actions odd, but then realized he was in the grip of a plan and that he needed those simple movements to help him formulate that plan. Holmes then lifted his head, looked at Lansky, then Siegel.
“Now, I don’t want you gentlemen to think I have lost my sanity, but this is how I believe we should proceed,” Holmes said.
Neither Lansky nor Siegel said a word, so intent to hear what Holmes had next to say.
“You are going to dispense with them both at the same time. I don’t mean precisely at the same time, but one right after the other. Within a very few hours.” Siegel and Lansky looked at each other.
Siegel spoke first. “Johnny, you know I think you got brains like Meyer, but how we gonna kill those guys on the same day with all the muscle they got?”
“Yeah, John,” said Lansky, “it seems like we might be bitin’ off more than we can chew.”
Holmes smiled and said, “That depends on where you bite.”
After convalescing for two weeks, Luciano was discharged. He was met by Lansky and Siegel in his room and a half dozen of their men at the entrance. Now that the bandages were completely removed, they noticed a nasty scar on his right cheek and that his right eyelid was drooping badly. But they said nothing.
As Luciano left the hospital, the men greeted him heartily with:
“Hey, Lucky; glad you’re back!”
“Good t’ see ya, Lucky!”
“Ya never looked better, Lucky!”
Luciano turned to Lansky, “What’s with all this ‘Lucky’ crap?” Siegel gave a big laugh. Lansky said, “Get in the car, Charlie, and I’ll tell you what’s up.”
By the time they were safe in Luciano’s sumptuous apartment in the Waldorf Towers a few hours later, one of Manhattan’s most posh residences, in fact one in which one of America’s ex-presidents, Herbert Hoover, would call home later, Luciano had been completely briefed by Lansky in such detail that even napkin colors were mentioned, so thorough were the preparations. All venues had been scouted and every contingency planned for.
Charlie agreed that according to Holmes’ plan, they would move ahead the very next day. Holmes came to pay his respects a few hours after their return.
“I must say that it’s truly good to see you again, Charlie. I hope that eye isn’t causing you any trouble.”
“Nah. Just makes me look half sleepy; but both eyes are always open. It’s good t’ see you, too. Please sit. Johnny, I like your plan; Meyer filled me in.”
“With even a modicum of luck, you should succeed,” Holmes said, reassuringly.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I think,” said Luciano.
“But I’ve added a twist, Charlie,” Holmes said, as all now gave full attention to Holmes. “I expanded on the plan, and I’d like to discuss it now with all of you.”
“We’re all ears,” Siegel said, flapping both of his with his hands.
Holmes then laid out his expanded plan as all sat and listened.
When Holmes had finished, all Siegel could do was give out with an elongated whistle. Lansky just sat, the permutations going through his mind as quickly as a roulette ball spinning in the wheel.
Of them all, it was Luciano who grasped the true significance of the plan’s audacity, and what it would mean for him and his closest allies.
“John, obviously you know what this will do for me and Meyer and Ben and our guys ?” Luciano asked, but was really making a statement.
“Of course I do. But no matter what should happen today, I believe it imperative you move as soon as you make the arrangements. Hopefully within a week,” Holmes said.
“I can’t wait,” Siegel said, exhibiting that eccentric back-and-forth rocking motion of his.
“Most assuredly,” Holmes said.
“Ben, get us some glasses and booze, huh?” Luciano asked.
“No problem. I could use a belt right now, anyway,” Siegel said.
When their glasses had been filled, the four of them stood in a circle and Luciano toasted.
“Domani, guys, Domani!”
“Domani!”
“Domani!”
Domani
Domani came. It was November 5, 1919.
Masseria greeted Luciano at the same table of the same restaurant in which they’d first met; and as at that first meeting, Masseria was eating lustily. Luciano sat down opposite Masseria when gestured to do so.
“Too bad that, Charlie,” said Masseria, as he made a motion with his knife across his cheek. Luciano wasn’t sure if it was a mocking gesture or simply an imitative one. “So tell me, what happened? I hear they’re calling you ‘Lucky’ now. I like that. Lucky Luciano. So tell me, what happened?”
Luciano began to unfold the tale, but after a few minutes, he looked uncomfortable and said to Masseria, “Don Masseria, you must forgive me, but after this happened, I gotta go t’ the bathroom a lot. Do you mind?”
“What do I care? I certainly don’t want you to piss all over the floor right here.” He laughed, expecting the bodyguards who were usually there to laugh with him. But they weren’t there. And he didn’t notice, or seem to care, as he dug his fork deep into a dish of spaghetti and meatballs.
It took only a minute or two after Luciano entered the bathroom before he heard the pistols discharging. Many pistols discharging. When they stopped, he slowly walked back to where Masseria had been sitting. He was now splayed out on the floor with the table on top of him, meatballs and blood everywhere. But he still held a fork in his hand.
The first part of Lansky’s plan had been carried out perfectly by Siegel, Reles and Buchalter.
Three hours later, in midtown Manhattan, on the ninth floor of the Helmsley Building, an office door burst open and three police officers charged in with pistols drawn. The two guards in the outer office wouldn’t stop the police and handed over their weapons as soon as directed to do so.
The other two policemen went into the inner office, that of Salvatore Maranzano. He rose immediately from his desk, went around and addressed them in a calm manner.
“Officers, officers, I’m sure this must be a misunderstanding. You know your captain and me are friends and that...” He didn’t finish the sentence as one of the police officers stabbed him. The other officer shot him three times.
When the guards outside heard the pistol shots, they rushed the first officer but he shot them dead before they could reach him.
The officers were, in reality, the same cast as in Coney Island; Siegel, Reles and Buchalter.
That night, across the United States, many of the old Mustache Petes met similar fates; as they were shot, stabbed, garroted, or made
to disappear through other means of local disposal. The American tabloids, looking for one all-encompassing sensational phrase, called it “The Night of the Sicilian Vespers”.
In one horrific night, a new group of young gangsters had emerged to take command of the American underworld; and Charlie “Lucky” Luciano emerged as the most powerful gangster in the country.
The plan that Holmes had devised and to which Lansky and Luciano had given their blessing, had been accomplished purely, perfectly and with clinical precision. Holmes smiled to himself. He had chosen these allies most wisely, indeed.
The plan to organize the disparate criminal groups was presented by Luciano and Lansky at a meeting of all the bosses, after Holmes had returned to London; but taken from a simple idea that he had proposed: conduct your business as would any American corporation.
The men who led various gangs in the cities across the country were now heads of
“families;” the capo, or boss. And each capo of each family sat at the corporate table and had an equal vote.
Luciano would act as a kind of chairman of the board and ultimate arbiter of disagreements between these families if they could not be resolved peacefully among themselves. Gang warfare was bad for business. Too much heat from the press, the politicians and the police. Better to buy them all off and have them in your pocket.
Luciano was the capo di tutticapi. The boss of all bosses.
Lansky, however, was more of a member emeritus because he was Jewish; and only Italians, preferably Sicilians, were members of this syndicate. To Italians, it was La Cosa Nostra, literally “our thing”.
Yet, these men who disdained him as a Jew, listened when Lansky spoke and almost universally heeded his advice. This was not because Luciano and Lansky were so close, but for the simple reason that Lansky was usually right. And he could always be trusted.
Siegel was just a feared and powerful underling. He answered to Luciano, Lansky and the syndicate. He was nothing more than an angry bee who could sting, but who could also be swatted.