by Grey, Harry
“Dancer?” Maxie laughed. “Yep, she dances in bed. She turned from an amateur to a professional. She charges now.”
“How much?”
“A buck a throw.”
“She's worth it.”
“Yep, she's pretty good.”
“You remember we used to lay her for a charlotte russe?”
We both laughed.
“And you remember Whitey, the cop?” Maxie continued.
“Do I remember? How could I forget?”
Max continued, “Well, he's a sergeant now.”
“Honesty pays off for Whitey,” I commented drily. We both laughed.
“Yep, he's a pretty smart Irishman. He's on Peggy's payroll,” Max said.
“I bet he takes it out in trade.”
“I'll bet,” Maxie laughingly agreed.
I was dying to ask him about Dolores. I wrote her every week, but she never answered me. Instead I said, “How's Patsy and Cockeye doing?”
“Well, Cockeye took out his hack license and once in awhile he jockies one of his brother's cabs.”
“Hooknose got cabs?”
“Yep, he worked his way up to a four-cab fleet. Patsy hangs out with me; he helps around the parlor. And if we get a good steer, we step out.”
“On a heist?”
“Yep,” Maxie nodded. “It's got to be more than a couple of grand, or we don't bother. And since prohibition went into effect a few months ago, there's plenty of dough around. Once in awhile we get a contract from one of them bootleggers to lump somebody up.”
“I hear there's dough in bootlegging.”
“There must be; there're plenty of speakeasies opening around town.”
“Speakeasies?”
“Yep, that's what they call them: closed-door beer joints with peep holes on the doors.”
“Oh.”
We had reached the lower East Side. Maxie was driving the big car recklessly in and out of the heavy traffic. He almost grazed a fender off another car. Maxie leaned out of his window and yelled at the driver.
“Hey, stupid, where did you learn how to drive? At a correspondence school?”
The elderly well-dressed driver shouted back as he turned the corner, “You slum hoodlums act like you own the whole city.”
Maxie chuckled as he pulled into the garage. “You know, Noodles, that ain't a bad idea.”
“What?”
“What that guy just said, the hoods from the soup schools taking over the city.”
“The whole city?”
“Why not? You know, organize.”
CHAPTER 8
In the eighteen months I had been away from the city, four memorable changes had taken place. The war was over. Prohibition was in effect. Dolores was a minor dance sensation in a Broadway musical comedy. Big Maxie, Patsy, Cockeye, with a sort of subsidiary contribution from Jake the Goniff, Pipy and Goo-Goo, had built up quite a reputation among the hoodlums of the city as a tough East Side mob.
I also discovered that in my absence a legend had grown up about my powers with the shiv. I was considered an expert shiv man. Maxie told me of some of the stories that were being told around the East Side. We both laughed at my mythical knife exploits.
Our reputation as all-around tough guys and so-called killers was the force which hurled us into the actual violence incubated by prohibition.
People came to us with what we called “contracts.” From all over town, from people we had never met or heard of came unsolicited propositions to heist big payrolls, wholesale jewelry firms, banks. Bootleggers and racketeers came to us with contracts to murder their business partners, sweethearts, brothers, husbands, wives or enemies. We were offered ridiculously small fees as well as fabulously large sums of money.
At first we ignored and laughed at this deluge of unsought assignments. Then, either because we were flattered to be sought after by people in high and low places, or because we wanted the money or for a combination of these reasons, we finally capitulated. We began living up to our reputations, but we screened the contracts we took on through the wide mesh of our peculiar code of ethics.
Like robber barons of old, by physical force and gall we took over most of the illegal activities on the crowded East Side. It was a large and lucrative domain. We were comparatively young as years are counted, but we were efficient veterans in all matters requiring nerve and brutality. Fate was kind, and our success gave us an air of cool arrogance.
In a comparatively short period we had become acquainted with little mobs which had suddenly sprung up from the soup school districts of the city. To redeem a load of whiskey we had hijacked uptown, we had a slight encounter with Arthur Flegenheimer, the Dutchman, and his mob, who came from a wretched, cheerless and impoverished section of the Bronx. On a matter relating to cigarette machines we met with Joe Adonis, Leo Bike and some of their crew, who were recruited from the unhealthy, congested, dilapidated sections of Brooklyn. We had a slight brush with Tony Bender and Vito Genovese and their outfit, who originated from the stinking hovels and pigsties of the lower part of Greenwich Village. We had a tryst with Charlie Lucky and Lupo the Wolf, who came from the destitute, stable-like tenements of east midtown Manhattan. We discussed the “Black Hand” shake-down of one of their countrymen who was currently residing in our domain, where he had come seeking our protection. We met and formed a coalition with the most gentlemanly, the most honorable and the boldest hoodlum in the city, Frank or Francisco, from a miserable, overcrowded section of east Harlem. We met them all. It was a startling and irrefutable fact that without exception, they came from the same kind of poverty-stricken background we did. They came from different parts of the city, but they were all soup school alumni.
We had six speakeasies, including the one on Delancey Street which was our general headquarters. We called that one “Fat Moe's,” in honor of Gelly's son. Fat Moe became our chief bartender and manager. Besides, we had a piece of the number racket that was being introduced into the East Side by a Porto Rican banker, and we were on many of the “off the track” bookies' payrolls. Bootleggers and “speakie” operators came to us for protection from jackal hoodlums who were shaking them down. Obviously, we charged a fee for our services. People found it hard to understand and wouldn't believe that, owing to our past experiences and deep sympathies, we shied away from profiting by labor racketeering, by selling narcotics or by prostitution.
Despite the fact that we were spending money pretty freely, there was so much of it around and more coming our way, that we were all filling up safety deposit boxes.
I was our head bookkeeper and kept the accounts of our diversified illegal enterprises. But we had one legal enterprise: the funeral parlors and undertaking business which Maxie's bachelor uncle had left him. Maxie was true to his promise; he cut us all in as equal partners. This was our cover up. On the books, and as far as the federal income tax people or any other authority was concerned, the undertaking business was our only source of income. This business was very convenient for our general scheme of operations. It answered many purposes: our funeral cars were always on call for the district Tammany leader and the politicians in general. On the surface we ran it as a legitimate business, but, for a price, we buried many a “stiff” who wasn't so legit.
On occasion we reluctantly participated in a big heist, and then only when the finger was an old and dependable connection. We had such a heist on the fire, an old commitment which had been brewing. We were waiting for the all clear signal from the finger. Supposedly it was a hundred thousand dollar diamond heist.
Sometimes, from sporadic and slight clashes between mobs, violent and open warfare broke out on a national scale. The newspapers raised a clamor, and the public became alarmed, the federal and local authorities sent word to the underworld “to pipe down,” or they would “clamp down.”
But greed and hate conquered. The mob war continued until, after awhile, a leader arose, our old friend Frank, from the Harlem slums. He called us up. We met
, and he outlined his plans. We assured him of our unequivocal support. He told us he would send word when he was ready to put his plans into action. We assured him we would respond to his call, day or night.
In spite of the fact that I ran around with all sorts of women and had been intimate with many of them, I could not overcome my deep childhood worship of Dolores. I had not seen her outside the theater. She never gave me a date: she wouldn't have anything to do with me. I went to the theater where she was performing an average of twice a week just to sit and look at her. She was unaware of my presence. I sat in a trance watching her night after night, loving her more intensely as time went by. It was puzzling to me, a knock-around guy, acting like a schoolboy. I sent her flowers and a diamond wristwatch which she refused to accept. There were times when I was desperate and made foolish plans to force myself on her, to have her at any cost. With an effort I would control my crazy thoughts. She became an obsession with me. Everything else was secondary. I was in a bad state.
Luckily, an exciting event took my mind off Dolores. We received word from Frank. The gigantic conclave of the mobs from all over the country was to be held. He sent us the address. We attended.
It was a fantastically colorful gathering. The meeting came off just as Frank had planned, and the national criminal combination was formed with Frank as supreme authority.
When we got home from that meeting, there was word from the finger: we must go into action on the diamond heist tomorrow. He left full instructions. I was against it.
“Why take a chance on a heist? Guys in our position?” I argued.
Big Maxie was adamant. First of all I gave the guy my word; secondly, taking chances is our stock-in-trade,” he said. “We go through with it tomorrow. I got it all planned out.”
“But Max,” I continued, “we just got back from a trip. We're tired—”
Max cut me off. “We'll take a quick pick-me-up. We'll go over to Joey's place and kick the gong around.”
We piled into the Caddy. Cockeye was at the wheel. We drove to Joey's place. Secretly, I was becoming addicted to opium smoking. I indulged in the pipe more frequently than the rest of my companions because I seemed to need it more. I don't know if it was because I was tense, or because of what I called in my mind “my Dolores phobia.” Perhaps it was because there, I actually possessed Dolores, and it was the only place she did not shun me. In my pipe dreams she ardently reciprocated my love to the point where it gave me real and complete physical gratification.
But I wasn't sure of the real reason I craved the pipe so much. I do know I looked forward to the peculiar dreams of current happenings mixed with Elizabethan adventure, to the vivid colorful dreams of kings and barons in exotic places. Some I participated in; others I just watched as an excited and interested observer. I enjoyed reading English history, so I supposed that was the reason my dreams invariably had an old English flavor.
I hid my impatience until I got out of the car. I was the first to relax on the cot, with the pipe in my mouth. I lay peacefully back on the pillow, reviewing the excitement of the last few days. The pipe tasted just right. Hazily I thought, good old Joey, he always has the best opium, and he certainly knows how to prepare it for smoking. I inhaled the moist, sweetish vapor. It began to give me a feeling of peace and supreme happiness. A blurred vision of Dolores danced briefly before my eyes. I inhaled deeply, slowly, languidly. I exhaled. I watched the moist, shadowy vapors rise and take shape above me. Big Max appeared as a baron, a robber baron. We followed him into an inn. We went into the back room, where we sat down at a table. Big Max pounded the table; he roared, “Bring us ale.” Grinning, Fat Moe appeared carrying large foaming mugs of ale on a tray.
The picture in my mind disappeared again in the thin curl of vapor, and I lay in a happy stupor, with the memory of the exciting message from Frank running through my mind.
CHAPTER 9
It was a dream of how the criminal combination was formed.
There we were, dressed in fancy Elizabethan clothes. We were swashbuckling robber barons. We lost our slangy, East Side intonations, and spoke in the stiff, stilted speech of the period. We were seated around a table in the back room of the “Moosehead Inn.” We were drinking strong ale from large tankards, playing a card game. Large stacks of gold coins were piled before each of us. Short muskets were under our chairs within easy reach. Our beaming host, known as the Fat Moose, was kept busy running in with fresh supplies of ale.
In the midst of the noisy playing, a dusty courier ran in with a message from the notorious Baron Francisco, the Lord of Harlem.
Big Maxie put his pasteboards down and unfolded the note. Moving his lips, he read the message to himself. We looked on curiously. He took a sip of ale, cleared his throat, smiled grimly at us, and said, “Gentlemen, this is what we have been waiting for.” He tapped the paper in his hand. “This is the summons to attend the meeting of all the robber bands in the land, at our friend Francisco's castle. This meeting is being called to formulate a plan of action, which will transcend in daring and importance any organization of barons in all history. It is a very ambitious scheme for uniting all the robber bands in the land under one supreme leader. Methinks my good friend Baron Francisco hankers after the leadership. And I swear by all the good and holy saints that he shall have our support.” For emphasis Big Maxie banged the table a shattering blow with his powerful fist.
“What say you, my comrades? A toast to our friend Baron Francisco and all his plans.”
We raised our tankards in salute and shouted, “Success and good fortune to our friend, Francisco.”
We drank our ale in one gulp.
Big Max smacked his lips and wiped them with the back of his hand. “Let us make haste, for it is a long journey.”
We mounted our powerful steeds and flew like the wind through the night, thundering through small hamlets, shooting our muskets in the air, awakening the frightened villagers out of their peaceful slumbers.
At daylight we made a hurried stop at a wayside inn. Swiftly we gulped some food and large quantities of ale. The foolish innkeeper made the fatal mistake of asking payment. We joyously shot him to death and burned his inn to the ground.
At nightfall, dusty and tired, the horses covered with lather, we arrived at Baron Francisco's well-fortified castle. Armored guards with pikes and muskets were stationed all over the well-kept grounds. Other heavily armed barons were arriving. Torchbearers escorted us over the drawbridge and into the brilliantly lighted castle.
We were assigned comfortable quarters, where we rested. Then bathed and freshly attired in brightly colored velvet doublets and cavaliers' plumed headgear, we strutted around the room admiring each other's costumes. We swaggered into the immense dining hall where we were embraced in warm greeting by our host, Baron Francisco.
A serving man led us to our seats at the vast table. I thought to myself, this is indeed royal repast to set before murderous and bloodthirsty cutthroats. There were golden platters filled with the choicest viands: whole wild boar, roast pig along with all sorts of game and fowl cooked in wine and spices. There were heaping bowls of a new, exotic dish called spaghetti cooked in true Siciliano style. There were platters laden with every variety of knish, salvers filled with a Jewish delicacy, chopped chicken livers, and tureens filled with kreplach soup. There were platters of strange fruits from distant countries across the sea, and trays of cakes and pastries in all shapes and sizes soaked in liquors.
Baron Francisco sat regally at the massive table. At his right sat his most trusted counselor, the fastidious, the cold-blooded dandy, Philip of Kasetel.
Seated at the left of the Baron was the glib Hugo, nicknamed the Jolly Rogue, Prince of Man and Haton with a secret ambition to be the Lord Mayor of all York. He was dressed in a luxurious garment of tiger skins signifying membership in the ancient powerful clan of Tam-on-Knee.
Standing behind the Baron in a group were his personal bodyguards, the fiercest knights in all the lan
d. One of them was the scowling, vicious, truculent Joseph, laughingly called Joseph the Ray-o-Sunshine.
I recognized Sir Charles the Bullet, dealer in plain and fancy methods of violent death, and Sir Michael, the Trig of Cappolah, a bloodthirsty deadshot with his pistol, as well as many of the assassins from Francisco's baronial domain of Harl.
Seated all around the table as far as the eye could see were all the name robber bands of the land: Sir Joseph, the Adonis, Lord of Brook; Sir Arthur, the Dutch, Lord and Master of the Bronks. And standing behind them was the mad-eyed killer, Vincent of Coll. Alongside him was a tall muscular garroter, the Bow-Legs from the Wine-Burg Country. There was the notorious scar-faced one of the Midland Country of Chi, Lord Capone and his motley crew. There were the destructive, murderous, purple knights of the Northern Country of De-Troy. Wild William, Lord of the far southwestern country of Tex and his wild skillful riders. Peter the Printer, Lord of Thompson, whose dexterity at counterfeiting documents and money was legendary. There was the sly and unscrupulous Charles the Lucky, leader of the fearsome black-hand secret Guild of Sicilies. There was the cunning and ostentatious Edward the Elder, the senior brother of Baron Francisco and his Latin crew called the Forty Thieves.
On the other side of the table was the long-legged Baron Zwill, Keeper and Protector of the New-Ark and South Jersey Countries. Next to him was Owney the Madden, Lord of West-Town with his murderous Celtics. There was Erik the Book and William the Moore of Passaic and Lord of the Northern Jersey Countries. There were the cold calculating pair, the Leopard and Gurrah, Lords and Masters of East-Town and their fierce and vicious Semites. There were Meyer the Lance and his partner the Buggsy Eagle with their mercenary crew, a mixture of drug-crazed Latins and Semites who kill for hire to the highest bidder.
I turned to my comrades and said, “In all history such an aggregation of blackguards and corrupt politicians never before or since has gathered together under one roof.”
“Did you include yourself in that statement, Sir Noodles?” the big one gravely inquired. I ignored his comment.