Dollface

by Renée Rosen

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Doesn’t have to make sense. Gangsters have a way of doing things. Especially when it comes to whacking someone.” Basha dropped her cigarette ash on her settee cushion. She looked at it lying there and just went on talking. “So like I was saying, everyone went to Dion for funeral flowers, and Schofield’s was working ’round the clock to fill all the orders for Merlo. For the really big orders, like the one Frankie Yale placed, Dion always made up the arrangements himself. He always liked Merlo and Viola said he wanted the flowers to be real nice, see. So this morning Dion goes to mass at Holy Name like he always does, and then goes back to the flower shop to put the finishing touches on the wreath for Merlo. At about ten o’clock this morning Frankie Yale and two other greaseballs go into Schofield’s. Dion—you know how friendly he always was—went over to welcome Frankie Yale. He holds out his hand and that’s when Yale grabbed him and held him in place. Dion didn’t have a chance. They put six rounds in him.” She looked at her martini glass and popped the olive in her mouth.

  Basha was so icy cold in her delivery, like she was talking about a stranger, not Dion.

  Does she not feel anything? At all?

  I got up and fixed myself a drink.

  • • •

  Dion O’Banion’s wake was a two-day citywide event. Reporters hovered outside Sbarbaro’s Funeral Chapel in the chilling wind and rain, hoping for a comment or photograph. They hounded Shep when we arrived at the chapel that morning, practically chasing us up the front stairs. Aside from the first few rows of pews reserved for family and close friends, all the chairs were taken, leaving lines of people standing in front of the stained-glass windows along the back wall and out in the hallway. Everyone came to pay their last respects: union leaders, city clerks, aldermen, judges and cops. I glanced about the room: ministers and churchgoers sitting side by side with bootleggers, gangsters and hit men. It was a strange ensemble of mourners, and I wasn’t sure if I was in the safest place in the city or the most dangerous.

  It was all over the newspapers that Viola O’Banion had spent ten thousand dollars for Dion’s casket. Some said it was nicer than most automobiles. Nicer than some homes. I didn’t doubt it. That casket was made of solid silver and bronze, lined in white satin, with fourteen-karat-gold handles.

  I’d never seen an open casket before and my first glimpse of Dion frightened me, sending a chill down my body. I turned away and nearly gasped. But then, when I looked back, when I really looked at him, I saw something I wasn’t expecting. If ever I believed in a soul or an afterlife, it was in that moment. Dion looked like a wax figure, and all his life force, that jovial, dynamic spirit that defined him, had left his body. It wasn’t Dion lying there; it was just a corpse.

  The shell of him was laid out inside the coffin, dressed in a beautiful black three-piece suit, a silk necktie, and a rosary in his breast pocket. Next to that, resting on his chest, was an odd-looking cake the size of a silver dollar.

  “What is that?” I whispered to Basha as we stood side by side in front of the casket.

  “Some Irish tradition,” she whispered back. “From the old country. I think they call it a sin cake. They say whoever eats it takes on the dead man’s sins, so that way he can go to heaven with a clean slate.” She sighed and shook her head. “He sure was a walking contradiction, wasn’t he?”

  I nodded. Dion O’Banion was a bootlegger who didn’t drink, a devout Catholic who as a child had been an altar boy by day and a petty thief by night. . . .

  “How many men you know who carry two short-barreled Bolos, a revolver and a rosary?” Basha smiled as if she’d always admired him for that. “He really loved the Church. And God, too.” She ran her tongue across her front teeth and made a sucking sound. “You know that’s why he never got into the whole cathouse racket. He thought prostitution was immoral. God wouldn’t have approved.”

  “Apparently he didn’t worry what God thought about murder. All the newspapers said he killed more than sixty men.”

  “Aw, he probably bumped off more than that. To him that was just business.”

  I glanced again at Dion’s casket. I wouldn’t have believed he was capable of murdering even one man if I hadn’t seen what he’d done to Buster that night.

  And then there were his flowers. Everywhere I looked I saw carnations, lilies, tulips and American Beauties, all of them in huge arrangements, oversize bouquets, baskets and gigantic wreaths with satin ribbons and glittery bows. The room had that waxy, mossy smell, just like Schofield’s.

  “Don’t you think some of these flowers are a bit garish?”

  “Nah,” said Basha. “Not for Dion O’Banion. And I’ll tell you, Squeak ain’t impressed with the arrangement from Capone. He says it’s too chintzy.”

  “I’m surprised Capone sent flowers in the first place.”

  “Ah, that’s just the gangster way. First they kill you, then they send you flowers.”

  • • •

  We’d been at the wake all day and my lower back was sore, my feet swollen. The baby was restless that day and I rubbed my stomach in big lazy circles until it found a place and settled. Wearing the only black maternity dress I could fit into, I felt like a whale sitting next to Evelyn. How was I going to handle another month of this?

  I glanced over at Evelyn with her stylish hairdo, dressed in a smart tailored dark suit and a fur stole. She’d never looked better. In what came as a shock to us all, Evelyn had finally managed to rope in Izzy. They were playing house, and according to Evelyn, he was being a good boy. You had to hand it to her: She’d hung in there and put up with more baloney than any woman I knew, and in the end, she got her man. And at least she was able to quit her typewriter job. I was beginning to think I’d underestimated Izzy. Ever since he’d taken those slugs to his gut, he appeared to be a changed man. As long as he was good to Evelyn I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  When the service began the priest called Shep to the podium to give the first of what turned out to be a series of eulogies and memorials.

  Shep gripped the sides of the stand and took a moment to collect himself before he began speaking. “Dion practically raised me,” he said. “He was like a brother to me. Deanie taught me everything. He appreciated art and music, especially opera. He always believed in surrounding yourself with good books. He taught me the important things—that you always open a door for a lady, you always shake a gentleman’s hand.” He paused for a moment, his eyes filling with tears; I knew he was remembering that it was the handshake that had done Dion in. He covered his eyes and took another moment. “I loved Dion. He was my family and he will be missed.” He took his hand away as tears slid down his face.

  Then Shep walked over to the casket and picked up the piece of cake resting on Dion’s chest. A lump collected in my throat. I didn’t know if I believed in the notion of sin cakes or not, but I looked at that cake in Shep’s hand and I felt afraid for him. Don’t do it, Shep!

  “And so, Deanie,” he said, raising the cake to his mouth, “this I do for you. May you rest in peace. May God bless and keep you.” Shep bit into the sin cake and tainted his soul.

  • • •

  It was late, going on midnight, and most of the visitors had already left the funeral home. Drucci and Cecilia had taken Viola home hours before, and so there was just a handful of us left when Al Capone showed up.

  Dressed in a pale yellow overcoat and bold matching necktie, he waltzed in accompanied by a short, stocky man with a pockmarked face. As soon as I saw the sapphire pinkie ring and the stub of a cigar in his hand, my blood went cold. He was the cigar man, the one who’d asked me about Tony the day he’d run out on me at the Hotel Twenty-nine. I lowered my head and held my breath, trying to be invisible. I hadn’t been showing when that man saw me last. Now I was fat and hardly recognized myself so there was a chance that he wouldn’t recognize me, either. But still, my palms were damp, my throat was dry.

 
Shep and Hymie stopped Capone and the cigar man just inside the doorway. “You got some nerve showing up here.”

  “Well”—Capone motioned toward Dion’s casket—“I had to come by and make sure he’s not still breathing.”

  Hymie lunged forward but Shep stopped him. “Not here,” Shep said, keeping his eyes on Capone. “Not now.”

  I buried my face inside my pocketbook and waited it out with my pulse ready to jump out of my skin. As soon as Capone finished viewing the body, Hymie and Shep escorted him and the cigar man out of the funeral parlor.

  “What was he doing here?” Evelyn asked.

  “Oh, I’m not surprised,” said Basha, toying with her bracelets. “You wait and see, all those South Siders’ll be at the funeral Friday.”

  “Even though they killed him?”

  Dora nodded. “Makes no sense, but they think it’s an act of respect. Go figure.”

  When Hymie and Shep came inside, the men huddled together in the back of the room. We girls were standing well within earshot but for once the men didn’t seem to care.

  Hymie lit a cigarette and exhaled two thick streams of smoke from his nose. “The day those greaseballs went into Schofield’s to whack Deanie,” he said, picking a fleck of tobacco off his tongue, “was the day Capone gave himself a death sentence.”

  Shep ran his hand back through his hair, smoothing over his widow’s peak. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we’re in the middle of a gang war now.”

  BOOK TWO

  1926–1927

  THE WAR HITS HOME

  The front door slammed and woke me with a jolt. It was almost two in the morning and the other side of the bed was empty, the sheets smooth and cool against my open palm. I heard Shep and Hymie going at it, even from upstairs, even while I was still half asleep.

  It had been a little over a year since Dion’s murder and everything had shifted. Hymie, Drucci, Bugs, Shep and the rest of the North Siders were like those shooting galleries at the penny arcade: One got gunned down and the others all moved up a notch.

  Now it was Hymie in charge and he had one goal, one obsession, and that was to kill Al Capone. I knew Hymie had already made several attempts but Capone had always gotten away. Rumor had it that every morning for the past year, Hymie had been going to Holy Name, getting down on his knees, and praying for a clean shot at Capone.

  I used to question why a Jew would go to Holy Name Cathedral. Then Shep explained that Hymie wasn’t Jewish. Turned out Hymie Weiss came into this world as Earl Wojciechowski and was as Catholic as could be, though he did the most unholiest of things. I wondered why he paraded around as a Jew. Why not say he was Irish or Italian? We Jews had enough problems without being adopted by the likes of him. But for whatever reason, Earl wanted to be called Hymie Weiss.

  I rolled onto my stomach and tried to go back to sleep. I was exhausted. Hannah had just turned one year old the month before, but she still wasn’t sleeping through the night. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten more than a few hours’ sleep at a stretch. I wasn’t yet able to wean her off nursing, and there were feedings and crying spells and times when I woke with a start and raced into her nursery, only to find her sound asleep. Plus, I’d been running around the day before, getting ready for the Jewish Women’s Council meeting that I was hosting the following day.

  I’d never entertained before. Ever. Here it was, more than a year and half since we’d been married, and I finally had an occasion to use our wedding china. I wanted everything to be perfect. While the housekeeper polished the silver and the samovar and ironed the tablecloth and napkins, I set out my china and serving platters on the table and sideboard for the buffet. In addition to purchasing Mrs. Wilson’s Cook Book, I had enrolled in a correspondence cooking course out of Scranton, Pennsylvania. I had five books of instruction, complete with examinations at the end of each chapter. I was only a quarter of the way through book one, which focused on kitchen utensils, cooking terminology and kitchen safety.

  For my first stab at home entertaining, I turned to a recipe for upside-down pineapple cake in Mrs. Wilson’s Cook Book. I’d made a practice cake the day before that had fallen as soon as I’d removed it from the oven, so I’d started over, measuring the flour and baking soda from my newly purchased canisters. I prepared the shortening and with my new hand beater blended the ingredients into a fluffy, frothy batter. After it came out of the oven, I was so stinking proud of myself. The cake on my counter looked not too different from Mrs. Wilson’s photographs. I set it in the center of my buffet, carefully covering the top with a glass cake dome.

  I had almost fallen back asleep when the baby started crying. Such a tiny thing, but Hannah tested me in ways I never expected. She also opened my heart further and faster than I thought possible. The instant the nurse placed her in my arms I burst into tears, because she was perfect and beautiful. And mine.

  Hannah wailed again and I threw off the covers, grabbed my robe, and padded down the hall to the nursery. I turned on the night-light, and as soon as she saw me she stopped crying. Her need for me went straight to my heart. How could I forgive myself for thinking I hadn’t wanted her? My God, I made her. This beautiful, perfect little being came from me. Part of me—part of my heart—was in my arms and there was nothing that could separate the two of us. I loved to kiss every finger, every toe, to lean over and play the trumpet on her belly. I couldn’t imagine my mother ever feeling that way about me. But I was sure she’d had all the answers when I was born. She and every other mother in the world knew what they were supposed to do. I was scared to death. Did I change her diaper in time? Did I feed her too soon, too late? Why was she crying? Why wasn’t she crying? There wasn’t a single thing I didn’t question. I wanted to be a good mother. I wanted her to love me. I never wanted anyone’s love before like I wanted the love of my baby.

  After she fell back asleep, I stood over her crib, studying her face, scrutinizing her dark curls, hoping that was a sign that she belonged to Shep.

  Meanwhile, Hymie and Shep were still arguing, their voices growing louder. I worried that they would wake Hannah and headed downstairs to tell them to knock it off.

  “I’m running the show,” I overheard Hymie saying. “I’m the one calling the shots and I’m telling you, I want Capone backed into a corner. I wanna make him pay for what he did to Deanie. I want that cocksucker’s blood splattered all over this town.”

  “I’ve been greasing every palm I can. We’ll get him. I promise you. I’ve got people on the lookout for Capone from Cicero all the way up to Rogers Park. I know when that son of a bitch goes to the barbershop. I know every restaurant he’s been to in the past twelve months. I know when he takes a crap—”

  “Then just fuckin’ do it already!”

  “Jesus Christ, Hymie—get a grip.”

  “You need to get the fuckin’ job done. Now!”

  “Oh, that’s just great. Sure, pull out your gun. Shoot me, Hymie. That’ll help matters.”

  Hymie let out a low growl.

  A second later I heard a scuffle and something crashed to the ground. Sounded like the samovar and half my wedding china. The two of them were calling each other names and in the midst of all the chaos, I heard a gun go off.

  I screamed as I tore into the living room and found Hymie and Shep looking up at the hole in the ceiling, plaster showering down onto the dining room table. While I stood there trying to put my heart back inside my chest, what were they doing? Laughing! I could have killed them both, especially when Hannah started crying.

  “Great! You scared the baby! And me, too. Thanks.” Half the coffee cups and saucers were shattered on the ground. I looked at what was left of my upside-down cake, now broken in two, the pineapple slices strewn across the rug with flecks of plaster stuck to them. Kicking a piece of china out of the way, I stormed upstairs to the nursery.

  Hard as I tried, I couldn’t find the balance between being a gangster’s wife and a mother. How was I supposed to raise a chil
d in the middle of all this? It was times like this that the truth about our life poked through the illusion of normality I tried to create. I knew what it was to be fearful as a child and I didn’t want that for my daughter. I wanted her to know she was safe, no matter what. But how was that possible when a gun had just gone off inside her home? And as she grew older, what would I tell her? Would I lie to her about her father, the way I’d lied to myself?

  After I’d gotten Hannah quieted down and Hymie had left, Shep came upstairs.

  “What was that all about?” I glared at him.

  “Hymie just got a little hot under the collar. That’s all. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Don’t worry about it? Hymie just fired a gun in my house! It scared your daughter half to death! My dining room is in shambles thanks to the two of you.” I slapped my hands against my thighs. “I’m having a meeting here tomorrow afternoon. How am I supposed to explain a bullet hole in my ceiling! I’ve had it. You tell Hymie he’s not welcome here anymore.”

  “I can’t do that. You know I can’t.” He stepped out of his trousers, lining up the creases and folding them neatly in half before tucking them under the mattress. “Hymie’s going through a rough time. It won’t happen again.”

  I went to my dressing table. Made a big show of brushing my hair too hard, opening a drawer and then slamming it shut.

  He came over and met my eyes in the mirror. “You have to understand, I’m under a lot of pressure right now. I’m trying to keep Hymie in line, trying to keep everything glued together.”

  I turned around on my vanity stool. “We have a baby now. I’m trying to make a real home for us. You’re supposed to protect us, Shep, and instead you’re putting us in danger.”

  “I’m not going to let anything happen to you and Hannah.”

  “How can you be so sure? I can’t have guns going off inside my house. Jesus, I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t call the police.”