• If Al Capone thought his brief voluntary exile in a Pennsylvania jail would take off the police heat in Chicago, he had guessed wrong. He had returned to find a city crawling with federal law-enforcement agents. Soon after Masseria’s death, Capone was indicted on five thousand counts of tax evasion and bootlegging.
* * *
AT THE END OF MAY, gang members all over New York received telephone invitations from Salvatore Maranzano to attend a meeting. Each thought he was going to a small, private conference with Don Salvatore, but as they showed up at a sprawling hall on Washington Avenue in the Bronx, they realized that five hundred men were attending the meeting.
Each man was charged six dollars at the door as a donation. For their money, they received a cardboard container of coffee, a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, and a hard-back chair facing a raised platform at the end of the room on which a large chair, resembling a throne, had been placed. Behind the chair, a huge cross was hanging on the wall.
As they took seats, Luciano said to Adonis, “What is this silly bastard up to now?”
Meyer Lansky looked at the ham sandwich he had been given and said, “For six bucks, I would have thought we’d get chicken.”
At nine o’clock every one of the five hundred seats was filled and Maranzano stepped out onto the stage, escorted by Nilo, who helped him into the throne chair and went to take a seat by the side of the stage. Maranzano was wearing a dark gray suit with a silver watch chain dangling across his vest. As he sat in the throne chair, he waved ceremoniously to the nervous crowd.
“He’s running for pope,” Lansky mumbled.
Slowly the crowd quieted and Maranzano rose. He said a prayer in Latin and gave a florid greeting in Italian. And then in English he said:
“The past is over. We must look to the future. We start tonight.
“We are a great army, but even the greatest army can fail if it has not discipline. We will have such discipline.”
Looking around the room, Maranzano said that Joe Masseria had been a traitor to his own people, extorting money from Italians everywhere and allowing his underlings to run wild, “stealing and looting and killing, without regard for the rights of others.”
“That was Joe Masseria’s thing. This thing of ours—La Cosa Nostra—will be different. From now on, everything in this city will be run by five families. Each family will have a boss, a capo. Call him a general. Each boss will have an underboss; he will be like a major. And under the majors will be caporegimes, lieutenants, and under the caporegimes will be groups of ten soldiers.
“You ask, why this system? Because it was the system of Julius Caesar and his triumphant armies. As the children of Julius Caesar, this system will work for us, too, and it will make La Cosa Nostra triumphant also.”
He paced back and forth along the stage.
“As I call out these names, please stand. Joe Profaci. Albert Anastasia. Thomas Gagliano. Joe Bonanno. Charlie Luciano.”
As Luciano rose to his feet, Lansky whispered, “He’s gonna give you your high school diploma.”
“Look at them,” Maranzano commanded. “These are the leaders of the five families of New York. These are the bosses and each of you will be in one of their families.” He looked around again and then said, “You may all sit.
“These five bosses will meet together to plan for the future. They are the generals of our army. You will know them, but all you soldiers, you will never go to your boss without first getting permission of your immediate superior, your caporegime. You will be punished for infractions of that rule.
“There are other rules too that may not be broken. You may not violate another member’s wife. You may not talk about La Cosa Nostra. You may not speak of this to your wives. You may not disobey an order from your superior. For violating these rules, the penalty will be death. Ours will be a disciplined army.
“And I will be here to oversee this discipline, because I will be your capo de tutti capi, your boss of bosses.”
Maranzano spoke for an hour, outlining the rules that he predicted would bring order and peace to New York’s warring underworld. Finally, he sat back down in the throne chair.
As he did, he said, “Whatever happened in the past is over. We have all suffered terribly, but there is to be no more ill feeling among us. From today on, our only business is business and our only goal is to make each of you rich beyond your wildest dreams. Even if you lost someone in this awful war, it is time to move on. You must forgive and forget. If you seek revenge, you will pay with your life.” He looked around sternly, then said: “Now go in peace.”
The American Mafia was dead; the Cosa Nostra had been born.
* * *
NILO COULD SENSE Maranzano’s excitement as they drove back to Manhattan in his limousine, preceded and followed by two cars filled with armed bodyguards.
This may be peace, but he’s sure taking no chances, Nilo thought.
“You’re very quiet, Nilo. What did you think of the evening?” asked Maranzano.
“I thought it was fine,” Nilo said
“I think the peace will hold for a while,” Maranzano said.
“Just for a while?”
“There are always people with ambitions. For a while, they will be kept busy trying to put together the structure of La Cosa Nostra. After they do that, then they will start scheming again. No organization, no matter how intelligent, can overrule human nature. But that’s not what is on your mind. What is it? Nilo, of all people, you can talk to me.”
“All right, Don Salvatore. You named five to head families. But what of me? What is my role in this new organization?”
“You have none,” Maranzano said. When he saw Nilo’s shocked expression, he said, “You are not Nilo Sesta anymore, remember. You are Danny Neill. I have created this organization for today and for tomorrow. But you are the day after tomorrow. When this country rises up against what those men there tonight represent—and yes, me also—it will all come tumbling down. But people like Danny Neill, secure in honest, legitimate businesses, will go on, rich and powerful and respected, while the rest rot in prison.”
He put his arm around Nilo’s shoulder. “You should not be surprised at this. I have told you so many times, even while I have been discouraging you from your youthful craziness, like that foolish business with that animal from the garment union.”
“You do me too much honor.”
“Should I do less for…” He barked to the driver, “Pull over.” When the driver complied, Maranzano told him, “Go for a walk. We wish to talk privately.”
Nilo saw the trailing car of bodyguards had pulled up behind them. The car in front had also stopped and was now backing up on the road shoulder to take its position in front of Maranzano’s limousine.
When the driver walked away and lit a cigarette, Maranzano said, “Nilo, we must stop having secrets. I received a letter from your mother. She told me about Sofia’s visit and that she told your wife the truth about you. That…” He hesitated.
“That I am your son?” Nilo said.
Maranzano nodded. “It was one of those things that men do, of which I am not proud, but I feel for you like a true son. That is why I want you to do business and not crime. I feel sorry that sometimes I must even ask you to meet with people at your club, but it cannot be helped. It is the only place we have where someone can walk in and be seen and no eyebrow will be raised.” He leaned back in the seat. “And now we’ll talk no more about this. It would not be wise to let anyone know that you are my blood. I am pleased you have gone all this long without even mentioning it.”
“I only found out from Sofia a month ago,” Nilo said, thinking, This man just admitted raping my mother.
“And Sofia kept it secret all this time,” Maranzano said. “An interesting woman.”
“Yes,” Nilo agreed. Maranzano signaled the driver to return, and the caravan continued back to New York.
• His brain already showing the ravages of the syphilis that
would eventually kill him, Al Capone offered the federal government four hundred thousand dollars to drop the tax charges against him. When U.S. attorneys declined, he appeared before Federal Judge James H. Wilkerson in Chicago on June 16, 1931, and pleaded guilty to all the federal charges against him. But a week later, his lawyers withdrew the plea. Capone would take his chances with a jury.
• In New York City, the gangland ceasefire seemed to be holding. But in his office, Maranzano got word that Louis “Lepke” Buchalter was expanding his union extortion racket into the poultry and motion picture businesses. Don Salvatore knew that Lepke would not have made such a provocative move without the approval of the ambitious Luciano. Maranzano sat at his desk and drew up a list of names.
* * *
AFTER THE LABOR DAY WEEKEND, Tina decided she was ready to leave the Falcon’s Nest behind. The new manager and singer she had hired had worked out well over the last two weeks, and she was just waiting for Nilo to make one of his rare trips to the speakeasy so she could tell him good-bye face-to-face. She did not want any of the club’s ownership. She had money saved and she wanted to put the club and all the people in it, that whole part of her life, behind her. Tina had no clear idea what she wanted to do, but she knew the only singing she would ever do again would be for her own amusement in the shower.
Or maybe in the choir, she thought. They can always use a good baritone.
She wrote herself a check for her final month’s pay and heard someone walk by her door toward Nilo’s office. She put the checkbook away, then went out into the corridor. Nilo’s office door was ajar and she could hear voices inside. Quietly, she walked down the hallway, then stopped to listen.
She heard Nilo say, “Here’s the list of names. Get as many as you can as fast as you can before anyone has a chance to react.”
“Holy Christ,” came another voice. “You’re not kidding around, are you? Luciano, Genovese, Costello, Adonis, Dutch Schultz, Willie Moretti.”
“You can start with Luciano and Genovese,” Nilo’s voice said. “Don Salvatore will have them in his office at three o’clock on the tenth. Get them there. Pick up the others wherever you can. There’s twenty-five thousand in the envelope. There’s another twenty-five thousand when you’re done.”
“It’s good doing business with you, Sesta.”
“We’ll have more business soon.”
Tina heard a chair slide across the wooden floor in Nilo’s office and she ran back down the hall into her own office. She left the door open a bit and a moment later saw the young slender man she had seen in the club on New Year’s Eve pass by. She tried to remember his name.
Coll. Mad Dog Coll, Nilo called him. And I don’t want to think about what this means.
Tina left the club hurriedly. She wanted to talk to Nilo but not now, not here. It would have to wait.
September 10, 1931
* * *
“HELLO, CHARLIE. THIS IS DON SALVATORE.”
“My capo,” Luciano said.
“We got some business to talk. I was wondering if you and Vito could come up to my office this afternoon.”
“Sure, I’ll get him. What time?”
“Let me look at my calendar. Three o’clock would be good.”
“We’ll be there,” Luciano said.
He hung up the telephone in his hotel suite and went back to his breakfast.
* * *
NILO HAD NOT BEEN BACK to the club since Tina had overheard his conversation, and she wanted to tell him personally that she had quit. Reluctantly, because she did not want to talk to Sofia, she telephoned Nilo’s home. He answered the phone himself.
“Nilo, this is Tina. Can I come up and see you?”
He lowered his voice. “Sofia’s going out in a while. Come up at twelve thirty.”
In the other room, Sofia softly replaced the extension phone.
Invading the privacy of my home, she thought. That is too much, even for such a whore as she. This must be finished, once and for all.
* * *
PRECISELY AT 12:30 P.M., Tina knocked on the apartment door. It swung open and Sofia stood in the doorway.
“Hello, Sofia. I was expecting Nilo.”
“Yes, I’m sure you were. Come in.” She stepped aside to let Tina enter the apartment and closed the door behind her.
“Is he here?”
“He went out for a while.”
“Maybe it’d be better if I came back later,” Tina said. “I had some business to discuss.”
“Your usual business?” Sofia snapped.
“I came to tell him that I’m finished with work. The new manager is on the job. If he wants to reach me, he can call me at home.”
She stepped toward the door. “I’m sorry, Sofia, that there is so much unhappiness in your life. I wish I could take some of it from you.”
“Unhappiness?” Sofia said. “You Falcones had everything. You were priests and policemen. You were a star. And now you are all nothing. Less than nothing. And I will have everything. I have nothing to be unhappy about.”
Tina shook her head sadly and reached for the doorknob.
“Wait! You’ve forgotten your souvenirs. Nilo wanted you to have them.”
She handed forward a paper bag. Inside it, Tina saw a roll of film and an envelope filled with photographs. She looked at one and her heart sank.
“Oh, my God,” she said.
“Just more memories of the good times,” Sofia said, her face creased in a tight, thin-lipped smile. “Nilo likes to look at them at night.”
“It was Nilo,” Tina said. “It was Nilo who did it.”
Sofia laughed and Tina clutched the bag under her arm and ran from the apartment.
Nilo returned a few minutes later. “Did anybody come by while I was out?”
“Nobody. Nobody at all,” Sofia said.
* * *
FOR ALL THOSE YEARS, Tina had blamed Luciano, but it had been Nilo who had gotten her to that warehouse in the Bronx. It was what Nilo had meant when he told Tina that if he wanted to, he could force her to stay on at the speakeasy.
She ran down the street, clutching the bag under her arm. A clock outside a bank read 12:45. It was September 10 and Charlie was going to be murdered.
She darted into a candy store and found a phone booth in the back. She dialed Luciano’s number, praying he would still be in his hotel room.
“Three-Twelve,” he answered.
“Charlie, this is Tina. Listen. If you’ve got a meeting today, it’s a trap. They’ve hired somebody named Coll to kill you.”
“Tina. What…?”
But she had hung up the telephone. Still weeping, she fled from the store.
* * *
TOMMY WAS ALONE AT HOME when Tina burst into the family apartment. She had expected to find him as he usually was, disinterested and daydreaming, but Tommy was dressed and his eyes flashed as she handed him the closed bag of film and pictures.
“It was Nilo,” she said. “He did it. It was Nilo.”
Tommy stood up slowly. “I know,” he said. “I figured it out. It was always Nilo,” he said. “Everything was Nilo.” Finally, he opened the bag and glanced inside. His mouth tightened in anger. “Burn all this stuff before Mama comes home.” As Tina ran into the kitchen, Tommy put on a long jacket and tucked his gun into his belt.
* * *
LUCIANO USED A TELEPHONE BOOTH in the lobby and found Meyer Lansky on the second phone call.
“I need some men and I need them right now. You got anybody around?”
“I got Red Levine here. And Bo Weinberg. Good men.”
“Here’s what I want them to do.”
When he was finished with Lansky, Luciano called Tommy Lucchese. The man, known as “Three Finger Brown,” had been Maranzano’s driver but had always reported regularly to Luciano.
“Wander up to the Castellammarese’s office,” Luciano said.
“And do what?”
“Just hang around. Make believe you’r
e trying to make peace for yourself. And if there are any visitors, make sure they find the right party.”
Lucchese was not nimble-witted. He was silent for a moment, thinking, then understood. “I’ll be there, Lucky.”
* * *
NILO SENT SOFIA and the two boys to visit her mother. He had planned to stay away from Maranzano’s office, but as the time grew nearer for the killings of Luciano and Genovese, he realized he would not be able to stay away. He wanted to be in on the kill.
He put on his jacket and opened the apartment door to tell his bodyguard to bring the car out front. But as soon as he opened the door, he was pushed back into the apartment, falling over the coffee table onto the floor. As he picked himself up, he heard the door slam and lock. Tommy stood inside the door. He held a pistol in his hand, aiming it unwaveringly at Nilo.
“Don’t look for your bodyguard,” Tommy said. “He’s taking a rest.”
Nilo smiled. “Nice of you to visit.”
Tommy’s voice was flat, without emotion. “That night in Yonkers when Papa got killed. It was you, wasn’t it?”
“Don’t you believe the cops? They said it was Birchevsky.”
Tommy shook his head. “There was something wrong, but I could never figure out what it was. Until now. Birchevsky left the track before the last race. He kept looking at his watch. He was going to that warehouse to meet somebody. And that somebody is the person who shot Papa in the dark. Who tried to shoot me. Who else would Birchevsky be meeting except for you?”
“That’s a pipe dream,” Nilo said. “Don’t go blaming it on me ’cause you let your own father get killed.”
“You killed Papa. You had your stooge kill Rachel and try to kill me with an overdose. And killed Lev Mishkin. It was even you who had Tina raped.”
“Try proving it. Try proving any of it.”
“I can’t prove it,” Tommy said. “That’s why I came up here to kill you.”
* * *
AT TEN MINUTES TO THREE, four men dressed in suits and wearing snap-brimmed hats walked into Maranzano’s offices in the New York Central Building at 230 Park Avenue, behind Grand Central Station.
Tommy Lucchese was sitting in a chair across the room, reading a newspaper. Behind the receptionist’s desk was Girolamo Santucci, also known as “Bobby Doyle,” one of Maranzano’s favorite gunmen. Joe Valachi and two other bodyguards were drinking coffee near the big plate-glass window overlooking the street.
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