Chapter 3
Detroit was an ethnic melting pot. Poles, Czechs, Germans, French, Italians, and Jews. Each had their own gang. But the meanest and easily the most feared was a gang founded by four Jewish Russian immigrants, the Bernstein brothers, Abe, Joe, Raymond and Izzy. The boys began their life of crime with simple street jobs; muggings, purse snatching and “smash and grab” robberies. They quickly progressed to shaking down local merchants. Legend had it that the gang got its name after hitting a meat market. “Those boys are rotten, purple like the color of rotten meat,” the shopkeeper supposedly said. The name stuck.
The country should have seen the rise in violence the eighteenth amendment to the Constitution would bring. Michigan had instituted its own version of Prohibition, the Damon Act, a year earlier with disastrous results. With the Damon Act’s implementation the manufacture and distribution of alcohol became illegal everywhere in the state. Within months “rum running” was the fastest growing profession in the Motor City. As one newspaper complained, “the average citizen can make a year’s wages in one month by becoming a gangster or bootlegger.”
After every arrest the rum runners invented an even more ingenious method for smuggling and distributing booze. The police tried to stop the flow of liquor to no avail. The money, the resources of the gangs, the corruption and the intimidation was too much. Liquor flowed from Windsor Canada across the Detroit River and into the nation’s fourth largest city in quantities no one could imagine.
The Purples knew a golden opportunity when they saw one. Soon they were the most powerful and feared gang in Detroit. Seventy-five percent of the illegal liquor coming into the United States from Canada came through Detroit. Its twenty-eight mile long Detroit River was just a mile from Canada and dotted with thousands of coves, boat yards, nooks and crannies - it was a smuggler’s dream.
At first, the Purples tried to keep the Detroit river front to themselves. It was an impossible task. There were too many rivals; the Purples couldn’t kill them all. But, they could impose a territorial system. Nothing moved along the docks of Detroit without the permission of the Purples. If it did, a savage lesson was taught. The Purples employed the new Thompson submachine gun as their business card. The ‘Chopper’ could cut a man in half in the blink of an eye. It ensured their rivals knew who had done the shooting and it left an impression.
The Purples dominated the Detroit underworld for years. No one went to jail. No one talked. The Purple Gang simply owned the police and killed anyone who complained. Business was business. The Detroit underworld flourished; the East Side Gang, “Singing Sam” Catalanotte, Chester “Big Chet” La Mare and the rest were, for the moment, happy with the arrangement.
The Purple Gang’s lock on the waterfront and bootlegging couldn’t last. The fall of 1931 saw an unprecedented opportunity for the competition. The American Legion was having its national convention in Detroit and the demand for liquor would surpass even the Purple’s capacity to supply it. Now rivals from all over the country were slipping into the city. Worse yet, some of the gang’s own associates began to moonlight. This didn’t go unnoticed by the Bernstein brothers.
Foremost among the moonlighters were three new members of the ‘Third Avenue Navy’. The Navy was part of the smuggling operation of the Purple Gang. Equipped with some of the fastest boats produced on the Great Lakes and armed with Thompson submachine guns the Navy made the run across the Lake and stopped others from making the same trip. The Navy’s running fights with the U.S. Coast Guard were big news and widely reported.
The Navy was a major part of the supply side of the Purple Gang’s operation. It was highly paid work, members were lost as a result of the work and to arrest. New members were recruited continuously. With the coming convention the Navy had to increase its size. New recruits were brought in without proper vetting. Hymie Paul, Isadore “Izzy” Sutker, and Joe Lebowitz were three of those new recruits.
That summer, in a show of supreme stupidity the three began diverting portions of each run. The lightened loads were not unnoticed, but good fortune smiled on the three double-crossers. A negotiation was taking place with the North Side Gang of Chicago. The Gang was losing its power in Chicago and the Purples were exploring ways of moving in on Al Capone’s Chicago Outfit. A partnership seemed possible. The Purples simply didn’t have the time to devote to these relatively small losses.
Unable to stand prosperity the three made another incredibly bad decision. They decided to start ‘making book’. They set the odds, took bets from all comers, including the opposition, and counted on the betters to lose. The scheme should have worked, but the boys were swimming with the sharks.
A great pastime of the day was motor boat racing. Different categories of boats from sail to yacht, professional and amateur, were raced on the Detroit River to the delight of the populace. One of the more popular races was the “Gentleman’s Motor Yacht” race, and the most famous of those racers was the “Volstead Act,” a 34 foot locally built Chris-Craft.
Not knowing the monthly river races were fixed Sutker, Paul and Lebowitz bet big on the “Volstead Act.” Unfortunately, they lost to members of Detroit’s Italian East Side Gang. The East Side Gang, with its heavy New York connections and Sicilian pedigree was not in the habit of overlooking debts. To say that losing a bet to the East Side Gang was bad business was like saying Babe Ruth was just a ball player. It didn’t come close to describing the reality.
Hymie and the boys knew of only one way out. Trading on their association with the rest of the Purple Gang they bought a hundred gallons of Canadian booze on credit. They then watered down the whiskey and sold it, undercutting the Purples’ price for the same watered down booze. It didn’t cover the debt, but the boys figured to make the rest up through their gambling operation.
The big score, and their only hope of salvation, was the boat races. Hymie and his friends only succeeded in proving that stupid really can strike the same spot twice.
They again set odds on a river race, again the race was fixed, and again they lost big to the East Side Gang.
Forgetting the “First Rule of Holes”, the boys didn’t stop digging. Since the scheme had worked before they again approached their associates in the Purple Gang and again made a deal. A hundred gallons of Canadian whiskey were purchased, all on credit. Again they diluted the stock and undersold the market. It was one time too many for the Bernstein brothers. Hymie and the boys had forgotten they were cutting into the Purple’s trade. To make matters worse, they didn’t make enough money on the watered down booze. They couldn’t pay back the Purples and they couldn’t pay off the East Side Gang. They had succeeded in provoking not one, but two of the most powerful criminal organizations in the United States.
Paul, Sutker, and Lebowitz were already dead and had simply been waiting for the Purples to tell them.
Chapter 4
April – This Year
Herman James Crenshaw preferred to be called “Jim”. It never became an issue, but this morning a new teller at the bank had insisted he show two forms of identification. Ordinarily this wouldn’t bother Jim; in fact, he was a big believer of better safe than sorry, but in this instance the young man knew Jim personally. Not only that, but Jim was putting money into his checking account, not taking it out.
He knew everyone in town, they knew him. Jim had umpired the kid’s Little League games and coached his pee-wee basketball team. He knew it was “procedure,” but knowing everyone was why he’d returned to a small town and not retired in D.C. or Boston or some other big city.
Plus, the whole idea of showing two forms of identification to put money INTO his account struck him as absurd. Jim didn’t care who put money into his account; he just didn’t want anyone taking it out.
Leaving the building he shook his head, smiled and started his truck. He had two more stops on his morning errands. He needed to stop at the dollar store and pick up five packs of suckers, five packs of number 2 pencils and a pack of colored
paper. Apparently, Eve’s kids had earned a reward of a sucker and had also broken, stolen or sharpened to extinction the five packs of pencils he bought two weeks ago. Computers and the internet hadn’t made pencils obsolete, at least in Eve’s classroom. Next was a quick stop at the combination feed and seed store and grain elevator office to check on the price of fertilizer. Here he parked his truck in front of the building, rolled both the passenger and driver’s windows up to the two-thirds position and got out. His dog Molly watched him walk away from the truck with sad eyes, gave one bark, then curled up in Jim’s seat to wait for his return.
April was a wonderful time of year, the snow was gone, there was always the chance of a tee shirt and shorts day, opening day of baseball season proved the Union would last at least another year, and best of all those fields around the house just looked anxious to get to work. Jim had planted corn the last three years and was beginning to think this might be a year for soybeans. Crop rotation was something he should pay attention to he knew, but he hadn’t owned the farm long enough for it to matter. Now, for some reason he couldn’t explain, it mattered. Jim had retired from the Air Force just six years ago. He’d worked for a defense contractor for a little while, found that to be an experience similar to a root canal without Novocain and quit. Four years ago he and his wife Eve had purchased their little sixty-acre farm. They’d taken a year to build a cottage style home, a barn and equipment shed and then planted their first crop. Jim grimaced as he recalled that first year. He termed that year’s crop a “learning experience.” Eve called it a disaster. Since then Jim had learned about seed depth, acid balance, seed spacing, nitrogen requirements, soil types, nematodes, a multitude of bugs, various fungi, and a host of other things that he’d never thought of before. He loved it.
Returning to the farm Jim parked the pickup in front of the garage, opened the truck door and moved aside as Molly rushed to be the first to the house. Jim walked to the rear of the truck, grabbed an armful of bags and headed for the house. Placing the bags on the kitchen table he filled Molly’s water bowl, stood, then noticed the light on the telephone answering machine. Pushing “Play” he heard the welcome voice of his sister, Sherrie.
Chapter 5
The light turned red and Sol Levine braked the car to a stop. He checked the rear-view mirror for what must have been the fiftieth time. He had just witnessed three men murdered. He was on the edge of panic. What had he been thinking? In the confusion of the murders he’d grabbed the briefcase and run. He’d taken money from the Purple Gang; it was a death sentence.
His forehead was covered with sweat. He took off his brown fedora and wiped the hatband with his handkerchief. His hands were shaking. Sol had to get out of Detroit, he knew that, he just didn’t know how. He checked the rear-view mirror again.
Sol had circled Detroit twice trying to decide what to do. Evening had turned to night; night was becoming morning. No one was behind him…for now. There would be. He thought he spotted a familiar Packard. Frantically he pressed the accelerator. Sol came to Jefferson Avenue and smashed the brake, attempted to downshift and missed the gear. The transmission gave a loud clatter and rattled the shift lever in his hand. He found third gear and accelerated as he turned left on Jefferson to parallel the Detroit River. He had to calm down.
Sol took a deep breath. He passed Owens Park, then Memorial Park. Suddenly Sol was inspired. He’d worked for Izzy Sutker before. A couple of times he’d helped Izzy unload booze at a boathouse just down the street. Once, Izzy had taken him on a run to Canada. They’d crossed at night, loaded the booze on the boat and come back all in one night. He’d made fifty bucks for one night’s work. The more he thought about it the better Sol liked his idea. What better place to hide out than in the Purples own boathouse
He slowed when he came to the Detroit Water Works building. A little further and he’d found a small dirt path, more a driveway than a side street. The big Chrysler crept silently down the small two-lane path, coasting to a stop at the water’s edge. Sol turned the lights of the car off and carefully studied his rear-view mirrors. Nothing moved. No one had followed him. Sol had never owned a gun, he wished he did now. This was not a totally safe place, but it was the only place he was sure they wouldn’t be looking.
He stepped down from the car and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. After a moment he was calm, well, as calm as he could be right now. Sol carefully examined his surroundings. He was alone. No, maybe not. Maybe they were waiting for him. He couldn’t decide. He stood next to the open door, engine running. Again Sol checked his surroundings. No one was here. He was almost sure. He bent into the car to shut off the engine. If someone was going to grab him it was going to be now.
With a grimace Sol turned the key. The engine died. He listened to the night. A horn blared in the distance. Street noise filtered down between the warehouses and garages along Jefferson. Against Windsor’s lights he could see a working boat making its way toward lake Huron. Sol relaxed just a little.
Nervously Sol fingered the newspaper bag. He glanced left, then right, took a deep breath and sprinted across the parking lot to a small boathouse and slipped inside. Happy that he hadn’t been gunned down before he reached the door Sol sat down on the floor and caught his breath. He started a nervous laugh. After a few minutes he stood up, cracked the door open, and peered into the night.
Nothing moved.
Sol turned and groped his way across the building. Eventually outstretched hands found a workbench. Reaching into his pocket he found a match box. Fishing one out he gripped it in his fist and flicked his thumbnail against the match head. It flared and Sole tried to get his bearings. Quickly the match burned down; he struck another. He fixed the layout of the building in his mind and began to work his way to the end of a long workbench. There, he searched the wall.
It took a minute, but soon Sol found what he was looking for. He struck another match, turned up the wick in an oil lantern and a quiet light illuminated the inside of the building. Across from the bench, resting peacefully at its moorings sat a beautiful Chris-Craft cruiser.
Sol didn’t pause to admire the boat. Taking a small step stool from its hook Sol placed it on the edge of the dock. A moment later he was aboard the boat and opening the door to the small cabin below. There he slid into the cabin booth and emptied the newspaper bag on the table. Out fell a small tin, several newspapers and packs of money.
Sol was amazed. The sight of the money didn’t erase stupid, but it did make Sol brave. He quickly counted the cash, twenty packs of hundreds. Twenty thousand dollars per pack, four hundred thousand dollars. He grinned. This was the big score. Sol would be sitting pretty the rest of his life, all he had to do was grab his girl and get out of town. He could easily get lost in Canada somewhere. He’d always heard that Toronto was a pretty town, maybe Montreal…the possibilities were nearly endless.
Sol picked up the tin. It was a Blue Bird caramel container. Opening the top he shook out the contents. A pile of baseball cards, a few coins, several packs of cigarettes and a handful of caramels. He grinned, unwrapped a caramel and stuffed it into his mouth; this was perfect. Sol pocketed the coins, some of the caramels and two packs of cigarettes. He scooped the rest back into the tin. Pressing the cover onto the can he shoved it into the bottom of the newspaper bag. Still this was serious business. He had to think.
Gradually the grin returned. Sol got up from the bench seat and made his way to the boat’s forward cabin. Here he removed a board from the floor to expose a small compartment. This compartment extended forward three feet and was specifically built to hold five cases of Canadian whiskey. Sol had loaded this very compartment when he’d gone on the trip with Izzy. Normally, no one would find it. But Sol knew that his friends were also his enemies and they knew about the compartment as well as he did.
Leaving the boat and returning to the workbench Sol took a few moments to find the tools he needed. He tied on a carpenter’s apron, shoved the tools he’d selected
in the apron and hurried back to the cruiser. Feeling better about his chances by the moment Sol sprinted up the small foot stool and bounced onto the cruiser’s deck. Moving into the cabin, he pushed the compartment cover out of his way and lay on the floor. Then, turning on his back Sol wedged himself into the whiskey compartment.
He lay there for a moment, head and shoulders in the compartment, heels on the deck. The edge of the compartment cutting into the small of his back.
Reaching with his right hand he grabbed the lantern and sat it on the floor of the compartment above his left shoulder. Now he had light. Removing a screwdriver from the carpenter’s apron he reached above his head deep into the compartment and began removing the brass screws which held the end board.
After a few minutes he had all eight out and was able to pull the board away from its frame. Sol then took the canvas newspaper bag, wrapped it in newspapers, and wedged it into the bilge of the cruiser. Forty minutes later he had replaced the endboard and painted a fresh coat of shellac over the entire compartment. No one would find any evidence of his handiwork.
He crawled out of the hole, stood and rubbed his lower back. Then Sol took a bottle of Windsor Canadian from behind the captain’s seat and sat down at the settee. A grin began to grow; Sol lifted the bottle, toasted the now dead “Captain” Izzy and took a long pull. He imagined his girl Dolly in the finest Chicago fashions; she’d look just like Gretta Garbo. He pictured her leaning on a long bar and whispering, “Give me a whiskey, ginger ale on the side, and don’t be stingy, baby.” Just like Garbo herself.
He’d get himself a new suit and look just like Cagney. He had it planned. The grin broaden to a smile, things were looking up. Sol killed the light and went to the front of the boathouse. A narrow walkway extended along the wall to the opening and around the side of the building. It allowed operation of a large, garage-like door into the boathouse. Sol could just squeeze around the wall without falling in the river.
H.J. Gaudreau - Jim Crenshaw 02 - The Collingwood Legacy Page 2