The Outfit

by Gus Russo

  Although there were differing methods of determining the winner (such as using the last three digits in the day’s closing stock market volume or U.S. Treasury balance), the wheel variety was the most popular. The wheel, or can, consisted of a large, crank-turned tin can about half the size of an oil drum. The wheels were produced by a Chicago factory specifically for the numbers operators, who secreted the machines in remote locales where the drawings were made.

  The wheel operations acquired colorful, if meaningless, names and vernacular. There were the Erie-Buffalo, the Rome-Silver, the Calcutta Green Dragon, the Whirlaway, and the Beans-Ham Gravy wheels. A player did not have a three-number choice, he had a “gig”; a winning number was not chosen, it had “come out.” Although the odds against winning were 1,000 to 1, the group controlling the action typically paid off at 600 to 1, at best. With the games often rigged, the house was estimated to keep eight of every ten dollars wagered, the rare winner seeing a payoff of about $25 for each nickel bet. Players in the black communities were further abused when they were hoodwinked into buying useless “dream books,” which assigned a number to a specific dream subject that a person may have just experienced. Black preachers were often ordered by the policy operators to give certain numbers to the faithful from the pulpit. The numbers were rarely correct, but the seeming imprimatur of the church built excitement for the game.

  For years, Capone’s Syndicate had little interest in the operation, which they dismissed as “nigger pool.” With the vast riches derived from bootlegging, the nickel-per-bet policy game hardly seemed worth the time. On one occasion, when a Syndicate underling tried to muscle in on a black policy ring, Capone had the rogue offender run out of town. The Big Guy himself apologized to the threatened policy directors, saying, “That’s your racket, boys. I don’t want no part of it.” This indifference had given the Joneses free reign build their empire. Capone’s philosophy remained intact until Mooney Giancana convinced the Outfit to reconsider.

  After his release from Terre Haute in December 1942, Giancana took a legit job as a salesman in his brother-in-law’s envelope company. During the height of the World War II troop mobilization, Mooney was ordered to report to the draft board, where he lived up to his moniker and then some. In a high-volume tirade, Mooney recounted to his examiner the criminal exploits of his 42 Gang in minute detail. When he was asked what he did for a living, Giancana gave a now infamous response: “I steal.” In bestowing the street thug a 4-H exemption, the draft board labeled him psychopathic. (During the same troop buildup, Jake Guzik received his notice. He informed the board that his fifteen-year record of friction with the law should render him ineligible for the draft. He further noted that if they insisted on drafting him, the board would have to come and get him.)

  In short time, Mooney Giancana became restive in the straight life. After his third daughter was born, he began to consider ways to break into big-time gangsterism. Recalling the friendships he had formed in Terre Haute, Mooney Giancana decided it was time to seek out Eddie Jones. Soon, Giancana located the policy king, and together they struck a partnership, wherein Jones staked Giancana to the tune of $100,000 to oversee still another of the Jones’ rackets: jukebox distribution.

  The coin-operated jukebox, a key improvement over the noncoin variety, was devised in Chicago in 1934 by David Rockola. Before his breakthrough, Rockola was employed as a slot machine inspector for the Syndicate-infiltrated O. D. Jennings slot machine manufacturing company. It was later found that Jennings had shipped thousands of his slot machines to New York Commission member Frank Costello, who had in turn flooded Southern states such as Louisiana with Jennings’ contraption. Rockola was charged in 1929 in a huge slot machine scandal, wherein he freely admitted his involvement with gangsters, corrupt politicians, and police. Although acknowledging that he had made numerous payoffs, Rockola escaped prison by cutting a deal in which he would implicate his boss, James “High Pockets” O’Brien. Now, in 1934, Rockola’s new device provided gangs an easy way to skim money: Since no one could prove how many nickels were inserted, the owner of the machine could siphon off any amount of pretax lucre he desired.

  Much as they ignored the numbers game during the bootlegging era, powerful gangs like the Outfit mistakenly gave little priority to the jukebox racket, using it primarily to launder money with bar owners. The opportunistic Jones brothers once again filled the breach. They had realized that Depression-era Chicagoans would gravitate to the machines. “During the Depression, people who made three dollars a week bought a nickel beer and put a nickel in the jukebox, or seven plays for a quarter, and that was their weekend,” remembered Rockola’s assistant, Frank Shultz. “A person who made fifty dollars a week went out to hear a band.” David Rockola and the Joneses held the same philosophy: Pinball machines might go out of style, but not music.

  In 1934, Rockola opened the Rock-Ola Manufacturing Company, employing thirty-two hundred workers, and covering four city blocks on Chicago’s North Kedzie Avenue. Not only did his machines take coins and play more selections, but they were priced at $198, $52 cheaper than his competitors’ versions. As will be seen, the Outfit became the largest purchaser of “jukes” in furtherance of its rackets, Under Mooney’s guidance, the jukebox racket provided a pleasant surprise for the Outfit, reaping huge profits for decades to come.

  In 1945, with his income rising steadily, Mooney purchased a spacious home in the Chicago suburb of Oak Park for $32,000. Although an exponential improvement over life in the Patch, it was not enough. Giancana had seen firsthand the extravagant lifestyle of his partners for three years now, and he grew to covet the lucrative holdings they had generated so painstakingly. Despite Eddie Jones’ display of altruism toward Mooney, this greedy new partner had no qualms about betraying his benefactor. Although details are lost, it is believed that before Giancana made his move, he sought to impress the Outfit with his plan, thereby to create entree with the big boys. Obtaining an audience with Accardo, Humphreys, and Guzik at the Morrison was no small feat, especially for one so noncorporate as Mooney Giancana. Fortunately for Giancana, one of those whom he had befriended in Terre Haute was William “Billy” Skidmore, a gambler who was both close to Johnny Torrio and a former bagman for Jake Guzik. Combined with his former driver’s role years earlier for the now imprisoned Paul Ricca, Giancana’s link to Skidmore most likely paved the way for his access to the Morrison’s backroom. In the winter of 1945, Mooney made his sales pitch about the wonders of policy.

  The Jones brothers’ Maine-Idaho-Ohio policy wheel, as Mooney had learned, generated over $1 million a year profit, much of which the ambitious brothers funneled into legitimate real estate investments, including department stores and four hotels. In addition to their mansions in Chicago with Lincolns in the driveways, the Joneses owned villas in Europe and Mexico. Most appealingly, from his vantage point on the inside of the Jones’ enterprise, Giancana knew that they were no match for the muscle of the Outfit. The “black belt” areas of the South and West Sides, Mooney concluded, were ripe for a takeover.

  After extolling the virtues of a racket that the Outfit had given little attention, it is believed that Giancana made the Morrison confreres an offer: If he could find a way to take over the Joneses’ policy operation and provide the Outfit its cut, he would be invited into the inner sanctum of the heirs to Al Capone. The bosses possibly wondered if this uncouth thug was indeed a diamond in the rough. Perhaps former contacts, such as the prison psychiatrists at Terre Haute who had tested his IQ at a lowly 71 verbal and 93 nonverbal, had terribly misread a man with the kind of street smarts that defy measurement. He had clearly done his homework regarding policy. When the vote was taken, the decision was made to sanction Mooney’s coup attempt against the Joneses’ operation.

  It wras soon reported that Mooney Giancana was now performing his driving services for Joe Accardo, much as he had years earlier for Paul Ricca. In February 1945, Mooney and Joe were arrested together for questioning in a kidna
p case. During this period, Giancana’s family began seeing new visitors to their equally new Oak Park home. In her autobiography, Mafia Princess, Mooney’s daughter Antoinette wrote of the changes in her father’s lifestyle: “It was really from 1945 on that I became aware of the frequent comings and goings of Sam’s ’business associates,’ men whose names engendered fear in Chicago’s underworld for decades . . . Mother never knew how many men Sam was bringing home, but two or three times a week there were guests, and they would arrive promptly for dinner.”

  Among the individuals Antoinette came to recognize was Curly Hum­phreys. A key topic of “business” was almost certainly the Outfit’s planned theft of the Joneses’ operation. However, for reasons unknown, the takeover did not commence for over a year. Finally, in May 1946, after months of meticulous planning, Mooney made his move. After closing his Ben Franklin department store for the night, Eddie Jones and his wife, Lydia, instructed their limo driver to also drop off the store’s cashier at her home on their way to the suburbs. Unbeknownst to the limo’s occupants, they were being tailed by two cars. After dropping off the cashier, the Joneses’ driver was prevented from driving off by two shotgun-toting men from the tailing cars, their faces hidden behind kerchiefs. With Lydia screaming hysterically, Eddie was knocked unconscious by a blow from a rifle butt and dragged into one of the kidnappers’ cars. As they screeched away, the abductors left the police, who had just arrived, with the impression that these drivers displayed talents similar to those of the notorious 42 Gang wheelmen.

  For six days Jones languished in captivity while the word in the Patch was that the kidnappers were demanding anywhere from $100,000 to $250,000 for his release. The story made front-page news in Chicago and its environs. Suddenly, on the sixth day of his ordeal, the policy boss was released, but with no details divulged to the press, and no one charged. But knowledgeable Chicagoans had their suspicions. Giancana’s FBI file reflects what the word was on the streets of the Windy City: “The Chicago Police believe, but can’t prove, that Giancana was the brain in the $100,000 kidnapping of Jones, Negro policy king.” When officials tapped their sources, the truth emerged: Mooney Giancana had taken Eddie Jones to an undisclosed location, and while captive, Jones was told to surrender his most lucrative policy wheels to Giancana or face the shotgun. In addition, he was advised that it would be wise of him to relocate to his Mexican villa, where Mooney would send him a cut of the action. Within days of his release, Jones took his family to Union Station, where they boarded a train to Mexico by way of Texas. They never lived in Chicago again.

  Giancana’s performance understandably impressed the Outfit’s brain trust, and his stature within the gang was elevated as he became its boss of all numbers and jukebox rackets. Thanks to Giancana’s ingenuity, the Outfit had more than made up for the loss of the Hollywood extortion gambit. By 1949, the Outfit’s Standard Golden Gate policy alone grossed over $5 million per year. Incredibly, it was estimated that there were some thirty such wheels in Chicago. The Chicago Crime Commission estimated that by 1954, Chicago’s policy racket netted some $150 million. And as per custom, Jake Guzik kept officialdom at bay by dispensing the gang’s largesse. Each month, Greasy Thumb delivered bribes to Ward Committeeman William Dawson at his office at 180 West Washington Street. ]Dawson, an appointee of the equally corrupt Mayor Ed Kelly, went on to become the era’s most powerful African-American politician, later serving eighteen years in the House, eventually becoming vice chairman of the Democratic National Committee.

  Thanks to Dawson, the Outfit was able to spread its empire of gambling and loan-sharking into Chicago’s African-American community. Like bootlegging, numbers running ingratiated the gangsters with the downtrodden among the immigrant population. Profits were funneled, Capone-like, into charitable causes such as food and lodging for the unemployed and homeless. In his book Street Corner Society, William F. White described the impact of racketeering on the immigrant community: “In all their activities, legal or illegal, the racketeers perform the important function of providing employment for a large number of men. Most of the employees have no background of experience and skill to prepare them for jobs in private industry . . . The rackets provided them with jobs which were difficult to find by other means.”

  Although the gang’s numbers success was the most obvious of Gian­cana’s triumphs, the jukebox racket churned on in the background, bringing in vast profits, while burnishing Mooney’s rising star.

  Jukin’ with the Outfit

  It was long an industry policy not to sell machines to bar owners, selling them instead to regional distributors, who in turn distributed them to operators who represented a number of storefronts in specific subregions. This modus operandi played right into the hands of crime gangs like the Outfit. Once Giancana was given the green light by Accardo and Hum­phreys, he brought in his own underlings, such as Charles “Chuckie” English and Bill McGuire, who together set up Lormar Distributing Company, named after a contraction of their wives’ names, Lorraine and Mary. Jake Guzik was tapped to head a jukebox distribution company called Century Music in partnership with former Capone gang lieutenant Dennis Cooney. Guzik’s son-in-law, Frank Garnett, ran Automatic Musical Instrument Company (AMI), whose machines were distributed in the East by the Runyon Sales company, owned by the notorious gangster Abner “Longy” Zwillman. Zwillman also co-owned New York’s Riverside Music Company with Mike Lascari, who fronted for Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky. In 1949, AMI was taken over by Mooney Giancana himself. The Outfit next installed Fred “Jukebox Smitty” Smith as head of the jukebox division of the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers Local 134; Jukebox Smitty’s protege, Mike Dale, became owner of the Commercial Phonograph Survey, which charged fees for jukebox permits. With all facets of the business in line, other nonaligned distributors withered away. Ted Sipiora, owner of Singers’ One-Stop Record Service, testified that his business dropped off by 90 percent, or $800,000.

  As with almost every criminal endeavor undertaken by the Outfit, the jukebox operation succeeded in large measure because the underworld easily found upperworld partners to help grease the skids. Chief among their above-the-law accomplices were jukebox manufacturers, such as the Wurlitzer Corporation. When Wurlitzer’s vice president, Milton J. Hammergren, testified before Congress, his admissions to then counsel Robert Kennedy ran the gamut from shockingly candid to downright arrogant:

  Kennedy: “How were you able to achieve distribution where you had difficulty in the past?”

  Hammergren: “Well, let’s take Chicago. I had a very intimate friend named Goldberg . . . Al Goldberg was a very aggressive and well-connected, so to speak, individual.”

  Kennedy: “What do you mean ’well-connected’? He had connections with the underworld element in the United States?”

  Hammergren: “Yes, I would say so . . . In New York we weren’t so successful . . . We proceeded to reorganize and set up a more aggressive distributorship . . . We put in Eddie Smith, Meyer Lansky, Bill Bye, and I had a piece of it myself.”

  Kennedy: “Were company officials upset about the use of force?”

  Hammergren: “Company officials, of which I was one; yes, we didn’t like it, but we still had to sell jukeboxes.”

  Kennedy: “If somebody, just in the course of trying to get your boxes distributed, if somebody was killed, that was taken as part of the trade?”

  Hammergren: “That is one of the liabilities of the business.”

  Kennedy: “And the people that you found, as a general rule - the only people who could get this kind of distribution achieved - were these people with underworld connections, as a practical matter?”

  Hammergren: “Yes, that is true.”

  Hammergren went on to admit that he had sold some 550 jukes to Jake Guzik’s Century Music Company. He also conceded that he had made “arrangements” with the Outfit’s St. Louis associate Buster Wortman, and in Miami with a strong-arm named Angelo Meli. Kennedy asked Hammergren if he was awa
re that at one time Meli was Public Enemy Number One. “Yes, I knew about it,” Hammergren replied. In a 1946 grand jury investigation in Detroit, a local union secretary, Eugene James, said about Hammergren: “I know what he does here, and what he does everywhere else . . . He has always used the mob wherever he goes.”

  The jukes and their racket spread like wildfire across the country. In New York, Meyer Lansky, via his association with Alvin Goldberg in the Emby Distributing Company, became a major distributor for the Wurlitzer Corporation; Goldberg also teamed with Joe Accardo and Jake Guzik’s son-in-law to distribute Wurlitzers in Chicago via their Chicago Simplex Distributing Company. Sam Taran took the Florida franchise; Carlos Marcello worked the scam in New Orleans; William Bufalino lorded over Michigan. Many of the jukebox machines shipped to these locales originated in Windy City factories owned or secretly controlled by the Outfit.

  From June 15 to June 21, 1947, the Wurlitzer Company staged the jukebox version of the mob’s infamous 1957 Apalachin summit. Wurlitzer’s distributors’ confab took place at Crosslake, Minnesota, and was attended by numerous “connected” individuals who were assigned to share cabins like teenagers at summer camp. Among those known to attend were Lansky’s juke partners Alvin Goldberg and Willie Bye. In another cabin were Guzik’s son-in-law Frank Garnett and Sam Taran. Other attendees included Henry Friedman of the mobbed-up Mercury Records Corporation and a partner of Chicago bookies Frank Harmon and Max Hoffman. One cabin was assigned to someone named Siegel, with no further clarification that his first name was Ben. The Chicago Crime Commission concluded: “The underworld was well-represented at the meeting. Several of the most important Wurlitzer distributorships were in the hands of notorious racketeers.”

  As with its other takeovers, the Outfit’s brain trust devised numerous ways to squeeze peripheral profits from the jukebox racket. In one variation, the hoods began to cross-promote singers of its own choosing. The gang could literally turn no-talents into national sensations by manipulating the key benchmark of popularity: At the time, jukeboxes were the fastest way to promote a singer’s career, and the Outfit decided whose records were placed in the boxes, which position they occupied on the machine’s index, and the machine’s play counters. Distributors were ordered to place certain records in the coveted number one position on the box. One aspiring twenty-four-year-old vocalist, Tommy Leonetti, was personally handled by the notorious Felix “Milwaukee Phil” Alderisio, a dreaded enforcer-for-hire. A program director for a Chicago TV station reported that “the mob actually owns 150 percent of Tommy Leonetti, and Leonetti, who is actually working on an allowance, is a very, very sorry boy.” Chicago distributor Ted Sipiora recalled how he was paid a visit by a gang underling who demanded Sipiora promote a recording by Leonetti. Sipiora said the hood, John Ambrosia, doubled as Leonetti’s agent and had allegedly once managed Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. Ambrosia initially stopped in to deliver fifty copies of a Leonetti single. He later returned to express his displeasure with the sales of the record. “We told him it wasn’t good enough to get on the boxes,” Sipiora said. Ambrosia then began tossing a bullet in the air, saying, “These things can be dangerous. They penetrate flesh.”