The Outfit

by Russo, Gus

  Meanwhile, Capone’s man Tony Lombardo changed the tarnished Unione’s name to the Italo-American National Union. When Lombardo was killed on September 7, 1928, Capone had four of the Aiello brothers killed in return. One can scarcely imagine why anyone would now want the virtual death sentence that was the Unione presidency, but Capone somehow found more candidates. And so Lombardo’s successor turned out to be one Pasqualino Lolordo, who was killed on January 8, 1929. Temporarily, Aiello achieved his goal and assumed the top post.

  The Massacre

  Those silly Irish bastards. They have more guts than sense. If only we’d hooked up, I could have been president.

  -Al Capone, on the St. Valentine’s Day massacre

  The war for the Unione - and for that matter Chicago itself - reached its climax in the only manner that was ever really viable: a massacre. It occurred on February 14, 1929, St. Valentine’s Day. Since Bugs Moran had been stealing Capone’s booze, it was decided that he could be lured into a trap by setting up a buy of “stolen” Capone hooch. After disguising a black rental car as a police patrol wagon by mounting a fake siren on its top, four shooters dressed as cops met seven members of the North Side gang in a garage at 2122 North Clark Street at 11 A.M. to make the transfer.

  In the garage, the “cops” pointed their “Chicago typewriters” at the heart of the Moran gang. Some seventy rounds were fired with machine guns, and once the victims were motionless, some of them received pointblank shotgun blasts to their faces. Each victim received dozens of wounds, methodically spread throughout each body. The carnage was so brutal that some corpses were said to have been nearly severed at the waist. When the firing ended a full minute later, a river of blood coursed across the dark, oily basement floor. Six were dead at the scene. Incredibly, the seventh, Frank Gusenberg, lingered for a couple hours, before giving investigators the gangster’s response as his last words: “Nobody shot me. I ain’t no copper.” The shooters were never identified.10 Although Moran was not there, his operation was mortally wounded. Both he and Aiello went into hiding, with the departing Moran telling police, “Only the Capone gang kills like that.”

  Although it was quickly learned that Capone was in Miami (meeting with the Dade County solicitor) at the time of the shootings, there was little doubt that he had ordered the slaughter of his sworn enemies. There was simply no one else so vicious and with so much to gain by hitting the North Siders. Capone, of course, proclaimed his innocence, at one point mocking Moran’s own theory when he chided, “The only man who kills like that is Bugs Moran.”

  With the war essentially won, Capone named Joe Guintas to head the Unione. This appointee survived in that post the extremely long span of three months, only to be killed by Capone’s gang. It seems that two of the suspected Valentine’s Day triggermen, John Scalise and Albert Anselmi, were conspiring with Guintas to take Unione back from Al. On May 7, 1929, Capone and his boys met the three conniving traitors at a prearranged dinner party at a roadhouse in Hammond, Indiana. After a nightlong repast, Capone turned on the three quislings. When their bodies were found the next morning in an abandoned car parked by an Indiana highway, they were unrecognizable, having been beaten unmercifully with baseball bats and then riddled with bullets. The coroner assigned to the case said that in his thirty years of experience, he had never seen human bodies so mutilated.

  All told, adding in the preemptive strikes and various retaliations, eighteen gang leaders died in the War for the Unione. Of course, no one was ever so much as arrested. After the Indiana sanctions, Capone headed for Atlantic City to attend the first national meeting of all the major crime lords, aka the Commission.

  The conference ran from May 13 to 16, 1929, and was held in Atlantic City’s Hotel President. Thirty gang leaders participated; the roll call read like a Mafia Social Register. Included among the lawless luminaries were Albert Anastasia, Dutch Schultz, Louis Lepke, Frank Costello, Lucky Luciano, Longy Zwillman, Moe Dalitz, Ben “Bugsy” Siegel, and Al Capone. Of particular note was the presence of the notorious Kansas City machine politician Tom Pendergast, the sponsor of Harry Truman, future president of the United States. The legendary Johnny Torrio, working behind the scenes in New York with Lansky et al., surfaced for this convocation. The racketeers were able to avoid arrest because the Atlantic City rackets boss, Enoch “Nucky” Johnson, had paid off the local police. Befitting their exalted stature, the boys luxuriated at posh hotels such as the Ritz and the Breakers. The dons made themselves conspicuous, not only by their garish “mob chic” attire, which was not exactly designed for a day at the beach, but also by their choice of venue. It seems that the boys felt the traditional hotel meeting rooms to be insecure, so while they slept at the President, they adopted a bizarre MO for conducting their discussions: Conversations of great national significance were held in that boardwalk staple, the two-man pushcart. The leaders met two at a time, then changed partners: a Mafia version of musical chairs. Often, at the end of their rides, they would stroll the beach in full attire and complete their negotiations. During breaks, the mobsters ambled the world-famous boardwalk, perhaps sampling the Turkish Taffee. If they were trying to blend in, there is little doubt they failed.

  In short time, it became clear that the first order of business was in fact Al Capone himself. Capone got his first inkling of this agenda when his mentor, Johnny Torrio, made a personal appeal to Capone to end the violence. Even the mobsters were cognizant that the “G” (government) would only be pushed so far before it cracked down. But there was also a thinly veiled subtext to the proceedings: the other gang lords were jealous of Capone’s prosperity. And Lucky Luciano had been at odds with Capone since their gang days in New York, when Lucky had sided with the man who had inflicted the scars on Al’s face. It was Luciano who had instructed Al not to seek revenge, lest he dig his own grave. When Capone discerned the depth of the antagonism at the conference, he lashed out, hurling obscenity-laced accusations in all directions one minute and withdrawing into silence the next. Consequently, Capone was shunned by many of his mobster competitors. It is now believed that Al’s mood swings were the result of a syphilitic condition that would not be diagnosed until years later - a disease that ultimately claimed his life.

  The conventioneers were so proud of themselves that they waged a PR campaign and leaked details of the proceedings to craving journalists. In the end, a fourteen-point peace plan was adopted. In addition to swearing off violence, the plan’s key planks were aimed squarely at the Capone Syndicate, which was to be dismantled immediately, with all of his gambling joints being surrendered to the Commission, now headed by Torrio. As expected, Capone adamantly refused to be forced into this humiliation by the Atlantic City decree. Compounding Capone’s woes, Joey Aiello was named to head the Unione Siciliana (Capone would eventually have him iced on October 30, 1930).

  Despite the looming difficulties, Capone, now thirty years old, was worth an estimated $40 million, with his Syndicate pulling down $6 million per week. But all the money in the world could not buy peace of mind for someone on the Commission’s hit list. Feeling the heat from all sides, Capone spent much of 1929 traveling with his bodyguard Frankie Rio. Since Capone had long desired to retire to the family life, he used the opportunity to decide on a retirement locale. After being turned back as “undesirable” by authorities in, among other places, Los Angeles and the Bahamas, he eventually bought property in Miami.

  While on an extended vacation in Florida in the winter of 1928, Capone was quick to acquire well-placed friends, among them Parker Henderson, Jr., the son of the former mayor of Miami, and John Lummus, the current mayor. Henderson picked up Al’s disbursements from Chicago - some $31,000 sent to “Albert Costa,” while Lummus, also a leading Realtor, sold Capone a home on Palm Island on the Intra-coastal waterway for $40,000 ($350,000 by current standards). For political purposes, Lummus told his constituents that he was maneuvering Capone out of town. To cover their tracks, Capone and Lummus instructed Henderson to take t
itle to the property. Capone kept a low profile when in Miami, save for his temperamental, but futile, appearances on tennis courts and golfing greens, where he was seen hurling rackets and clubs in hacker’s frustration.

  But no matter where he traveled, Capone was never far from a Commission stronghold. It did not take extraordinary brainpower for Capone to realize that he could not fight all the hoods now aligned against him. To survive, he had to lie low. But even his new Florida estate could not supply the security needed to forestall the professional killers who were nipping at his heels. Johnny Torrio advised, “The safest place in the world is inside a jail. Let’s ask Boo-Boo.”

  Max “Boo-Boo” Hoff was the boss of Philadelphia much as Al was in Chicago. In a prearranged “collar,” Hoff tipped two Philadelphia cops, whom Capone saw socially when they visited Florida, that Capone would be transiting their town carrying a concealed weapon. Capone further tipped them $20,000 when they arrested him. He was sentenced to a year in jail. While incarcerated he told a Philadelphia public safety director that he was tired of the gang life. “I’ve been in this racket long enough,” Capone said. He spoke of his longing for peace of mind. “Every minute I was in danger of death . . . I’m tired of the gang murders and the gang shootings . . . During the last two years I’ve been trying to get out. But once in the racket you’re always in it, it seems. The parasites trail you, begging you for favors and for money, and you can never get away from them, no matter where you go.”

  Capone was placed in the Eastern Penitentiary, where he was provided for like the king that he was: a cell with thick carpets, a phone with which to make limitless long-distance phone calls at the state’s expense, a matching cabinet radio and chest of drawers. When asked by the warden if he desired that a stock ticker be installed, he responded, in typical Syndicate style, “No thanks. I never gamble.”

  In March 1930, Capone decided he wanted out of lockup, and so he left. What happened next will never be completely comprehended. In 1930, Capone adopted a Christ-like persona, performing every charitable work imaginable short of raising the dead. This period crystallized the inherent contradiction of the gangster as Robin Hood. Whether it was a coldly calculated, Madison Avenue-worthy attempt to sway public opinion back in his direction after the public relations disaster of the Valentine’s Day massacre, or a genuine conviction of the heart, will never be known. Historians note that a possible incentive was an appeasement of the Unione membership, -who were disgusted with the gangster involvement in their leadership putsches. Al may also have sensed his upcoming legal denouement, and thus the need to sway the potential jury pool. In any event, the largesse dispensed by Capone in what turned out to be the waning days of his reign is nothing if not staggering, with everything from handing out money to the needy to creating soup kitchens that fed some ten thousand per day.11

  The sudden display of altruism was to no avail. On the home front, as well as in Washington, serious challenges were being mounted against Capone’s dominion. The newly elected “reform” mayor, Anton Cermak, launched a war on gangsters in general, and Capone in particular. Cermak even allied with the “respectable” bootlegger Roger Touhy in an effort to isolate the Capone gang. (As will be seen, Cermak was not a reformer at all, and his alliance with Touhy stemmed from his desire to grab his own share of illicit jack.) There were numerous arrests, gun battles, and shot-up gangsters, as Capone’s end appeared imminent.

  In the nation’s capital, momentum against Capone had been growing since 1926, when Vice President Charles Dawes had initiated a federal assault on the crime boss. President Calvin Coolidge’s second-in-command hailed from Illinois and, along with his brother Rufus, owned a family bank in Chicago’s Loop. In addition, Rufus was the president of the World’s Fair Corporation, which was formed to coordinate the Fair’s 1933 arrival in Chicago. Known as “A Century of Progress,” the Fair was viewed as critical to Chicago’s future growth and reputation. Over the next few years, Dawes lobbied Coolidge and his successor, Herbert Hoover, in his quest to dethrone Capone. Both presidents joined the fray by exploiting a 1927 Supreme Court ruling (U.S. v. Sullivan) - that illegal income was taxable. In March 1929, one month after the St. Valentine’s Day massacre, Chicago Daily News publisher Frank Knox led a citizens’ delegation to ask new president Herbert Hoover for help. Knox, accompanied by Chicago Crime Commission director Frank Loesch, informed the president that only federal help could save their city. Like the Dawes brothers, Knox knew that bank investors were becoming leary of depositing their money in Gangland, USA. At the time, there were some sixty-three gang murders per year in Chicago.

  Although Coolidge and Hoover may have been well-intentioned, the Chicagoans’ “crusade” was in large part a self-serving exercise in hypocrisy. The effort was funded in part by the Secret Six, a group of “crime-fighting” Chicago businessmen who put up hundreds of thousands of dollars (including $75,000 to IRS chief Elmer Irey). In fact, this cartel was just another xenophobic lynch mob that had no qualms about establishing its fortunes on the backs of the musclemen provided by Capone’s Syndicate. Their civic activism was a barely concealed attempt to improve their own business fortunes by getting the gangs off the streets in time for the upcoming World’s Fair. Worst of all, they backed Frank Loesch, an unabashed racist, who had earlier struck an election accommodation with Capone, and who now headed the Chicago Crime Commission (CCC).

  With Loesch at its helm, the Chicago Crime Commission was in high gear. It launched a brilliant PR campaign against the gangsters when it established the Public Enemy list. Of course, Capone was the CCC’s first Public Enemy Number One. But Loesch was also battling inner demons. Addressing students at Princeton University in 1930, Loesch disclosed his true agenda when he wailed, “It’s the foreigners and the first generation of Americans who are loaded on us . . . The real Americans are not gangsters.” He went on to explain that “the Jews [are] furnishing the brains and the Italians the brawn.” Of course, Loesch failed to inform his audience that he himself was a first-generation American of German parentage. But no one debated Loesch’s motives, since the Public Enemy list had struck a chord with the American public. Meanwhile, in Washington, Hoover’s inquiry was taking off. It was the beginning of the end for Capone.

  The special prosecutor sent from Washington, Dwight H. Green, received his marching orders from U.S. Attorney George Johnson: “Your job is to send the Chicago gangsters to prison. You can call on revenue agents, special agents, or agents of the Special Intelligence Division of the Treasury Department. You can have the staff you need as quickly as you can show the need for it. Go to it.” Green hired Agent Arthur Madden to direct the field operation, while Frank Wilson looked into Capone’s spending habits. The team pieced together their evidence from physical artifacts and the paper trail, not from corrupted officials. Simultaneously, IRS chief Elmer Irey focused on Capone’s 1928 purchase ($31,000 cash down) of his $40,000 Palm Island estate. Using the pseudonym Michael Lepito, one agent, Pat O’Rourke, actually infiltrated Capone’s Lexington Hotel headquarters. That led the team to Capone’s bookkeeper, eventually found hiding in Miami.

  As per custom, Capone dispatched legal emissaries to the nation’s capital to put in the fix. The guardians of the public trust were more than happy to take the money, but delivered nothing in return. One of Capone’s lawyers, his tail between his legs, reported back to the boss, “I spent forty thousand dollars in just one office, spreading it around.” He told how he had placed a bundle holding $30,000 in a deserted Senate office and watched from his hiding spot as a U.S. senator made off with it. “Later I learned that we had not bought a goddamn thing,” the legal eagle lamented. Capone also went after Irey himself and must have been stunned when Irey refused the enormous bribe put forward. Irey told the Capone bagman, “So far as I am concerned, Al Capone is just a big fat man in a mustard-colored suit.” Reportedly, the bribe attempt only fueled Irey’s zeal to destroy Capone.

  At least one member of the team developed
a grudging respect for The Big Guy. George Johnson recognized Capone’s obvious talents and spoke of them with his son, George, Jr. “My father said many times that Al Capone could have been a brilliant businessman,” remembered the younger Johnson. “[He] meant that he had the organizational ability, cunning, intellect, and street smarts it took to succeed.”

  After three years, Johnson, Irey, and Green had enough evidence. First they collared Capone’s second-in-command, Frank Nitti, who had spent at least $624,888 in three years alone. He was sentenced to eighteen months and a $10,000 fine. Al’s brother Ralph was sentenced to three years at Leavenworth and a $10,000 fine on tax evasion.

  In pretrial proceedings, Capone cut a deal with Attorney Johnson that threw out the five thousand prohibition violations that would have cost Capone an astounding twenty-five thousand years to life in jail. Capone smiled throughout the pretrial proceedings, never imagining he would lose. After all, he had gotten away with murder for a dozen years. Nonetheless, Capone purchased extra insurance by bribing the entire list of prospective jurors, which his boys had characteristically acquired.

  Finally, the big show, the trial of Scarface Al Capone, took place over four days in October 1931. Judge James Wilkerson, who earlier had thrown out Capone’s plea deal with Johnson, now displayed the wisdom of Solomon: He switched the jury-pool list at the last minute and secured an untainted jury. A now somber Capone watched as a parade of witnesses attested to his lavish lifestyle. Although it represented a small fraction of Capone’s total funds, the government was able to show that between 1924 and 1929 Capone had netted at least $1,038,660.84, for which he should have paid $215,080 in income tax. Capone’s high-priced legal team appeared impotent, seeming to have spent no time trying to develop an explanation for Al’s warehouse of expensive possessions. On October 17, 1931, after deliberating for eight hours, the jury returned their verdict of guilty, ending Al Capone’s six-year reign. At his sentencing a week later, Capone was sent to federal prison (Atlanta, then Alcatraz) for eleven years, in addition to a $50,000 fine and a $30,000 fee in court costs. No other tax delinquent, before or since, has received such punishment.