Double Cross

by Sam Giancana

  Hearing tales about Al Capone’s men and Mooney’s 42 gang was better—even when Chuck had the nickel for admission in the pocket of his worn knickers—than going to any picture show at the Broadway over on Roosevelt Road, even one starring Tom Mix.

  Esposito’s death and Mooney’s handling of the Granady murder catapulted Mooney to new acceptance by the Capone gang. He swiftly found a place among the older gangsters, supplementing his job driving for McGurn with that of executioner. It was easy money—and he was good at it. The rise in status brought him the adulation he’d craved so desperately from his old 42 cronies. Guys like Willie Potatoes, Fifi Buccieri, Mad Dog, “Teets” Battaglia, Milwaukee Phil, and Fat Leonard followed him around like lapdogs.

  But with his prominence also came jealousy and rivalry; other gangs resented Mooney’s ties to the big-name gangsters and looked for any means possible to knock him from his throne as reigning smarthead. His was a precarious crown and only through cunning was he able to survive their continual attempts to topple his authority. One such attempt changed everything for the Giancana family.

  It had been late, probably well past midnight, one chilly September night in 1928, and Chuck had waited until he knew everyone else was asleep before propping himself up on the coarse flour sacks his sisters painstakingly stitched into pillowcases. He folded his thin olive arms behind his head and gazed past the cracked window. He never could tell whether there was a moon in the sky—or stars, for that matter—but boys didn’t dwell on such things, anyhow. Chuck thought that was for sissies and queers.

  He preferred to drift into his own secret world and cherished these moments in bed at night, though they weren’t exactly ones of solitude. He was never really alone, since his brother Pepe and three cousins shared the bed. Since his father had married his widowed sister-in-law, Catherine, earlier that year, things in the small Giancana flat had become cramped and overcrowded. His stern-faced stepmother had seven children of her own, three boys—Vito, Chuckie, and Joey—and four girls—Pearl, Victoria, Rose, and Gracie.

  It was hard to fall asleep with the sharp wire bedsprings squealing as they poked through the thin mattress. Or with Cousin Vito’s knobby toes wriggling in his face and Joey’s knees nuzzling at his groin. To avoid such unwelcome intimacy, Chuck scooted up on his pillow and curled into an upright fetal position, pulling the covers tightly under his chin. A slumbering tug-of-war ensued as his brother and cousins wrestled drowsily to maintain their rightful portion of the blanket.

  He amused himself by listening to the usual late-night cacophony of police sirens, screeching brakes, and the occasional staccato of gunfire echoing up and down the alleyways. Mentally rehashing the stories about Mooney he’d overheard earlier made him smile in the darkness; there was nothing he would rather be—in the whole wide world—than head of a gang like Mooney’s 42. And he was determined that someday he would.

  Suddenly, a thunderous blast ripped through the Patch. The little panes of glass in the window rattled like aggies in a tin can. He sat bolt upright, rubbing his eyes as much in amazement as to awaken fully. All the while, the brick walls of the flat shuddered and waffled in response to the explosion. He thought the entire room might come down around him and, terrified, he leapt from the bed, feeling the cold wood floor quake beneath his bare feet.

  The shaking stopped and someone screamed in the street below. Grabbing his pants, he rushed over to the window and opened it, leaning out as far as his small frame would allow, stretching into the cool night air. The acrid scent of smoke filled his nostrils. He could just make out a red glow; it tinted the skyline and lit the shadowy figures of people running in its direction. Hundreds of lights shot on from as many households.

  This wasn’t your routine pineapple bombing, no sirree, he thought excitedly as he scampered through the window and onto the rickety wooden porch. It groaned beneath his weight and a few of the more rotted timbers sank spongily with each hesitant step. His heart fluttered when he looked down two stories to the rubble illuminated below. Had it been daylight and had he had an audience, he would have been fearless; he was always jumping from stoops and rooftops and he was proud of the reputation he’d earned as the neighborhood’s foremost daredevil. But tonight, the darkness made him uneasy. He forgot any thoughts of such antics and, using one hand to steady himself, slipped on his pants. He could hardly wait to find out who had thrown such an incredible bomb, and called in to his brother and cousins; they sat frozen in the bed. “Sissies,” he mumbled to himself.

  Those who lived in the Patch had long gotten used to the nightly bombings, shootings, and fires—but in Chuck’s short life, there had been nothing to equal the magnitude of this bombing. He heard a furious pounding at their front door, then heard it slam. Moments later, he caught sight of his father, still dressed in his nightclothes, running toward the blaze with his vegetable and lemon ice store partner, Gremilda.

  Before Chuck could steal down the porch to follow, his sister Antoinette burst into the room. She stood in the doorway, dark eyes searching for him, tapping her foot angrily on the floor. Of his four sisters, Antoinette had the highest spirit and strongest constitution. After their mother had died, she’d taken on the task of mothering herself, caring for her five younger brothers and sisters with a courage and conviction uncommon for a girl of sixteen, but expected by Italians from the Old Country and certainly by Mooney and her father. Old habits died hard, and although the children now had a new mother, Antoinette still clung to her role of protectress.

  Chuck’s brother and cousins laughed as he sullenly trudged back to bed. Not until he’d pulled the rough sheets around his shoulders and fallen asleep did Antoinette close the door.

  The incident would make Chuck understand, as best any child could, what the violence of the Patch meant to its victims: Thanks to the bombing of his father’s lemon ice store, the entire Giancana family fortune, paltry as it was, was lost.

  Less than two weeks later, on September 17, Antonio and Gremilda were shot and brutally beaten by young thugs from a rival gang of the 42, and, with the assistance of one more bomb, what little was left of the lemon ice store was demolished. The two men felt lucky to escape with their lives.

  The boys on the street told Chuck that everybody thought his father and partner had been muscled by some guys Mooney had crossed. And that the same hoods had murdered one of Mooney’s friends, a smarthead everybody called “Dibbits,” after Mooney shotgunned one of their gang. Nobody expected the police to do anything about this latest wave of violence; they were too busy roughing up the remaining 42s or shaking them down to care about real trouble.

  After the bombing, the mood in the Patch became strangely tense. Old women carrying baskets stacked high with loaves of bread, salami, and provolone lowered their heads and scuttled hurriedly to the other side of the street when punks under Mooney’s spell—the Battaglia brothers, the DeStefanos, and crazy Patsy Tardi—strolled brazenly among the fruit and vegetable stands spreading the word: Mooney Giancana was declaring war.

  There was no doubt Mooney, once he’d pinpointed the perpetrators of this latest offense, would take care of things his own way in the Patch. “Mooney’ll give the guy who bombed his father’s store a good taste of his own medicine,” Chuck heard one boy say. And it was true. Even a child like Chuck knew Mooney would mete out his own brand of justice, that it was just a matter of time.

  Unknown to Chuck, people of the Patch did have dreams of their own. But like him, they kept them to themselves, not daring to voice them for fear they would somehow hope too much—and fail. His father’s dream had been to prosper in his lemon ice business. Antonio Giancana had lain awake at night, planning and worrying. It was a special pleasure to wonder where he’d get enough lemon or whether he’d have enough shaved ice to serve his growing enterprise. Now that dream had been blown to smithereens—lost in a rubbish heap with all the rest. And Antonio lay awake wondering where he’d get enough food to feed his children.

  No
one in the family could recall Antonio speaking up to Mooney; but now he didn’t hide the fact that he blamed his son for their misfortune. They bickered and argued, screaming obscenities back and forth like two Sicilian fishwives. When Mooney was in the house, which had suddenly become rare, he sulked and stormed through the flat, smashing dishes against the walls and, more than once, his fist.

  It wasn’t so unusual for Mooney to be ill-tempered←unyielding in his control, he was always throwing his weight around in the Giancana household. But it was unlike Antonio to be so vocal. At twenty, Mooney had already murdered more men than Antonio cared to imagine, and he was now more afraid of his son’s violent unpredictability than ever.

  In the midst of this family infighting and economic collapse, Chuck and two of his friends stole a bag of money containing thirty-five dollars from the old pieman’s car parked along Taylor Street as it made its deliveries of fresh fruit and cream pies.

  “This is how the Forty-two got its start,” they crowed among themselves and, victorious, the boys paraded through the Patch to spend their fortune on Maxwell Street—where a few nickels could buy food and clothing and a million other things about which most children in the Patch could only dream.

  No one seemed to wonder why three ragamuffins had so much money; people in the Patch learned not to ask too many questions. The Italian vendors accepted with an open hand whatever came their way—whether stolen goods or cash. So for three dollars, a hunchbacked old man gladly sold them a red bicycle. And a pretty girl, who made Chuck blush when she smiled at him, took a crisp one-dollar bill for a pair of roller skates.

  By five o’clock that evening, the bicycle lay in a twisted heap of spokes and rubber—a victim of the boys’ overzealous acts of daring. Undaunted, Chuck next entertained himself by devising acrobatic feats on the skates. As the sun slowly disappeared behind the redbrick tenements, his friends departed for home and dinner. Chuck was left alone, shivering in the damp air. He sat down on the stoop to unstrap the skates and was so entranced by them that he jumped when Mooney’s voice intruded on his daydreams.

  “Where did you get those?” Mooney asked nonchalantly.

  “From a friend,” Chuck answered, barely looking up.

  “A friend?”

  “Uh-huh.” Chuck’s hands began to shake, which made the wheels of the roller skates twirl ever so slightly. But he was sure Mooney saw them—sure Mooney knew he was lying. He pushed a matted forelock of black hair from his eyes and looked up. Gone were the casual posture and friendly smile. In their place was the coldness he’d seen so many times.

  In one swift gesture, Mooney leapt from the stair and lifted Chuck by his collar. He held him, squirming, and slapped him hard across the mouth as he whispered between clenched teeth, “Don’t ever lie to me. Understand?”

  Chuck nodded. Tears dribbled in milky streaks down his face.

  “Okay. We’ll try again. Where did you get the skates?”

  It was hard to talk but he managed to choke out a reply: “I found them.”

  Mooney raised one hand ominously and, with the other, grabbed Chuck by his ear, jerking his face right up to his own. His breath was hot and smelled like cheap wine and stale cigarettes. “What? I don’t believe it for a minute. Did you steal them?”

  “No, honest I didn’t . . . honest.”

  Mooney slapped him hard again. “Tell me the truth. Now!”

  Chuck began to sob. “Okay, okay. Don’t hit me no more. Please,” he begged. “I’ll tell you. I promise. Please.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Nickie and Tony . . . they stole . . . money . . . from the pie man.”

  “Were you with them?”

  “Uh, well . . . yeah. But . . .”

  “Did you help take the money?”

  “Hm, uh sort of . . . maybe . . . sort of.”

  Mooney’s pointed-toe shoe came out of nowhere to kick Chuck in the side with a sickening thud and he screamed, “Sort of? Did you or didn’t you? Tell the goddamned truth or I’m gonna beat the living hell outta you.”

  Doubled over in pain, Chuck decided to tell it all. He’d spill his guts and Mooney would see that they were just like the 42. Just as smart and tough. “All right, I will. I will. I promise,” he said.

  Oddly calm, Mooney sat down next to him and listened to every word. When at last he finished, Chuck hesitantly looked into his eyes, hoping he’d gained approval—or at least a lighter sentence.

  Mooney leaned over, still poised to strike, and hissed through his teeth, “Never, ever, be a stool pigeon, Chuck. That’ll get you killed.” He stood up and glowered. “You heard of omertà?” He screamed. “You keep your eyes and ears open . . . and your fuckin mouth shut.” The blur of Mooney’s body rushed down upon him. Again the pointed toe of the leather shoe kicked him.

  “Omertà,” Mooney shouted. “Never forget that word. Never beef on anybody. You got that? Never.”

  Mooney picked up the roller skates, then stormed down the sidewalk until reaching a garbage can. Taking off the lid, he turned to Chuck, still cowering on the stairs. Mooney smiled and, with dramatic pomp, held the shiny skates above the gaping can. Dropping them, he slammed the lid down. The sound of metal against metal still clattered when he put his hands in his pockets and sauntered away.

  Chuck stared blankly at the can. His beautiful skates were gone just as quickly as he’d gotten them. He stayed on the steps for a while and cried. When he finally decided to stop, he sat whimpering and nursing his wounds and hating his brother. He’d remember what Mooney said, all right. He’d never beef on anybody again if it killed him. And besides, maybe it was time he’d learned his lesson: The consequences of telling the truth were just too great. He repeated the word omertà as he limped up the stairs.

  In the following days, the first autumn frost blanketed the neighborhood, bringing with it new wares for the peddlers to display. Acorn squash and zucchini and pumpkins gleamed like brightly colored fallen leaves from the backs of wagons drawn by tired swaybacked horses. Emptied of their summer fare, each wobbly wooden crate and stand was now filled with the season’s harvest, serving as a reminder of the approaching winter and the crisis it would bring; unlike in the Old Country, winter here sent bitter cold into the drafty, squalid flats and, with it, killers like tuberculosis and pneumonia.

  This time of year, when Antonio could find him, Chuck carted the heaps of coal his father sold. It was a job he hated—which explained why he took his time getting home from school one crisp fall day just a little more than a month after the bombing of the lemon ice store.

  Sitting on his favorite curb, Chuck threw the little stones he’d gathered on his wanderings, then picked them up and threw them again. He pretended they were dice. He could play like this for hours on end, which was exactly what he’d been doing when a man walked up beside him. Chuck paid no attention to the stranger standing there, leaning against the lamppost.

  The man started to whistle. Finally, he stopped, bending down to smile as he waved one hand toward the little stones and said, “Hey, kid. Can anybody play?”

  Chuck looked up. The man was tall, an Italian. He hadn’t seen him around before, which was odd. But he smiled back anyway. To people in the Patch, anyone who wasn’t a mick, Polack, or a shine—in short, anyone Italian—was paisan,

  “Uh-uh,” Chuck said, shaking his head. “This is a one-man game . . . but . . . you can watch if you want.”

  “That’s fair,” the man replied, and continued whistling.

  Chuck had just gotten up to retrieve his stones, rubbing his dusty hands on his ragged knickers, when out of the corner of his eye he spotted his brother. He was walking quickly toward them, and before Chuck could call out a “hello,” Mooney stepped up to the stranger.

  There was a loud pop and the man fell to the ground; blood gushed from his head like water from an open fire hydrant. It pulsed rhythmically—Chuck thought he could hear a slight whoosh, whoosh, whoosh as it spurted through a mangled hole of o
ozing brains and bone, bursting in torrents onto the pavement. And then, as quickly as he’d appeared, Mooney was gone.

  Transfixed, Chuck stared down at the dead man; he couldn’t make out a face.

  Barbershop customers, lathered with heaps of shaving cream, ran out across the street and women tending children in buggies began yelling back and forth between second-story windows and stoops. Vendors threw down their wares, leaving vegetables to tumble down the sidewalk as they rushed to see what the commotion was about. The inevitable sirens of police cars rang in the distance as they made their way through the Patch.

  Still Chuck stood there, mesmerized by the blood from the whistling man. It steamed in the cool autumn air. He didn’t know there was so much blood in a person. It smelled like the warm iron in a blacksmith’s shop and ran in sticky puddles around his feet.

  Dozens of people milled around the body, pushing and shoving. Shaking their heads in disgust, the men shielded their women’s eyes.

  When the police arrived, one began questioning those standing closest to the dead man. He was a red-faced Irish copper with a notepad in one hand and a pencil behind his ear. Puffing out his barrel chest, he strutted over and squatted down to meet Chuck face-to-face.

  “Let’s make some room here,” another officer shouted, forcing the crowd back with his nightstick.

  “So what did you see, son? Did you see the person who did this terrible thing? Did you?” He grasped Chuck by his shoulders. His eyes were bullet blue and they made Chuck want to turn way, afraid they might puncture any words he might offer. In the crowd beyond, he caught sight of Mooney, standing as though invisible, enveloped within the onlookers. Mooney lifted one eyebrow and stared vacantly into his eyes.

  Chuck looked back at the officer. “No, sir,” his small voice trembled in reply.