Double Cross

by Sam Giancana

  “Well . . .” The copper scowled. “What were you doing, then, if you didn’t see anything? You were right here?”

  “Playing.”

  “Playing? Playing what?” He put one hand on the base of his nightstick with threatening authority.

  “With these.” Chuck opened his hand to display his treasured stones.

  “With some rocks?” the officer exclaimed, standing up.

  “And you didn’t see a thing? Not a thing? Well, then, go home to your mama . . . you, you little greaseball.” Angrily, he slapped Chuck’s open hand and the stones flew out, scattering in all directions. Chuck turned and ran.

  That night, sitting on the stoop after a meager bowl of ceci beans, he listened intently while the older boys discussed the day’s murder. Everyone figured Mooney and his friends had been behind it all; the man who’d been killed was a member of the same gang believed responsible for the bombing of Antonio’s lemon ice store. All agreed things would be back to normal in the Patch—now that justice had been dispensed.

  If only they knew, really knew that it was Mooney, Chuck thought to himself. He wished he could tell them, could share his deadly secret. As much as he wanted to tell his gruesome story, to see their faces blanch with the truth and his own stature rise in the telling, he said nothing. He chose to sit in silence, recalling Mooney in the crowd, the vivid image of his brother’s victim lying in a pool of blood.

  Certainly, losing his stones was a small price to pay. And lying to a mick copper to save his brother—why, he felt sure his own father would have done the same. Tomorrow, he’d hunt in the vacant lots for more stones.

  “Omertà,” he whispered softly to himself. Yes, he was sure he’d done the right thing. He’d learned the lesson well; the roller skates had taught him that. “Never beef on anybody,” Mooney had said. “Omertà.” Chuck said the word over and over again. He was proud to have done the right thing. The only thing. And he would do anything to make his brother proud. He’d earn Mooney’s confidence and respect if it took him the rest of his life.

  Mooney never mentioned the incident—nor did Chuck. Chuck referred to that afternoon in 1928 as “the day I lost my stones.” Only years later would he use the word innocence.

  CHAPTER 4

  If Chuck had indeed gained Mooney’s respect by keeping quiet about the whistling man, there was no sign of it. He even wondered whether the beatings had intensified. For days after one of Mooney’s unwarranted tirades, his small back and legs sported reminders of his older brother’s authority: the tender pink stripes left by a razor-sharp leather belt, the blue-black bruises that mottled his arms.

  Strangely, whenever he investigated a mark left by one of Mooney’s more recent admonitions, Chuck felt guilty—for letting his big brother down. And thankful—because Mooney cared.

  Mooney said he wanted Pepe and Chuck to grow up right, “to show respect.” That he didn’t want them to turn out to be just common dago greaseballs. His sisters, he believed, required even more supervision; they would never grow up to be cheap painted tramps under his close scrutiny, and he forbade them to associate with what he called “whores and trollops wearin’ flea-bitten furs with ugly animal heads danglin’ around their necks.”

  He made it clear the children needed the strictest discipline. And if Mooney was inclined to provide it, no one in the family—including Antonio—was inclined to interfere. Indeed, following the recent slaying, attributed by most as retribution for the bombing of his lemon ice store, Antonio seemed to have settled back into meek submission in Mooney’s presence.

  Mooney ignored his stepmother’s children for the most part. He felt no allegiance, no concern for their welfare. The three boys—Vito, Chuckie, and Joey—could have been invisible for all they mattered to Mooney. He barely looked at them or spoke to them; they didn’t exist unless they got in his way. Of Catherine’s four girls, only Gracie remained in the house; the other three had married.

  Mooney’s tactics were effective; the children avoided making waves. They tiptoed through the house. “Where’s Mooney?” they’d whisper, and look over their shoulders when engaged in any activity, no matter how insignificant.

  But what made it most difficult for Chuck, who wrestled continually with conflicting feelings of anger and love, guilt and resentment—and anyone else who dealt with the strong-willed Mooney—was that just as quickly as his hand could be raised in anger, it could also hold a gift or some small treasure. And both always came as a surprise, without provocation, depending on his mood at the time.

  Everyone had long since given up trying to predict young Mooney Giancana’s irrational state of mind—which was where they knew his nickname had come from in the first place. They just anticipated the worst and said a few Hail Marys.

  Mooney walked through the door of the two-story flat one winter evening after Christmas in 1928 with a box under one arm and a big smile on his face. Members of the Giancana family had to assume he was happy. And when he was, they were.

  Grinning with uncharacteristic excitement, he handed his camel hair topcoat and fedora to his youngest sister, Vicki, and immediately motioned for Chuck to sit by him on the sofa. He placed the box between them.

  “Well, open it up, Chuck. It’s for you.”

  “Me? Really, Mooney?”

  “Yeah, really. Come on . . . open it.”

  Chuck picked up the box. It was heavy. He held his breath; he hoped it was the chemistry set he’d seen in the window of the department store.

  “Come on, I don’t have all night. Your sisters are setting the table . . . and I’m hungry.” Mooney laughed and took a wrinkled Camel from the pack in his shirt and lighted it.

  Chuck lifted the lid. At first, he wasn’t sure what the long black thing with little silver buttons could possibly be, but before he could examine it, Mooney grabbed it up and lifted one end to his lips.

  “It’s a clarinet, Chuck,” he explained. “And you’re going to learn to play it, real nice. Hey, everybody, Chuck is going to take music lessons . . . be a musician. Maybe play in a big band someday just like Benny Goodman.”

  The entire family gathered around the sofa, the girls oohing and aahing at the clarinet while the boys tried to conceal snickers of delight at Chuck’s misery.

  Chuck could hardly hide his disappointment and it made him wish for the chemistry set even more. Play an instrument? Take music lessons? He wanted to grow up to be a member of Mooney’s gang—not a musician. He didn’t think a member of the 42 would ever in a million years play a stupid clarinet; that was for girls and sissy entertainers. No, he wanted to have a 70 Chrysler and learn to drive it like Mooney did when he wheeled for Jack McGurn. He managed a halfhearted smile. “It’s real nice, Mooney. Thanks.”

  “Is that all you’re gonna say? Huh? After your big brother robs the bank to buy you a clarinet so you can have a trade . . . so you can grow up and be somebody?” He stood up and put his hands on his narrow hips, waiting for an answer. “Well . . . ?”

  For a moment, Chuck wondered whether Mooney really had robbed a bank; after all, the money for the clarinet had to have come from somewhere. He thought of his sister Antoinette, who had been suffering with a toothache all week. Tearfully, she’d begged for money to see a dentist; Antonio had refused. He glanced up at Antoinette, her jaw still swollen, and wondered just how much the clarinet had cost and where the money had come from. But he couldn’t disappoint Mooney.

  “It’s real nice. I like it . . . a lot. Really, I do,” he said, trying to sound convincing. But his voice sounded pleading, like it did when Mooney started to use the strap and he begged him to stop. Chuck was no different from the people of the neighborhood or the rest of his family; he’d learned to say or do anything to appease Mooney, to avoid his brother’s wrath at any cost. He put on his most convincing smile.

  It must have worked because, after scrutinizing Chuck’s face with the same thoroughness he might give the blueprint of a bank, Mooney seemed satisfied. “Good,
” he said. “It’s settled. You start your lessons tomorrow after school, over at Mr. Cuchardi’s.”

  “Okay, Mooney.” Chuck glanced down at the hated instrument and then added, “Thanks.”

  Josie called to tell them dinner was ready; but she didn’t have to: The heavy scent of garlic and oregano mingled with freshly baked bread made Chuck’s mouth water.

  There were no Roman Catholic words of grace spoken over meals at the Giancana household. No tablecloth or napkins, and few utensils. What dishes they had were a mismatched display of multicolored broken crockery. The table was filled with platters of pasta, barely enough to feed thirteen people. A mêlée of twisted hands and arms reached in all directions, grabbing for every morsel of food.

  Between the forkfuls of pasta Chuck feverishly crammed in his mouth, he asked above the clamor, “Hey, Mooney . . . can me and Pepe go with you in your car tonight?”

  Josie reached over to wipe his chin with the edge of her apron. “Leave Mooney alone, Chuck,” she said. “Let him eat in peace.”

  His sisters glared at him now, disapproval shining in their eyes like coals in the wood stove. Chuck cast a sidelong glance at his stepmother; her reaction didn’t matter, anyway. She wasn’t their mother—and never would be, as far as he was concerned. After Chuck’s mother had been killed, Antonio had paid Catherine a visit; soon after, they had married. Chuck knew it was a marriage of convenience, no more no less. And what had been a difficult, scrape-by existence to begin with got tougher. Catherine made a point of letting everyone know how little she cared for the Giancana brood.

  Lifting his glass, Antonio shook his head at Chuck and mumbled his displeasure in Italian. He gulped at the wine and then set it down, wiping the red liquid from his mouth with the back of his hand. From under a canopy of bushy salt and pepper eyebrows, he shot a hard look at Mooney; he didn’t want his other boys out on the streets.

  Nor did Mooney. He often viewed them as his own children, his sole responsibility. Antonio, the naïve immigrant, had not the slightest idea what could happen to the boys out there on the streets.

  But Mooney did. He’d seen punk kids as young as Chuck working for the gangs; they ended up dead by the time they were sixteen. That would never happen as long as he was around—he’d promised himself that when Chuck’s mother died. No, he’d told Chuck over and over that he had other, more noble aspirations for him; he would have a trade and leave the poverty of the Patch behind forever. No matter that the example he set was one much different, if not in utter conflict.

  “Don’t you have something else to do? I think we’ll have to go out another time,” Mooney said, tearing a piece of hard-crusted bread from the loaf on the table. He scraped it back and forth, sopping up the red gravy until the cracked china shone. “Dinner’s real good, Josie,” he complimented. Then, twinkle in his eye, he added quietly, “But I can make better.”

  “Oh you can, can you?” Josie laughed, making the spindly-legged chair creak and sway beneath her. She was an excellent cook and had every reason to doubt his abilities. She looked at her other sisters and said, “Well, sometime you’ll just have to show us.”

  “I will,” he said, putting his fork and spoon down. “In fact, I’ll make dinner for all of you next week . . . on Thursday.”

  The girls stared in disbelief. But Mooney was a man of his word and if he said he’d cook them a dinner, he would. They’d enjoyed his meat-filled red gravies on special occasions over the years, but he’d never prepared a full dinner.

  Mooney the cook. It seemed a contradiction, but he was full of those. He was a macho, swaggering smarthead who worked over a stove as readily as any woman. He was a man who, since he was just a boy, had learned to kill at another’s bidding. And although one didn’t talk of such things, it was common knowledge among girls of the Patch that Mooney was a man who—since he could first get it up—got it off banging fast mick and Polack girls in the backseat of a car. The same man who swore he would only marry an Italian virgin.

  He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. Dragging deeply, he smiled, making his thin lips curl around it in a crooked, half-cocked grin. He unbuttoned his shirt collar and loosened his wide silk tie and said in his most flattering tone, “Josie, you’re the best ironer in the neighborhood.” He fingered the heavily starched collar and added, “Matter of fact, I brought some shirts over for you to iron.” He waved to a pile of laundry containing several dozen shirts.

  He was feeling the warmth of the wine and seemed approachable, more talkative than usual, almost friendly. “I’ll need them tomorrow,” he said as an afterthought, and, fishing into his trouser pocket, brought out a wad of bills.

  “See, Pa? Your son is doin pretty well for himself. Don’t you think?” He fanned hundred-dollar bills like a hand of cards.

  His four sisters nudged each other under the table. They hadn’t seen so much money in one place. Chuck saw Antoinette put her hand to her swollen jaw; he wondered whether Mooney knew about her toothache.

  Antonio grunted and said in Italian, “Well, if I ever open my store again and my ice sells well, your father will have more money than that someday.”

  Chuck rolled his eyes at his brother Pepe. Their father always had a scheme. And it never worked out. Although he had to admit this time it might; the whole neighborhood seemed to mourn the demise of his father’s lemon ice store. Maybe, he thought—maybe this time Pa is right and we will be rich.

  Mooney flipped through the bills with his thumb and then, easing them back into his pants pocket, stood up. With a glass of wine in one hand, he walked across the room. The twenty-year-old had a way of commanding attention; there was a self-assurance in his stride that surpassed his years—and it let you know he was a man to be reckoned with. Around the Patch, people said that Diamond Joe himself had once remarked admiringly to Capone, “Mooney has the biggest coglioni [balls] I’ve ever goddamned seen. . . . He’d kill his own fuckin’ father if he got in his way.” Ironic, given Esposito’s demise.

  Even here at home, as he sunk down into the comfort of Antonio’s velvet easy chair, he never let up; he was in total and absolute control.

  He fondled the chair’s fabric as if it were a woman’s breast, admiring its sensuous luster. He appreciated the finer things and, thanks to his extraordinary skill as a burglar, the Giancana household was graced with exquisite Venetian tapestries on the walls, marble-topped mahogany tables, and the neighborhood’s first refrigerator—trappings of wealth that, in spite of his efforts, did little to hide their poverty. And nothing to alleviate it.

  “Pa, come here,” he commanded. “I need to speak to you . . . in private.”

  Chuck was envious of the way Mooney managed their father. In spite of everything—the calls from the police station, the bail money that kept them poor, the fear and intimidation—it looked to all the world as if the old man clearly worshiped his eldest son.

  But for Antonio, it was just a matter of acknowledging the obvious. Though Mooney might be on the wrong side of the law, no one could deny he was doing well for himself. And that made him feel a certain pride. In a time when everyone else groveled for nickels, his son drove a fast car, swaggered around in well-tailored, expensive suits, and carried bankrolls that might contain as much as five hundred dollars—no matter he never shared the wealth with him. After all, he was just a small-time vendor who wore clothes decorated with a quiltwork of neatly executed patches. Antonio’s entire life savings were less than one hundred dollars. What little luxury he had, he was convinced he had because of Mooney.

  Not yet finished eating his pasta, Antonio sighed wistfully and pushed his plate away to rise from the table. If Momo wanted his undivided attention, the pasta would have to wait.

  Hours later and sound asleep, Chuck, Pepe, and their cousins were awakened by Mooney, standing in the middle of the room. His glazed eyes darted wildly back and forth.

  “Get up, you thieving little bastards,” he shrieked, ripping the covers off the bed.
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  “What’s the matter, Mooney? What is it? We didn’t do nothing. Honest,” Chuck begged. He was afraid of him when he was like this; there was no telling what he might do to them. The boys all began to wail.

  “All right, you goddamned ungrateful little punks, who did it? Who took my fuckin’ money?” Mooney swung at Chuck, who was nearest, knocking him from the bed with his fist.

  “I’ll teach you a thing or two about stealin’. . . All of you get out of bed . . . now,” he said, yanking Chuck up by the hair with a force that lifted him off the floor. He slapped Chuck square across the face before he could raise his hands to shield himself. Chuck let out a long, shrill cry.

  Mooney turned on Pepe next, releasing his grip on Chuck’s black curls, which twisted like knotted yarn around his fingers. The small boy crashed to the floor.

  “So . . . who did it?” Mooney bellowed. “You?” he screamed at Pepe. “You? You?” He spun around, accusing each boy in turn. The room grew eerily still. Chuckie, Vito, and Joey stood along the wall, shaking their heads fearfully, not taking their eyes off Chuck as he writhed on the floor.

  “Fine. None of you have the balls to admit it,” he sneered, and took off his belt. “I’ll give you one last chance.” He waved the belt like a whip above his head. Still on the floor, Chuck began to cry again more loudly. Mooney reeled on his heels, towering above him.

  “No, Mooney, no,” Chuck pleaded. “I wouldn’t take your money. I wouldn’t ever do that. I promise. Honest, I do. Please don’t, Mooney. Please . . . .”

  The belt sliced through the air with a cutting hiss. It came down again and again. Chuck’s body began to shudder involuntarily. The air seemed thick and full of blood. He could taste it when the belt sliced through his lip. His rib cage heaved and he thought he might vomit; the salt of the blood and bile in his mouth made him gag.

  Like a machine, Mooney moved around the room, dispensing his punishment methodically and with precision, until each boy felt the full force of his rage and understood the terror it could bring.