Double Cross

by Sam Giancana

  Breathing heavily, he let the belt drop to the floor and said, “So no one’s talkin’. Fine, then take off your clothes . . . all of you.”

  The boys stood immobilized.

  “Now. I said . . . now.” He repeated the command, smiling cruelly.

  Chuck’s hands shook so hard, he could barely pull his nightshirt over his head. He couldn’t imagine what Mooney was planning to do to them and he wished, desperately, that whoever took the money would come forward. The unfairness of it all stung worse than any slashing belt or strap. He hated Mooney. Hated him more than he’d ever hated anyone or anything.

  Mooney leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. “Now we’re gonna play a little game. I’m gonna take each one of you . . . one by one . . . into the bathroom. Then we’ll see if you decide to tell the truth.”

  As promised, each boy was dragged—alone—into the bathroom. There, Mooney threw his young victim in the tub and, wielding a broken broom handle, pummeled him under a torrent of icy water. “Never fuckin’ steal from me,” he screamed with each blow. Again and again, the wooden club came down, until the water ran red and screams could be heard up and down the darkened hallway. Antonio and the other family members heard them but did nothing, staying in bed, as much out of fear as resignation.

  Not one of the boys admitted to stealing his money. And when Mooney grew too tired to beat them anymore, he kicked them—shivering and crying and dripping wet with water and Mood—with his stylishly sharp pointed-toe shoes all the way back into bed.

  No one ever came forward to confess the theft, but Chuck overheard Antoinette tell their father that Cousin Vito had taken the money and given it to Catherine. Whether the story was true or not, Chuck never knew, but he did notice when his stepmother slipped on a new coat and hat. His father said nothing—to his wife or to his eldest son.

  The following week, as the family sat around the table toasting Mooney’s culinary talents, it was as if the incident had never occurred. His brother must have forgotten, Chuck thought to himself, gingerly stroking the bruises hidden beneath his shirt. But how could he forget something like that? Something so horrible? It didn’t make much sense. But then, a lot of things Mooney did didn’t make sense. Like the times he’d spot Chuck walking home from the YMCA over on Monroe and Ashland. He’d pull up in his car, Fat Leonard Caifano at his side, and open the door. “Come on,” he’d say with a smile. “Get in.”

  They’d spin off down the street toward Hymie’s Men’s Store and Chuck would be trotted in for a new suit of clothes. Mooney would examine him with pride, spinning him around in front of the gilded full-length mirror. “Looks pretty sharp, don’t you think?” he’d ask Fat Leonard. Each time, Fat Leonard would agree and they’d shuffle him back into the car for a trip to a soda shop.

  The next day, Chuck would strut off to school, flaunting his new shirt and pants or sweater. And the other boys would admire them with unconcealed envy. “Wish I had a brother like yours,” they’d say longingly as they tugged at pants too short and gazed down at shoes too tight.

  So how could he not love Mooney? Chuck thought, looking across the table at his big brother carving the roast like some ritzy chef. It was the first meat they’d had in weeks. Mooney loved him and his brothers and sisters and showed it. So what if sometimes things got out of hand?

  Chuck reprimanded himself for being so mad at his brother. He’d try harder to be good; that’s what was wrong: He’d brought his brother’s anger on himself. He’d tow the line and make him proud from now on.

  As 1928 came to a close, Mooney’s adventures—many unaffiliated with Capone’s gang—grew bolder and more numerous. He was in and out of jail more times than his father could count, charged with everything from gang rape and burglary to suspicion of murder.

  As in the Girard case, witnesses against Mooney always developed “amnesia” and disappeared, to be found later, living in another state—or dead. When the charges were more trivial in nature, such as theft or petty extortion, the arresting officer and station captain simply received a monetary gift in exchange for letting him off the hook.

  Without Esposito’s financial backing, the task of coming up with money for bonds and bribes fell to Antonio. His son might be affiliated with Capone, but so were many other punks from the Patch—that status didn’t entitle hotheaded soldiers like Mooney to gain financial assistance every time they had a personal scrape with the law.

  The cost of keeping his son out of jail continued to escalate; what little money Antonio’s fruit and vegetable business earned was quickly spent down at the station house, stretching the old peddler to the breaking point. If need be, he would borrow the money, forcing the entire family to go without meat or bread or some other necessity of life for weeks on end. Yet, despite this hardship, Antonio never asked Mooney for a dime.

  Stolen goods—ranging from plump turkeys at Christmas to the latest women’s fashions—continued to be carted into the Giancana household in January of 1929. Mooney used them to control his father and the children, providing their survival, making them dependent on his crimes for signs of affection—and fearful of the consequences of his rejection. Deep down, they’d all come to believe that without him, they’d be lost. Antonio’s righteous indignation from the previous year’s lemon ice store bombing dwindled to nothing but a memory.

  Mooney’s nightly car chases, gunfights, and robberies—as wheelman for Capone’s Jack McGurn—made good telling among the boys who hung out on Taylor Street on cold winter afternoons. It was no surprise to them that, when the murders of February 14, 1929, made headlines, Mooney and his friend Needles were picked up by the coppers for questioning. As a known driver for the Capone gang and one closely tied to McGurn—the suspected mastermind of the murders—Mooney was one of the first taken down to the station house. But he wasn’t there long.

  Back home and none the worse for his interrogation, Mooney lounged victoriously in the comfort of the velvet easy chair, perusing the paper with obvious pleasure. The gruesome photos of what Chicago was calling the worst gangland slaying in history—the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre—were splashed across the front page.

  He looked up and winked devilishly at Chuck, still seated at the dinner table with the rest of the family. Grinning, he tapped the paper with the back of his hand and called over, “Hey, Pa, Capone and McGurn must have had one hell of a gang to pull this off.” Antonio didn’t reply but simply shook his head and poured another glass of wine.

  Mooney’s behavior would have been inappropriate for a more mature gangster, but there was a novelty to what he was doing that hadn’t yet worn off. And besides, he had good reason to gloat. It had been a job well done and one that would earn the respect of those men he needed to reach if he was ever to rise in power. Like McGurn said, “A good wheelman is hard to find, but a good wheelman with the smarts and guts to kill without question is a gold mine.”

  The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre put everything neatly in place for Capone and fixed his position as undisputed boss of Chicago. Under McGurn’s direction, Mooney and Needles had donned officers’ uniforms and joined Fred Burke, who acted as wheelman, along with the duo of Alberto Anselmi and John Scalise.

  But, as high as he’d been in February, by the time March rolled around, Mooney was facing another rap. This time, it quickly became apparent the neighborhood would be losing its most feared protector and that, likewise, the Capone gang would be losing what people said was the best wheelman—and hit man—they’d ever had.

  The fact was, Mooney had run into the law once too often and this was one case, given its publicity, he couldn’t fix. For a rather inglorious burglary, Sam “Mooney” Giancana was sentenced to three to five years at the Joliet state pen.

  The Giancana family wouldn’t have to put up with the oldest son’s snarling domination, seesaw emotions, and frequent scrapes with the law much longer. Nor would they be receiving the counter-balancing perks.

  Just days before Mooney was to sur
render to the authorities for his stay in Joliet, Chuck tiptoed to Antonio’s bedroom and cautiously peeked in. Mooney was alone and had his back turned to the door; he was looking out the window. The first streetlight flickered in the encroaching nightfall—its light reflected on the room’s flaking plaster walls, dappling the cracks and fissures in a finger paint of shadows.

  Sighing, Mooney pulled a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and drew one cigarette out, tapping it on the window casing. He fumbled in his pocket for a match and struck it on the peeling sill. It flamed in the darkness. Catching sight of Chuck’s silhouette in the doorway, he blew out the match.

  “What do you want?” he asked in a tone that sounded more tired than gruff.

  Chuck shrugged his shoulders and stuck his hands deep into his pockets. Looking down at the floor, he replied, “Nothin’ . . . I dunno.”

  “Nothin’? Sounds pretty damned strange to me.” Chuck saw a slight smile play across Mooney’s face as he continued. “So what do you want?” He took another drag off his cigarette and leaned against the wall, waiting for a response.

  Chuck came closer, hoping to assess Mooney’s demeanor. In the darkness, he could make out the chiseled profile: the large nose shadowing thin lips. He searched for signs of annoyance, but his brother’s features seemed unusually softened and he felt it safe to continue. “Mooney, what are we gonna do without you? Do you have to go? Do ya?”

  As Chuck spoke, Mooney stared at the floor. After a few moments, he looked up, though his head didn’t move. His dark eyes solemnly examined him. Chuck felt his chin tremble.

  “Hey, there’s nothing to cry about . . . it’ll all be fine. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “When?”

  “Well . . . soon. Real soon. I don’t plan on stayin’ away any fuckin’ longer than I have to. Believe me, Joliet’s no Garden of Eden.” He turned to face the window once more.

  “But Mooney . . .”

  “Yeah,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Mooney, how’s the neighborhood gonna be with you gone?”

  .“Shit, Chuck. Everything’s gonna be fine.” He sat down on the side of the bed. “Come here. And listen to me.”

  Chuck sat down next to him.

  “Okay. Just remember somethin’ about your big brother. . . . I can take care of anything that gets in the way. Anything that gets in your way . . . or Pa’s way. Anything. You understand?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know why that is, Chuck? Do you?”

  Chuck shook his head.

  “It’s real simple. People listen to you when you’re a man to respect . . . a man of honor. Anybody that crosses Mooney Giancana is gonna fuckin’ pay . . . and pay good. The people around here know that. They know my reputation. Don’t ever forget that I’m the ‘justice of the peace.’ That means I know how to make things go smooth, real nice and peaceful, like they should. I know how to keep the peace, Chuck. You understand? And I know what to do when somebody steps outta line . . . and I don’t mess around. . . . I do it. It’s called justice, Chuck. And it takes guts. You gotta know how to handle people to get along in this world.”

  He cupped Chuck’s face in one hand and lifted his chin, pulling him close, lowering his voice as if he knew some momentous secret that he was about to share. “Listen. Listen real good. If people do what I want, we’ll take care of them. If they don’t, well, we’ll take care of that, too. You don’t ever have to worry about that. It doesn’t matter if I’m in jail or not. . . . I’ll know what’s goin on . . . here at home and in the neighborhood. It doesn’t matter where I am. I can make things happen. People respect that, Chuck. And they’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy when they respect you. They know, without any question, they know beyond a shadow of a doubt . . . that I mean business.”

  His hand fell from Chuck’s face and he began tearing at the pack of Camels to retrieve a lone cigarette. When he lighted it, the light made his face look sad. He turned away and said huskily, “Now go on and get the hell outta here.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Winter in Chicago was always bitter cold. Maybe it was the wind, or maybe back then—during the Depression—things just seemed colder. In any case, for the Giancana family, the winter of 1932 was no exception. A metal gray sky pressed down on the Patch that year like a foundry worker’s hand, holding the smog and fumes that regurgitated from the smelters and Model As down on the redbrick tenements. The barnyard scents of fresh hay and horse manure, steaming in the icy ruts along Taylor Street, combined with freshly roasted chestnuts to create an earthy, sweet aroma.

  In spite of their increasingly desperate poverty, people of the neighborhood maintained their joviality; perhaps the Neapolitans better than the Sicilians, but both understood hardship and both recognized the effectiveness of simply enduring.

  They were a social people who could scarcely stand to be isolated inside during the winter months, so they gathered on the street corners and stoops—rebelling against the cold by bundling themselves and their children in a rainbow of ragtag coats and capes. Occasionally a good joke led to a round of laughter that pierced the street’s harangue of honking horns, trolley cars, and yelling vendors like a welcome footstep on dry, crunchy snow.

  But it was bleak without end. The only relief from the oppressive skies came when it rained freezing-cold drops as big as Christmas pears. They formed great puddles and then froze, evoking cautious, icy perils for the older folk who crept along the sidewalks balancing sausages and cheese. Chuck and the other children, however, loved the slippery stuff, merrily pushing and pulling one another in orange crates across its glassy veneer.

  Indoors, the men drank a bit more wine than usual and the women spent more time darning old socks and mending tattered clothes. Some fell in love.

  Angeline DeTolve had fallen in love herself. A sturdy, broad-shouldered girl from a family better-off than most, she had a ready smile, classical profile, and wide-set eyes and hips. Considered both pretty and well-bred, she fit precisely Mooney Giancana’s idea of the kind of woman a man should marry. Although she’d been somewhat attracted to Mooney before he was sent off to Joliet, much to her father’s relief and satisfaction she hadn’t fallen in love with him.

  “You see,” Francescantonio DeTolve had declared, “I told you Mooney Giancana’s nothing but a lowdown, no-good bum. No convict will ever have my daughter’s hand. . . . I’d sooner die. Mama mia, the disgrace such a thing would bring!”

  Happily for her father, Angeline had instead fallen for a guy named Salvatore, “Solly.” Nobody knew too much about him—except Mooney and those engaged in activities of Chicago’s underworld. He knew all about the punk: Solly was a truck driver by day and jewel thief by night. He fenced his wares through some of the Syndicate’s soldiers over on the north side. From his prison cell, Mooney kept abreast of Solly’s comings and goings as well as the blossoming love affair.

  Before Mooney was released on Christmas Eve of 1932, news of Angeline’s engagement reached him and his heart went as cold as the bars outside his window. He recalled how Diamond Joe had managed to get his bride; Esposito simply had a couple of guys knock off her fiancé so the old padrone could have her for himself. And sure enough, not long after Diamond Joe’s men took the guy for a ride out to the railroad tracks, Esposito married the fifteen-year-old girl.

  Mooney made up his mind that the lovers would never be joined. No matter what the cost, no matter that he had another girl waiting for him back in the Patch—Angeline DeTolve would be his.

  On New Year’s Eve, only those brave enough to drive inched nervously down Chicago’s roadways. Blasts of wind whistled around the corners, freezing the tattered shop awnings along Maxwell Street into stiffened submission. Cars creaked slowly through the streets like old arthritic men—their fenders prematurely grayed by soot and salt and cinders. Earlier, the roads had been wet and mushy, but now they were frozen into nasty chuckholes of ice and were glazed and treacherous. Occasionally, one o
f the more fainthearted hit his brakes, sending the car reeling against the embankments like a punch-drunk fighter.

  In the twilight, a solitary black Ford came up on Solly’s rear. It honked aggressively and, startled, Solly jumped. “Stupido!” he yelled out the window, shaking his fist in the air.

  The headlights behind him flashed off and on. In response, he swerved to the right and his car went slightly out of control, fishtailing to the left and right and back again. Like a shadow, the other vehicle mimicked his motions with amazing control and then moved up, pulling alongside.

  Solly strained to see the other driver, but suddenly realizing the road took a curve, he slammed on the brakes. His car began a frenzied skate across the icy pavement and in seconds it was over. The Ford slowed to confirm he was dying within the wreckage and then quietly evaporated into the night.

  Mooney waited until March of 1933, which he considered a reasonable period of time, before going by the DeTolves’ to pay his respects. There, he found a woman grieving for herself as much as for her dead lover, a woman mourning the loss of her future and her dreams. Clearly, she was devastated.

  Chuck’s sisters, like other girls in the Patch, heard the local wags talk of how poor Angeline DeTolve sat alone for hours in her room, staring at Solly’s picture. She refused to see anyone and cried until her parents didn’t think there could be any tears left. But then, at the mention or thought of some forgotten memory, she would find still more pain buried in yet another hidden reservoir. Her grief didn’t abandon her; when Mooney visited that spring, the emptiness was as fresh as the winter’s recent graves.

  At twenty-three and unmarried in 1933, a woman was considered on her way to spinsterhood. For Angeline, there seemed little hope for happiness; her life had been shattered by what everyone, including the police, called a “senseless accident.” There was nothing left. This, Mooney set out to change. She was desperate. And he used that desperation to his advantage.