Double Cross

by Sam Giancana

  To oversee California, Ricca sent one of Mooney’s friends, the handsome, smooth-talking Johnny Roselli. Suave young Roselli took to Hollywood like a rising star, negotiating—“quicker than you could hum a few bars of ‘Anything Goes,’ ” as Mooney would later recall—millions in extortion dollars from the major studios. In no time at all, stars whom Mooney described to Chuck as “gang-sponsored”—among them the Marx Brothers, George Raft, Jimmy Durante, Marie McDonald, Clark Gable, Gary Cooper, Jean Harlow, Cary Grant, and Wendy Barrie—were awarded extravagant contracts, as well.

  With no federal, state, or local laws regulating union funds and their activities, Chicago had found the key to Fort Knox. By 1936, all major unions in the city had fallen under the Syndicate’s domination and those that were occasionally rebellious soon got back in line.

  A net had been cast upon the waters of gangland discord, creating an interwoven web of men who recognized that unity brought huge financial advantage. “With unions we caught the big fish,” Humphreys would reminisce years later with Mooney, “all we had to do was reel it in.”

  To oversee the Syndicate’s burgeoning enterprises, trusted “lieutenants” such as Louis Campagna, Tony Accardo, Charlie “Cherry Nose” Gioe, the Fischetti and Fusco brothers, Johnny Roselli, Frank Nitti, and Sam Hunt were given specific, agreed-upon territories. From within these protected areas, the lieutenants reigned over dozens of workers or “soldiers”—guys with more guts than brains—who handled the day-to-day hustling on the streets.

  “Enforcers” like Mooney Giancana often acted as drivers and bodyguards for a “general” and his advisers or a high-ranking lieutenant. As hired killers, enforcers were considered a special breed; they had no territory and could be called on by any member of the hierarchy, with permission of the general, to ply their trade.

  Roles were fluid and ever-changing; a man could rise among the ranks of the Syndicate through the death of a superior or by distinguishing himself as smarter, tougher, and more ruthless than his counterparts.

  Monies from the unions, as well as from all other illicit activities, were pooled and distributed—the general receiving the largest cut.

  Having made a successful push for power in 1937, it was no secret in Chicago’s underworld that Paul Ricca had nearly every local, county, and state politician eating out of his hand. His loyal followers, Mooney among them, maintained that he was also a welcome guest at the White House, granting and requesting favors with equal aplomb on the national level. In the space of two decades, Chicago’s Syndicate, a dragon with many heads, had reached maturity.

  Mooney made it known he liked the way Ricca and Humphreys took care of the unions; he’d liked Humphreys since the first time he’d pulled a job for him. He told Chuck he could tell back then that Humphreys was smarter than the rest of the morons who sneaked up and down the alleys, smarter than Nitti or Capone, for that matter. Humphreys had graduated from high school, whereas most of them had barely scraped through sixth grade. And, although Mooney hadn’t done any better, he firmly believed they had this intelligence in common.

  Mooney was well known for his uncanny knack at calculating and memorizing numbers. In his twenties, having a way with figures hadn’t scored many points; all that counted then was his skill as an executioner and wheelman. But since he’d gotten out of Joliet, his mathematical ability had come in handy and was beginning to set him apart from the other hoodlums.

  He’d even developed a habit of showing off his gift for numbers after a few drinks, telling Chuck it “puts other guys in their fuckin’ place. Nobody’ll ever short me and live to tell about it.”

  The threat wasn’t lost on the thickheaded men he’d organized under his rule. Mooney had over fifty flunkies marching routinely back and forth between the shop owners in the Patch by 1937, picking up protection money. He said if he didn’t keep a tight rein on them, they might give more than a passing thought to skimming a little extra off the take for themselves. Mooney’s men weren’t stupid and they took him at his word—making sure their payoffs to him were always to the penny.

  Mooney created his own small empire in the Patch, one built on car thefts, burglary rings, moonshining, jewelry heists, extortion, and loan-sharking, as well as penny-ante gambling. And as his domination grew, he was able to dispense jobs like candy to the starving immigrants—or take them away. He reveled in the power his association with the Syndicate afforded; and the more he had, the more he craved. By 1937, union rackets were increasingly falling under his supervision and he was regularly called on by Ricca and Humphreys to supply the soldiers required for their control.

  Ricca and Humphreys were impressed with Mooney Giancana, finding the twenty-nine-year-old astute and calculating. And Mooney, likewise, was impressed with them.

  Since the days of Esposito, he’d been captivated by their style, listening intently, albeit most often from the sidelines, as they planned everything from political fixes and murder to getting fellow bootlegger Joe Kennedy out of a nearly fatal scrape with Detroit’s Jewish Mafia, the Purple gang.

  The Purple gang had put a contract on the mick’s life for bringing bootlegged rum through their territory without permission, and Kennedy, fearful for his life, had gone to Chicago to beg Esposito to intervene on his behalf. Mooney had watched Esposito, Ricca, and Humphreys toy capriciously with the man’s fate. Esposito had finally put in the requested phone call, and ever after, Kennedy was in Chicago’s debt.

  Whether required to knock off a friend or save the skin of an enemy, Mooney said he’d learned by watching two of the best—Ricca and Humphreys.

  Mooney clearly admired Paul Ricca, but he reserved some of his highest praise for Humphreys, raving on and on to Chuck about the way Humphreys could analyze a situation and figure out a strategy, taking on whatever challenge the gang had and then, like some fedora-hatted Houdini, snatching a plan right out of thin air. But in the final analysis, Chuck knew his brother’s appreciation of the Camel was far more simple and straightforward: “Humphreys gets the job done, and he gets it done smart.”

  At first, it had surprised Chuck to see his brother pull up a chair at the Bella Napoli, eager as a first grader, whenever Murray had something to say. But he soon realized that by watching Humphreys operate, Mooney learned tricks foreign to the muscle-bound world of the Patch. For Humphreys, violence was not always the best, or only, solution. “A live sucker is more valuable than a dead one” was one of his many pearls of wisdom. When Mooney heard that one, he’d laughed in agreement. He thought that was one of the sharpest things Murray ever said and went so far as to repeat it to Chuck one Saturday night after dinner. “Murray Humphreys is one of the smartest guys you’ll ever fuckin’ meet,” he said as way of ending their conversation. “The guy’s sly as a goddamned fox.”

  It wasn’t that Humphreys abhorred violence, Mooney told him—he’d personally taken out his share of guys—but it was just that the Camel favored peaceful alternatives. And those alternatives invariably made the Syndicate money. “There’s no denyin’ it, Chuck, brains like Murray’s can make the fuckin’ difference between winnin’ and losin’ . . . put a big bullet in your gun. Take a guy with my muscle and put it with Humphreys’s smarts and who knows? A man could be boss one day.” He’d smiled when he said that, and Chuck couldn’t help wondering whether that was exactly what Mooney had in mind. If so, he knew his brother could make it happen; there hadn’t been anything yet he’d set his sights on that he hadn’t gotten.

  Mooney also liked Humphreys’s style. And Murray had plenty of that. Early in his career, Humphreys had taken to wearing expensive suits and camel hair coats. The coats had become his trademark, hence his nickname the Camel. Mooney noticed how Ricca and Nitti appreciated Humphreys’s elegant qualities, his ability to hobnob with the politicians and businessmen. Murray Humphreys—floppy ears and beady eyes aside—was, as Mooney put it, “high-tone . . . a class act. How a guy looks can open the door to the King of fuckin’ England, Chuck. It gets Murra
y anywhere he wants to go, and where Murray goes, the Syndicate goes.”

  In deference to that fact, Mooney began to make an even greater effort to dress well, visiting Rothchild’s each week and coming back with armloads of elegant gray flannel suits, double-breasted pinstripes, and foulard silk ties. He began wearing supple calfskin shoes and two-toned black and white oxfords. Soft felt fedoras to match each ensemble lined his closet shelves. And he didn’t neglect Ange, making sure she dressed in the latest fashions; lounging pajamas, pearls, and a mink coat were among her ever-growing wardrobe.

  It was late March of 1937 and Angeline had thrown another one of her jealous hysterics; they were becoming more frequent—and more irritating to Mooney. Before he stormed out the door, he sarcastically remarked to Ange that a few well-placed backhands might put her in her place; maybe that was what she needed.

  It was impossible to explain anything to a woman, he complained to Chuck in the car later that night on his way to meet with Ricca and Humphreys. “Ange should have learned by now not to ask questions, that what men do isn’t any of her business.” He told Chuck she was getting pretty jealous, practically hysterical, accusing him of seeing other women just about every time he left the house.

  Christ, Chuck thought to himself. Leaving home at night hardly ever had anything to do with sex. This was business. And the feeling you could get around the guys—well, Mooney was right, it was too goddamned good to pass up for a fuckin’ whining woman. Not for a whore and especially not for a wife. At home, a man could play the husband role, and, Chuck thought, Mooney did a damn good job of it, too. But at the Napoli, you were a man.

  As soon as they opened the door to the café, Chuck could feel it. It was electric.

  “Paul and Curly wanna see you,” a swarthy-skinned busboy whispered in broken Italian. “They’re in back.” He motioned with one hand toward two men seated at a table. Mooney, lapels turned up on his coat and the brim of a tan fedora pulled down rakishly to one side, strolled through the bistro tables. Chuck followed at a respectful distance and stood against the back wall.

  His brother left his coat on, but out of respect took off his hat, placing it on his lap. He pulled the chair forward to face Ricca; Chuck thought the deep-set eyes across the table from his brother went right through him. Mooney had said Paul was like a wild dog—he didn’t react well to jumpy. shifty guys—and Mooney knew better than to let him ever see any sign of real emotion. So he didn’t flinch for an instant, but sat there for several moments waiting for Paul to say what was on his mind.

  “Mooney, we got a little problem. . . . Curly and I know you can handle it.” Ricca leaned back in his chair and unbuttoned the vest of his elegant sharkskin suit. He lit a long cigar before continuing, “It’s like this . . . we gotta get the barber’s union back in line. A couple of the old guys are squawkin’ again. We’re gonna have to persuade them to come along. They’ve got a barbershop over on Loomis and Taylor.”

  Mooney looked first at Ricca and then at Humphreys. Without another word, he put his hat on and stood up to leave. “Consider it done, Paul,” he said, and signaled to Chuck to follow.

  Driving always made Mooney’s mind work better, and he took his time getting them home, whipping a few corners on the rain-swept streets. It was just like the good old days.

  “Convincing the barbers that working with us is the next best thing to life insurance is gonna take some extra muscle,” Mooney said suddenly. His wheels were obviously turning.

  “I’ll send a couple of the regular boys and . . . Carl Torsiello. Carl needs the money real bad, I know, because his sister-in-law told Ange they’re havin’ a hard time.”

  Mooney told Chuck that Carl had even stopped him one day to see whether he could get some work. “Anything, Mooney,” the handsome Italian had said.

  “Anything . . . I got a wife and a beautiful little girl, Anne Marie. She’s just five years older than your daughter, Mooney. I gotta feed and clothe her and our new baby. So I’d be real appreciative if you hear of anything.”

  “If Carl plays it right, this could be the start of a whole new life for him and his family,” Mooney added, and then smiled. “It’ll sure make Ange and her girlfriends happy, too; I’ll be a prince for helping them out.” He paused for a moment and puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “Besides,” he continued, “I like Carl Torsiello. . . . We’ll give him a chance and we’ll see what happens.”

  At home, Mooney went right in and called Fat Leonard. He sent him to Torsiello with instructions for the job. Twenty years later, Carl Torsiello would tell Chuck about his chance to make it big with Mooney and how excited he and his wife, Tillie, had been at the time. “It was like manna from heaven,” Carl said, shaking his head. “We needed money so bad back then, Chuck. Shit, it was smack in the middle of the Depression. You were lucky to have food on the table. Men would have killed for a chance to work anywhere . . . let alone for your brother Mooney. It was an honor.”

  Carl had realized right away that this was his big chance, maybe his only chance, to get in with Mooney and his fast-growing group of high rollers. When he came home from work that Thursday afternoon and looked around his tiny flat, he’d imagined how wonderful it would be to always have meat on the table and money in his pocket. He was tired of breaking his back eighteen hours a day out on the railroad tracks. And tired of being paid peanuts—fifteen dollars a week—to unload the endless crates of oranges and pears coming in from California.

  “You’re worn out, Carl,” his wife had said. “All that will change now because tonight is a new beginning. Things will be different from now on. You know what I mean? This is for Mooney, right?” She’d lowered her voice when she said Mooney—everybody did; it was a sign of respect, even if he wasn’t around. “Think what a change this will make. You could quit your job and start making real money. We might even get a new table,” she added, running her hand over the buckling veneer. “Or new clothes for the children.”

  He’d thought Tillie was right about it being a new beginning; he’d hardly been able to control his excitement, couldn’t think of anything else all day. All he’d known for certain was that Mooney was going to pay him more money than he could make in six months of working at the rail station and that Fat Leonard had said they needed someone tough and strong for the job.

  “Well, you fit the bill,” Tillie had replied, laughing, when he told her what Leonard had said. “You’re made to order if strong’s what Mooney’s looking for.”

  During dinner, he’d talked on and on about how this would be the lucky break they needed, but Tillie was a devout Catholic and wasn’t about to give credit to Lady Luck. In all their married lives, she’d never thought luck had much to do with anything.

  “No, it’s not just luck; it’s more than that,” she corrected him. “This is sent from heaven, Carl. We should thank God.”

  He could tell Tillie had been proud of him. He’d felt so good about that. With him working for Mooney, the Torsiello family would finally be off and running. At least that’s what Carl had thought.

  The guys arrived at seven o’clock sharp that night to pick him up, but before Carl walked out the door, he planted a kiss on Tillie’s cheek. “Whatever it is I’m to do, Til, you know I’ll do my best for my family,” he’d said.

  He had to remind himself of that after they got to the barbershop. The dim light gave the room a certain eeriness. The mirrors lining the walls reflected each tool of the barber’s trade in weird distortion. Razors, neatly lined along the counters, glinted like knives prepared for battle. He hadn’t liked the look of things almost from the start.

  He glanced over at the other guys and wondered what was next. There were three of them standing there together in the dark: James “Turk” Torello, Mad Dog DeStefano, and Fat Leonard. He knew their reputations; they were some of the meanest men in the neighborhood. He hadn’t minded when they’d jimmied the lock and broken in; he’d known whatever Mooney had in mind couldn’t be legal; he wasn’t
naive. But the baseball bats, brass knuckles, and pistols the guys carried made him nervous. He thought of Tillie and the children and recalled her words. “From heaven,” she’d said. He told himself he wouldn’t let her down, that he’d act like a man.

  Leonard smiled and pointed to a light coming from beneath the door of the back room and whispered, “In there.”

  It was the signal Mad Dog and Turk must have been waiting for, because they lifted their bats and stormed the door. When it fell with a crack of splinters and brass hinges onto the tile floor, Carl saw two old men. One was balding and had a dapper little mustache; the other was clean-shaven, with hair as white as Tillie’s Sunday apron, Carl thought. He was short and round and probably pushing seventy. Their eyes met.

  “Mama mia, what do you want?” the one with the mustache cried. “You want money? Here’s money. . . .” He waved at the desk between them and the steel cash box piled high with the day’s receipts.

  “They don’t want money, Sal,” the white-haired man said. “No, they’re here about the union.” He stood up and faced the four intruders. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

  He was a brave old man, even if he was bluffing, and Carl suddenly wished he was somewhere else—anyplace besides standing in the barbershop, confronting an old man who couldn’t hurt a fly.

  Turk lifted his bat and slammed it on the desk, making the barbers jump half out of their skins, and swept a jumble of dollar bills and receipts onto the floor. The cash box fell with a clatter and coins rolled in all directions.

  “That’s right, old man,” said Leonard. “We’re here to talk about unions. We heard you have a few beefs. Maybe you wanna tell us what they are.”