Double Cross

by Sam Giancana

Mooney would never have taken him along, Chuck was certain, if he’d known what was going to happen one night in late October. It was strange, really, how Chuck had managed over the past months to block out his concerns about being able to cut it in the Syndicate.

  Meeting Jake Guzik had gone a long way toward making him feel more comfortable; his fear of someday actually having to hit a guy in order to make it had all but subsided. Mooney said that Guzik didn’t have the stomach for killing—and Chuck wondered aloud how Guzik could have gotten so far with Capone and the guys.

  In reply, Mooney tapped his temple with his index finger and said, “Brains, Chuck. Brains. Guzik doesn’t have to kill to prove he’s valuable. He’s a Jew, he’s good with money, and he’s as fuckin’ smart as they come.” Hearing that relieved Chuck; he figured that he’d just have to prove he was clever enough, that he had the brains, to be valuable.

  He stopped worrying about having to hit a guy or being a part of a hit. The only time he’d seen a guy drop was as a little kid in the neighborhood and that seemed like a long, long time ago, but if he closed his eyes and thought about it, he could still see the pool of steaming blood and smell it in his nostrils, could still hear the tune the guy had whistled that day—sometimes he’d even wake up with it playing in his head, over and over. But that night in October, when he and Mooney climbed into the car, murder was the furthest thing from Chuck’s mind.

  It had started out just like any other night; Chuck was hoping to see a little action, maybe stop by the whorehouse or the Napoli.

  But when Mooney pulled over to the curb and Needles got in, Chuck’s delusions about it being just another night disappeared. Needles was all business. “We gotta do something about the son of a bitch,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Mooney answered. “So what do ya wanna do?” It was interesting to Chuck how Mooney always asked that question when a guy came to him with a problem. It certainly wasn’t that the guy’s opinion mattered; in essence, the guy was asking permission. But allowing him to speak gave Mooney “insight”—that’s what Mooney called it—into how his mind worked, what he was thinking.

  “Take the motherfucker out, that’s what. I’ve fuckin’ had it with his slimy double-dealin’. He’s shortin’ us . . . you know it and I know it. I say we fuckin’ push him.”

  Mooney looked back in the rearview mirror at Chuck. “Well, let’s just go pick up Fat Leonard then and pay the cocksucker a visit.” He turned the corner and the tires squealed.

  After finding Leonard, they ended up at a pool hall.

  “Needles, go bring the fucker out,” Mooney ordered, and looked back at Chuck. “You get up front with me.”

  Needles got out of the car and went inside. A few punks were milling around in front, playing tough, and Fat Leonard got out and yelled at them. “Hey, what you fuckin’ lookin’ at? Get lost . . . scram.”

  They took off down the sidewalk.

  “Boy, Fat Leonard really got rid of them fast,” Chuck said.

  Mooney didn’t reply but sat in silence, smoking his cigar. Something about the way Mooney had turned real cold all of a sudden made Chuck uneasy and he decided to light a cigarette. When he did, Fat Leonard leaned in the door and shook his head, saying, “Chuck, aren’t you too young for those things?”

  “I’m old enough,” Chuck retorted, dragging deeply.

  “Hey, Mooney, the kid thinks he’s old enough. Gettin’ pretty touchy in his old age, too,” Leonard said, laughing.

  Mooney sat at the wheel, not saying a word.

  Pretty soon, Needles came out with a plump little Italian dressed in a blue pinstriped suit.

  “Hey, goddamn it,” the man said as he got near the car, shaking Needles off his suit coat. “You guys made me leave a nice fuckin’ woman in there. Now, let’s get this over with so I can get back to her.”

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, Mike. You’re goin’ with us,” Needles said, and shoved him in the backseat next to Leonard. Needles got in beside him. Chuck looked back at Leonard. He smiled at Chuck and winked; it made him queasy when Leonard smiled like that.

  They drove up and down the city streets until well after midnight. Back and forth, in no direction whatsoever. No one said a word. When they passed a streetlight, Chuck could see sweat trickling down Mike’s forehead.

  “So what’s goin’ on, Mike? How’s business?” Mooney finally asked.

  “Fine, Mooney . . . real good,” Mike said hurriedly and then added, “So what’s the problem? How come your guys wanna muscle me? I ain’t done nothin’. I pay you on time and sometimes even a little extra. So what’s the problem?” He looked at Leonard and Needles.

  “Nothin’, Mike. We just thought it was time for a little talk,” Mooney replied, his voice still even, his eyes never leaving the street ahead.

  “Yeah, about what? Like I said, I ain’t done nothin’ to piss you guys off. Honest, Mooney.” He was beginning to act real skittish, looking wild-eyed around the car.

  “There’s no reason to whine. I didn’t say I was mad at you, did I? What would I be pissed off about? You say you’re clean, that you been good to us, well, why shouldn’t I believe you?” Mooney maintained his concentrated driving.

  “I don’t know why . . . but I don’t think you believe me . . . no, I don’t,” Mike retorted, and went to take off his suit coat; Needles gave him a hand.

  Looking back, Chuck noticed Mike’s shirt had big wet spots where he’d been sweating.

  “There’s no reason you guys shouldn’t believe me. Like I said. None,” Mike whined.

  “None?” Needles snorted. “Are you sure, Mike? Sure we can trust you?”

  “Why yeah, sure . . . you can trust me. Hey, listen. Why the hell don’t we go over to the Napoli for a drink or somethin’. It’ll be on me . . . what do ya say? Huh?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Mike. We were talkin’ about trust . . . you know, trust between paisan,” Mooney said softly.

  “Hey, you guys come on out and tell me what your fuckin’ problem is. . . . I need to get home,” Mike exclaimed, indignation brimming in his voice.

  “Yeah, to your wife and kids,” Leonard said, laughing.

  “Mike, tell me . . . how much money you been makin’? Is it enough?” Mooney asked.

  “You know what I make. Sure. Sure it is. I ain’t got no beefs. You guys let me make a good livin’.”

  “Well, on the street they’re sayin you’re makin’ a whole hell of a lot more . . . more than you’re tellin’ us about. Is that right?”

  “Hell no . . . why, you guys know everything. You know about every goddamned nickel I make. I pay you your share, don’t I? That should tell you, shouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but we’re wonderin’ if you’re payin us all of our share, Mike. Now come on, it’s no big deal. . . . Sometimes a man needs a little extra, so he just skims it off the top, real nice. He thinks nobody’ll ever know. A lotta guys do it. But you gotta be straight with us. Have you been holdin’ out a little on the side? Like a few dollars to take care of that whore you keep up in your apartment on Roosevelt?”

  “No. I ain’t never shorted you . . . never. As God is my witness, Mooney, never.”

  “Mike, Jesus Christ, do you think I’m fuckin’ stupid? Don’t you think I see your clothes, your nice new car? Don’t you think I heard about the fur coat you gave to your whore?” Mooney remained collected, in total control, and didn’t raise his voice, although there was a threatening hint of anger in his words.

  “Well . . . I . . . I. . .”

  “What? Speak up, Mike, I can’t hear up here,” Mooney called back. “Look, it’s nothin’, Mike. Let’s just be straight with each other and then we can do business together . . . but you gotta be straight. Okay?”

  “Nobody’s gonna hurt you,” Needles said. “Mooney just wants to know the truth.”

  “Okay. Okay. Maybe I been skimmin’ a little extra off for a few things. But only a little. Shit, I never meant to screw you guys. You’re my
friends. Right? We’re friends?” He nodded and looked around the car for confirmation.

  “Sure, Mike. You’re among friends here,” Mooney said, smiling.

  “Yeah, we’re friends. We practically grew up together. Shit, you know my family from way back . . . back in the old days in the neighborhood. Let’s just get square and you guys take me back so I can get home. How much do you want?” Mike fumbled through the pocket of his suit coat.

  Mooney looked over his shoulder and fixed Fat Leonard in his gaze. Chuck recognized the look. Fat Leonard barely nodded.

  “Well, I don’t know. How much do you think you shorted us?” Mooney asked.

  “Uh. How’s four hundred? Okay? Four hundred. No, five. Five hundred.”

  Needles started to laugh. Leonard snickered.

  “Mike, you’re insultin’ me. Five hundred dollars? You’re insultin’ me.” Mooney smacked both hands on the steering wheel.

  The man started to cry. “I don’t have any more than that right now . . . but I will,” he added, sniffling. “You guys are scaring me. How much do you want? Whatever you say, I’ll get it. It’s a promise. You have my word on my mother’s grave.”

  Mooney pulled the car over. Thinking he would be getting out, Mike put his hand across Needles. “Okay, we gotta deal; I’ll just walk back from here.”

  “You’re not gettin’ out,” Needles said, pushing his arm back.

  “No . . . Chuck is,” Mooney said. “Get out, Chuck; go on home. Here’s a few bucks for somethin’ to eat,” Mooney said, pressing a twenty-dollar bill in his hand. “Now, go home.”

  Mike started to sob. “Come on, guys. Let me out.”

  Chuck watched from the curb as the car sped away. The man’s pleas still rang in his ears.

  The next day, all he could think about was the guy from the pool hall. Mike. He had a pretty good idea nobody would ever see him again.

  Chuck wasn’t sure how he felt about it all; it seemed as if what Mooney did paid off. He was respected, had a nice place, a beautiful car, and women flocked to him. He had a nice wife and kids. It sure didn’t look as if anybody thought what Mooney did was wrong or really bad.

  The whistling man suddenly came back to Chuck. He’d heard the tune in his head as he’d walked back after they let him out. He’d been disappointed at first—not to be included in Mooney’s inner circle—but he knew what Mooney’s look to Leonard had meant; he’d heard what Needles had said. Yeah, it was all for keeps. It wasn’t the fucking movies they were in. Mike the whiner, Mike from the pool hall was probably being picked at by some big crows out on a farm somewhere. And Chuck was glad he hadn’t been there to see it happen.

  A few days later, he got up the nerve to ask Mooney about the guy. He knew better and felt like a fool after he’d opened his mouth.

  “Shit, you gotta remember this is fuckin’ business,” Mooney said over a scotch and water after dinner. “Chuck, there’s nothin’ personal in it . . . but you can’t have bastards stealin’ you blind. Let one get away with it and Christ, everything would fall fuckin’ apart. Remember that. And don’t ask fuckin’ questions. You might get answers you don’t like.” That was all Mooney said. He never really answered his question and Chuck didn’t ask again. Mike from the pool hall just disappeared.

  Throughout the fall, there were good days and bad days when it came to his relationship with Mooney; just when he’d think maybe his brother was going to let him in—treat him like a man, not a kid brother—something would happen to screw it all up.

  He knew it was his own fault; he was always letting Mooney down. Chuck still had his friends back in the Patch and more than once Mooney had caught them out at night raising hell on the street corners. It was strictly forbidden for Chuck and his brother Pepe to be out in a car with friends—which made it seem all the more racy and exciting. If he got hold of Chuck, Mooney still beat the hell out of him, slamming his fist into Chuck’s jaw, punching him in the stomach or bruising a few ribs.

  In spite of the certain punishment that would follow if he was caught out on the town, whenever he got the chance, Chuck hung out under the streetlights shooting craps and drinking beer. Or went over to Roosevelt and Paulina in Joe Ingolia’s car to shoot the breeze with the cabdrivers, relatives of gangsters whose connections had gotten them a leg up when jobs were scarce—among them, Tony Accardo’s brother-in-law “Queenie” and Rocky Potenza. The cabbies were tough guys who swore and smoked and slugged anybody who got in their way. Chuck thought they were fun to be around, so he spent a lot of time hanging out at the taxi stand trading stories.

  Joe Ingolia, whose family was better off than most, was the only kid in the neighborhood who had a car. Most nights they had free. Chuck and Pepe piled into Ingolia’s little two-door Model A and headed downtown for Navy Pier. They just sat out on the pier, watching the throngs of people who gathered there on warm summer nights while Joe picked out top tunes on his guitar. The boys sang and smoked cigarettes and drank beer until the wee hours, exchanging tales of sexual encounters and reading the juicier passages from Tobacco Road out loud. Or waxed philosophical about the meaning of life and argued about whether or not the German guy, Hitler, was really out to take over the world.

  Sometimes, when Chuck knew that Mooney wasn’t around town and wouldn’t catch them, they’d push Joe’s Model A to its limits, whipping corners and speeding down thoroughfares to the all-night bars and whorehouses or to a card game on Michigan Avenue for a few hands of poker.

  But not much escaped Mooney; if he wasn’t close by, it didn’t seem to matter. He had eyes everywhere. And stoolies who for a dollar—or in Chuck’s estimation, for a chance to get on Mooney’s good side—would snitch on the boys’ misadventures.

  He might have been emotionless about everything else, but it riled Mooney to distraction to have his rules broken. The only reason Chuck could determine for Mooney’s extreme reaction to disobedience was that he believed such flagrant disregard for his authority by some punks, his own brothers on top of it, made him look bad to his soldiers. And, if Mooney couldn’t control a few rowdy kids, it might make the guys up top nervous, too. Guys like Ricca might begin to wonder how Mooney could control hundreds of men, men who would screw their own mothers for a dime.

  Once this realization dawned on Chuck, he tried to keep a low profile out of respect for Mooney’s position, but an opportunity would come along for a little fun out with the guys and his determination to be “good” would melt. Once again, he’d find himself back on the streets, resenting Mooney’s authority. And besides, he told himself, he was only doing what everybody else did. Hanging out was what boys his age were supposed to do.

  It was the very last day of November when Mooney had had enough of his younger brother’s disobedience. Late one Friday night, at around two o’clock in the morning, he calmly loaded a five-gallon can of gasoline into the trunk of his car as Ange stood in her satin nightclothes in the doorway, hands on her hips.

  “Don’t do something you’ll regret,” she called out.

  He ignored her, not looking back or bothering to reply, but got in the car and drove straight to Paulina and Roosevelt, where he’d been told Chuck, Pepe, and their friends were carousing in an all-night diner.

  Just as Mooney expected, Joe Ingolia’s car was parked along the curb. He pretended not to see the boys—they were standing under a streetlight shooting craps but then quickly ducked around the corner.

  From the safety of the shadows, Chuck couldn’t really tell whether Mooney was mad; he didn’t slam his car door or stomp through the street. If anything, Mooney seemed amazingly controlled. The boys watched as he soberly opened his trunk and carried the can of gasoline over to Joe’s Model A. Methodically, he doused the hood and opened the car door, placing the gas can almost gently on the seat. He walked to the front of the car and leaned casually against the hood as he lit a cigar.

  “What’s he gonna do?” Joe whispered.

  “Whatever it is,” Pepe answered, “i
t not gonna be good.”

  After a few minutes, Mooney called out at the top of his lungs, “Hey, Pepe, Chuck, I know you’re out there. What did I fuckin’ tell you? I know you can hear me. So listen and watch real good.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a box of matches. He lit one and held it up. “Your fuckin’ travels are over for good,” he yelled. And with that, he tossed the match in the door; flames burst up with a sudden rushing hiss. Thick black smoke began pouring from the windows.

  Standing back from the fire, Mooney started to laugh. “You won’t be riding around in this fuckin’ heap again. Maybe now you punk bastards’ll learn a thing or two about fuckin’ respect.” He threw the box of matches down and walked to his car. When the gas can exploded in a roar of metal and shrapnel, he didn’t even flinch or look back. Instead, he got in his car and drove off down the street.

  Within moments, Joe’s car was demolished. It burned and crackled, threatening to explode, until all that remained was a large blackened cinder with rims instead of tires. There had been people along the street when it happened. Most, seeing Mooney, made themselves scarce. If Mooney Giancana wanted to burn down the entire neighborhood, no one would have lifted a finger to stop him; the backlash wasn’t worth it.

  The boys didn’t go home that night; they sat in the alley whispering among themselves while the car glowed like an ember until sunrise. It still was smoking when the sun was straight up in the sky and they’d grown cold and tired.

  They wrapped some dishrags they’d gotten from the diner’s sympathetic cook around their hands and wrestled open the car’s charred doors. The seats were too hot to sit on, so they squatted down. Amazingly, on the first try, the engine started and they decided to attempt to drive it back to Joe’s place.

  Making their way through the Patch, the rims clanged along with an earsplitting racket. Clang, clang, clang— they clattered over the uneven brick streets. Foulsmelling smoke spewed from under the hood and they coughed and choked on the fumes. Shop owners came out of their shops to see what was making so much racket. Gossips on stoops paused in mid-sentence and red-faced vendors stopped haggling with choosy buyers. Even women with soapsuds on their hands rushed to poke their heads out of windows. They all wanted to see what was making so much noise, and when they did, they laughed and pointed and lined the street as if it was a parade.