by Sam Giancana
The Ingolia family wasn’t so jovial at the sight of what had been their pride and joy. But when told the perpetrator had been Mooney Giancana, they decided to let it pass.
Chuck couldn’t get over how the Ingolias clammed up and took it—even though he’d known they wouldn’t have any other choice. No matter what Mooney did, no one ever stood up to him—not when they’d heard thousands of tales of Mooney’s vengeance and certainly not when a prime example of his destructive capabilities sat right outside the door. That was the bottom line. And because of that, Chuck really couldn’t blame them.
CHAPTER 8
Mooney’s temper, although well known from his 42 gang days in the neighborhood, had actually cooled and taken a different turn since he’d met Ange. Women, like Chuck’s sisters, always tried to attribute such a change in a man’s behavior to his marriage, but Chuck didn’t think the change in Mooney had anything to do with Ange.
Mooney still got mad inside, but he just didn’t express it the same way. “Never let anybody know what you’re thinking,” he told Chuck. “Don’t get mad . . . get even and the other guy won’t be expecting it . . . he won’t know what hit him.”
Somehow, people must have figured out that no matter how Mooney acted, they weren’t off the hook. From Principe the tailor to Claudio the baker and everyone in between, people went out of their way to be nice to him more and more. And stories about guys like Mike or some other sap who got out of line probably helped perpetuate the fear.
In five short years, from 1933 to 1938, Mooney had become the model of composure. Chuck saw him sit at the garage for hours, totally expressionless, while guys rambled on and on. He’d lean back, arms folded, and it was hard to tell whether he was even listening. Every now and then, he’d raise one eyebrow. That was it. No other sign of reaction. He could just as quickly turn to one of his soldiers and quietly order a hit as he could order a cup of coffee. It was impossible for an outsider to tell which.
At home, however, Chuck didn’t see his brother waste any time or energy controlling his temper; he exploded at Ange and the two girls whenever he felt like it. It was near Thanksgiving when Chuck got a chance to see how little Mooney’s temperament had really changed and how little influence his wife exerted.
He and Mooney listened to the Charlie McCarthy radio show and talked for hours after dinner. It was probably midnight when Mooney got a call from Murray Humphreys. Chuck went in to bed.
Chuck hadn’t planned to eavesdrop, but his brother and sister-in-law were making such a racket, he couldn’t resist.
He knew Mooney had knocked Ange around a few times, and as he crept down the hallway, he imagined this fight was about the same thing: other women. How many women Mooney had on the line, Chuck couldn’t guess, but there had to be several. There was the woman at the envelope factory, and the show girls from the nightclubs along Rush Street. Chuck’s sisters knew about some of them, so he assumed Ange’s friends did also. And that meant his sister-in-law knew about Mooney’s infidelities, as well.
“So you’re going out? Why so late? For what?” Ange yelled.
Peering around the doorway, Chuck could see her brow was pinched into a half-puzzled, half-accusing expression. She seemed ready to cry from the cracked sound in her voice.
Mooney had his coat and tie on and his hat in his hand. “For business, goddamn it. Business, Ange. Can’t you stop this? You remind me of the goddamned coppers.” He turned his back to her and started toward the door.
“No, I can’t . . . don’t go out that door without telling me who you’re going to see tonight.”
Chuck could hardly believe his ears; nobody ever ordered Mooney around and he knew the reaction would be swift.
Mooney spun around and threw his hat down on the sofa. His eyes were narrowed and his jaw clenched. “Or you’ll do what, Ange? Do you think you can threaten me?” He stepped toward her with his hand poised to strike. Instinctively, she drew back.
“Don’t you know better than to ask me about business by now?” He continued: “Jesus Christ, don’t ask questions. And never, ever try to tell me what I will or won’t do. You got that? Do you?” He hissed the words, edging closer to her with a cunning purposefulness. His body swayed like a fighter waiting to throw a punch. “Do you hear me, Ange?” He grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her. “Do you?”
She pulled away. “Stop. You’re hurting me,” she said, whimpering as she rubbed her arms beneath the soft satin robe.
“You’re losin’ your mind, that’s what’s goin’ on here,” Mooney exclaimed. “And I’m not seeing another woman, if that’s what all this is about.”
She was stunned by his directness. “That’s . . . that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Why can’t you admit it? Why? Can’t you tell the truth?” Her voice was getting progressively louder and more strained. “What difference does it make? I’ve been humiliated enough by now. Do you think I’m one of your brainless little tramps? Do you think I’m a total fool . . . that I’m blind?”
“Oh, you want truth?” he said, sneering. “I’ll give you the goddamned truth then. You’re a goddamned pain in the neck. That’s what you are. And nobody on earth would blame a man for anything he did to a naggin’ woman like you.”
“How can you say that? I just want it to be like it used to be, Mooney . . . before we were married. You acted like I was the most beautiful girl in the world . . . like you loved me.”
Chuck recognized a familiar pleading in her words and thought of all the times he’d begged Mooney not to hit him; she knew what was coming, she had to.
“Act . . . I think I like that word. Why don’t you think about that word act for a while. Yeah, I acted like I loved you. You forgot who you were dealin’ with.”
“I . . . hate you. God I hate you!”
“Oh you do? Well, then, you aren’t going to like this.” He slapped her across the face and then shoved her against the wall. Placing his hands around her throat, he almost touched his lips to hers. He paused, breathing hard, and then whispered huskily, “Goddamn it, Ange, what’s wrong with you? You make me crazy. When are you gonna finally believe me? There’s nobody else. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean a word I said. God, I love you.” He kissed her.
She burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, too . . . but please, Mooney . . . tell me the truth.”
He looked her square in the eye. “I’m not seeing anyone else. And I never have. I never would.” He pulled her close. “I love you, Angeline DeTolve Giancana . . . just you.” He held her face in his hands and kissed her hard. When he stopped, she seemed limp and breathless, as though he’d somehow managed to drain all the anger, all the life, out of her. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Now, go ahead and go to bed. I have to go out for a while.”
He turned steely again and all tenderness dropped from his face. He picked up his hat and went out the door.
After Mooney left, Ange stood there for a few minutes and then walked over and sat down. She didn’t move for a long time, all alone in her beautifully furnished apartment. She started to cry.
For Chuck, what little was left of their picture-perfect life had crumbled right before his eyes. She was so alone. He suddenly wanted to hold her. He felt a kinship with this woman who was, in so many ways, a stranger to him. She hated Mooney all right. And she loved him, too. Just like every other person in his world.
That was Mooney’s secret. He lured you to his snare. And he knew your weakness, what bait to use. For some, it was approval. For others, love. Or money and what it could buy. Each one ended up like some struggling, soulless animal that he hated for its weakness. But remarkably, somehow, he made you thankful in the end, made you feel guilty for hating him for hating you. It was totally insane.
Chuck didn’t have the slightest idea what Ange did or what she thought about. What made her smile. Or laugh like you were supposed to at Christmas and on birthdays. Not a ghost of an idea. But he knew what she and Moone
y were all about. And it made him sad. He felt a pain fill his heart. As he stood there in the darkened hallway, the sadness swept over him like the fog did in the Patch early in the morning. He wanted to cry for her; he might not know her as a real human being but neither did Mooney. And that, he thought, was the saddest thing of all. He left her to her private hell and went to bed.
The next day, Ange and Mooney smiled and went about the house as if nothing had ever happened. Mooney asked her whether she’d like to go out to see the movie Holiday with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn. She gushed and fluttered like a schoolgirl on her first date. It wasn’t that they never went out; Mooney made sure they went out at least once a week. When they did, Chuck thought they looked like movie stars. Ange swept her hair high on her head, swathed herself in furs and diamonds. Mooney was perfectly groomed and dressed in a finely tailored suit. They cut an impressive figure, and when they strolled out the door arm in arm, they practically smelled of money.
The confrontation between Mooney and Ange hadn’t really changed anything. Mooney just cut back a bit on his nightly outings for a while and Ange stopped whining and nagging. He bought her a new mink stole and a big diamond cocktail ring as penance. And she was satisfied.
It was a destructive cycle. Like the changing seasons, weeks would go by when everything seemed as if it was back to normal, and then, little by little, Mooney would get progressively more distant and Chuck’s sister-in-law increasingly anxious and suspicious. The mood would build like a slow-gathering storm until the tension was so thick, Chuck could taste it, like a coming rain, in the air.
He could almost predict an approaching fight between the two—they had a rhythm of certainty. It was always the same. First, Ange became sullen and bitter, nagging and complaining day after day. Finally, she would burst into a torrent of tears and accusations. In response, Mooney would push her around, smack her a few times, and then Ange would cry and say she was sorry. At that, Mooney would kiss her and tell her he loved her more than anyone else in the whole wide world.
Chuck guessed it was true; Mooney did love Ange as a wife. Although, he wasn’t quite sure what that meant anymore. From watching Mooney, he knew there was a difference between a wife and a girlfriend—or a friend, for that matter. A man didn’t confide in his wife nor did he ever show any sign of emotional weakness; he was in control. And Mooney lived up to that description perfectly. If he ever did express any real feelings, Chuck hadn’t seen them—if there was even such a thing in Mooney’s personality.
Indeed, Mooney was becoming more secretive, more cautious. As his power increased, his operations became more closely veiled. People around him got little pieces of information—parts of the jigsaw puzzle. But nobody but Mooney knew how it all fit together: not Paul Ricca and the bosses, not his underlings such as Needles and Fat Leonard or Teets. Nobody. Chuck felt lucky to catch a few glimpses; he was one of the few people who’d ever followed Mooney around all day. And one thing he knew for sure was that the puzzle was getting bigger. And that Ange and Mooney’s home life was just a tiny, almost remote, piece.
Mooney was basically discreet in his indiscretions. He saw women outside the “family” and made sure his outside pleasures stayed that way. His plan for a stable marriage had worked magnificently. Ange would never have considered actually leaving him—she had too much to lose. And he knew it. He’d been successful in making his wife the envy of all, and equally successful in making her relish it. As the years passed, it gave her pleasure to note that no one had a more finely furnished home, a better fur, a finer car, more stunning jewels. And no one would have dared. The men who surrounded Mooney knew better. They asked permission before they bought a home or a car. A cut beneath Mooney and Ange was all one could strive for, the only acceptable option.
Should another woman reveal, over a hand of gin rummy, her designs on a home or other luxury Ange perceived as better than her own, she told Mooney about it later during dinner, complaining bitterly. “How much do you pay your men? How can they afford to buy their wives nicer things than I have? I don’t think that’s the way it should be. . . . You should put a stop to it.” And Mooney did. More than ever, they were the king and queen. Even if the silly, puff-brained women didn’t understand how things worked, his men did. They learned quickly to stay in their place.
Of course, some people had a harder time coming to grips with Mooney’s domination. His brother-in-law Tony Campo squawked a lot, but after a decade of matrimonial hell for his sister, Lena, it appeared Mooney had finally gotten Tony in line.
Campo was one of Mooney’s soldiers, to Mooney a cetriolo, a cucumber. He told Chuck he despised Campo’s weakness for gambling, the way it left Lena and the kids in near poverty and the way it fell to him to make sure his sister had enough food on the table and a nice place to live.
A snarling, dominating little man barely five feet six, Tony Campo enjoyed taking his frustrations out on his wife; it was no secret he knocked Lena around—which was one of the few things Chuck knew that still made Mooney go crazy.
Almost monthly, Mooney stormed out of the house to Lena’s rescue. In December of 1938 after receiving a tearful late-night call from his sister, Mooney erupted and raced across town with Chuck by his side and a .38 in his pocket.
Lena sat huddled on the stoop, waiting for them. Up close, Chuck could see the purple bruises left by Campo’s fists. Her lips were almost blue and her teeth chattered in the frigid night air as she told them through tears that Campo had thrown her out.
Mooney went into the hallway and knocked almost politely on the door. In return, Campo yelled, “Go the fuck away.”
“Hey, Tony, it’s me, Mooney . . . open the door and let me in. We gotta talk.”
Chuck heard the door unlock and saw Campo cautiously peer out into the hall. Realizing Mooney seemed calm, Campo opened the door and said, “So how the hell are you, Mooney?” He shuffled over to pull up a chair. “Hey, come on in, have a seat.”
Mooney looked back over his shoulder at Chuck and Lena. “Stay in the hall,” he whispered, his thin lips hardly moving. He didn’t come forward at Campo’s invitation, but stood in the doorway watching his drunken brother-in-law’s every move. He nodded in response to Tony’s question. “I’m doin’ fine, Tony, fine. What’s goin’ on here?”
“Hey, she’s no good as a wife, as nothin’. She don’t have the brains, Mooney, to do what her husband tells her. No good, she’s no good.”
Mooney left the door open and moved toward the table. He took his topcoat off, draping it neatly across the chair, and then sat down.
Campo surveyed him warily. “Come on, loosen up, Mooney. You want a drink?” He put a bottle on the table.
“Yeah, don’t mind if I do,” Mooney replied.
Campo poured him a glass of wine.
From the hall, Chuck couldn’t tell what Mooney was doing; he didn’t look as if he was mad. When they’d left the house, he felt certain Mooney was going to kill his brother-in-law. Now, the two men looked more like old friends having a drink together. They sat there for a while, Tony nervously gulping down one drink after another, Mooney barely touching his.
It felt like hours before Mooney reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun. He stood up. Chuck thought Campo’s eyes got the look of a cow’s just before it goes to slaughter.
“Okay, motherfucker,” Mooney said, never raising his voice. “Stand up.” He motioned with the gun and walked around the table. Campo was frozen in his chair.
Mooney didn’t say another word; instead, he pulled the man up out of the chair and then, with an animal-like growl, threw him against the wall.
“Please, Mooney. Please . . . don’t do this,” Campo begged.
Mooney rammed the nose of the gun in his stomach and Campo doubled over with a gasp. With one hand, he shoved him back up against the wall. “You wanna be a dead man, motherfucker?”
“No, Mooney, no. I lost my temper. It’s nothin’ . . . I love your sister.”
/> Chuck heard a click as Mooney cocked the revolver. “Maybe I should put this gun in your mouth,” he said, laughing a low, mean laugh as he pushed the gun’s nose against Campo’s lips, pressing it on his fleshy mouth until he cried out in pain. “Or maybe . . .” Mooney dropped his hand to his side. “Maybe . . . I should shove it up your fuckin’ ass and pull the trigger.”
“No, Mooney . . . no . . . please, God, please no . . .”
Mooney lifted the gun back to Campo’s ear and lowered his voice. “Or maybe I shouldn’t waste any more time. Maybe I should just blow your brains out and get it over with. All I have to do is pull the trigger, Tony. One . . . two . . . three. Boom. You like that? You like that, Tony? Boom. And you’re a fuckin’ dead man. How about it? You wanna die?”
“No, Mooney, please. I’ll never hit her again. Ever. You have my word.”
“Your word?” Mooney laughed. “Your word? You’re a no-good motherfuckin’ bum, Tony. That’s what you are. Am I right? Am I? Answer me, Tony . . . am I right?”
“Yeah . . . yeah . . . you’re right, Mooney, you’re right.”
Mooney moved in close to Campo again. “You know what would make me happy, Tony? Do you?”
Campo shook his head fearfully.
“I think I should make you eat this gun . . . that would make me happy. Yeah, I think I should stick it down your fuckin’ throat and pull the trigger. That’s what I think.” Mooney smiled. “Open up.”
“What?” Campo began sobbing now. “No, Mooney. Please, no . . . no.”
Mooney pushed the man’s head tight against the wall and forced the gun into his mouth. “Open wide, Tony, I might slip and then . . . boom . . . it’s all over for Tony Campo.”