by Sam Giancana
Throughout 1945, his brother had been spending money like water: five-hundred-dollar suits, fifty-dollar ties, seventy-five-dollar shirts, jewelry, handmade silk underwear and handkerchiefs. And though, at only twenty-three, he realized he couldn’t match Mooney’s image of wealth, Chuck couldn’t resist gazing into the mirror and studying his own reflection. Twinkling, almost mischievous dark eyes looked back at him. Atop the thick curly black hair that framed his smooth olive face was a gray fedora. His lean, muscular frame lent nice lines to his pinstriped charcoal suit. He was head to toe a man now; he’d proven he could handle himself around his brother’s late-night haunts—the lounges, whorehouses, and strip joints. And he knew what being a man was all about, too; like Mooney, he’d made plenty of women beg for more. At the thought, a feeling of pride and pleasure came over him.
He shifted his gaze to study Mooney’s image. His brother wasn’t just another scrawny punk anymore; he’d filled out over the past few years and his face, tanned from a recent stay in Miami, bore the tiny signs of age well and with a new sense of dignity.
There was remote coldness behind Mooney’s deep-set eyes, a slight curl to his lips, which encircled a smoldering cigar, a staggering self-confidence—or was it arrogance?—in his posture. But trying to analyze what it was exactly that made Mooney so goddamned magnetic—well, it was just about impossible.
In 1946, Mooney was made underboss to Tony Accardo. The advancement in status was based as much on the success of his gambling rackets as on the ominous power base of men and muscle he’d managed to build.
Times were good for Mooney and getting better; he and Ange were wintering in Florida and had placed Bonnie and Annette in boarding school in, as Mooney explained to Chuck, a last-ditch effort to get the two rebellious girls in line. “Christ, Annette’s impossible to control . . . can you believe she still wets the bed?” he complained. Anne Marie Torsiello still tutored the girls occasionally, but Chuck rarely saw her and assumed she’d gone back to her life in the Patch.
Throughout the year, Mooney traveled more frequently to Florida, California, Cuba, and New York. He’d been routinely visiting Manhattan since Lucky Luciano had entered prison ten years previously.
Luciano had appealed, unsuccessfully, for parole in 1938 and 1943. Even his assistance, at the prodding of U.S. Intelligence, in contacting the Italian Mafia kingpin Don Vizzini to request the don’s aid during the U.S. invasion in World War II did nothing to convince authorities he should be released. However, Mooney confided that Luciano’s ninety-thousand-dollar “campaign contribution” to Thomas Dewey, the very man responsible for putting him behind bars in the first place—coupled with Meyer Lansky’s promise of part interest in a future Tampa, Florida, gambling deal in the Bahamas—was all it took to win Dewey’s friendship and Luciano’s subsequent release. “That’s the name of the game,” Mooney said, smirking. “Now we own Dewey . . . he just doesn’t know it yet.”
Thus, in 1945, the New York State Parole Board freed Luciano on the condition he be deported to Italy. For his part in Luciano’s release, Dewey came under fire, but the crime fighter turned presidential candidate quickly pointed to Luciano’s service to the United States government during World War II as reason enough for release. After his release, Luciano maintained his authority from outside the United States, living comfortably in Italy, while using Frank Costello as his overseer in New York. Costello was one of the few men Mooney obviously admired. “Costello’s my kind of guy . . . smooth and smart.”
Indeed, the two had much in common and Costello, eleven years Mooney’s senior, stood as an example of everything Mooney was striving to achieve: Costello had the muscle, but he relied on finesse. According to Mooney, he had practically every politician on the pad—even had J. Edgar Hoover in his pocket. Costello dined with senators, was friends with George Wood of the William Morris Agency and producer Harry Cohn of Columbia, and partied with celebrities. Frank Costello, Mooney maintained, knew how to live.
Like Mooney, Costello had grown up in a teeming slum—East Harlem—and held a lifelong and deep-seated hatred for his father. He’d gotten his boost into the rackets thanks to his elder brother, Eddie, and during Prohibition, he had become fast friends with Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano. Collaborating with the two younger men, Costello helped develop what would become the national Syndicate. Early on, Mooney said, his path had crossed Costello’s when he’d run rum and sugar shipments for Diamond Joe Esposito to Joe Kennedy’s bootlegging operation. He’d liked Costello from the start.
But it wasn’t until Mooney returned from Terre Haute in 1943 and made his move on gambling and Chicago’s black policy wheels that their relationship blossomed. “A few drinks and we were tight,” Mooney informed Chuck. “We realized we had a lot in common, our likes, dislikes. But mostly, I thought he was the smartest man I’d ever met. . . . He could tell I admired the way he could get things done and he liked that.”
Mooney said Costello had style like nobody else. He knew how to handle himself among the rich and famous, the politicians and kings. He called the judges “his boys.” “Man oh man, I wanted to be as powerful as he was. . . . I watched his every move. If there ever was a guy I wanted to be like, it was Frank Costello.”
Mooney’s friendship with Costello had continued; they’d started working a few rackets together the year before, in 1945, when Costello needed a distribution point for his gem-smuggling operation in the Midwest. Pretty soon, Mooney was taking gems stolen in Midwest heists up to one of Costello’s fences, George Unger, and returning with Costello’s smuggled treasures—which Mooney turned over to his soldiers for distribution throughout the Midwest and West.
The operation was worth millions to Chicago’s Syndicate, but the formation of such lucrative ties was worth far more to Mooney. He now had a powerful friend and ally in New York, something that didn’t go unnoticed in his own hometown; his stature in Chicago seemed to skyrocket. Wherever he went, he got the red-carpet treatment and became a recipient of not only incredible art objects, jewelry, and other such fine luxuries—but the “smaller” things in life, as well.
In Chicago, while average citizens waited months for a car after the war, Mooney only had to visit Emil Denemark, the area’s largest Cadillac dealer, to ensure that those around him were driving in style. For such treatment, he paid the dealer at cost plus cash under the table; Chevys and Fords were three hundred extra, Buicks were five hundred, and Cadillacs, a thousand. With hundreds of men to supply with automobiles, Mooney became Denemark’s biggest customer and their relationship blossomed. In return, Mooney was given anything his heart desired.
When he walked into the showroom, Denemark greeted him like a long-lost friend and ushered him to his private office, where Mooney, feet up on the dealer’s desk, lounged and Denemark himself sat in a chair reserved for customers. He instructed Denemark, pen and paper in hand, as to who among his lieutenants and soldiers could purchase a ear—as well as what make, model, and year.
Mooney rewarded Chuck’s loyalty by giving him permission to purchase an aqua-blue 1946 Buick convertible, which sported the very first whitewall tires in the country. For Ange, he bought a dark blue Fleetwood Cadillac, and for himself, a 1946 Mercury.
Mooney clearly had a love affair with cars. Although he was unimpressed by the ostentatious “luxury” models, he hadn’t lost his appreciation for the low-profile getaway vehicles of the old days. These he treated as prize possessions; they were meticulously waxed and polished weekly at the dealership under Chuck’s watchful eye and outfitted—in a manner that harked back to Mooney’s days as a wheelman—with bulletproof steel plates and high-speed heads and cams, which allowed the cars to reach speeds of 120 miles an hour.
Mooney traveled in his souped-up cars at the speed of an ambulance, from one end of the city to the other, working deals wherever he went. But always he kept his eye on the south side colored district and its policy wheels, making what progress he could among the colored as a white Italia
n, until at last Eddie Jones made good his promise of partnership and financial backing.
Jones, who in 1946 still awaited parole from prison, instructed his brother, George, to proceed, bankrolling Mooney to the tune of several hundred thousand dollars that year, and, under the auspices of a partnership with the Jones brothers, Mooney began pushing his way into colored policy wheels while simultaneously purchasing the necessary equipment for an immense jukebox, pinball, and vending-machine venture. He enlisted Chuckie English, a friend from the old 42 days, to oversee the day-to-day operation.
With the exception of the pinball machines, “illegal devices intended for the purpose of gambling,” the operation was totally legitimate—until the skimming, hijacking, and shakedowns began, which was what had attracted Mooney in the first place.
Skimming—the practice of taking a percentage of income off the top before reporting it to the IRS—was especially lucrative in an all-cash business where an exact accounting of income was impossible to establish. And though jukeboxes and vending machines were seemingly only a nickel-and-dime business, they lived up to Mooney’s adage, “Nickels make dimes, dimes make dollars, and dollars can make you a rich son of a bitch.”
With Mooney’s blessing, English recruited union guy Joey Glimco, Willie Potatoes Daddano, Joe “Gags” Gagliano, Dave Yaras, and Lenny Patrick as his territorial front men for the machines. In turn, these men brought in their own soldiers as “distributors”—in all over five hundred men—to blanket Chicago and the surrounding suburbs with what Mooney ultimately claimed were more than twelve thousand jukeboxes, cigarette, and pinball machines.
The distributors went fifty-fifty with tavern and restaurant owners on the illegal pinball machines, a small flat weekly amount on the others. An owner unwilling to allow Syndicate machines in his place of business might experience vandalism, firebombings, or worse. Once a business was infiltrated, the underworld could monitor operations, make high-interest loans to a struggling owner, or, even better, take over the business completely.
Monopolizing the city’s jukeboxes also gave the Syndicate enormous clout with the entertainment industry; a new song wouldn’t be a hit if it didn’t receive exposure. Mooney and his associates could flood the city with a favorite entertainer’s record or demand payola from a studio merely to assure placement of an aspiring new hopeful in Syndicate machines.
With an average weekly take of ten dollars per machine, the money piled up fast. Mooney and the Jones brothers split the income from the venture fifty-fifty, skimming off the lion’s share of the $6 million in yearly earnings and reporting to the IRS little, if any, of the profits.
Stolen cigarettes, hijacked by Syndicate soldiers up and down the nation’s highways, offered another income opportunity. Placed in Mooney’s vending machines, each pack of cigarettes sold represented a clear 100 percent profit.
“This is just the tip of the iceberg,” Mooney confided to Chuck. “Shit, we’re goin’ worldwide . . . we’re settin’ up a guy right now with cigarettes to move in on the Philippines. . . . The son of a bitch’s practically got the fuckin’ government on his payroll.”
Chuck would later learn that the “guy” Mooney spoke of was a shadowy figure and ex-GI from Chicago named Harry Stonehill, whose political connections included everybody from a Philippine senator named Ferdinand Marcos and the Philippine Catholic diocese to Philippine proconsul Edward Landsdale and General Douglas MacArthur. The alliance would ultimately be worth billions, providing Chicago with an entrée into areas New York had not yet entered: Asian gambling ventures, smuggling, black markets, and narcotics.
Although Chuck’s fortunes hadn’t soared in 1946, Mooney’s had; by spring, his personal income from the Jones deal, his book joints and gambling partnerships, as well as stolen war bonds and the numerous stolen goods from other burglaries and heists, exceeded several million dollars. And, taking Jones’s lead, Mooney began to invest in legitimate enterprises, paying what was a fortune in postwar America—$65,000—for a liquor store, the R & S. Additionally, he bought an old storefront in the West Side colored district on Roosevelt near Paulina—which he planned to call the Boogie Woogie and which he promised Chuck would soon be “Chicago’s version of the Cotton Club.”
He also laid out $32,000 cash as down payment for a stately yellow brick home on Winonah in the suburb of Oak Park for his growing family—which now included a new baby, Francine—and gave Chuck the responsibility of supervising its renovation and delivering the monthly mortgage payment.
Chuck, who desperately wanted out of the book joint on Cicero, got his ticket with the Boogie Woogie. Mooney made him manager of the club and put him in charge of its design and remodeling—proof to Chuck that Mooney did indeed have bigger plans for his future.
Determined to gain his brother’s approval, Chuck dove into the Boogie Woogie project with the tenacity of a bulldog, and, once completed, it was everything Mooney had envisioned and more.
With nightfall, the surrounding poverty-stricken neighborhood of winos and dope peddlers faded from view and the Boogie Woogie came to life, its blue and orange neon sign flashing BOOGIE and WOOGIE in alternate rhythm to the wail of jazz trumpets and saxophones playing inside. The doors of shiny black sedans and limousines, lining the street in front of the club, opened, exposing the long dark legs of beautiful Negro women dressed in slinky sequined gowns of satin and silk. Their pinstriped escorts, hair slicked back in pompadours under brimmed fedoras, were mostly Chicago’s policy men or up-and-coming Negro racketeers. They lined up out front, laughing and swaggering and strutting their stuff, waiting to get inside. And once there, it all became a blur of sound and sweat and swing.
Chuck booked popular colored musicians and entertainers from all over. Some were big names like Nat King Cole, but most were local talent who packed sidearms and were just looking for a chance to make it big. Celebrities or not, as far as the throngs of Boogie Woogie patrons were concerned, this was a “high-tone” place. The money rolled in and Mooney was pleased; that was all that mattered to Chuck.
After Eddie Jones was released from prison in 1946, he and his dazzling wife, Lydia, frequented the club, as did one of Jones’s lieutenants, Teddy Roe. Chuck had been warned about Roe; he was distrustful and suspicious of the Italians, particularly Mooney Giancana, and despite the money to be made from penetrating the Italian community, he’d vehemently disagreed with Jones’s joint venture with Giancana—as had virtually all the other small-time colored wheel operators.
Chuck stood behind the bar of the club each night and listened to the policy men; he got to know how their operations worked and how the Negroes thought. More than once, he had to jump up on the bar, revolver in hand, and clear the place out amid ladies’ squeals and gunfire. But that was the exception; more often than not, he discovered that the policy men settled disputes and power struggles through discussion—however heated—and he admired them for that. Their genteel cooperation was something foreign to what he’d witnessed with Mooney’s gang. Mooney took care of problems in a more straightforward fashion—he killed them. Closing the Boogie Woogie each night, Chuck couldn’t help but wonder what Mooney had in mind for the policy kings.
He didn’t have to wait long to find out. On a warm night in late April, Mooney stopped by the club after midnight to see how things were going. Chuck poured them both a scotch and they sat at a table, watching through a cloud of smoke as glistening couples went through their bumps and grinds.
Mooney lit his cigar and leaned forward, frowning. “You might get a little trouble in here over the next few weeks,” he said. “I’m gonna take ’em over . . . Roe, Jones, the whole goddamned bunch.”
Chuck wasn’t surprised; Mooney had just been waiting for the right time. He guessed now was as good as any and he nodded.
“I’ve had it with Roe; he’s a no-good son of a bitch.”
“And Eddie?” Chuck asked.
“Yeah, well, he’s seen his day, too. Shit, I kinda like the guy. I don�
��t wanna take him out, but he won’t move over and let us in. I gotta do somethin’ about him.”
Chuck lit a cigarette and inhaled. “Like what?” He exhaled with the words.
Mooney smiled and pushed his chair back from the table to get up. “Don’t even fuckin’ worry about it, Chuck. You just run this joint like you’ve been doin’—you’ve done a great job here—and let me take care of the rest. Okay? Capisce?”
Mooney motioned around the room, the light catching on his diamond cuff links, and then stood up. “Just keep up the good work and”—he put his face up close to Chuck’s, dropping his voice—“watch out for some pissed-off shines.”
As Mooney strolled across the room toward the door, Teddy Roe walked in with an entourage of muscle and a woman on his arm. Seeing Mooney, he bristled and stood his ground. The dancers on the floor had reached a fury of movement and the noise, the music, and the crowd made it impossible to tell what was going to happen.
Chuck shot a look behind the bar at his manager, Jimmy New York, and his black bartender, Willie, and nodded in Mooney’s direction. Seeing Roe, they reached under the counter for their guns. Chuck searched the pocket of his suit coat for the reassuring coldness of his own revolver and, rising quickly from the table, walked over through the dancers to his brother’s side.
“Well, what the fuck is Mooney Giancana doin’ in a nigger joint? Tryin’ to steal more of our money? Or you think he’s just here for a little taste of one of our women?” Roe said, sneering, to the two men flanking his side. They grinned arrogantly and laughed.
Mooney expressionlessly surveyed the mulatto. Chuck felt his heart skip a beat.
“I own the joint.” Mooney smiled coldly. “Just like I’m gonna fuckin’ own you . . . and everything else you goddamned shines got.” He stared into the eyes of the sequined woman on Roe’s arm. “Including her if I want.” Chuck saw her red lips part. His brother was right; if he wanted her, she was his. Roe saw it, too.