Double Cross

by Sam Giancana

  “You can be sure of that,” Chuck agreed.

  “This means the door is wide open.” Mooney leaned back against the soft leather chair and smiled. “Damn . . . it’s all goin’ our way. There’s gonna be trouble out in the Pacific . . . you can bank on that. Guys found out during the war that there’s money to be made if you stir up a little trouble. Government contracts, black-market shit, you name it. Truman’ll play ball. And Chicago, New York . . . we got some big plans; we’re gonna open up new places, like I told you . . . the Dominican Republic, for one. Remember I said we’re working on the Philippines? We already got millions in Cuba. We’re gettin in with Egypt and the Arabs. The votes we bring in are worth a lot more than gettin’ off on a parkin’ ticket or beatin’ the fuckin’ IRS.” Mooney leaned forward. “You see, these foreign countries are funny, Chuck. They can turn in a minute. But if a President owes us, he’ll make sure it’s under control. He’ll ship every fuckin’ soldier in America out to some godforsaken hellhole if he has to . . . just to protect our interests. Because our interests are his and his buddies’ interests.” Mooney sat back and started to laugh.

  “What?” Chuck was perplexed. “What’s so goddamned funny about that?”

  “Shit,” Mooney replied, “I just realized it. . . . Can you believe we’re payin’ the President for protection?”

  “He’s got a bigger army,” Chuck said, joining in Mooney’s laughter.

  Suddenly, Mooney turned serious. “That’s right, he does. But I never met a politician yet with bigger balls than an Italian. And you know what that means?” He raised one eyebrow.

  “What?”

  He leaned across the table and looked Chuck square in the eye. “It means we give the order to fire.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The pale cheeks of his bride deepened as he sealed their future with a kiss. Afterward, she joyfully clasped a bouquet of snow white orchids to her pearl-encrusted bodice and smiled. Anne Marie Torsiello was at last a Giancana.

  For months, every last detail of the lavish affair had been planned by Chuck and Ange—while Mooney had watched on the sidelines, nodding his approval. Strangely, now that his wedding day was actually here, it had taken on a dreamlike quality and Chuck felt as if he stood outside it all, moving through the motions he’d rehearsed in his mind over and over again.

  The May afternoon sun cast long shadows across the wedding party standing in the doorway of Notre Dame Church. On the stairs, women dressed in stoles and crepe, with veiled hats perched stylishly atop chignons, shouted and laughed as they pelted the bride and groom with rice, nickels, dimes, and a hail of Jordan almonds. In response, the children scrambled up and down the steps, gathering as much candy and change as they could carry. Below on the sidewalk, the dark-suited men lit cigars and joked among themselves. Chuck’s brother Pepe and his sisters Vicki, Antoinette, Mary, and Josie flanked a graying Antonio, now nearly seventy, while beside them stood a handsome and beaming Carl Torsiello. “Is this the happiest or saddest day of my life?” he asked Tillie, whose tear-streaked face he dabbed with a handkerchief. “The happiest,” she replied.

  Ange had served as Anne Marie’s maid of honor and now her organza dress rustled as she gathered her daughters, Annette, Bonnie, and Francine, around her like a mother hen. Amid all the hubbub, Chuck caught sight of Mooney, standing silent and apart from the pressing crowd. In the sun, he became a silhouette of fleeting loneliness against the sleek black limousine.

  The reception would be twice as large; four hundred of the city’s leaders, both gang members and politicians, would attend the celebration. And all were Mooney’s men—in one way or another.

  But first there would be a private party for the family at Mooney’s home. Petit fours and canapes catered by Gayfers. Dashing red-coated men to serve the bubbling champagne and hors d’oeuvres on sterling silver trays. And of course, Alva, Mooney’s black cook, to oversee it all.

  At seven o’clock that evening, they left Mooney’s home and made their way to the downtown Sheraton Hotel ballroom. Forty elegantly dressed waiters stood at attention along the wall. Forty candlelit tables, seating ten guests each, surrounded a stage and dance floor. The strains of an eighteen-piece orchestra led by Lou Breeze from the Chicago theater drifted out into the hotel lobby. Surveying the ballroom, Chuck felt a surge of pride; this was going to be the wedding reception to beat all wedding receptions.

  Anne Marie gasped in stunned amazement. “It’s beautiful, Chuck,” she exclaimed. “Like a fairy tale.”

  “You like it?”

  Speechless, she could only nod.

  Once they were seated at the head table, he had a chance to drink it all in, to savor the luxurious drape of the crisp linen tablecloths, the lavish floral arrangements that graced each table, the monumental number of distinguished guests who, tuxedoed and bejeweled, poured through the doors.

  The big guys strolled in with their wives: Paul Ricca, since his release, relegated to media figurehead; Jake Guzik, meek and mild-mannered thanks to his kidnapping; Louis Campagna, an old Capone crony who was fast becoming aligned with Mooney; Joe Fusco, the bootlegger turned liquor distributor; Tony Accardo, the current head of Chicago’s Syndicate; Murray Humphreys, Mooney’s political fixer; Charlie Gioe, the old Nitti crony and Hollywood extortionist—“I gotta watch him,” Mooney had said; Ross Prio, police fixer and north side gambling head; Sam Golfbag Hunt, an old Capone hit man; Eddie Vogel, king of the slot machines; Phil D’Andrea, a Guzik money man and Hollywood extortionist; Gus Alex, the Greek lieutenant and political fixer; the Fischetti brothers, the Syndicate’s celebrity front men and partygoers—“All for show” was how Mooney described them.

  And then, as if on cue, the up-and-comers filed in—mostly members of Mooney’s old gang: Fat Leonard; Needles Gianola, a smarthead from way back who would do anything Mooney asked; his sidekick, James “Mugsy” Tortorella; Rocky Potenza, the gambling lieutenant; Teets Battaglia, Mooney’s loan-shark whiz and enforcer; Frank Caruso, the south side gambling soldier; Joey DiVarco, Mooney’s sometime assassin and extortionist; Willie Potatoes Daddano, the Marquis de Sade of the gang, who also handled vice rackets, cigarette, and pinball machines; Fifi Buccieri, labor-union muscle and assassin; and the brothers Butch and Chuck English, both involved in political fixes, machines, and jukeboxes. Notably absent was the crazy Mad Dog DeStefano—whom Mooney said would “just show up in his fuckin’ pajamas with an ice pick in his pocket and scare the women.”

  Police Commissioner Andy Akins was in attendance, as well as politicians, attorneys, and union guys such as Roland Libonati, Pat Marcy, Jimmy Adducci, Joey Glimco, and John D’Arco. They were hardly through the door before they were sipping wine and slapping backs.

  And there were even a few representatives from the Catholic Church among the guests, notably a priest Mooney used as a courier and bagman, “Father Cash.”

  It was a telling occasion; Needles was right when, at one point in the festivities, he said all a person had to do was watch the interaction between the men to know who was in control. Chuck noticed how the guys he’d thought of as the “powerhouses” fawned over Mooney. Needles described Chicago’s rising star more bluntly, “They shit themselves when Mooney walks in the room.”

  Standing quietly by, Mooney accepted his authority with self-assurance and what Chuck thought was less than veiled pride. But Mooney had good reason to be proud; the truth was, he’d made it—and he was bringing everybody along for the ride. He’d spun the wheel and hit the jackpot and there would be no stopping him now. The whole world was Mooney’s apple.

  After a sumptuous meal, the entertainment began and the place took on the atmosphere of a posh nightclub. Chuck, never one to sit still for long, grew restless and excused himself. He kissed his pretty bride, and whispered into her ear, “I’ll be right back.”

  He wanted to find Mooney, to see what he thought of it all. He edged through the tables to the back of the ballroom, where he was sure his brother would have staked
out a place for whispered business discussions.

  Mooney leaned casually against the wall, cigar in hand. Surprisingly, he was alone. He saw Chuck coming toward him and smiled.

  “Hey, what do you think of all this?” Chuck motioned with a sweeping gesture around the room.

  “Beautiful, Chuck, beautiful. You and Ange, I gotta hand it to ya . . . you sure put on a class act today. How much money you think you got? Everybody brought envelopes. Kansas City, Detroit, Tampa, New Orleans, Cleveland, New York, Boston . . . they all sent theirs.” His eyes narrowed. “I think you made a killing.”

  Chuck nodded, lighting a cigar. “Yeah. I think you’re right.” He paused and added, “Listen, the entertainment’s great, Mooney, thanks to you. . . . You made it all come together. When Joe E. Lewis gets up there in a minute . . . everybody’s gonna go crazy.”

  “Yeah, he’ll break ’em up all right.” Mooney’s face suddenly turned somber.

  Just then Lewis took the microphone and began to sing “Rosie’s Little Nosie.”

  Mooney looked at the stage and began to chuckle. “Shit, Chuck, me and Lewis . . . we go way back.”

  “You do?” Chuck said, surprised.

  “Yeah, remember Jack McGurn?”

  “Yeah, Machine Gun McGurn, shit, that’s a name out of the past.”

  “Well, McGurn got pissed off at Lewis back in twenty-seven. . . . You know how entertainers are . . . always thinkin’ they’re big shots after you helped get ’em there. If you don’t watch it, they get amnesia, forget your fuckin’ name and then they get too big for their britches. Well, Lewis was gonna leave McGurn’s club and go to another one because they offered him a grand a week. McGurn had a fit . . . told Lewis if he did, he’d never fuckin’ live to spend it. But Lewis, the dumb jackass, went on and did it, anyway. I guess he forgot who he was fuckin’ with.” Mooney shook his head in disbelief. “So, always a man of his word . . . Jack sent me, Needles, and another punk over to pay him a visit. We beat him to a pulp and pistol-whipped him real good.” He paused and smiled. “Shit, we cut his fuckin’ throat from stem to stern. . . . His goddamned tongue was hangin’ by a string out of his mouth when we got done with him. It’s a fuckin’ wonder the guy lived . . . let alone can sing. When he got well, let me tell you, he was as nice as pie.”

  Mooney grinned triumphantly and then continued, “One thing we didn’t count on was how other entertainers would react. . . . The story spread like wildfire.” He laughed. “Like wildfire. There isn’t a star alive now who’d turn us down, especially Joe E. Lewis. He wouldn’t turn me down for nothin’. He’ll fuckin’ croon his heart out all night if I tell him to.” He looked at Chuck. “Hey forget about it. That’s a long time ago; the guy’s happy to be here tonight. Capone treated him real good and so have the rest of us. Now he knows his place. Nothin’ personal, just business.”

  It never was personal. Chuck turned to look up at Lewis basking in the spotlight on the stage. He had to admit it was totally insane. Totally fucking crazy. Lewis and Mooney always acted like the best of friends; he would never have imagined such a thing and he wished Mooney hadn’t told him tonight. Here Lewis was entertaining the man who’d dealt a nearly fatal blow to his career.

  Chuck looked on as the crowd cheered and Lewis smiled and began a string of one-liners. He wondered how a person could want their name in lights so much? How could anyone let bygones be bygones after practically having their tongue cut out?

  He had to admit Mooney sure had figured out all the angles. He knew weakness when he saw it. Knew who could be manipulated, sucked clean dry—as long as he made them a star. Lewis and the rest of Hollywood might even hate Mooney. But it didn’t matter—because they feared and respected him more.

  It was just midnight when Chuck and Anne Marie finally left for their honeymoon in Los Angeles. As he put his arm around his new wife, whom he’d recently and affectionately nicknamed “Babe,” and escorted her to the car, he turned, taking one last look at the hotel looming behind him, and silently vowed never to forget May 7, 1949. Today, he’d come of age. It wasn’t just that once a guy got married, he had certain responsibilities to fulfill. Certainly, he wanted to give Anne Marie a beautiful home, wanted to drape her in furs and diamonds. But the day had been more than that.

  It wasn’t often all the guys came together—unless somebody had died or gotten married—and today he’d finally seen with his own eyes the amount of control and power Mooney wielded. What Mooney had been telling him for years was true: “Get to the top, and don’t get caught along the way, and you’ll not only be a good husband and provider . . . you’ll be a hero, too.”

  California was ritzy enough, but in no time at all, Chuck tired of tropical drinks and sunshine. He was eager to get back to Chicago and even more eager to get on with his life. Now wasn’t the time to be lounging around, he explained to Anne Marie. And they checked out of their hotel.

  Mooney had told him to come over when he got back into town, and after depositing his new bride in a spacious apartment he’d rented from Mooney’s friend “Tough Tony” Capezio, Chuck drove right over to Oak Park. He envisioned Mooney announcing that he and Anne Marie would be moving to the Dominican Republic or that he had a new, more important and lucrative job or was being given more territory as reward for his loyal service. Instead, Mooney had some bad news.

  “You gotta pull in your machines, Chuck. Shit . . . put ‘em in storage or somethin’ . . . but pull ’em out. There’s gonna be trouble over in the district. In the meantime, go over to the union and get a job as a motion-picture operator. Okay?”

  Chuck surveyed Mooney’s face. He could tell Mooney was only mildly disturbed by the momentary glitch in business. To his brother, the ten grand a month was a drop in the bucket; to Chuck, a lifeline. He found himself resenting Mooney’s apparent lack of concern. Shit, Chuck thought to himself, Mooney probably orchestrated the “trouble” he was talking about with Commissioner Andy Akins. As his heart sank, he realized the last time he’d been this disappointed was when Mooney brought him that fucking clarinet when he was a kid. He guessed he was just supposed to lie down and play dead for who knew how long.

  “So what’s happened with the Dominican Republic? I was kinda hopin’ that maybe that was gonna come through,” Chuck said. He felt as though he sounded desperate, as if he was grasping at straws.

  Mooney studied him from across his desk before replying. “Shit, right now the fuckin’ dictator down there is causin’ problems. We can’t move in ‘til somethin’ breaks, but Humphreys tells me the government’s workin’ on it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “These things take time.”

  “I understand that . . . but Mooney, I just got married. I got a wife who likes nice things and a new place now. Bills, you know—”

  Mooney cut him off. “Yeah, you like the place? Pretty nice, huh? See how I take care of you? Pretty good.”

  “Yeah, it’s nice. We appreciate everything you’ve done for us.” He checked himself; he didn’t want to raise Mooney’s ire or make him think he was ungrateful—or worse, make him think he was just like all the rest of the family, with his hand always out. “Really nice . . . My wife loves it.” He tried to sound appreciative.

  “I guess she’ll be comin’ over to play cards with Ange and the other women now. She’ll get to know the rest of the family.”

  Chuck knew Mooney meant “family” in its larger sense. The Syndicate guys’ wives all played cards together each week. It kept the wives busy and gave them friends who understood the business. Having his wife join them was a big step; it signified his own acceptance as one of the men who belonged. He tried to salve his discouragement with that knowledge. And although he had no idea how they would make it on a motion-picture operator’s salary, he brightened at the thought of being included in the inner circle. On later reflection, he realized that was precisely why Mooney had mentioned it in the first place. But comforted for now, he changed the subject. “So what else has been goin’ on since we l
eft for California?”

  Mooney frowned. “The usual shit. Ange has been spendin’ money like water. The girls . . . what can I fuckin’ say?” He raised his hands in mock despair. “Annette is drivin’ me nuts. Jesus, all she talks about is Hollywood and boys. Bonnie’s doin’ all right. And Francine, now she’s a sweetheart. But kids . . . well, all I can say is you need a few to know what I’m talkin’ about.” He paused and lit a cigar before adding, “Besides that, it’s always the fuckin’ same. Everybody’s always got their hands out. . . . Pa, he always wants somethin’. Ange’s folks . . . boy, their stripes sure changed when the money started rollin’ in. Now I’m their precious fuckin’ son-in-law. Fat Leonard and the rest of the guys . . . they all got their hands in my pocket.”

  “Don’t forget the Church,” Chuck added.

  If it wasn’t a raffle or some piece of real estate, it was a car or contribution for some camp the diocese was building. And Cardinal Stritch always went to Mooney. Chuck suspected there was more to Mooney’s religious affiliations and philanthropy than met the eye. None of the Giancanas had been “good” Catholics. Growing up in Antonio’s household, salvation meant making it through the week. Forget about heaven. Ange, like his own wife, was deeply religious, and he knew much of Mooney’s generosity had been thanks to her constant prodding. But aside from a few raffles, if Mooney was more deeply involved with Cardinal Stritch, there had to be something in it for Mooney.

  “Yeah, the Church,” Mooney growled. “Ange is comin’ in here practically every goddamned day for some fuckin’ charity.” He softened momentarily and added, “But it makes her happy.” He shrugged his shoulders and leaned back in his chair, curling his lip around his cigar. “You know, Chuck, these priests remind me of the old neighborhood. They got some Chicago guys workin’ in the diocese who Stritch says will make it to the top . . . all the way to the Vatican. Let me tell you, Stritch is one ambitious bastard. And the Church is just like any other political game. There’s a racket behind every altar when you got a guy like Stritch runnin’ the show.” Mooney chuckled. “Or as Stritch says, ‘Down’ God’s work.’”