Double Cross

by Sam Giancana

  Not to be outdone, Genovese cried for Moretti’s death once more. Terming it “mercy killing,” Genovese convinced Anastasia to do the job, and on October 4, 1951, while dining on pasta in a New Jersey Italian diner, Willie Moretti was shot to death. The murder cast uncertainty over Costello’s future; not only was Costello’s lifetime friend now dead, but the man he’d helped make boss of the Mangano family had carried out the execution. Mooney watched warily from Chicago as word spread that Vito Genovese was one step closer to power.

  In spite of the upheaval in New York, the wheels of enterprise continued to turn in Chicago and, with the exception of the Teddy Roe incident, things were relatively quiet.

  Until March of 1952, Mooney’s goings-on had been low-profile—and he liked it that way. But that March, perhaps in an attempt to find a replacement for the gregarious Al Capone, the Chicago Tribune published a list they called the “Bad 19.” There was little in the collection of leering mug shots to fire the public imagination. Most of the shots were of old-timers such as Ricca, Guzik, and Humphreys, whose charisma was minimal. However, there were a few new faces, most notably, Mooney Giancana’s.

  Anne Marie gasped as Chuck handed her the paper. “Oh my God, Mooney’s picture is here,” she exclaimed.

  Her reaction was echoed in most Italian homes where Mooney had already become a household name. His appearance among the hoodlums was met in the old neighborhood with a mixture of pride and indignation. On the one hand, one of their own had made it to the big time. On the other, most found the label bad too strong a word.

  “Mooney isn’t really bad,” Anne Marie commented. “Not really. He can be so nice. And there isn’t a person I can think of who wouldn’t say the same thing, too.”

  Of course, all of her acquaintances were people in the Outfit. Saturday nights out at the Chez Paree had become a sort of an Outfit get-together. She played gin rummy with the wives, shopped with Ange, had coffee with Mary and Laura English, and lunch with aunts whose husbands worked as soldiers for Mooney.

  For the most part, she found the men in Mooney’s entourage handsome and well bred. They behaved politely and never swore in front of the women. And if they were unfaithful, their indiscretion was discreet and always—an unspoken rule among the men—outside the “family.” The women never discussed their husbands’ “business,” nor did they ask questions.

  Chuck and Anne Marie’s life had become typical of others in Mooney’s world. Not only did he control their employment—and therefore their financial status—but their day-to-day decisions, as well. They asked for permission to move into a new, more spacious apartment. Asked for permission to buy a new car. They went out to the restaurants, clubs, and events Mooney supported. They contributed to charities Mooney sponsored. They used the physicians and attorneys Mooney and Ange “strongly recommended.” And they did these things without question—not necessarily out of fear, but out of what they termed “respect” for Mooney’s position.

  Chuck occasionally recalled old conversations he and Mooney had had about wives and marriage. Older and now married himself, he’d come to think that Mooney had been right. In organizing one’s life and family around a tight-knit, structure like the Outfit, things became predictable; your home life stayed nice and neat. The people connected to the Outfit became your friends, your wife’s friends, your children’s friends. It would be more than a decade before Chuck would recognize the fatal flaw in this arrangement: Outfit members became your only friends and, as such, your only contact with reality. And Outfit reality was quite different from that of the rest of the world’s.

  Mooney didn’t wrestle with such complex philosophical or moral issues when he ordered Teddy Roe’s execution on the night of August 4, 1952. This time, his men were successful and their shotguns blasted Roe five times as he walked from his home to his car.

  Not much attention was given to Roe’s untimely end. The police displayed their usual apathy regarding gangland slayings. With the exception of an outcry from the colored alderman, Archibald Carey, directed at Chicago’s Mayor Kennelly, and a postfuneral skirmish between a colored contingent and the authorities, Roe’s legacy was quickly and effectively buried.

  In late August, Chuck found himself in Mooney’s Oak Park backyard, watching as his brother sharpened his golfing abilities. It was warm and Mooney’s putting green was a lush velvet carpet of perfectly manicured grass.

  An avid golfer who excelled at chipping and putting, Mooney took his game seriously—too seriously, Chuck believed. He stood by silently as his brother frowned with determined concentration. After he made the shot, Mooney turned and said hello with what had become a characteristic growl.

  “You had enough of layin’ around on your ass at the theater?” he queried.

  Chuck’s heart leapt and, though slightly offended by Mooney’s insinuation that he’d been lazing merrily along for the past two years, he replied with enthusiasm, “You’re goddamned right I have.”

  Mooney put his club in his golf bag and smiled. “That’s good, because I got an opportunity I think you’re gonna like.”

  Chuck’s mind raced.

  Mooney grinned, adding, “But you’ll never guess what it is . . . not in a million years.”

  “Well, tell me then,” Chuck countered.

  “I will, but let’s sit down first and have a drink.”

  They sat in the warm sunshine at a wrought-iron table on the patio. Alva, Mooney and Ange’s faithful cook, promptly appeared to serve coffee.

  “Plastics, Chuck. What do you think of plastics?”

  “Plastics? I don’t know . . . what about them?”

  “Well, I’m told by people who should know that plastic is the material of the future. That someday, just about everything will be plastic.”

  “Yeah, I see.” There was doubt in his voice.

  “Well, I want you to go to see Joe Esposito over on Milwaukee Avenue. He’s startin’ a plastics factory, gonna make vinyl bags, stuff like that. Someday, who knows, the Outfit might be a giant in a new industry.” He chuckled and reached over to smack Chuck’s hand playfully.

  Joe and his brother, Chuck, were the sons of a man with an infamous history in Chicago’s Patch: Diamond Joe Esposito. Chuck remembered the brothers from the streets of his childhood, recalled hearing stories about the hit on their father.

  “You really think this thing will fly?” Chuck asked hesitantly.

  “Yeah, and I want you to help pilot the ship. You said you wanted to run a business . . . now here’s your chance.”

  “What made you decide on plastics? I mean, there’re lots of opportunities out there.”

  “Yeah, and most of them I’ve already got a piece of. I got Willie Potatoes workin’ on the sanitation business. There’s big money in garbage. And the more people there are in the world, the more garbage there’s gonna be. I got a shrimp business in Cuba, oil wells in Texas, and gas in Louisiana. Besides that, there’s so much shit, you have to be a Hebe accountant to keep track of it.”

  “How’s your partner, King Farouk?” Chuck said, smiling.

  “Happy as a fuckin’ clam for now. But there’re problems over there. Hey, like I’ve said before, these foreign countries are always on the verge of war. Look at Korea. Look at China and Taiwan. My guy in Manila told me that if it weren’t for the CIA and the Outfit, the whole fuckin’ place would blow up. They’re already gettin’ nervous about Cuba.”

  “Nervous? I can’t understand what the fuck for,” Chuck said, sarcasm lacing his voice. “Unless it’s the thousands of Cubans who’d like to overthrow the Cuban government. Frankly, after goin’ down there myself, I can’t fuckin’ blame them. While Batista’s gettin’ fat off payoffs, they’re all starvin’ and sellin’ their sisters for a buck.”

  A scowl formed on Mooney’s face. “Hey, goddamn it. That’s some of my fuckin’ money the cocksucker is gettin’ fat on. If he’s out . . . we could all be out.” He paused. “But we’re hedgin’ our bets. Politics are p
olitics . . . forget about the country. It’s all the fuckin’ same. You gotta protect your interests by playin’ both sides.”

  “Both sides?”

  “Yeah,” Mooney said, grinning. “Now, instead of one bag of money”—he shrugged his shoulders—“what the fuck, we send two.”

  “One to Batista and—”

  “One to the rebels.”

  “That’s pretty good. I guess I can hope the rebels win, then.”

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Mooney snapped. “You sound like the fuckin’ government, some cetriolo agent. What we want is to keep things the same if we can. We stand to lose a lot of money . . . the other money is just insurance ’til we see how things go.” His voice trembled in anger. “Capisce?” He raised his clenched fist and slammed it on the table. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. Capisce? Never.”

  Realizing he’d made a serious error in judgment, Chuck tried to backpedal. “Hey, sorry. Just an opinion, that’s all. You don’t need to go gettin’ burned up at me about it.”

  Still angry, Mooney stood up and looked at his gold Patek Philippe watch. “Hey, why don’t you just fuckin’ go to your new job and get the hell outta here.”

  “Hey fine, fine. You don’t have to fuckin’ tell me twice.” Chuck turned to leave.

  “Goddamn it. Come back here, you lousy son of a bitch. Just forget about it. Okay?”

  Chuck nodded uncertainly.

  Mooney, ever the enigma, suddenly smiled. “You got me so fired up . . . shit . . . I forgot this.” He pulled an emerald and diamond bracelet from his pocket and held it up in the sunlight. “Give this to Anne Marie. You don’t have to say I gave it to you. Just give it to her. Part of a celebration for your new job. And while you’re at it, go buy a few new suits over at Celano’s for yourself.” He handed Chuck a roll of cash. It was all hundreds. “If you’re gonna run a business, you gotta look like a fuckin’ businessman. Right?”

  “Right,” Chuck agreed, nodding. He thanked Mooney profusely and left hurriedly for home.

  Mooney did crazy shit like that all the time. One minute he’d be so pissed off, a guy might think Mooney was gonna kill him—a mood of his that came to be known as “tight shoes”—and the next, he’d be all smiles, putting a wad of bills in the guy’s hand.

  Mooney came by their house now and then for breakfast and always brought Anne Marie some Danish. Once, he’d even brought a mink coat along as an added surprise. He was always doing things like that for people. It could be a car for a politican’s wife, whom he was screwing at the time right under the man’s nose; a diamond friendship ring for a celebrity; or a playground full of equipment for the Church children’s camp. You never knew what Mooney would do next, whether he’d be in a good mood or have “tight shoes.” His unpredictability was a strength; it kept everybody around him on their toes, whether they were soldiers or women or family. And it made them eager to please the man who could pass out expensive baubles as if they were candy.

  On his way home from Mooney’s, Chuck stopped by a jeweler and got a black velvet presentation case for the bracelet. He had a chance to examine it more closely as he placed it in the case. There were eight perfect square-cut emeralds, five carats each. These, in turn, were linked by a dazzling chain of sixteen diamonds set in platinum. It was a stunning gift and he could hardly wait to see his little Babe’s face when she first laid eyes on it.

  He wasn’t disappointed. Anne Marie’s reaction was a combination of ecstasy and tears.

  “Oh, Chuck, it’s so beautiful,” she cried. “Look at the diamonds, the emeralds.” Hugging his neck, she started to laugh and then her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Well, I know one thing . . . I need a new dress to wear with this bracelet.”

  “Well, go get one, get two. I’ve got some good news.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled broadly. “I got a new job.”

  “Really? You mean it? Oh, Chuck, that’s wonderful.”

  If he hadn’t wanted to tell her what he was doing, the conversation would have ended right there. She never would have asked; a good wife never did. But he wasn’t going to be secretive about something so legitimate as running a plastics factory, so he continued. “Yeah, I think it’s pretty exciting. Mooney is sending me over to run a plastics factory with Joe and Chuck Esposito.”

  “Plastic? What is that for?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but Mooney kept tellin’ me over and over how it’s the thing of the future. He thinks we can all get rich in the plastics business. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  The fall of 1952 marked the presidential elections and again, as in 1948, Mooney was more than mildly interested. In fact, to Chuck, who’d never been politically inclined, Mooney seemed something of a scholar on the subject, aware of things going on in the government Chuck felt sure most people knew nothing about.

  To his surprise, though, when asked if he was supporting Illinois’s favorite son, Adalai Stevenson, Mooney laughed.

  “I like a winner. I like Ike. But Hump and I like his running mate, Nixon, even better.”

  “But isn’t Jake Arvey supporting Stevenson? Didn’t he help make sure Kefauver wasn’t nominated?” Chuck asked, referring to the genius political-machine organizer who’d been instrumental in Truman’s 1948 election, and who’d ascended to national attention months before with his behind-the-scenes defeat of crime-busting Senator Estes Kefauver at the Democratic convention.

  “Yeah. We had to get Kefauver off the ticket. But Arvey knew all along that Ike was the one.”

  Mooney must have noticed the blank look on Chuck’s face: what he was saying wasn’t registering. He decided to elaborate. “Listen, it’s just the way it’s supposed to be. Any way this one goes, we win. I’m hedging my bets. We got campaign contributions to both sides: Our guys out in California are helping Nixon, and Arvey’s handling Stevenson. Can you beat those odds?”

  Chuck had to admit things looked pretty good for the Outfit. And when Ike eventually won, all Mooney did was wink and say, “What did I tell you?”

  By 1953, Chuck was firmly entrenched in the plastics business. Mooney had been right; the more Chuck read about the industry, the more convinced he was that it was the wave of the future. But the operation he was running with the Espositos wasn’t taking off; Chuck thought it might not make it through the end of the year. The problem was that the rest of Chicago—or the United States, for that matter—didn’t have the same vision. Nevertheless, he plunged into his new job, determined to make plastic a household word.

  “It’ll happen. I told you plastic is gonna be big,” Mooney insisted. “But if it doesn’t,” he said, shrugging, “who the hell cares?”

  Chuck kept it to himself, tried to play nonchalant, but the truth was, he cared. He wanted more than anything to prove to Mooney he could make it work. That way, when Mooney wanted someone to run another, more elaborate business, he’d turn to Chuck. That was the real reward Chuck was waiting for—the chance to move up in the organization.

  Chuck wasn’t the only person Mooney rewarded with a new job. With Accardo’s and Ricca’s agreement, Mooney sent Marshall Caifano to Las Vegas as Chicago’s casino watchdog; it was considered a “cush” assignment.

  To make way for Marshall, Johnny Roselli—considered Chicago’s “rep” in Vegas—began to spend even more time in Hollywood and Los Angeles. Since his release from prison in 1947 for the Browne-Bioff extortion scam, Roselli had divided his attentions between Los Angetes—where he had the impotent local boss, Jack Dragna, acting as Chicago’s virtual lackey—and Vegas, watchdoging the casinos. But his first love would always be Hollywood; he produced a few films, became a member of the Friar’s Club, where he rubbed elbows with some of the day’s biggest stars. There was nothing Johnny Roselli loved more than playing footsie with celebrities and the studios.

  “He’s perfect for Hollywood,” Mooney said of Roselli. “The Screen Actors Guild isn’t like
the other fuckin’ unions—the others are animals—out there you gotta have class. And Roselli’s smooth as fuckin’ silk.”

  Chuck heard that Roselli was also supposed to be on the lookout for rising stars who might come in handy someday. “They make great bagmen,” Mooney commented. “Everybody’s too busy bein’ dazzled by a star and askin’ for their autograph to ask what’s in a briefcase.”

  If Roselli spotted a promising talent, he called Mooney. Mooney would help the fledgling star’s career—whether through an engagement at Vegas, a part in a movie, or a recording contract. And if the individual was genuinely talented, it was all the break he or she needed. But it was clearly understood that when Mooney needed a favor, the star would reciprocate. The bigger the star became, the bigger the debt to Chicago.

  According to Mooney, Chicago used its money and influence to try and get close to everybody from Ronald Reagan to Ed Sullivan. In addition there were other entertainers, who had already grown used to the Outfit’s many fringe benefits and whose behaviour caused Mooney to scornfully describe them as “fuckin’ prima donnas”. Very few earned the compliment of being “real stand-up guys”.

  Mooney’s influence was also spreading rapidly into the sporting arena—something that came as no shock to Chuck; he himself had been the recipient of the best seats in the joint at enough fights, ball games, and tracks to know the power Chicago wielded with athletes and promoters. And besides, sports were a logical extension of Mooney’s gambling enterprises.

  According to Mooney, the underworld’s interest in big-league sports went back to a New York guy named Louie Jacobs, who got his start running rum with Costello and the guys during the Depression. He later parlayed his earnings into the world’s largest sports concession-stand business, handling even the 1960 Olympics in Rome. Jacobs had been instrumental, thanks to his connections, in putting the money together for three major league baseball teams owned by Chicagoan Bill Veeck.