Double Cross

by Sam Giancana

  But that was only one example of Jacobs’s abilities as a matchmaker, Mooney told Chuck. “Our name might not be on the dotted line as owners of the all-American pastime,” Mooney said, “but the money came from us. Having Jacobs operating at the parks is like having jukeboxes in a joint . . . we know what’s goin’ on all the time. We know if an owner is in financial trouble. Jacobs lets us know, and we bail ’em out. It’s like points in Vegas. Eventually, we get a piece of the pie—football, baseball, boxers, horses, jai alai, dogs, even fuckin’ golf tournaments, you name it.”

  As happened with the entertainment industry, word got out under Mooney’s reign that if an athlete would cooperate with the Outfit, his career would soar. He’d get the publicity—“We pay off the sportswriters,” Mooney said. He’d get the right fights or be placed on a big-name team; he’d get everything he needed to make it to the top. The only catch was simple and understood up front: When Sam Giancana said, “Fall down in the third round” or “Drop the ball,” the guy had better do it.

  By mid-1953, Mooney’s circle of athletes—most of whom he thought of as “friends,” if there really was such a thing with Mooney—had grown to include the nation’s greats, including American baseball idols and boxing champions. Mooney never claimed the baseball players actually did anything out of the way, nor did he insinuate they’d thrown their share of games, but he did make it perfectly clear that these players routinely enjoyed a “good time” at Outfit expense and that the Outfit guys, in turn, enjoyed their company: “Those guys should just move in to Frank Costello’s seventh-floor suite at the Washington Hotel. They’re there all the time . . . we give ’em broads, whatever they want.”

  In boxing, Mooney’s acquaintances included Rocky Marciano, Rocky Graziano, and Sugar Ray Robinson, the latter of whom he’d called a meeting with to get him to throw a fight with Graziano.

  “I offered him a million bucks and the promise that he’d win the next match,” Mooney said. “Can you believe the guy turned it down? Robinson’s got balls.”

  Mooney’s world was fast becoming one of glitz, glamour, and greed—a place where nothing was out of reach. Listening to Mooney recount his wanderings and his conquests, Chuck thought he also caught a glimpse of his brother’s dreams. But where could Mooney go from here, Chuck wondered. Where?

  CHAPTER 14

  Union problems were probably the only difficulties Chuck hadn’t encountered with the plastics factory. Mooney’s union muscle man Joey Glimco would have had a hundred Teamsters lined up every day outside the factory had Mooney ordered it and Chuck could have shipped his product all day long—if only he’d had someplace to ship it to. But the truth was, there just weren’t any customers interested in harebrained items like plastic bags. Chuck had dreaded telling Mooney what was coming, but when he warned his brother in the spring that the business might go under, Mooney hardly responded. “Win a few, lose a few,” he commented offhandedly, shrugging his shoulders.

  Reluctantly, in June of 1953, Chuck and his two partners filed for bankruptcy. And Chuck, who’d put up ten thousand dollars of his own money and struggled for months to make it work, was finally defeated.

  Anne Marie stood by helplessly while Chuck twiddled his thumbs through the summer. Out of work, he became moody—a growling tyrant. Mooney had promised him that a job would turn up, but as the weeks passed, he heard nothing from his brother.

  What bothered Chuck most about this job situation was that deep down he knew if Mooney had wanted to give him a job, he could have. Like a fairy godmother, his brother could have simply waved his hand and solved all Chuck’s problems—overnight, Mooney could have made sure Chuck was worth millions, could have set him up in Vegas or Cuba or some other glitzy spot. But it looked as if that wasn’t in the cards, and Chuck sat up nights that summer trying to figure out if Mooney didn’t think he could cut it or if he just didn’t give a goddamned whether Chuck and his family starved to death.

  Sometimes, when he felt the hurt most acutely, Chuck rationalized Mooney’s lack of assistance by telling himself that his brother didn’t realize how close to the edge he was financially, that he was too busy with more important things. But secretly, he knew the truth: Mooney didn’t believe he had what it took to be in the Outfit. The realization was so deflating, Chuck found himself incapable of striking out on his own. If Mooney didn’t believe he could cut it, why should anyone else?

  Over the following weeks, he stubbornly refused to make his weekly visits to Mooney’s Oak Park home. “I don’t want him to think I need a handout,” he insisted. But at last, his pride succumbed to desperation.

  “Shit, I don’t care what it is, Mooney,” he said to the impassive face across the desk. “Just give me somethin’ to do. I gotta work. I got a wife and kid to feed.”

  “Hey, relax. There’s nothin’ right now. But somethin’ will break, and when it does, Christ Almighty, Chuck, you know I’ll give you a call. In the meantime, let me help you out.” Mooney opened his desk drawer and motioned around the desk with one slender diamond-ringed hand. “C’mon over here,” he said, “I want you to see somethin’”

  Chuck edged around the massive oak desk to Mooney’s side. The open drawer revealed tightly bundled stacks of cash.

  “See this?” Mooney pointed downward. “There’s over half a million bucks here. And there’s plenty more where that came from in a hundred bank accounts from the Bahamas to Switzerland.” He looked up, his eyebrows knitted into a scowl. “So do you think you should worry about a few measly bucks? Do you?”

  Sheepishly, Chuck shook his head and put his hands in his pockets. He didn’t want Mooney to think he was being silly about it all. “No, I guess not,” he said, and then feeling his pride surge up within him, he suddenly burst out, “But damn it, Mooney, this is your money, not mine.” His hands were out of his pockets now and he was flailing them around. He shook his head. “Goddamn it, I’m not asking for a handout. I came over here to ask for a job.”

  Mooney remained calm and smiled. He casually lifted one bundle from the drawer and peeled off twenty bills. “Here, here’s two thousand dollars,” he said softly. “Now, go home and relax. When a job comes up, it’s yours.”

  Chuck hesitated, but he didn’t want to insult Mooney and, besides, his family needed the money. “Okay, I’ll try to be patient,” he said, taking the cash from Mooney’s outstretched hand. “But I’m not very good at it.”

  Mooney laughed. “No kiddin’?”

  Chuck didn’t join him in his joke. “Hey, I’m serious here. Just remember, I don’t want a free ride, I want a fuckin’ job.”

  He left, dissatisfied with the outcome of the meeting but somewhat relieved. He hadn’t really thought about what type of job Mooney might come up with, but the truth was, it didn’t matter. He just wanted another chance to prove to Mooney he could do it. More than an income, more than anything he could think of, Chuck wanted to be a part of the Outfit, wanted his brother’s respect.

  When he didn’t have a job by August, Chuck was beside himself. Each week, he saw Mooney and each week was the same. “Nothin’ yet,” Mooney would say, shaking his head.

  Chuck’s money ran out and once again he was desperate. For her part, Anne Marie was confused, unable to understand why Chuck couldn’t go out and get another job, outside the Outfit. “If Mooney won’t give you a job, then why should he mind if you find one yourself? After all, a man has to work,” she said over and over. Chuck knew she didn’t understand how much their lives were controlled by Mooney. It would never change, and he wasn’t convinced he wanted it to. If he went out and got a regular job like other people . . . well, the truth was, that was out of the question. He had to have Mooney’s permission to do that. And Mooney would never in a million years give him permission to leave the family. Besides, he had something to prove and he couldn’t do that working for some sap in a factory. He had to work for Mooney.

  “You can’t have your cake and eat it,” Chuck railed at Anne Marie. “I
f we want nice things”—he pointed around the house—“if we want nice clothes, a new car anytime we want one . . . if we want Mooney’s confidence . . . well, then we have to stay in line. We have to do what Mooney wants.” He didn’t think that’s what she wanted to hear, but it was the truth. And he would hear of nothing else.

  On a Thursday evening, Chuck went by Mooney’s home again. This time, he was determined he wouldn’t leave without a job.

  “Goddamn it, Chuck, quit bustin’ my balls. I don’t have a fuckin’ job for you right now,” Mooney snapped.

  Momentarily, Chuck recoiled, but he quickly decided to plunge ahead. “Well, then, Jesus Christ”—there was frustration in his tone—“what do you expect me to do about not bein’ able to make a living? What?” He raised his hands heavenward. “Pray? Go play fuckin’ pool with the guys? Or just sit around, starin’ out the goddamned window? What?” Chuck’s face turned flush, his jaw clenched, and his hands began to tremble—he felt himself losing control. Mooney, however, looked as calm and collected as ever. “Mooney, what the fuck am I supposed to do? What? Just fuckin’ tell me,” he pleaded, screaming the words. He’d never screamed at Mooney in his whole life.

  “Okay, okay. Don’t go fuckin’ crazy,” Mooney said, shaking his head. “Jesus . . . here . . .” He reached for the drawer.

  Chuck saw his brother move for the bundles of cash and felt his blood pressure soar. “Don’t even fuckin’ think about it,” he screamed. “I don’t want one red cent.”

  Mooney pulled out a thick stack of bills and softly, almost seductively, said, “Hey, come on, it’s the least I can do, for now. Come on take it . . . there’s ten grand here.” He held the money out. “Take this and go have a drink at the Armory and calm down.”

  Mooney’s smile oozed like warm honey and Chuck felt it envelop him. He struggled against the temptation, against being bribed by his brother, and suddenly he was enraged; he wasn’t going to be appeased or patronized.

  Later he would say he didn’t know what came over him—but he knew at the time he’d snapped. With one quick stroke, he knocked the money from Mooney’s hand. “You can keep your goddamned money,” he yelled. “I don’t want one . . . do you hear me? Not one . . . goddamned motherfuckin’ dime.” Chuck leaned over to pick up the bundle and then threw it back on the desk. “Keep it,” he said, and turned on his heel. “And fuck you.”

  “Fine then, fuck you,” Mooney yelled back.

  Chuck marched out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He drove around for a while to try to cool off. It was the first time he’d ever stood up to his brother like that. Now, not only was he mad at Mooney, he was furious with himself, as well. Mooney wouldn’t stand for that kind of thing—thank God no one else had seen it all. His behavior had been inexcusable. He didn’t know what had come over him. But there wasn’t anyplace else to turn. If he didn’t get a job, he thought he’d go crazy. Mooney obviously didn’t think he had what it took. And he wasn’t going to be one of the freeloaders his brother despised and lower Mooney’s opinion of him further. If he couldn’t work, then he wasn’t asking him for money. No way.

  When Chuck got home, he was still upset. He screamed and stormed through the house and finally left for the Armory.

  Later that night, he waited until he was sure Anne Marie would be in bed asleep before going home. He’d tried to get drunk and even that hadn’t worked; he was still sober and miserable. He lay awake, hating Mooney, thinking about all the times as a kid Mooney had kicked his ass, had held authority over him. At the same time, he couldn’t deny that he loved Mooney—all his life, he’d only wanted to please him. He wanted to make him proud, wanted to be accepted as his equal. He thought he’d probably do anything to gain Mooney’s acceptance. And worst of all, Mooney wouldn’t even give him the chance.

  Now that the other guys in the Outfit were on easy street, they all thought that since he was Mooney’s brother, he, too, should be rolling in the dough. He didn’t know how many invitations he and Anne Marie had turned down for a night at the Chez Paree that summer—all because they couldn’t afford it. Of course he didn’t tell anybody that; he had an image to uphold. He’d die before he let anyone know that Mooney was dangling him on a fucking string.

  Image was everything, and with that in mind, Chuck got up each morning over the following weeks and donned a suit and tie, just as if he was going to work. Anne Marie fixed him breakfast and coffee and he read the paper. Then he kissed her good-bye and got in the car. It was a strange charade and they didn’t discuss it.

  He wanted to stay on the grapevine, so he stumbled around town, dropping by the Armory lounge for a few drinks, lunching on what money he had at Fritzel’s with the guys, pretending as if things couldn’t be better. As each day passed, he hated himself more and felt increasingly alienated from Mooney—the only person in the entire world who really mattered.

  By September, Anne Marie had had enough. She decided to take matters into her own hands, to go see Mooney herself. After Chuck left one morning, she packed up her three-year-old and drove over to Mooney’s.

  It was the first time Anne Marie had been across the desk from Mooney. Their relationship had been social and friendly; he was the giver of expensive gifts and theater tickets. He was a man whom people respected and feared, loved and hated. She viewed him as a kindly, but unyielding, force in their lives. Now, sitting in front of him, she realized it would take all the courage she could muster even to speak. Always shy, she found herself awed in Mooney’s presence.

  Her black curls fell across her eyes as she lowered her head, collecting her thoughts. “Thank you for seeing me today, Mooney,” she said in a soft, whispery voice. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it”—she looked up to meet him squarely in the eye—“but I had to talk to you.”

  Mooney sat silent and she felt his eyes brush over her; the power he exuded ran through her like an electric current.

  “About what?” he asked gently.

  She cleared her throat and felt her heart skip. “About you and Chuck,” she said with all the bravado she possessed.

  He seemed to soften, the hard lines that traced his face blurred. He nodded and lit a cigar. “Go on.”

  “Well, Chuck . . . Chuck is so disappointed. All he wants to do is please you. I know that because ever since I met him when I was a little kid, well . . . he’s idolized you. Your opinion is all that matters to him, Mooney. There isn’t anything else. But Mooney, he’s proud. And he won’t come to you and ask for anything again. I know that. He won’t. He doesn’t want to lose your respect . . . because that’s what he wants more than anything else in the world.”

  “I see,” he said as he thoughtfully puffed on the cigar.

  “I’m glad you do. I knew you would. The truth is, Chuck would kill me if he knew I’d come over to see you myself. But I had to. I love him and I hate to see you two like this. I want him to be happy. And he’s not, because deep down he doesn’t think he has your respect and confidence.”

  “I could sure tell that,” Mooney replied, grinning.

  “I was hoping you could change that.” Her voice shook and tears filled her eyes.

  “How?”

  “By giving Chuck a job.”

  Bemused, Mooney shook his head and leaned forward. “You really love him, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  Mooney slouched back in his chair and exhaled. Spirals of cigar smoke enveloped him. In the shadow of the lamp, she thought he looked tired, like a man who’d been working too hard. After a moment, he sighed and said, “I’ll find him somethin’, Anne Marie.” He sat up, flicked the ash from his cigar, and put his elbows on the desk. “You know, there’re a couple of things I’ve been thinkin’ of doin’ anyway and I know he’d do a good job handlin’ them for me.” He smiled again and added, “I’ll call him.” He snuffed out his cigar and got up.

  “Oh, that would be wonderful,” she cried, clasping her hands together with delight.

 
As he came around the desk, she stood up.

  “Listen,” he said, putting his arm around her as he escorted her to the door, “everything will be just fine.”

  When he said that, there was an assurance in his voice, a soothing, hypnotic quality in the way his words flowed as he spoke. She looked up into his dark eyes. When he looked back, she felt as if he’d penetrated her soul, as if he could read her mind—and it made her uneasy. Almost instantly, she felt vulnerable, naked, stripped of any secrets she might have. She imagined Mooney had the same effect on other people. Yet there was something else, too. An amazing warmth. And just as quickly as she’d felt unsure, a sudden calm came over her. Just Mooney’s voice, his gesture, and manner countered any fears or doubts she might have had. Paradoxically, she felt safe, totally safe. She was perplexed, like a deer that had been in the hunter’s sights and then realized the hunter wasn’t going to fire—but could have at any moment, if only he’d wanted.

  She understood Mooney’s power; somehow, he made people willing to be his prey. And it didn’t matter what he did to them—they were just grateful that they could be in his world at all. He made you feel happy to be at his mercy. It was crazy and she felt dizzy from it all; she wanted to go.

  “I’ll take care of everything,” he repeated. “Chuck’ll get back to work and everything will be fine. In the meantime, take this,” he said, handing her an envelope.

  She averted his gaze and shook her head. “Oh no, Mooney, I can’t take that. You’ll have to give that to Chuck yourself. I can’t take it. Thank you, but I just can’t.”

  “Now, come on, put it aside for household expenses. . . . It can be just between us,” he goaded.

  “Oh, I’ve already done enough just coming over here on my own.”