Double Cross

by Sam Giancana

  “All right. But for now, we’ll keep our talk a secret.”

  “I probably should tell him . . . that wouldn’t be right. But I don’t want Chuck to think I got him the job.”

  “You didn’t . . . I did. And I’ll make sure he understands that.” He walked her to the door. “Don’t stay away so long. It’s nice to see a pretty face.”

  Two days later, the phone rang. Chuck was going back to work.

  Chuck didn’t know what the job was, but it didn’t matter to him anymore what it might entail; he’d decided over the past months that anything Mooney asked of him he would do. He hoped his brother wouldn’t demand he cross over the line into a murky world of hits and muscle, but it was only a hope. He had to be realistic, he told himself; if he wanted to be with Mooney, he had to be like the rest of the guys. He had to offer his brother his unswerving, unquestionable loyalty. He had to be willing to do whatever Mooney asked of him. If he didn’t, it was over. He felt he was at a crossroad in his life; he’d had enough time to consider what it meant to be outside the Outfit, to be cut off from Mooney, not to see him or talk to him. To be denied his approval and its benefits. Forget morals. Forget right and wrong. He’d come to the conclusion that he couldn’t fathom living like that for the rest of his life; he wanted his piece of the pie and, whatever the price, he would pay it.

  Mooney was standing in the backyard, practicing on his putting green when Chuck drove up. He waved.

  “Let’s have a seat and talk,” Mooney offered.

  They walked over to the patio, where Alva promptly appeared with iced tea.

  “Hey, like I said on the phone, I got a job for you, Chuck. You’re the best guy for it. You know the joint Willie Potatoes has been runnin’ whores out of in Rosemont? The River Road Motel?”

  “Yeah,” Chuck said cautiously, hoping Mooney wasn’t going to ask him to work the prostitution rackets, but ready to swallow his reservations if that was what was required.

  “Well, we’re gonna turn it legitimate.”

  Chuck felt a wave of relief sweep over him.

  “Yeah, no more whores,” Mooney continued. “Willie’s got to handle some shit with Tampa and New Orleans . . . and I don’t want him messin’ around with the place. You made the Boogie Woogie a real class joint and that’s what I want this place to be. It’s got a lounge . . . get it hoppin’ . . . it’s gonna have a restaurant, fifty-two rooms, a pool. Get it goin’ like a normal motel. And then hire a manager to take care of the day-to-day shit. Maybe drop in an hour a day. I want you to be free to handle somethin’ else at the same time. Salary’s two hundred a week and I’ll give you a five-grand bonus at the end of the year. Okay?”

  “It sounds great, Mooney, great. When do you want me to start?”

  “Tomorrow. Get it turned around. I want the place cleaned up . . . so clean, it squeaks.”

  “Hey, no problem. You know I always said you can count on me.”

  “I know. You think I forget anything? You said that when I sent you down to Cuba to see ‘Mr. Meyer.’ You handled that real nice. Well, that’s what made me think of you for this other job. . . . I’m gonna have some regular deliveries and pickups.”

  “In Cuba?”

  “No . . . not Cuba. Jesus, you sure as hell don’t like Cuba, do you? Nope, not Cuba. It’s a three-day swing. . . . You’d go every week. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.”

  “To where?”

  “Tampa, New Orleans, Vegas, and back to Chicago to me. I’m gettin’ it all lined up and by the time you’ve got the motel on the right track . . . you can ease up and do a little plane hoppin’.”

  Later, Chuck picked up from the grapevine that Willie Potatoes was working a deal for Mooney with New York. The guys said it was drugs out of Central America and Asia.

  “Trafficante and Marcello have it all lined up,” Chuckie Nicoletti told him. “Lined up real nice. It goes mostly to New York and Costello and Gambino. But now that Mooney’s got Tampa and New Orleans workin’ real good with us, well, Chicago’s cut in on everything that comes through down there. We already got the gambling partnerships with those guys. . . . We get a piece of Miami and Dallas . . . all over down south. Mooney is gonna be fuckin’ king of the world before it’s over with. King of the world.”

  Once he got involved with the River Road Motel, Chuck launched a grueling around-the-clock vigil, determined to prove himself to Mooney once and for all. Willie Potatoes cleared out the whores and Chuck hired a housekeeping staff, brought in new entertainers for the lounge, and the place really began to shape up. More than once, he’d had to tell the Outfit guys, whom the place drew like flies, that the place was clean. “Don’t be bringing any whores or games in here. This place is gonna stay clean just the way Mooney wants it. Capisce?”

  Nevertheless, the gang still hung out in the lounge and managed to bring in more than a few busty broads with peroxided hair for their afternoon trysts. As long as they weren’t whores, but unpaid girlfriends, there wasn’t much Chuck could say—after all, Mooney did that himself all the time.

  Chuck couldn’t get over Mooney’s way with women. He could have any girl he wanted. It was every man’s dream come true. The women Mooney brought in were all knockouts. Most were blondes. But he liked a redhead now and then. If they were whores, they were the best. If they were girls from the Chez Paree Adorables—the club’s chorus girls—they were the prettiest and most voluptuous of the lot. The Adorables were the hottest item in town and guys from all over were knocking their doors down trying to make time. Mooney said all the visiting big names from Hollywood had a Chez Paree Adorable on the side. There wasn’t much question about it, Mooney had it made.

  The rest of the Outfit guys all liked the fact that the motel was located in the less tightly controlled Cook County. It meant they could rendezvous with a current mistress and draw little or no attention from the authorities. They all had a thing about being discreet, but some afternoons the place was like a turnstile. As long as they were consenting adults, Chuck turned his head. When he changed the name to the Thunderbolt in October, Nicoletti said kiddingly that he should have called it the Mistress Motel. No whores, just girlfriends—that was the rule. And it seemed to suit the guys just fine.

  By Thanksgiving, Chuck had the motel running smoothly and, he asserted with pride to Mooney, “so clean, it squeaks.”

  The entire Giancana family was invited to Ange and Mooney’s for Thanksgiving dinner that year. Chuck knew it was not an event to which Ange looked forward. His sisters—Josie, Antoinette, and Vicki—almost invariably ended up in an argument. And Antonio, who still could barely speak a word of English, was gruff and defensive about his continuing relationship with their Aunt Catherine. But nevertheless, Chuck imagined, as he pulled in the drive with Anne Marie and little Chuckie, that everyone would be on their best behavior for Thanksgiving dinner at Mooney’s house.

  The only thing that worried Chuck was the kids; he hoped his little boy would behave himself. Mooney was funny about kids—he really didn’t know what to do with one. And he definitely didn’t know how to play with them—or talk to them, for that matter. In all the years Chuck had known him, Mooney never had held or cuddled a child—not even his own daughters. Instead, he taunted and teased them, testing to see what they were made of. And in so doing, he came off as gruff and frightening. In fact, he seemed to get a kick out of scaring the smaller children.

  This Thanksgiving would be no exception; the minute all of the children were present, Mooney took off his belt.

  “What the hell do you kids think you’re doin’?” He growled.

  The four little boys froze in their Eton suits.

  “Come with me. Right now,” he snapped.

  The children stood there, motionless. Chuck saw their chins begin to quiver.

  Mooney raised his voice to a shrill hiss, “I said . . . now.”

  None of the parents intervened, afraid themselves to interfere with Mooney’s little game. But mostly, it didn’t ev
en occur to them to object to Mooney’s behavior; they never had before—ever.

  The children sniveled and obeyed, corralled by Mooney into the living room like wild-eyed calves going to slaughter.

  “You kids see this?” He feigned anger and waved his belt. “I’m gonna let you have it if you don’t do what I tell you. You hear me?”

  They nodded fearfully.

  “Sit right here,” he ordered, pointing to the sofa. “Right here. Don’t you even move a muscle.” He swung the belt against his silk trousers and it made an agonizing crack.

  They burst into tears. “Please, no, Uncle Mooney, we’ll be good. We promise,” Chuckie begged. The rest nodded in silent agreement.

  To their credit, Mooney said later, the children tried not to cry. But there was disappointment in his voice when he told Chuck, “I’m waitin’ for somebody to bring in a little man . . . a kid with some guts. None of that crybaby shit. I’m waitin’ to see that kid. When I do, I’ll know we have a new generation that can handle things after we’re gone. I’m waitin’.”

  The Thunderbolt started making a profit in December. Mooney and the guys rolled in for a few drinks at the end of the day. They all sat around a table telling jokes and inventing stories about broads—Chuck believed only about half of what he heard. One evening, Needles came in with another guy from the old neighborhood, Nicky Visco. He was carrying the first issue of Playboy magazine.

  “Hey guys, get over here and feast your eyes on some real fine pussy,” Needles called out, pointing to the magazine’s centerfold of Marilyn Monroe.

  They all gathered around to see the scandalous magazine—Willie Potatoes, Fifi, Chuckie Nicoletti, and even Mooney came over to get a look at the magazine that was supposed to be the most daring, racy thing ever to hit American newsstands.

  “She can cock my joint, all right,” Nicoletti commented.

  “Yeah, you got that right. Look at that mouth . . . bet she gives good head,” Willie said, laughing.

  “Hell, yes, she does. I’d like to give it to her,” said Needles.

  “Only in your dreams,” Mooney taunted.

  Chuck could tell he was in an unusually good mood. “Oh, so you got an in we don’t know about?” Nicoletti teased.

  They all broke up at the pun.

  “I might,” Mooney said, smiling.

  “Hey, if anybody nails this broad, it’ll be Mooney,” Needles spoke up.

  “Well, he already knows her,” Nicoletti said. “Besides, with Mooney around . . . anything’s possible.”

  They all laughed.

  “Hey, we just protect our investments,” Mooney retorted, grinning.

  “Yeah, what about this one, huh?” Fifi cracked.

  “I promise to let you all know when I fuck her. She’s on my list, right after Mamie Eisenhower,” Mooney said.

  They roared at that one.

  Mooney picked up the magazine and took a hard look at the voluptuous blonde staring invitingly back at him. “Yeah, I’ll fuck her,” he said, sneering, and threw the magazine down. “So what else is new?”

  In February of the following year, Anne Marie announced they were expecting another child in October. Chuck recalled what Mooney had said on Thanksgiving; he secretly hoped they would have a boy and found himself daydreaming about walking the kid in to Mooney and saying, “Here, here he is, the one you’ve been waitin’ for.” He knew it was a crazy fantasy, but somehow he believed that if his son measured up to Mooney’s test, he’d finally measure up, too.

  The winter of 1954 was a cold one, at least that’s what everybody told Chuck, but he was too busy to notice. He was at the motel from seven-thirty in the morning until right before five-thirty, when Anne Marie served dinner. After dinner, he’d do chores around the house until nine and then rush back to the motel to oversee the lounge. By 3:00 A.M., he was back home to catch a few hours of sleep. It was a grueling routine that left little time for much else, but he was happier than he’d ever been in his life.

  Chuck’s efforts were rewarded by the fact that he saw Mooney practically every day; his brother dropped by for a drink and they’d shoot the breeze for hours. At noon, Chuck never knew which members of the old gang would show up for lunch: Willie Potatoes, Paul Ricca, Chuck and Butch English, Rocky Potenza, Needles Gianola, Murray Humphreys, Tony Accardo, Joey Glimco, Frank Ferraro, Milwaukee Phil, Joe Amato, Eddie Vogel, Chuckie Nicoletti, Ross Prio, Gussie Alex, Fifi Buccieri.

  There were a few new faces as well, guys who were starting to move up in the ranks: Johnny Matessa, Dave Yaras, Ralph Pierce. Every day at noon, the joint was jumping; Chuck thought it was the best part of the job.

  Chuck usually joined the group for a corned beef sandwich or hot roast beef and a beer. Instead of talking, he preferred to sit back and listen or just watch Mooney. Mostly, Mooney sat back and watched the other men. He still was sizing them up, just as he always had, trying to decide whether a guy could be trusted, whether he was right for a job.

  The other thing Chuck found especially interesting was the other guys’ reactions to Mooney. It reminded him of a game of Simon Says. He started to think that if Mooney said, “Roll over,” they would. His brother was like a god. Even an elder statesman like Paul Ricca now deferred to Mooney, asking what Mooney thought about this or that. “Find out what Mooney thinks,” Paul advised one of the younger men. It was a landmark realization for Chuck; Mooney’s authority was now undeniable. His admiration for his brother grew with each passing day.

  In late March, Mooney came by for lunch, but rather than sitting down, he waved Chuck toward the motel office. “Let’s talk,” he said.

  Mooney took the chair behind the desk. It was stacked with papers and he leafed through them as though he was looking for something. Finally in exasperation, he pushed the papers aside and said, “Jesus, where’s the fuckin’ ashtray? What the hell is all this shit? Paperwork?”

  “Yeah, paperwork. Here’s one. . . .” Chuck sighed and handed Mooney a brass ashtray, then continued. “I guess if you have a business, you gotta do this fuckin’ shit. There’re mountains of it and it’s never done. I’m doin’ paperwork ’til three o’clock in the morning.”

  “Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about . . . you re gettin’ too fuckin’ busy. Shit, make the manager do this crap. You’re supposed to drop in for an hour for lunch . . not live here. Besides, I got that job goin’.”

  “You mean the deliveries?” Chuck asked; he’d all but forgotten about the other job Mooney had mentioned.

  “Yeah. I got the whole thing worked out. Goddamn it, Chuck, I think I’m gonna have to pat myself on the back for this one. I’ve finally done it.” It was unusual for Mooney to be so high; he was acting like a schoolboy, grinning like the proverbial cat who swallowed the canary.

  Chuck knew Mooney wanted him to ask, so he did. “So what did you do? You’re pretty happy with yourself.”

  “Well,” Mooney said proudly, “I should be . . . I’ve got all ins and no outs, that’s what.”

  “All ins and no outs?”

  “Uh-huh. Well, maybe not all my way, but the gravy is mine. In Tampa, I got Santo Junior takin’ over. I talked to Lansky and the rest of the Commission. He’ll be boss now. I got Marcello workin’ with me . . . just me and Costello . . . Chicago’s the only city Marcello’s gonna let into Texas unless he talks to me first. And there’s some rich motherfuckers down in the Lone Star State, let me tell you . . . big oilmen who can’t have enough . . . always lookin’ for more. And have I got a few deals for them.” He chuckled. “I got Murray goin’ around right now workin’ the politicians down there.”

  “So what about Vegas?”

  “Hey, let me finish, will you? I’m gettin’ to Vegas.”

  “Okay, okay.” Chuck lifted both hands, palms facing Mooney, in mock retreat.

  “Vegas is set. I mean set. I got everything covered from Vegas to Los Angeles. I figure the other key cities are Tampa and New Orleans; they’re good low-profile entry poin
ts for any imports or exports we might have. I’ll send out our men to cover everything in between . . . and then, it’s all as good as mine.”

  “And you got your points in Vegas,” Chuck said. It was a rhetorical statement. He knew the Outfit had penetrated the Flamingo, Thunderbird, and Desert Inn—as well as the Sands. Mooney had confided previously that his take was well over 3 million a year. But knowing the answer to his question didn’t lessen Chuck’s interest in Mooney’s reply.

  “Yeah and I’m gonna give Santo and Marcello a little gift each month from the skim there to keep ’em happy. It’s smart business. But there’s another guy. Remember the Spruce Goose?”

  “Howard Hughes. Yeah, I remember him from the papers.”

  “Roselli’s been talkin’ with him. He’s one rich cocksucker. He knows how to play the game. . . . He says he’s got Vice President Nixon eatin’ out of his hand. Military contracts, shit . . . the guy’s got Washington all paid off. And he knows how to make a buck. He likes Vegas . . . likes the tables. I got a feelin’ we can work together real nice.”

  “This is gettin’ to be pretty big stuff, Mooney. What about the coppers? The IRS? You’re talkin’ about transportin’ a lot of dough. Won’t so much activity bring them down on the whole operation?”

  “Fuck them. . . . You know Banister here, the Chicago FBI guy? And Bob Maheu? We know those guys . . . real well. Hughes knows all the feds. Murray Humphreys does, too. Roselli knows the government guys who work over in Asia. . . . We’ve been workin’ with them in the Philippines for years now. Over the years, we’ve helped Banister and Maheu on a few deals, tippin’ them off to car thieves and musclin’ their favorite enemy”—Mooney laughed—“Commies.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “The Outfit’s gonna work with the FBI stateside, and outside of the country with the CIA. You can be sure they’ll be on our side.”

  “So what you need then is a good courier?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, Mooney, you think this place would go to hell?” The last thing Chuck wanted was for the motel to fail.

  Mooney studied him for a moment. “I doubt it. But you’re doin’ a good job here.” He looked around the room and absentmindedly leafed through the mounds of papers on the desk. “But it’s good money, Chuck. Damn good money. Let’s talk more about it tomorrow.”