Double Cross

by Sam Giancana

  Chuck wondered, albeit silently, whether the reason Mooney had chosen not to use violence to oust Genovese and the reason he was so tolerant of Bonanno had something to do with the McClellan committee. After all, he’d said that to escape testimony, he had to lie low. By June of 1958, many of his underworld associates, including Tony Accardo, had faced the committee—and Mooney had to be feeling the pressure. Chuck sensed that the day of reckoning was coming. How long could anyone with an ounce of common sense continue to buy the excuse that a man of Mooney’s prominence couldn’t be located?

  And he certainly was prominent. Among the nation’s bosses, Mooney was now known as the most demanding and merciless. He kept a tight rein on his soldiers and lieutenants; he knew they skimmed from the take and he always looked the other way—unless it was so large a theft that it was impossible to see it as anything but an insult and affront to his intelligence.

  Fond of saying “Give me a man who steals a little and I can make money,” Mooney had no problem with a thief. For a guy to steal a little was fine, but God help the man who pushed his luck too far. Mooney’s reaction would be swift and brutal and he always made it a point to make an example of a transgressor. Such was the case that fall of 1958. He’d had just about enough of Gus Greenbaum’s shenanigans in Las Vegas.

  In the early forties, Meyer Lansky had possessed a vision for the dusty hole-in-the-wall town that was no more than a road stop with a diner and gas station. Las Vegas, Lansky believed, could become a glittering gambling mecca. After World War II, he convinced playboy mobster Bugsy Siegel to get things rolling. In short order, 6 million syndicate dollars were invested in the first Las Vegas casino-hotel, the Flamingo.

  When it was discovered that the Flamingo’s losses were due not to lack of business but to Siegel’s rampant personal skimming, the collective order was given for his assassination. Chicago sent two soldiers to handle the job, and Siegel was murdered in Beverly Hills on June 20, 1947. Immediately, each city provided an emissary to take over the Flamingo, protect their interests, and pick up the pieces.

  Chicago sent Gus Greenbaum, an old-time Capone man whose activities hailed back to the days of Prohibition. Greenbaum was a masterful gambling pro and virtuoso skimmer, as well as a trusted soldier who’d effectively handled the Trans-American wire service for Chicago in Arizona. Under Greenbaum, the Flamingo reported a $4 million profit his first year as manager; in reality, profits prior to Greenbaum’s skimming on the Outfit’s behalf had reached 15 million.

  With proof positive that money, tax-free and lots of it, could be made in Las Vegas, Mob dollars poured in. New casinos and hotels were built in rapid succession, each more ostentatious and outlandish than its predecessors. Overnight, Las Vegas became a gambler’s paradise, and the Syndicate called all the shots—a situation that would continue until the late 1970s, when organized crime was finally forced out by the FBI.

  Initially, Cleveland’s Moe Dalitz owned the Desert Inn, while Meyer Lansky controlled the Thunderbird. The profitable Dunes was held by a New England family. The Sands was run by Lansky and Costello, with actor George Raft and entertainer Frank Sinatra holding part interest. California and Cleveland families had a piece of the Stardust—but only after months of behind-the-scenes threats and legal wrangling and only until Mooney made his push and won the largest share. The Tropicana was held by Frank Costello and Phil Kastel of New York.

  Chicago would ultimately rely on union funds—particularly those of the Teamsters—for its financial backing and controlled the Sahara, Riviera, and the garish neo-Roman Caesar’s Palace.

  After Marshall Caifano had been dispatched to Vegas by Mooney in 1953, others followed. Mooney sent Johnny Roselli early on to negotiate and muscle into other casinos; Johnny Formosa, his Indiana gambling lieutenant: Joe Pignatello, his first bodyguard-chauffeur; Gus Zappas and Jimmy James, both union henchmen; and Chicago bookie John Drew. They were all there with one purpose in mind: increase Chicago’s piece of the action.

  By 1958, Mooney’s personal take from Vegas was over three hundred thousand a month. Just thinking about that much money made Chuck’s heart skip. And it was only a small part of hundreds of deals that flooded into Mooney’s hands; overall, he was bringing in $4 million a month, tax-free.

  After Chicago had gained control of the Riviera in 1952, Mooney had moved Gus Greenbaum in as manager. A proven master at the art of skimming for the Outfit, Greenbaum displayed talents Mooney liked. But after Marshall Caifano had located the traitorous Willie Bioff—the man whose testimony in 1942 was responsible for the imprisonment of Chicago’s reigning gangsters—working right under Greenbaum in 1955, Greenbaum’s star suddenly tarnished. He became a flagrant gambler—losing up to twenty thousand a week—as well as an alcoholic and drug addict. And, most important, he began skimming voraciously for himself from the Riviera, beyond what Mooney considered reasonable. Meyer Lansky, who also had a share of the Riviera, agreed with Mooney that Greenbaum had to go.

  Mooney gave the job to one of his lieutenants, who, in turn, supplied the soldiers. In December of 1958, three Chicago enforcers knocked at the door of Gus Greenbaum’s Phoenix home. The gruesomely tortured and mutilated Mr. and Mrs. Greenbaum would later be found dead, their throats neatly slit.

  News of the brutal slayings of the Greenbaums spread fast, which was exactly what Mooney wanted. They were a graphic example to anyone who dared cross Sam Giancana.

  It was a cold, windy January afternoon in Chicago. Chuck had had his fill of paperwork and was checking the stock behind the bar. He’d paused to admire the newly decorated New Orleans-style lounge, the white wrought-iron chairs and glass-top tables, when Chuckie Nicoletti, Needles Gianola, and his sidekick, Mugsy Tortorella, swaggered in the door. They sat down at a sumptuous corner sofa and ordered vodka on the rocks, telling the cocktail waitress to ask Chuck to join them. In the background, the jukebox blared a hit tune by the Everly Brothers.

  After exchanging hellos, Chuck pulled up a chair. It had been quiet in the joint that day, thanks to the icy roads, and he welcomed a chance to shoot the breeze with the guys.

  “So, how the hell you guys been?” Chuck asked, smiling. “Or better, where the hell you been?”

  “I’ve been out in Vegas,” Needles said, grinning, and held open his empty suit pockets. “Fuckin’ cleaned me out.”

  Chuck nodded. “It’s better to take a win and get the hell out—”

  “Or cut your losses and run,” Mugsy interrupted, smiling.

  “You hear about Gus Greenbaum?” Needles asked, sipping his vodka. He shot a look over at Nicoletti.

  “Yeah,” Chuck said, shaking his head. “Coppers found him and his wife with their throats slit.”

  “Greenbaum was fuckin’ skimmin’ for himself, tryin’ to steal your brother blind,” Nicoletti said, his cold eyes glazed like frost on a windowpane.

  “Yeah, he deserved what he got,” Needles agreed, lighting a Lucky Strike with an elegant gold lighter.

  “Pretty terrible about his wife, though,” Chuck added offhandedly.

  “Not really,” Mugsy remarked, and shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll make people know that Chicago isn’t full of chickenshit assholes when it comes to a woman. That it don’t matter to us one way or another.”

  “Yeah, it sure doesn’t matter to Mooney,” Needles added.

  “He likes to set an example . . . a woman really gets everybody’s attention. And so what, she doesn’t mean nothin’ to any of us.”

  “Yeah, fuck her,” Mugsy chimed in.

  “Hey, hitting a broad is the same as hitting a man . . . only she’s got tits and a pussy. Who the fuck cares? The guy’s not there to screw her, he’s there to do a job,” Nicoletti said with conviction.

  Chuck lit a cigar. It was true, hit men didn’t care whether they murdered a woman or not. They didn’t care whom they killed. That was their job and they were good at it and they liked it.

  He looked over at them on the sofa. For a fleeting moment, h
e asked himself what the hell he was doing with these guys. They did share a common bond; they were all after a piece of the American dream. It’s just that some guys were willing to go further than others to get there.

  CHAPTER 18

  On the surface, there could have been no more perfect alliance than that between John Fitzgerald Kennedy—described by Eleanor Roosevelt as a part of “the new managerial elite that has neither principles nor character”—and Sam Giancana.

  The two men had it all: brash arrogance and lust for power, ruthless ambition and vast personal wealth. Joe Kennedy told Mooney in early 1959 that together they would be unstoppable.

  Considered one of the nation’s wealthiest and most influential families, the Kennedys owed their fortune and political connections to a heritage that hailed back to the sordid days of Prohibition. Likewise, Mooney Giancana had risen from similarly humble beginnings. Now referred to as Sam most frequently by his associates—although Chuck still called him Mooney—he reigned supreme in the nation’s underworld, according to everyone from reporters to Outfit guys. Chuck heard from his brother that he had over a billion dollars a year pouring into his coffers.

  “The flower may look different . . . but the roots are the same,” Mooney often quipped when referring to the Kennedys, and then added, “Never be misled by appearances, Chuck. Once a crook always a crook. The Kennedys may put on airs and pretend to be blue bloods, but they know and I know the real truth . . . we’re cut from the same cloth.”

  Among the many phone calls made to political bosses and old cronies by Joe Kennedy that winter, several were to Mooney. Wily as he was, Kennedy had foolhardily decided to dance with the devil, believing in all his characteristic arrogance that he could play with fire and not get burned as he’d done throughout his life.

  For Joe, an eternal pragmatist, there were certain individuals, criminal or not, with whom he wished to be ingratiated in his tireless quest for a Kennedy dynasty. Without the support and muscle of the powerful underworld—a world Joe knew all too well—overcoming the obstacles to his son’s nomination would likely be impossible. Kennedy coveted the influence wielded by his old “alma mater” and was cognizant of where that power now rested. A man who only a few years previously had refused to return a phone call to mobster and longtime friend Frank Costello would now reestablish his network with organized crime. And with that purpose in mind, he called once again on the one man who could bring the full force of the nation’s underworld to bear on his son’s bid for the presidency—Mooney Giancana.

  When he heard from Joe Kennedy, Chuck’s brother wasn’t surprised; he’d been waiting for the old man’s call, waiting to extract further promises of influence in the nation’s capital. For the first time, Chuck caught a glimpse of Mooney’s dream. Like everyone else—from common dago peddlers to policy-playing shines—he’d held his own secret aspirations, and at last they were coming to fruition. While other children had been told they might grow up to be President of the United States one day, somewhere along the line, Mooney had come to the conclusion that owning the President would be far better. Now, that opportunity had presented itself and his dream was almost within his grasp.

  A curious courtship thus began in 1959 between the man who would be President and the man who would be king. The very idea of possessing so much power intoxicated Mooney, and silently, Chuck began to question whether the sly old man had found Mooney’s Achilles’ heel. His brother had said it himself many times: “If it makes a man’s heart race, it’s a weakness.” Listening to Mooney describe his plans for the 1960 election, still more than a year away, while basking in the afterglow of a conversation with Joe, Chuck—for the first time in his life—felt an ominous sense of concern for his brother. He wondered whether Mooney had fallen for the seduction, fallen victim to a set of false promises from a man who probably would say or do anything to make his son President of the United States.

  Joe Kennedy already owed Mooney his life, but obviously that was not enough—Mooney wanted his soul. And his sons’ souls. He relieved Chuck by saying he didn’t trust the old man; the McClellan committee, still in session, was causing quite an uproar among his cronies—and watching Joe’s sons work the crowds taught Mooney everything he needed to know about trusting the Kennedys.

  He knew he needed something more than his reputation for retribution to guarantee their compliance. To accomplish that, he turned to Tinseltown.

  Hollywood’s relationship with the Outfit encompassed three decades. Chicago had muscled its way into show business and paid its dues with the imprisonment of some of its biggest bosses in the wake of the celebrated Browne-Bioff trial. Mooney had wisely continued the lucrative contacts with producers, studios, and entertainers; aside from supplying top talent for his Vegas casinos, it also allowed him to push the careers of fledgling stars who might later be exploited. But as much as anything, he enjoyed the high life and fast broads Hollywood afforded; since Ange’s death, he’d rolled in the sack with literally dozens of curvaceous entertainers and wannabes.

  In New York, Havana, Vegas, and Hollywood, Mooney partied with fast-living celebrities and their extended entourage: with people like Sammy Davis, Jr., Mike Romanoff, Jimmy Van Heusen, Peter Lawford and Natalie Wood. He also came to know Frank Sinatra, a relationship admitted by the singer later. Mooney said that many of the women who clung to the tight-knit group were “party girls” looking for a good time and a new fur coat.

  Out of respect for Sinatra, Mooney maintained a modicum of decency toward these high-rolling entertainers, using them for openings and engagements when it suited his purpose—but, nonetheless, he held them in disdain. Apart from Sinatra he considered, “Those guys are losers, prima donnas, assholes,” as he complained to Chuck. They made good money, he said, but they lived from check to check—always in debt for jewelry or a loan or a too-long night at the tables. And all of them were always “lookin’ for somethin’ for nothin’.”

  In truth, he liked Sinatra; Mooney said Sinatra had class and knew how to party. In the months preceding the Democratic presidential primaries, Mooney also liked the fact that Frank Sinatra was a friend of the Kennedys. Mooney enjoyed Hollywood and its stars, quietly observing the obsequious pandering to the big names in restaurants and bars, and always able to locate broads too dumb to ask questions but smart enough to know that Sam Giancana might help their careers.

  The FBI and his detractors would later claim that female escapades were the unmaking of Sam Giancana; but in that, they were sadly mistaken. Mooney never really loved a woman, nor ever jeopardized his power for one. He could give the appearance of romantic love when it suited his purpose—and had hundreds of times, quite masterfully—in pursuit of new, unconquered flesh. But to Mooney, women were expendable objects like shoes. “Wear them out, throw them away,” he’d say with a chuckle. “It’s nice if they’re the best-lookin’ shoes you can buy, but they’re still shoes anyway you cut it . . . disposable.”

  Mooney knew that, conversely, the Kennedys had a knack for getting too involved with women. From his days and nights of revelry at the Cal-Neva in Lake Tahoe with Sinatra, Lawford, and the Kennedy brothers, he’d learned they were not only adulterous but emotional and jealous, as well.

  According to Mooney, it was no secret that Joe’s sons had inherited their father’s penchant for a good time. Since the old days, Mooney said Joe had frequented the Cal-Neva, placing bets and banging his share of broads every chance he got. And in the early fifties, Mooney confided, Jack had followed in his father’s footsteps, secreting himself away in a discreet Cal-Neva chalet. Mooney himself had been at more than a few of the Kennedy Cal-Neva “parties.” The men had sex with prostitutes—sometimes two or more at a time—in bathtubs, hallways, closets, on floors, almost everywhere but in a bed.

  The Kennedys, Mooney gleefully reported, liked the thrill that came with the kinky and clandestine, “and the kinkier, the better.” They liked to think they were above the morality of the “other classes.”
Mooney was convinced that if he could find the right woman, he might be able to put Jack in a corner. Mooney knew a chink in the armor when he saw one.

  In mid-March, with the McClellan committee subpoena still floating around unserved and his daughter Annette’s lavish wedding to an Outfit bartender looming on the horizon, he dropped by the Thunderbolt Motel on his way to the airport.

  Chuck peered over a mound of paperwork and saw Mooney smiling back at him.

  “Hey, I’m flyin’ out to Vegas . . . wanna come along?” Mooney tempted. “Lots of broads and good food.”

  Chuck motioned at the paperwork and shook his head. “Sure, if you don’t care if this joint goes under.” He smiled wanly across the desk.

  “Well, you sure look like you could use some more time in the sun to me,” Mooney said, grinning. He was especially happy and relaxed; his tanned face seemed rested. “Aren’t you gonna offer me some coffee or somethin’?”

  Chuck called the motel’s restaurant manager for a pot of coffee and then leaned back in his chair. “So it’s Vegas now? Don’t you ever stay in town anymore?”

  “Shit, I gotta keep ahead of the posse,” Mooney said.

  “The G? That shouldn’t be too hard for an old wheelman like you.”

  “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “I don’t think they could find their ass with both hands tied behind their back. Jesus, what fuckin’ saps. You know, I found out how much those dumb bastards make and I couldn’t believe it.” He lit a cigar and leaned back in the chair, putting his feet up on Chuck’s desk.