by Sam Giancana
“How much?”
Mooney snickered. “Ten grand a year . . . and that’s if they’re lucky and Hoover likes ’em. Jesus, it’s not worth gettin’ outta bed in the morning for that. Workin’ for the Outfit, some guys make that much in one week.” He paused while a crisply uniformed waitress poured their coffee. When she left, closing the door, he continued. “Hey, I got it all figured out, Chuck . . . the Kennedys and all.”
“Uh-huh,” Chuck said, stirring his coffee while giving Mooney his undivided attention.
“See, just like the old man, Jack can’t keep his hands off a broad. So”—his eyes turned cold and the smile dropped from his face—“we’ll set him up . . . get enough dirt on Mr. All-American family man to ruin him for life. Promises or not, he won’t step outta line then.” He sighed and said with a tinge of remorse, “Humphreys tells me he wished he’d known about this sooner . . . he could have tied the illustrious Senator Kennedy up a long time ago.” He shrugged his shoulders and winked, smiling brightly. “But, it’s never too late.”
Mooney explained that he would get a fellow Kennedy carouser, to set it up out west. He was close to Peter Lawford, who was married to Pat Kennedy. Together with Murray Humphreys in Washington, they would be in charge of finding just the right girls to entice Jack.
“Murray will set up a place just outside the capital; he’s already got it picked out. Real class. Top drawer and discreet for our publicity-conscious politicians. It’ll be a ‘hospitality suite,’ ” he said, chortling at his choice of words. “Murray’ll get the girls in there, and then we’ll entertain those politicians like they’ve never been entertained.”
He stopped for a moment and gulped at his coffee with excitement. “Here’s the best part, though. . . . I’m gonna buy the Kennedys’ favorite hangout, the Cal-Neva. I’ll have both joints wired from top to bottom and anyplace else the Kennedys go.” He grinned. “Those tapes should be real interesting.”
“Where the hell are you gonna get wires? From your friends at the THP?” Chuck said, laughing.
“No, fuck them. I’ve got it lined up with Hoffa to set it all up with Bob Maheu and the CIA. Hoffa’s had the guys wire joints for me before. . . . They’ll help me out this time. . . . Shit, they owe me a few favors.”
“Well, what about Bobby Kennedy? You haven’t mentioned him,” Chuck pointed out.
“Yeah, I know . . . and he’s the worst one of the bunch. He’s a troublemaker, for sure. A cocky greenhorn little bastard who’s too big for his fuckin’ britches. Hey, don’t worry about him. . . . I’ll cut him down to size. I hear he’s pretty straitlaced, but he’s played around. We just gotta get him in the right spot. We’ll find a broad that’ll do the trick.”
“Will your guy on the coast go along with all this shit?” Chuck asked.
“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’? What choice does he have? Christ Almighty, he owes the Outfit. He’ll go along because he’ll do anything I ask. And he won’t even know why I want him to do it. He won’t ask questions, and if he did, I wouldn’t tell him. He talks too much. He’ll just do it.” He paused. “See this?” Mooney held up his hand, displaying a beautiful star sapphire pinky ring. “He gave me this ring. I’m his fuckin’ hero. He’s one of the few people I know who will follow through.”
“You really like the guy, don’t you?” Chuck said, slightly amused. Mooney wasn’t one to show any sign of affection.
“Yeah, I’ll be honest . . . the guy’s got a big mouth sometimes, and for this deal he’ll be just another fuckin’ pimp. But he’s a stand-up guy . . . he’s a good guy. Too good for the lousy scum out in Hollywood.” He stood up to leave. “Hold on, Chuck . . . this is gonna be my decade comin’ up.”
He was probably right, Chuck thought as he watched his brother breeze out the doorway. The way Chuck understood it, the Kennedys didn’t really need money—so they couldn’t be bought. Unlike most politicians, if they did win the election, they wouldn’t owe a bunch of favors. Likewise, Mooney sure as hell didn’t need money, so he couldn’t be compromised. But if he got the Kennedy brothers in a few unpleasant spots with broads, well, they’d be in a box.
Mooney continued to amaze him—the way he could spot a guy’s vulnerability. And then if he wanted to get him, he’d plot and scheme until the guy was so tied up, he’d never see the light of day. Obviously, Mooney knew what he was doing with the Kennedys.
Aside from Kennedy matters, Mooney had other business to attend to in Las Vegas. He was skimming millions from the Teamsters’ pension fund for the Stardust that year. And while the McClellan committee was, as he put it, “sittin’ around on their asses, talkin’ about the pilfering of union funds,” Mooney was guaranteeing their illegal disposal. He had Murray Humphreys and Jimmy Hoffa put Red Dorfman’s son Allen into power as manager of the fund, assuring the dollars he needed would be accessible.
Mooney’s ventures into the hotels and casinos in Las Vegas were extremely low-profile. The Nevada Gaming Commission viewed having known mafiosi in their midst as highly undesirable, and therefore, when he checked in at the Desert Inn that March, he used the alias S. Flood.
On his travels, he often used the last name of women he was currently bedding or family members. Flood referred to Ange’s sister Rose Flood. Paige, another name he frequently used, was derived from his fling with chorus girl Roma Paige. He often used the name Gold in Miami and New York because he said being a Jew got you instant respect in those towns. There were dozens of others, selected on a whim or as a joke.
Unbeknown to Mooney, the FBI had gotten word of his jaunt to Vegas and spotted him at the Desert Inn. The following day, March 25—almost one full year since it had first been issued—the McClellan committee’s subpoena was served. Mooney was to testify before the committee in June.
Chuck was surprised that the prospect of going before the grueling committee didn’t faze Mooney; all he said was that he was too busy meeting with Joe Kennedy, working out the details of their agreement for Jack’s presidential campaign, to let the McClellan committee become anything more than a temporary annoyance. It all seemed pretty convoluted to Chuck—one day the Kennedys were meeting with Mooney to get his backing and the next they were interrogating him like a common criminal before a Senate committee. But Mooney brushed all that aside, saying that once Jack Kennedy was elected, they’d go back to “business as usual” in the Outfit.
Mooney truly relished the notion of no longer dealing with Hoover’s THP agents and the publicity their surveillance had brought. As of late, his picture seemed to hit the papers with increasing regularity in Chicago; he yearned for the old days and his incognito status. “It hurts business when you can’t even take a piss without having the G look over your shoulder. I can hardly wait to see their faces when our new boy in the White House tells ’em to lay off.”
The publicity surrounding Mooney was hurting more than Outfit business; Chuck’s family was wrestling with constant rejection and condemnation. Chuck never brought up their hardship to his brother; he didn’t think it was appropriate to whine about his petty troubles when Mooney was up to his eyeballs in Senate committee investigations, federal agents, and, most important perhaps, the upcoming presidential primaries.
Chuck had to admit, however, that little Mooney was strangely quiet and far too withdrawn for a normal four-year-old. Anne Marie told him their youngest son stayed to himself in the backyard or sat alone for hours by the fence, silently watching the horses canter in the fields. She said the neighborhood children teased him about having the same name as a gangster.
“Well, we can’t change his name,” Chuck retorted angrily. “Not now. But it’ll get better. My brother’s gonna turn everything around real soon. You’ll see . . . things will settle down around here.” Chuck hadn’t really been angry at his wife, but he viewed the situation as unsolvable for now. Something he couldn’t change, he didn’t want to dwell on. The truth was, it killed him to think little Mooney was being ostracized because of a name—one Chuck
had originally intended to be an honor.
Chuckie, their nine-year-old, suffered under the same stigma, but in his case, the stress took a different toll. Unlike his little brother, Chuckie was outgoing, rambunctious, and outspoken. When ridiculed, he fought back; they’d lost count of the notes from school and teachers’ meetings, the bloody noses and torn clothes. The reaction from his classmates was so painful, Chuckie had even asked to go away to a military academy. Initially reluctant, Chuck and Anne Marie had begun to think that in light of the attention the Giancana name was now receiving, it might be best. At least he’d be protected there and away from the daily newspaper headlines that dogged his every step.
It seemed there would never be an end to the headlines. If it wasn’t an expose on Chicago’s “Number One Gangster,” it was something far more mundane. The press was obviously aware that sensational stories about mobsters sell newspapers. A flurry of such stories appeared on April 4, 1959, when Mooney’s eldest daughter, Annette, married at Chicago’s plush La Salle Hotel.
The papers all said it was a staggeringly expensive affair, attended by an honor roll of top mafiosi. And it was. Mooney laid out $25,000 for the reception’s seven hundred guests at a time when a typical middle-class American home cost $17,000.
Among the women, word spread that Annette wanted it to be the biggest bash the city had ever witnessed. Mooney complained to Chuck that she was “damned determined to make a scene. . . . She thinks she’s some goddamned movie star. I guess she’ll never grow up. But at least now some other man will have to worry about her.”
The lavish affair, featuring Joey Bishop as headliner, was peopled by the most powerful members of Chicago’s underworld. It reminded Chuck of his own marriage ten years previously—only bigger. “Annette’ll probably do a couple hundred grand,” Mooney whispered as he surveyed the crowd. He was obviously pleased, and he had a right to be; he’d earned every last dime paid in tribute to his daughter that day. He’d scratched and scraped and clawed his way to the top.
The publicity received in the wedding’s wake only added insult to injury for Chuck’s family. Mooney had held an uncharacteristically frank and open conversation with reporter Sandy Smith, and soon it appeared in papers across the country.
Again, Chuck’s wife and children were bombarded with stares and whispers from the neighbors. “Maybe we should move back into town,” Anne Marie said, sighing. “I can’t take much more.”
But Chuck wouldn’t hear of it; he was certain Mooney was making inroads with the Kennedys and certain that, if Jack was elected, all their troubles would be over.
At a time when old man Kennedy was paying thousands of dollars to interest the press in his son Jack, the wealth of publicity Sam Giancana received was ironic. Scores of publications headlined two names that year: Kennedy and Giancana. The only difference Chuck could think of was that one’s coverage was paid for in blood, the other’s in dollars. “We’ve got a lot in common . . . me and the Kennedys,” Mooney said in all seriousness. “The good thing is, nobody knows it.”
J. Edgar Hoover, however, did recognize the similarity. He knew Kennedy’s heritage and had compiled a dossier on Joe and his sons over the years. In fact, Mooney said he heard from former Chicago FBI agents Guy Banister in New Orleans and another agent out west that Hoover was watching the Kennedys with the same intensity given him. “Hoover blames Bobby for all the bad publicity he and the FBI got after Apalachin,” Mooney explained. “He’s got a hard-on for the Kennedys . . . no question about it. And that’s good. That means Hoover and I are workin’ on the same side. He just hasn’t figured it out yet.”
In June, while Murray Humphreys was busily setting up a number of sexual lures for Jack Kennedy, Mooney was testifying before Bobby Kennedy at the McClellan committee. It was completely crazy to him, he said to Chuck later. “Bobby must know I saved his old man’s life . . . that we’re talkin’ now. They’re all nuts in that family,” he ranted.
Mooney, who sported a toupee for the occasion to misdirect at least some of the press, took the Fifth Amendment thirty-four times and, to his credit, managed to maintain his composure during what he described as a “childish” attack from Bobby.
“I thought only little girls giggled, Mr. Giancana,” Kennedy had taunted. Chuck’s brother explained Mooney’s laughter during the hearings: “Sittin’ there, I couldn’t help but laugh. . . . I was thinkin’ about a night with his brother at the Cal-Neva. It was all so funny . . . I couldn’t help it. What a bunch of fuckin’ hypocrites.”
Although Mooney left Washington for business in Mexico determined to “fix that smartass Bobby as soon as I get a chance,” the actual outcome of the McClellan committee’s investigation into organized crime would be inconsequential. Nobody in the “Mafia” went to jail as a result of testimony received by the committee. The worst thing to come of the thirty-month hearings would be the sensationalized testimony given by a low-level New York gang member named Joe Valachi, and the public embarrassment suffered by J. Edgar Hoover, which ultimately led to Hoover’s personal war against “La Cosa Nostra.”
Ironically, while the FBI was busy laying a trap for Mooney on his return to Chicago through customs, Mooney was conducting business in Mexico with another branch of the U.S. government—the CIA.
On his return from Mexico, Mooney ran into trouble at Chicago’s Midway Airport. At customs, he agreeably submitted to a search, but when they found another man’s driver’s license in his wallet, his demeanor abruptly changed. After questioning, he was released, unscathed but ruffled. Again, he made headlines. And again Chuck’s children were the butt of cruel jokes and pranks from their fellow classmates.
Following the irritating incident at the airport, Mooney dropped by the Thunderbolt. There, lounging by the pool with Chuck, he expressed puzzlement over the fact that the government—with its many branches—had so little collaboration and intercommunication.
His contacts in the intelligence agency had told him Hoover detested the CIA, was jealous of their power and budget, and bitterly resented the secrecy that shrouded their operations. “The right hand doesn’t know what the left is doin’,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief, squinting in the glare of the sunshine.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Chuck asked, pouring chilled Bloody Marys crowned with celery sticks into tall frosted mugs. He handed one to his brother.
“It means, like I said before, that I’m workin’ for the government and half the government doesn’t even know it.” Mooney removed the celery stick and took a bite. “Bobby Kennedy is just too far down the ladder to know about it and J. Edgar Hoover can’t find out because the CIA’s afraid he’d blow the lid off the whole operation just out of spite. So, for now, I guess I’m fucked.”
“Pretty thankless,” Chuck commented. He was thinking about how differently people might react if they knew Mooney was actually helping the U.S. government.
“That’s fine, though. I’ve made a lot of money with those guys. A lot of money.”
“Yeah, well, you stand to lose a lot of money, too . . . look at Cuba. Since Castro took over in January, who knows?”
“so far, it’s iffy,” Mooney conceded. “But by backin’ Castro, we may have saved our ass. You never really know, though, how a deal like this’ll turn out . . . it’s a crapshoot. We gave him millions to let us reopen the casinos. Maybe he’ll see this as an opportunity.”
“Maybe,” Chuck said.
“Well, we do have a guy on the inside. Castro’s made him his ‘Minister of Games of Chance,’ so we should be covered.” He sighed and thoughtfully sipped his drink.
“How about Trafficante? I heard he’s in jail down there. A bad sign?”
Mooney’s eyes narrowed and he nodded in agreement. “It is a bad sign. Marcello’s worried about his drug rackets. . . . We could lose a lot down there besides gambling and Santo Trafficante. But I’ll get him out. . . . Ruby’s workin’ on it. It’s gonna cost me, though, because Castro knows Santo
was real tight with all the old guard. I may have to go down to Havana myself. What the hell, I got investments to protect, right?”
Although he said nothing, Chuck believed he had investments of his own that were slipping away. In spite of Anne Marie’s valiant attempts at friendship, their neighbors continued to behave decently but with suspicion. His two sons had almost grown accustomed to being left out of birthday parties and other neighborhood celebrations. With another Giancana wedding to attend less than a month after Mooney’s tussle at the airport—this time, Bonnie was tying the knot with Tony Tisci, congressional aide to Mooney’s political puppet U.S. Representative Roland Libonati—Chuck imagined he might be facing the last straw.
Both Chuck and Anne Marie were relieved to find that this time security was tight at the wedding and reception. Additionally, the festivities were held out of town, in Miami on July 4—a day reporter Sandy Smith traditionally staked out Tony Accardo’s annual backyard barbecue in Chicago.
While Sandy Smith dutifully recorded the unusually subdued and oddly small Accardo party in Chicago, mafiosi were flying in from around the country to Miami. The two hundred tuxedoed guests at the Fontainebleau Hotel enjoyed a reception equal in extravagance to Annette’s affair just three months previously—but this time, thankfully, Mooney gave no interviews to the press.
“I guess we can wait a while to sell our house,” Chuck said, smiling, as he and Ann Marie came back on the plane. Maybe it was all that sunshine, but somehow being in Florida always made things brighter. He patted his wife’s small gloved hand. “We’re gonna be just fine, Babe, just fine.”
Even Mooney seemed to have been rejuvenated by the Sunshine State. He’d met with the Kennedys, he told Chuck, and “had it all worked out.”
In late August, Chuck heard that Santo Trafficante had been released and allowed to leave Cuba. His brother said it was “a job well done by Jack Ruby,” and as reward, he was giving him a small piece of a casino in Havana. “Things are smoothin’ out,” he remarked. “Maybe we’ll stay in business down there, maybe not. . . . Santo got hurt pretty good, but he got out with as many dollars as he could and a lot of those dollars are mine. So far, so good.”