by Sam Giancana
By autumn of 1959, Mooney’s attentions were turned once again to the political maneuvering of Joe Kennedy. He met with him at Chicago’s Ambassador East on three separate occasions to finalize their agreement. Mooney said both Mayor Daley and Jack Kennedy were there, as well.
Although Chuck was curious as to the outcome of the discussions, he didn’t pry; he’d learned long ago that asking too many questions when Mooney wasn’t talkative was an unattractive trait. So he was forced to be satisfied with Mooney’s sole comment on the meetings: “I’ll have a lot to be thankful for by this time next year . . . everything is in place.”
Shortly before Christmas, Chuck found Mooney in a more jovial, gregarious mood when he dropped by his home in Oak Park. Mooney offered him some eggnog and cookies and they retired, proper holiday nourishment in tow, to his basement office.
This time, he wasn’t bashful about discussing his progress. Chuck couldn’t recall ever seeing his brother so pleased with himself.
“I got everything I wanted,” Mooney abruptly announced, setting his glass down and lighting a cigar.
“Everything?” Chuck felt a growing excitement. If Mooney had in fact extracted some promise of protection from the Kennedys, his own family’s troubles would be over. He silently said a prayer.
“Yep . . . everything. It’s pretty simple, really. I help get Jack elected and, in return, he calls off the heat. It’ll be business as usual. Of course, I said I’d keep it low-profile . . . after all, I’m not gonna be a fuckin’ diplomat; I won’t have total immunity.” He laughed.
“What about Bobby?” Chuck hated to sound like a broken record, but Bobby was the one who really worried him.
“Bobby’s taken care of. I asked them to get him off that damned McClellan committee . . . so they’re gonna have him help run the campaign.”
“Great,” Chuck said.
“So you see, it’s all ins and no outs for me when Jack’s elected. I’ll be on easy street . . . no more coppers, no more FBI, no more bullshit. No more Bobby. As far as my business will be concerned—Vegas, Teamsters, drugs, you name it—they’ll all just turn their heads and they’ll have executive orders to do it. Or else.”
“No kiddin’?” Chuck said, startled by the magnitude of it all.
“Yeah, no kiddin’.” Mooney lifted his glass and smiled.
A frown crossed Chuck’s face. “Hey, did Joe say that . . . or did Jack? I mean, can you trust the old man?” Chuck had serious doubts about Joe Kennedy.
“Joe and I worked it out first, then Jack and I sat down. Jack knows the score. He knows how to play ball. Actually, he’s not a bad guy to do business with.” Mooney grinned, obviously pleased with himself. He began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You should’ve seen Jack’s face when I told him about me workin’ with the CIA. I wish I had a picture.”
“I bet. So you trust Jack’s word, then, no double-dealin’?”
“Let me put it this way, I have myself covered in the event he suddenly gets amnesia.”
“Yeah?”
Mooney grinned smugly. “I’ve already got enough dirt on Jack Kennedy and his lousy old man to ruin ten politicians’ careers. I’ve got pictures, tape recordings, film, you name it, all safe and sound in a safe-deposit box. The American public would be real happy to see their President bein’ serviced by three women and one of ’em a shine broad to boot. Yeah, if I ever need an ace, here’s the key.” He dangled a small gold key in Chuck’s face and then slipped it back in his pocket.
Not content with the leverage he already had, Mooney was planning to arm himself with even more compromising information. “It’s all handled with the broads for Kennedy. And there’s more, all lined up, ready to go. One of the girl’s got a thing goin’ with Jack . . . she’s gonna go back and forth to Washington. We got some other girls, one is a dead ringer for Jack’s wife . . . if you can imagine that.” He shook his head and chuckled. “She’s gonna be introduced. We’re gonna get Jack in real deep with Monroe, too. . . . I hear he’s been poppin’ her. Hell, I hear Bobby’s even made a few remarks about wantin’ to fuck her himself. Jesus, those Kennedy brothers are animals.”
“Do the broads know what the deal is?”
“Hell no, they’ll just think it’s all coincidence or just a favor to me or that someone’s doin’ them a favor introducin’ them to the next President of the United States. You know, women eat that shit up.” He grinned, popping a cookie in his mouth, chewing it thoughtfully. “To tell you the truth, no-one knows for sure what I’m up to. . . . They think I just wanna make the Kennedys happy.” Mooney laughed aloud.
“Right,” Chuck said, his words laced with sarcasm.
“Right,” Mooney echoed, grinning.
In January of 1960, secure in the knowledge that the dirt he was collecting would ensure compliance in his pact with the Kennedys, Mooney instructed his showbiz contacts to start working to get Jack elected. He wanted them to “pull out all the stops,” and that included getting all their friends on board, as well. “They’ve got to use every single trick in the book to get Hollywood behind Jack Kennedy. I don’t just want the guy nominated for President, I want him to be President.”
Soon after, Mooney burst into the Thunderbolt lounge practically bubbling over with joy. Certain Jack Kennedy would be President, Mooney was already flaunting the expected victory—still eleven months away—as if it was his own. He swaggered past the wrought-iron tables and up to the immense mirrored bar, proclaiming to Chuck, “We’re all invited to the greatest show on earth. And it’s gonna be worth the price of admission . . . every goddamned dollar.”
It was clear to Chuck that, for his brother, putting Kennedy in the White House would be a personal victory. Then not only would Mooney own governors and congressmen; he’d have what he called, “a front-row seat at the biggest show of all.”
It took little effort from Mooney to plunge ahead on the campaign trail, getting Jack invited to lavish parties, such as campaign get-togethers at Lawford’s home. Sinatra was roped in for his contacts with a bevy of stars—all of whom were unwittingly manipulated by Mooney in one way or another to support the campaign publicly.
Mooney said these stars were enamored with the prospect of wining and dining a President, of being able to call up their friend in the Oval Office someday.
In January, Frank Sinatra invited Kennedy, already on the campaign trail, to a show at the Sands in Vegas, featuring his Clan buddies and the cast of Ocean’s Eleven.
Kennedy went to Vegas and was treated like royalty—everything was on the house from the bedroom to boardroom. Slowly, Jack Kennedy was becomingly more deeply involved with Mooney’s world. Mooney might not always be present at the star-studded soirees, but his power seeped from every nook and cranny of the lounges, restaurants, stages, and boudoirs Kennedy now frequented with his brother-in-law Peter Lawford and celebrity friend Frank Sinatra. “Frank’s even gonna produce a campaign song for the guy using the song ‘High Hopes’.” Each event was orchestrated by Mooney’s unseen hand.
It was all working out even better than he’d anticipated: “Kennedy loves to party, loves the celebrity shit. You just watch, it’s all gonna go to Kennedy’s head and then he’ll really fuck up. . . . You know what I always say, Play in shit long enough and somethin’s bound to stick.”
Mooney had some more girls in line right away and again arranged for Jack to be invited to the Sands in Vegas to introduce the “bait,” as Mooney called it.
On February 7, 1960, at the Las Vegas Sands, Jack Kennedy was introduced to an ex-girlfriend of Sinatra’s, the pretty brunette Judy Campbell—who later gained notoriety as Judith Campbell Exner. According to Mooney, Judy was little different from all the other women who flocked to his underworld friends in search of stardom, trinkets, or just a good time. But it was reported to Mooney that Jack was immediately taken by this woman who reminded people of his wife, Jackie.
In March, when Mooney learned th
at Kennedy was bedding Judy Campbell on a regular basis, snatching time away from his political vote thumping every chance he got, he was close to ecstatic. He wanted Kennedy to have a “regular,” someone he could eventually manipulate and use to his own advantage. With Judy Campbell, it appeared he’d struck gold.
Over the years, Mooney had utilized what to Chuck had become a familiar strategy: Whenever he wanted to know more about a man working for him, he became fast friends—lovers usually—with the guy’s wife or girlfriend. Mooney moved slowly, circling his prey, imperceptible as a predator at first. He’d come around under the auspices of conducting some business deal with the woman’s husband—making a new racket up as bait if he had to. Throughout his visits, he maintained the behavior of a perfect gentleman. After a while, he’d be “thoughtful” enough to take the woman a small trinket when he called on her husband—typically, a ring or bracelet. He always openly gave it to her in her husband’s presence and therefore, ironically, his attentions convinced the guy that his own career was about to take off. “That’s what ego will get you,” Mooney would snort after bedding yet another man’s wife.
Mooney would also take the time to call up and chat with the woman, “Just to see how you and my man are doin’,” he’d say with all the charm he could muster. It was a charm that was considerable. Sometime along the line, he’d drop by with a fur coat. He waited, biding his time; he wasn’t pushy. But it wasn’t long before he had the woman in bed, revealing her husband’s deepest secrets, his every weakness.
Mooney used a woman’s infidelity to prove a point to her husband: He owned them and could take anything they possessed. Even if the guy never realized Mooney was banging his wife, it didn’t matter. The important thing was for Mooney to know—to know he could destroy the guy anytime he wanted. With that knowledge, he always held the ace.
Recognizing his brother’s pattern of seduction, it came as no shock to Chuck when he learned Mooney had arranged for an introduction to Kennedy’s new plaything, Judy Campbell. After their “chance introduction” and dinner at Miami’s Fontainebleau Hotel in late March, Mooney was ready to take it from there. True to form, he showered Judy with flowers and gifts and was soon seen with her on his arm from New York to Vegas. Jack knew of Mooney’s friendship with Judy, he said, and saw nothing harmful in it whatsoever.
“Jesus, what an ego,” Mooney said, chuckling. “The guy thinks I’m just bein’ a friend. He even suggested that maybe Judy could act as our go-between to set up meetings.” He shook his head. “What an idiot.”
Indeed, Mooney didn’t seem to need a go-between; he met with Jack and Joe several times during the primaries, in Florida, New York, Chicago, and at the Cal-Neva in Tahoe. “Jack’s worried about a few states,” Mooney told Chuck. “Mostly West Virginia, because of the Bible Belt there and the coal miners’ union . . . hell, the whole union vote back east is a problem.” Referring to his Cal-Neva manager, Skinny D’Amato, Mooney said, “I told Skinny to tell Joe that I’ll take care of West Virginia on one condition—that after Jack’s President, Joe Adonis is allowed back in the country. The guys out east want Adonis back. Jack and his old man couldn’t say yes fast enough . . . didn’t have any problem at all bringin’ a deported gangster back into the country. So we’ve got a deal for West Virginia.”
Mooney paused a moment, then continued. “I did explain to them that once we get past the convention and start on the national campaign, the Teamsters can’t come out publicly for Jack . . . that would look pretty fishy given what the McClellan committee did to Hoffa and his boys . . . let alone the stunts Bobby pulled. But behind the scenes, no problem . . . I’ve already got it worked out with Jimmy to skim a couple million out of the union for Jack’s national campaign, based on Kennedy’s agreement that Bobby will leave Hoffa and the Teamsters alone.”
The East Coast states were a relatively simple job, but the hills of West Virginia proved a challenge. “We’re gonna have to buy every fuckin’ vote in the state,” Mooney lamented as the May primary drew near.
The entire Kennedy family turned out in mass to help bring out the vote for Jack in West Virginia, but Mooney said behind the scenes, away from the glare of the cameras, was where the vote would be won. He sent Skinny D’Amato to West Virginia with a suitcase full of money.
In later years, the amount contributed by the Chicago Outfit to the West Virginia primary would be put at fifty thousand dollars—however, that May, Mooney confided that because the state was deemed so critical, he’d put in half a million of his own money. “Jesus, we even had to muscle the taverns to convince ’em to play Frank’s song ‘High Hopes,’ on the jukeboxes. Those hillbillies hate the idea of an East Coast Irish Catholic President.”
Jack Kennedy had won every primary he’d entered. With his victory in West Virginia, beating Hubert Humphrey by a margin of 29 percent, it looked as if there would be no stopping his quest for the nomination.
In anticipation of the July Democratic National Convention, the press hailed Kennedy as a new breed—a young, charismatic idealist who offered America a breath of fresh air. Mooney found this portrayal especially humorous; like everyone else, Jack Kennedy could be bought. He’d just had to use a different currency.
He kept close tabs on Kennedy’s goings-on, thanks to his various wiretaps.
The Kennedy clan moved into the California home of Joe’s old flame Marion Davies to prepare for the convention in Los Angeles. Mooney received daily progress reports; he was delighted.
At the convention, Jack wowed the delegates and press once more, winning on the first ballot. Mooney later told Chuck that he’d discussed the selection of Jack’s running mate with Joe Kennedy and it had been agreed that a Texas politician named Lyndon Johnson would be Jack’s choice. Early on in the primaries, Mooney said, Carlos Marcello had made it clear that he wanted Johnson in the White House, believing Johnson’s political machine could swing the South, an assertion verified by Jack Ruby, still Chicago’s representative in Dallas. “Between Illinois and Texas, we can swing the whole damned country,” Mooney said. “Joe liked the idea. . . . He owed Johnson more than a few favors, anyway, even if it looked like they hated each other. . . . Johnson put Jack on the Foreign Relations Committee as a favor to Joe way back when and that boosted Jack’s career. So it was settled. Johnson’s gonna be Vice President.”
Apparently, Joe was able to convince his son of the wisdom of making Johnson his vice presidential running mate despite the immediate fallout. Shocked Kennedy supporters—including Bobby—ranted and railed to no avail. Lyndon Johnson’s name was added to the Democratic ticket.
Certainly, there had been elections before, but none in which Mooney took so active an interest. Between his transcontinental jaunts, he avidly watched the political drama unfold. Chuck also found himself glued to the television, eagerly awaiting some tidbit of information. He’d begun secretly to embrace his brother’s dream of owning the President—not for the power it would bring but for the relief; his family was suffering more than ever due to the notorious Giancana name.
Chuckie was now in military school, but it was his youngest son who concerned him most; he didn’t have the same assertive temperament as Chuckie. Shy and easily stung by the cruel comments from his classmates, little Mooney was now in first grade and doing poorly in school.
“It’s no wonder,” Anne Marie said, wringing her hands. “The children act like they have machine guns and follow him around the playground going ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ all day long, saying he’s a little gangster like his uncle.” It seemed to Chuck that his brother had been reaping all the rewards of his position—piles of money, any broad he wanted, and, now, the ear of the next President. If Jack Kennedy actually won the election, Chuck thought it should be time for things to turn in his own favor.
He caught himself daydreaming about life after the election: There would be no more G-men shadowing his family, no more negative publicity. They could have neighborhood barbecues and cocktail parties; their kid
s could finally make friends and be able to concentrate on school so they’d go to college someday. Chuck hardly realized it when it happened, but by October, Mooney’s dream had become his own.
Across the country, there were literally dozens of mafiosi who shared Mooney’s dream, as well. With Jack Kennedy as President, there would be lucrative government contracts coming their way, friends appointed to high places, leniency in the event of a legal entanglement.
Even so, as Mooney explained to Chuck over dinner in late October at Meo’s Norwood House, the Outfit was still “hedging its bets.”
“We’ll contribute to Nixon, too. They’ll each get our support. Marcello and I together are givin’ Nixon a million bucks. Just like we gave Lyndon Johnson a good piece of change. But of course, that’s nothin’ compared to what we’ve given Jack. Two million dollars on top of all the votes we’ve bought for the primaries. If it’s close, we know we can steal the votes we need. But, if Johnson can’t take the South and it goes to Nixon, well, we’ll still come out on top. Not great . . . not as good as Jack . . . but in control.”
“You know,” Chuck mused, “I can’t understand why you don’t just back Nixon.”
“Because Kennedy is playin’ ball with me . . . he’s made some big promises. Nixon isn’t in my pocket like Jack’ll be, but we can influence him . . . but Jack will be all mine.” Mooney grinned at his brother.
“Shit, I still worry about trustin’ them. . . . The Kennedys are, well, look at Bobby.”
“Bobby doesn’t even know what Jack and I have been talkin’ about. He’s out of the picture. He’ll be just another goddamned lawyer soon. They’ve promised me they’ll take care of him. Jack is gonna be President . . . not Bobby. Besides, if anything goes wrong, I’ve got a lot of shit on them.”