A Bloody Business Page 10

  “Bucket shop?” Joe says.

  Charlie explains the connection to Wall Street and commodities and securities.

  “It is a high-class numbers game,” Charlie says.

  What Joe hears is that Costello is making money, big money, and since Wall Street is part of the Lower East Side, Costello should show his respect.

  “Why he change his name to Costello. Is he Irish? He is Frank Castiglia but he hides behind his Irish friends.”

  Charlie says, “He was raised, so to speak, by a big Irish politician, Tim Sullivan. He was part of Tammany. He’s shrewd.”

  “Never trust a mick.”

  “I’ll talk to Costello.”

  “Castiglia,” Joe says. “Reason with this ingrato. And watch your back with the Jews. You have my blessing to do business with them but don’t get too close to the fire. It will burn you.”

  Since his encounter with Rocco Valenti last summer, with bullets flying on the street and Joe in hot pursuit and Valenti the guy who wound up receiving the death-dealing bullet, Joe has convinced himself he is invincible. It was midday when bullets blazed at the corner of Fifth Street and Second Avenue. Valenti fired wildly, killing one bystander and wounding five others. Joe the Boss ran. His hat filled with bullet holes but not his body, which was something of a miracle considering his size. He bobbed and weaved and escaped with his life. The locals call him “the man who dodges bullets.”

  Consequently, Joe is convinced that he is destined to become the Boss of Bosses and that Yale is the perfect lever for his ascension. He sends Vito across the street for coffee while he confides in Charlie. He slicks back his hair and smoothes his tie.

  Joe says, “You ever smoke a Frankie Yale cigar? What kind of man puts his own face on a cigar box? Who is he kid with this? The Calabrese are proud men, eh, too proud. His nose always point to the sky. But he is a good thief. One time, when he is with Johnny Torrio, he steal very many fur coats. Too bad he get caught. He not so smart as he think. A little bird tells me Frankie Yale wants Big Jim Colosimo dead.

  “Everybody think Yale send Torrio to be boss of Chicago. Frankie Yale no want to make nobody strong but himself. I will tell you about Chicago. The young men are restless, no? They smell where the money is but Big Jim has all he wants, enough whiskey to keep his brothels in business. He got his head in the old country and his cock in the girls. The young men gotta get Big Jim out of the way but now Johnny Torrio is there. It is not so easy to kill your boss. Johnny Torrio, he is smart like wolf, too. What’s he gonna do? Be careful, Charlie. The Calabrese come from Italy’s toe. They like to kick everybody else in the head. Torrio and Yale…” He holds up two fingers tight against each other. “They got a plan for Chicago. You can count on that.”

  Joe has convinced himself that all roads lead to his front door and that all deals require his network of influence to solidify.

  Charlie says, “Capone is Neapolitan.”

  “That’s why he will never control our world. Al, he likes the tarantella, huh? He dance on your chest until he breaks your bones and split open your gut just to be sure you dead. Torrio need a guy like that to be second in command, like you are to me, Charlie. When Lupo the Wolf was in jail, Frankie Yale decide he want the Brooklyn docks. Why? He want to smuggle his paesans from Italy, like Lupo, maybe whiskey and opium, too. He get strong. He make lots of money. We get plenty of trouble.”

  Vito makes his way up the stairs and through the door of Joe’s office. He carries a tray loaded with several cups of Italian coffee, a loaf of bread, and a lump of cheese wrapped in wax paper.

  Joe narrows his eyes into tight slits of concentration, “Opium is good business. Arnold Rothstein, he bring opium from Asia hidden in his antiques. I think maybe you smart like fox, too, Charlie. I think maybe you got these Jews lined up for our business. I give you and Vito my blessing to make a deal with this Rothstein for opium. I make you rich men, huh. Then we see who is big in New York, Joe the Boss or Frankie Yale.”

  Satisfied that Charlie sees the light, Joe sits back in a plump chair and sips coffee.

  He says, “I know you like the dream stick, Charlie. Don’t forget, I like to chase the dragon once in a while too. Go see this Rothstein and don’t forget I like to sample the goods before I buy.”

  Joe takes the cheese from the wax paper and stands it on a plate. It is a smooth, white provolone in the shape of a pig and neatly tied with brown string.

  Vito says, “The Signora sends her gratitude. Provolone from her home town.”

  Joe pokes a finger into the little white porker.

  “Fresh,” he says tearing off an ear.

  Joe dismisses Vito and Charlie, who shuffle down the stairs and onto the street, where Vito lights a cigarette.

  “Let’s go home,” Charlie says.

  Joe watches from the window until they disappear.

  Vito and Charlie wind past the rat catcher’s shop where a long string of dead rats hangs suspended by their tails. The back wall of the shop is piled high with caged ferrets.

  Vito says, “Are you going to make a deal with Rothstein?”

  Charlie opens the door to Vito’s Packard and says, “I will give it some thought. Right now, take me to Polly Adler’s joint.”

  The Packard’s engine hums.

  “Why do you think Joe the Boss is so interested in Costello?” Charlie says.

  Vito is close to Costello but the chain that links them is weak. Vito clings to Ciro Terranova and Terranova to Costello. It was Vito that connected Charlie to Costello since Costello can fix just about anything.

  Vito says, “The Bronx is next door to Harlem. Terranova is strong there. He must be worried about Terranova. If he can get Costello to pay tribute, then Terranova would fall in line.”

  They pass by Daniel Badger’s Architectural Iron Works, a battery of brothels, a deli, the Church of the Divine Unity, Broadway Central Hotel where Rothstein stays on occasion, Union Square, and the temperance fountain built by Adolph Donndorf to keep the good citizens of New York from guzzling alcohol.

  Vito says, “Terranova uses Costello because Frank is in bed with all them big Irish politicians. Maybe he just wants to bring the Irish into his orbit so he can use their influence.”

  A traffic jam slows them through the Tenderloin and stops them in front of Delmonico’s. At 40th, passing the Metropolitan Opera House, Vito breaks into his best recollection of “Vesti la Biubba.”

  “Joe don’t trust the Irish,” Charlie says.

  Vito laughs. “And the Irish sure as hell don’t trust him.”

  At 55th and Madison, Vito parks the car and they hike the half a block to Polly’s apartment where the doorman rings them through.

  Polly’s maid, a small black woman who goes by the name of Lion, opens the door.

  “Miss Polly will be here in a minute, Mr. Charlie,” she says.

  The elegant twelve-room apartment in the middle of what Polly calls “café society country” is sleek and elegantly decorated. Polly, short and Jewish, a madam who got her start on the Lower East Side, likes Charlie not because café society likes to rub shoulders with gangsters but because Polly knows Charlie is a good guy to have in a jam.

  Charlie waits in the salon and stares at the twelve-foot Gobelin tapestry that hangs on the wall, a gaudy piece of work in gold and pink and red embellished with floral boughs and blue ribbons and whatnot. Charlie and Vito ignore the whatnot to ogle Venus at the Forge of Vulcan.

  A writer of some note saunters through the room. He raises his glass to Charlie, the ice in his glass sloshing scotch onto the floor.

  “I assume I have you to thank for this,” the writer says.

  “Don’t blame me, pal,” Charlie says. He’s still looking at the tapestry. “Polly bought this in Paris. Why anybody would hang a rug on a wall is beyond me.”

  Polly enters with a tray of cocktails. Her hair is cropped short and styled away from her face. Her eyes sparkle. She wears a red Chinese dress with a gold dragon embroid
ered across the front. The dragon hugs her short, round body firmly.

  Polly says, “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the joint.”

  “Why’d you move back to Broadway?” Charlie says as they head toward a door at the end of the salon.

  Polly says, “You can have the Brooks Brothers crowd. They’re a bunch of cheap cake-eaters. My girls work harder for their money than all those men put together. Broadway’s got a heart of gold and buckets of Champagne.”

  The living room walls in Polly’s new flat are warm gray, the draperies pale green satin. The furniture is Louis XVI, the lamps jade. A rose quartz elephant sits on the bar behind which Lion mixes a pitcher of Bacardi cocktails. The living room sprawls into the paneled library filled with rare books Polly has collected on her frequent visits to Europe.

  The writer, who seems to have followed in their wake, sidles up to the bar and helps himself to more scotch.

  He says, “I’m willing to bet it isn’t fine businessmen like you that are behind the drive to move the boundary of the international waters from three miles to twelve miles.”

  “Whadya mean, move the boundary?” Charlie says. “How can you move the boundary?”

  “It takes an international agreement. You know how we wound up with a three-mile boundary? The Dutch figured the maximum range of a cannon was roughly three miles. Now that we’ve forgone cannons, America wants to extend the border to make it harder for the bootleggers to get their goods.” The writer hoists his whiskey glass. “Lord help us,” he says, and chugs it back.

  Charlie shakes his head, “The only guys that’ll get hurt with that move are the little guys.”

  The writer says, “How’s that?”

  “The little guys don’t got the resources for going out twelve miles. It’s the boys with the big boats that go that far. You know what they say about a little fish in a big pond. Pretty soon, he’s somebody’s dinner. Personally, I don’t care one way or the other. If I cared, that would mean I got somethin’ to lose in keeping it where it is, if you catch my meaning.”

  The writer tips his glass. “Enough said.”

  One of Polly’s girls comes out for Charlie. Her presence sucks the air right out of the twelve-mile-limit conversation. Vito is at the Victrola picking his way through Polly’s record collection. Several hand cranks later, Charlie follows the girl to the peach and apple-green bedroom while Caruso belts out “Vesti la Biubba.”

  The girl undresses slowly, by Charlie’s standards. Caruso manages a complete expression in three minutes twenty-nine seconds when he’s in an “O Sole Mio” mood. Three minutes drags out to five. Vito starts another song. Charlie pushes the girl to the bed and takes care of the job of undressing himself in thirty seconds flat. A few minutes later, he’s dressed and out the door. He passes Polly fifty bucks which she tucks under the dragon’s heart.

  “The greatest voice in history,” Vito says of Caruso. “Neapolitan. That’s my point. It was Naples that put art above family. That’s what pisses off the Sicilians but we got the better deal.”

  * * *

  Half the day disappears before Charlie comes by the garage driving his latest acquisition, a green Dodge Phaeton with whitewall tires and matching green rims. Charlie flips the top down and waves. Meyer, who has been trying to figure out what’s gone wrong with the timing of one of his trucks, drops the job and makes his way to Charlie’s car.

  Charlie says, “I was at the Cotton Club last night and had a good talk with Madden and Big Frenchy. Big Bill is putting a near-beer brewery in Hell’s Kitchen. Did you know you gotta brew the real thing to make near beer? You boil off the alcohol until it’s half a percent. You call what’s left tonic and sell it legally. Son of a bitch. I had no idea.”

  “Tonic?” Meyer says with some amusement.

  “Does Sammy have time to beef up my engine? I picked this up today. Ciro Terranova, you know him? He just bought a bulletproof car. I figure for him, it’s a good idea. Me, I like the wind in my hair so I got this. A little extra speed wouldn’t hurt.

  Let’s take a ride. We got stuff to talk about.”

  Charlie takes the scenic route to nowhere in particular and fills Meyer in on what’s going on among the Italian mobs. He passes time with small talk about Joe the Boss’ rationale for tribute from guys like Frank Costello and Ciro Terranova and how those boys aren’t thrilled with the idea but Joe the Boss is powerful. Once crossed, there is always hell to pay.

  Charlie says, “Joe wants into the opium business. He knows that Rothstein is bringin’ in good stuff from Asia. He told me to make the connection with Rothstein. See, Frankie Yale, the old greaser in Brooklyn, is workin’ an opium racket and getting rich. Yale don’t give Joe a piece so he figures our mob should get into the business. If I make a deal with Rothstein, the Italians won’t know nothin’ about Joe’s involvement.”

  Meyer says, “Sicilians look down on drug dealers. Why would Joe want you to get involved?”

  “Joe don’t care as long as it lines his pocket. Besides, I’m the guy with the mixed-up mob and connections to Jews. Right there, I lose respect. Joe’s the guy at the top. He can pretend ignorance.”

  Meyer listens. Meyer has bigger plans for their mobs than simple bootlegging. And with Charlie on their side, there were things they could do.

  Meyer says, “Drugs are a bad idea. Kids get hooked on the stuff. It runs down society.”

  “Yeah, and it makes people feel good in this shit life. What’s the difference if it’s opium or alcohol?” Charlie says.

  “Every culture consumes alcohol,” Meyer says. “Pretty much. Not many use opium. Not to mention it’s a political bandwagon in this country. The Protestants run things. How do you think we got Prohibition? Now they’re cracking down on opium.”

  “And dropping it into our hands, just like alcohol,” Charlie says.

  “The public isn’t for opium,” Meyer says. “That’s the difference.”

  “What the public don’t know…” Charlie says. “The Chinese don’t seem to mind.”

  “The Chinese had it forced on them and now they’re hooked,” Meyer says, referring to the British East India Company that forced the Chinese to accept opium as payment for the tea and silk they took from China. The Chinese government quickly regretted their compliance.

  “You gotta play it low key,” Meyer says.

  “If Joe tells me to make a connection, I make the connection, low key or not.”

  “We can do better with alcohol.”

  “It don’t matter,” Charlie says. “You gotta understand these old greasers.”

  This grates on Meyer. He stares out the passenger window, allowing his thoughts to form. They cross the Williamsburg Bridge and coast through town with barely a notice. The El clangs overhead. Charlie makes a turn toward Prospect Heights. Traffic thins. Wealth kicks in. Neighborhoods go from basic brick to Italianate villa. Charlie’s car fades into the true plainness of its stature.

  Meyer says, “At least put some distance between you and the business end. Rothstein’s got a couple of guys he uses for muscle. You know them. Legs Diamond and his brother.”

  “Oh, those cuckoos,” Charlie says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Meyer says, “Something to think about. I’m not telling you what to do but you’re moving up the ladder. You gotta think about how others see you. What you do in private is your business but what about when you’re smoking? You’re vulnerable when you don’t have all your senses.”

  It’s true and Charlie knows it. He circles back to the garage. Benny is hanging around with a couple of Jews Charlie has not seen before, Lepke Buchalter and Gurrah Shapiro. Red is hustling trucks in and out through the alley. Business is brisk.

  Lepke’s in the middle of saying something: “I didn’t know the half of it until I went into the can. I thought I knew it all. I didn’t know shit. There’s guys in there with experience and nothing but time to talk. It’s like Harvard for guys like us.”

  “Who is
this guy?” Charlie says.

  “Lepke,” Meyer says. “He’s O.K. Just got out of the can. The big guy is his muscle. They pulled off a heist last night. They came by to brag.”

  Charlie is incredulous. “That was these guys?”

  A truckload of furs had been diverted by a garbage brigade. White-uniformed street sweepers pushing brooms in the middle of the night had ushered the truck through the blockade. A Model T had followed close behind the truck. The sweepers ran interference, slowing the truck to a crawl while Lepke jumped from the T onto the running board and stuck a .38 in the driver’s face. It was then the sweepers pulled rifles from the barrels and took aim at the truck. The driver jumped and ran up a small alley.

  Lepke and his mob got away with the furs.

  “They were strikebreakers,” Meyer says. “Did a lot of union work. Don’t get him started on that business. His mother is a union organizer. Lep plans to make a move on management.”

  Lepke hears the comment and says, “Management is the wolf that runs the pack. Those bastards. Labor is the sheep waitin’ to be sheared. Cutters can ruin a whole season just like that. Truckers too. If you don’t hit the market at the right time, you’re done just like that. Nobody’s buyin’ mink in the middle of July.”

  Meyer says, “How about you work your side of the street and we’ll work ours and if we can help each other out, we help each other out?”

  Lepke shrugs. “How about we help ourselves to some fried kreplach.”

  The group schlepps off to Ratner’s where lunch is in full swing. High ceilings, arched windows, and utilitarian chandeliers bounce noise everywhere. The room reverberates with complaining and laughter.

  Meyer spots Longy Zwillman sitting at a table alone. The Cannon Street gang makes a beeline for the nearly empty real estate. The waiter swings by and drops a handful of menus on the table. Gurrah digs into the pickle plate.

  Meyer makes the introductions. Zwillman nods recognition.

  Zwillman says, “We got a couple of new Mafiosi fresh off the boat, a guy named Profaci and a guy named Vincent Mangano. You know them, Charlie? We could pick up some business in the Italian market, bring in some wine.”