A Bloody Business Page 5

  At Ludlow, Meyer hangs a quick left and ducks into Pig Market where, in defiance of New York law, pushcart vendors hawk their wares. An old man huddles over a barrel fire. He looks up and sees Meyer heading his way. The old man’s ivories, what is left of them, chatter a love song at the sight.

  The old man says, “The kippered herring is very fresh today.”

  Charlie takes one look at the cold fish and says, “You’re kidding!”

  Charlie hands the old geezer a five-dollar bill and they head off to Mott Street where the air is scented with sautéing garlic, simmering tomato sauce, and baking bread. Charlie stops in front of a meager establishment, the haunt of manual laborers dressed in holey sweaters and worn trousers sporting paperboy hats shoved high on their foreheads, where they sip soup, twirl pasta, and discuss the pros and cons of anarchy.

  “Come on,” Charlie says, disappearing into the restaurant.

  The owner, a tall, thin Italian with a habit of wringing his hands, escorts his new guests to a back room. Bags of flour and cans of tomatoes and artichokes encroach on the small table meant for staff meals. The Italian spreads the table with silverware, a basket of garlic rolls, and a bottle of Chianti.

  “The chicken is straight from heaven,” Charlie says.

  Meyer says, “They hand out cards at those high society joints around Broadway. The coppers can’t go into the joints because they’re private clubs. They’re springing up everywhere. There’s a guy named Waxey Gordon that’s moving on these joints. You heard of him?”

  He flips a card onto the table. It reads:

  THE CLUB NEW YORKER

  38 EAST 51ST STREET NEAR PARK AVENUE

  A number stamped on the bottom simulates the mark of a private club with limited membership. A name scribbled along the right-hand side is the code the club uses to either allow or deny entrance.

  The paesan that owns the café serves them their chicken on oversized plates along with a fresh basket of rolls. Charlie glides on the aroma then digs in, sopping up the sauce with the lightly battered chicken. Meyer follows suit.

  “Well,” Charlie says.

  “Good,” Meyer says absently.

  “Good?” Charlie heckles. “Holy, Jesus Christ! This is great. White wine and lemon juice. Reason enough to bring wine into America.”

  Meyer nods, “Yeah, it’s good.”

  Charlie passes the bread basket. Meyer skates the garlic roll around the sauce in the plate and savors the last bite. Charlie pours more Chianti.

  “How many trucks have you got in that garage of yours?” Charlie says.

  “Why?” Meyer says.

  “We’re gonna need a helluva lot more. And tell your friends in Detroit that Colosimo’s days are numbered. He won’t last out the year. Then they’ll be dealing with Torrio and Capone and that’s gonna be a whole new ballgame.”

  The challenge is stimulating. Meyer takes Rothstein’s card from his pocket and looks at the number written in pencil.

  “That’s the Plaza,” Charlie says. “Your pal is a regular there.”

  “Let’s see if he’s a pal,” Meyer says.

  After lunch, Meyer rings Rothstein’s hotel room.

  “Yeah?” Rothstein croaks into the receiver.

  “This is Meyer Lansky. I’d like to talk to you about a matter of mutual interest.”

  Mutual interest is smelling salts to Rothstein’s brain. He inhales quickly, slides from the edge of the bed, pads to the window, and then throws open the drapes. The sun pierces his pupils and scorches his brainpan.

  “Meet me in the lobby in fifteen minutes,” Rothstein says, then reconsiders. “Better make that half an hour, in the tea room. You know where that is?”

  “I can find it,” Meyer says and hangs up the phone.

  Rothstein spends fifteen minutes under a hot shower wringing the stiffness from his neck while Meyer takes a cab from the Lower East Side to Central Park South.

  The tea room of the Plaza Hotel is a compilation of white marble floors, mirrored walls, bronze candelabras, gilt-edged Corinthian marble columns, and potted palms. The overhead stained-glass laylight is the size of Rhode Island. The soft glow of its light bulbs diffuses seemliness into the room.

  Meyer covers his discomfort by ordering coffee while he waits for the Brain to arrive. Coffee is served from a silver teapot poured into gold-rimmed china cups. He spoons sugar into his cup. The luxury does nothing to allay his awkwardness. To the contrary. It doesn’t help that, when he comes, Rothstein strides through the room like Goliath on the battlefield. His medium brown suit cut close to the body but with room to move, white silk shirt, light gray sailor-knot tie, straight-hemmed pants and two-toned oxfords say, ‘I belong.’

  The waiter rushes to take his order.

  Rothstein says, “German toast and orange juice, straight up.”

  The waiter clears his throat. He is gruff by Plaza standards, perturbed by Rothstein’s insistence on something other than finger sandwiches.

  The waiter says, “You mean French toast.”

  “Of course,” Rothstein says, “Germans be damned. French toast and orange juice.”

  He dismisses the man with a glare.

  “Did you ever notice that whenever America gets into a war, the menus change? French toast. Liberty cabbage. Liberty burgers. Tell the people what to think and they’ll follow you wherever you want them to go. Tell me, what’s the gamble, how much do you want, and what’s my cut?”

  “Connections,” Meyer says, “to European distillers. You cut your own deal with the distillers. I’ll kick back a couple of points to you on this end.”

  Rothstein takes a moment to romance his coffee while his brain finishes clearing.

  He says, “Why should I settle for a couple of points when I can take the whole hog?”

  Meyer says, “That deal you have with Waxey Gordon and his buddy Maxey? If I say you’re gonna get a couple of points, you’ll get them. Waxey and Maxey won’t be your shoeshine boys forever. Trust your mother but cut the cards.”

  “Word spreads quickly,” Rothstein says. “My shiksa wife tells me I’ll live longer if I get a steady job. What does she know? She’s an actress, had a small part in The Chorus Lady.” He laughs. “My father nearly dropped dead when I married a red-haired, blue-eyed goy.”

  “My father’s a garment presser. He said I’d die from schmatte’s plague if I went into tailoring. He never got over me abandoning the tool and die trade. ‘Next to knowing when to seize an opportunity, the most important thing in life is to know when to forgo an advantage.’”

  “Disraeli,” Rothstein says. “You are educated.”

  “Nah,” Meyer says. “I read a lot.”

  Rothstein says, “Call me in a week.”

  Rothstein scribbles an address on the back of his business card and shoves it toward Meyer. “Do yourself a favor; see this man about a suit. If you want to move among the rich, you must shop where Carnegie and Rockefeller shop. Face it, they don’t put guys like us on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. You want to blend in.”

  Meyer says, “I’m not ashamed of who I am.”

  Rothstein says, “What’s shame got to do with it?”

  Meyer glances out the window at the slush turned to snow. Forecasters predict the worst winter since 1905. In 1905, Meyer was a kid in the Polish Pale. Manhattan is better.

  The waiter returns with a silver tray balanced on his shoulder. He flips open a tray stand and goes about serving the Big Brain his French toast with maple syrup. Even the orange juice commands a plate of its own, fine white china rimmed in gold and embossed with the hotel logo. Rothstein shakes out the pink checkerboard napkin and places it on his lap.

  “It’s the Plaza,” Rothstein says. “Don’t look so surprised.”

  * * *

  Charlie Lucky and Joe the Boss dawdle over cups of espresso in the corner bakery run by Signora Sabatini. A small man in the corner of the bakery reads Il Progresso. The newspaper reports that Umberto Valenti
is vying for the presidency of the Unione Siciliana. The newspaper lauds the Unione’s virtues, a fraternal organization committed to the needs of Sicilian immigrants. The little man has heard the horror stories that surround Lupo the Wolf, the Black Hand extortionist, who led the Unione until his arrest in 1910. The Wolf is back but it is Umberto Valenti who seeks the presidency.

  The little man folds his paper and lays it next to his coffee.

  The plump signora pulls loaves of bread from the large oven that lines the back wall of her tiny shop.

  “Eeeeeeeeee,” the small man screams. “Why you wanna ruin my bread!”

  She thumps the loaf’s hard crust.

  “Perfecto! Sally,” she says, clinging to the affectionate form of Salvatore, Charlie’s given name, “you please to tell my husband I no ruin his bread! He worry too much.”

  “She no ruin your bread,” Charlie says to the little man.

  The husband says, “Charlie, you a smart man. What you think of this Umberto Valenti? He a big man, no? He gonna be the president of the Unione Siciliana or what?”

  Charlie winks, “Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

  The little man blinks hard and slides back behind the news.

  Joe the Boss looks about anxiously fearing the rumor that he is the target of a hired gun. There’s nothing new in this sensation. The iron fist of Joe the Boss demands payment for any Italian racket in his neighborhood. There is one Salvatore Mauro refusing. Mauro also feels the target on his back. The neighborhood always pays the price.

  Charlie checks the time. It’s nearly 9 A.M. He and Joe the Boss have lingered in the Sabatini bakery for nearly an hour. The shop bell jingles with the arrival of a new customer. The plump signora wraps a loaf of bread and passes it over the counter. The customer drops the bread into a canvas bag and rejoins the crowd on the street, people in a hurry to get to their jobs.

  “Unione! Unione! Is full of peacocks, this Unione,” the signora clucks.

  She grabs a clean cup from the towel-lined bar beside La Pavoni, the copper torpedo-like brewer shined to a brilliant finish. All the way on the crossing from Italy, La Pavoni sat on the signora’s lap. Now it sits on the sideboard next to the bakery case to lure passersby desperate for a real cup of Italian coffee. The lifeblood of the bakery is not bread but the hot water forced through darkly roasted and perfectly ground beans.

  Joe the Boss takes a deep breath and relaxes.

  “You have another sweet?” he asks the signora.

  “Just the thing,” she says rushing to the back of the shop.

  Through the window, they see Salvatore Mauro making his way down Chrystie Street, nervously looking over his shoulder as he goes. He clings to something in his overcoat pocket. Joe the Boss unleashes the girth of his belly from its proximity to the small table.

  Charlie is close behind him as he exits the café. Like wolves stalking prey, they separate for the hunt. Joe weaves in and out of the crowd, dodging Mauro’s glances. Mauro quickens his pace. Charlie cuts through an alley to take Mauro from the front but it is Joe the Boss that gets the jump on the target. Joe jams the nose of a .38 Colt into Mauro’s back. One shot and Mauro is down. Blood fills the sidewalk. Mauro struggles weakly as Joe rustles through Mauro’s pocket. The bulge he has been nervously sheltering is an envelope full of cash.

  Joe grabs the cash and swipes the back of his fingers under his chin. Mauro gets the message.

  The scuffle induces momentary bravery among a few of the men on the sidewalk who flail at Joe, trying to disarm him. Joe waves the snub-nosed .38 in their direction. They cower and jump back. Joe escapes into the nearest tenement.

  Ten minutes later, the police arrive and surround the block but the shooter is gone. The best any of the fifty-five people who witnessed the murder can remember is that a stocky, evidently Italian man pulled the trigger. Although Joe is arrested, no one can say this is Mauro’s murderer. Within hours, Joe is back in the Sabatini bakery sipping espresso.

  * * *

  Across town, the Schmatte, who took pride in knocking over the kosher winery, grumbles in a fit of rage.

  “I’m not layin’ down for no stinkin’ hebes. These little Jew bastards are gonna pay for what they done to Patrick. I’ll show that little cocksucker that I ain’t afraid him.”

  When the Sabbath arrives, the Irish gang strikes again. As a token of bravado, the Schmatte leaves his plaid cap perched atop a bottle of Mevushal wine. The word on the street spreads quickly to the rebbe’s door. The worry of what might have been lost makes the clock on the wall move more slowly. Eventually the sun sets, freeing the rebbe to take stock of the damage. He finds the plaid cap and takes it to Meyer at the Cannon Street garage.

  Benny sees the cap and says, “He’s a dead man.”

  Red sits on the tailgate of an old pickup. A shock of hair sags across his forehead. He is as bitter as Benny but for different reasons.

  Red says, “Let’s see what Meyer thinks.”

  Sammy says, “I know this Schmatte.”

  Benny says, “You know him?”

  Red says, “Lots of guys wear plaid caps.”

  Sammy says, “I recognized him at the winery. He comes around to see my sister. One of his died in the car crash…you remember.”

  “I remember,” Benny says. “It’s payback.”

  “Not until we talk to Meyer,” Red says. “Round up a couple of cop uniforms.”

  Benny smiles.

  The first thing Red says when Meyer enters the garage is this: “We have a problem.”

  He hands the plaid cap to Meyer. Behind closed doors, Meyer listens to the story.

  “I sent Benny to get us a couple of police uniforms.”

  “Get Sammy,” Meyer says.

  Red pokes his head from Meyer’s office and whistles.

  “I know this guy,” Sammy tells Meyer.

  “Do you know where he lives?” Meyer says.

  “I can find out easy enough,” Sammy says.

  “Then do it,” Meyer says. “Quietly.”

  Benny returns with a neatly tied bundle. Red pulls out a pocket knife to slice through the twine holding the package together. Inside are two neatly folded police uniforms.

  Benny shrugs. “Even coppers gotta use a dry cleaner.”

  The stiff blue jacket is oversized for Red’s slight frame but not so much that anyone would think it unusual for a New York City beat cop. Benny’s pilfered uniform engulfs him.

  “You can’t make peace unless you sit down with your enemies,” Meyer says.

  Benny’s face goes red hot. Sammy bursts back in the garage sweating and out of breath. He hands Meyer a paper with an address. Red is shocked by the efficiency.

  “It’s him,” Sammy says.

  “Are you sure this is the Schmatte?” Meyer says, doubtful such information could be so quickly obtained.

  “It’s the Schmatte,” Sammy says.

  “We aren’t in the resurrection business,” Meyer says.

  “It’s his address. I know a guy. That’s all I’m gonna say. I’ll go with Red and Benny just to be sure.”

  “Sammy can’t sit down with these guys,” Benny says. “Nobody can sit down with these guys.”

  “We don’t need a war with the Irish,” Meyer says. “We have to play this right. The three of you go. Stake out this guy’s house. However long it takes, don’t grab him until nobody else is around. Let his gang wonder. Red, when you go to the door, you do the talking. Benny, you keep your mouth shut. In fact, you drive the car. That’s what you do best and give that uniform to Sammy. Sammy, you go to the door with Red. Cops on the prowl travel in pairs.”

  “But he knows me,” Sammy says.

  “It’ll be dark when you knock. Stand back from the door. What’s this guy’s name, Sammy? You can’t knock and ask for the Schmatte.”

  “James,” Sammy says. “James Doyle.”

  “When Doyle comes to the door, he’ll know the score,” Meyer says. “He won’t risk getting
his family killed. We don’t need him floating around making more trouble. Handle it.”

  The week passes slowly. Red and Benny stake out the Doyle household. James comes and goes with no regular pattern. Red talks to Meyer about the move. They decide to dispose of Doyle in the ocean. There are plenty of boats on the sea grabbing booze at the three-mile-limit. Meyer gets Mike Wassell to handle the boat. Mike loads up the souped-up cruiser with window sash weights.

  The boys make their move before Shabbat. James Doyle is home eating dinner with his family when Red and Sammy knock on the door. Benny has lifted a paddy wagon for the occasion.

  Mike brings the boat to the small spit of land at the end of Cannon Street and waits at the helm while the three men make their move. Red steps from the paddy wagon and raps on the Schmatte’s front door with the butt-end of his nightstick. He is careful to use polite force.

  The Schmatte’s mother peeks through the front window.

  Red tips his hat, “We’re here to speak to James Doyle, ma’am. We know he’s inside.”

  “My son just sat down to dinner,” she says through the open window.

  Red smiles, “This will only take a minute.”

  With his napkin still shoved in his shirt collar, the Schmatte steps between his mother and the kosher police. He scowls at Sammy and tells his mother to go back to her dinner. He steps outside and closes the door behind him.

  The Schmatte says, “Well, if it ain’t the Jew mob, defender of the faith. What’s the matter boys, having a little religious difficulty?”

  “A gentleman never forgets his cap,” Red says extending the cap to the Schmatte.

  The Schmatte reaches for the cap. With a move worthy of a Greco-Roman wrestler, Red grabs his arm, twirls him around, and delivers a bum’s rush down the front stoop and into the waiting paddy wagon. Benny puts the pedal to the metal and speeds through the neighborhood to where Mike is waiting.

  Within moments, the Schmatte is gagged and bound, bouncing off the deck of the runabout as it slams its way out to sea. When Red finally lets off the throttle, land is barely visible.

  Benny rips the gag from the Schmatte’s mouth. The Schmatte spits in Benny’s face.