A Bloody Business Page 7

  “Machiavelli had it figured out all the way back in 1523,” the Professor says. “The book is invaluable for understanding the Italian mind. You really should locate a copy for yourself if you intend to keep hanging around with that Italian, what’s his name? Charlie? Yes, Charlie something.”

  Raymond Bernstein, a rough-looking character wearing a blood-spattered shirt, yanks a chair from a nearby table. He gives Meyer the once over, then sits down at Auerbach’s table. The red-haired prostitute with the peek-a-boo dress brings a fresh bottle of Old Granddad to the table. Bernstein pours a drink and slams it back. He pours another.

  Auerbach says, “This is Meyer Lansky, Raymond. He’s come all the way from New York. Wants to know why the wops in New York are doing business with us.”

  A sparkle fills Bernstein’s dreary eyes. “Who the hell cares? Take the money and run. That’s what I say. Thirty miles of river, that’s what we get in this fekockteh world and somebody’s always tryin’ to take it away from us.”

  His eyes are puffy and outlined by dark circles. His thick, dark hair falls loosely around his face, the product of the tussle in the adjoining room.

  Auerbach says, “Raymond is the brawn.”

  Raymond Bernstein scowls and slams another drink.

  Meyer looks at Auerbach, “Capone intends to own the River. It’s his men you’ll be chasing.”

  “He’s nothing,” Bernstein says. “I’ll stick his head so far down an ice hole he’ll be looking at China.”

  The Professor says, “Raymond knows nothing of Machiavelli or the Romans. Truth is, they never allowed a trouble spot to remain in their realm simply to avoid going to war. They understood that an ignored war doesn’t go away. It is merely postponed to someone else’s advantage. Guys like Yale and your friend’s boss still believe in the glory of Rome. It’s in their blood. ‘Know your enemy’ is just common sense. You can learn from the past.”

  Meyer ignores the history lesson.

  “Why Yale?” he says.

  “Why not?” Auerbach says. “What really brings you to Detroit?”

  A while back, when Meyer was a young teen, two of Auerbach’s whores called the cops to put an end to Meyer’s attempts to organize them. Lena Freedman and Sarah Ginsburg were their names. They are indelibly etched in Meyer’s memory. Lesson learned.

  Meyer says, “Prohibition. What else?”

  Auerbach says. “You’re not thinking of undermining my business again, are you? I thought we ironed all that out years ago.”

  “I’m not interested in your business,” Meyer says. “I am interested in cooperation. Who knows how far Prohibition will go. If we cooperate, we can make the most of it. I know a guy who might be able to help if Capone tries to make a move on the Detroit River. Why waste time with a war if you don’t have to?”

  Auerbach looks at Raymond, “The wheels are always turning in Meyer’s mind.”

  Meyer says, “Are you interested in avoiding war?”

  Auerbach says, “I’d be a fool to resist, if it is really avoiding, not merely deferring.”

  Meyer says, “Then I will get back to you when I put things together.” He pauses and then says, “Do you know a guy named Gar Wood?”

  Auerbach says, “He filled the newspapers for weeks.”

  “A friend of mine wants to meet the guy that set the world’s record for speed by putting an airplane engine in his boat. He’s supposed to be in Detroit.”

  “That can be arranged,” Auerbach says.

  Auerbach pulls a folded prescription form from his breast pocket and hands it to Meyer. The workmanship is impressive, like an oversized dollar bill and just as valuable as cash. “Original prescription form for medicinal liquor,” it reads. “Issued under authority of the National Prohibition Act.” Blanks for “kind of liquor,” “quantity,” “directions,” “name of patient,” and other necessary information. The form and the receipt bear a duplicate number stamped in red.

  “There’s a lot of money in pharmaceuticals,” Auerbach says. “If you’ve got the doctors, I’ve got the guy with the paper that can move plenty of booze your way.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Meyer says. “I’ll have to speak with my associates.”

  * * *

  Meyer returns to New York and dumps the contents of his duffel onto his bed. He sorts through the details of the journey and picks up the prescription form. “Ailment for which prescribed.”

  Benny knocks on the door.

  “What are you doing here?” Meyer says.

  “You just got back, didn’t you? I got something to talk to you about.”

  Meyer makes coffee. Benny pours out the story of the three-mile-limit. Big Bill Dwyer’s latest connection is an Irish ship Captain named McCoy. McCoy runs rum from the Caribbean but you better be sure you get the real McCoy when you go out to get him. McCoy sits just off the shores of Montauk Point in the international waters where no one can touch him or confiscate his shipments.

  Benny says, “There’s plenty of guys claim to be McCoy but they ain’t. They take your money and give ya shite. That’s what Big Bill says. They give ya shite. He says make sure ya bring gunny sacks for the booze. I told him we’d line the hull with mink coats. You know what he said?”

  Meyer doesn’t bite.

  “He says ‘them bottles are worth more than them varmints.’”

  For some reason, this strikes Meyer as amusing.

  Benny says, “Let’s go. Sammy wants to try out the Curtis engine.”

  “What Curtis engine?” Meyer says.

  “Haven’t you been listening? The cruiser will beat any Coast Guard ship on the water if it has a Curtis engine so Sammy bought an engine and put it in a boat. I got a bunch of orders for rum to fill. McCoy has plenty of the stuff. The real thing, from the Caribbean. You want good quality, well, here’s our chance to get real rum. Come with us and see how fast this Curtis is.”

  Meyer shakes his head, “I’ve had enough travel.”

  Benny says, “The salt air will do you good.”

  An hour later, the three men pile into the 45’ cruiser. The stripped-down cabin is inhospitable. It echoes and intensifies every gurgle. Sammy fires up the engine. The noise is deafening, even worse in the cabin. Meyer makes his way to the back of the boat and puts a death grip on the stern. Benny slams down the throttle. The cruiser flies wildly along the East River, then out through Hell’s Gate. Nautical miles slap by in a dull rhythm of hull to sea until finally the blackness of the Atlantic Ocean appears.

  The lights of anchored ships come and go with the roll of the sea. Eyeing what’s left of the visible horizon and guessing at the location of Block Island, Benny plots a course to the south, about three miles south, where international waters harbor the rum-laden Henry L. Marshall. Just off Montauk Point, two loud cracks sound off the starboard side of the cruiser.

  “Thunder,” Sammy says.

  “That ain’t thunder,” Benny says. “I know a gunshot when I hear it.”

  Benny kills the engine and the cruiser’s lights. The ocean slaps against the hull, heaving the boat through the black abyss. Sammy listens to the hum of a distant motor.

  “They’re moving away from us,” Sammy whispers.

  Benny searches the silence and hears rustling, then hushed voices. Suddenly a light pops on just off the starboard bow. And then another. The outline of a schooner appears in the darkness. Benny gives the ignition a quarter turn to bring up the running lights.

  The Henry L. Marshall looms in front of them. Four men with rifles line the deck.

  “Put your weapons where I can see them,” one of them yells.

  “Is that Captain McCoy? Bill Dwyer said you were tough,” Benny says. “Kinda late for target practice, though, ain’t it?”

  Sammy throws the bowline to the first mate of the Marshall.

  Benny says, “We’re in the market for about two hundred crates.”

  “Crates?” McCoy laughs. “We don’t use crates. You want crates,
you bring your own. Didn’t Bill tell ya?” McCoy lets out another boisterous belly laugh. “Let’s see the color of your money.”

  Benny pulls a roll of hundred dollar bills from his pocket and the exchange begins, McCoy’s crew forming a brigade of men moving the burlap-wrapped bottles from the hold of the Marshall to the three Jews shuffling the same bottles into the stripped-out cabin.

  “Stack them wall-to-wall,” Sammy says to Meyer.

  After the first layer, Meyer’s hands are raw and bleeding from the rough burlap. Sammy throws a pair of gloves at Meyer. With the hull full, Benny counts out ten thousand dollars. The Marshall’s first mate throws off the bow line. Benny sights the Montauk lighthouse and points the bow toward the light.

  Half a mile out, another thunderous crack rips through the night air. This time the hull is breached by a wild spray of bullets. Whiskey spills everywhere. Benny kills the lights and gives Sammy the wheel while he ducks into the cabin to grab an armful of rum bottles.

  He pulls the burlap from the bottles and stuffs them in the bottlenecks.

  “Meyer,” he says, “gimme your matches.”

  Sammy says, “There’s a gas can in the cabin. That’s what you really want…and a couple of cans of oil. If you put the oil in the gasoline, you’ll really get a kick. Here, I got matches.”

  Meyer takes over the wheel while Sammy and Benny go to work on the makeshift bombs. Benny tears the sleeve from his shirt, knots the end and stuffs it into the can.

  “Head into them, Meyer,” Sammy says.

  Meyer spins the boat around and opens the throttle. Bullets pummel the hull. Whiskey sloshes across the deck. Benny lights the fuse, then lobs the gas can off the stern. The gasoline explodes, raining down burning oil onto the would-be hijacker’s deck. Someone screams. The shooting stops.

  Meyer slows the cruiser and turns the boat around. Benny readies for another pass but the blaze aboard the hijackers’ boat has already filled the darkness with flames.

  Sammy says, “That’s why you have a Curtis. Can’t beat ’em for speed.”

  When the boys return to Manhattan, Red is waiting patiently on the stone breakwater at the end of Cannon Street. He jumps to the small spit of land along the stone wall to secure the bow line.

  “What the hell happened?” Red says. “You smell like a Caribbean whorehouse.”

  Meyer says, “Forget about fast engines. Armor plate this thing.”

  Meyer steps from the boat fueled with a better understanding of what it takes to import and transport booze. They’re going to need sailors if they’re going to avoid burials at sea, sailors and connections. His first thought is of Charlie Lucky.

  He finds Charlie at an opium den on Pell Street where a petite Chinese woman dispenses the “Big Smoke.” She wears plain black pants and a frog-button silk jacket. She rolls the opium pill. Her fingernails are long and stained dark from the constant contact with the brown, tarry substance. She primes the pipe then hands it to Charlie. He leans back against a pile of silk-covered pillows.

  Meyer sees Charlie drawing deep breaths from the opium pipe. Charlie smiles up at Meyer. He shakes his head, closes his eyes, and dreams of absolutely nothing.

  Chapter Four

  Don’t Get Involved

  SUMMER 1922

  The Director of the National Republican Club turned Federal Prohibition Director, Ralph Day, threatens to padlock the “all-night restaurants” along New York’s boozing forties, the streets from 40th to 49th that surround the Theater District. When guys like Ralph Day make the forties the target of their scorn, the inadvertent side effect is the adrenaline rush from getting through the front door. The experience is downright addictive.

  Benny and Sammy make the rounds through the forties, not for the thrill, not even to rub shoulders with New York’s most influential, but to introduce themselves as the new distributors.

  It is just after midnight. Benny leans against the façade of the Court Theater not far from the Club Moritz, his newest client. The singer at the Moritz swings suspended over the stage. It’s the rage.

  “You see how that guy rolled over when I made him an offer?” Benny says to Sammy.

  “Did you see how he looked at your .38 when your jacket popped open?” Sammy replies.

  Theaters dispense a steady stream of business to the clubs that Ralph Day threatens to padlock.

  Benny says, “You see these people? They vote. That’s what keeps these politicians in line. The Feds will never be able to padlock this town. Three hundred court cases and only one indictment. What does that tell ya?”

  Sammy works the brim of his new fedora. He flips it atop his head and tugs it into a slight rake that dips across his right eye.

  Sammy says, “Meyer says the Mullan Gage law only succeeded in making a Graft Squad.” Meyer is referring to New York’s version of the 18th Amendment, 25,000 state and local police officers in charge of enforcing Prohibition.

  “Meyer knows what he’s talking about,” Benny says.

  “Those Yids in Brooklyn, Moe and Izzy, bust a hundred joints.”

  “Pathetic!” Benny says of the fat, cigar-chomping rum-hounds of a thousand disguises who make a job of rounding up violators. “Those guys got more costumes than a production house.”

  A black Cadillac pulls to the curb and stops. The chauffeur scrambles to open the passenger door. Two girls, dressed in matching silk gowns, step from the car’s blackness. The breeze plumps the gowns into soft, billowy clouds. Sammy’s boasting stammers to a halt as his mind ceases to work so his eyes can gaze desirously at the girls’ bare legs.

  Then comes the john. There’s no mistaking the face or the slumped shoulders that turn a Savile Row suit into a circus-monkey disguise. The brute is none other than Waxey Gordon, who sees Meyer’s neophytes taken by his glamorous lifestyle.

  “Connections,” Gordon says with rasping disdain. “You want ’em; I got ’em. Don’t think I don’t recognize you, kid. I never forget a face.”

  Gordon fishes through his inside coat pocket and hands Benny a printed card that reads: Irving Wexler, Real Estate, Knickerbocker Hotel. The girls glom on to Gordon, one on each arm, and the ensemble sways into the Club Moritz.

  “Irving Wexler,” Benny huffs. “Who does he think he’s kidding?”

  “If he ain’t got the Moritz, he’s gonna want the Moritz,” Sammy says. “You think he’s gonna frequent a place that he don’t have some connection to?”

  “You worry too much,” Benny says. “I got a better idea. Let’s check out his operation. He’s all but begged us to. Irving Wexler? Knickerbocker Hotel? I gotta see this place.”

  The boys make short work of the five blocks from the Moritz to the corner of 42nd and Broadway where twelve floors of red brick and terracotta rise to form the Knickerbocker Hotel. Benny is inside before Sammy can object. Orchestral music drifts from the ballroom. A flock of top-hatted and tailed men gather around an oversized fountain where a cherubic, gold cupid plays around a marble bowl. Behind them is a tapestry of Caesar’s conquest of Pompeii.

  Benny says, “This is where the Pinkertons pinched Monk Eastman. They had a shootout and everything. Right here. Can you beat that? He got ten years at Sing Sing just for robbin’ a guy. Ain’t that a poke in the eye? What do you think these guys do all day so’s they can party like this? Nobody is throwin’ them in jail for all the robbin’ they do.”

  Sammy ogles the portable wealth that dangles around the necks of the Astor crowd gathered to celebrate the debut of the daughter of a railroad magnate into New York society. The alleged home of the dry martini is a monument to New York’s upper class. Marble pillars and bronze pendant lanterns fill the lobby. A painting of Father Knickerbocker, quaint and out of date in his Dutch costume, reminds hotel guests of the lucrative nature of the hotel turned office building business.

  Sammy grabs his fedora and crumples it nervously. He and Benny pass a row of safe deposit boxes, a book stand, a ticket office, and a dining room. Lilies, housed in
the flower room, perfume the walkway.

  Sammy says, “It was Monk Eastman’s partner that gunned him down, in the subway station.”

  Benny says, “Stop wringing your hat. You look like an immigrant.”

  Sammy sneaks a peek in the King Cole Bar and blinks hard. The longest “dry” bar in the world is anything but dry. Champagne flows like Niagara Falls, with Rudolph Valentino at the center of the room riding high on his success as The Sheik. The women fumble. He spins them around the room, a taxi dancer more intoxicating than the Champagne.

  Benny grabs Sammy away. They hop the elevator to the fifth floor where Irving Wexler maintains an office. The floor is quiet. No night guard. Benny works the lock. The door opens easily. The office looks like any other, simple mahogany desk, two-drawer filing cabinet, and a couple of overstuffed chairs.

  Benny looks back at Waxey’s card.

  “This can’t be it,” Benny says.

  He jimmies the inside door that leads to an adjoining room. Jackpot. The stench of Gordon’s cheap cigars permeates the room. A gray film covers the windows and clock faces.

  There’s a noise in the hallway.

  “Let’s get outta here,” Sammy whispers.

  But Benny is obsessed with uncovering Waxey’s secrets. A quick glance around gives the impression of a bookie room. Benny’s gaze stops on the blackboards. They are filled with times and places that fail to jibe with the racing world. A giant nautical map sprawls across a back wall. A wireless consumes half a table. He thumbs through the paraphernalia strewn about the room and makes a mental tab. Code books. Timetables. Tide tables. A list of Coast Guard cutters. Names of ships. Names of captains. Call numbers. Passwords. A map of Long Island with circles around various inlets.

  “He’s running a goddamn navy here,” Benny says.

  Benny noses the map. Red-tipped pushpins dot the three-mile limit and circles highlight various docks on the East River and the Hudson. On an adjoining table, Benny finds Waxey’s notebooks filled with names of unions and gang bosses and dock workers.