Operation Underworld (16 page)
This attitude set the ground work for The Unione at a time when they already had controlling influence in New York’s City Hall through Albert C. Marinelli, the well known Tammany boss with whom Lucky shared a suite at the 1932 Democratic National Convention, at the Drake Hotel in Chicago. Marinelli’s rival, Jimmy Hines, another New York top political leader, shared a suite with Frank Costello, Lucky’s partner in the Unione. Both of these rival delegations were there to elect the Presidential candidate for the 1932 elections. If this sounds a little convoluted, let’s simplify it.
The American Presidency is basically a popularity contest with little or nothing to do with leadership ability or competency. Whoever has the most money to maintain the highest profile wins the contest. So in 1932, between the Great Depression and Prohibition, (only in America would someone attempt to make alcohol illegal in an effort to better society), the general public were not happy with the existing leadership, which was Republican. Ironically, this opinion was arrived at largely due to political corruption. As a result, it was pretty certain the Democrats would take the election. The question was, which Democratic candidate would get the nod?
This being the case, Luciano and Costello each escorted a delegation leader to the convention, along with appropriate financial donations, so that regardless of which Presidential candidate won, Al Smith or Franklin D. Roosevelt, The Unione were assured of being in the right camp.
FDR who, only a short time before the convention, as Governor of New York, set free from prison approximately sixty members of The Commission, was the front runner. In January of the following year FDR was sworn in as the thirty-second President of the United States.
Start at the top.
The FBI were no exception. J. Edgar, a man who, given the chance, would impose the death penalty on anyone who opposed capital punishment, loved horse-racing. Eddy Erickson was a topnotch bookie who worked for Frank Costello. Walter Winchell was, well, Walter Winchell, anything for a story.
Costello would give Erickson the expected winner of a given race, Erickson would contact Winchell who in turn would get it to Hoover.
Ever wonder how Winchell got the scoop on so many top crime stories?
Every man has his price.
So, in the space of a few short years, Lucky’s organisation held considerable influence in all the upper echelons of authority, and in turn established contacts, patterns and techniques which are considered to be standard operating procedures to this day when dealing with or within the Federal Government or any large corporation.
Hoover headed over to the concession stand and ordered a hot dog. A race had just begun, so the stand was nearly abandoned. There was a man standing in the far corner, nursing a cup of coffee, and Hoover walked over to him while he ate.
“Hello, Socks, how’s the fish business?”
“Stinks!” Lanza wore a hat, and was visibly uncomfortable. “Let’s drop the names, huh? Whatta you want from me?”
“You want a hot dog, Socks? They’re really good here. Not like that shit they pawn off on ya over at Yankee Stadium.”
“No, I don’t want a fuckin’ hot dog! What’s this about?!”
“What, the dog? I just like to treat my guests right, Socks.” J. Edgar spoke while he chewed, and allowed his words to drip with arrogance. “I hear you had a guest a coupl’a nights ago.”
“What the hell you talkin’ about?”
Hoover finished his frankfurter, wiped his hands with a napkin, threw it on the floor and reached into the side pocket of his jacket. Reading from the notepad he produced, he began to give Lanza an education.
“I want complete details concerning the Brooklyn Bridge deal. And its association with the Hollywood Hotel on Broadway. What exactly, if any, is their significance to one Harry Bridges?”
Lanza, initially expressionless, slowly smiled. “Lemme ask you a question. How come you guys always talk like you got a rod up your ass or something?”
Hoover began to boil. Spectators could be heard behind him cheering the race on.
“Besides, you ain’t got it all,” Lanza informed him.
Hoover looked at him quizzically.
“You forgot the Manhattan, the Williamsburg and the Queensboro,” Lanza baited.
“I’m warning you, Lanza, you ain’t as immune as you think! I could shut you down tomorrow!”
“Yeah, and if Frank Costello and a coupl’a others testified, we could shut you down today! So don’t give me that strong arm of the law, holier-than-thou bullshit. You’re just another crooked cop.”
Hoover looked around nervously. Lanza clearly had the upper hand now.
“I want to know who the hell all these new guys on the docks are, and where they’re coming from!” Hoover demanded.
“They’re just new workers. Friends, relatives. We need the help. There’s a war on if you ain’t heard.”
“Yeah, I heard! And soon there’s gonna be another war on, wise guy!” Hoover threw a newspaper on the counter. It was folded open to page four. Lanza picked it up and read the short story with the ‘X’next to it. The story reported a California labour leader who was irate at the treatment he received while visiting New York, and that he intended to ask his state representative to launch an investigation.
Lanza was taken off guard, but not shocked, he had already read the paper.
Turning to page two, Lanza began, slowly and neatly, to tear out a second article which ran for nearly an entire column. He spoke as he worked. Then he slid the article over to Hoover.
“You know, with all the tax money you take from the people you pretend you’re supposted ta be defendin’, maybe you could spend a few bucks on a pair of elevated shoes.”
Livid at the insult, Hoover’s expression registered extreme anger as he eyed the lead line on the article:
FBI DIRECTOR ADAMANT; ORGANISED CRIME NON-EXISTENT!
The public address system announced the last race of the day was about to begin.
Just south of the Fish Market, on the corner of Peck Street and Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive, was a small fish restaurant frequented by local workers. The Italians had their pick of restaurants, the Jews usually brought their meals with them, but the Irish and the British workers were blessed with The Chinaman. The Chinaman, no one could pronounce his name, owned and ran Chanze Chinese Chippy, which served the most authentic fish and chips in Ireland’s westernmost county, New York.
Lanza approached Chanze just before the late rush hour, which started about 11 p.m., and shook his head and smiled as he glanced at the six stove pipes Chan had installed at different points on the roof and exterior walls. The pipes served no structural purpose, but instead vented the smell of the fried fish dishes in various directions, and could be opened or shut individually so as to allow the aromas to waft in any given direction. The strategy of course, to this venting conspiracy, was to entice patrons who might otherwise waste their time eating more healthy lunches and suppers, or whatever the after-pub meal might be called.
I wish I had that guy working for me
, Lanza thought to himself.
He entered the eatery and took one of the red-enamelled booths in the back. As always, he sat facing the door; after all, this was a popular time for his co-workers to kill each other in restaurants. An attractive Chinese girl with long, silky black hair and green eyes, one of Chan’s sixteen offspring, approached the booth the minute Lanza sat down. She looked to be in her late teens.
“You want I should bring you a menu, Mac?” She was born and raised in New York, and so spoke perfect English.
“No, I’m waitin’ on someone.” She left Lanza looking at his watch. He was ten minutes early for the special meeting.
How the hell did Hoover know about the Hollywood? And worse yet, the god-damned Bridges job! It just didn’t make sense!
Nice future, Socks. A contract on me for working with the Feds, FBI on my ass, and some big shot Navy Intelligence guy givin’me grief! Prison’s startin’ ta look pretty good!
There was no easy way out and just as Socks began to regret his patriotic feelings, Commander Haffenden came through the door.
Socks waved, but it didn’t matter, Chanze was so small it rivalled Harry’s.
“Socks, what’s the story on Brooklyn?” Haffenden wasted no time.
“Commander, the hell with Brooklyn! We got bigger problems than Brooklyn!”
“Socks, you okay?” Haffenden was unprepared for the change of schedule. He had called the meeting to increase the load on Lanza. Now it looked as if someone had beaten him to the punch.
“Sir, I haven’t got a god-damned clue how or when it happened, but Hoover is on to us!”
“Hoover?”
“Hoover. J. Edgar Fucking Hoover. Mr FBI!”
“How do you know?” Hoover wasn’t necessarily a serious problem as far as Haffenden was concerned. He would likely be able to deal with him through normal channels.
However, his maniacal devotion to his bureau, and the fact that there was a government operation he wasn‘t in on, had the potential to make things messy.
“Well, maybe it was the meeting I had with him at Belmont Park this afternoon. Or then again, maybe it was the fact that the little sawed-off son-of-a-bitch knew all about The Hollywood and the Bridges job, I’m not sure. But what I know for sure is that you got a serious god-damned leak in your operation!!” Lanza had a hard time containing himself as he spoke. He kept looking at the door.
“Socks, nobody on my side had access to any of that information. When you called me, that was the end of it. There was no reason for me to tell anybody about that.”
“Yeah? Well, somebody told somebody! Either that or we got fairies in the god-damned phone lines!” Haffenden looked at Lanza, hesitated, and then sat back in his seat. The Commander had an epiphany.
“Maybe we do.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“I think the only other people who know about our little merger might have a leak.”
“Fuckin’Gurfein!” Lanza had a delayed epiphany. “Whatta we do?”
“We do what all good operatives do when they think they’re compromised. We use them!” Haffenden hadn’t felt this mischievous since he was a teenager. He was making Lanza edgy.
“You call me tomorrow at half past ten. Talk in the open. Don’t use any code. Tell me we have to meet immediately. Something’s gone drastically wrong since last night. Act panicky.”
That shouldn’t be hard
, thought Lanza.
“Tell me you’ll have the microfilm from the FBI job ready to hand over. Got it?”
“What FBI job?” Lanza was feeling he was definitely in over his head.
“Just do it! Okay?”
Chanze daughter returned to the table. “Youse ready ta order, or what?”
The next morning, as prearranged, Lanza rang Haffenden and set the meeting for that afternoon at half past twelve. An hour and a half before meeting time, a jazzed-up, cherry-bomb red pick-up truck pulled up outside the fish market on Fulton Street. The chrome-garnished vehicle sounded its horn twice and Lanza came out of the market carrying a brown paper bag. He had no way of seeing the agent on the top floor of the warehouse a block away, but Haffenden warned him he would be watched.
As the agent in the warehouse checked his watch and went to make the call, Lanza and the driver of the pick-up pulled away from the market.
“So, Frankie the bellhop! You got the routine straight?”
“Forget about it, Mr Lanza! Just sit back and enjoy da ride like you wuz at Uncle Milty’s!” Frankie had been pleasantly surprised at being called into work a day early to do a special favour for Mr Lanza.
The pair had no sooner looped around the Battery and were heading north onto West Side Drive when Frankie saw the dark blue sedan in his rear view mirror.
“Our friends are here, Mr Lanza. Ya want I should start now?” “Just north of the tunnel. Around Pier 40.”
The pre-lunch hour traffic was yet to hit, so the run north of the Holland Tunnel took about five minutes. However, right at the Christopher Street cross-over Lanza braced both feet against the dashboard, sat back and gave a nod. Frankie the bellhop smiled and the two agents in the sedan watched in disbelief as the ten-year-old truck grew smaller and smaller, until by the time they reached the 12th Street cut-off it vanished altogether.
“God-damn it! Go red! Right now, god-damn it! Go red!!” The senior agent knew first-hand how much J. Edgar appreciated failure. The driver floored the pedal and the sedan raced around several cars until reaching a point on the highway where they had an unobstructed view for half a mile.
“They couldn’t have just vanished!” The driver spoke to his preoccupied passenger who was consulting the neatly folded map he held in his lap.
“Pull off on Tenth Avenue! If they’re leavin’ The City, it’ll be the Lincoln or the GW! If not, we’ll get them by West 57th.” At the exit, the sedan unit called in by telephone and alerted the 69th Street office of the likely intercept locations and then drove north along tenth.
The old pick-up, which was now approaching River Side Park, was used extensively during Prohibition. After refitting her with a larger, six cylinder engine, a four-barrelled carburettor and the new experimental tubeless tires, slightly under inflated, she was better suited to “runs” now than in the days of running rum over the Canadian border.
