Operation Underworld (27 page)

“Well Murray, ya done good, thank you. But I’ll tell ya what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna dump this back in Haffenden’s lap, and bow outta the spy business. We’ve wasted enough resources. Time, money and, worst of all, it’s gonna be months before we get another phone tap on a suspected racketeering charge, unless we’ve got photographs of them committing the crime.”

“What happened?”

“I got called into chambers yesterday. Judge Puzo is not amused that after two months we got nothing from Lanza’s phone tap. He rescinded the order and lectured me about the basic right to privacy.”

“Puzo lectured you on privacy? That’s like a politician lecturing a hooker on ethics!” Gurfein finished his coffee and, after standing up, told Hogan he’d be in early tomorrow. They parted company and Hogan headed for the main exit.

Gurfein rode a cab back to his mid-town apartment cursing the baggage manager who had informed him it would be a day or so before they located his bags, which had inadvertently been put back on the train to Albany.

Gurfein vowed never again to curse a baggage handler. At least not out loud.

The weary, middle-aged warden slumped in his chair behind his desk and was annoyed that he had to yell twice before the senior guard responded and came into his office.

“Where the hell you been? You think I got nuthin’ ta do but wait on messengers? Get this god-damned notice to 92168 now!” The senior guard of the Clinton State Penitentiary figured he’d had too many years in grade to run messages, especially to scumbags like 92168.

He took the piece of paper from the warden, said, “Yes, sir,” in a smart, obedient tone and exited the office. It was only a matter of minutes before an unsuspecting younger prison guard crossed his path and was handed the message with the explanation, “I’m too old ta go lookin’fer this fuckin’bum. Go find him and see that he gets this!”

The young guard immediately recognised the well-known number and started off through the huge maze of halls and chambers. From the elevated structure which housed the warden’s office down into the exercise yard, the guard made his way through the general population and into the wood shop. No one had seen the sought-after inmate, and if they had, they wouldn’t have gone out of their way to tell the rookie screw. Down through cell block D into cell block B and across the north yard he searched for the prisoner he might one day tell his grandchildren about having met.

Twenty minutes after the guard’s hunt began, it ended in the laundry. Amidst the noise and humidity of the huge tumble dryers, the messenger found the man he sought.

“
MR. LUCIANO! EXCUSE ME, MR. LUCIANO!
” He was compelled to yell over the loud thrashing of the laundry machines. The inmate turned slowly and the pock-marked face with the droopy right eye stared back at the errand boy. Removing his work gloves, Luciano took the message and read it.

“Well, whata ya know?” Despite the fact he was a native Sicilian, and spoke the lingo perfectly, his English was characterised by the dialect of the neighbourhoods of the Lower East Side where he grew up.

The next morning Lucky was packed two hours ahead of schedule.

“Hey, Lucky. What’s the skinny?” His cell-mate was surprised to see him preparing to leave.

“My guys finally fixed it fer me ta get moved down state.”

“Not bad, Charlie! Help ya get a handle back on the operations!”

“Dat’s da general idea.” Lucky cinched the ropes on the dark blue, canvas bag, threw it over his shoulder and reported to the cell block chief at nine on the nose.

He was escorted to the yard under armed guard, and rumours ran rabid throughout the prison. The stories ranged from expensive lawyers having paid a judge, to key witnesses having recanted their testimony.

Lucky was surprised to see six other inmates preparing to be transferred along with him. Surprised, but not suspicious.

“Okay scumbags, dump ’em!”

The prisoners were obliged to empty their bags into the dirt, and wait for a guard to rummage through their belongings. Weapons were the primary concern. Money or anything of value the guards thought they could get away with stealing, the prisoners hid on their bodies. This was a safe strategy as pat-downs were rare.

The guards conducting the search were the two who would make the trip with the prisoners. The younger one stood in front of Luciano, and looked down at his still full bag. He then stared nervously at the older guard making his way from the other end of the line.

“Lucky, ya gotta empty your bag!”

“I ain’t dumpin’my stuff in the dirt, kid.”

“But you’ll get my ass in a sling!” the guard pleaded. Lucky looked at the kid and shook his head. He bent over lifted the bag and opened it wide.

“Here, stick ya hand in there and wiggle it around.” The kid was reluctant, but the other guard was only two prisoners away.

“Go on, kid. I ain’t got nuthin’ in there, anyway. Anything I want I can get down state.” The guard complied and then quickly ordered the men on his side of the line to repack their bags and mount the bus.

Roll was taken before they boarded, and again a half hour later as they went through the gate while the bottom of the bus was being searched. Finally, nearly an hour after the line-up, they were on the road.

The seven prisoners were huddled in the middle seats of the vehicle, with one of the two guards brandishing a 12-gauge pump at each end of the bus. The only excitement for the first four hours was when the guards occasionally swapped positions.

Lucky figured the ride would be about eighteen hours which meant at least two stops for fuel and toilets. Food was stored in the back of the bus, and the fat, senior guard was already rooting through the packages liberating the cookies from the lunch boxes.

As there was no highway system, the roads were very rough and the trip wore on through a seemingly endless mass of mountainous terrain. The heater in the bus hadn’t been serviced for years, and threw off just enough heat to remind the men they were cold.

At about six hours into the trip the fat guard stood and walked to the front of the bus. He pushed the young guard aside, and looked at the prisoners, shotgun on his hip, in his best Gary Cooper pose.

“We’re coming up on halfway. We’re gonna pull over, get gas and then one by one you pieces a shit can get out and take a leak. Don’t nobody move till I say so.”

They pulled over and he got off the bus, followed by the young guard who stationed himself next to the driver‘s seat at the door.

“Hey, Lucky!” It was the small guy across the aisle. “Thought you said ’bout eighteen hours?”

“Somethin’s fishy,” Lucky muttered, as he kept looking around through the windows.

The big guy in the last seat offered his contribution. “Lucky, I’ll tell ya somethin’else. These hills ain’t gettin’no smaller. If we was goin’ down state, it’d be gettin’more flat like.”

Lucky began to wonder what the plan was.

“Porky Pig ain’t gonna tell us nuthin’,” the small guy offered.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Lucky assured the rest of the crew.

After twenty minutes of Porky playing footsie with the even fatter female cashier in the gas station, the men were allowed off the bus one at a time until it was Lucky’s turn.

The kid stood facing Charlie with his shotgun at high port as Charlie faced the woodline, back to the kid, and pretended to take a leak.

“Hey, kid. Where the hell we headed, anyway?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to you guys!” He looked around nervously as he spoke. Porky Pig was in the back again, stuffing his face with a Baby Ruth.

“C’mon, kid. Nobody’s gonna lock ya up! We’re gonna find out anyways. What’s the deal?”

“For some reason the Warden’s really pissed off!”

“I like it already! Keep goin’.”

“These other guys are a cover. You were supposed to be the only guy transferred.”

“What?” Lucky twisted around to look at the kid. The bus driver climbed back onto the bus and into his seat.

“C’mon, Mr. Luciano! Porky’s gonna get pissed!”

“Youse call him that too?” The fat guard finished his second Baby Ruth and banged on the window.

“Everybody calls him that, even the Warden. Let’s go.” The kid moved away and Lucky took his time pretending to do up his trousers.

“So how long to Sing Sing?” Lucky asked as they mounted the bus.

“We ain’t goin’ta Sing Sing.” The kid followed him back to his seat and leaned forward. “This bus is goin’ to Great Meadows at Comstock,” the kid whispered back. Lucky hesitated a step, and then continued to sit.

Late that night, in the yard of his new home at Comstock, Lucky stood with the other six prisoners. Powerful floodlights allowed the new guards to search the prisoners’ bags one more time. They stood in the cold for another twenty minutes until the head guard came out and gave them the usual welcoming speech.

Short guy said he could tell right away that it was the head guard, because the knees on his trousers were worn out. He must have whispered a little too loudly because his crack earned him a punch in the kidney with a rifle butt. Eventually, they were shown to their cells.

Lucky thought it unusual that the Warden hadn’t asked to see him yet. The Warden’s welcome speech was always good for a chuckle. It was pretty much the same spiel as the guard’s, and although he had only been in two different prisons, both in the last twenty-four hours, Lucky had heard that all Wardens’ speeches were identical. They must come down from the top. However, because of his notoriety, Luciano knew he would receive a special welcome.

A few days later Lucky’s wait was over. He was summoned to the Warden’s chambers. The guards escorted him to a room, but it wasn’t the Warden’s office. To add to his sense of curiosity, he was left alone in the room, without a guard. He had never heard of that before, anywhere. So he waited.

Luciano’s claim to fame was that he is generally accredited with putting the ‘organised’in organised crime. Prior to his arrival in the food chain, criminals were more or less congregated in large gangs, spread across the country, mostly east of the Mississippi. Luciano’s younger, more Americanised gangsters replaced the ‘Moustache Petes’, as the old traditional Sicilianos were derogatorily known. These older types fought national syndication until Luciano, who fully understood the financial benefits of the American corporate structure, reorganised the ‘Mob’ into the Siciliano Unione. He accomplished this by downsizing the Mafia on September 11, 1931 in an organised simultaneous execution of approximately forty non-cooperating rival members. It would take nearly two decades before the FBI linked the murders.

After about fifteen minutes the door opened, and despite all the things he had been through, Luciano was awe-struck. Falling back into his chair, his mouth dropped open and for one of the few times in his life, Salvatore Lucania was speechless. Meyer Lansky, chaperoned by Moses Polakoff, entered the room.

Polakoff gave a cursory greeting and moved to a far corner. After a few minutes the boss regained his composure and stood with a smile on his face.

“What the hell are you two guys doin’ here?”

“We got somethin’ ta talk to ya about. Somethin’ big.” Lansky was there to do the talking. Polakoff was there as one of the concessions to Commissioner Lyons.

“Hold it! Why ain’t there no guards wit you two?”

“You’re gonna love this! Not allowed!” Lansky backhanded Lucky’s shoulder as he gave him the unique news.

“What? Are you kiddin’ me or what?” There were only two chairs in the room, so Meyer knocked on the door, and told the guard to bring another. A few minutes later the disgruntled guard returned with a chair.

“So what’s the story?” Lucky pressed Meyer.

After catching up on current events in the City, Lansky explained to Lucky about the Navy’s operation and Socks Lanza’s involvement to date. Particularly the details about having limited influence and bringing suspicion on himself by working with the Navy. Haffenden was only mentioned as the Commander, and the operation was never mentioned outright.

Even though Meyer Lansky was a Russian Jew, his Sicilian was very good compliments of Lucky and their younger days east of the Bowery. They switched back and forth between languages, partially to talk about things in regard to the Unione operations and their current status, and partially to see how far they could push Polakoff.

After Lucky had been completely briefed about the Navy’s request, he sat back and folded his arms.

“There’s just one thing I gotta know.”

“What’s that?” Polakoff finally spoke.

“There’s a deportation order out on me ta go back ta Sicily. If these clowns decide they don’t want me here no more, and the Fascists win the war, that means I’ll be executed. Especially if they find out I been helpin’ youse guys!”

Polakoff didn’t give a damn one way or the other. In fact, he didn’t understand why Lucky used the phrase, “helping youse guys.” He would only be helping the Navy. What Polokoff failed to understand, as did everyone on the DA’s side of the case, was that Lucky had learned to think like them. There were no ‘innocent bystanders’ when it came to the government. Different circus, same clowns.