The Last Testament of Lucky Luciano: The Mafia Story in His Own Words (68 page)

Then, just after the middle of the month, almost coincident with the arrival in Naples of Pat Eboli, another call came in on the apartment phone, this time from Vince Mauro in Spain.

Mauro and Caruso, together with an accomplice named Salvatore Maneri, had arrived in Spain by a devious route. After jumping bail in New York, they had fled south with a hundred thousand dollars in cash, turning up in Nassau, where they basked in the sun, chased girls, toured the night spots, and spent money with abandon. After a couple of weeks, they left for Canada, picked up fake passports made out in the names of actual Canadians, and departed again, one step ahead of the police. For three Canadian girls they had met in Nassau recognized their photographs in a Toronto newspaper after their return home and notified the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. They were too late. Mauro, Caruso and Maneri turned up in rapid succession in the next weeks back in the Bahamas, in Jamaica, in Caracas and then across the Atlantic, in London and later Nice. Nowhere did they attempt to hide. They traveled openly, visited casinos and gambled heavily, stayed at the best hotels; and Mauro, trying to enhance his reputation as the greatest underworld lover since Joe Adonis, made a pitch for every woman he came across.

By mid-January, they were in Barcelona, from which they made several calls to Italy. One was to the Rubinos in Rome, who immediately hurried off to Spain to meet them. After a brief talk in Barcelona, they all made their way to Madrid, where Mauro, Caruso and Maneri checked into the Palace Hotel. The Rubinos stayed for a few days more and then went back to Rome.

On both January 14 and 15, Mauro placed calls from the Palace to Luciano in Naples, directly to his home at the number given
him by Rubino. He made no attempt to hide his identity, or the reason for the calls. He reminded Luciano of his loyalty in the past and then said that since Luciano was “moving big into the junk business,” Caruso and Maneri and he had come to Europe to offer their services, for whatever use Luciano could make of them.

Before Mauro could finish, Luciano cut him off. When Mauro called again the next day, Luciano hung up on him after the first words. When Luciano put down the receiver, he turned to Adriana, his face white with rage. He told her the call was going to make a lot of trouble and he was sure it was part of Genovese’s plot to frame him on narcotics. “The easiest thing in the world,” he said, “is to frame somebody as long as the guy you’re trying to get is wide open for a frame.”

Suddenly, Luciano slumped to the floor, agonizing pain in his chest. Convinced he was having a heart attack, Adriana rushed to the phone to call an ambulance. Luciano stopped her. “Let’s see if the pills work first,” he said weakly. Within a few hours, he was feeling better; it had only been an angina attack.

Like all the calls into and out of the penthouse on the Parco Comola, that call from Mauro had been monitored by the Guardia di Finanza. It had also been overheard by the Brigada Criminal in Madrid, for the Spanish police had spotted Mauro and his friends soon after their arrival in Barcelona and had been watching them closely ever since. Interpol and American narcotics authorities were notified by both Italian and Spanish police, and the watch on all the suspects was tightened.

On the evening of January 24, the authorities decided to move. At the request of Washington, forwarded through Clark Anderson, an FBI undercover agent at the U.S. Embassy in Madrid, the Spanish police descended on the Palace Hotel and arrested Mauro, Caruso and Maneri. In Mauro’s possession, they found $11,730 in cash and the keys to a hotel safety deposit box; in that box was another $43,759 in cash. For more than a week, the three were interrogated and then turned over to American authorities for extradition. (On the same plane, a TWA flight from Rome to New York with a stop in Madrid, was Pat Eboli; but no communications were exchanged.) In New York, they stood trial for narcotics conspiracy and bail-jumping, were convicted, and were
sentenced to fifteen years in prison. In the spring of 1972, after serving nine years, all were released.

In Italy, meanwhile, the authorities waited. The interception of the cable from Gosch — the police assuming that the words “bringing script” indicated that he was part of the conspiracy and would be arriving with narcotics or illegal currency — sent them into motion. In Rome, the police moved in on the Excelsior Hotel and picked up Henry and Theresa Rubino. They were held for several days of questioning and then, because they were American citizens and had committed no provable crime, were released and sent back to the United States. In the early summer of 1972, Henry Rubino was shot and killed while playing golf in Miami. His murderer was never found.

Almost simultaneously with the actions in Rome, the Guardia di Finanza and the
questura
moved in Naples, prodded by the American Embassy’s Luciano-watcher in Rome, Henry Manfredi. At one o’clock in the morning, a troop of police burst into Luciano’s penthouse. He was not completely surprised, for he had been alerted earlier in the evening that Mauro, Caruso and Maneri had been picked up in Madrid, and that police were aware of the calls to him. But Adriana became nearly hysterical. She screamed at the police that Luciano was seriously ill, that his heart was weak, that they were killing him. Wearing only a sheer nightgown, she leaped at one of the taller officers and beat him about the chest, then raced out of the apartment and pounded at the door of a neighbor, begging for helping, screaming that the police were assassins torturing a sick man.

The police ignored her. While Luciano watched, dazed by the sleeping pills he had taken a few hours earlier, they meticulously searched the apartment, looking for money, narcotics, anything incriminating. They found only the usual household possessions, keepsakes and mementos — photographs of Luciano, Adriana, Vitaliti, recent ones taken of them and the Rubinos at Taormina on New Year’s Eve, a photo of Mike Cerra in his Air Force uniform, autographed to Luciano, a gold cigarette case engraved “To my dear pal, Charlie, from his friend, Frank Sinatra.” In the apartment were only the relics of a long life.

Luciano was permitted to dress under the eyes of the police and
then, in the darkest hour of the morning, while Adriana called down the saints on their heads, they took him to the barracks for questioning. Captain Speziale and his staff pounded away on the subject of narcotics and Luciano’s involvement. Though his strength was rapidly failing and he was seized by almost constant chest pains, he fought them off, denying as he always had any knowledge of or complicity in a narcotics conspiracy. He insisted he was retired from all business of any kind. He was asked about the call from Mauro in Spain; he admitted receiving it but said that the police knew, since they must have been listening in, that he had spurned any suggestion of a meeting, of any business deals and had ordered Mauro not to call again. They pressed him about the call to Gosch in Madrid, about the demands for the “script” and Gosch’s cable. Luciano insisted that the call dealt only with negotiations about a movie of his life; it was as simple as that. The police were skeptical. Luciano invited them to accompany him to Capodicino Airport the next day to see for themselves.

Gosch’s second cable, arriving in the morning, postponed that trip, for a day. The police armed themselves for that eventual meeting, securing a warrant for Gosch’s arrest with the right to seize and search his property.

By late in the afternoon of January 25, Luciano was permitted to return home under police guard. All his energy and reserves were gone and he slept until late the following morning. Then he rose, dressed, and, accompanied by his guards and with their permission, went to his favorite barbershop for a shave. As he relaxed in his chair, Pat Eboli entered. They had a hurried conversation, Luciano telling Eboli what had occurred and complaining that he had no dollars readily available. Eboli managed to pass him a five-hundred-dollar bill as they shook hands goodbye. Just before leaving the barbershop, Luciano put the bill in his wallet; that evening, it would be missing when his wallet was searched.

At mid-afternoon, Maresciallo (Marshal) Cesare Resta of Captain Speziale’s Guardia staff arrived at the penthouse to take Luciano to the airport to meet Gosch’s five o’clock flight, to see if Luciano was really telling the truth and if the “script” was really nothing more than a screenplay.

Luciano had eaten nothing all day. At the airport, he had a
small glass of orange juice, then waited anxiously for the plane to arrive.

The flight was a few minutes early. As Gosch came down the ramp, he saw Luciano and another man he didn’t know, Resta, standing just inside the terminal at the observation window. He waved; Luciano waved back. Gosch walked into the terminal, and was stunned when he saw Luciano. The man seemed to have aged twenty-five years since they had last met in November; he seemed shrunken, his skin almost parchment, his voice weak.

“Hello, Charlie,” Gosch said, “how are you?”

“I’m pretty lousy,” Luciano said.

Gosch handed Luciano a paper bag containing a bottle of his favorite Spanish brandy and a box of chocolates for Adriana. “Maybe this will make you feel better.”

Luciano thanked Gosch, then pointed to Resta. “This guy’s a pal of mine. He don’t speak too much English.” Gosch and Resta shook hands, Gosch assuming that Resta was one of Luciano’s Italian associates.

The three men started to walk through the airport building toward the parking lot. They walked slowly, Luciano maneuvering himself so that Gosch was between him and Resta. Immediately, Luciano began to speak to Gosch in a low, halting voice. Resta made several attempts to listen, but Luciano was speaking too quietly, brokenly, and in English.

“I fucked myself, Marty. They’re gonna kill me.”

“Who’s going to kill you?”

“All of ’em, all of ’em. I only got one friend in the world, Pat Eboli. He’s a good kid and you can trust him. . . . Please remember the promise you made me, but use it all. Don’t hold back. . . .” The words were coming with great effort, Luciano pausing and gulping for breath. “I couldn’t even go through the narcotics bit . . . and I’m not even gonna end up the king of junk. . . . Lansky’s gonna wind up the boss of everything . . . and all the money. . . . They wouldn’t let me out. . . . It was dead or nothin’. Some choice, huh? Two hoods, they’re tryin’ to trap me for Vito. . . .”

As Luciano was speaking, they reached the edge of the parking lot and Gosch saw Luciano’s Alfa Romeo Giulietta in the middle. Gosch stopped, put his hand on Luciano’s arm, and said, “Wait a
minute. I have to get my suitcase.” He reached into his topcoat pocket and pulled out a stub. They came to a halt near the baggage claim area. Luciano held tightly to the paper bag.

Suddenly, he lurched against Gosch and started to sag to the ground. “Marty . . .” His eyes rolled up as he gasped for breath. With the help of Resta, Gosch lowered Luciano to the pavement, quickly loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt and knelt astride him to administer artificial respiration.

Luciano was gasping for breath, unable to speak. As Gosch cried out for help, he noticed the large clock above the terminal door; it was eight minutes after five. Then he felt Resta’s hand in his pocket, trying to get the baggage check, taking it and starting for the claims area. “For God’s sake, never mind the damn suitcase. Get a doctor, you idiot; call an ambulance; get some oxygen.”

Resta was at his side again, saying to him, “
Pilloli, pilloli
,” and pointing to Luciano’s trouser pocket. Gosch nodded and motioned for him to get the gold pillbox. A half-dozen nitroglycerin tablets were placed under Luciano’s tongue.

In the distance, Gosch heard the sound of the ambulance. Just as it pulled into sight, Luciano shuddered, his chest stopped heaving, his gasping stopped. His eyes opened, staring at nothing. Gosch glanced once more at the terminal clock. It was 5:26 in the afternoon of January 26, 1962.

The ambulance, a battered American jeep with a red cross on its side, pulled up a moment later. Two men in white jackets jumped out and hurried to Luciano. In a mixture of languages and gestures, Gosch tried to make them understand they should inject adrenaline immediately. A long hypodermic needle was driven directly in Luciano’s chest. When it was withdrawn, there was no sign of blood. One of the attendants put a stethoscope to Luciano’s heart, looked at his eyes, checked his pulse. It was too late.

Gosch turned to Resta. “He’s dead.” Resta paled, staggered against Gosch and, with effort, held himself upright. Then Gosch turned to the attendant. “Do you know who this man is?”

The attendant shook his head.

“This is a man that you probably do know.
Egli è famoso
. He is Charlie Lucky Luciano.”

The ambulance attendant stared in disbelief. The few onlookers who had remained to watch also heard the name and stared.

Once Luciano had said that he would end up on a cement slab.

Now, in tailor-made navy blue blazer and gray flannel slacks, the collar of his white shirt open, his striped blue tie pulled down, he lay on the cement pavement of the airport parking lot. Someone brought out a bilious green-yellow slicker and threw it across the body. It did not cover the face. For several hours, until an official could be found to authorize release of the body to the Naples morgue, the remains of Lucky Luciano lay in the middle of the parking lot, covered by the slicker, staring sightlessly into the night sky.

The end had been sudden and unexpected. When Pat Eboli, in his hotel room in Naples, heard the news, he could not believe it and rushed to the morgue to make sure. The body had not yet arrived, and so Eboli was convinced it was all a mistake. Then he was told it was true, the body was there. But he would not be assured until he had seen it. “I had to bribe that dirty fuckin’ guy at the morgue to get a look,” he said later. Convinced, he went to the cable office and sent a message back to the United States: Charlie Lucky was dead, not of a bullet but of the ills of age, of a heart attack.