Although business was sure enough good for me, it wasn’t much good for my family life. I mean, without Loretta and Margaret, the only family I had was my Ma and Marty and May, but things had got so busy that I frankly was neglecting my duties. I guess I made the mistake that most men make, that of thinking that just because you’re working hard for your womenfolk, they don’t need something else as well.
I was deep in conversation with Stark and Harry Block one early summer afternoon about the upcoming meeting of the Seven Group down on the Jersey Shore. This was a gang of gangsters comprised of Frank Costello and Lucky Luciano from Manhattan; Joey Adonis, who thought he looked like a Greek god, representing Brooklyn; Longy Zwillman, who was my man in Jersey; Waxey Gordon and Nig Rosen from Philly; Lansky and Siegel; Johnny Torrio, the old Five Pointer who had trained Capone in Chicago; and Nucky Johnson, who was a hood who happened to get himself elected Mayor of Atlantic City, which is why the meeting was going to be held on his turf.
“I dunno, Owney,” said Stark. “What if it’s a setup?”
“They’re all friends, Herman.”
“You don’t have any friends. Nobody does, in our business.”
“What about you?”
“I’m different. I can’t do what you do. They can.”
“And do,” added Harry Block.
“It ain’t just gonna be them,” I said. “We’re inviting the Dutchman—”
“That crazy sonofabitch,” grunted Stark.
“Capone, Greasy Thumb Guzik and their pal Moe Annenberg are comin’ in from Chi-town—”
“Annenberg the newspaper shtarker?” asked Harry.
“He ain’t sluggin’ no more. Moe’s a big shot now. Cooking up a race-wire scheme that I want in on. Plus Abie Bernstein and his Purple Gang from Detroit, Moe Dalitz from Cleveland—”
“Great, more Jews,” said Harry Block. Harry was of the opinion that there were enough Jews in the rackets already, without there being more.
I looked over at him. His seegar was working overtime. “When are you going straight, Harry? Be sure to tell me in advance so I can get a new manager.”
“Too late for me, but one of my kids is going to City College.”
“You call that goin’ straight?” asked Herman.
I continued my litany. “Danny Walsh from Providence, John Lazia fronting for the Pendergast operation in K.C.”
Herman whistled. “Quite a group. What about Maranzano and Masseria?”
Now, there was the big question. The M&M boys were currently battling each other for supremacy of the old Italian Black Hand. They thought it was a big deal, but as far as I was concerned that was yesterday’s news.
I liked Joe the Boss, I did business with him. To my mind, he was far smarter than that preening popinjay Maranzano, who thought he was some kind of Sicilian don, and who disparaged Costello because Frank was from Calabria instead of Sicily. That’s the kind of chump Salvatore Maranzano was, goofy for Sicilians when he should have had an eye for talent from anywhere. It was an expensive mistake to make for a guy Whose dream was to be capo di tutti capi, boss of all the bosses in woptalk.
“Ain’t coming. Too old-fashioned.” I settled back into my chair. “I remember the days when the politicians used to pull us around by our ears. Burn this newsstand, slug this ape, keep these fellas away from the polls, make sure this guy votes early and often. Now we call the tune and they jig to it. Look around. Nobody gets elected in Kansas City without Tom Pendergast’s say-so, Capone has Big Bill Thompson in his waistcoat pocket and Tammany’s got its claws so far into Al Smith and his boy Frank Roosevelt that it ain’t funny.”
“I don’t trust that cripple,” said Stark. “Look what he’s done for Al, and us, since he got elected governor last year—nothin’.”
“Aw, he’s okay. In fact,” I said proudly, “I’ve written to him, asking for a complete pardon for my manslaughter rap. Clean jacket, that’s what I’m lookin’ for, and I have every reason to believe I’m going to get it.”
“Never happen,” said Herman. “Bet you a hundred bucks.”
We shook hands on it, and I steered the subject back to Atlantic City. “Nucky’s hosting, puttin’ everybody up at the best hotel—the Breakers.”
“I thought that dump was restricted,” said Harry. “No Jews, no Catholics.” He looked across the table. “None of us could get in there, that’s for sure.”
“Nucky’s got it all fixed,” I said, looking at my watch. “George and I’ll leave next week and when we come back—well, things is going to be different, all over the country.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Harry, lighting another seegar from the glowing stub of the old one.
The Duke and his orchestra were sounding great, we had a swell lineup of talent and our girls was prettier than ever. The Dutchman was having some serious trouble with the colored policy makers he was tryin’ to displace—I’m talking about Brunder, Pompez, Joe Ison and their muscleman, Bumpy Johnson—not to mention that hex queen Stephanie St. Clair, who some said put a spell on Dutch, but to me lead poisoning is lead poisoning and voodoo has nothing to do with it. I didn’t want any of our coloreds getting involved, because I knew most of ’em played the policy rackets—colored people always did—and I also knew sure as shooting that Dutch and Abbadabba were cheating them blind, and when word like that gets out, that is a surefire way to start trouble.
One day I’d caught Hiram with a bunch of policy slips in his hand. “Where you goin’ with those?” I asked.
“Droppin’ ’em off for my mama.”
“Shouldn’t ought to play policy, you know that.”
“I know that, Mr. Owney.”
“Then what the hell you let your mama play for?”
“She jes’ likes to is all.”
“Well, don’t let me see you throwing away my money on stuff like that.”
“Okay, Mr. Owney.”
I don’t know whether Hiram paid me any mind, but one thing I did know was that you couldn’t win at policy, which was also called the numbers racket. Poor Negroes picked a three-digit number from 100 to 999 and put a penny or a nickel on its nose. If you hit, the payoff was 500 to 1. So that was a gyp right there. The winning number was supposed to be the last three digits of the handle at one racetrack or another, which was published in the newspapers the next day. Otto Berman figured out a way to pay off only on penny-ante stuff, and cheat big winners, by checking all the policy slips and then getting a bet down by wire and changing the tote at the last minute. The suckers never knew what they was missin’.
Anyway, I didn’t want this policy war between Dutch and the colored boys getting any wider. Ever since Little Patsy, I’d tried to keep my irish in check whenever possible, but when Bert the doorman give me a sign, and then Harry all of a sudden stopped talking, and I saw Legs Diamond and his brother Eddie in my club, well, I thought about firing Bert on the spot, except I figured he was scared of Legs, and you’d be too, in his place. Legs had been pointedly not invited to our little beach party, and the last thing I needed was to have him spotted in here.
I was up and out of my seat in a flash, just as Legs and Eddie sat down at a table. One of the waiters saw me coming and vamoosed pronto, which left Legs waving his hands in the air, and I was just hoping and praying he’d start to shout or something, because then I could throw him right out on his arse, but he kept his gob shut just long enough for me to get there and for him to see me.
“No Irish need apply,” I said as unfriendly as possible. I still hadn’t forgotten that shot he took at me when he was just a punk, even though I was one slug to the good as far as he was concerned.
Legs just about laughed in my face. “You know my brother, Eddie.”
“He can’t apply either. Only colored in the band, on the stage and in uniform. Plus we don’t hire geeks, spastics or cripples.”
Legs looked around the room at all the beautiful girls getting ready for the evening’s acts. “Thought I might find our mutual nonfriend the Flegenheiming Dutchman in here instead.” I swear he was about to put his feet up on one of my tables, then thought the better of it. I wished Frenchy and his shotgun were both here.
“Why don’tcha try one a his joints?”
Legs gave me that nasty little smile of his. “Yours are better.”
“If it’s Dutch you’re looking for, take it elsewhere, Jack,” I said. “I don’t allow trouble at the Cotton Club. Besides, ain’t you got enough lead in you already? You’re the only guy I know’s been shot more than me.”
“Just a little friendly chat,” said Eddie.
“You don’t know how to have a friendly chat, Eddie,” I said. “The only thing you know how to do is exchange gunfire, which I’m not particularly in the mood to do with you right now. Maybe later.”
A waiter hovered. “These gentlemen are leaving soon,” I barked and turned back to Legs.
“How the hell could you shoot Red Cassidy and his pals right in the Hotsy-Totsy? Your own club? And then rub out your own bartender and waiter so they couldn’t testify? No wonder nobody trusts you—Jesus, he’s spitting up blood.” Eddie had TB, as everybody knew, and everybody knew it was going to kill him unless everybody else did first.
Eddie’s coughing spell was terrible. Blood was coming out of his mouth and dribbling down his chin. Legs threw his arm around his brother to help him through the spell, and I guess the only nice thing I can say about Jack Diamond was that he was a family man, like myself.
At last Eddie managed to get himself under control. “He’s okay,” said Legs, “just needs a little fresh air is all. We’re going up to our place in the Catskills tomorrow.”
“I’ll have one of the boys drive you. Every cop from here to Albany’ll be on the lookout for your cars.”
Legs looked at me crossways. “We’ll make it.” Then he glanced up and over my left shoulder.
“I think maybe you boys ought to beat it,” said big George, and was I ever glad to see him, looming over skinny little Legs. He was wearing his greatcoat, which meant his shotgun was cuddled up alongside his right leg.
“Why we gettin’ the air?” snarled Legs. “Ain’t I buying my beer and booze from you now?” That part was true. The fight between him and the Dutchman meant I was now his major supplier, and I appreciated his business.
I turned to George. “Keep an eye on Eddie. Legs, let’s you and me go upstairs, where it’s nice and private.”
Legs and I walked to the back of the house and then up my private staircase, which led out onto the roof. I always had two men stationed there, to prevent anybody from sneaking up on me. They grabbed Legs as he came through the door.
“What’s the big idea?” There was no fear in Legs Diamond’s eyes, I had to give him that.
“Relax. If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.” The boys had come up with two pistols, a blackjack and a throwing knife. “They’re just going to relieve you of your artillery for a while.”
It was a clear, cool evening up on the roof. The lights of the city glowed bright to the south, fading away as Manhattan stretched north. To the east, the Bronx twinkled, and for some reason in that instant I thought about Monk and his battle with Kelly way back, and hadn’t the Bronx changed since then. Everything had changed, but everything was still the same and I was trying like hell to hang on to it.
I made my way over to my pigeons, with Legs following, and took out a bird. It was a Giant Runt, sort of like Legs himself, or maybe Dutch. Diamond and Schultz may have hated each other, but they were birds of a feather just the same. I tossed him up in the air, and off he flew, circling the roof and then heading south, disappearing into the night.
“He’s on his way down to the Lower East Side,” I told Legs. “The old Five Points. I keep some coops down there, visit the birds from time to time, get a whiff of the old days. You don’t remember the old days, Legs.”
“I worked for Little Augie Orgen, didn’t I?”
“Fat lot of good it did him too. I guess you couldn’t help it Lepke and Shapiro shot him so hard his hat flew off his head.”
“They shot me too.”
I was still looking out over the roof, to the south. “That’s just my point. You’re slowin’ down. You been hit too many times.”
“Bullet ain’t been cast with my name on it.”
“I used to think that. Then I got eleven of ’em, special delivery.”
“Didn’t kill ya, did they?”
I thought about what Dr. Sweet had told me, about the pains I still felt. “Not yet.”
I turned back to Jack, who looked bored. “Listen to me closely, Jack, because I’m only going to say this once and I’ll deny that I ever said it if anybody asks. This thing between Schultz and you is going to end badly, for both of you and for all of us. Do you know why? Because Lepke and Gurrah Shapiro and the Bug and Meyer Mob are tougher and hungrier than we are—”
“Buncha Jews, running with the guineas—”
“—and in this business it’s the hungry and wise who eat the foolish and well fed. You got your rackets upstate—hell, you practically own Albany—so my advice to you is get back up there and leave the rackets down here to people who can handle ’em. I don’t plan to stay forever, but I sure as hell do plan to get out alive.”
Legs bristled. “Think I’m going to let a few sheenies push me around?”
“It’s not just the Jews, Jack. They ain’t long for the rackets themselves. You’ve seen their kids, smart kids, who work hard and are goin’ places. How long do you think they’ll want to stay in the rackets, killing and being killed, when they take their law degrees from City College and relieve mugs like us of our cash, right up to the minute they strap us to Old Sparky and fry us?”
Legs snorted. “You scared, Madden?”
That offended me. I didn’t have to prove my courage to this punk. I kept my temper as I replied: ‘No, I’m not scared. I’m smart. Smarter than you, leastways…”
“Sounds to me like it’s you who should be thinking about retirement.”
I took a deep breath and gave him one last chance. “Long time ago I worked for Monk Eastman. ‘Prince of the Gangsters,’ the newspapers called him. Toughest guy I ever met, who’d put you in the hospital soon as look at ya. Like a father to me…”
“Ancient history.”
“Shut up and listen, you dumb harp. Monk and his gang fought that wop Paul Kelly and his Five Pointers to a draw. There were tough Jews in those days, and there still are tough Jews. Benny Siegel is as tough as they come, and little Lansky is even tougher, you wouldn’t know it to took at him. But they’re on the wrong side of history. The Italians are coming—”
“You talking about Maranzano and Masseria? Them Mustache Petes? They’re too busy killing each other off to give us grief.”
“Eventually they’ll succeed. There’ll be a power vacuum on the East Side. And who’s going to take their place? Not an Irishman or a Jew. No, it’ll be someone like Frank Costello or Joey Adonis or even Masseria’s boy Lucky. Guys like us, we gotta decide whether we’re going to go graceful or go bloody.”
Legs ground his cigarette into the roof. “I was right—you are yellow.”
“Have it your way, smart guy.”
“Tell that punk Schultz I want to see him.”
“Watch out for Dutch. He’s meaner and crazier than you are.”
“Ever hear of the luck of the Irish?”
That almost made me laugh. “Sure I have,” I said. “We got plenty of luck. Only problem is it’s all bad. Good or bad, in the end it’s all bad. A real Irishman knows that. A stupid one forgets it.”
“Forget it,” said Legs, looking at his watch. “I gotta go get my girl. She can’t sneak out until her mother goes to bed.”
I chuckled. “Ma thinks she’s still a virgin, I bet.”
He chuckled harder. “Not just Mom.”
So there you have it. I tried to warn him, but some harps are dumber than others, and Jack Diamond was sure one of ’em. So was I, because I didn’t figure it out until a few days later, after I got back from Atlantic City, when I went to visit my Mother.