Although a tough break for Lucky Lindy, and even worse for his kid, the Lindbergh baby kidnapping was a terrific split for me. Right off the bat, people figured little Charlie was grabbed for dough and that maybe the Outfit was behind it—specifically the Purples from Detroit. I knew the Fleishers and the Bernsteins wouldn’t be mixed up in something as dumb as grabbing the kid of the most famous man in America, and so we put out the word to the Colonel that we would be happy, as patriotic Americans, to help him find who nabbed the baby. Given that the Jersey cops couldn’t find their arse with both hands, it was an offer he gladly accepted.
It was one of life’s little ironies that I found myself working the case alongside Elmer Irey from the Treasury Department. Irey was the selfsame mug threatening me with a tax-evasion rap, and now here we were, with me funneling him whatever information we could find out about the kid. I even sent Joe out to meet the press, to assure the public that all the important gang leaders were doing our bit to find out who’d commit such a heinous crime. Even the Big Fella, doin’ his time on the Rock, volunteered to help out, but the feds turned him down cold.
I took the Doozy down to Hopewell a coupla three times, to meet with Schwarzkopf, the chief investigator. I also took up residence for a few days with the great man his own good self and here’s why. Once word got out that the underworld was actively involved in seeking-information-leading-to, well, let me tell you every poseur on the planet started showing up, pretending to be one of the boys. “Do you know Owney Madden?” the Colonel would inquire of each and every mug what come through his door. “Yes, sir, why of course I do,” they’d to a man reply, upon which I’d emerge from the next room and most of ’em would piss their pants on the spot and the rest would just plain make a run for it.
At one point the Colonel was so desperate that he met with a nut job named Mary Magdalene, one of those phony psychics who always come out of the woodwork in times of trouble, offering to divine the whereabouts of the missing beloved. I had a word with her on Lindy’s behalf, and she didn’t bother him no more. Nor, coincidentally, did the Treasury Department bother me anymore, after Lindbergh had a discreet word or two with them.
As you know, they eventually found the kid stiff, coincidentally nailed a kraut carpenter for the big job and fried him after a fair trial. I have no idea if he done it or not, but it didn’t really matter. The important thing was we all of us looked like the good guys for a change, which we of course were.
Even more coincidentally, Levy found for us again in the matter of the parole violation. That rat Roosevelt showed his true colors just about this time. I never saw anybody follow the papers the way this crook did, calculating every last move, and when he saw that I was up before Judge Levy, what did he do but release the pardon plea I’d wrote him earlier, in which I said I was gainfully employed by the Hydrox Laundry. That was all Cahill and Brancato needed, and they flew it over to the judge saying it was evidence of my deceitful nature or some such nonsense, because after all hadn’t I denied that very thing at some or other court appearance in the dim distant past, let the record show.
Nevertheless, good old Levy ruled in my favor and said it was up to the parole board to show that I’d never been discharged from parole, rather than me having to prove that I was. “If Madden committed all the misdeeds of which he is accused, he should have been apprehended long ago.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” said Joe as we discussed our next move. “In fact, that’s exactly what I did say.”
“Judge Levy knows eloquence when he hears it.”
“I’ll say he does, we’re planning to vacation together, our families, his and mine, maybe the Cape, maybe the Island, maybe the Coast, I dunno. But I’ll tell you who doesn’t know eloquence and that’s Roosevelt.”
“He really wants that nomination.”
“Too bad he’s gonna get it.”
“He ain’t gonna be good for us or our thing. Not like Al Smith. And you know why? Because he ain’t a businessman, that’s why. He don’t do business and he don’t know how to do business. Never trust a rich mug.”
“Yeah, but he’s gonna get it. Mark my words. Because he wants it more than the other guys. More than Smith, more than Mike Curley, more than Huey Long, even more than Seabury, that dirty sonofabitch.” Between Seabury and Roosevelt, it was hard to choose which one was worse. “Simple as that.”
Frank Costello said more or less the same thing when he called a meeting a few days later, up in Charlie Lucky’s suite at the Waldorf, the one he rented under the name of “Mr. Ross.” That would be the new Waldorf over on Park, which opened in 1931, the Empire State Building having replaced it on 34th Street.
Charlie had more names than any of us, which was saying something. Born Salvatore Lucania in Sicily, in New York he swanned around under the name of Charles Lane, which is the way he registered himself at Barbizon Plaza, Or Charles Ross, once he’d moved over to the Waldorf. Sometimes you’d pick up the phone and it was Charlie calling and he’d just say, “This is 312,” which wasn’t his room number but his way of referring to himself by his initials, 3 for the letter “C” and 12 for the letter “L.” He mostly did that when he thought the wire might be bugged. Out of town, though, he was Charles Lucania, Charles Luciano, Charlie Lucky or just plain Lucky.
He and Meyer were both there, as was Jimmy Hines. “Bunch of us are goin’ to Chicago for the convention, make sure things run smooth,” said Frank. He looked over at Hines. “Me and Jimmy are even roomin’ together at the Drake. Nice place, the Drake.”
“Nice place, Chicago,” said Hines.
“Who we rooting for?” I asked.
“Whoever gives us the best deal,” said Costello.
“Whoever we can trust more,” said Meyer.
“Whoever’s the least dangerous,” said Charlie Lucky.
“I hear it’s Roosevelt,” said Frank.
Jimmy Hines rubbed his hands together, the way he did whenever he smelled money. “Of course it’s going to be Roosevelt,” he said. Roosevelt had plenty of dough-re-mi.
I still didn’t like it. “You’re a Tammany man through and through, Jimmy boy,” I objected. “No one’s been a better friend to the Tiger than the Happy Warrior.” That was what the newspapers called Smith, and he seemed to like it. “Hell, he’s the mug what give me my parole—”
Hines cut me off. “I don’t think either of us is exactly a poor paddy anymore, Owney. I love Al, I really do. He’s a great and good fellow. Only one thing wrong with him—”
“—he can’t win,” said Costello.
“And Roosevelt can,” said Hines. “There’s been a Republican in the White House for the past twelve years. Things is dryin’ up up here; we need the patronage that Washington can provide. Them goo-goos have had their shot at the trough for the past score. Now it’s our turn.”
“So you’re backin’ Roosevelt,” I said.
Jimmy didn’t have to say nothin’.
“I’m stickin’ with Smith,” said Luciano. “I don’t trust that sonofabitch FDR.”
Costello started flapping his big hands. “None of us does, Charlie. The guy’s a weasel. But we’d rather have him inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissin’ in. Meaning that if he owes us and he wins, he can flap his fuckin’ jaw all he wants, just so long’s the gravy keeps comin’ down the tracks.”
Charlie looked dubious, which matched my sentiments to a T-bone steak au jus. “Frank,” I said, “no offense, but you’re a chump. Look what this mug is doing. He’d put his own mother in the can if he thought it would help him. He’s got a bag for a wife, he’s boffin’ every broad he can get his crippled mitts on, he’s got Jimmy Walker on the run, Smith hates his guts and worst of all, he’s making us look bad.”
“That’s one of the things we want to talk to you about,” said Frank.
I looked around the room and realized I was alone with Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky, with no gunners or the Dutchman to back me up. I figured nothing would happen, what with Jimmy sitting there and all, but for just a moment I was after flashing back to the Arbor and I tell you my stomach started to ache again, real bad, and Sing Sing all of a sudden started to look good to me.
It started looking better when Meyer said, “You can go now, Jimmy. See you in Chicago.” Lansky waited for Jimmy to shake hands with all of us, collect his hat and find the exit. Hines flashed me a rueful smile as he left, one of those what-can-I-do-I-only-work-here smiles. Then he closed the door and was gone.
“This Dutchman-Dewey thing is gonna be a problem, Owney,” said Meyer very softly, the way he said everything. “We got enough problems as it is, without Arthur flyin’ off the handle. We figured that since you guys is friends—”
“You might want to have a word with him,” chimed in Lucky.
“A friendly word,” added Costello.
“Because, frankly, what we’re hearing is that Dutch’s been making threats. Against Dewey,” said Meyer. “To Berman, the boys, that broad he’s bangin’, whoever’ll listen.”
The old line about being my brother’s keeper suddenly floated into my head, and I wished I knew how the rest of it went, whether you were supposed to be or not supposed to be. “What do you expect me to do about it?”
“Calm him down.”
“Be persuasive.”
“Reason wit’ him.”
“You got ways,” said Meyer.
“And when we get back from Chicago,” said Costello, “we’ll all sit down, friends again, and deal with whatever we gotta deal with.” He spoke in a flat monotone, especially the “friends” bit, and I knew he wasn’t kidding.
“I can manage that,” I said, getting up to leave.
“Not so fast,” said Charlie Lucky. “We got one other problem.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“You,” said my friend Frank Costello.