New York, 1953
“Don’t get discouraged.”
Hogan uncuffed his French sleeves and folded them slowly, fastidiously up his arm before picking up the chalk. Then he began to print names on the blackboard they’d rolled in from the conference room, writing in meticulously straight, precise little letters. When he was through, he pointed to each of the names in turn as he spoke. Tom listening slumped in the chair where he had thrown himself as soon as he got back from Sing Sing. Certain that he was missing something and even more frustrated that he couldn’t figure out what it was.
“Albert Anastasia. Dear Albert was chief enforcer for the Camardas on the docks—among others.”
Hogan drew a line from Anastasia to the next name: King Joe Ryan.
“We know the Camardas had the blessing of King Joe Ryan, president-for-life of the International Longshoremen’s Association. But we also know that King Joe Ryan is no king at all, just a smarmy little puppet of”—he drew one more line, to a name that read only, “Mr. Big,” then put a question mark next to it—“Mr. Big. Who may be Bill McCormack.”
“Who else?” Tom said bleakly. “You can read that in Life magazine.”
“That’s not good enough. We’re in the proof business here,” Hogan corrected him. “What we want to know is how Frank Costello fits into all this.”
“Moran explained what they were doing there—”
“I’m not buying any of that. Yet,” Hogan said, cutting him off. “Certainly not on the word of Neddy.”
“What could Costello have to do with it?”
“I don’t know.” Hogan weighed the question, rubbing a hand over his cheek as he studied the chalkboard. “He’s run Luciano’s outfit since we first shipped Charlie Lucky upstate. But Costello’s really more of a politician than a mob boss. A fixer with Tammany. He doesn’t have anything to do with the docks, from what I know of, doesn’t like the strong-arm stuff. For all that ‘Prime Minister of the Underworld’ hooey in the papers, he’s just a glorified gambler, with his card games, his race wires, and his slot machines. Keeps the boys happy by spreading the wealth around. Had the good sense to get out of town, go down to New Orleans when La Guardia was in.”
“What’re you sayin’, Boss?”
“Just this. Costello does a lot of favors, carries a lot of messages for his friends. And one of his friends is Albert Anastasia. He’s part of the muscle that keeps him in power.”
“Maybe,” Tom said tersely. “But by the time my brother went up there, Anastasia was already off the hook.”
“Sure.”
Hogan made a pair of annotations along the line he had drawn.
“Albert lams it the minute Reles turned himself in and started blabberin’. March 1940. He stays out of sight for over two years. Then, Neddy Moran pulls his police ID card from the files of every precinct in the City, and—mirabile dictu—he resurfaces, almost on cue. Then Albert joins the army for the duration. Even makes sergeant!”
Another mark on the chalkboard.
“Your brother and Mr. Moran don’t visit Costello until Christmastime, over six months later.”
“And the whole of that time, my brother was in the army, travelin’ all over the country with the inspector general’s office,” Tom told him, his jaw set hard.
“That’s true. But Charlie was still keeping in touch with Ned Moran enough to have Neddy set up his meeting with Costello,” Hogan pointed out. “Yet we’re still supposed to believe he didn’t know anything about Moran pulling Anastasia’s wanted card. Or how the state prosecutor’s case—John Harlan Amen’s case—got made to disappear in the first place.”
“There must be a reason,” Tom insisted.
“I’m sure there’s a reason,” Hogan said drily. “The question is whether it’s a good one. And what does it have to do with our Mr. McCormack?”