Three shots…then running…the sound of two people hitting the pavement fast. It was a matter of seconds, from deep inside the thick grey fog, more than half a block away. The first two reports were soft, almost muffled and sounded like his .38 revolver. The third shot that came one or two seconds later, had a rich reverberating echo that could only be something heavy, like a .45. Yes, he was sure it was a .45.
Anderson was at the traffic light, ready to cross Ninth Avenue and return to his car that was parked in front of the diner, almost hidden under the pillars of the El. He swung around instinctively like a dancer, and at the same time unbuttoned his heavy grey overcoat drawing the .38 from his side holster and pointing it straight down at an angle toward the slippery wet cobble stones, safely away from his body, like the instructors had taught him. He ran crouching low and staying close to the parked cars, as 37th Street slopes slightly downhill toward Tenth Avenue. On an ordinary evening you’d see the Hudson River piers and a few lights on the Jersey side just beyond and maybe a big ocean liner or two waiting quietly in their berths. This wasn’t one of those evenings.
The running dissolved into the dense cotton clouds, then a big car bolted off at full speed, its gears singing stridently as the driver slammed the gas to the floor gathering speed and heading south on Tenth Avenue. It had to be either a Packard or a Cadillac, a very powerful eight cylinder engine. He bet on the Packard. It felt as though only seconds had flashed by, but actually almost five minutes had passed. Anderson couldn’t see beyond a few feet in any direction as he reached the corner of Tenth Avenue, out of breath, trying hard not to slip on the wet sidewalk … Nothing but rare ghost-like headlights coasting slowly in both directions on the broad avenue with their engines running in low gear. Anderson quickly turned around to face the dank Hell’s Kitchen street and the hazy glow of headlights askew and a blaring horn, stuck on its highest pitch. The light grey two-door coupe was jammed sideways, blocking the center of the cobbled pavement too far removed from the streetlights. But it didn’t matter anyway since at the moment there were no cars traveling in either direction.
Only ten minutes earlier Anderson had dashed out of the dingy twenty-four hour diner aptly named the “Tic-Toc Luncheonette” on the corner of Ninth Avenue. He saw the navy blue Buick sedan he was expecting pull up in front of the Italian restaurant. An elegant looking man in a long dark overcoat with a white scarf locked the car and hurried inside. Anderson dutifully jotted the New York license plates in his notepad:
“December 31, 1939---9:08 p.m. ---37th Street and Ninth Ave---’38 black Buick sedan with white wall tires, NY 9V329. Subject enters “Maria’s Isle of Capri Restaurant.” New Year’s Eve party in progress. External surveillance ongoing.”
He tucked his pad away and buttoned his overcoat in the freezing wind. With his fingertips he checked that his Smith &Wesson .38 revolver was snug in the western style belt holster most FBI agents were using, something he picked up in training at Quantico. He knew it would be another long miserable wait into the wee hours of the New Year before Signor Vittorio Barbieri the Vice Consul of Italy in Newark, New Jersey, decided to emerge at last probably in the company of other drunken revelers. William “Willy” Anderson would then follow the diplomat at some distance to wherever his fancy would take him until his replacement finally showed up at 04:00 a.m. during the first hours of the year 1940. Foreign diplomats were experts at enjoying themselves but they also managed to transact much of their business during those endless social events. He was walking back toward the ‘Tic Toc,’ on the corner, under the Ninth Avenue El where he’d parked, the diner’s windows offered an unobstructed view of the Isle of Capri’s entrance. His mind had resiliently adjusted to one more tedious and uneventful night. The shots rang out just as he reached the traffic light and was ready to cross the avenue.
Anderson inched cautiously forward with his revolver cocked, now pointed straight ahead like they taught him on the firing range with the bottom of the handle cradled steadily in his left hand. There could still be another shooter or even two waiting to rub out any unwelcome witnesses even though he felt reasonably sure that the running and the car speeding off had to be the getaway vehicle with the killers on board. The driver, as he pictured him in his mind, was probably weaving athletically in and out of side streets by now, taking his time before taking one of the bridges or tunnels to Brooklyn or New Jersey. This was a professional but very hurried job; the shooters were rushing to kill whoever was at the wheel of the fancy coupe blocking West 37th Street and eliminate any other witnesses. It had to be someone very important to rate that kind of personalized treatment.
The horn was already dying down and the car door on the driver’s side was hanging wide open with the wheels turned all the way to the left. He must have jerked in that direction during the split second when he realized what was happening. The headlights cut through the dense fog with their weak yellow glow and Anderson noticed a gray gloved hand hanging low, almost touching the curb behind the open door. It was a Chrysler two-door coupe, one of the latest models, with shiny chrome hubcaps and fancy thick white walls that had to cost as much a few months’ salary.
The man at the wheel had been shot twice from behind, almost at point blank range; his body was slumped at the wheel; the whole left side of his head was a mess of torn flesh and blood that had splattered over the windshield and on the swank navy blue felt upholstery; the kind they advertise with the “classic” gray piping. The second bullet, as they found out later at the autopsy, went straight through his left lung smashing into the clock on the dashboard and by itself wouldn’t have been enough to kill him. The victim was wearing an expensive camel’s hair overcoat and a flashy yellow silk scarf. With his left hand he must have opened the door while his right hand was tucked inside his coat pocket probably in an attempt to draw his own gun. However that was an issue for the detectives of the New York Homicide Squad to rule on, since this was clearly going to be their case, at least for now.
The woman in the passenger seat had also been shot in the head at the same angle, but on the right side. The bullet had shattering the window in the process since she’d obviously kept it closed. Judging from her condition it had to be the .45; blood was oozing steadily over the dashboard and down the inside door panel. The right side of her head and face had been savaged, making it an extremely gruesome, almost unbearable sight because of the stark contrast with the rest of her appearance. She was still sitting with her legs comfortably tucked under her and her fancy high-heeled shoes were resting casually on the floor of the car. The bullet had continued its downward trajectory into the glove compartment where it finally stopped.
Anderson, the FBI rookie who had been on the job for barely nine months, had to repress a violent stomach spasm. At his first posting in San Francisco two months before, he’d seen a couple of very bloody murder scenes but nothing compared to this devastation. Both victims were in their early to mid-thirties. The girl was one of those cool blondes that must have been trying hard to look like Veronica Lake; she was in expensive furs with glittering costume jewelry. The diamond on her finger looked real, however, and her smooth white silk stockings ran all the way up her thighs into a black garter belt. She had turned to her left, no doubt reacting to the shots that had killed the driver when she was also hit and never saw it coming. Now they were both dead.
Anderson crossed the street and quickly decided to go to the “Isle of Capri” and place a call to the main desk at what was known in Bureau jargon as NYO or “New York Office” located on Foley Square next to the New York State Supreme Court building. The handwritten sign on the door read, “CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY.” Anderson carefully slipped his gun back into his holster, straightened his tie, buttoned up his coat and walked into a noisy crowd of tuxedos and heavily made-up women in slinky sequin dresses, all in animated cocktail conversation. There was rhumba music in the background and some couples were attempting to dance in the happy excitement while others were already wearing party hats and throwing confetti. In that kind of racket no one could have heard the shooting a quarter of a block away.
An aggressive looking painted up floozy in a tight black satin dress and a very low cleavage walked right up to him, she was smoking a cigarette planted in a long ivory holder.
“Sorry sir,” she said in a singsong voice with a typical New York accent, “we’re closed for a private party.”
She could have been the manager or even the owner, and Anderson didn’t miss a single detail of the high cheekbones and dark almond shaped eyes, the raven hair pulled up and back in a very tight bun and the dark olive complexion giving her an almost oriental air. At first he thought she had to be from South or Central America. The fixed smile on her full red lips matched the shiny excitement in her eyes. Anderson flashed his gold badge,
“Sorry lady, I’m Special Agent William Anderson, FBI. There’s an emergency outside and I just need to use your phone.”
She looked neither pleased nor surprised by the request, but the smile instantly vanished.
“This way, officer. And by the way, my name is Maria. I run the place.”
She led the way, cutting through the guests to the back of the dining room. Anderson noted the sensuous swing as she walked in front of him and he managed to repress a batchelor’s smile of true contentment. The phone was located in a tiny office and Anderson dialed headquarters while she stood in the doorway nervously fitting a fresh Pall Mall into her cigarette holder. On the wall there was a much younger picture of her holding hands with an older man at the bar. Anderson noticed her annoyed and provocative attitude and guessed there was some repressed passion about her that he couldn’t explain. She flicked open an expensive silver lighter, exhaled deeply and looked at him with her arms crossed, playing with the cigarette and managing to stay close enough so he’d get a plunging view of her full breasts while she listened in.
“That you Bud? Yeah, this is Willy. Look, I’m calling from a restaurant on West 37th Street, yes west off Ninth Avenue. The Isle of Capri…Precisely, that’s the place …. A man and a woman have just been shot and are most probably dead…yeah…actually I’m positive that they are… in a car in the middle of the block… That’s on 37th going west toward Tenth Avenue…. A few hundred feet past the restaurant… The car is blocking the street…No, I was too far away…Here at the restaurant…The manager is right here next to me…” He cupped the receiver and asked,
“Your name, lady?”
She exhaled noisily, and said with a frown
“Nicolosi, Maria Nicolosi and I own the place.”
“Can you spell that?”
He took his note pad and wrote as he repeated her name slowly into the phone.
“N-I-C-O-L-O-S-I, Maria, yup, that’s it. So you’ll put in a call to New York homicide for me? Good man…. Tell ‘em not to shoot – Anderson chuckled --I’ll be at the scene with a flashlight, it’s a thick pea soup out here Bud, in case you didn’t know. No, I don’t intend to be the next victim….Thanks.”
He hung up and turned to Maria who was still hovering over him.
“Thank you very much Mrs. Nicolosi, be sure to tell your guests not to leave the premises. The city detectives will be here shortly. They’ll want to ask some questions. I promise it won’t take long.”
She didn’t smile and kept up her annoyed look before leading Anderson back to the entrance through the puzzled guests who were flocking around silently like anxious penguins.
A few curious partygoers decided to peek outside where the fog was slowly lifting and it was beginning to snow. Anderson waved them back in just as two patrolmen on the beat came running down from Ninth Avenue to take up positions around the car.
Three police cars pulled up some twenty minutes later with their sirens blaring, blocking 37th Street at both ends. Then a black sedan came up from Tenth Avenue and an imposing man just over six feet got out and nodded at the uniformed cops ignoring Anderson completely. With an angry scowl across his broad red face Detective George Maxwell of the homicide squad went directly to the crime scene and carefully walked around the Chrysler as if he were inspecting a prize bull at a country fair. After a few minutes he unbuttoned his coat and pulled an immaculate white handkerchief from his vest pocket, bent over the driver’s body and carefully extracted a black leather wallet from his left inside coat pocket placing it in a brown paper bag that one of the patrolmen was holding. With a second deft movement he fished out a .38 bulldog revolver with thick electrical tape wrapped tightly around the handle to prevent any slippage.
“A real pro!” muttered Maxwell with a smile in his voice as he turned to Anderson showing him the revolver as though it were a precious jewel protectively wrapped in a white handkerchief. He carefully opened the wallet, extracted the driver’s license, turned it over two or three times and smiled;
“Well, well, an old acquaintance! None other than the ‘Honorable’ Bruno Scalise. I should say ‘at last!’ He never had the time to grab his heater so he must have been pretty pissed off when he died! And mind you, for one or two tenths of a second he knew it was coming. So there is some justice in this world after all!”
Maxwell sounded like a scandal sheet’s account of an underworld rubout. He turned to Anderson again,
“This was one nasty little wop, let me tell you, a mean little Brooklyn hood, Signor Scalise, and well connected too…did the dirtiest work and I am sorry I didn’t get to nail him myself. He made a few widows around town, you know.”
Maxwell fit everything carefully back into the paper bag folding it tightly before he handed it back to the cop. Then he walked around the car taking his time, moving closer to the passenger side and shaking his head as he gradually opened the door. The girl’s body didn’t move as thick dark blood began dripping steadily on the wet cobbled pavement.
“Jesus Christ, a pretty lady, early thirties, keeping very bad company. I don’t recognize her though. One of the many in search of fame and fortune, no doubt. Look where that got her!”
Maxwell spotted her purse and again he managed to pick it off the front seat without upsetting the devastation of what used to be the pretty woman’s head. Once he found the name of Lorraine Sanders the purse also disappeared into a separate brown bag.
Maxwell stepped back, extracted a long Cuban cigar and began blowing heavy puffs of smoke into the thick whirling snow. He was now ready to acknowledge Anderson’s presence.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Willy Anderson, FBI.” He flashed his badge.
“Oh! Oh yeah! You must be keeping tabs…on the foreigners?”
He pointed at the restaurant with his cigar and Anderson nodded. Maxwell smiled,
“Well my young friend, you’ll be interested to know that the late Mr. Scalise was almost certainly on his way into that same establishment.”
“I already met Mrs. Nicolosi…”
Maxwell spat some tobacco into the accumulating snow and grinned as he handled his cigar with relish. Anderson suddenly felt he’d passed a test and was being inducted into a private club
“Yeah! The Italian broad… a damn luscious package, that one…big local talent too. I could write an entire book about her and it wouldn’t be boring, believe me.”
Maxwell, with his wide brimmed grey fedora and charcoal grey overcoat looked just a bit too prosperous for someone on a detective’s salary, thought Anderson. But then it was New Year’s Eve in New York City, wasn’t it?
“Well–Maxwell went on– since you’re here on the scene why not join me inside for a few minutes of flying circus? You’ll get yourself a close look at your prey. Then we’ll have a quiet cup of coffee and compare notes. I fully intend to return to my family’s New Year’s Eve party in the Bronx. Besides, there’s not much we can do about the two stiffs anyway. I’m sending them directly to their luxury suite at the city morgue, no sense in shipping them to Bellevue. Save the city a few bucks. Come on, G-Man; let’s get out of the cold.” Anderson felt that Maxwell wanted to be friendly and nodded in agreement.
The cops were now swarming around the Chrysler and a “City Medical Examiner” van pulled up to remove the bodies as soon as the police photographer finished taking a few more snap shots and close ups from different angles.
One hour later as the deceased were finally being carted away, Maxwell and Anderson emerged from the isle of Capri in the whirling snowstorm and headed toward the diner across Ninth Avenue, treading carefully through the thick snow that covered the uneven cobblestones on the pavement.
“See those clowns cowering in there?” said Maxwell chewing on his cigar once they finally sat down.
“I was concentrating on Vice Consul Barbieri. He’s my charge and it’s the first time I was able to observe him at close range.”
“We’ve been watching him too, off and on. He likes to play cards and is very close to the widow Nicolosi.” Maxwell puffed on his cigar and grinned, “I mean ‘real’ close. As for the rest that’s your department G-Man.”
“Any underworld connections of Mrs. Nicolosi I should know about?”
Maxwell chuckled chewed aggressively on his cigar, then said,
“I assume that you are a ‘man of this world’ as they say so you won’t be surprised to learn that a friendly lady always needs important friends, people she can count on especially with her record of prostitution, white slavery, illegal gambling, loan sharking, petty larceny and a few other sins. The woman has done time, you know. So she pays off a few people for her protection… in kind. You know how it works.”
It sounded like a short lecture on the ways of the world and the white knight side of Willy Anderson found the words disturbing, as if they confirmed the popular wisdom about big city corruption. But it had been a tough night and he was too exhausted to get more information out of Maxwell although questions about the Isle of Capri were crossing his mind. So he nodded instead and finished his coffee.
“Ready to go, captain?”
“Yeah, back to the Grand Concourse in the Bronx, nicest borough in the city. I missed the midnight kiss, damn it! Wonder if that’s a bad omen. Where are you from, by the way?”
Anderson was surprised: it was the first personal question Captain Maxwell had asked him.
“New Haven, I joined in ’38, served a few months in San Francisco in the political squad.”
“Political, how’s that? You have special qualifications?” Maxwell suddenly paused, stopped chewing his cigar and seemed interested.
Anderson always dreaded providing any long explanations about himself, partly out of a natural shyness but also because most of his FBI colleagues were very guarded in communicating with local policemen, as if they were the functionaries of an alien power. But he liked Maxwell’s gruff manner and craggy Scotch Irish face, so he figured he might as well explain and get it over with.
“The main reason I guess is that I can speak some Italian, I was raised in a poor neighborhood on what they call the Hill. I perfected my language skills at City College. I went to New York Law School and passed the Bar in 1936. It was the Italian that got me the assignment.”
Maxwell looked impressed and slipped back into his heavy woolen coat.
“Well good for you kid, you got a law degree and speak a language, that’s a big help in the FBI these days. Don’t screw up a good thing.”
Maxwell used his cigar to punctuate those last words of friendly warning that sounded like the wise advice you’d expect from a friend. He gave Anderson his direct number and promised to keep in touch sounding genuinely interested in the end.
A few weeks later a newspaper clipping was sitting in his mail box at the New York FBI Office on Foley Square. It was a short unsigned article in the Brooklyn Eagle:
“Scalise Murder Mystery Plot Thickens…The bloody killing of Brooklyn underworld figure Bruno Scalise, 38, and his off and on girlfriend, sultry San Francisco lounge singer Lorraine Sanders, 32, on New Year’s Eve in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen remains unsolved. Was Miss. Sanders an unintended victim in the double slaying? Captain George S. Maxwell of the New York homicide squad thinks not and is actively investigating what appears to be a classic gangland execution. Scalise, the main victim, was well known around Fulton’s Fish Market circles and in Little Italy. He also had interests in several Brooklyn-based businesses and a record of violence dating back to 1921. Mr. Scalise was arrested for assault and battery several times in recent years. In February 1939, records show that Scalise was questioned in connection with the robbery and murder of one Pompeo “Slick” Sabatini, a cigar store owner in Flatbush but he was quickly released because of an iron-clad alibi provided by none other than Miss. Sanders. Police Commissioner Lewis J. Valentine commended Capt. Maxwell for his “valiant efforts in trying to rid our great city of such violent criminals.” There was a short note scribbled on the margin: “Let’s get together soon. Capt. G. Maxwell”
Throughout the summer of 1940 the local papers were filled with Roosevelt’s decision to run for a third term, the war in Europe and the incredible Nazi victory over France. The Scalise double murder was quickly forgotten. Vice Consul Vittorio Barbieri left his Newark post in December having been recalled to Italy, and Special Agent Willy Anderson was reassigned to broader political targets including the German American Bund in Yorkville and Long Island and the occasional Italian Fascist rallies in Little Italy and other Manhattan locations including Columbia University. Anderson went to the Italian Line pier to watch as Barbieri boarded the luxury ocean liner “Conte Biancamano.” Maria Nicolosi was tearfully on hand in her Sunday best to wish her beloved diplomat boyfriend a happy return home. He saw them embrace outrageously on the main deck and click glasses of champagne with other well wishers. Then Maria returned to shore with her white handkerchief in hand. Behind the railings as the ship was being pulled out of its berth Capt. Maxwell tapped Anderson on the shoulder.
“I guess this will go down in the records as a vintage ‘bon voyage’ if G-Man Willy Anderson is on hand!”
“Thanks for the news clipping, captain.”
“My pleasure, as a matter of fact I have some other interesting things to show you but you’ll have to come to my office to read ‘em.”
The next day Anderson was reading over forty pages of wiretapped telephone conversations. He concentrated on those Maxwell had specifically marked;
“February 2, 1940
6:37 pm (translated from the Italian)
MN “Vittorio, are you sure about this? I am very worried.”
VB “We are not at war with this country, my sweet and do not intend to be.”
MN “But the police and the FBI are watching you all the time!”
VB “The FBI watches all diplomats. It’s their job.”
MN “If they think…”
VB “Quiet, not now… meet me later at the usual time.”
MN “Same place?”
VB “Yes.”
MN “I love you passionately. I would…”
VB “I love you too…I have to go…”
May 28, 1940
7:42 am (translated from the Italian)
MN “It’s ready now. When do you want it?”
VB “Including the extra ones I added…”
MN “Yes.”
VB “You are a wicked genius. Will you bring the… (garbled)”
MN “Yes, just like last time. Usual place?”
VB “Naturally. Oh, I am going to miss you Maria. How can I live without you? I need your body, your lips…”
MN “You will soon have my soul Vittorio, my body is already yours…Oh, take me with you, please, please.”
VB “I wish I could Maria but you know it’s not possible.”
The rest was pillow talk much of it rather raunchy. There were a few other police surveillance annotations:
“Meeting at 3:47 pm at Bethesda Fountain in Central Park.” Or “MN met with unknown male at Horn and Hardart Automat on 38th and Seventh Avenue.”
Anderson immediately obtained an authorization for the continuous surveillance of the Isle of Capri restaurant and its owner after he presented the New York Police Department wiretaps to his superiors. The search for Axis spies was being intensified and that included the Soviets and their American supporters.
On January 3, 1941 Anderson was promoted for his successful liaison with the New York City Police Department. He was particularly proud because the letter of commendation was signed by J. Edgar Hoover himself.