New York, 1931
Jack waited at the front of Trapani, an elegant Sicilian restaurant on East 116th Street in Harlem. He had been expecting this call. He had known that sometime he would be needed. There was little that daunted him and no one he feared. He dragged on his cigarette and looked around him. Trapani was a classic Italian joint, wood-paneled and smelling of fried onions and garlic. The waiters were all plump Sicilians with graying hair and brown, weathered faces. They wore black trousers and white jackets and their talk rose and fell in the musical way that Italian does. He noticed there were no diners in the main restaurant, only burly bodyguards in black suits and fedoras; Salvatore Maranzano’s men. Since the killing of Joe “the Boss” Masseria, Maranzano had been capo di tutti capi, the Boss of Bosses. The bodyguards had been expecting Jack. They had placed him at a little round table beneath the awning in front of the restaurant, offered him a cigarette, and ordered him an Italian coffee, and Jack had sat down and waited. In his line of work he spent a lot of time waiting.
“The Boss knows you’re here,” said one of the bodyguards with the low brow of a Neanderthal and a squashed, broken nose. “He’s eating inside. He’ll be ready when he’s ready.”
“That’s grand,” said Jack. “Then I’ll have another one of these.” And he lifted his empty coffee cup.
Jack had never met the Boss but he knew all about him. Maranzano was famously obsessed with the Roman Empire. He devoured books on the Caesars and liked to quote Caligula and Marcus Aurelius, so that he had acquired the nickname “Little Caesar,” but no one dared call him that to his face. He had recently won the war against Joe Masseria and had made an alliance with the young gangsters: Charlie “Lucky” Luciano and his Jewish allies, Meyer Lansky and Ben “Bugsy” Siegel. It was a world in which everyone had nicknames—just like Ireland—and it was a world familiar to Jack, who had fought with the rebels during Ireland’s War of Independence. He knew how to handle a gun and how to use it. He’d killed Captain Manley that night on the Dunashee Road and, after you’ve killed once, the second time comes easier. Desperate to put his past and all its pain and disappointment behind him, he had embraced the blood-filled cauldron of New York without a backward glance. He’d resolved to look after himself, and the Devil take the rest.
The quickest way to make it in New York was to join the gangs. As an Irishman newly arrived in America it wasn’t difficult; New York was full of Irish. He had contacted a friend from the Old Country, who had made the necessary introductions, and soon he was running errands for Owen Madden, who ran the Cotton Club. Errands that involved riding shotgun in a truck transporting whiskey down from Canada. It wasn’t long before it got around that Jack had a streak of steel in his heart. He had “earned his bones” shooting his first man, which had brought him respect, and suddenly he was in demand and earning twice the amount of money. He reflected on his meager vet’s wage back in Ballinakelly and gave a derisory sniff. He had gained a reputation in New York as a cool hand on the trigger and a nickname. They called him “Mad Dog” O’Leary, and in this small, rarefied world, everyone knew who he was. He was a man of some standing and he relished his new status. He was unable to join the Mafia itself, for only Sicilians could become a “made man,” but Jack didn’t care. The Irish had their own gangs and rackets, and they often worked with Italians and Jews.
The Irish looked out for each other, and two and a half years after arriving in New York and getting involved in the business of bootlegging, Jack had married the daughter of one of Owen Madden’s henchmen at the Cotton Club, an Irish girl whose family originated from County Wicklow. Her name was Emer and she was freckly-skinned and pretty, gentle and submissive, nothing like Kitty Deverill, whose love was passionate, her fury fiery, her determination untiring. Momentarily assaulted by the memory of her, he envisaged her running to him in the Fairy Ring and throwing her arms around him, as she had done so many times, the wind in her wild red hair, the sun turning her skin to gold, her laughter rising above the roar of waves. He pictured her face, the eagerness in her gaze, and felt the energy in her embrace as if he were living it all over again. It took a monumental effort to dispel her image from his mind and turn his thoughts to the woman he had married.
Emer was young, sweet and straightforward and, after Kitty, it was a relief to have a love that was uncomplicated. For he did love Emer. It was a different kind of love, but love nonetheless, and for all his longing he was certain that Emer was good for him. She understood his business, having been brought up in the world of Irish racketeers, and she didn’t question him when he returned from the Cotton Club in the early hours of the morning smelling of cheap perfume, in the same way that her mother had never questioned her father. Emer accepted what he did and the risks he ran without question, and was grateful for the money he made without asking where it came from. She knew he carried a gun and she was well aware that he had used it, to deadly effect. She had given him a daughter, Alana who was now two, and she was pregnant with their second child. Their children would never know Ireland or the part their father had played in securing its independence. Jack would see that they had a better life than the one he had known back in Ballinakelly. He would do whatever it took to earn the money to make that possible.
Just then there was a flurry of activity. Lunch was breaking up and the bodyguards were pushing out their chairs, doing up the buttons on their jackets and sidling toward the door. A young Italian in a sharp suit and fedora walked across the room with the swagger of a fighter. His face was fleshy, his coarse skin marked with a long red scar that ran the whole length of his jawline. His eyes were small, dark brown and arrogant. The bodyguards fell in behind him and the ones in front walked ahead, throwing suspicious glances up and down the street before positioning themselves beside the shiny black car. Jack knew who he was. His gait and his expression were unmistakable. He was the Boss’s deputy, Lucky Luciano, the man who had arranged the killing of Masseria. Luciano looked at him circumspectly, for Jack’s face was new to him. Then one of the bodyguards opened his door and he climbed inside. The car rattled up the street.
“O’Leary, the Boss will see ya now.” Jack stood up and walked into the restaurant. Two men patted him down and took away his pistol and the knife he always kept in a garter around his shin. Then he was shown into the back room where Salvatore Maranzano sat at a table still stained with tomato sauce and strands of spaghetti. He was about forty-five years old, compact and sturdy, in a three-piece suit that stretched over a paunch, and a traditional string tie. His face was wide and handsome with thick black hair swept off a broad forehead. He raised his eyes when Jack entered and took a few puffs of his cigar.
“Come in, O’Leary,” he said in a heavy Italian accent, gesticulating through the cloud of smoke to the chair opposite.
“Don Salvatore,” said Jack, giving a small bow, for he knew the Italians, especially Little Caesar, expected this sort of flattery. Maranzano offered his hand and Jack shook it.
“Take a seat . . . Coffee? Cigarette? Cognac?”
“I’m fine,” Jack replied and took the chair opposite the Boss. Maranzano nodded at his bodyguards, who left, closing the door behind them.
Jack and the Boss were now alone; the small-town Irishman and the Boss of New York City. Jack reflected on how far he had come, but he didn’t have time for wistfulness, for Maranzano was staring at him intensely, his narrowed eyes appraising him to see if he really was the Mad Dog everyone said he was.
“I heard you got balls and you can take anyone down,” he said quietly.
Jack gave a nonchalant shrug. “If that’s what they say.”
“Well, you gotta have something to be called Mad Dog—but then again there are lots of Irish boys called mad dogs. I want a dog that’s mad enough but not too mad, you get what I’m saying? I want something done right and fast.”
“Then maybe I’m your man,” said Jack, returning Maranzano’s stare with his own fearless gaze.
“You see, it can’t be an Italian and it can’t be a Jew, so it’s gotta be a Mick, and it’s gotta to be a new Mick. Someone fresh in town, someone not everyone knows, and someone who can shoot straight. You know what I’m saying?”
“You called and I’m here,” said Jack, sounding a great deal more confident than he felt. He had wanted a job like this, a big job, but a cold sensation began to creep over his skin, starting at the base of his spine and crawling slowly up, and he wondered whether it was too big. It was one thing bootlegging, quite another working for the Mafia. But he knew that no one walked away from Little Caesar and lived.
“You know your Roman history, boy?” Maranzano asked, puffing again on his fat cigar. Jaysus! Here we go, thought Jack. “Let me tell you about my favorite, Julius Caesar. He taught me how to organize my army, my centurions, my legions.” Maranzano’s chair scraped across the floor as he got to his feet. Then he held up his forefinger in full lecture mode. “Then there was Marcus Aurelius. He taught me the philosophy of ruling an empire. He said, ‘Don’t get over-Caesarified, that’s dangerous, keep sharp!’ You know what I’m saying? And Augustus, he knew an empire needed peace after war—and that’s what I gotta do right now. But he ruled with Mark Antony and in the end he knew that Mark Antony had to go. Capisci?”
Jack did not understand but he didn’t want to guess either, because if he guessed wrong, it could cost him his neck. So he played dumb. Maranzano waved his finger again. “I’ll tell you about another Caesar: Caligula. He said, ‘Let them hate me as long as they fear me.’ He was crazy but he was no fool either, capisci? So, that’s why I got you here.” He sat down again and put the cigar between his lips.
“Why have you got me here, Boss?” Jack asked.
“I’ve got a job for you. It’s the biggest job of your life.” He jabbed his finger at Jack. “If you fuck up, you’re finished in this city, but if you do it right, you’ll be my guy, my Irish centurion, capisci? I asked you here for a reason. You saw the guy who just came out of lunch with me?” Jack nodded. “You know who he is?” Jack nodded again. “Luciano, that’s who. But that fuck is trying to kill me after I made him my deputy and gave him so much.” His voice grew louder and his eyes narrowed with hatred. “He’s trying to kill me with his Jewboy friends, Bugsy and Meyer. You know Bugsy with his blue eyes and his movie star looks? Well, I ain’t scared of no Jewboys. I got a guy in their house, and he told me, they’re already planning to get me! Well, I’m going to kill Luciano first and you’re going to do it for me.”
“That’s quite a job,” said Jack, but he kept his eyes steady. He didn’t want the Boss to see any doubt there.
“Fifty thousand dollars. Twenty-five now. Twenty-five after. That’s quite a lot of money for a Mick village boy who’s new in the city. Is it enough?”
“Yeah, it’s enough. I’ll take the job, Don Salvatore, though I got to tell you, I don’t like to be called a Mick.”
Maranzano came around the table and took Jack into his arms. He smelled of garlic, chives, cigars and lemon cologne. “You’re a proud man, O’Leary, and I like that. I take it back. I respect your people and I like your songs. I apologize. Are we straight?”
“Yeah, sure, no problem,” said Jack.
“Good.” The Boss kissed him on both cheeks and sandwiched his hand between his. “Luciano’s coming to my office in a couple of days. It’s nine floors up but he always takes the stairs coz he don’t like being trapped in an elevator. Sensible, right? And when he comes out of the meeting, he’s alone and you’re going to whack him between my office and the stairs. Capisci?”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Jack, although not a very solid one.
“Here’s the first twenty-five,” said Maranzano, pulling out an envelope from his pocket and thumping it down on the tablecloth in front of Jack, who had never seen so much money before. Jack folded the envelope and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He could do a lot with fifty grand. He could buy a house for him and Emer. He could give his children a better life than he ever had.
“No one knows about this,” Maranzano continued. “None of my guys outside, you understand? No one. Just you and me. That’s why I’m making you a rich man. You know I own every soldier, every block, every racket in this city, O’Leary. If you let me down, if you talk, if you miss, I will crush you, and if you run, I’ll chase you back to your Irish village and I will kill everyone you love in the world, you know what I’m saying? If you succeed, I will give you the world. You know, Jack, I’ve killed many men and one thing I know for sure is that you touch the end of the gun to the guy’s forehead so you can feel him, right there, and that way you know it’s done. Man is the hardest animal to kill. If he gets away he will come back and kill you.”