The following morning, without his having heard from Sara, Mac and Frank Hogan flew to Plattsburgh out of the newly opened New York Municipal Airport on a twin-engine chartered aircraft. Mac was impressed with the new 550-acre facility on the north shore of Queens, replacing what had been the North Beach Airport the year before, and an amusement park before that. There was talk in the newspapers that the airport would eventually be named after the mayor, Fiorella LaGuardia, who got it built in the first place, being tired of having to cross the Hudson River to Newark Airport in New Jersey anytime he needed to fly somewhere. LaGuardia had gotten Franklin Roosevelt to pony up some twenty-seven million dollars in federal funds, and thousands of WPA workers, to build the world's longest runway, at six thousand feet, and beautiful art deco terminals. It was built adjacent to Flushing Meadow, where the World's Fair would be constructed. Unfortunately, despite working on it twenty-four hours a day, in eight-hour shifts, the Airport did not open until December of 1939, missing the first season of the Fair.
It was the first time Mac was flying. He did nothing to hide his childish excitement, craning his neck as the plane took off over Flushing Bay, trying to see the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, the two most prominent, relatively new skyscrapers on the New York skyline. As the plane veered toward the Hudson River, Mac could see Central Park in its entirety, as well as picking out his apartment building. He only started to relax as the aircraft veered north along the Hudson, passing smaller cities and towns, including his hometown of Poughkeepsie. At that point, they were too high to make out any real detail, so although he was looking out of his window, his mind was once again preoccupied with Sara.
Frank Hogan sat next to him, across the aisle, sleeping most of the trip, despite the engine noise. Mac knew the Assistant District Attorney was running to be the big boss, the Manhattan District Attorney, with the endorsement of both political parties. He was so clean, untouched by any hint of moral stain, so it was reported, that his election was all but assured. Hogan, a graduate of Columbia University School of Law, and years later, after being in private practice, went to work for Thomas Dewey, who had been sworn in as special prosecutor of rackets and organized crime. Hogan was hired as Dewey's “gangbuster,” cutting his teeth on the prosecution of then crime boss Charles Luciano, who Dewey was finally taking down on prostitution charges.
Mac just looked at the older, conservative man sleeping, while shaking his head at the thought that Hogan thought he could now get Luciano to do anything after he had convicted him and sent him to hell five years ago, on prostitution charges, no less. It had been decided that Hogan would do the talking initially, gauging Luciano's reaction and cooperation. If it were going nowhere, Mac would ease into the conversation, and see if he could get through to him where Hogan could not. They decided that Mac would try speaking Italian, to see if he could break the ice with Luciano, a somewhat insulting thought to Mac. If there were any reason Luciano would talk to Mac, it would be because he was not Hogan. Mac was willing to try the fellow Italian angle, if they thought it might work, but as they said, Luciano was not a stupid man.
A car picked them up at the airport in Plattsburgh, bringing them to the prison. There was a silence in the car between the two men, Mac because he was nervous, Hogan most likely because he did not want to bother with the young attorney.
When they arrived at the Clinton Correctional Facility, a maximum-security prison, an imposing raw concrete, twenty-foot wall surrounded it. The round cement turrets, with conical slate roofs, hung on the corners of the wall, and every number of feet thereafter, were all manned by rather ominous looking men in blue uniforms, with large guns, standing at the railings upon their approach. The prison was clearly intended to be far enough away from New York City to discourage visits from outsiders. Hogan had mentioned they were only a short distance from Canada, some three hundred fifty miles from New York City.
For the first time in his life, Mac was entering the world of strip searches, chow lines, lots of iron bars and locked doors. It was the kind of place that snuffed out even the thought of freedom. The most striking sound was the repeated slamming of iron barred gates being closed on some of the nation's most notorious criminals.
Charles Luciano had been here for almost five years now, being finally put away by the testimony of his “girls.” He was formally found guilty of organizing prostitution rings. In reality, he was serving thirty to fifty years, based upon his known life of crime, murder and mayhem. It was not like he did not deserve to get put away forever, but the circumstances behind his ultimately being found guilty of anything were certainly suspect, according to the newspapers. The witnesses, his so-called “girls,” had been threatened, cajoled, and promised into the contrived testimony that would seal his fate. He had always been a player, handsome, smart, and ruthless, and now it was he who had been played, by Frank Hogan, and his “boys.” Frank Hogan, “the Catholic choirboy,” as he was so often described, wined, and dined Charlie's hookers, getting them to turn on their boss. It was no wonder that Luciano did not want to cooperate with Hogan, the guy who put him away for good. He thought the man had a brass set coming to him for a favor, patriotic or not.
Yet, Charlie Luciano was a practical man. He told his people that, if he played his cards right, he could turn this fortuitous series of events into a positive. A deal with the Devil was better than no deal at all.
Mac entered the front gate of the prison with Frank Hogan, which somewhat mitigated what a normal visitor would have to go through to get into this maximum-security facility. He was still patted down, had his shoes removed, and had his pockets and briefcase emptied by overzealous correction officers. After straightening out his attire, Mac and Hogan were shown to a second iron barred gate, which was being unlocked by one of the same correction officers, with three others standing on the inside of the gate. The beige painted cement block walls looked cold and sterile, which was far better than the prison looked in the areas outside the public purview. The prisoners called the place “Siberia,” for good reason. It was cold year-round, it was squalid, and it was very depressing, which was most likely the point, thought Mac, who was seeing the inside of a prison for the first time.
“It isn’t the Ritz-Carlton, is it?” joked Mac to Hogan, who didn’t bother to respond.
The men were led to the Warden's office, where Hogan expressed his appreciation for the courtesies, particularly on such short notice. They were then led to a conference room where Moses Polakoff, Luciano's attorney, was already parked in the corner of the room with his newspaper open. He stood to acknowledge their presence, but he never put down the open newspaper, let alone shake their hands. After the introductions, Polakoff returned to his seat, going back to his newspaper, awaiting the arrival of his client.
The room was barren, the same dark beige walls as elsewhere in the public areas of the prison. There were two windows covered by bars, so high on the wall that the men could not see anything but an ominous gray sky from where they were standing. In the center of the room, the only remaining furniture not being used by Polakoff, a metal table and three chairs, stood ready for use on the highly buffed, mismatched color, tile floor: no carpeting, no wall hangings, just a big echo chamber.
Upon hearing the unmistakable rattling sound of shackles being dragged through the hallway outside the room's other wooden door, Mac and Hogan sat down on one side of the table, as directed by one of the two corrections officers in the room. The door was unlocked from the outside, and two other officers led an unexpectedly well-toned man to the table, removing his leg shackles, but keeping the handcuffs in place. He was directed to sit across from Mac and Hogan, which he did without word. Hogan offered no greeting; Luciano apparently expected none.
Without getting up, Mr. Polakoff said, “my client is not going to sit here and speak to you in handcuffs. Remove them or take him back to his cell.”
Hogan nodded at one of the officers, who removed the handcuffs, as Luciano rubbed his wrists, again without word. The officers left the room at the behest of Hogan but indicated that they would be right outside the door. Luciano belligerently waved at the officers as they left the room.
“Mr. Luciano is all yours, gentlemen,” said Polakoff, as he went back to reading his newspaper in the corner of the room.
Frank Hogan eyed Luciano, at first without saying anything. Perhaps he thought he could intimidate the gangster, but Luciano just smiled back at him, knowing that he held all the cards. What else could they do to him? It was Hogan himself, over three hundred miles from home, with his hat in his hand. Luciano was a patient man, having been in prison now for five years. The worst that could happen would be his being returned to his cell; in the same position he was in already. He would wait out the District Attorney for however long he wanted to waste time.
“Mr. Luciano, we need your assistance,” Hogan started, after a few minutes of fruitless starring. “Your country needs you.”
“I no understand English so good,” Luciano replied, smirking as he said it.
“Let's not play that game again,” continued Hogan. “It would be in your best interest to cooperate, I assure you.”
“What it means, cooperate?”
“You know damn well what it means, sir. It's like what your girls did against you to get a better deal from me.”
Luciano held himself back from getting up and grabbing the prosecutor by the throat, but his beet red face gave away that he was seething inside.
“Charlie!” yelled the lawyer, as he finally put down his newspaper. “Gentlemen, my client is not here to be abused. This is over! Officer!” the lawyer yelled. “Mr. Luciano will be returning to his cell now,” Polakoff indicated to the officers who had rushed into the room.
“Mr. Luciano,” Mac jumped in, speaking Italian. “Don’t let this asshole get to you like that. You can turn this to your advantage. Think it through.”
“Who is this guy?” Luciano spoke in perfect English now, albeit with more of a New York accent, than an Italian one.
“I am a lawyer,” Mac went on in Italian, “but I have nothing to do with him. My name is Tommaso Martini. I work for a law firm who needs your help on the waterfront. It is something I know you can do. The question is what can I get for you that would make you want to do it for me?”
“What are you saying to him,” Hogan asked, as he grabbed Mac's arm.
“Let me handle this, sir,” argued Mac in response, while pulling away from the District Attorney.
“Hey kid, you have some set of balls,” Luciano was now talking in Italian. “I like you. Get him out of here. I will talk to you.”
“What did he say?” asked Hogan, seemingly worried now.
“He wants you to leave the room, sir, and he will talk to me.”
“That's not happening,” responded Hogan, sneering at both Luciano and Mac.
Luciano stood up facing the officers still in the room, with his wrists held out, acting as if he wanted to be lead away, back to his cell.
“Mr. Hogan, let me try it my way,” said Mac, pleading with the older prosecutor. “He obviously does not feel comfortable talking, or dealing with, the person who put him away.”
Hogan watch the guards approach Luciano with the handcuffs and shackles, then he looked at the lawyer in the corner of the room no longer reading his newspaper, waiting to see what Hogan would do.
“What have you got to lose, Hogan?” asked the lawyer, as he put his hands up in the air.
“Stop,” said Hogan to the correction officers. “I will wait outside,” said the clearly angered prosecutor, with a sneer planted on his face directed at Luciano. “If you need me, get me. I don’t know what can be accomplished without me being in the room.”
Hogan got up, and he left the room with the correction officers. Luciano followed his steps with his eyes, waiting for the door to close, before speaking to Mac in Italian.
“What do they want from me?” he asked, again rubbing his wrists.
“They want your help,” responded Mac, in the man's native tongue.
“So, they send a kid?”
“No, they sent the District Attorney. You did not want to talk to him.”
“You’re funny, kid. I like you. Did I say that already? So, what the fuck do they want with Charlie Luciano?”
“They know you are still tied into the Unions controlling the waterfront. They need their cooperation. They need the Italian workers to keep their mouths shut about what is going out on which ships, and when. The Germans are picking and choosing which ones to torpedo outside of the New York Harbor. Further, someone must tell these guys to get up off their asses and get to work. They are holding up our country's helping to fight off Hitler. You know sooner or later we will be in this thing, and wouldn’t we be better off to let the English and the Russians kill off as many Germans as possible before they start shooting at American boys?”
“What do we care about the English and the Russians? Italy is on the side of Germany. That is our country, son.”
“No. This is our country, Mr. Luciano. Your children and grandchildren will be forced off to war against the Fascists, sooner or later. Don’t you want to make sure they are beat up before we get into it? It's common sense.”
“Yeah, ok, you have a point, I suppose. I need to think about it. What is in it for me, besides this patriotic bullshit? Why should I get involved?”
“I’m not your lawyer, but if you were inclined to cooperate, perhaps they would give you something in return, in good faith. If you don’t ask, you don’t get.”
“You mean better food brought in, maybe Italian food. So what! I am getting used to the shit they serve here.”
“I was thinking bigger, Mr. Luciano. Ask them for commutation and see what happens.”
“I ain’t going anywhere, kid, particularly on public transportation.”
“No,” smiled Mac, knowing that Luciano was kidding. “You should be talking to Hogan about that. He could help you get something, not me. And talk to him in English. I know you are not stupid, and you speak the language fluently. Don’t let your hate for him cloud your vision.”
“Get him in here, kid. I will owe you big time if this works out. Did I tell you I like you?”
Polakoff was smiling, obviously understanding every word the two had been speaking in Italian. Mac knocked on the outside door, requesting that Hogan come back into the room.
“Mr. Hogan, Mr. Luciano is willing to help. He will speak to you, in English,” said Mac.
“OK, Hogan, you know what I can do. There will be no German submarines in the Port of New York. Every man down there will keep his mouth shut, and get to work, or they will have to answer to me. You will have no more trouble on the waterfront; you have my word. I will do all this, but I want something in return.”
“What do you want?” asked Hogan.
“I can fix this problem for you, all of it. I want out of here,” yelled Luciano. “Now, can you do that for me?”
“That is not my decision, but you have my word, I will do what can be done. It will take time. Your lawyer will have to make a motion to the court, to which we will respond, telling the court of your extensive cooperation, telling the court what you have done for your country. Obviously, we cannot join in the motion for political reasons, but we will get word to the Judge that your cooperation should be recognized and appreciated.”
“That sounds like bullshit to me,” replied Luciano.
“He is offering to help you, Mr. Luciano. Listen to him,” said Mac, while eyeing Polakoff.
“I concur,” offered Luciano's lawyer. “Charlie, what have you got to lose?”
“In the meantime, you have my word that your living conditions here will improve dramatically. You will be put in a special cell, with cooking facilities, and you will be allowed to bring in food from the outside,” offered Hogan.
“I need to get out of this place, Hogan. Capisce? It is too far for my people to come visit. At least, get me closer to home, for now.”
“Perhaps, I can twist some arms down at the Corrections Department to get you transferred to a prison closer to the city in the meantime. At least, until you go back to the courts,” offered Hogan.
Luciano sat in silence for a few minutes, as everyone in the room looked at him sitting by himself at the metal table. Mac felt bad for the man.
How did it come to this? Such a smart man. The money? The women? The power? What drives a man like Lucky Luciano? What made him so vulnerable?
“I will get word to my people that they should cooperate. Let Junior here go talk to them. They will never talk to you, Hogan. I will tell them to listen to him, and to give him the utmost respect. It must be him, Hogan, not you. They will not trust you. I trust the kid, and therefore, they will trust him. You better come through for me, kid,” Luciano continued in Italian. “I trust in you, my friend.”
“You can count on me doing whatever I can do for you, Mr. Luciano. I really do appreciate you cooperating with us, and with your country. You will go down as a true patriot,” Mac responded in Italian.
Luciano smiled. He looked at Hogan, saying, “Your boy here has a brass set. But I am hoping that you will keep your word to me as men of honor. The kid will be contacted shortly to set up a sit down. Give me a couple of weeks. It will be done. You have my word.”
“I will do my best, Charlie,” responded Hogan, with more familiarly than was appropriate. “With all respect intended.”
Hogan stood up from the table, and he held out his hand to Luciano. After a short pause, the two men shook hands, both understanding that they had made a deal. Luciano stuck out his hand to Mac, and the two shook on what both understood might be a fruitful relationship. The guards were called in to take Luciano back to his cell. Mac again felt a pang in his heart as Luciano was put in handcuffs and shackles and led away. Hogan looked as though he could care less. He got what he came for, on merely a promise.
The flight back to New York found Mac deep in thought as his older companion caught up on his sleep.
Prison must be a terrible burden to endure, the hopelessness, the restlessness, the silence of the night. Those iron gates, how they unmercifully slam shut upon any expectation for tomorrow. Only one's thoughts, and perhaps regrets, to get through a parade of endless days, one as empty as the next.
An amorphous existence, with no beginning, and no end. A life on pause, perhaps forever. How horrible it must be for that fallen mobster, a man of such importance, to be of so little consequence. His world now consists of the cold reality of four walls, horrid food, and his own prayers. Who could imagine what it would be like to be put away like an animal, unfit for human interaction? So sad. So sobering. The pain in that man's eyes. I felt it, I tasted it, and yet, I got to leave. I left him behind with his thoughts, and his hope that perhaps I could save him. I gave him my word, which was all I had to offer. I felt as though I was promising a life preserver to a drowning man, when I knew damn well that I had no life preserver to give. It hurt me to hold out my hand, and then walk away. Maybe most men could walk away with a clear conscience, but I am not built that way. I will be back. I will do my best.
Mac closed his eyes to the roar of the plane engines, once again choosing to worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.