CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

 

The a gargantuan sundial of the milky white Washington Monument towered over the tree-lined Reflecting Pool casting its long, late afternoon shadow across Jefferson Drive.

The Potomac appeared bluer than he remembered it, roughly flowing in stark contrast to the well groomed, motionless, green landscape of Arlington and its endless speckle of white headstones. Hoover felt a comfortable wave of familiarity wash over him, he was home. Washington, where he had the connections, knew the system and had the operatives positioned to find out whatever it was he wanted to know.

And the thing that he wanted to know right now was who had the audacity to order the arrest of three of his agents? It couldn’t have been locals, the disguises his agents described were too professional and, after their arrests, they were taken to a military installation. It could only be interpreted one way. Somebody was flexing their muscle.

Never having been a field man, Hoover was always uncomfortable away from his desk. His state of mind was greatly exacerbated by having been in New York a little too long for his liking. It wasn’t his territory, people didn’t intimidate easily enough. To add to his sense of aggravation about New York, his mind once again turned to the fact that he had not been consulted on the investigation of the Normandie. Even though they said it was a clear-cut accident, the FBI should’ve been called in. We should be called in on all large-scale accidents! He reasoned. Why the hell didn’t the White House understand that? And what the hell was that Alien Registration Bill Roosevelt vetoed, on the same exact day of the fire?! What the hell was wrong with him? How could he not see that America was being attacked from all sides and that the FBI, were Her only hope? Twisting around in his seat, peering out the airplane window, his thoughts continued to flow.

Maybe we should try and appropriate funding for our own air force? It occurred to him the stiff opposition he would get based on the grounds that the war effort took priority for men and materials. However, he reasoned if the American people were told it was needed to enhance the war effort, they would get behind it. He made a mental note to bring it up at a later date.

His most haunting thought though, was that in any other circumstance, Hoover had his entire bureau at his disposal. Through a combination of field work and the process of elimination, he could find out who the culprits were. However, now he wasn’t dealing with criminals. He was dealing with someone who knew the game at least as well as he did. His bureau was of little use to him now because the authority obviously came from someone higher up, but who? There weren’t that many higher up. At least not in his mind.

He did not like being on the outside looking in.

A 1942, black Plymouth sedan was waiting on the tarmac, and Hoover went straight for it walking as fast as he could. His two bodyguards and official aide walked at a moderate pace so as not to pass him.

Even the most ruthless crime bosses had an occasional drink or meal with their men. Hoover, on the other hand, never made the mistake of appearing approachable.     Once inside the car no one spoke until Hoover started the conversation, and then they addressed only the subject he choose.

“Rollins what time is it?”

“Half past four, Mr. Hoover.”

“Driver, head straight for the Bureau building!”

“Yes sir.”

“Sir, you have a meeting with some of the Chicago agents this evening at . . .”

“Reschedule it for tomorrow.”

Hoover was in a position that was unfamiliar to him, and he had been taken so off guard by the chain of events in New York. As a consequence he was still unsure of what to do next.

“Rollins!” Rollins removed a pad of paper from his satchel and prepared to write.       “Sir?” Hoover had already begun speaking.

“Call the New York D. A.’s office and ask them for their status on the on the Normandie investigation.”

“The luxury liner?”

“Yeah. Tell them you’re from the Department of Transportation.” The other three men in the car gave a quick glance in Hoover’s direction and then at each other.

If he were going to do something classified, especially some type of investigation, it was uncharacteristic of him to talk about it in front of anyone not involved.     

“No, on second thought don’t tell them you’re D. O. T. Find somebody. Who do we have over there?”

“We have someone in records and also . . .”

“Records, good. Go to them, get them to make the call. You be there, on another line when he makes the call.”

“Sir, I’ll need a memo or . . .”

“No, no paper trail. Just do it.” Rollins was suddenly very uncomfortable. Tracking down known or even suspected subversives or enemy aliens was one thing, but investigating another legal branch? In The President’s own home turf? That was frightening.

“Next I want a meeting with the Attorney General, tonight!”

“Sir, the Attorney General is in Baltimore until day after tomorrow.”

“What the hell is he doin’ in Baltimore!?”

“Some kind of personal business I believe, sir.” Rollins shrugged in the direction of the other agents as Hoover looked around the car for an answer.

“Well get a hold of his office as soon as we get in and tell me when and how he’s coming back.” Hoover looked out the window and saw they were approaching the Channel Lagoon.

“Take Memorial Bridge.” He ordered.

“Yes sir.”

“Find out who the Representative is for the Frisco area and call his office. Ask him if he’s received a formal complaint yet from that Commie bastard Harry Bridges and ask him for a copy. Tell him we’d like to help, no wait. Say, 'offer our services to assist in the investigation'. Got it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Speak only with the Rep, not the aides or secretaries.”

“Sir, we’re here.”  The driver informed Hoover as they turned left and came off Constitution Avenue onto 9th Street. The car pulled up outside FBI Headquarters. Rollins fumbled to pack up his note taking material and get out of the car.  He was the last one through the front door, having to struggle to get his foot in first and kick the heavy door open, as his hands were full of satchel, pad and overcoat.

Although Hoover had a secret entrance installed in back of the building he seldom used it. It was much more appropriate for a man of his importance to make a grand entrance. And he did, whenever possible.

He ignored all the staff’s greetings which followed him and his entourage as they made their way to the elevator. On the fifth floor he dismissed the two agents who were with him and nodded for the aide to come into his office. J. Edgar continued dictating as they entered the inner sanctum . Rollins had to drop everything and fumble his pad open to catch up with his boss’s orders.

“Call the New York office in the morning and see what the subject is doing. Just ask them about the guy I told them to . . . no wait. Get them on the line, then let me talk to them. Do that exactly at nine o’clock, got it?”

“Yes sir. Anything else?”

“Yeah, those reports come back yet from the lab on the new wire tap devices?”

“No sir, not yet. But we have an indication there may be some problems from the phone company.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Some of the higher up executives aren’t too happy with us developing bugging equipment to place directly into their phones. They say it creates a bad image for their product.”

”Get a hold of the lab. Tell that god-damned overpaid Professor I want a definite date for that bug by tomorrow! Tell him it better be no later than next week! Then call those pricks at the phone company and tell them we’ve decided to delay research until next year. No, till after the war.”

“Yes sir.” Rollins held his breath, hoping that was finally it.

“Okay. That’s it. Get outta here.”

“I’ll call the Attorney General's office and find out when he’s due back. Will you be here sir?”

“Yeah, call me here.”

For the remainder of the evening Hoover laid out a flimsy strategy based on what he thought he knew about the New York scenario. He did this in between phone calls to lobbyists, reporters who had in the past shown to be reliable informants and the few acquaintances he had who travelled in union circles.

The thinnest connections had always been in the union areas. His hatred towards labor organisation was well known.

A half hour after he left the office, Rollins rang Hoover and informed him Attorney General Jackson was due in on the 10:45 from Baltimore, Tuesday morning by rail.

This planning went on late into the evening when Hoover finally gave up and went to a place few civilian employees and none of the agents believed existed. His home.

 

***

 

Nikki said goodnight to Shirley and thanked her for wrapping things up at the reception station as she climbed into her heavy overcoat. Although Nikki was tall, 5’10”, she was slender and didn’t function well in the cold.

However, when she passed through the brass framed glass door into the dark winter evening, and turned right to walk up Church Street she was pleasantly surprised. It was very mild, not cold, and there was not a hint of a breeze. So, she decided to walk the twelve blocks to her apartment on Mercer.

Nikki, along with everyone else in New York, was disappointed at not having a white Christmas. “The White Stuff” invoked an air of magic and beauty when it blanketed the trees in the parks and the turn-of-the-century Brownstones.

That disappointment was replaced with gratitude on January third however, when everyone went back to work and New York City still hadn’t seen it’s first snowfall.  Slushing through the freezing black and cinnamon coloured slush was no way to start the work week, let alone with some jerk turning a corner and spraying a rooster tail of partially melted snow, ice and muck all over your new outfit.

Of course Katie and her little friends prayed every day for snow. Not only to play in, but if it snowed enough, most of the teachers had trouble getting in from Queens where they lived, and so school would be cancelled.

Nikki’s meandering thoughts were interrupted when she had a strange sensation she was being followed as she crossed Franklin. Stepping up onto the curb, she turned to look behind her. Just the usual six o’clock crowd. She turned around and crossed back over Franklin to the produce market on the corner. Paying the clerk for the small bag of tomatoes, she resumed her journey back towards her apartment in SOHO.

Canal Street was still bustling with vendors, hawking away with every attempt to lure buyers into their stalls and through the arcades. The crowds J-walking and playing cat and mouse with the cars in the streets were considerable, but after only one more block of wading through them, Nikki was at the corner of Mercer.

As a child, the Brownstone walk-ups with their imposing, granite and red brick porches cascading down onto the side walk, reminded Nikki of gang planks on gigantic luxury liners which would carry you away to exotic places like Coney Island, the Catskills or even the Jersey shore.

Walking up the steps she could see through the frosted glass that there was a man in the vestibule searching the mail boxes. He held the front door open for her as she approached.

“Can I help you?” She asked in a friendly tone.

“Perhaps. I'm looking for Mr. Murray’s mail box. I have to leave him something.”

“I’m sorry, there’s no Murray in this building.”

“This is 317, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s 86. 317 is two blocks north.”

“Oh, thank you very much.”

He tipped his hat made his way down the stairs and turned south.

“Must be takin’ the long way around.” Nikki thought to herself, as she unlocked the inside door, went upstairs and knocked on 2C.

“Halo Nikki!” Mrs. Poluso always spoke to anyone at the door as if they had just come back from Poland specifically to visit her.

If refusing to come into Mrs. Poluso’s after knocking on the front door was a venial sin, then refusing to eat something after you had entered was a mortal sin. The fact that it was less than a half an hour to supper was no excuse.

Anyone who knew anything about eating knew it was important to eat something before every meal to stretch the stomach. Mrs. Poluso of course, was expert in this domain and as a consequence was compelled to happily walk around all day with her apron strings dangling unfastened at her flanks and the worn apron draped over her bulging stomach.

Nikki knew the routine, entered and accepted a small plate of sausage and boiled potatoes, while Kate and Mrs. Poluso’s two kids kissed goodbye. Watching them, she thought of the day she would tell the blond haired five year old about her Polish heritage.

 

***

 

The janitorial staff were allowed into the building at half past seven, and about an hour into the daily tasks of mopping and sweeping, one of the older men let himself into the office of the Director to execute his chores. The career janitor was puzzled at the door not being locked, however when he entered the office he was startled to find Mr. Hoover sitting at his desk working away.

“Sorry sir. I didn’t know you were here.”

“What time is it?”

“Ah . . . it’s eight thirty-five, sir. You want me to clean up?”

“No, leave it until tomorrow.” The old man left, and Hoover buzzed Rollins’ office but there was no answer. Calling for a long distance operator, he was put through to the New York field office.

“FBI headquarters, New York field office.”

“Who is this?”

“Who the hell is this?”

“This is J. Edgar Hoover! Who the hell is this?!”

Uh . . . Meyer sir. Special Agent Meyer.”     

“Well, Special Agent Meyer, unless you want to be records clerk Meyer, I suggest you move your ass and get me the latest update on the Lanza file. Specifically the latest surveillance reports. Got it?”

“Yes sir!”

“Questions? Comments? Snide remarks?”

“No sir! I've got them right here sir. Ah . . . ah . . . Lanza, Joseph, alias Socks alias …”

“I know his god-damned alias’, Meyer! I want to know what he's doing!”

“Well sir, ah . . . according to this report dated last night at midnight sir. . . ah . . . subject has not left the Fulton Street Fish Market in three days, sir.”

“Three days?!”

“According to the field report Mr. Hoover.”

“You make a note that I called. You tell those field agents to stay on it and call me the minute he leaves that building. You got that Meyer?”

“Absolutely sir!”

Hoover buzzed Rollins again and this time he was in, and five minutes later he was briefing Hoover on the days schedule of events.

“Sir the Chicago agents will be in at ten o’clock, the lab says bugs are to be tested Monday and the Attorney General will see you in his office at three this afternoon.” Rollins read from his carefully prepared notes.

“Change in plan, have my car ready at ten, I’m going to meet the AG at the station. Get back to the lab and tell them I want a preliminary report on those bugs by five o’clock Monday afternoon. I’ll speak to the Chicago agents at nine-thirty in the briefing room. What am I forgetting?”

“I have the info on the representative for San Francisco, but we won’t get anybody on the coast until eight o’clock Western Pacific. About another two hours.” Rollins began to pack up his note book as Hoover came out from behind the desk and walked towards the door.

“You stay here and get them on the phone. I’ll call you from the train station. Also call Sacramento, see if anything came across Warren’s desk.”

“Yes sir. Anything else sir?”

Hoover was opening the door as he asked, “Did you call the New York office yet?”

“No sir. I’ll go and do it now.”

“Forget it. I already called them.” Rollins could not understand why his boss frequently did that. It made him feel undermined and annoyed.

At ten o’clock sharp Hoover was boarding his car to go to the station in back of the building. This time he did use the secret entrance, and since Rollins was not making the twenty minute trip, and no one else was in on this, Hoover was alone in the vehicle with his driver.

“Where to sir?”

“Union Station.”

About five minutes into the ride Hoover’s attention was caught by the interview in progress on the car radio. He asked the driver to turn it up and listened as they drove.

The speaker spoke slowly and passionately to his audience, and with great conviction.

“. . . and, when dealing with the Caucasian race, we have methods that will determine loyalty. But when we deal with the Japanese, we are in an entirely different field!” Applause followed the sign-off. “You have just heard from the California State Attorney General, Earl Warren his comments defending the relocation camps where thousands of Japanese-Americans . . .” The radio announcer’s voice slowly faded as the driver lowered the volume at Hoover’s order.

The Negro driver was careful however, to leave the volume just high enough to allow himself to hear the rest of the broadcast as he manoeuvred the vehicle onto Louisiana Avenue and headed straight for the train station.

“John, pull it around on Second Street and wait for me there. And don’t forget to change the sticker.”

“Yes sir Mr. Hoover.

After parking, John opened the glove box, removed an “E” ration sticker, for emergency, and changed it with the “B” sticker sitting in the special slot in the wind shield.

A time tested tactic to in to foster people's faith in their governments is to instill a sense of permanence. Which fosters confidence in the leadership.

Anyone entering Union Station, immediately felt that sense of stability and permanence its architects clearly intended.

The Neo-Classical/Art Deco building was a unique architectural hybrid, peculiar to America. In the heyday of the Work Projects Administration and the other assorted federal aid projects, LOC’s, or lines of communication, such as roads and rail lines, held the highest priority. The largest, enduring benefit of this prioritisation, were the beautiful edifices which were either built or renovated as a result of these initiatives. Union Station, Penn Station and Central Station all stood as tributes to an era of craftsmanship which was now quietly fading into history.

Hoover made his way into the great hall past the marble, granite and bronze accoutrements, and stopped under the big black schedule board and saw that the 10:45 from Baltimore was arriving on time on track 29. He was early, so he went for a shine.

Afterwards Hoover found his way to the bank of phone booths on the west wall and called Rollins. The assistant informed him that he still had no luck contacting anyone in California. Hoover then made for the platform.

There were some oak wooden benches in front of a rank of billboards, and Hoover sat facing the exit turnstile of the track. The train was already unloading, and as the dark haired, well groomed Robert H. Jackson, former Nuremberg prosecutor and now the highest law enforcement authority in the country, came through the gate, he spotted his unexpected, one man welcoming party standing in front of a Big Ben advertisement.

That week was his birthday, he would turn 59, and he was feeling pretty good about himself and the general direction of the way things were going. Until he looked at the benches by the billboards.

Jackson was anything but pleased to see J. Edgar.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jackson walked over to the benches and stood in front of Hoover.

“We have something to talk about.”

“We have a couple of things to talk about.” Jackson retorted.

“You want to go back to my office? My car is outside.” Enquired Hoover. The last place any politician in D. C. would ever feel comfortable discussing business was in J. Edgar Hoover’s office. Jackson resigned himself to conducting their meeting in the station. He dropped his suitcase and sat down on the bench.

“No. What’s so important you had to come all the way the hell over here to talk about?” Hoover sat down.

“There’s something going on with the unions.”

“Fer Christ’s sake Edgar! Not this union shit again!”

“There’s something going on, and there’s some higher ups in on it.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What are the unions doing?”

“It’s the New York crowd. They’re cookin’ somethin’ up on the waterfront. There’s dozens of new faces all over the place and Lanza hasn’t left Fulton Street for three days.”

“You got people on him?”

“Of course!” Hoover couldn’t believe Jackson would consider him to be so unprofessional.

“Well, then maybe that’s why he’s not coming out. He knows you’re there.”

“That’s bullshit! How the hell could he know we’re there?”

“Because they own New York Edgar! Every time a rat farts they know about it. They know about your surveillance, they know about your tails and they know about your wire taps. The guy is under indictment fer cryin’ out loud. You think he ain’t got his antennae up?”      

Hoover was becoming less patient and more frustrated. He saw this as the perfect opportunity to infiltrate the illegal and immoral world of the unions.

“Look, if we don’t keep our finger on the pulse of crime in this country, especially now that there’s a war on, they’ll be linen’ up to take advantage. And when it’s all over and the dust settles we’ll wake up one mornin’ to find this country is bein’ run by all those Commie politicians who are comin’ up through the ranks right now in those god-damned unions!”

“Hoover, why in God’s name do you have such a hard-on for the unions?” Jackson twisted around in his seat so he could watch Hoover’s expression, straight on, as he answered the question. Hoover hated theses smart assed college guys. Even though Jackson had never gone to college.

He leaned forward and made direct eye contact with teh A. G.

“Because they’re hot beds of Communist activity god-damn it! That’s why we need files on every person in this country!” Jackson looked back into Hoover’s eyes and understood why most of Washington was scared shitless of the little man.

“Every man and woman, J. Edgar?”

“Absolutely!”

“And child too I suppose?” Hoover sat back against the message on the billboard for Big Ben Clocks. “Time won’t wait for the nation that’s late!” It read.

“From the day they’re born! Best time to start. Hell we could use this Social Security thing. Everybody has a number, and it’s tied to their money. We’ll always know where they are and what they’re doin’!”

Jackson gazed at Hoover in wonderment. He realized there was not a chance in hell of deterring him from this union obsession. On the other hand, if he were tied up with it, perhaps it would keep him out of the way for a while so that the rest of Washington could get on with fighting the war.

“I haven’t heard anything about it here, but I’ll put out some feelers and ask around. I could send out a memo to the state A. G.’s to keep us informed. Meanwhile I want to know about anything you come across.” Technically, the Attorney General was Hoover’s boss. However, after twenty-five years of entrenchment in the job, and the transient nature of the elected offices, Hoover never really considered himself to have a boss since his father gave the appointment back before WWI.

“I’ll keep you on top of everything I find out.” Jackson fought back a smirk.

“Edgar, there’s something else we need to discuss.”

“What’s that, Bob?”

“This business about Joe Kennedy’s kid.” Hoover’s change of expression did not go unnoticed. He resented Kennedy for more than one reason.

“What business?”

“This Inga Arvad stuff.”

“Refresh my memory.” Nice move thought Jackson. He pretends he’s ignorant, and I have to tell him what I know.

“These charges of espionage. They’re unfounded.”

“She’s a spy for the Krauts, with a D. C. cover and she’s probably reportin’ to the Commies on the side! You know it, I know it and everybody and his God-damned brother knows it!!” Hoover’s face was slowly turning red.

“She’s not a spy, she’s not workin’ for the Axis powers and she is, as far as we can tell, a legitimate reporter for the Times-Herald. She’s not even German for cryin’ out loud. She’s a Dane.”

“Dane, German, Swede, all the same!” His face was now gradually transitioning from beet red to a light purple as he spoke trying not to shout.

“She’s gonna walk.”

“WHAT?” Hoover shouted.

“I’m dropping the charges. Lack of evidence. She’s gonna walk.”

“You want evidence? I’ll get you evidence!!”

“Drop it! So what if J. P.’s kid had a roll in the sack with her? That doesn’t make her a spy. I’m sorry about the bad blood between you and Joe Kennedy, but every freakin’ editorial board in the country is on my ass for suppressing free speech. And we don’t have any evidence. Besides, the kid has already paid for the scandal. They’re talkin’ about drummin’ him out.”

“Good! He could’ve leaked sensitive information to the enemy and cost American lives.”      

“Knock it off will ya? Jack Kennedy is no more involved in espionage than Eleanor Roosevelt’s fucking dog! He was hand picked to work at Naval Intelligence fer cryin’ out loud!” Jackson decided to try the slim possibility of reason. “Look, J. Edgar, Joe Kennedy says he considers you a friend. Now whatever it is you’ve got on Jack, photos, tapes, why don’t you do us all a favor and get rid of them?”

“What makes you think I have anything?” Hoover was fishing again.

“Whatever you have won’t be of any use. You know we got our tit in a wringer with the shipping issue. The Maritime Commission says the Germans are sinkin’ them almost as fast as we can build them. And that Normandie thing in New York scared the hell out of everybody. FDR wants Joe Kennedy’s help building more ships, and because of that Frank Knox is probably gonna get involved to see that the kid doesn’t go down too hard.”

Hoover was shocked at the fire power behind Kennedy. He had forgotten about Kennedy’s influence in the industrial sector, and was compelled to resign himself to the obvious fact he was not going to hold any leverage against the kid. At least not now.

“All right. I’ll see if there is anything and see what I can do about it..” Hoover told him.

“Thank you. You’ll make life lot easier for all of us.”

 

***

 

“Miss Tully, could you please come in? And bring your stenographer’s pad with you, thank you.” The President slowly reclined in his high-backed chair, dramatically backlit with the mid-afternoon sun of a clear winter’s day flooding in through the picture window behind his desk in the Oval Office.

“I don’t know what I would do without her, John.” Franklin Delano Roosevelt, now in his ninth year as president, spoke to long time friend and confidant, Captain John L. McCrea.

McCrea was selected special Naval Aide-de-Camp by FDR above many other senior officers. In the natural political pecking order, a Captain would, at best, be aide to an Admiral. However, with his selection McCrea skipped all the Admirals, as well as all the other Washington posts including the Joint Chiefs and went straight to the top. There were no shortage of sore toes at his appointment.

FDR held up a two page report he had received that morning from Secretary of the Navy, Frank Knox.

“I’m impressed by this action, John. You have to give it to those Italians, they can certainly think outside the box. What’s your assessment?”        

“Damned impressive, sir. But scary as hell too! If those little bastards start turning themselves into . . . human torpedoes, they’re gonna be mighty hard to keep track of!”

“Is it accurate they disabled both H.M.S. Valiant and the Queen Elizabeth?” FDR spoke with a blend of concern and curiosity.

“Although we’re not releasing it for security reasons sir, best case scenario is they’re both out of action until the mid to late spring.” McCrea, sitting on the sofa to FDR’s right, spoke with a combination of resignation and embarrassment.

Miss Tully, a middle aged, grey-haired woman ever professional in appearance, entered the Oval Office. Captain McCrea stood as she entered.

“Yes sir?” FDR gestured and Miss Tully took a seat to his right.

“Is there anyone outside for me, Miss Tully?”

“Yes sir. The Attorney General is due for two o’clock.”

“Very well as soon as we’re finished here please show him in.” He began to dictate as he casually swivelled around, in his chair.

“The White House, February seventeenth, nineteen hundred and forty-two. Memorandum for Admiral Stark. The action by those little Italian boats in the Eastern Mediterranean on . . . December twenty-second was pretty good. I would say damned good. If they can do it why can’t we do it?

I wish you would turn loose your most imaginative people in War Plans to tell me how you think the Italian Navy can be effectively immobilized by some tactics similar to or as daring as those utilized by the Italians. I can’t believe we must always use the classical offensive against an enemy who seems never to have heard of it. FDR”

McCrea smiled at the last line in the memo.

“Send that to Admiral Stark post haste, will you please Miss Tully?”

“Yes sir. Would you like me to send in the Attorney General?”

“Do we have a hint as to Mr. Jackson’s problem, Miss Tully?”

“No sir. He said it was a matter of national security.”

“Isn’t everything these days? Show him in please. Thank you.” FDR called after her. “Oh, and Miss Tully, you’d better give us some time.” Jackson came in through the west entrance as the secretary exited.

“Good morning Robert!” FDR always spoke to everyone in the Oval Office as if they were old friends on a social visit. “I believe you know John McCrea. John, Robert Jackson, my top cop.”

They shook hands and Jackson was a little surprised. He assumed since he labelled his visit “a matter of national security”, he would be alone with the president.

“Sir we might want to discuss this in private.” McCrea smiled behind Jackson.

“Is this of a political nature or of a military nature, Robert?”

“Well sir, to be perfectly frank, I don’t know.”

“Okay Robert, you have the floor.” The Attorney General, although rarely lost for words, found it difficult to find a starting point.

“Sir, I realize I’m not privy to all the goings on of the war effort, or the White House. Nor do I expect to be.” FDR knit his brow as Jackson continued. “But, if you have something going on with the unions maybe you should let me in on it.”

“What in blazes are you talking about Robert?” FDR was genuinely lost.

“Sir, any type of activity or operation, to do with the war? Maybe something that most people might not consider to be completely above board?”

“Robert I think you need to come to the point.”

“Sir, when I arrived from Baltimore this morning, J. Edgar Hoover was waiting for me at the station.”

“Is J. Edgar driving a taxi now?” FDR and McCrea chuckled, but Jackson maintained his serious tone.

“Sir, he’s on to something.”

“Such as what?”

“I don’t know sir, but whatever it is it has something to do with the unions in New York and he’s pretty upset about something that happened up there.” FDR sat back in his chair and turned towards McCrea.

“John, any of this make any sense to you?”

“No sir. Nothing the Navy is in on as far as I know.” Like a child determined to relay something hindered by a limited vocabulary Jackson became increasingly frustrated as he spoke.

“He kept on about higher ups being in on ‘it’ whatever ‘it’ is.” Jackson juggled his Fedora in his hands as he spoke while looking down. “And something about the waterfront.” McCrea looked at the president who quickly returned his glance.

“Yes John, go on.”

“That’s all I got out of it sir. My concern is that he’ll get my office mixed up in something that’s potentially embarrassing for us all. That damned guy sees Communists in his sleep! And he’s convinced that all unions are Communist strongholds!”

“J. Edgar never did have much respect for the American working man. I believe he never will.”

“Well whatever it is, he’s bound and determined to root it out.” Jackson insisted.

“Where did you leave it?” The president coaxed.

“I didn’t try to deter him on two counts. First, I figured he was off on another paranoid delusional wild goose chase. The second was to keep him out of my hair for while.”

“Did he give you anything in writing, a report a memo?” FDR wanted to know. McCrea sat forward.

“No sir. All verbal. He was rattling on at the station until I changed the subject.”

“To what Robert?” Jackson looked at the President and then at McCrea.

“It’s alright Robert. I don’t keep anything from Captain McCrea.”

“I confronted him with the Inga Arvad situation.” As soon as he spoke, Jackson realized he was in over his head. That no one else knew that Hoover had something on Joe Kennedy’s kid.

“Why confront him?”

“He wants to go ahead with the spy trial.” FDR and McCrea instantly realized the negative implications of that course of action. Jackson was inadvertently dealt a new hand of cards by FDR.

“What is the status on Miss Arvad’s case, Robert?”

“She’s being released for lack of evidence. We don’t have anything.” Jackson monitored their reactions carefully.

FDR’s intercom buzzed and he immediately responded.

“Miss Tully, I indicated we were not to be disturbed.” He said calmly. FDR always maintained an even keel except in the most dire of circumstances.

“I’m sorry sir but there’s an urgent message for you, just arrived by special courier.”

“What class message is it Miss Tully?”

“It’s a ‘Flash’, sir.” McCrea and Jackson looked at the president. In the present day atmosphere of daily surprises on a global scale, everyone remained prepared for the worst.

“Have him wait, Miss Tully. I’ll see him directly.” FDR turned back towards Jackson. “Make sure you patch things up with the press, Robert. Let me know if I can say anything to them to help.”

“Thank you sir.”

“I appreciate you coming to me on this. Sorry we couldn’t be of more help. I really don’t think anything is going to come of it, but keep an eye on J. Edgar for me. If anything evolves let me know.” The Attorney General stood to leave, and shook the president’s hand. McCrea remained seated.

The president waited a brief interval after Jackson was gone before he spoke. Then he turned his chair 180 degrees to face the picture window. Gazing out onto the winter lawn, he directed.

“I want that little shit shut down John! Keep it contained, but get him the hell out of that back yard. He’ll muck things up on the Third District people just as sure as Hitler’s a mad man. This thing leaks and we’ll all be tap dancing to blazes!” He turned back to face the Captain. “How are they doing up there anyway? Any results?”

“I’m afraid not sir. Progress has been slow. The D. A.’s office has improved their batting record ever since ‘36 . . .”

“The Luciano case.”

 

“Yes sir. And as a result Third District reports having trouble recruiting operatives.”

“Well, we need to catch some bad guys or shut this thing down.”

“I’ll pass the word sir.”

FDR clicked the intercom and spoke to his secretary.

“Miss Tully will you send in the courier please?”

“Right away sir.”

“John, what’s Jack Kennedy’s status?”

“He’s been relieved at the Office of Naval Intelligence and is awaiting a hearing to determine fitness for duty.”

“Don’t kick him out. I believe Joe said he wanted P. T. boats?”

“Yes sir.”

The courier entered. He was a Navy Lieutenant and saluted smartly as he reached across the desk and handed the message to the president. FDR dismissed the officer and ripped open the red seal on the envelope. He sat there for an inordinate period of time, transfixed by the message. He slowly put a hand to his mouth and then suddenly and forcefully slammed the desk while continuing to stare at the piece of paper.           

“HOT DAMN IT!” FDR’s voice startled McCrea who slid to the edge of his seat and was unsure how to respond to the president’s reaction.

“Sir, is everything all right?” FDR sat up straight and once again turned back to face the window. From behind the high backed chair McCrea heard FDR’s voice as he spoke slowly and distinctly. FDR held the message up as if to emphasise its magnitude.

“The Italian navigator has entered the New World.”

McCrea slowly rose to his feet. “That little genius son-of-bitch! He’s done it!”

Enrico Fermi, from his laboratories hidden in Soldier's Field, Chicago, had just informed FDR that he had discovered the secret of nuclear fission. The gate had just gone up on the nuclear arms race.

Without turning his chair from the window, FDR again addressed his aide.

“John, contact ONI. See that young Jack is stationed in the Pacific. Put him with the P. T.'s.  The only thing he can get into a scandal out there with is palm trees.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

 

One positive side effect of the war, was the upturn in the wartime economy. Another was the technological advances everyone saw slowly creeping into their daily lives. Automats were a good example. Although Horn and Hardart’s automats had been around since before the war, now more than ever they appealed to the new mass production mentality. The massive walls of small, glassed door, coin operated slots which allowed the customer to view, select and pay for the desired food items in one easy step, ensured that White Castle hamburger stands no longer had the corner on the fast food market.

The attractive woman with the two small children had her hands full. While trying to push her tray along the serving line, she was forced to wrestle with her young son who insisted on putting all the nickels into the slots himself and attempting to remove the plates of food from their pigeon holes. The two men in dress suits smiled as they watched the little girl standing ahead of he mother, occasionally sneak a spoon of pudding from her own tray. For one final time mom lifted the feisty youngster, and allowed him to deposit the money into the tiny slot and open the small glass door. He refused to take the plate out. It was piled with vegetables.

The two men approached the register at the end of the self-serve food line and handed the girl in the white and blue uniform their money to pay for their fountain drinks.

Ten minutes later the two men, seated at a table in the corner of the large banquet room, had finished their meal and were both nursing cups of coffee. Commander Haffenden opened the conversation.

“Ya know, I remember the Saturday morning my dad told me we were gonna have a talk about the birds and the bees. Late that afternoon after the movies, hot dogs and ice cream, we were back in the house and I still knew as much about the birds and the bees as I did that morning before we left.”

“That obvious Charlie?” Captain MacFall asked with trepidation.

“Look, bad news is like removing a bandage that’s been on for a week. Ya just gotta get a good grip on it and yank.” MacFall rarely had lunch with his staff members, especially at three in the afternoon. Haffenden thought he was prepared for what was coming.

The lack of crowd in the automat not only meant that it was quiet and conducive to the meeting, but magnified the silence Haffenden endured before MacFall could bring himself to speak.

“I was in the skipper’s office this morning. We talked for an hour and a half.”

“That’s a big chunk of the Old Man’s schedule.”

“Washington wants you to expand the operation.” Haffenden sat back in his chair. The bandage was ripped off but it felt good. Something was wrong. The key phrase which got by Haffenden was the “Washington wants you”, in lieu of “Washington wants us”.

“They’re worried about our results, aren’t they?”

“Don’t worry about what they’re worried about. Just do your job.” MacFall tried to speak in a reassuring tone.

“What about resource allocation?”

“Get me a list by tonight. I’ll have authorization from D. C. by tomorrow.” That’s too fast thought Haffenden.

“Look sir . . .”

“Roscoe.” That didn’t make Haffenden any more comfortable.

“Captain, it takes time to build an operation like this and still keep it under wraps.”

“Believe me that subject was brought up this morning. Everyone understands your position and what you’re trying to do. Trust me Charlie, I sure as hell wouldn’t want this damn mission!”

“Sir I should think they were happy the threat isn’t what they thought it was!”

“They’re politicians Charlie, not military strategists. Which is why when this is over I’m hanging it up.” Haffenden was surprised.

“How does Meriam feel about that?”

“Are you kiddin’? She’s already got the Florida condo picked out.” It occurred to Haffenden that he never really considered retirement.

“Level with me sir.”

“Fair enough. They’re worried. They’re worried that you haven’t produced any bad guys. They’re worried that word of the op might leak and fowl up they’re precious plans for office after the war and worst of all they’re scared shitless of losing any more ships.”

“Jesus! Are we that far behind?” Haffenden was not privy to ship production statistics.

“No, not really. The boys upstairs figure this time next year we’ll have the Krauts down from forty to ten per cent of total production. But that’s not the point. It’s the morale thing. Nobody in the greater tri-state area believes for a New York City second that the Normandie was an accident. Besides the boys upstairs are still gun shy from the Hindenburgh thing.”

“What do you think?”

“What’s important is if the general public thinks there’s bad guys in every neighborhood, we’re liable to lose control.”

“Speakin’ about bad guys in the closets, what about Hoover and his mob?”

“Unofficial orders are they’re to be shut down.”

“Did I get your ass in a sling for that Tompkins Park manoeuvre?”    

“Not really. But next time maybe you don’t need to send the cuffs and badges to the D. A.”

“Honest ta god sir, I already had that set up on the premise they were Hogan's goons. It wasn’t till after the fact we found out they belonged to Hoover.” Both men stood and slowly walked towards the door.

“It’s not an issue. But what will be an issue is if we lose another vessel in port. We’ll all be in the shit locker. No pressure mind you.”

“Gee thanks.” The two officers were out on the street and preparing to go their separate ways.

“Anything else you need from me Charlie?”

“Yeah, if it comes up, I’d rather not have to deal with that D. A. again.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not likely.”

 

***

 

Socks stepped off the pilings and into the six man motor launch and took a seat in the front. When he was comfortable he signalled his coxswain and they started south towards pier fourteen, a quarter a mile away. Just far enough so the FBI agents on stake out could eat their cold sandwiches and drink their luke warm coffee undisturbed while Socks was in one of his favorite restaurants enjoying a hot steak, some pasta and glass of wine.

After exiting the launch, he made for a pay-phone on Exchange Street. This increased inconvenience was one of the topics he was discussing with his lawyer only minutes later.

“Please hold for Mr. Guerin.” It was cold inside the phone booth.

“Socks? What is it? They run ya in?”

“No, I’m okay. But I need your help.” Guerin was puzzled but had his suspicions.

“I’m listening.”       

“Look, this Navy shit’s gettin’ pretty thick, I want out.”

“Yeah? Congratulations! Me too!”

“What the hell you talkin’ about?”

“I been on the phone six times with that god-damned D. A. so far. And that’s just this week. Everytime I bump into a lawyer at the courthouse who represents one’a you guys, he wants to know if you’re makin’ a deal fer Christ’s sake! Then he’s worried his client is gonna wanna make a deal.”

“So what?”

“So what!? I’ll tell ya so what! Guys in my game aren’t crazy about spendin’ two weeks preparing for court and then havin’ the client cop a plea!”

“Look, that’s their problem! I ain’t makin no deals with them pricks, and anything you hear is strictly grapevine! Now help me get the hell outta this Navy deal will ya!?”

“No can do Socks!”

“What the hell you mean ‘no can do’?!!” Lanza was offended at Guerin’s attitude. “I’m your lawyer Socks, not your career councillor. This secret shit is over and above the call of duty. I got other clients ya know.”

“Are you tellin’ me you can’t do nuthin’ or you don’t wanna do nuthin’?”

“What’s the difference? Look it’s your game. I work in the court-room not on the streets and back alleys.”

“You’re tellin’ me you won’t call the Commander for me?” Guerin was getting tired of playing footsie.

“What am I? Fucking Mahta Hari! You work for Haffenden. Talk to him! I’m busy!!” Guerin hung up. Lanza stared at the receiver.

“What the hell am I gonna’ tell him?”

Stepping out onto the street he felt the dip in temperature as he noticed the sun silhouetting the Bayonne Bridge as it set in the distance. He turned and walked back to the launch.

 

***

 

The next morning found Lanza a long way from the stench of fish. He was standing in front of a bank of ornate elevators. The magnificent gilded Art Deco reliefs and the lobby which occupied an entire city block meant he could only be in one place, The Empire State Building.

The evening before Socks had paced nervously in front of his phone for an hour and a half debating whether or not to call the Commander. At about half past seven the debate was settled when his phone rang. It was the Commander, he wanted a meet. When he mentioned Fay Wray in the conversation and the prearranged code for the time, Lanza knew where to be.

The familiar ding of the elevator bell signalled one of the two express elevators had arrived and Lanza put his cigarette out and boarded. As the four passengers quickly climbed to the eighty-sixth floor where they would be required to change cars, Socks smiled at the three foreign girls holding their stomachs and remarking, in some language he was unfamiliar with, probably about the speed of the elevator. He thought about the sumptuous meals he enjoyed on this very spot, 103 stories lower, when the Waldorf-Astoria stood here less than a decade ago.

Out on the observation deck he lit another cigarette and surveyed the landscape. You could almost see the entire waterfront he thought to himself. The whole piece of the pie.

The three foreign girls were now holding tightly onto the guard rail and babbling away at each other when the building increased the momentum of its sway as the wind picked up. Socks found it soothing.

“They say on a clear day you can see four states.” Lanza slowly turned to his left to see a man in a grey suit leaning on the rail next to him. It was the Haffenden.    

“Be a shame if they have ta tear it down fer lack’a tenants.” Lanza answered.

“Lack of people Socks. That’s why we’re here.” The wind began to pick up. “Let’s go inside.” Taking seats at the back of the Tippy Top Coffee Shop, Haffenden continued.

“The people in Washington are real grateful for what you’ve been doin’ for us Socks.”

“Yeah? How grateful?”

“Sorry, we’re still not authorised to offer anybody a deal.”

“Look Commander, about Brooklyn . . .”

“Yes?”

“I can’t do nuthin’ over there.”

“What are you telling me?”

“Sir, I’ll lay my cards on the table. I want out.”

“Out like outta the Brooklyn part?” Haffenden knew he was kidding himself, but it was worth a try.

“Out like in out out. The whole shootin' match. I can’t do nuthin’ else for ya.” Lanza respected the officer and felt remorse at letting him down, but he was tired of not sleeping at night worried about his reputation in the community.

“Socks I just got word that they’re so happy with us, they want us to expand the operation!”

“Expand the operation?!” Socks was shocked. Whatever residual doubts the veteran mobster might have had about pulling out, instantly evaporated.

“. . . And the building was completed ten months ahead of schedule and one million dollars under budget just nine years ago!” The voice of the female tour guide faded out onto the observation deck along with the clatter of the first tour group of the morning as the meeting was momentarily interrupted.

“Sir, I’ve got my own problems piling up faster than I can keep up on ‘em. But the reality of the situation is, I just ain’t got the juice you need. I can’t approach the Comardos directly, I don’t know shit about Bayonne and hell halfa them Jersey piers are military!” Haffenden knew that the military piers were no more immune from Mob infiltration and corruption then the fish piers. However, it was clear his best source was already a lost cause.

“Socks we can’t just let you walk away.”

“What? I know too much? You gonna whack me Commander?”

“We don’t operate like that.”

“Sure ya don’t. You just put people away somewhere, real cozy like, for national security’s sake. In detention camps.” Haffenden was doing what he didn’t ever want to do with one of his sources. Getting pissed off.

“Third Naval District has nothing to do with those camps!”

“You think I ain’t thought ahead? There’s a dozen guys with inside info on what I been doin’ fer you. And there’s a certain lawyer with a sealed letter and instructions to go public if there’s any monkey business should I go to trial.” This guy’s not as dumb as as I thought. “Now I played it straight with you right down the line. And I’ll keep playin’ straight with you Commander. But I gotta be here long after this war is over and you go home and retire. And them guys in the D. A.’s office don’t give two shits about me, you or the man on the moon so long as they get up the next rung of the ladder and get a shot at makin’ governor.” In light of recent events, Haffenden could find no flaw in Lanza’s argument.

“Does that mean you’ll still help me out where you can?” Lanza felt the sincerity in the request.

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll tell you who’ll get you access to the whole fuckin' shootin' match.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Charlie Lucky.”

“Luciano? Lucky Luciano?” Lanza smiled. “But he’s outta circulation, in prison somewhere. For life according to our information.” Lanza stood and slowly stepped away from the table.

“Yeah, hold onto that dream brother. Sorry I can’t be of any more help, but I won’t do you or your project much good if they throw me in jail.” The Commander remained seated to digest what he had just been told, and Lanza patted him on the shoulder as he walked past heading for the elevator back down to street level.

Haffenden considered his next course of action, then left to locate a phone.

“Captain MacFall please.”

“I’m sorry sir, Captain MacFall has left the building. May I put you through to someone else?” Nikki’s pleasant voice responded on the other end of the line. Haffenden thought for a moment.

“Yes. Put me through to Commander Marsloe’s office.”

“One moment sir.” The Commander could hear the buzz of the line, and after it rang three times a voice answered.

“Yeah?”

“Tony?”

“No, wait a minute. I’ll get him.” He heard the receiver being laid down and a short time later Marsloe was on the line.

“Hello, who is this please?”

“Tony, it’s me Haffenden.”

“Charlie! What can I do for you?”

“Who answered your phone?”

“Ah, just one of the treasury guys. What can I help you with?”

“You worked on the Mafia stuff in Hogan’s office didn’t ya?”

“I was the resident expert on Sicilian affairs, yeah, why?”

“I need an organizational flow chart. A sort of an order of battle if you will

and . . .”

“Charlie that’s gonna be kinda hard.”

“Why?”

“Because we don’t have one.”

“You telling me the best intell service in the world doesn’t have the skinny on a bunch of gangsters?”

“Ah . . . that’s about it Haff.”

“Well who does?”

“Only one person that we know of.”

“Well who the hell is that!?”

“The head of the Mafia.”

“Christ Marsloe, give me a break! Who the hell is the head of the Mafia?”

“Well . . . we’re not exactly sure.”

“Sicilian expert huh? In the largest prosecutor’s office in the world? What the hell did you do? Swap lasagne recipes?”

“Hey don’t take it out on me! Hey, we could take a page ya know.”

“Shit, sorry Tony. I been running into a coupl’a walls lately, that’s all. Thanks anyway.”

An hour later Commander Haffenden was back on the line to MacFall explaining the situation with Lanza. He couldn’t mention names on the phone but he made it clear that the DA would have to be consulted for some background information to kick-start the new phase of the operation. Haffenden tried, unsuccessfully, to convince MacFall to approach Hogan on his behalf.

“Sir, we go back to those guys with hat in hand and they’ll use that leverage for every mile it’s worth!” Haffenden pointed out.

“We’ll have to do something to preclude that I suppose.”

“Sir, I’m certain if we both go over there together . . .”

“What’s this ‘we’ jazz? You got worms? Charlie I told you this is your show. You’ll have to handle it. That’s that. Now I’ll call around and grease the skids, but I highly suggest you plan on being over at the D. A.’s office in the AM, Commander. Clear?” There was a pause before Haffenden answered.

“Aye aye sir.”

“And Haffenden, whatever you do don’t bring up the wires. Those people have no appreciation for flamboyance!”

“No sense of humor, huh?” Haffenden couldn’t fight off the grin involuntarily creeping over his face.

To the Commander’s pleasant surprise when he rang Hogan’s office a short time later, the secretary informed him she was to give him an appointment at his convenience. That the District Attorney instructed her to leave the schedule open. They agreed on two o’clock that afternoon and Haffenden hung up suspicious and bewildered. Grease the skids? He must have sent over a fifty dollar hooker with a lobster dinner!

Commander Haffenden was not a politician. Never had the slightest interest in politics. He was a sailor, first, last and always. Consequently he would not deduce that Captain MacFall never spoke to Hogan. That he never had to. Instead the D. A.’s motivation came from a phone conversation designed to employ a different angle of attack. In fact the skid greasing was by way of Fiorrello LaGuardia’s office. The mayor’s secretary conveyed the message, and Hogan’s schedule parted like the Red Sea.

When Haffenden entered Hogan’s office that afternoon he found it would be a three way meeting. He wasn’t comfortable with that so he asked to speak to Hogan alone. Gurfein, with a hurt puppy look on his face, stepped through the door into the reception area.

“Big boys only, huh?” The secretary didn’t bother to turn around as she remarked to Gurfein who flopped down onto one of the over stuffed sofas and picked up a magazine.

“Shut up!”

“Snappy come back.” Replied the secretary as she continued to type.

After explaining what he needed from the DA, Hogan asked who the mystery man was. Haffenden cocked himself back in his chair and was amused at the expression, which bordered on shock, on Hogan’s face.

“Luciano! That may not be do-able Commander.”

“Let’s start with where he is. Where do we find him?”

“He’s a lifelong guest of the Gray Bar Hotel.”

“Which branch?”

“Clinton State Penitentiary, up in Dannemora.” The Commander began taking notes.

“We’ll use the Lanza strategy. Who’s his lawyer?”

“He had a whole team of them. I can have somebody look them up for you later. But they won’t do you any good. You’re wasting your time.”

Haffenden ignored the advise. “What’s the procedure?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There isn’t one. With Lanza we were dealing with a free man. Luciano will never see the light of day again. You’re dealin’ with a crook of a different colour!” Hogan smirked at his own joke but Haffenden was in no mood to shadow box.

“Look Hogan, I’m gonna make this thing happen with or without you. So skip the bad jokes and give me the chain of command.” Hogan was irritated but running out of excuses to stall.

“Commander Haffenden, understand what your up against. Since you have to go through his lawyer, or lawyers, you’ll have to let them in on your little op. Then, convince them to lend a hand. They’re no doubt gonna bitch about money, and when you tell them they gotta do it outta the goodness of their hearts, they’re gonna disappear like a bunch of drunk sailors on pay day. Next, if you somehow miraculously convert them into believers and they see the light, they gotta convince Luciano who can neither be believed, depended on or trusted in any way shape or form.” Hogan began to pace the floor as he spoke.

“Don’t pull any punches Hogan. Tell me what you really think.”

“The best is yet to come! At this stage of your little safari, you’ve got to convert Commissioner Lyons, the state prison commissioner, and sell him into your travelin’ road show. Now, he will no doubt run it by the Governor, who by the way just happens to be the man who put Luciano where he belongs.”

“So what you’re tryin’ to say is . . .”

“Good fucking luck, Commander.” Haffenden tried not to flinch.

“So where do I find the name of one of the lawyers?”

“I’ll have Gurfein reference it for you and give your office a buzz.”

“That’s all right. I’ll wait.” Haffenden said firmly. Hogan had no idea how far he could push Haffenden. However, at this point he calculated that the officer was willing to go the whole way to call his bluff. Or, worse yet he had all the backing he needed to accomplish his goal. The D.A. was finished playing political chicken.

“I think I remember a name. Polakoff, Moses Polakoff.” Haffenden continued to take notes.

“How do we get a hold of him?” Hogan buzzed his secretary. A few minutes later Gurfein entered the office and handed a slip of paper to Hogan.

“If you want to save some time, we can call him now and try to set something up.”

“Yes, that would be helpful, only don’t tell him I’m here or what this is about.”

Gurfein placed the call and it went through right away. However after that it was an uphill battle. When Polakoff was told it involved Luciano he declined right away. As far as he was concerned the case was closed. He complained about taking it all the way up through the Supreme Court and having lost. Finally he fell back on the excuse that he really didn’t know Lucky that well, that he only acted as his lawyer along with the others and that he really wasn’t interested in approaching Lucky about anything.

Haffenden got the gist of the conversation and wrote a message to Gurfein while he was listening to Polakoff make his case to the D. A.’s assistant. It suggested that Polakoff use an intermediary to contact Luciano. After five more minutes Polakoff was persuaded. Round one to the Navy. However, Polakoff emphasised two points. One that the contact would remain nameless for now and second, that he Polakoff, would make no guarantees.

 

***

 

Just before Lanza was about to embark on the first peaceful night’s sleep he’d had in three weeks, the phone rang. It was Big Jimmy. Socks was quick to relay that he was no longer in business with the Feds.

“So Jimmy, are we okay or what?”

“Yeah Socks. That’s real good news.”

“But are we okay?”

“You mean like okay okay?”

“Yeah, like okay okay!”

“Yeah Socks, we’re okay. There’s just one ding we gotta get straight between us though.”

“What’s that Jimmy?” He asked with trepidation.

“You don’t tell nobody I asked you fer diss! You got that?”

“No problem, I swear! Now what the hell is it you want at two-fuckinn’-thirty in the a. m.?”

“I want you to go back ta that joint on Mott Street, Morrelli’s and get me that recipe fer Cannolies. Ya know, the big ones wit the extra cream! Can you do that Socks? I’ll wack anybody ya want. No charge!”

“I'll see what I can do Jimmy. Okay?”

“Okay.”

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

 

Doc sat at the kitchen table while Mrs. Birnbaum excused herself to get a fresh package of tissues. He explained to her what he had found out about the mysterious behavior of her husband, but it didn’t seem to sink in right away, the tears kept coming. Although he was happy at the way things turned out, he was very uncomfortable in the presence of a crying woman. Any woman.

“You mean to tell me my Ira isn’t playing hoochie-coochie mit da bimbo?” She sobbed in between tears.

“No Mrs. Birnbaum, he’s not. As a matter of fact, according to my notes . . . ” Doc took his note pad out and made sure his client couldn’t see the blank pages as he flipped through them. “He’s working on something very special. Very hush hush.” Mrs. Birnbaum appeared more composed as she went to the stove and prepared some tea.

“Why he is suddenly doink this on Pearl Harbor?”

“That’s when we had to mobilize the military, Norma. That’s when the shi . . . that’s when things started to get crazy.” Suddenly she began to cry again. Christ! Doc thought to himself. You give them bad news, they cry, you give them good news they cry! Doc had no idea what to do, so he stood up.

“Mrs. Birnbaum . . . Norma, are you okay?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so reliefted.” She walked over to Doc and hugged him as she cried uncontrollably, allowing her two weeks of pent up emotions to escape. “I’m so reliefted yet, I’m so ashamed dat I didn’t trust him!” Doc held her at arms length as if she were a baby with a loaded diaper as he floundered for words of comfort.

“I don’t know vhat I vould do vithout my Ira.”

 Doc helped her back to her seat and squatted down in front of her. Holding her hand, he explained.

“Norma it’s all over. It was just a big misunderstanding. Talk to Ira tonight.Tell him what you told me, okay?”

“Tell him I didn’t trust him?! He vould die!”

“I don’t think so Norma. I think you’ll be surprised at how he acts.”

“Ya dink?” She reluctantly enquired.

“More than I dink! What?! Ya dink I don't know from love?!” They both laughed. “Maybe do something nice for him. Make you feel better too.”

Jesus! Doc the marriage councillor. Louie would die laughing! It was time to leave.

“I have to go Norma.” Norma composed herself.

“My Ira! A secret agent!”

“Well I don’t know if I would . . . ” She looked up at him.

“Vat Mr. Macquen?”

“Nothing Norma. You just have a big surprise for Ira tonight when he gets home, and enjoy the evening.”

“Ven he gets home! Dare is no way to know when he is getting home!”

“Don’t worry, I think I can help. He’ll be home for supper tonight.” Doc finally had an excuse to call Nikki.

“I haven’t paid you Mr. Macquen! I’ll get my cheque book.”

“Norma that’s alright. Put it in the mail.” Doc's protest was too late. Norma was back in a minute with the check book. She wrote and chatted like a school girl talking about her first date. Doc fought back the smile.

“Supper! Dat’s the perfect idea! Ve have some candles and I make him his favourite! Pigs knuckles and black bread!”

“Norma! I thought you and Ira were Kosher?”

“Kosher smosher!” She bent forward as she handed Doc the check and whispered in his ear. “He dinks I don’t know from him and his friends sneakik off toYork Street to that goim delicatessen once a month! I know! But I don’t say nuthink. Who he’s hurtink?” As she stood up straight she issued a warning. “You don’t say nuthik about pigs knuckles!”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Once again he protested when she handed him the check, trying to explain that he really didn’t do anything but follow her husband for a day. She persisted and Doc suddenly had a horrible premonition that she might start crying again, so he accepted the payment. Mrs. Birnbaum thanked him three more times before he finally managed to get through the door.

Once outside in the midday sun, Doc decided to walk for awhile, and think about his future as a P.I. With no new commissions on the horizon things didn’t look good. He reckoned that once he reached the south side of the park he’d call Nikki.

As he was thinking things over he passed a garbage can, stopped and took Norma's check out of his pocket. He didn’t feel good about taking so much money for this job in the first place, but when he thought about what he said to Louie, he had to do it. He tore it up.

Ira got a helluva a surprise when he got home.

 

***

 

Doc used to wonder why his father always took long walks when he was troubled. It had been awhile since he had done it himself. By the time he walked to 58th and Third from the Birnbaum’s, he not only felt completely relaxed, but comfortable enough to call Nikki and ask her to talk to Ira’s boss about letting him get home early tonight and maybe he just might accidentally let drop he had no where special to be Saturday night.

However the love gods were not smiling on Doc that morning. Shortly after entering the phone booth, while rummaging through his change in search of a nickel, his attention was caught by three men sitting at a side table in a small restaurant across the street. The guy on the left was unknown to Doc however, the one sitting at the center of the four top was the famous Meyer Lansky, Lucky Luciano’s best friend and partner since childhood. The figure which made the picture so curious was the man trying so desperately not to be seen.

“Doc, where you at man?”

“Midtown Redbone, on the East side.”

Redbone was talking to Doc from his improvised office in the basement of 1929. Sitting in between the drain pipes of the utility room and sipping his mid-morning, regular coffee, Redbone spoke to his favorite tenant. His telephone was a discarded receiver wired to the primary telephone junction box on the wall.

“Whats you need Doc?” Redbone always spoke in a slow, comfortable rhythm.

“Doesn’t your nephew work up here somewhere Redbone?”

“What’s the name’a the joint you at?” Doc peered across the street.

“Kitty’s Koffee Kafe, all spelt with K’s.”

“Must be somebody don't know no English!”

“Must be brother. Ya know it?”

“Never hoid of it Doc. What’s it near?”

“I’m right in the middle, between 58th and 59th, near the Queensboro. Ah . . . about a block from Bloomingdale’s.”

“Bloomingdale’s, das it. Leon works at the lunch counter at Bloomingdale’s. Da won downstairs.”

“Great. Redbone, do me a favor, will ya? Go upstairs and tell Louie ta call me at this number, you ready?”

“Shoot, Cool Breeze.”

“Murrayhill 7 2391, 2391. Got it?”

“Like fleas on'a dog, Brother. Hey Doc, you still want me get a hold'a that sign-painter fer ya new winda?”

“Nah. Little short'a green right now. Talk ta ya later.”

Doc continued his improvised surveillance of Kitty’s and noticed that Lansky was doing nearly all the talking. His curiosity was peaked. He looked around and found a match box on the ground. Breaking it up, he jammed a piece into the hook lever so it would still ring even though he was holding the receiver in his hand pretending to talk. The small cafe had only a single front door and the façade consisted of a large painted sign affixed to the wall above the picture window. He removed the match box on the second ring.

“Doc?”

“Yeah, Louie. Look, I’m at midtown at . . .”

“Redbone told me. You okay? What’s up?”

“I’m fine. I’m watching some guys in a restaurant. I want you to come up here, I’ll wait.”

“You figure there’s time Doc?”

“Yeah, they don’t look like there in any hurry to order. Grab a cab. If I’m not here, stay glued to the booth across the street. I’ll call ya there. Got it?”

“Roger WilCo Doc!  Captain Marvel to the rescue!” Louie hung up.

“I swear that guy’s only got one oar in the water!”

Doc approached Bloomingdale’s and entered through the 59th Street entrance. Leon wasn’t hard to find. As soon as Doc saw him, he remembered the football scholarship Redbone talked about.

“Excuse me, you Leon?”

“Who want’s ta know?”

“I’m a friend of your uncle, Redbone.” Leon continued to purposely sweep towards Doc.

“So?” The six foot four, muscular athlete remained unimpressed.

“I’m a P. I. I could use your help.”

Leon stopped sweeping and stood upright to look down at Doc. Jesus! My neck already aches from looking up.

“Oh, so you that guy likes goin’ around peepin’ in ladies bedrooms at night.”

“No. That’s the other guy, my ex-partner.” Leon continued to glare at Doc, remaining motionless, indicating that the clock was running.

“Look, I’m on to something. I need a closer look, but I can’t get too close.”

“Oh so you want me ta do it ‘cause nobody will notice me. That it?”

This ain’t gettin’ any easier, thought Doc.

“Leon, how long are your breaks?”

“What?”

“Tell me, how long are your breaks?”

“Fit’teen minutes, why?” Leon was suspicious but couldn’t finger the scam.

“You make what, thirty-five cents an hour?”

“You figure I'm some sorta' chump? I make fifty!”   

“Fifty cents, okay. All I need ya to do is go down the block ta Kitty’s. Ya know it?”

Leon shot him a look as if to say, 'Did my mother drop me?' Leon knew all too well the pretty Puerto Rican waitress who floated around in Kitty's.

“There are three men sitting by the front door. The guy in the middle is the only one I know. I need the other two guys and anything else you can pick up.” Doc reached into his trouser pocket and fished out a twenty. He offered it to Leon. “There’s a weeks pay for fifteen minutes work, and ya get to look at a cute waitress.”

“Hey Mr. D!” Leon’s voice boomed across the lunch counter to a small, middle-aged man working on books. “I’m going on break!” Leon took the twenty, undid his apron and set his broom near the corner.

“Go in through the back door.” Doc offered.

“Soma dem buildin’s pretty old. How you know there’s a back door?”

“That building was built after the Triangle factory fire, that means they had ta go by the new code. Gotta have one.” Leon and Doc set off for the stairs.

An old man who was sitting next to Mr. D., and losing a fight with a BLT sandwich, commented about how there was no respect from the hired help any more. Not like in the old days. Mr. D. invited the old man to tell Leon that he couldn’t go on break.

Upstairs on the south corner of 59th and Third, at Leon’s request, Doc traded the twenty for two fives and a ten and then remained on the cold corner while Leon sought out the back entrance to Kitty’s.

“Who the hell is that?” The three hundred pound man with the four day growth on his face, standing behind the counter asked Rosie the waitress as he watched the tall, black athlete sweeping the floor. Rosie stuffed her newly earned five dollar bill into her left bra strap and answered the repulsive looking grill cook.

“He eez my brother. He on part time for a leettle while.” Rosie continued to draw coffee from the chrome plated forty cup urn.

“Your brother?!” He stated in disbelief. Rosie finished her chore and began to walk away.

“Yeah. My mother had a ding for de choofer.”

As Leon swept closer to the table he found that the conversation was easily discernible owing to the sparse crowd in the cafe.

“Gurfein, quit worryin’ about bein’ seen! Nobody knows you up here!” Polakoff was annoyed at losing time from the office in the first place. Having to tolerate Gurfein complaining about being seen every five minutes only aggravated the situation.

“Lucky will do this thing, I’m tellin’ ya without a doubt. He’s very patriotic. He even tried enlisting, but got a medical rejection.” Lansky reassured the Assistant D. A.

“Whata you think?” Gurfein addressed Polatkoff without using his name. Leon could sweep for a long time in the same general area, but not forever.

“You heard it same as me. This is his school chum tellin’ ya he’ll do it. What more do ya want?”

“I want ta know I can trust him!” Snapped the assistant D. A.

“Trust him?” Lansky was irritated by a D. A. broaching the subject of trust, but as throughout the meeting he maintained his composure and spoke in a level, controlled tone.

“If it weren’t for this man sitting here Mr. Gurfein this meeting never would have happened, because he is the only one we trust to deal with you.”

“Don’t pretend we’re cut from the same cloth Lansky! There’s one important difference between people like you and people like us.”

“If there’s only one difference Mr. Gurfein, then we’re more similar to one another than I thought.” Gurfein didn’t respond. Instead he looked over in Leon’s direction. The time on Leon’s meter ran out, and he swept around the room and made his way towards the back door. After thanking Rosie for the broom, Leon headed back to the corner where Doc was waiting.

“Well, the guy not doin’ so good at tryin’ ta look invisible’s name is Gurfein. I couldn’t get the other guy’s name.”

“What was the point of the conversation?” Doc was stamping his feet and had the fur collar of his bomber jacket up around his ears. The temperature had dropped considerably.

“They were talkin’ about some guy named Lucky.” Doc stopped stomping his feet and got that dog-looking-in-the-mirror for the first time look. “Sounded like they was talkin’ ‘bout breakin’ him outta jail or somethin’.” Doc peered around the corner to see Louie standing in the phone booth stomping his feet.

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s 'bout it. They was too busy arguin’ about the difference between the two of them.” Doc laughed to himself. Toss up there.

“I owe ya one.”

“No problem. Anytime you got a twenty you don’t need let me know.”

Doc caught Louie’s attention as he crossed Third Avenue to the pizza place catty-cornered from where he and Leon were standing.

Louie came inside with Doc to warm up, and they both stood watching the front door of Kitty’s.

“Hey Doc. Nice day for a stake out, huh?” Doc held up two fingers to the guy behind the counter who prepped to slices.

“Yeah, what were they doin’ before you came over?”

“Well they still haven’t eaten. Just sittin’ there talkin’. Almost looked like they were fightin’ over somethin’.”

“There not there ta eat.”

“What’re they doin’ in a restaurant then?”

“Makin’ some kinda deal.”

“You know ‘em?”

“Two of ‘em. There’s a D. A. and one of ‘em’s Lansky.”

“Meyer Lansky?! Shit! Looks like we're in the Majors” As the implication slowly seeped through to Louie a broad smile swept across his pudgy face.

“You look like Sylvester in the first reel of a Tweety Bird cartoon. What the hell you grinnin’ at?” Doc asked.

“You tailin’ these smucks wouldn’t have anything to do with your father, would it?”

“This ain’t about my father. Besides who said anything about tailin’?” The guy slid the two slices across the top of the glass display case.

“I know you Doc. This is gonna get more interesting.”

“It 's already more interesting. But first I need you to make a phone call.”

“Phone call! Did you call Nikki yet?”

“No, not yet. I got distracted.”

“C’mon Doc! What’s the problem? No guts no air medals!”

“Good! Here’s your chance to win an air medal, because you’re about ta call her.”

“ME?! Doc you ain’t askin’ me ta fix you up?!”

“Fix me up?! You got me in deep enough as it is. I don’t need you fixin’ me up.”

“I don’t want to call her Doc! I’d be lost for words.”

Just make the call, Cupid. Tell her I need her to get Ira off . . .” Doc reached for the pizza.

“What . . .?”

“. . . early! Tell her things are okay with Norma. She’s waitin’ on him for supper. Now go.” Doc pointed to the phone booth in the back of the pizzaria. Louie moved away from the window. “And don’t get creative!” Doc warned.

“Third District Headquarters. How may I direct your call?” Louie talked as he ate.

“Nikki? This is Doc McKeowen’s partner Louie Mancino. He asked me ta give you a call.”

“Why didn’t he call himself? No guts?”

“No, no. It ain’t like that! We’re on stake out and he can’t get to the phone just now, so . . .”

“But you could?” Louie was out of his league. The hell with etiquette.

“Look I got a message. Tell Ira’s boss that Ira needs ta be home tonight for dinner time. Doc say’s everything's okay with his wife. Got it?”

“Tell Doc that’s fantastic news, and I don’t know Ira’s boss, but Shirley does, and I’m sure she’ll help us out.”

“That’s great Nikki.”

“Anything else Louie Mancino?”

“Yeah. I’m not supposed ta say nuthin’, but he talks about ya all the time.”

“Oh he does huh?” Nikki wasn’t taken in for a second, but she was enjoying the ride.

“Honest, every day. He’s been meanin’ ta call, but we’re on this really big case see and he’s such a sweet guy. He’s so considerate of others. There’s this old guy in our building . . .” Louie rattled on until he was hit in back of the head with a wadded up coffee cup. He turned to see Doc signalling him to sign off. Doc pointed out the window and threw a dollar bill on the counter.

“You take the D. A., he’s the guy in the brown coat. I’ll take the other two. And be careful damn it!” Doc sensed Louie’s apprehension. As they watched the threesome part company outside Kitty’s Doc patted Louie on the back. “Just relax and act natural, okay?” Louie nodded and they walked away from each other. “Hey Louie! See ya back at the Skull Cave!” Louie smiled.

 

***

 

Doris had the following day off so she didn’t object when Louie told her he’d be at Doc’s late that night. Doris liked Doc and didn’t think much of his wife for bailing out on him when things got rough. Louie was put through the wringer every night when he came home, regarding Doc’s progress in the romance department and although he was annoyed by the constant questioning, Louie loved her all the more for her concern.

Doc had been in the office waiting for Louie for the better part of an hour and had been sipping the same drink while sketching out a flow chart. A half a dozen crumpled pieces of paper littered the floor and Doc reached up for the bottle of Jameson when he heard a strange echo in the hall.

The Emerson had been playing the war news and as he turned down the volume the echo grew louder. He smiled and sat back down, recognising the off key voice instantly.

Seconds later Mancino entered and stood in the doorway as he finished singing the last verse of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree”.

“Evenin’ Maxine.” Doc said with a smirk. Louie struck a pose like a pin-up as he finished his number. Then he walked over and sat down at his new desk.

“Funny, you don’t look drunk.”

“Oh, I ain’t drunk. Yet. I had a coupl’a beers on the way over. But I sure wouldn’t mind a taste a the old Scottish.”

“It’s Irish Louie. Not scotch.”

“What ever it is, beats the hell outta getting' drunk on Amaretto!”

Doc poured Louie a drink and set the glass on the desk.

“If it’s not to much trouble you wanna tell me why you’re on cloud nine?”

“Louie the almost P. I. did not lose his subject.” He pointed at Doc as he spoke.

“Good man! Where’d he wind up?”

“You'll never guess!” Louie might as well have been in his cups. It was the post revelation euphoria experienced by great men of science, philanthropists and explorers. Those who have not only discovered an extremely significant and vital piece of information, but realize that they have by their discoveries and contributions become destined to alter the course of human events.

“The D. A.’s office?”

“Nope!”

“C’mon Louie. I don’t wanna play games. This thing’s really got my curiosity up.”

“I know. That’s why when I tell you, you’re gonna have a cow!” Louie’s euphoria was contagious and Doc was starting to feel better than he had in a long time. Louie lifted his glass.

“When Mary had a little lamb the doctors were surprised. But when old McDonald had a farm! That really took the prize!”

“You sure you ain’t drunk?”

“Alright, damn it. I’ll give you a hint.” Louie fell forward on his chair and leaned both arms on the desk as he began to sing. “I had the craziest dream last night.”

“Ah . . . Helen Forrest, Forrest. He went upstate and into the forest!”

“Now who’s drunk? Jesus Doc! Where’s the last place on earth you’d expect him ta go?”

“Okay Louie. I give up, where?”

“Number nine zero Church Street!”

“A D. A.?! You’re shittin’ me?” Doc sat forward in his chair.

“I wouldn’t shit you Doc. You’re my favorite turd. Now, how about a drink before my fuckin' arm falls off?”

“Louie! Tell me you ain’t been drinkin’!” Doc poured him one.

“I’m not drunk Doc. But if I ain’t drunk in about an hour, it ain’t gonna be from lack'a tryin’.” Louie shot the whiskey back.

“My little fat protégé found a connection between the D. A., the U.S. Navy and the Mob!”

“Yup!”  Louie reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small note pad. “Subject entered building, see item 13.” He flipped several pages. “Item 13, address number 90 Church Street. Shall I continue?”

“No, I believe you. But now we have to find out why.”

“Well, first off who was the guy with Lansky you were followin’?”

“Name’s Polatkoff. Lansky’s lawyer apparently.”

“So whatever they were doin’, Lansky figured he had to have his lawyer there.” Louie was being a P. I.

“Right. But why?”

“Cuttin’ a deal?” He suggested.

“Not in a million years. Besides, he’s not in any trouble, at least none that’s made the papers.”

“I remember hearin’ that he ain’t legal. A Russian alien or somethin’. Maybe they’re lookin’ ta deport him?”

“Not likely. He's been here too long. Even so, he’d be dealin’ with INS, not the D. A.”

“Squeelin’ on somebody?”

“Lansky? That’d be like you goin’ on a diet and showin' up at a gym.” Louie was not amused.

“Shit Doc. I can’t figure it! Give me another drink.” Doc poured Louie and himself another one and then made a suggestion.

“Let’s put it to bed for a while and talk about something else. Maybe it’ll come to us.”

“Good idea Doc. Let’s talk about why you ain’t called Nikki yet.”

“Jesus Louie! What is it your mission in life ta get me fixed up with somebody?”

“Doc, what the hell ya afraid of? She’s smart, unattached, sounds sweet as apple pie, on the phone anyway. And I’ll bet she’s cute. Is she cute Doc?’

“Yeah, she’s cute.” Doc smiled at the sudden image of Nikki’s face that popped into his head. “As a matter of fact she’d give Lauren Becall a run for her money.”

“Okay, then!” Louie downed his drink. “Let’s check the universal babe-o-meter. Brains, a ten. Availability, a ten. Personality, a ten.” Doc was increasingly amused by Louie’s floor show.  “And looks? Makes your dick harder than Chinese arithmetic!”

“Does your mother know you talk like that?”

“Shit Doc! My mom's Sicilian, she taught me to talk like this!”

“It ain’t just about sex ya know.”

“I realize that it ain’t just about sex Doc!  But it’s mostly about sex! At least in the beginning. Hell, sex and love's the only real things men and women got in common. It’s the only thing we really need each other for!”

“You ever thought about writin’ a column?” Doc sensed the whiskey was kicking in and so egged Louie on by pouring him another one.

“Not really.” Louie got up to pour himself another drink then realized his glass had already been charged. “But I used to give advice to farmers about breedin’ chickens.” He swallowed his whiskey then poured again. Doc took possession of the bottle.

“Oh really?” Where the hell is this going?

“Yeah. Like this time this farmer over in Weehawken had a rooster. Guy was from Palermo, a friend of the family's. Problem was the rooster would try to screw everything in sight. The dog, the cat, the cows. All the chickens. He tried to get the rooster ta slow down or else he’d kill himself. Did that stupid bird quit? Hell no. Then one day, the inevitable happened. That’s when he called me.” Louie sipped his drink.

“You squared him away, huh?”

“No! Not much I could do under the circumstances! I went out in the barn yard with him, and there was that dumb rooster. Flat on his back, legs up in the air, head cocked over and tongue hangin’ out. Dead as a door nail! Even had a big old buzzard flyin’ around in circles over him.”

“I’m waitin’.”

“We both bent over that stupid bird and just looked at him. Then I guess that old farmer got overcome by grief, and he just let lose on that rooster. ‘You stupid bird! Look what you done ta’ yerself! Now you’re no good ta’ me, yer no good ta’ the chickens!’”

“So he lost a good rooster?”

“Oh hell no! Just then the damn thing looked up at us, pointed up at the buzzard and said ‘shut the hell up! She’s gettin’ closer!’”

“I think your elevator doesn’t go to the top Mancino, ya know that?”

“Could be. But I know I drink another need.” Louie held his glass out unable to stand. It was only ten p. m., but after Doc poured Louie his last drink he prepared the cot in the back room, and helped Louie to bed. Then he rang Doris to let her know Louie was okay. She thanked him and reminded him that if he needed anything to call her, and speaking of calling, he ought to call that nice girl down town.

After he hung up Doc sat back down at his desk, put his feet up and turned off the light.

Maybe Frank Capra was right.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

 

“Lorraine, have our two doves flown the coop?”

“Yes sir. I booked them on the 23:45 last night out of Grand Central. Their ETA is 07:50 this morning.”

“Notify me if you hear from them. And have your pad ready. They may use code if they need to leave a message.”

“Yes sir.”

“Also notify the mail room that the package is in their safe. Don’t talk to some kid either, tell that old supervisor, the one that was here when the Dutch landed.”

A discretionary fund is like a secret lover. Everybody loves them, everybody would like to have one, but if it’s existence is made public, it gets extremely expensive.

So it was with the discretionary fund assigned to Third Naval District for the expansion of Operation Underworld. These types of discretionary funds were always in cash. This posed a problem for the Logistics Officer who passed it onto the Disbursement Officer who passed it onto the Communications officer because the mailroom fell under his domain. The mail room which housed the only safe large enough to store $125,500 in small bills, the size of the discretionary fund The Boys in Washington decided The Boys in New York needed despite the fact they only requested $62,250.

To keep the existence of said fund from leaking out to the public, or worse to the auditors, there were no duplicates, triplicates or extra files anywhere in the system. The senator, who by United States Code was not supposed to issue such funds without the approval of Congress, knew about it, and the individual who received it also received the only receipt in the form of a memo in a sealed envelope.

“Sir, Ira Birnbaum is a very sweet old man. Just because he’s old doesn’t mean he doesn’t contribute. I think it’s wrong to insult him!” The senior civil servant was taken off guard by his secretary’s defence of the mail room supervisor, and felt brow beaten into an apology.

Lorraine rang down to the mail room, but Ira wasn't there. It was close enough to coffee break so she decided a walk down stairs was in order. At the same time she would try and locate Ira herself to deliver the message.

After ten minutes of searching the lower floors with no success, Lorraine wandered out to the reception desk, and asked Nikki if she would relay the message to Ira. Nikki informed the secretary that Ira had a special day off to be with Norma. As one comment gave way to another, Nikki, Lorraine and Shirley spent the next fifteen minutes telling each other what a sweet idea it was and how considerate this Doc guy must be. Ten minutes after their coffee break was supposed to be over, they all returned to work. In the course of the day Nikki came to realize that it might be okay if Doc called.

 

***

 

The Naval officer, dressing in front of the mirror in the cramped cabin of the Pullman car, finished putting on his dress blue jacket, and made some last minute adjustments to the three ribbons on the left breast of his dark blue garment.

He noticed the rolling landscape slowly drifting past the picture window of the small room in contrast to the whoosh of the telegraph poles as he checked his watch. He considered taking his gloves and cover with him to breakfast but decided against it.        

“Arthur, you ready?” Lieutenant Commander Cowen banged on the door of the adjoining cabin and the much younger Ensign joined him enroute to the dining car. Old eating habits from the Academy precluded conversation during the two to three minutes it took to eat the meal, and so the two officers only began to speak after they had finished their ham and eggs.

“Sir, is it S. O. P. for the Nav to spend so much money on a two day trip just to play messenger boy?” The Ensign was only on his fourth month of active duty and so was keen to learn the ropes from the veteran Commander whom he had come to respect.

“Some things can’t be sent through regular channels. But it is a bit unusual to send a field grade with a message to a state employee.” Reaching in his breast pocket he produced the tiny half sized envelope the two were charged with delivering. Holding the envelope in both hands, he commented. “Sorta looks like a wedding invitation, doesn’t it?”

“You suppose he'll come to the reception?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, whoever in the Nav sent us to this politician must be askin’ for some kind of favor. Are we to wait for a reply?”

“Ya know Arty, that’s the other strange thing. They said they didn’t know if he would reply right away.”

“ALBANY! TEN MINUTES! NEXT STOP ALBANY!” The porter walked through the dining car with his announcement, and the Commander checked his watch.

“Fifteen minutes early! Very nice. Let’s shove off.”

The long line of Pullman cars cast a distorted shadow over the station platform as it pulled in, and the officers were not required to wait for baggage after they disembarked as they were ordered to travel with overnight bags only.

An old man dressed in remarkably light clothing for the markedly cold temperatures in the northern upstate climate, sat on a bench smoking some sort of white clay pipe, overseeing the activity of the station. The Commander nodded to the Ensign and they approached him.

“Excuse me sir. Can you tell us where to get a taxi?”

“Sure can.” The old man enjoyed an uncomfortable silence from the two officers who looked at each other and then back at the old man. The Commander attempted to kick-start the conversation.

“Sir, are there taxis, here, to Albany?”

“Yup, sure are.” Cowen looked at Lamberson who shrugged and twirled his finger around his left temple and smiled out of sight of the man, so he thought. Being a glutton for punishment the Commander sought to out maneuver the old man.

“Sir, where is the taxi stand?”

“Right in front of the station son, out on the street.” He said throwing his thumb over his left shoulder.

“Thank you.” The officers walked away.

“Welcome to Albany.” The old man called after them. If nothing else, he was cordial.

After a fifteen minute wait in the cold, the two sailors discussed returning to the old man for further advice, but thought better of it. Instead they made for the Station Master’s office, and Cowen spoke through the small ticket window to the heavy set man on the other side.

“Sir we’ve got to get to the Prison Commissioner’s office, can you call us a taxi, please?” The Ticket Master smiled.

 

“I will if you really want me to. But it won’t do ya no good.” Cowen turned to Lamberson.

“You’re from this area, talk to these yokels!” He ordered the Ensign.

“I’m from Connecticut, sir.”

“And I’m from Santa Barbara! Get us a damn ride!” The Ensign stepped back to the window.

“Sir, we’re here on official business, and we need to get to the Commissioner’s office. Can you please arrange for a cab to take us there?”

“I’m sorry, son. There’s only one cab here any more ‘cause a the gas rationing and parts shortage, but if you can wait about ten minutes, Floyd’ll be going out that way on delivery. I’ll get him to take you out there.”

Floyd’s 1931 Ford pick-up was not only cramped with three men stuffed into the two man bench seat, but the heater didn’t work and the god awful smell of chicken shit was inescapable. On top of it, Floyd wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Or a hygienist. However, twenty-five minutes later Cowen and Lamberson were dropped off in front of the New York State Correctional Authority Headquarters, and were walking up the gravel path to the front door.

They walked through the cold, lifeless building and simultaneously came to the same conclusion. That if, after the war, they choose to remain in government service the Penal System is the last branch they would ever choose to serve in.

At the end of a long hall they were directed by a security guard to the Commissioner’s office. They introduced themselves to the secretary and were told in no uncertain terms that no one saw the Commissioner without an appointment. After several failed attempts to explain to the secretary that the Commissioner had been notified by the Pentagon of their coming, Cowen had all the Albany hospitality he could stand.

“Let’s go.” He signalled the Ensign and they by-passed the receptionist-secretary-aspiring bureaucrat and started for the Commissioner’s door. The spindly, middle-aged brunette trailed behind them through the door and into the office, spewing protests. Once inside the room, they wasted no time and went straight for the Commissioner’s desk.       

Commissioner Lyons looked up from his work when he heard the commotion, and sat back in his chair. The officers were already standing in front of the Commissioner’s desk by the time the fat guard seated to his right had time to drop the pen knife he was using to clean his nails.

“Sir we understand you were notified of our arrival?”

“Yes I was. That’s alright Jane. Thank you.” He dismissed the frustrated woman and turned his attention back towards the two officers.

“Do navy officers always barge into high government officials' offices, Captain?”

“The rank is Lieutenant Commander, Commissioner Lyons, and Washington would like to know if you are refusing to accept a Top Secret message sent to you?” Lyons wasn’t sure how to react. Whatever it was the two officers brought, he had been told through his grapevine that it was coming and that he probably wouldn't like it.

“What is it you want?” Cowen reached into his jacket pocket and produced the small envelope and handed it to Lyons. The Commissioner accepted it, and without reading it placed it in his desk drawer.

“Sir, by order of the Department of the Navy you are to open it in our presence.” In his short time in this billet, Ensign Lamberson had never heard the Commander speak in a more commanding tone of voice. “And then return it to us.”

Lyons’ face clearly registered his anger as he opened and read the classified document. He was incensed and wanted only to expedite the officers on their return journey as quickly as possible.

“I’m a god-damned former police inspector. I worked in New York City risking my life for half my career! I was appointed by the Governor himself! And now some god-damned Navy guy gets to tell me what to do with my prisoners! Son-of-a-bitch!!”

Cowen and Lamberson fought back their smiles not out of any kind of respect, there was none, but out of the military discipline they had been taught by men whom they did respect.

Cowen held his hand out and Lyons threw the message on the desk. Lamberson moved a gilded ashtray from one corner of the Commissioner’s desk and Cowen lit the piece of magnesium impregnated paper with a match and dropped it into the ashtray.

“You bastard! That’s my Governor’s award for exemplary performance!”

“Sorry sir. It looked like an ashtray to me.” Lamberson said with no trace of sincerity.

“Sir you’re required to answer to the Third Naval District Headquarters within twenty-four hours and you are cautioned against revealing the contents of this message to anyone. Thank you. Sir.”

“Get the hell outta my office! I mean right now god-damn it!” Lyons was on his feet as was the guard with the clean nails. Cowen and Lamberson walked out the door and once in the hallway, clear of the secretary, Lamberson questioned Cowen.

“Suppose we should have asked him for a ride back to town?” Cowen snickered

“C’mon. Let’s find Floyd.”

 

***

 

Doc was up an hour before Louie and so cleaned up, made coffee and went straight back to work on some diagrams. He’d been using the technique of flow charts ever since he happened to read about their application to any given problem in Science Illustrated magazine about five years ago. So why not, he reasoned, apply them to detective work? The thing that kept eating away at him was that he couldn’t come up with any plausible theory as to why the D. A. would meet with someone as high up the chain as Meyer Lansky. There could be many reasons, theoretically, but the fact that he was trying so hard not to be seen could only mean one of two things.

He didn’t have Hogan’s okay on the deal, or if he did, Hogan wanted it under wraps as well, which could only mean it wasn’t legitimate. That was the part Doc was interested in.

Everyone on the D. A.’s staff disliked if not hated men in Doc’s profession. Partially because they were more trusted on the street than the D. A.’s and their investigators. Of course it never occurred to the D. A.’s that the P. I’s didn’t have a corporate styled political ladder to climb and so could go wherever the case took them. If they didn’t perform they didn’t get paid. In addition, the D. A.’s, professional success was measured by how many convictions they have to their credit. Sorta like RBI’s in baseball Doc always figured.

However, to compound matters, beyond their dislike of P. I.’s the D. A.'s had a special hatred for Doc McKeowen ever since the fatal incident involving his father. And Doc remained ever vigilant to any crack in their defences so that he might one day demonstrate the feelings were mutual.

Doc decided Louie had enough time to sleep off his biannual dose of hard liquor and so woke him at about half past nine. Louie fought but lost the battle to remain in bed and a half hour later they were in a mid-town restaurant finishing breakfast and preparing for the day’s events.

“So what the hell’s at the library Doc? We gonna sit around reading all day?”

“Hopefully not all day Louie. But I think if we look in the right place we could improve our battin’ average a little.”

“Well, the Silver Clipper ain’t got nuthin’ ta worry about that's for sure. What the hell we lookin’ for anyway Doc?”

“Not a clue Louie. Not a clue” Doc paid the waitress and they walked the four blocks to Bryant Park and entered the 42nd Street branch Public Library on the Fifth Avenue side. The two men were forced to detour into the street for a short way as there was a large crew of steel workers replacing a twenty foot section of wrought iron fencing.

“We’ll check the records here first then shoot over to the Times Building this afternoon.” Doc explained as they climbed the granite stairs. Doc watched Louie rubber necking as they entered the foyer.

“You've never been to a library, have you?”

“Yeah sure. All the time.”

“You ever check anything out other than the librarians?”

“You mean you can take these books home?” Louie knew Doc was angling to give him a lesson and he wasn’t disappointed. After a fifteen minute introduction to the card catalogue, Louie learned about periodicals.

“The advantage of periodicals is they can supplement your research because they contain information that’s not included in things that are on microfiche. Few other investigators use the library. If they don’t find it in the newspapers or in the public records, they usually give up. That’s where you can get a leg up. Got it?” Louie didn’t respond. “Well, any questions?”

“Yeah! What the hell’s a microfinch?”

“A very small bird. C’mon.” Five minutes later Louie was an expert at locating, inserting and scanning microfiche film. Each of them took a booth and several canisters of film.

Louie went to work on the New York Daily News and Doc took the Times. Doc instructed his partner to take notes on anything to do with the D. A.’s office starting back two months before Pearl Harbor. Two and a half hours later he was snapped out of a mesmerising tedium when Louie suddenly yelled out.

“Incredible!”          

“What? What’d ya find?”

“This lady, in Saskatchewan, not only gave birth to triplets that lived, but all three of them were broached! That’s amazing!”

“Am I gonna have ta go back over all your work and check for myself? What the hell good are you here Louie?”

“Doc! I got all the D. A. shit! There just ain’t that much of it! It’s all shoved aside for the war news. The Japs doin’ this and the Russians doin’ that! Hell all I came across was about ten articles havin’ anything ta do with Hogan’s office.”

“Yeah, you got a point I guess.” Doc set his pencil down and rubbed his eyes. “Hell most interesting thing I found was George M. Cohan’s funeral and the Normandie thing.”

“Yeah I read that too.” Louie sat back and yawned. “They sure stepped on that story.” Doc looked at Louie while digesting the offhand remark.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, one day it’s front page news all over the world, next day there’s one paragraph on page two or three, and then, the story vanishes. Like it never happened. But she’s still sittin' out there, like a beached whale.”

“Ya know what struck me funny? The API reports the eye witness, Eddy Sullivan, saw the fire start from the welder’s torch. But nobody ever mentions the welder, where he is, what he was doing or who he is. And to top it off, the papers all said Eddy Sullivan’s a carpenter. There’s no wood anywhere near that part of the promenade deck. What the heck was a carpenter doin’ there?”

“Doc, I’m startin’ ta smell the same thing you are.”  

“What’s that Louie?”

“Not a clue Doc, not a clue. But there jad to be a reason for that D. A. goin’ into Third Naval District Headquarters yesterday.” McKeowen sat back in his chair and gave a tilted nod to Mancino.

“Louie! I take back almost everything I ever said about you! Let’s copy all the Normandie stuff, the rest of the D. A. stuff and get some lunch. I think you might have something!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

 

Murray Gurfein was not a happy D. A. as he stepped off the passenger train onto platform 12 at Penn Station. The cold damp air was scant relief after two and a half days travel roundtrip to Albany. He had been sent there by Hogan in an attempt to avert a head banging contest between the City and the State.

Hogan deduced Lyons was not over the moon about cooperating with the Navy and their little venture, and was attempting to force the issue back onto the New York City D. A. Hogan was getting tired of being tangled up with the F.B.I., the U.S.N. and now the State Correctional Facilities Office and wanted out of the net.

To cover his own ass Lyons sent a memo requesting “firm” backing from the N.Y.C. D. A.'s office. So rather than post a letter, even a certified letter, Hogan thought it more prudent to send a representative and, since Gurfein was already in the middle of it, Hogan volunteered him for the mission.

Commissioner Lyons was none to happy about this counter strategy and, to show his deep appreciation, he sent Gurfein back with a laundry list of restrictions to be given to the Navy before he would consent to their little adventure. In this manner he was able to assure himself he hadn’t lost any authority, and was able to keep the D. A. in the game for insurance against any future accusations of wrong-doing.

Gurfein cursed the cold. Then he cursed the baggage handlers for not being able to find his luggage. Then decided to go into the station and look for Hogan. The D. A. expected his arrival and cabled the hotel in Albany that he would meet Gurfein at the Whistle Stop, a coffee shop in the main concourse of the station.

As Gurfein walked towards the cafe, weaving through the crowd with the intermittent blasts of the public address system echoing through the terminal, he wondered at the complexity of the civilian chain of command, and how much trouble it was to get anything done in the tangle of bureaucracy. At this level everyone had their own agendas, and before anything was allowed past them, they had to asses it in terms of its value to them.

In the military chain on the other hand, at least outside of D. C., something was ordered done, and it was done. Next task, thank you very much.

“Murray!” It was Hogan. He was sitting at a table outside the cafe waving at Gurfein.

“How was the trip?”

“Complete shit! Next silly question.”

“Speakin’ of shit, you look terrible! You okay?”

“Thanks for the update, boss. Look these clowns can’t find my luggage, so let’s get this over with. You can take off and I’ll catch a cab back to the apartment.”

“Yeah, sure. Look, don’t bother coming in today. Take the rest of the day off.” Gurfein had no intention of coming back in anyway. On the other hand Hogan didn’t give him the day off out of the kindness of his heart. Hogan did it because he wanted the rest of the day to asses the situation after he talked to his underling. Also he knew Gurfein would be useless to him for the rest of the day anyway.

“Talk to me about Lyons.”

“Well for starters . . . ” Just as Gurfein began to speak a waitress interrupted them. Hogan ordered two regular coffees and the girl disappeared through the maze of tables.

“For starters, Sing Sing’s a no go.”

“Why for god’s sake? It’s maximum security and it’s real close.”

“That’s probably the reason. He wants it perfectly understood we’re on his turf.”

“Is that the feeling you got from him?”

“No. That’s the words I got from him.”

“Did he say that?” Hogan was shocked.

“Verbatum. Next issue. It’s probably going to be Great Meadows.”

“Hell, that’s ten to twelve hours from here!”

“For us. For him it’s right up the road. Less than two hours from Albany. He wants us on a short leash.” Gurfein had hours to consider these possibilities sitting alone on the way back to the City.

“You don’t think it’s just a matter of keeping a low profile up there?”

“C’mon! Which of the four high security prisons is less high profile than the rest? They’re all the same. Besides that ain’t all.”

“I can hardly wait for the rest.”

“All visitors will be required to give twenty-four hours advanced notice of arrival, and on arrival register with proper identification.”

“That’s standard for any prison.”

“And all visitors will be required to be fingerprinted.”

“That I’d like to see.” Hogan rearranged his chair, crossed his legs and folded his hands behind his head. “I told Haffenden he was pissin’ in the wind.” Gurfein took a long drink of coffee.

“That ain’t the whole shootin’ match.”

“There’s more?”

“As I left, he called his secretary in. There was no one else in the hall, so . . . ”

“So like a good little D. A. you eavesdropped.”

“I took my time putting my coat on. Lyons calls the Warden at Great Meadows, fills him in and then tells him he’s gonna get a memo. He’s to keep track of everything and everybody, and send it all back to Lyons. The same day. They’re gonna set up a special courier system. Nobody’s to know about this except him and Childs.”

“Who’s Childs?”

“Warden at Great Meadows.”

“Why the hell does he want all that the same day? It’s all gonna be in the register anyway?”

“Apparently he don’t trust the register.” Hogan finished his coffee, had a short think about what to do and came to a conclusion.

“Well Murray, ya done good, thank you. But I’ll tell ya what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna dump this back in Haffenden’s lap, and bow outta the spy business. We’ve wasted enough resources. Time, money and worst of all it’s gonna be months before we get another phone tap on a suspected racketeering charge, unless we’ve got photographs of them committing the crime.”

“What happened?”

“I got called into chambers yesterday. Judge Puzo is not amused that after two months we got nothing from Lanza’s phone tap. He rescinded the order and lectured me about the basic right to privacy.”

“Puzo lectured you on privacy? That’s like a politician lecturing a hooker on ethics!” Gurfein finished his coffee and after standing up, told Hogan he’d be in early tomorrow. They parted company and Hogan headed for the main exit.

Gurfein rode a cab back to his mid-town apartment cursing the baggage manager who informed him it would be a day or so before they located his bags, which had inadvertently been put back on the train to Albany.

Gurfein vowed never again to curse a baggage handler. At least not out loud.

 

***

 

The weary, middle aged warden slumped in his chair behind his desk and was annoyed that he had to yell twice before the senior guard responded and came into his office.

“Where the hell you been? You think I got nuthin’ ta do but wait on messengers! Get this god-damned notice to 92168 now!” The senior guard of the Clinton State Penitentiary figured he had too many years in grade to run messages, especially to scum bags like 92168.

He took the piece of paper from the warden, said yes sir in a smart, obedient tone and exited the office. It was only a matter of minutes before an unsuspecting younger prison guard crossed his path and was handed the message with the explanation, “I’m too old ta go lookin’ fer this fuckin’ bum. Go find him and see that he gets this!”

The young guard immediately recognised the well known number and started off through the huge maze of halls and chambers. From the elevated structure which housed the warden’s office down into the exercise yard, the guard made his way through the general population and into the wood shop. No one had seen the sought after inmate, and if they had they wouldn’t have gone out of their way to tell the rookie screw. Down through cell block D into cell block B and across the north yard he searched for the prisoner he might one day tell his grandchildren about having met.

Twenty minutes after the guard’s hunt began, it ended in the laundry. Amidst the noise and humidity of the huge tumble dryers, the messenger found the man he sought.

“MR. LUCIANO! EXCUSE ME, MR. LUCIANO!” He was compelled to yell over the loud thrashing of the laundry machines. The inmate turned slowly and the pock marked face with the droopy right eye stared back at the errand boy. Removing his work gloves Luciano took the message and read it.

“Well whata ya know?” Despite the fact he was a native Sicilian, and spoke the lingo perfectly, his English was characterised by the dialect of the neighborhoods of the Lower East Side where he grew up.

The next morning Lucky was packed two hours ahead of schedule.

“Hey Lucky. What’s the skinny?” His cell mate was surprised to see him preparing to leave.  

“My guys finally fixed it fer me ta get moved down state.”

“Not bad, Charlie! Help ya get a handle back on the operations!”

“Dats da general idear.” Lucky cinched the ropes on the dark blue, canvas bag, threw it over his shoulder and reported to the cell block chief at nine on the nose.

He was escorted to the yard under armed guard, and rumors ran rabid throughout the prison. The stories ranged from expensive lawyers having paid a judge, to key witnesses having recanted their testimony.

Lucky was surprised to see six other inmates preparing to be transferred along with him. Surprised but not suspicious.

“Okay scumbags, dump ‘em!”

The prisoners were obliged to empty their bags into the dirt, and wait for a guard to rummage through their belongings. Weapons were the primary concern. Money or anything of value the guards thought they could get away with stealing, the prisoners hid on their bodies. This was a safe strategy, pat-downs were rare.

The guards conducting the search were the two who would make the trip with the prisoners. The younger one stood in front of Luciano, and looked down at his still full bag. He then stared nervously at the older guard making his way from the other end of the line.

“Lucky, ya gotta empty your bag!”

“I ain’t dumpin’ my stuff in the dirt kid.”

“But you’ll get my ass in sling!” The guard pleaded. Lucky looked at the kid, and shook his head. He bent over lifted the bag and opened it wide.

“Here, stick ya hand in there and wiggle it around.” The kid was reluctant, but the other guard was only two prisoners away.

“Go on kid. I ain’t got nuthin’ in there anyway. Anything I want I can get down state.” The guard complied and then quickly ordered the men on his side of the line to repack their bags and mount the bus.

Roll was taken before they boarded, and again a half hour later as they went through the gate while the bottom of the bus was being searched. Finally, nearly an hour after the line up, they were on the road.

The seven prisoners were huddled in the middle seats of the vehicle, with one of the two guards brandishing a 12 gauge pump at each end of the bus. The only excitement for the first four hours was when the guards occasionally swapped positions.

Lucky figured the ride would be about eighteen hours which meant at least two stops for, fuel and toilets. Food was stored in the back of the bus, and the fat, senior guard was already rooting through the packages liberating the cookies from the lunch boxes.

As there was no highway system, the roads were very rough and the trip wore on through a seemingly endless mass of mountainous terrain. The heater in the bus hadn’t been serviced for years, and threw off just enough heat to remind the men they were cold.

At about six hours into the trip the fat guard stood and walked to the front of the bus. He pushed the young guard aside, and looked at the prisoners, shot gun on his hip, in his best Gary Cooper pose.

“We’re coming up on halfway. We ‘re gonna pull over, get gas and then one by one you pieces a shit can get out and take a leak. Don’t nobody move till I say so.”  They pulled over and he got off the bus followed by the young guard who stationed himself next to the driver's seat at the door.

“Hey Lucky!” It was the small guy across the aisle. “Thought you said ‘bout eighteen hours?”

“Somethin’s fishy.” Lucky muttered as he kept looking around through the windows. The big guy in the last seat offered his contribution.

“Lucky, I’ll tell ya somethin’ else. These hills ain’t gettin’ no smaller. If we was goin’ down state, it’d be gettin’ more flat like.”

Lucky began to wonder what the plan was.

“Porky Pig ain’t gonna tell us nuthin’.” Small guy offered.

“I’ll see what I can find out.” Lucky assured the rest of the crew.

After twenty minutes of Porky playing footsie with the even fatter female cashier in the gas station the men were allowed off the bus one at a time until it was Lucky’s turn.

The kid stood facing Charlie with his shotgun at high port as Charlie faced the woodline, back to the kid, and pretended to take a leak.

“Hey kid. Where the hell we headed anyway?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to you guys!” He looked around nervously as he spoke. Porky Pig was in the back again, stuffing his face with a Baby Ruth.

“C’mon kid. Nobody’s gonna lock ya up! We’re gonna find out anyways. What’s the deal?”

“For some reason the Warden’s really pissed off!”

“I like it already! Keep goin’.”

“These other guys are a cover. You were supposed to be the only guy transferred.”

“What?” Lucky twisted around to look at the kid. The bus driver climbed back onto the bus and into his seat.

“C’mon Mr. Luciano! Porky’s gonna get pissed!”

“Youse call him that too?” The fat guard finished his second Baby Ruth and banged on the window.

“Everybody calls him that, even the Warden. Let’s go.” The kid moved away and Lucky took his time pretending to do up his trousers.

“So how long to Sing Sing?” Lucky asked as they mounted the bus.

“We ain’t goin’ ta Sing Sing.” The kid followed him back to his seat and leaned forward. “This bus is goin’ to Great Meadows at Comstock.” The kid whispered back. Lucky hesitated a step, and then continued to sit.

Late that night, in the yard of his new home at Comstock, Lucky stood with the other six prisoners. Powerful flood lights allowed the new guards to search the prisoner’s bags one more time. They stood in the cold for another twenty minutes until the head guard came out and gave them the usual welcoming speech.

Short guy said he could tell right away that it was the head guard, because the knees on his trousers were wore out. He must have whispered a little to loudly because his crack earned him a punch in the kidney with a rifle butt. Eventually they were shown to their cells.

Lucky thought it unusual that the Warden hadn’t asked to see him yet. The Warden’s welcome speech was always good for a chuckle. It was pretty much the same spiel as the guard’s, and although he had only been in two different prisons, both in the last twenty four hours, Lucky had heard that all Wardens' speeches were identical. They must come down from the top. However, because of his notoriety, Luciano knew he would receive a special welcome.

A few days later Lucky’s wait was over. He was summoned to the Warden's chambers. The guards escorted him to a room, but it wasn’t the Warden’s office. To add to his sense of curiosity, he was left alone in the room, without a guard. He had never heard of that before, anywhere. So he waited.

Luciano’s claim to fame was that he is generally accredited with putting the 'organised' in organised crime. Prior to his arrival in the food chain, criminals were more or less congregated in large gangs, spread across the country, mostly east of the Mississippi. Luciano’s younger, more Americanized gangsters replaced the “Moustache Petes”, as the old traditional Sicilianos were derogatorily known. These older types fought national syndication until Luciano, who fully understood the financial benefits of the American corporate structure, reorganised the “Mob” into the Siciliano Unione. He accomplished this by downsizing the Mafia on September 11, 1931 in an organized, simultaneous execution of approximately forty non-cooperating rival members. It would take nearly two decades before the FBI linked the murders.

After about fifteen minutes the door opened and despite all the things he had been through, Luciano was awe-struck. Falling back into his chair, his mouth dropped open and for one of the few times in his life, Salvatore Lucania was speechless. Meyer Lansky chaperoned by Moses Polakoff entered the room.

Polakoff gave a cursory greeting and moved to a far corner. After a few minutes the boss regained his composure and stood with a smile on his face.

“What the hell are you two guys doin’ here?”

“We got somethin’ ta talk to ya about. Somethin’ big.” Lansky was there to do the talking. Polakoff was there as one of the concessions to Commissioner Lyons.

“Hold it! Why ain’t there no guards wit you two?”

“You’re gonna love this! Not allowed!” Lansky backhanded Lucky’s shoulder as he gave him the unique news.

“Whata you kiddin’ me or what?” There were only two chairs in the room, so Meyer knocked on the door, and told the guard to bring another. A few minutes later the disgruntled guard returned with a chair.

“So what’s the story?” Lucky pressed Meyer.

After catching up on current events in the City, Lansky explained to Lucky about the Navy’s operation and Socks Lanza’s involvement to date. Particularly the details about having limited influence and bringing suspicion on himself by working with the Navy. Haffenden was only mentioned as the Commander, and the operation was never mentioned outright.

Even though Meyer Lansky was a Russian Jew, his Sicilian was very good compliments of Lucky and their younger days east of the Bowery. They switched back and forth between languages, partially to talk about things in regard to the Unione operations and their current status, and partially to see how far they could push Polakoff.

After Lucky was completely briefed about the Navy’s request, he sat back and folded his arms.

“There’s just one thing I gotta know.”

“What’s that?” Polakoff finally spoke.

“There’s a deportation order out on me ta go back ta Sicily. If these clowns decide they don’t want me here no more, and the Fascists win the war, that means I’ll be executed. Especially if they find out I been helpin’ youse guys!”

Polakoff didn’t give a damn one way or the other. In fact he didn’t understand why Lucky used the phrase, “helping youse guys.” He would only be helping the Navy. What Polokoff failed to understand, as did everyone on the D.A.'s side of the case, was that Lucky had learned to think like them. There were no “innocent bystanders” when it came to the government. Different circus, same clowns.

“Lucky we were told absolutely no deals. You’re still in for the full sentence. No parole, no help, that’s it.” Polokoff explained.

“I’m not askin’ for a deal. I’ll do it for my adopted country. I hate that shit hole I came from, you know that. All I’m askin’ is that we keep dis ding strictly under wraps!”

“You think the United States Navy is in a hurry for the American public to find out they’re workin’ with organised crime?! Don’t worry about it.” Polakoff reassured Lucky.

“Yeah, wouldn’t look to good the government dealin’ with a crook, huh? Somebody might get the wrong idear.” Meyer added. He and Lucky laughed, Polakoff didn't.

“Alright look. Send Joey Socks up here, I’ll tell him what needs done. And Meyer, spread the word fer them to lay offa Joey. Tell them he was doin’ it fer me in the first place.”

“That’ll mean a lot, Charlie.” Luciano now switched back to Sicilian.

“And tell him don’t worry. He ain’t gonna get indicted. Anything else?” Lansky smiled and nodded. He answered back in Lucky’s native tongue.

“Things went alright on Bank Street.” He relayed to the Boss.

“Primo.”

The first of many meetings was over.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

 

Doc eventually called Nikki and after he beat around the bush for a while, she came out from behind her defences and they agreed on to a date. It was arranged they would meet at Doc’s office that evening around seven and go from there.

Nikki tipped the cab driver and with a puzzled look on her face entered Harry’s. Doc had only given her an address, and so she didn’t understand why she was now in a candy store, an unattended one at that.

“Excuse me . . . hello. Anyone here?” She called out a second time but only heard the muffled lyrics of I Don’t Get Around Much Anymore emanating softly from a radio sitting camouflaged somewhere on a shelf.  Other then that, there were no signs of life.

She ventured closer to the centre of the shop just as Harry finished removing his wooden leg and sat up from behind the counter.

Nikki screamed when a grizzled old man suddenly appeared between the candy bars and potato chips and Harry, no hearing her come in, was obliged to return the greeting. After a few minutes calm prevailed and heart rates returned to normal, they struck up a conversation.

“YOU MUST BE NIKKI!” Harry yelled loudly.

“YOU MUST BE HARRY” She shouted back. “NICE TO MEET YOU.”

“LIKEWISE.” They shook hands over the Hershey bars. “WHERE CAN I FIND DOC?”

“UPSTAIRS. THIRD FLOOR ON THE LEFT.”

“THANK YOU HARRY. NICE TO HAVE MET YOU.”

“LIKEWISE MA’AM.” As she passed through the door to go upstairs, Harry shook his head. “Pretty girl. Shame about her hearing.”

On the third floor Nikki found the office door open, knocked gently and let herself in.

“Doc, you here?” Louie came out from behind the partition.

“Nikki Cole?” Louie was finishing off a quart of Breyer’s cherry vanilla ice cream, on break from his studies.

“Hi. Louie?” She extended her hand.

“Louie, Louie Mancino. Doc’ll be right back. Have a seat.”

She thanked Louie but declined the chair and looked with interest at the items scattered around the room. She began to form her first real impressions of Doc when her eyes fell on the bullet holes which marked the wall adjoining the front door.

“Termites, huh?”

“Ahh, yeah.” Louie answered with false pride.

“What happened?” Nikki asked staring at Louie. He walked over to his table, sat back in his chair, and put his feet up. Louie soaked it for all it was worth.

“Just some guys, tryin’ ta get tough. It happens.”

“Anyone hurt?” Nikki couldn’t help but wonder what she might be letting herself in for.

“Nah.” Louie detected uneasiness and sought to change the subject. “So, you work for the Feds?”

“I’m a receptionist.” She wandered over to the trophies on the shelf. The photo of the brunette was lying face down. Louie became nervous, and suddenly wished Doc would show up. He winced to himself as Nikki stood the picture upright.

“Who’s this?” A cascade of possible answers flooded Louie’s mind. Doc’s sister, his mother-in-law, his ex-business partner.

“Janet. An old girlfriend named Janet.” He blurted out. Dodged the bullet on that one, Louie thought.

“M-A-R-Y. Tell me. Where you come from how do they spell bullshitter? L-O-U-I-E” Louie winced again.

“She’s his ex.” He said resignedly. “Only don’t tell him I told huh? He needs ta tell ya himself. She kicked him in the head a pretty good one.”

“What happened?” Louie hesitated to answer.

“I really don’t feel too good talkin’ about Doc’s personal stuff an all.” She sensed his discomfort and didn’t push it, but in the end womanly curiosity won out.

“Word of honor Louie. Won’t breath a word of it.” Louie adjusted his posture and decided to give Nikki the Reader’s Digest version of Doc’s marriage.

“No deep dark secrets. It was a mixed marriage that didn’t work out.”

“Howd'a ya mean mixed?”

“Conflicting gods. Different religions. Her’s were green with little pictures of presidents on them, his were non-tangereenneable.” Nikki looked at him quizzically.

“Non-tangereeenable?”

“Yeah, you know. Things that can't be touched.” Louie was proud of his five dollar word.

“Okay. What was it?

“Loyalty. He took that ‘Till death do us part’ stuff seriously.”

“And she thought it was just words? I’m beginning ta get the picture.” Nikki knew how hard it was to be forced apart. To not have any control over losing your spouse.

Her attention turned to the photo of the man with the black ribbon taped to the upper right hand corner of the frame. She noted the name on the trophies were all the same, McKeowen.

“This Doc’s father?” Louie was determined not to discuss Doc’s Dad with her.

“Yeah, he was. Nuthin’ personal. That’s Doc’s territory.” She noticed the memorial plaque and the black framed obituary column. As she began to read the article foot steps echoed in the hall.

Nikki turned to look over her shoulder as Doc came in. Louie shook his hand and gave the thumbs up to Doc.

Nikki looked stunning. Doc had not realized how striking her natural good looks really were at the reception desk on Church Street. He was preoccupied with her sharp wit.

Although she wore a nondescript, dark green dress with shoulder pads, and her auburn hair in a Page Boy, Doc immediately realised, she really could give Lauren Becall a run for her money. Her steel blue eyes sparkled when she smiled.

Doc changed out of his bomber jacket into a sports coat and when he emerged from behind the partition Louie smirked and Nikki shook her head back and forth. Doc conceded to the consensus of opinion and changed back into the jacket and his dark blue Negro League baseball cap. Louie went up behind Doc as he and Nikki were leaving.

“Compliment the dress!” Louie whispered in Doc’s ear.

“Thanks mom.” Doc whispered back.

Downstairs Harry yelled good night to the couple and Nikki yelled back. Doc stared at the two of them as if they had a screw loose and as soon as they were outside he spoke to Nikki.

“What the hell was that?”

“Oh, Louie was nice enough to tip me off about Harry bein’ in the war an all.”

“Harry lost his leg in the war!” Doc informed her still confused.

“Yeah I know. Louie told me. That and how working around the artillery made him lose his hearing. He should get benefits for that or something, ya know!”

“Harry was in the Signal Corps! Not artil . . . ” He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. He understood and then wondered what Louie told Harry about Nikki. Little prick.

“What?” Nikki asked.

“Nuthin’, ferget it. Where do you wanna eat?”

“I don’t know. But I’m starvin’! I didn’t have time for lunch.”

“We could have something light, see a movie and then go to dinner?” Doc suggested. “Casablanca just broke at the Loew’s.”

“Took the words right outta my mouth! Where to?” They began to walk across town towards the Loew’s Theatre on 14th Street and planned on a sandwich before the show.

“Unusual weather we're havin', ain't it? So the paper said.” Nikki sought to break the ice and ease into the awkward part of the date where the boy and girl feel compelled to talk about . . . nothing.

“The weather guy on NBC said we’re due for a blizzard in the next few days.” Doc returned the volley.          

“So, what are some of your favorite movies Mr. P. I.? I suppose you go in fer those detective stories and whodunnits?” Nikki said teasingly.

“I hate those things. Hats, trench coats. Always goin’ around hiden’ in the shadows. Damn picture always crooked on the screen. Looks like the camera guy is drunk or somethin’. And another thing I don’t get. Where do they get off shootin’ all those guns off all over the place like Randolph Scott or somethin’? I tell ya, wish I could find a six shooter with ten shots!” Doc snickered at his last remark. Nikki was amused at his passionate film review.

“So how do you really feel?”

“I don’t carry a gun. They get people hurt.” Nikki stopped laughing and thought about the photo.

“How ‘bout you? Whatta you like?”

“I just saw in Cat People a little while back. Very different! I liked it.” Doc hadn’t gone to see it because it sounded a little too artsy. Not exactly off to a flyin’ start, he thought.

“Pride Of The Yankees! There’s a movie ta get yer blood up, huh?” He tried again. Nikki hadn’t seen that one. She thought it looked a little too sappy. Not off to a good start, she thought.

“Tortilla Flats? ” Nikki tried again.

“Steinbeck! The best.” Doc’s favorite writer.

“No, that was Spencer Tracy and Hedy Lamarr!”

“Oh! A comedian huh?” They both relaxed a little more and the subject came around to comedy and comic films. Doc was pleased that Nikki liked the Marx Brothers and Nikki was pleased when Doc said that he liked Chaplin. They laughed and relaxed even more as they entered a pizza parlor on East Twelfth and both agreed that Now Voyager was probably the worst film either had ever seen.

“Buona sera Eddie. Due slice e due coke, si prega di.” Doc spoke to the man behind the counter in the white tee shirt and apron, and they took a table in the back.

“I’m impressed!” Nikki told Doc as they waited for their order. “Have you been to Italy?”

“Hell I hardly been outta New York. My mother was from Palermo. Came over before the last war.”

“Maybe after the war you’ll get ta take a trip over?”

“I’d like that.” The slices came and after they had eaten Nikki began to talk again.

“That was sweet what you did for the Birnbaums.”

“They’re good people. We should live so long.”

“Do you think about how long you’ll live?”

“I try not to. I don’t think I wanna know the answer.”

“What you do is dangerous, isn’t it?”

“Not really.” Nikki gave him that would-you-tell-me-even-if-it-were-look. Doc reassured her. “No really! It’s rare someone pulls a gun or a knife. Mostly we tail people, find things out. I’ve only had one murder case.”

“Did'ja solve it?” Nikki asked with genuine enthusiasm. Doc looked at her eyes and smiled.   

“No. Not yet.” There was a pause in the conversation and it became apparent to Doc that Nikki was mustering courage to broach a subject.

“Can I ask you something Doc?”

“Sure what is it?”

“What happened to your Dad? I mean what really happened?”

This was completely unexpected, Doc had to adjust.

“I read about it in the papers last year, and when I saw the photo in your office I couldn’t believe it was the same guy.”

“You think my father sold drugs to prostitutes?!” Doc asked in an irritated tone.

“I don’t know . . . no!” Nikki was gripped with a sudden sensation of awkwardness. “Oh hell Doc! When it was all over the papers no one could believe a senior cop could do somethin’ like that, but there’s some pretty crooked cops ya know? And now that I’ve met you . . . hell, I don’t know what I think.” Nikki slid down in her seat with a sense of deep regret at having surrendered to her curiosity.

Doc tried to remain patient, and for some reason felt that maybe it was time to come clean. To finally talk about this thing and maybe get it off his chest.

“My father was a great cop. But a lousy politician. He could never understand how the D. A. and the higher ups could know about the drug houses and the guys who ran them, and let them walk around in the open as if they were common decent citizens. He’d been working on this idea for a bunch of cops who would train just to go after the drug guys. Ya know talk to stoolies, stake out the houses get all the info they could. Then start takin’ them out one by one until it was too expensive for them to operate.”

“That’s a helluva idea Doc. Did they do it?”

“He pushed like hell, and it got through the chief okay, but when it got to the D. A.'s they stepped on it. He fought back and the upshot was that if they could prove themselves the D. A. would think about backing them. Well it just so happened that they were planning a raid that week. Word leaked to the department that there was a house where they stored large quantities of heroin, and that except for one or two torpedoes standin' guard at a certain time, it was wide open.”

“That was the place on East 34th?”

“Yeah. So they get there, everyone knew my dad would go in first. So it was him and a guy named Russo as back up. Everyone else surrounded the house. And that was it. Like the papers said, over two hundred bullet holes, two cops killed and the drug guys got away.”

“What about the heroin?”

“Wasn’t any. Never was. It was a set up ta show the city that the idea of flat foot, beat cops forming raiding squads was stupid and dangerous.”

“What makes you think it was a set up?”

“The word came down that the hide-out would only be lightly armed. Two hundred bullet holes ain’t exactly lightly armed. The D. A. just happened to show on the scene. The D. A. has no business anywhere near a raid scene, ever. Unless he’s got some kinda personal stake in it. Then the give away. No drugs anywhere. I went back in the next night. Spent the entire night searching for anything that might show there were drugs there at one time. Nuthin’, clean as a whistle.”

“They set that up just to kill your father?”

“No, not really. That was just an added bonus.”

“So why the hell was the D. A. so against this drug fighting squad idea?”

“The fastest pipeline to the governor’s office is the D. A.'s office. But you need backing. Backing from the right people, and the right people’s money. If this raid squad of my father’s caught on, the profit margin would be drastically reduced and these 'right people' would only be able to drink champagne and eat caviar five times a week instead of seven. Know what I mean?”

Nikki reached across the table and took Doc’s hand. “Jesus Doc, That’s a pretty deep hole. Sorry about bringing it up.”

“It’s okay. I’m glad ya did. I haven’t really talked about it with anyone and it was kinda eatin’ me up inside.”

“Not even Louie?”

“No. But, thta night when I asked him to break into the house with me he didn’t hesitate for a second.”

“I like him. Kinda reminds me of Lou Costello.” They both laughed. “Please don’t tell him I said that!” Doc glanced at his watch.

“We’d better get over there.” The walk to the theatre was only five minutes but the wait was unsually long. They took their place in line, and as it slowly moved forward Nikki held Doc’s arm and spoke to him.

“So, it's our first date and we’re going to church.” She said.

“What?”

“Church, we’re going to church. When I was a little girl we only went to the movies on Sunday afternoon. I always felt like going to the movies was a lot like going to church.”

“How so?”

“The cinema is the new house of worship.” She had Doc's attention as she suddenll assumed a documentarian's voice. “The congregation gathers. They pay to go in and hear the sermon, only they do it at the door instead of later. The holy Eucharist of popcorn, kept in it’s sacred pyx, is doled out to the faithful as they enter to hear the blessed words of the high priests and priestesses upon the pulpit of the silver screen.” Doc listened and realized that for the first time in two years, he was relaxed in the company of a woman.

“You’re wired to the moon, ya know that?” Doc wasn’t sure if she was always prone to flights of fancy. He hoped she was “And another thing! What’s with the vocabulary? What the hell is a pyx?”

“It’s the place where the Eucharist is kept. I used to be a librarian. Then I was a secretary for a lawyer. Did you know that there are over 80,000 words in the English language? And did you further know that the average person only uses 40,000 of those words?”

“I’ll try to watch my language, Mrs. Webster.” The couple in front of them were having an argument, and Nikki looked at the ticket booth and began to laugh. She pointed to the small shade pulled down in the window which read “Sold Out”.

“The Lido on 8th Street?” Doc offered.

“Lead the way, benevolent bellwether.”

“Remind me to never play Scrabble with you.” Ten minutes later the couple had checked the movie times at the Lido and went into a nearby coffee shop to pass the twenty-five minutes till show time. Doc again placed the order and sat down.

“So, fair’s fair.” Nikki offered.

“How do you mean?”

“You told me about your Dad and it was very polite of you not to ask who Bill was, so . . . ”

“He’s your ex-husband.”

“You know?!”

“I do now.” Doc felt bad that he surprised her. “But you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Nikki smled and sat back.

“Bill saw the war coming as soon as the fighting started in China. He’d give me daily reports and predictions.”

“Were they accurate?”

“Too accurate. That’s when I started getting scared. I knew he was caught up in it. There was no way I’d pull him back. Finally one day he sent me flowers at work and took me out to dinner. I don’t remember a thing. The restaurant, what we ate. I felt like I was eating with a condemned man. It was all I could do to keep from running out of the room screaming. I didn’t hear half of what he said that night, something about talking to some flying buddies.”  

She had to look away as she continued. “One of them started up a volunteer fighter wing and got it hired out to the Chinese government.”

“The Flying Tigers?!”

“Yeah. I knew I’d never see him again.” Nikki was beginning to tell the story in short bursts. As if to get it over with as soon as possible. Doc reached across the table and took her by the hand.

“You should be proud, damn proud. Those guys are genuine heroes. Saved a lotta lives.”

“They said he died a hero, what ever the hell that means. Doesn’t make it any easier, ya know?”

“I’m sure you had some wonderful experiences together.”

“Yeah, experience.” Sarcasm tainted her voice. “That’s what ya get when you don’t get what you want.” Tears welled in her eyes.

“We should change the subject.” Doc suggested. There was an uncomfortable pause and Doc had nightmares of a Norma Birnbaum replay. Nikki saw her pain in his eyes and broke the silence.

“How ‘bout that Stan ‘The Man’ Musial huh? Hitting a 315 so far!” Nikki tried to smile as a tear rolled down her cheek. Doc had to think of something fast.

“DiMaggio’s gonna give him a run for his money.” Is the best he could do.

“OH MY GAWD!” The words booming from the front of the small eatery pierced Doc’s ears like steel needles. The entire restaurant turned in unison to see the overweight middle aged woman with the dress two sizes too small, dripping cheap costume jewellery like an over decorated Christmas tree.

“NIKKI! HOW AWE YOU? It’s so good ta see ya!!” Shopping bags crumpled and plastic beads rattled as she waddled up the aisle. Despite the emotional poignancy of the last five minutes Doc had to keep from laughing out loud.

Making a bee line for the table, Blanch dropped the shopping bags without regard to blocking the aisle and smothered Nikki in over animated hugs and kisses.

“I been worried about you sweetheart! How ya been? And hoose dis guy?” Her over painted lips smiled and looked like a bad Valentines Day advertisement as she spoke in rapid bursts.

“Hello Blanch. This is Doc McKeown, a friend of mine. Doc this is Blanch, my mother-in . . . Bill’s mom.” Jesus! Doc thought. This must be a test!

“Hello Blanch, nice to make your acquaintance.” Doc was on his best behaviour.

“An Irish Doctor! Yaw doin’ aw rite fer ya self!” Blanch said to Nikki via the entire restaurant. Doc sighed and showed better sense than to try and get a word in. “I been wonderin’ what you been up to! When ya gonna come up fer dinner? Bring the Doctor!”

“I will Blanch, I promise.”

“We will Blanch, promise, crossour heart, hope ta die.” Doc added. Nikki was feeling relief from her emotional anxiety. It felt good to be with Doc.

“Be sure you do! Don’t make me come and find youse two!” Blanch threatened with one of the sausages emanating from the palm of her hand.

“Night Blanch.” Blanch started to waddle away. Nikki and Doc were exchanging smiles when Blanch once again appeared in front of them.

“And you tell me if you need me ta baby sit! She’s my grandchild too ya know!”

“I will Blanch. I promise.” Doc made the Scout’s honor sign and Nikki laughed into her hand as Blanch went off to argue with a man in a suit tripping over shopping bags at the front door.

“That was Hurricane Blanch.”

“She marked her territory.” Doc pointed to her cheek and Nikki took out her compact and looked at the lipstick marks on her face in embarrassment and began to clean them off.

“Hadn’t we better get to the show?” Nikki asked.

“No.”

“No? No because you don’t want to, no because it’s not time or no because you’re havin’ too much fun?”

“Yes.”

“C’mon, quit horsin’ around.”

“Yes because I don’t want to. Yes I'm having a good time and yes because it’s not time, it’s past time.”

“What do you mean, ‘past time’?”

“Aside from Blanch, I’ve got some more bad news. It’s twenty after. We missed the start of the show.” Nikki shook her head and smiled.

“I guess we’ll just have to keep talkin’ then. Won’t we?”

“I still owe you a dinner. We could go and eat.”

“I’m full. Next time we’ll go straight to dinner than the movie.” Next time? That’s encouraging. The words involuntarily jumped into Doc’s head.

“But I sure would enjoy an egg cream right about now.” Nikki suggested.

Nearly an hour later the couple were walking back towards Nikki’s house on Mercer Street. The evening had turned cold but not intolerable. Neither of the two noticed the outside temperature anyway.

“Was it always you and Louie?”

“No. Not always.” Doc’s reluctance to discuss details was emphasised by his silence.

“Well? Was there anybody else?”

“No baby, you’re the first!”

“Hmm, doesn’t want to talk about it. Must be a juicy story there!” Thirty seconds earlier Doc was determined not to talk about his ex-partner. However Nikki’s infectious smile melted his barriers like a laser beam.

“Sammon. There was a fella named Sammon.”

“Gut! Ve are makink progress Herr McKeowen. But I zinc ve vill need to keep talkink and perrrhaps a nother session.”

 “You’re not saving anything for the second date, are you?” Doc became infected with her smile.

“Don’t get over optimistic, cowboy!”

“Sammon came in with me about three years ago. I didn’t know it but he had a backer. Some joker from upstate who had money to invest. They came to an arrangement and about a month later he took off with all the top clients.”

“Well they couldn’t have been very good clients if they all just up and left.”

“Well they didn’t, not really. He told them I wasn’t doing so good and that he did most of the work anyway so he was ‘striking out on his own’. The few who were reluctant to leave he told I slept with a client’s daughter and that it was only a matter of time before the lawsuit started up.”

“Nice guy! Can you do anything about it?”

“Yeah, but I’d wind up in jail.”

“I mean a lawsuit!”

“It’s an option, but takes loads a dough. Five maybe ten grand for a sure win. The more you have the better your chances of coming out on top. Messed up the business pretty good.”

“Jees Doc, I’m sorry I asked.”

“No problem. No more questions about the past, okay?”

“Okay. What’s Louie’s story?”

“If you’re not a cop you missed a helluva an opportunity, you know that?”

“Sorry Doc. Just naturally nosey I guess. We don’t have to talk about anything else.”

After a short walk they arrived at Nikki’s apartment and Doc walked her to the front door. Neither one wanted the evening to end.

“I had a great time tonight. I can’t remember when I enjoyed not having dinner and a not seeing a movie so much.” Nikki spoke first. Doc remained mesmerised by her crystal blue eyes.

“Do your eyes hurt?”

“No. Why?”

“Cause they’re killin’ me!” Nikki leaned her head towards Doc and closed her eyes. Doc was on cue. He thought how sweet her lips tasted as he felt the heat of her body through her clothes.

Nikki was lost in the moment as well, but was suddenly snapped out of the thrill of the experience when she began to hiccup. First one then two or three at a time. She was embarrassed and knew she had to make it a short good-bye.

“I’d like to see . . . hic . . . you again . . . hic . . . Doc.” She spoke rapidly trying to make her words dodge the hiccups.

“You would huh?”

“Yes, if that’s okay with you, . . . hic . . . investigator.” Doc turned without answering and walked down the stairs, ball cap cocked back with his hands in his pockets.

“Don’t get over optimistic. Cowgirl.” He said over his shoulder. Nikki stood in the doorway and watched Doc walk down the side walk. Halfway down the block, without turning around Doc called back to Nikki.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I know you will!” Nikki called back to Doc. She saw his shoulders shake as he laughed.

Nikki went through the door into the vestibule and Mrs. Paluso opened her window to look down on the porch and investigate the racket.

Walking up Mercer Street Doc was pleased by his change of fortune in the last few weeks. He felt like he could stand on his own two feet again and take on anything they could throw at him without wavering. Good thing too, because he was about to get his chance.

Turning the corner on Prince Street he saw a man in a dress suit and a heavy overcoat approaching him head on. In a coordinated movement, a second man, who was similarly dressed, moved towards Doc from between two parked cars. The second man obviously came from the other side of the street and was reaching into his breast pocket. Watching both men at the same time, Doc stopped where he was and adjusted his ball cap. Stopping just in front of him, both men produced bifold identity wallets with strange looking badges. Ones Doc had never seen before.

“You Doc McKeowen?” The one directly in front of him was the taller of the two and it was he who spoke first.

“My friends call me Doc. You can call me Mr. McKeowen.”

The two men gave no further clue as to who they were and it was much too dark to read the photo cards the men flashed.

“We’d like to talk to you, about an item belongs to us.”

“If you know who I am then you know where I work. Office hours are nine to five. Call my secretary, she’ll try’n squeeze you in.” Doc pushed past the tall one and was fully prepared for his clumsy attempt at restraint.

As he put his hand on Doc's left shoulder Doc grabbed his hand and spun towards his assailant pushing his arm upwards to expose his back. By the time the man’s knees hit the pavement Doc had administered three or four kidney punches. When he released the former tough guy to engage his second assailant, the limp body fell forward and smashed face-first into the pavement, blood flowing from his nose and mouth.

Doc back peddled and pushed over a row of garbage cans to slow the second opponent. However, he was not prepared for the third man emerging from the shadows of the alley to his left.

“Oh good! Now we can play bridge.” The words no sooner left Doc’s mouth when he saw the third man reaching into his breast pocket. Probably not for his I. D. Doc figured.

Picking up a trash can lid Doc was able to ward off several punches from the second man. As the man rubbed his sore fist Doc connected with several square hits to the face using the garbage can lid. The man slumped to the ground and McKeowen bear hugged him in case the third man beat him to the draw and fired.

On the way down Doc struggled with the second man’s shoulder holster and without withdrawing .38 special the weapon was able to get a hold it. Rolling onto his right side he emptied three rounds at the third man deliberately missing him, but saving the last three rounds in case he didn’t get the message. He did. Doc watched as the man ran serpentine up Prince Street, holding his hat down and vanished onto West Broadway.

Doc lay there in between the two unconscious men breathing heavily, eyes wide open and unaware his face was bleeding from the cheek and forehead. After what felt like an eternity he lowered the pistol and rolled onto his back holding his head.

God-damned perfect ending to a perfect evening. Jesus! Nikki, tell me you don’t have any brothers!”

Doc was shaken and, as he rolled over and rose to his knees he realized he was in pain. He grabbed his right shoulder in agony and watched as blood dripped from his cheek and jaw onto the guy's overcoat.

Walking on his knees to mystery man number two Doc emptied the guy’s pockets. He did the same for the other would be attacker and came up with a second .38 special, two Treasury agent I. D.’s, two sets of house and car keys and over $1200 in cash.

“Chirst! I’m in the wrong racket!” Doc was pleased with his night’s wages. He stuffed his pockets with the items, took a handkerchief from one of the unconscious men and held it to his bleeding cheek. Picking up his ball cap Doc stood up and began to limp away, until he glanced into the alley and smiled at some discarded wine bottles on the ground.

A few minutes later, after crossing West Broadway, Doc ran into a cop walking the night beat.

“Excuse me officer. I think there’s something strange going on in the alley over on Prince Street, just before Wooster. You might wanna take a look.”

“What happened to your face pal?” The officer asked sympathetically.

“Cut myself shaving.”

McKeowen continued towards Christopher Street, and when the cop found the two men a short time later, locked in a passionate embrace, smelling of cheap wine and both holding empty wine bottles, he immediately went to the police call box on the corner and rang for the Paddy Wagon.

By the time Doc reached Christopher Street Harry was cleaning up and was surprised to see him come through the front door.

“Evenin’ Doc. How was your . . . man oh man! She musta said no!” Doc still held the hanky to his cheek trying to stop the bleeding. With a wince he reached into his pocket and produced the newly acquired bank roll. Peeling away a fifty and laying it on the counter he asked Harry if Redbone was still around.

“Yeah I think so. He was just locking up about ten minutes ago.”

“Do me a favor will ya? Have him run around to Jimmy’s and get me a bottle of Jameson’s. You guys split the change. Deal?” Harry looked down at the fifty.

“Hell Doc! Deal!” Doc went upstairs and fifteen minutes later Harry, Redbone and Doc were in the office having a late night baptism.

“Well you gonna tell us what happened or do we have ta drink it outta ya?” Harry finally broached the subject of Doc’s injuries. McKeowen didn’t answer but reached into his pockets and emptied them onto the desk. Redbone and Harry stared in disbelief.

“Damn Doc! I thought you was the muggee not the mugger!” Redbone was the first to give his impression. Harry leaned forward and looked more closely. He looked at Doc then picked a fifty out of the roll crumpled it up, tore it in half and then held it up to the light. as everyone watched he then pulled a cigarette lighter out of his pocket and lit the note on fire and watched it burn.

“Damn Harry! That mustard gas shit finally gettin’ ta you man?” Redbone had only seen pictures of fifty dollar bills.

“Doc, that fifty you give me come outta this bank roll?” Harry asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I think your credit just ran out at Jimmy’s.”

“What the hell you talkin’ about?”

“This dough is phoney.” Doc sat back and slowly smiled. Redbone downed his drink, sat back in his chair and offered his assessment of the situation.

“Sumbitch!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

 

There’s little mystery why authors such as James Fennimore Cooper and Washington Irving choose the mountainous terrain of up state New York as the locale for their classic legends. The spectacular cliffs, magnificent water falls and plush forests combine to create a fairy tale landscape.

The breath-taking scenery however, was completely lost on the official messenger cautiously making his way by motorbike through the frozen mud of the winding mountain roads. Intermittent towns and villages offered the only relief from the unpaved roads, and the icy drizzle which began to gently fall, greatly hampered the likelihood of his reaching his destination before dark.

An hour after dusk, mammoth court yard spotlights reflected the mud splattered 1939 Indian and frozen rider as they pulled in through the twin steel doors guarding the main gate of Great Meadows Prison. A short time later a sealed, plain manilla envelope was pulled from one of the brown leather saddle bags and handed to Medford T. Childs.

Warden Childs was a third generation correctional facility employee, and Southern Baptist. In the unlikely event a prisoner assigned to his prison had any doubts about whose playground they were in, Childs considered it his “God appointed” duty to take any and all remedial measures.

“Lawson!” Childs called out. One of Childs’ many rules was that an armed guard would be posted to him twenty-four hours a day regardless of where he was. His wife wasn’t very fond of this rule, but what the hell, they had been in separate beds for nearly twelve years. Lawson entered the office.

“Yes sir?”

“I got us a couple new memos here from the Coo-missiona’. Says here one of ‘em, dat we’s no longa allowed ta give solitary for more than thuty days at a time. Take note.”

“Yes sir.”

“From now on solitary will be thuty days on, one day off, followed by thuty days on.”

“Sounds fair to me sir.”

“Get me that Luciano fella up here, and close da doo. Don’t let nobody in here til I’s finished.”

“Yes sir.” Lawson left to find Lucky and Childs opened the red envelope which was also contained in the delivery. It was a follow up memo to the one he received only a few days prior instructing him that Luciano would be permitted visitors other than those usually allowed. However this memo was more direct.

 

Dated: 6 March, 1942

 

To: Warden Medford T. Childs             

From: Commissioner of Prisons, John A. Lyons

 

Warden Childs, you are hereby directed to obtain, in a discreet a manner, the names of all persons who make contact with the prisoner known as Luciano. You will then, via special courier, send me said names, dates and times of visits. If you have any questions please contact my office.

 

Childs filed the memo in a locked file cabinet drawer and sat back in an uneasy frame of mind to wait for Luciano.

It was supper time so Lawson knew right where to find Lucky, and as he entered the large noisy dining hall, he headed for the front of the room, and made his way to the centre of one of the thirty-two seat dinner tables. Lawson spoke in a general manner, avoiding eye contact, despite the fact he stood directly in front of the head of the Unione.

“Luciano, you are requested to report to the Warden’s office.” Following his announcement, Lawson moved to the centre aisle to wait for his charge. Lucky took his time finishing his food, as several other inmates seized the moment.           

“How the hell is a man gonna get his nutrition if you Screws keep on interuptin’ us durin’ meal time?”

“Hey errand boy, go tell Childs Mr. Luciano is utterwise occupied dinin’ wit his esteemed entourage.” In a matter of seconds everyone at the table was involved to one extent or another in the growing rukus. Two shotgun toting guards patrolling the overhead catwalk closed in towards the disturbance.

There was never any real threat of trouble. The inmates were simply practising the time honoured tradition of harassing the guards.

Lucky moved as slow as he could and still be considered in motion, to give his crew maximum exposure time at the guard, and as he pushed away from the table he overheard a muffled conversation in progress, to his immediate right. A slight built inmate was talking to another.

The man spoke softly, but in the lulls of the harangue party occurring around him Luciano's ear picked up the words, “secret meeting”.

By way of attracting his attention, Lucky made eye contact with a man at the end of the table whose nose pointed in several directions at once. Lucky nodded to the covert conversation, the nose nodded back and Lucky accompanied Lawson to the exit door.

Upstairs in the warden’s office, Lucky sat in front of the desk listening to Childs while he was told, for the second time since his arrival, that his status in gangland meant absolutely nothing at Great Meadows, and Lucky had better get used to it.

Medford T. Childs was attempting the well known intimidation tactic. He may as well have asked Adolf Hitler to synagogue.

Lucky got his name after being discovered by Staten Island police late one afternoon, staggering down a roadway severely beaten and bleeding. His nickname as well as his droopy right eyelid were a result of having been one of the few known individuals to have survived a gangland “ride”. The authorities knew who he was when they found him and, after two days of grilling, he couldn’t be intimidated by the police into telling them who had done it.

What chance did Childs have?

“And let’s get one more thing perfectly clear Mr. Luckiano, I won’t stand for any trouble in dis here prison! I don’t want no problems!” Childs’ melodramatic presentation was interrupted by a knock on his door.

“Come in!” It was Lawson. “What is it?”

“Sir we have a problem.” Childs glanced at Lucky.

“What kind of a problem?”

“There’s a party here to visit the prisoner, but they won’t comply with the visitor’s regulations.”

“You got any friends that don’t make trouble Luckiano?!”

 Five minutes later Childs was downstairs in the visitors area consulting with his supervising guard while sporadically staring through the thick glass of the monitoring booth at the three would be visitors. The guard explained the source of the problem. Staring back at the warden were Polakoff, Lansky and Lanza, all three with cigarettes hanging from their mouths.

“Send the lawyer up to my office.” Childs instructed the guard.

Unfortunately for Medford on inviting Polakoff to his office he failed to take into account how annoyed Polakoff was by the forty-five minute wait he had already endured, was haunted by the late night drive back to the City, and was now being told he had to go to the warden’s office just to get permission to see his ex-client for which he was being paid absolutely nothing. When he was invited to sit down in front of the warden’s desk, Polakoff refused and considered the mandatory invite the last straw.

“Now look here Childs! I been a lawyer a helluva lot longer than you been a prison warden, and I don’t give a damn about your excuses!”

“Mr. Pole-acoff, I am truly apologetic about your dee-lay. However, we have polocies in place foo your protection.” Childs’ response reflected a demeanour which was as transparent as it was comical.

“Bullshit! Understand one thing Childs. I and my guests are gonna get in to see Luciano, and we’re gonna do it tonight and we’re gonna do it without you getting our fingerprints! And you can take that to the bank, god-damn it!!” Polakoff surprised himself with his own outburst and walked across the room to sit down. Then watched as warden Childs placed a phone call on his private line.

Lansky and Lanza were still in the waiting area and working on their second pack of smokes. The two were increasingly uncomfortable spending so much time in a prison and although neither one wanted to say it, both toyed with the idea that it might be a set up.

Polakoff could not be sure of who the call was to, but he listened attentively to the short conversation.

“Is he in your office now?” The voice on the other end of the line enquired.

“Yes sir, he is.” Polakoff knew instantly, it was Childs’ boss. The warden was talking to Commissioner Lyons. After being told by the D.A. that everything had been arranged, the lawyer could only sit and stare in disbelief.

Unknown to Polakoff everything had been arranged. Or so Lyons led everyone to believe. Lyons calculated that if he were going to be strong-armed into playing this high stakes game of allowing high profiled criminals to visit the boss of the high profiled criminals, he had no intention of entering into it without a trump card. He wanted a name on which to hang blame when the day came. And Polakoff was as good as any.

“Tell him we’ll wave the fingerprints but not the register. Tell him he has to sign in and out, and he will be required to accompany all visitors from now on. And he takes full responsibility for their actions. Any other questions?”

“No sir. I’ll make it all perfectly clear to him.”

Childs terminated his conversation with Lyons and proceeded to top off Polakoff’s evening by making “it” all perfectly clear. As he spoke in a regimented, bureaucratic tone, Polakoff resolved to make something perfectly clear to the New York City District Attorney when he returned down state, in the morning.

Around half past eleven that evening they finally got to talk to Lucky, but there was not much time before they had to leave, so a date was set for another visit in a few days.

Earlier that day Lyons considered drawing up a list of organised crime members he would forbid from coming to see Lucky. Number one on that list was to have been Meyer Lansky. That’s when the future founders of the international drug cartel got their next lucky break. Lyons abandoned the black list idea.

 

***

 

Socks reached across his desk and picked up the phone on the second ring.

“Watchman’s Protective.”

“Hello Socks. How’s tricks?” Lanza was unpleasantly surprised by the voice on the other end of the line.

“Commander! What can I do for you?”

“Just wonderin’ how ya been since our last meeting.”

“Fer Christ sakes Commander, keep it ta yer self will ya?! We got friends on the line!”

“Not any more Socks. We took care of that. But there is something you and I need to take care of.” The Commander’s voice was laced with an unnerving calm.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“I understand you had a little visit to Comstock?” The silent pause on Lanza’s end confirmed Haffenden’s intelligence.

“I was invited ta see the Boss. What the hell, I ain’t seen him since he went up. Dat’s six years ago. Don’t bust my chops.”

“I’m not bustin’ ya Socks. I just need ta know where ya stand. You told me you wanted out, next thing you’re going upstate with Polakoff to see Lucky.”

How the hell did Haffenden know I went upstate? Did the prison guys tell him? Or maybe it was Polakoff? Socks recalled that Lucky sent word that he was not going down for his impending indictment, and regained his confidence.

“Look, Commander, I said I was out and I am. Gimme a break will ya?”

“Just checking in Socks. You will let me know if you hear anything. Won’t ya?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, Commander.” Socks mockingly added.

“Nice talking to you Socks. Say hi to the rest of the family.”

 

***

 

On this particular morning, people who would normally seek to avoid J. Edgar

Hoover in the course of their daily routine, sought him out. He gave a record number of

project approvals that day, returned greetings and even spoke politely to Rollins. At least

at first.

“Mr. Rollins, would you please come into my office?” Hoover requested as he passed Rollins in the hallway. Rollins followed him into the office and Hoover closed the door and settled in behind his desk.

“Has the New York report arrived yet?”

“No sir, not yet. The courier won’t be in until six o’clock this evening.”

The report Hoover was referring to detailed the apprehension of two German spies. The arrest of the enemy agents was unrelated to Commander Haffenden’s operation and so would give Hoover no break in that direction.

The element that was responsible for his chipper morning attitude however, was the high profiled, high speed pursuit through Times Square by his agents prior to the arrest.

There were no shots fired, no private property damaged and no one was injured. The Germans simply surrendered when they saw they were surrounded.

The newspapers consumed the story with their predictable vim and vigour, and it was the impending positive press J. Edgar savored. He wanted to thumbprint the report before forwarding it to Jackson or the Joint Chiefs, and he would award the agents a special commendation, personally.

“As soon as it arrives find me, I’ll be in the building. Sign for it yourself. Also prepare me a flight for day after tomorrow. I want a press conference at the award ceremony in New York. Make sure all the national dailies are there too.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem sir.”

“I’m gonna push those three commendations through the chain so . . . ”

“Four sir!”

“What?”

“There were four agents directly involved in the arrests. Not three.”

“Better yet! Anyway take care of the details.”

“Already started prep’ing the paper work this morning sir. The forms will be ready to fill out by eleven.”

“Good. Now tell me what you found.” Hoover prepared himself for more good news.

“Found sir?” Rollins braced himself, as he tried to stall.

“Yes found! On the Bridges affair!”

“Oh! The Bridges affair! Of course sir. I didn’t understand at first.” Hoover gave Rollins that what-the-hell-are-you-waiting-for look. “From which agency? Sir?” Hoover stared at Rollins wondering if the man still understood the English language.

“You didn’t do it, didja? I told you to make some calls and you were afraid so you didn’t do it!” The old J. Edgar slowly began to emerge.

“Well, I did do it sir. But . . . there were some unexpected snags.”

“What ‘snags’? Either you made the calls or you didn’t! Either you found something or you didn’t! This ain’t the god-damned Shadow Rollins!! I don’t know what evil lurks in the hearts of man! Did you find something yes or no?”

“Well . . . yes . . . and no, sir.” Rollins crossed his legs as if to protect himself.

“Your’re PISSIN’ ME OFF!!” Several silhouettes could be seen in the hallway through the frosted glass of the office door, milling about as if there was another reason besides listening to Hoover unload on Rollins for being there. “If you people can’t find work, I’LL DAMN WELL FIND SOME FOR YOU!!” The silhouettes vanished and J. Edgar turned back to Rollins. “Talk to me!”

“Sir. I contacted all the agencies you directed.” Rollins sought desperately to maintain damage control. “Starting with the New York City District Attorney’s office. They said they would not release any information to anyone in the Department Of Transportation except the director. Next I found the representative for California and I called his office in the name of the FBI. They told me the representative was unavailable for comment. Then later, when I called back under a different auspices, the records clerk told me they had no record on file concerning a complaint from a Harry Bridges.”

Rollins could see the wheels turning in Hoover’s head. “In desperation, I even called the American Communist Party headquarters in San Francisco to talk to Harry Bridges. Do you know what they told me, sir?”

“Pray tell what, Ollie?”

“Sir, they told me that Mr. Bridges had never been to New York. That his district was only in northern California! It’s as if it never happened. Now how about that?” Hoover fell back into his high backed chair.

”Shit!” There was somebody else in the game! After an uncomfortable pause, J. Edgar rested his folded elbows on the desk and brought his hands in front of his face. He spoke to Rollins in a calm, controlled voice.

“You did good Rollins. You did real good. Sorry about jumping on you. You understand, sometimes I’m under a lot of pressure. What with the war on and all.”

“Yes sir.” Rollins was shocked by the metamorphosis. “I understand. Is there anything else?” Rollins sought exploit the window of opportunity, and escape.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Get me those numbers for the people you called before you go.” In his mind, Rollins was already out the door. “I assume I don’t have to tell you, this never happened.”

“What never happened, sir?” Two and a half minutes later Hoover’s secretary came into his office and handed him a sheet of paper with the names, numbers and locations of the pertinent people involved in the covert investigation that half of Washington and most of Brooklyn knew about. He would place the calls himself to verify Rollins’ information.

J. Edgar didn’t know it, but he was about to have a bad phone day.    

CHAPTER TWENTY

 

 

“At this very moment we have the most extensive network of anti-espionage agents ever assembled in the history of the bureau. They are combing the city to thwart any all anti-American activity where ever it might arise.” Hoover took an appropriate pause to allow a fresh wave of excited applause to erupt. He was speaking in a small auditorium of the New York Headquarters of the FBI to an audience of agents, civilian employees, press and a hodge podge of local politicians who were riding the shirt-tails of the recent FBI success. The cadence of the delivery in his speech was well rehearsed.

“The efforts of these four, heroic agents is only the tip of the FBI iceberg. There are untold numbers of agents working the streets ‘round the clock so that you, your loved ones and the rest of America can sleep in peace.” More frenzied applause.

It was March the ninth. Exactly one month to the day of the burning of the Normandie and the numbers of operators on the streets were no where near what he wanted his newspaper and radio audiences to believe. Ironically though, the numbers were far greater than he knew.

“Before I present the awards to these brave men, I’d just like to say how great it is to be back in your great city.” The applause were now wildly out of control and never really died down until J. Edgar concluded his remarks about New York.

“And I hope while I am here I get a chance to see if Central Park really has gone to the birds.” Hoover smiled and the crowd looked puzzled, then slowly began to applaud.

“What the hell does that mean?” A reporter in the back of the room leaned over to a colleague and asked.

“The little guy's attempt at humor, I guess.” Came the bedazzled reply.

Hoover presented the commendations to the four agents, each got a chance to say how happy he was to be working with the FBI and, fifteen minutes later, the mutual admirations continued in a small reception room across the hall from the auditorium.

The following hour and a half was an annoyance to Hoover, but not completely unsatisfying. He enjoyed the attention and the opportunity to espouse the untold merits of himself and his organization. However, by the second hour, the gathering had deteriorated into a flesh pressing session. After considering several reasons to excuse himself, he explained to his body guards that he wanted a breath of air and stepped out into the afternoon daylight.

It seemed colder than last month when he was in New York and he was compelled to do up his top coat and raise his collar. Looking up into the grey afternoon sky Hoover sensed a feeling of restlessness in the air.

After a few minutes the body guards found him standing in the doorway of the building and asked if he was okay. Hoover replied that he felt like a little walk and would meet them back at the seventh floor suites in an hour or so. The agents left and headed back to the room at the Astor.

J. Edgar took a walk, for about two minutes. Or more precisely, the time it took him to walk around the corner to Second Avenue and hail a cab.

“Central Park. Near the zoo.” Hoover had now transitioned to a clandestine frame of mind and so was brief and to the point when instructing the taxi driver.

“So whatta ya think ‘bout Brooklyn?” Hoover had already opened his window part way to allow the cab driver’s cigar smoke to filter out. As the unshaven middle-aged man attempted to make small talk, Hoover became irritated.

“I don’t follow baseball.” The driver missed the hint.

“Iz dat right? Myself, I couldn’t make it tru da week witout da local scores. My wife . . . you married Mac?”

“Central Park, and skip the chit chat!”

“Okay! Don’t get defensive fella. Just tryin’ ta make conversation!”

“Don’t!” Hoover incensed the taxi driver who for the next ten blocks continually glanced in the rear view mirror attempting, in vane, to place the face staring back at him. Finally, after ten puzzled minutes, he realized who he had in his cab.

“Hey! I know you!” Hoover stared back at the mirror. “You’re that writer guy with the column for the forlorn lovers in da Times!” Hoover made no response. “Ain’t that right? C’mon! You can tell me! Jees! Wait till Gladys hears about this!!”

The Transverse Roads crossing Central Park from east to west are numbered. Transverse Road Number One is the most southerly drive and connects East and West 65th and 66th Streets. Hoover instructed the driver to drop him on the east side of TR One.

For a man just out for a morning stroll, J. Edgar moved with a definite sense of purpose. There was no urgency in his stride, however he seemed to know exactly where he wanted to go. After a short walk down the gravel path, he reached his destination, tthe most well known zoo on the eastern seaboard.

The Victorian design of the Central Park Zoo attracted many visitors, but was relatively quiet that morning. As he strode through the turnstile of the entrance gate, a retiree volunteer worker yelled after him.

“Hey mister! That’ll be ten cents!” Hoover ignored him. Checking his watch he saw that he was ten minutes early for the twelve o’clock meet. Halfway down the path a policeman approached him from the rear and tapped him on the shoulder with his Billy club.

“What’s a matter Mac? You think you’re better’n everybody else, or you just can’t afford a dime?” Hoover turned around, and the patrolman knitted his brow in a signal of vague familiarity. Remaining silent, but flashing his small gold badge, Hoover detected no signs of the shock he expected to see on the officer’s face. The officer dutifly inspected the bifold identity, and decided it really was the head of the FBI, thanked him in a curt manner and walked away. Hoover thought again how much he hated this god-damned city.

Standing beneath the blue and gold umbrella of a hot dog cart, he paid the vendor for a hot dog and a soda and ate his early lunch as the Glockenspiel over the gate of the Children’s zoo chimed twelve o’clock. It was time and so he headed for the aviary.

The chief FBI agent’s comment about Central Park having gone to the birds meant nothing to the assembled crowd in the auditorium that morning. However, it wasn't a throw away line either. It had meant something to an individual down town listening to the radio broadcast of the awards. It offered the details of a meeting he had been waiting for all week long. At the conclusion of the broadcast, the individual switched off his radio and left to catch the subway north to the park. He had been listening to Hoover’s awards ceremony from his office.

His office at number ninety Church Street.

 

***

 

At half past eight that morning Shirley had received an urgent message via courier from the New York City D. A.’s office. It was for the Commanding Officer of the Intelligence branch. Hogan didn’t know about the Hotel Astor office and so sent the handwritten message to Church Street. It was short and to the point.

“M. P. out of game. Row with Prison people. States he desires no further contact with either of our offices’. Good luck. Hogan”

“Office of Moses Polakoff, attorney-at-law. How may I help you?”

“Mr. Polakoff please.”

“May I ask whose calling pa-lease?”

“Haffenden, Commander Haffenden, U. S. Navy.”

“One mo-oment pa-lease.” Haffenden hated this politicking bullshit. He didn’t give a damn if he ever made Captain, but the fact that the home defence front depended on his operation warranted him wooing Polakoff back into the game. After a short pause the secretary came back on the line.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Polakoff is not in at present. Would you like to call back at a later date?”

“Look sister! Here’s the skinny. You put your boss on the line pronto or in thirty minutes I’ll have more agents over there then Chinamen on Mott Street, savvy?”

“Please hold sir.” A moment later Polakoff came on the line.

“Who the hell is this?” He demanded.

“Mr. Polakoff, it’s Commander Haffenden. Sir it’s urgent that we . . . ”

“Urgent?! I’ll tell you what’s urgent! It’s urgent that you stop calling here, that’s what's urgent! And it’s even more urgent that you understand if you call me again or threaten me in any other way I’ll show you how I do business! We have nothing to discuss!!” Polakoff slammed the receiver onto the hook 

“Well that didn’t go as well as expected.” Haffenden spoke out loud to himself, replacing the receiver. Typical Monday morning. He began to realize what Hogan had been talking about.

Accustomed to patriotic cooperation by others, Haffenden had difficulty accepting the fact that his keystone operator just jumped ship. Worse yet, he realized that the entire operation was hanging by a slender thread just as funding was renewed and an increase in personnel was authorised.

He rose from his desk and made his way out of his office suite at the Astor, to the balcony of the mezzanine. He walked to the rail overlooking the lobby and racked his brain for an angle, some way to get Polakoff back in. What the hell was he going to tell MacFall? What the hell was MacFall going to tell Washington? “Thanks for risking your political careers on a shaky operation boys, but it fell apart.”

Haffenden held the message in his hand as he looked down and watched the hotel guests mill around in the lobby going about their business. A small group of businessmen exited the elevator, hung-over and wearing green paper hats, carrying small replicas of the Irish Flag. Eight days to Saint Patrick’s Day he thought to himself. Easy to lose track of time on this job.

He glanced at two of the Naval Intelligence agents stationed on sentry duty. Dressed in casual clothes they sat at a table in the corner of the lobby discussing baseball.  Haffenden checked his watch, nine forty-five, turned away from the balcony and went back into his office. Then a smile slowly made it’s way across his face as he remembered being told that Polakoff was a Navy veteran.

A few minutes later a bellhop informed the two agents that their room was ready, and they made their way to Haffenden’s office.

“Gentlemen, we have something of a crisis.” The two men stood in front of his desk as the Commander spoke in that calm but firm tone which had become the universal hallmark of a military leader addressing his troops in time of peril.

“You are to go to Church Street, they’ve been notified that you’re coming, go to the reception desk. There’ll be a manila envelope for you. On a separate piece of paper will be an address. Moses Polakoff, a lawyer, it’s his office. He leaves for lunch everyday between half past eleven and one. Follow him, call me immediately with the name and location of the restaurant.” The agents exchanged glances. “Do not open the folder. Do not let him see you and, if he hasn’t left by two o’clock, call in to me.”

“Here or Church Street, sir?”

“I’ll be here until you call. Questions?” Both agents shook their heads.

 

***

 

While J. Edgar Hoover was finishing his hot dog in the cold, surrounded by furry little animals, Moses Polakoff was finishing his prime rib lunch, in a warm, comfortable restaurant, surrounded by sharks.   

Eddie's Steak House, next to Saint Benedict’s on 53rd, was a popular place for mid-town lawyers to meet and bill their clients. Apparently Eddie was the only one to notice the irony of so many lawyers congregating so close to a church on a regular basis.

Commander Haffenden’s agent’s met him at a Greek fast food stand a half a block west on Ninth Avenue. One agent huddled across from Eddie’s, in a doorway, shivering and swaying back and forth to keep warm, while the second agent took his turn in the Greek place, warming up with coffee.

“What’s the story?” Haffenden asked by way of a greeting.

“He went in about an hour ago. Met with some other suits, probably lawyers. They had a drink, he ordered lunch and is eating alone. Goody is gonna give us the high sign when he’s done eatin’.”

“Good work.”

“Sir, if you don’t mind me askin’, what’s so special about an old lawyer?” The Commander looked at his agent and reasoned he would know about Polakoff’s critical relevance to the operation one way or the other.

“He’s the only way we can get into Great Meadows to contact Luciano. They want a lawyer with the visitors all the time.”

“Can’t we just get another lawyer?”

“It would take weeks to set up, the state people would fight us tooth and nail, and Luciano wouldn’t trust anybody else at this stage. I don’t think I would either.”

“I take that as a no.” Agent Goody waved from the doorway down the block.

“You want us to go in with you sir?” Haffenden took the manilla envelope from the agent.

“No. You two stay here and warm up. Eat your lunch and wait for me.”

“Any idea how long it’ll take?”

“If this morning is any indication, I’ll be back before your souvalaki gets cold.”

Polakoff had just flagged a waiter for the check when Haffenden approached him from behind and laid the sealed envelope on the table in front of him. I t was obvious it contained some sort of folder or official record, but the lawyer was too experienced to be taken off guard. He ignored the document.

“Looks like what we have here is a slow learner. I told the D. A. and I’m tellin’ you for the second time today! Take a walk!”

“Mr. Polakoff, all I want to do is talk.”

“Oh yeah. Near fifty years on the bar and I’ve never heard that line. C’mon Commander. Dig deeper.”

“I could have orders cut to reactivate you back into service.”

“Good luck! I’m way past the age limit and you know it!”

“They raised it for the duration of the war.” Polakoff narrowed his eyes and stared at Haffenden who had now taken a seat directly across the table from the him.

“Yeah and by the time the court case comes up the war’ll be over.” The waiter placed a small silver tray containing Polakoff’s bill on the table as he passed by.

“Look here Hafffenden. I’m a private citizen! You can’t just go around threatin’ people hopin’ ta get what you want by arm twistin’!” Haffenden readjusted his position and eyed the envelope to see if it elicited a reaction from the lawyer. Again no joy.

“Reactivating you, even to fly a desk, wouldn’t really be in the best interest of either one of us, Moses. Think of the good of the nation. The bad guys who are out there tryin’ ta sabotage the war effort. Think of the lives we . . . you could be saving!”

“You really are a slow learner, aren’t you? Apparently you forgot what I do for a living. Let me remind you. I argue. With some of the sharpest minds in the country. Your arguments are pathetic. There are a helluva lot more guys in Washington sabotaging the war effort than you’re ever gonna catch in this town, Buster.” Polakoff spoke like a man who wanted to get something off his chest. “All their bickering and self-serving interests! While patriotic young men are dying by the thousands. Don’t wave the flag at me!”

“Moses, the human angle?” Haffenden was losing ground faster than he thought possible.

“More bullshit! Not one single life has been lost that can be attributed to domestic enemy sabotage. The Normandie is a perfect example. Contradictory statements by eyewitnesses, conflicting reports in the press, a mysterious welder. Reports from the Navy, the Department of Transportation, the City and the D. A.'s office and what’s the upshot? 'Still under investigation'! You got no more idea what happened to her then you do Emilia Earhart fer Christ’s sake.” As he finished delivering his last salvo, Polakoff rose and began to put on his coat.

“Aren’t you curious about what’s in the envelope?”

“I could care less.” He picked up his brief case, took the check and turned to leave. Haffenden played his desperation card.

“Hey Moses!” Polakoff glanced over at Haffenden who remained sitting at the table. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“All that stuff about saving that kid from getting executed during the last war?” Polakoff hadn’t thought about that case for nearly a quarter of a century.

“What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”

“At one time you gave a damn about something.”

“You must’ve dug pretty deep to find out about that one, Commander.” Polakoff ignored the cashier as she attempted to hand him the change from his twenty. Instead he walked back over to the table, sat down and, without releasing his briefcase, or removing his coat, began to speak to Haffenden.

 

“They were gonna put that kid to death for something they knew he didn’t do! An eighteen year old boy, with a wife. A young man who volunteered to fight their war. But they needed a scapegoat to patch things up with some other clowns on the British side.”

“Is that when you resigned your commission?”

“That’s when I woke up.”

“Woke up?”

Polakoff leaned forward, one elbow on the table and spoke to Haffenden with a renewed intensity.

“You don’t remember the good old days Haffenden. Murder, robbery, extortion. All the crimes that made this country great. Now it’s drugs. In the arm, under the tongue, up the wazoo fer cryin’ out loud! It’s a fucking cancer! This country will never recover. It just means bigger, better and more heinous crimes. I’m glad I won’t be around to see it.”

“Are you suggesting that we’re helping usher in this new super crime wave you foresee?”

“No, not suggesting it at all. I’m saying it outright! What the hell do you think is going on up at Great Meadows? You think for a New-York-City-second those bums give two shits about you and your top secret operation? Those bastards have forgotten more about working both sides of the fence than you and I will ever know!” He sat back to take a breath, then continued the lecture. Haffenden was enamored with Polakoff’s passion.

“They’re not interested in helpin’ you unless it’s helpin’ them. They’re consolidating the Unione to strengthen and regain the control they lost when Lucky went up the river.” Haffenden was no dunce, certainly he had thought about this angle of the operation. He just didn’t think it was so obvious to those on the fringe.

“And as long as school’s out Satch, let me ask you this. You think there’s not gonna be a public outcry when the truth comes out about this operation? Heads will roll! The first Schmoe to stumble down the path who thinks it’s politically expedient to expose anyone involved in your little spy ring will be singin’ like Bing Crosby at a War Bonds concert! And he won’t give a rat’s ass about the nation’s best interest, whether it’s now or after the war. Lucky knows it’ll be your side to leak the news, and that means anybody with anything on him will be in trouble.” Both of the men sat quietly for a moment. Polakoff was embarrassed he had cursed so much. “That’s why I’m against this shit.” Haffenden sat in silence, considering his defeat. He needed final confirmation.

“I hate to pose the question Moses. But I have no choice. Does this mean you’re not going to help us?” Haffenden became conscious that his hand rested on the envelope and quietly let it slide off. He took a deep breath. A blank look came over his face and stared out the window.

“Do you know that boy’s mother wrote to me every month for the rest of her life. Cookies on my birthday too. How the hell did she know it was my birthday?”

“The New York Bar register.” Haffenden deduced.

“Huh! Son-of-a-bitch!” He released his brief case, sat forward in his chair and looked Haffenden in the eyes.  

“Alright, god-damn it! But there are some ground rules we’re gonna get straight first.”

“You have my undivided attention Mr. Polakoff.”

“First and foremost we get this visitor routine shit straightened out. Last time I was up there it was a freakin’ fiasco! I seen better organised riots fer cryin’out loud!”

“I’ll call DC this afternoon.”

“Lansky’s responsible for everything, not me. I'm strictly window dressing! Dorothy Lamour in a Road movie, get it? Along for the ride, nothing more.”

“Anything else?”

“I go up there once a week, no more. That trip is murder, especially in winter. That’s non-negotiable, I don’t care if the Nazis are landin' in Jersey! Are we in agreement?” Polakoff asked.

“Yes, Moses, we’re in agreement.” Polakoff stood, shook Haffenden’s hand and turned to walk away. Haffenden followed close behind and once out on the street Polakoff turned to Haffenden.

“Would you really have tried to reactivated me?” In the distance, a siren sliced through the thin, crisp air, and quickly faded.

“I wouldn’t have had a chance in hell. You’re way over the age limit.”

Moses smiled in appreciation of the tactic.

“Prick!

 

***

 

Owing to the drop in temperature the aviary was more quiet than usual. Hoover walked over to the trash basket to deposit his empty Coke bottle when he heard footsteps echoing through the bird house.

He looked at the man approaching him, and took a seat on a wooden bench facing a giant glass cage containing assorted birds of the great northwest. The man sat down next to him and removed his hat. It was treasury agent Johnson.

In an unusually subdued tone, Hoover opened the conversation.

“What’s going on?”

“The Navy’s got some kind of operation going. Not sure about the whole thing, or all the details.” Johnson was in league with Hoover, but only to an extent.

“What kind of operation? Information? Espionage stuff?”

“Like I said. None of our guys have the full dope.”

“Well is it local, national or what?”

“All we know at this point is they’re havin’ some kind of trouble, and the whole thing might collapse.”

“There’s gotta be some kinda paper trail. Records, something!”

“There’s a book. A little black book.”

“Tell me!”

“Apparently it has the names, dates and places of all the contacts associated with the operation.”

“And chain of custody is followed to the letter?”

“With these clowns? Figure the odds!”

“Can you get it?”

“I think so, yeah.” Johnson was hedging his bet. His men not only had the book, they had it hidden in a safe spot.

“I want that book!”

“Actually, I thought it would be safer to copy it and return it.” Johnson was considering his retirement benefits.

“No. Get it, copy it and stash it somewhere. This way we have leverage against them if there’s an investigation from another agency later on.” Johnson liked the sound of that and nodded his consent.

“Won’t they say something once it’s missing?”

“To who? The Boy Scouts?” Hoover asked sarcastically.

“Who knows you’re working for me?” Not knowing who in Washington knew about this mysterious operation, Hoover was exceptionally cautious.

“No one. There’s only three treasury guys at the third district and they all report to me. They know about the book, but have orders to keep quiet to everyone down town and to report to me if something looks fishy.”

“What about money for outside help or miscellaneous expenses?”

“We’re covered. We have our own sources.”

A small group of school children paraded through the aviary, holding hands and chatting away excitedly. The teacher directed the giddy children to the display in front of the two men, and began to lecture. Hoover and Johnson stood up.

“I want that item. By Friday!” Hoover reiterated.

“Friday’s not good.” He said apprehensively.

“Why the hell not?”

“It’s the thirteenth

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

 

 

It was just another Tuesday evening. In accordance with the new blackout rules one by one the lights were switched off on all forty-seven floors and the offices and hallways fell into darkness as the workers gradually filtered out of the East Side skyscraper.   

The Ludlow & Peabody Building in the Murray Hill District near the Public Library is at 10 East 40th St. Built in1928, the last year of unbridled prosperity before the Crash, it housed mainly corporate offices. It's brown stonework is topped with a beautiful cooper hip roof and rises 48 storeys to claim its place amongst the tightly packed chess pieces of the New York skyline.

As was his routine, the building superintendent stood in the lobby, locking and unlocking the door to accommodate the last of the sporadic flow of typists, secretaries and executives dribbling out of the building, ending another workday.

The head of maintenance strolled across the expansive marble floor towards the superintendent. He was accompanied by a young man in a dark blue uniform similar to the one worn by the two veteran employees. The red embroidery above his breast pocket identified him as belonging to to housekeeping.

“Henry, this is Jimmy. The union sent him over this afternoon.”

“What happened to Frank?”

“Beats me. They said he was transferred for personal reasons.”

“Personal reasons? He empties garbage cans fer fucks’ sake! What happened? He have a disagreement with a mop?”

“All I know is this is Jimmy. Jimmy this is Henry, the building Super, he'll help ya get your bearings. I'm outta here. TheYankee game starts in half an hour.”

“So, Jimmy. You got a union card or what?”

“Yeah. I got a union card. You want I should show it ta ya?”

“Yeah. If you would be so gracious as to indulge my wishes.” Jimmy produced the bona fide yellow, Building Maintenance Union card and in an apologetic tone Henry explained.

“Nuthin’ poisonal, you understand. It was just last week that a guy I used ta woik wit, who knows a guy that was married to a guy’s cousin seen dem FBI guys nab dem German spies. Ya know? So . . . ”

“I get ya drift Henry. No big deal. Just happy ta be workin’, know what I mean?”

“I know what ya mean! Cleanin' gear's in that closet over there, start on 45 and work ya way down.”

Jimmy collected his cleaning gear from the mop closet and headed for the elevators. Henry sat down at the reception desk, tuned in the radio and waited for the Yankees game to start. He put his feet up on the desk and then, out of idle curiosity, watched the brass plated indicator point to the successive floor levels as Jimmy’s elevator car gradually climbed to the top floor.

Jimmy got off on 45 and immediately stashed his cleaning equipment in the store room down the hall. Returning to the elevator, he stared at the indicator for several minutes. It did not move, and so he was satisfied that Henry was not on his way up. He checked his watch.

The young man dashed for the stair well and bounded down the stair case to the forty-first floor. Once there, he walked quickly while consulting a piece of paper he removed from his pocket and began to systematically pan the office doors up and down the hallway.

He stopped in front of suite number 4109, knelt on one knee and produced a small lock picking kit from his hip pocket. His expertise allowed him entry to the suite in a matter of seconds, and once inside, he referred to a small floor plan of the office taped to the back of the lock pick kit.

It was seven o’clock. He had three more offices to do before Henry began his nightly rounds. Jimmy moved swiftly through his work. File cabinets, desks, storage units and cupboards of any size were all carefully searched, and all items replaced exactly as they were found so as to leave no trace of intrusion.

Suddenly heavy footsteps echoed in the hall, and Jimmy nervously looked at his watch. Eight ten! He had lost track of time on his last office. Henry was ten minutes late.

Jimmy froze as the sound of rattling doorknobs grew louder and realized that Henry was checking that the officers were locked. Jimmy had not locked the door behind him when he entered the last suite.

The knob rattled, the door opened and there was the flick of a switch. Blinding light flooded the room.

“Jimmy!” Henry scanned the small office. “Jimmy!” He called out again. “Where the hell are you? God-damn it! First day on the freakin’ job and ya freakin’ disappear on me!” Henry switched off the light, closed and locked the door, and moved down the hall in search of the new janitor.

After he was sure that Henry had enough time to move onto another level, Jimmy slithered out from underneath the overstuffed couch in the middle of the room, and breathed a sigh of relief.

The next morning Jimmy reported to Commander Haffenden that, with the exception of a few porno magazines, nothing of any significance was found in the suspected office suites he was assigned to search. Similar reports filtered in throughout the day from other agents around the city.

In spite of the fact it was only one day after Polakoff rejoined the group, the operation was now in high gear. In contrast to it’s meagre beginnings with Socks Lanza and the Fulton Street Fish Market, Operation Underworld now generated a frenzy of round-the-clock activity. So much so that Haffenden was hard pressed to keep pace with the influx of information flooding into the command center his office suite had now transitioned into.

If the Commander was contented with his handling of the previous crop of problems which had sprouted up in the planting of the operation, he was certainly dismayed at the new bumper harvest of headaches caused by the explosive expansion of this new phase of activity.

The increase in manpower and operational capital were accompanied by a disproportionate increase in paperwork. Captain MacFall issued a second memo requiring Haffenden to forward daily status reports to his office on the progress of the operation. That was three weeks ago.

The Commander had yet to forward one status report, and as a consequence HQ had nothing to give D.C. which made some people P. O.'d. All were getting nervous. Rumors began to circulate that Haffenden was in over his head on, what increasingly appeared to be, a very expensive snipe hunt.

 

***

 

Labor pipe lines, such as factories, piers, warehouses and trucking companies, were considered to be the primary targets of enemy agents, ergo much attention was initially directed at these areas by the government operatives. Counter-espionage assignments were determined by potential importance of a given facility to the war effort. However, ammunition storage facilities and shipping firms in support of those installations were poorly monitored or ignored altogether in the early phases of the operation.

“Meyer, we gotta talk right now!” The voice on the other end of the telephone line expressed a sense of urgency Lansky was unable to ignore.

“Johnny! Where the hell you at?  What’s wrong?”

“How soon can you be at Carlucci’s, the one on the West Side?”

“‘Bout an hour. Why?” Lansky was puzzled, but knew Johnny Dunn, whose father had fought in the Easter Rising in Dublin, was not one prone to panic.

That afternoon in the back room of the Italian American Club on Mott Street, Lansky himself met with Haffenden.

“One of our people from the West Side says that your security at the receiving station for the Piccatinny Arsenal is terrible!”

“Bullshit! We got armed guards all over the place!” Haffenden was incensed.

“You do, huh?” Lansky reached into a burlap bag he had under the table and produced a detonator for a two thousand pound block buster.

He threw it across the table and Haffenden jumped up, his chair tumbling to the floor. Several of the clubs regulars took mild notice.

“Don’t worry. It’s been deactivated. We got it from the main stores bunker in Area Seven.” Lansky made his pronouncement in a matter-of-fact fashion in order to emphasise his point. The Commander righted his chair and eyed the detonator.

“Some asshole could waltz right in there and plant a bomb on one of your out going supply ships. I ain’t no sailor, but I think if New York Harbor got blocked up by a sunk boat . . . fer’get about it!”

“We’ll . . . rectify the situation.” Haffenden was pleasantly surprised by Lansky’s initiative and enthusiasm as he stared at the detonator.

The food service, housekeeping and entertainment industries were no less affected by the increased anti-spy effort. Restaurants, hotels and night clubs were descended upon by eager, dedicated agents posing as waiters, porters and hat check girls.

For a brief period in New York history, there was no way to tell if your fedora was being babysat by a kid working part time waiting for her next audition or guarded with all the might of the U. S. Government.

The success of these infiltration measures was not due however, to the far reaching power of the Federal Government. It was due, instead, to the far reaching power of its purported sworn enemy and latest business partner, organised crime.

With orchestration from Lucky Luciano, the lieutenants swiftly formed an intricate network of cooperating union factions. Factions who previously were hostile to one another.

The establishment of this network, which reached from the Canadian boarder to Florida and as far west as Ohio, allowed union credentials, papers, I. D. cards and financial records, to flow freely across interstate boundaries, oblivious to local, state and federal restrictions.

The Unione Siciliano was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and with their new found, interstate freedom many other commodities flowed freely across the boarders as well. Booze, cigarettes and clothing topped the list, and within a week, all were flowing in record scale.

The boys were back in town.

 

***

 

Lucky, accompanied by two guards, walked past the trustee mopping the floor on his way to the warden’s office. Lansky and Polakoff were already there and the warden had received strict instructions to leave when their meeting began.

The trustee averted his bruised face as Luciano walked by. It was the slight built prisoner who passed the comment at the dinner table.

“You get the problems straightened out about comin’ up here?” Lucky asked after the warden closed the door behind him.

“Yeah. Polakoff worked somethin’ out.” The conversation was casual and unhurried. Polakoff sat in the corner with a newspaper, doing a crossword puzzle.

“How’s Albert A. doin?”

“He went under.”

“He’s hidin’ out? Where?”

“You ready for this? The Army. He joined up.”

“Good place ta hide.” Lucky smiled and shook his head. “All the shipments come in?”

“Everything right on time.”

“Any problems I need to know about?”

“You’d be proud boss. Unprecedented cooperation. It’s like they’re all pulling in the same direction.”

“Dat’s good news.” Lucky leaned in and spoke a little lower to Lansky, despite the fact they continued in Sicilian.

“I been doin’ some thinkin’. This is a pretty convenient arrangement. But it ain’t gonna last forever.”

“How’da mean?” Meyer asked.

“No matter if they catch spies or not, sooner or later some politician is gonna figure it don’t look too good youse guys comin’ up here all the time.”

“I follow. You sayin’ we should look for spies all the time?”

“Nah, dat ain’t important. We can always come up wit a few spies if they need ‘em. What I’m sayin’ is we need to come up with a plan to reconsolidate and rebuild soon.”

“Things are comin’ back together pretty good right now. Whata ya wanna do different?”

“I mean a big plan, fer after the war.”

“Who the hell knows when this thing is gonna blow over?”

“Who cares? But it will, and when it does we gotta be ready. No matter who wins, things ain’t never gonna be da same again. Da old markets are gonna shift or dry up and new markets are gonna havta' be opened up.”

“You already got some’a those ‘new markets’ in mind, don’t ya?” Lansky studied Lucky’s face.

“Yeah I do. But what I’m woikin’ on is way too big fer just one family.”

“We need a council.” Meyer said as he began to cop on.

“Exactly. Contact all the heads. Don’t tell ‘em why until they show. The Camardos’ll get ya a warehouse on the Brooklyn side. Then get a hold of our friends in Naples. Tell them to contact me. Only me! Got it?”

“I’m with ya.”

“Set it up fer tomorrow or Thursday and then get back up here and I’ll give ya an agenda and tell ya what to say.” Lucky instructed.

“That won’t work out.”

“Why not?”

“Part of Polakoff’s deal is he can only come here once a week.”

“Shit!”

“Look, with the word from you, we know they’re gonna show up.” Lucky listened and nodded as Lansky suggested an alternate course of action.

“Tell me what you got in mind. Tell me what you want them to know. I’ll call the meet this week, we’ll give them a couple days ta think about it and I’ll be back up next week.”

“Sounds okay, but dat don’t give us much time ta contact Naples. And I’m worried some a de utter heads may not go fer it.”

“I’ll get a wire off to the guys on the other side today, and phone them tonight. As far as the other heads, does it involve makin’ money?” Lansky asked. Lucky smiled and sat upright before he answered.

“It’ll be the rebirth of the Family. They’ll be enough dough ta keep your gran’kids going.” Lucky assured Meyer.

“Then they’ll go fer it. Anything else?”

“Yeah. I got a parole hearing next week. If the board knows I’m helpin’ da country it might carry some weight. Der no doubt keepin’ records of dees visits, but dat prick D. A. will move ta keep dem from bein’ introduced. Just in case dey get cute an try sayin’ day lost ‘em or somethin’ you keep detailed records of dees visits and how we talked about catchin’ spies ‘n stuff.”

“Piece a cake.” Lansky stood and shook hands with Lucky. Polakoff picked up on the signal and called for the guard. A few minutes later the warden, who had been in the room next door, appeared and escorted the visitors back downstairs.

 

***

 

Doc leaned against the flat wall of The Castle Memorial and watched the morning visitors as they strolled by, read news papers or lined up for the boat ride out to Liberty Island.

He adjusted his position and continued to scan the crowd. A smile gradually came across his face and he walked away from the memorial, north across Battery Park towards the fire boat house.

Louie, who was sitting on a bench reading a newspaper saw Doc approaching, and smiled when Doc sat down next to him.

“So? Pretty good huh? Took ya almost ten minutes ta pick me out! What gave it away?” Doc causally took the paper, folded it up and handed it back to him.

“When you pretend to read a paper, do it like this. Nobody reads a paper full open like that.” Louie said nothing. “And don’t use yesterday’s paper.”

“Anything else?”

“You did good. But think real hard next time you want to blend in somewhere. Be careful of the details. What day is your test, next week?”

“Friday morning.”

“Maybe we should lay off some of these street skills. Ya know, give ya more time at the books?”

“I’m sick a them books Doc! Besides, I got ‘em mesmerized. There all up here.” Louie tapped his head. “I like this blendin’ in stuff, it’s fun. By the way, how’s it going with Nikki?”

“Tell Doris it’s going good with Nikki, thanks for askin’. We’re gettin’ together this weekend.”

“I like her, she reminds me of Maxine Andrews. Don’t tell her I said that!”

“Alright, let’s talk about what’s on your test.”

Doc and Louie sat on the bench for half an hour looking out over the harbor discussing details of the material Louie would be tested on to get his New York State Private Investigator’s licence.

“Good job.” Doc complimented Louie as he stood up. “C’mon, we gotta get back before lunch. We got a call yesterday from a potential client. We’re meetin’ her at noon.”

“Hey Doc! I got an idea!”

“How come all of a sudden I don’t feel so good?”

“No, really. Instead of catchin’ the subway back, let’s walk over to State Street and up Broadway. You stay behind me, I’ll pick a guy out, you watch me tail ‘em? How ‘bout it?”

“Louie, how old are you?”

“Why?”

“What does Doris say when you act like a little kid?” Doc smiled.

“C’mon! It’s only half past ten, we got plenty of time.”

“Okay Dashiell, let’s go.” The two walked north and after about five minutes when in front of the Cunard Building on lower Broadway, Doc slowed his pace.

“What’s up Doc? Jees I’ve always wanted ta say that!”

“Yeah, and you’re the first one ever to say it too!” Doc had now stopped walking altogether and was looking up in the air. “Louie we’re gonna do this one a little different.”

“Great!” Louie watched Doc peering up at the Renaissance inspired building as if looking for something.

“Okay, this place’ll do.” Doc nodded at Louie and led him into the vaulted, ornate lobby of the building.

“Doc! Where we goin’?” Louie was gaping at the elaborate murals of mythical seacreatures and wooden masted ships.

“We’re gonna punch a ticket. C’mon.”

“You flipped or what?” Despite his protests Louie went along with Doc. Once inside the building Louie became more persistent.

“Doc what the hell we doin’? I thought we was havin’ a tailin'; lesson?” Doc ignored Louie as someone exited the lobby and he watched a reflection in a glass pane in one of the doors which opened out onto the avenue. He saw the image he was looking for.

“We are Louie.” Doc quickly removed his jacket. “Give me your coat. Hurry!” Doc stuck his cap on Louie’s head and climbed into the overcoat. Louie looked at Doc.

“Doesn’t work without the bowlin’ shoes Doc. What the hell are we doin’?”

“You said you wanted to be more like me someday. Here’s your chance.”

“Yeah, but I was drunk.” Doc ushered Louie over to the second set of double doors which led to the inner building. “Stand here, face that way. Don’t move.”

“Shut up! And don’t move!” Doc hurried back over to the main doors, faced into the corner and pretended to be searching his pockets. Just as Doc assumed his position, a tall man came through the doors and stopped next to him. He was unsure what to do next as he stared at the painting of the beautiful woman on the back of the bomber jacket. Just then Louie turned around.

“Doc what the hell . . .” The stranger turned nearly at the same time as Louie but it wasn’t fast enough. Doc’s right hit him hard enough to send the tall man crashing against the opposite wall of the vestibule and crumple to the floor.

“Ow!!” Doc put his fist under his arm. “God-damn that hurts!”

“That’s why they use brass knuckles Doc.” Louie said in a cocky tone. Doc held his hand up for Louie to see.

“Thanks for the update!” He was wearing brass knuckles.

“Did you just want to show me how to use those things, or you know this guy?” Louie asked. Doc looked around to see if there were any witnesses. There were none.

“We’re old buddies Louie. This is one of the assholes that jumped me coming back from Nikki’s house.” Doc did a fast frisk and produced a wallet from the man’s breast pocket. He then reached into his own pocket and produced an identical bifold. He held them side by side. Both credentials were the same, treasury agent I. D.’s.

“Bingo!” Doc declared.

“You owe back taxes or something?”

“I don’t know Louie. I can’t figure what they hell they want.” Removing a second set of brass knuckles from the man he tossed them to Louie.

“Happy birthday.”

Trying them on Louie commented. “Hey I never seen these things up close. There pretty neat.” He pretended to swing at someone. “Maybe they’re pissed off ‘cause you keep takin’ all their stuff?”

“Well now they got something ta really get pissed off about. This guy’s gonna be eatin’ through a straw for a coupla months. Looks like I broke his jaw. They’re not gonna have any sense of humor about that. We better make ourselves scarce.”

Louie started for the front door but Doc grabbed him by the arm.

“Through the building. We’ll come out on Trinity.”

Both of them were through the lobby doors when Doc had an after thought. He ducked back into the vestibule and quickly dug into the hip pocket of the unconscious man. Doc found what he was looking for. Money. He returned to Louie with a small wad of fifties and twenties. A lobby guard noticed them and slowly made his way over to the vestibule. They made it through the building to Trinity Street and back to Christopher Street without incident.

Once safely inside Harry’s, Doc went over to the counter to talk to Harry.

“Well if it ain’t the Dynamic Duo.” Harry greeted.

“We had any visitors today Harry?”

“Yeah early this morning. Big tall fella. Looked like a Fed.”

Doc showed Harry the photo I. D.

“That’s him.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Said ta tell ya he wanted ‘it’ back.”

“Wanted what back?”

“Beats me. Said you knew what he was talking about.”

“Thanks Harry.” Doc and Louie went upstairs to put their heads together. Louie emptied the letter box and Doc took out the whiskey bottle and sat at his desk.

“Hey Doc, looks like ya got yerself a fan club. This one’s a real letter. You wanna look at it?”

Is it from an Irish society?”

“Don’t look like it.”

“Alright, gimme.” Louie threw it across the desk and Doc opened it. As he unfolded the handwritten letter a hundred dollar bill fell out onto the floor.

“Nice fan club! How do I join?!” Louie exclaimed. “What’s it say?” Doc handed the letter to Louie.

“‘I need your opinion on this bill. Please contact soonest. Except Saturday. A grateful client’. Who the hell is . . . ”

“It’s Ira.” Doc declared.

“How do you know? He didn’t sign it.”

“That’s because he’s afraid of these clowns.”

“How do you know it’s Ira?”

“How many grateful clients we had in the last month? Plus he’s Jewish, that’s why he mentioned Saturday. He must think he’s on to something.” Doc thought for a moment. “Louie run this down to Harry.” He handed Louie the hundred and then reached into his pocket. Peeling away a twenty and a fifty from the wad he recently confiscated he added them for Louie to take to Harry and then threw the remainder of the wad into a cigar box with the other bills.

In ten minutes Louie was back upstairs, out of breath.

“You’re gonna love this one.” Louie panted.

“Talk to me.” Doc abandoned the diagram he had been sketching and took the bills from Louie.

“The hundred’s phoney. Harry says he’d bet it came out of that original batch you brought in.”

“No big surprise.”

“The twenty and the fifty are real.”

“Real?” Doc was surprised. “This wad’d choke a horse! There’s over six hundred bucks here! You sure he said the they were real?”

“Coin o’ da realm.” The phone rang and Doc picked it up.

“Hey Doc, it’s me.”

“Hey Harry. What’s cooking?”

“I can’t see too good, but I think maybe you got a visitor.”

“Who and how many?”

“Just one. I think it’s your girlfriend.”

“Well tell her come up.”

“That’s the thing Doc. She’s just sittin’ on the other side of Christopher. She don’t look too good. You bust up wit her or somethin’?” Doc stood up from behind his desk and looked out the window. There was Nikki, sitting on the curb crying. She appeared uninjured and clutched part of a newspaper. The pages were blowing away one at a time in the breeze. Scanning up and down the street he saw no one else.

“What are you my mother? You don’t bust up after one date. Keep an eye on her. I’ll be right down.” Doc hung up and made for the door. “Louie watch out the window, when I look up give me the all clear. If you see somethin’ point at it. Got it?” Doc was out the door before Louie could answer.

Moments later Nikki was safely up in the office, sipping hot tea. She had stopped crying and was settled enough for Doc to talk to her.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” She fought back the urge to sob again.

“Sweetheart, what happened?” Doc asked as Louie handed her another tissue.

“He didn't show up for work the last two days, so I called his house. No answer. That's not like him.”

“Like who?”

“He’s dead. Ira's dead.” Doc and Louie exchanged glances.

“How do you know?” She held up the last torn piece of newsprint she had been clutching in her hand. Doc and Louie shared the same thought. Even before Doc checked the tattered page, Louie was moving for the door.

“It’s the Daily News.” Louie nodded at Doc.

“Got it!”

“I don’t know what to say.” Doc tried to console her. He was unsure what to do and so walked over to the hot plate to make some more tea.

“Doc I . . . I don’t think it was natural causes.”

“Why not? What’d the article say?”

“It didn’t. But there was somethin’ about an autopsy. They wouldn’t do an autopsy if it was natural causes, would they?”

“Not usually, no. Where’d he die?”

“I . . . don’t know. I couldn’t get past the first paragraph.” Doc was digesting events when he heard Louie coming back down the hall.

“Doc there’s somethin’ else.” Nikki said. He came back over and sat down next to her.

“Tell me.” Louie came in the door with a copy of the News folded over to the appropriate page. Doc took it from him and began to read.

“Shirley’s gone.” Doc looked up from the paper.

“She quit?”

“No. Gone gone. Like missing gone.”

“How do you know she’s missing?”

“Because she wasn’t at work today or yesterday either, and she doesn’t answer the phone at her apartment.” Tears began to well in her eyes. Doc signalled Louie behind her back to make her a drink. He handed Doc a short measure who then poured it into her tea. He motioned to Louie a second time to sit at his desk and take notes on what Nikki was telling them.

“Maybe she’s sick and went over to St. Vincent’s?”

“She’s healthy as a horse! Shirley doesn’t get sick damn it! Listen to me!” Nikki turned and saw Louie writing at the desk. “And don’t waste your time calling the hospital. I already did.” Louie crossed out the note he just made on the pad.

“Look Doc you gotta believe me. She doesn’t miss work, ya know? The day after Pearl Harbor, she was in that building for 72 hours straight. One of the officers had to order her to be escorted home. After thirteen years that place is her whole life.”

“Okay, let’s assume she’s missing. Was she out with anybody in the last few weeks?”

“No. The last guy she was out with never showed for their second date. That was eight months ago.”

“Do we know anything about him?” Louie interjected.

“Plenty! He made up with his old girlfriend and now they’re married with a kid in Atlanta. The dopey son-of-a-bitch even sent her a wedding invitation!” Nikki succumbed to her frustration.

“Does she have any relatives in New York?” Doc asked.

“Her mother’s in Jersey.”

“You got her number?”

“No, but it’s probably on record somewhere down at the Third District. But I don’t think I can get it.”

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid to go around askin’ questions. I think maybe that’s what happened to Shirley. She started gettin’ these weird messages through her switchboard, and started askin’ questions.”

“Weird messages?” 

“Yeah. Real cryptic stuff. The kinda thing you’d think would be classified. Only she told me the guys on the other end of the line didn’t sound like they were Navy.”

“How’d they sound?”

“She used the word ‘rough’.”

“She ever say anything or you ever hear anything about money going through that place?” Nikki thought for a moment. The whiskey was kicking in.

“No, not that I ever heard of. All the financial stuff is handled through the Bursar’s Department.”

Doc opened the desk drawer and took out the overstuffed cigar box. He showed it to Nikki.

“The night we went out three guys jumped me coming back from your place. They were treasury agents. They had all this dough on them.”

“Jees! Nice work if ya can get huh?” Nikki had never seen so much money. “We got a couple of treasury agents working down at the district. I don’t know what they do, but they’re with the Naval Intell department.” Doc laid the cigar box on the desk and showed Nikki the the four wallets.

“Recognise any of these guys?”

“Yeah, these two. They’re both assigned to the district. That one’s the creep always hittin’ on us.” She pointed to Johnson.

“Is it him?” Louie asked.

“No, another one.” Doc answered.

“Him who?” Nikki spoke to Doc.

“We met another one earlier today. This one.” He showed her the duplicate I. D., one she didn’t recognise. Doc put everything away then thought better of it. He retrieved a cloth money bag from the bottom drawer of the desk and put the money from the cigar box and the identification cards in it. Holding back two twenties, he held them out to Louie.

“Louie’ll take you back down town. I’ll meet you at five and take you home. Okay?”

“I’m not going back to work! I already told them. They brought in a temp. I’m gonna go home. Kate has half a day today. She’s probably already at Mrs. Paluso’s.” Doc picked up the phone and rang downstairs.

“Harry get Nikki a cab will ya? Tell him ta honk twice when he shows up.”

“Where to Doc?”

“Tell him we’ll let him know when he gets here.” Doc turned to Louie. “Call Doris. Tell her ta call Mrs. Birnbaum, see if she needs anything. I’ll take Nikki down to the cab.”

“Roger Doc.”

On their way through Harry’s, Doc put the cloth bag on the counter.

“Put this somewhere safe, will ya?” Harry waited until the couple were outside to stash the bag.

 

Downstairs Doc held the taxi door open for Nikki. He got a nice surprise. After she kissed him, she told him how good it felt to know she could rely on him. The cab pulled away and Doc went back upstairs, unsure of how to take Nikki’s compliment.

“Hey Doc. I been meaning ta ask ya. How the hell does Harry know so much about rubber money?”

“Harry has a past. Let me see that article.” Louie continued to speak as Doc perused the article.

“Says they found him in Bushwick Creek. That’s up in Greenpoint. Whata ya suppose he was doin’ over there?”

“He probably wasn’t in Brooklyn. They iced him somewhere else and dropped him over there. The Mob uses the East River all the time for their private cemetery.”

“You think it was the Mob?!”

 

“No. If they did it he wouldn’t have been found so soon, if at all. I think they wanted it to look like the Mob. Looks like we’re gonna meet the Kings County Coroner.”

“You know somebody over there?” Doc reached into his pocket and began to count the bills he had on him.

“No, but I got a feelin’ somebody in the Coroner’s office and myself have some mutual friends.”

“You’re not gonna give him that phoney dough, are ya?”

“Only if I have to. Besides, look at it as doin’ him a favor.”

“What?” Doc continued to talk as they headed for the door.

“The law says a bribe is takin’ money for doin’ somethin’ illegal. This ain’t really money now is it? So he really won’t be breakin’ the law now, will he?”

“Yeah, that’ll hold up in court!”

It was a quarter to twelve when they left the office to head over to Brooklyn.

Thirty minutes later there was one pissed off potential client storming back down the stairs and out through Harry’s onto Christopher Street.

 

***

 

As Nikki climbed the stairs to Mrs. Paluso’s apartment, she experienced an overwhelming sensation of relief from the familiarity of her surroundings. The extra time in the taxi allowed her to compose herself prior to Mrs. Paluso’s routine culinary onslaught. Predictably armed with potatoes and sausage, the Polish neighbor was only satisfied with no for an answer after Nikki relented and told her a friend had died. She finally accepted a cup of tea as a compromise.

“Is Kate in the front room?” Nikki asked, sitting at the kitchen table.

“Yes. You vant I call her?”

“No, no. I'll surprise her.” Kate did not hear her mother approach and for a brief moment Nikki’s heart was once again filled with the special kind of joy as she watched her daughter content at play. From behind the door jamb Nikki could see Kate had lined up several play chairs and boxes and had dolls sitting on them to form a mock classroom. Teacher Kate was reading the class an imaginary story from a small book. As Kate turned to ask the pupils if they were enjoying the story she spotted Nikki.

“Mommy!” She ran to Nikki with open arms.

“High sweetie! Reading a story huh? What’s it about?” Katie took Nikki aside and shielded her answer from the class by whispering to her mom.

“I’m not exactly sure. This is a weird book. So I’m telling them about the beautiful princess and the evil sheriff. But they don’t know what’s really in the book.” Nikki took the little black book from Kate and glanced through the pages. Her mouth involuntarily dropped open and her knees weakened. She knelt down and held Kate by the hands.

“Honey, where’d you find this book?” Nikki was fighting back a tidal wave of panic as she spoke.

“In the porch.”

“You mean on the porch, Sweetie.”

“No in the porch. There was a loose brick. We were playing there the other day and Stachie found the brick. It fell out and the book was there.”

“Do Stachie and Lydia know about this book?”

“Lydia doesn’t. But you know Stachie, he’s a boy. He probably forgot about it already.”        

“Honey listen to me. This will be our little secret. You musn’t tell anyone. Understand?”

Katie didn’t understand, but nodded to her mom in agreement.

At half past two in the morning Nikki was still sitting at her kitchen table, a half cup of cold tea at her elbow next to a full ashtray staring at the little black book lying in front of her, trying desperately to decide what to do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

 

The Daily News sports page gives the track attendance for Belmont every day, and this number is always in the five or six figures. The last three numbers of the attendance are the most important numbers in many a New Yorker’s life. These numbers are known, in the vernacular as, “The Number”.

A leading economic indicator of how good things are in the waterfront neighbourhoods, is how busy the bookies are. Jimmy Erickson, who fixed the bets at the track for Hoover, so he’d laid off the New York families, couldn’t keep up with the work load. Even though his wife had thrown him out of the house twice already for roping her younger brother into running the numbers for him, he risked it again. He had no choice. He even took in two more runners just to keep up.

By order of Luciano, and by virtue of the all round increased profit margins, the Mob were directed to back off on petty crime, in order to lower their profile in the media. The decreased profile placated the public which thereby placated the politicians and allowed the Unione to consolidate more efficiently and preserve resources to make inroads into bigger and more profitable enterprises. A primary building block of how Lucky thought an organisation should be run.

Additionally, the inter-union cooperation was breaking all records. The cloak of secrecy provided by the U.S. Naval Intelligence service allowed the boys to run circles around anyone they felt should be restricted from sharing future dividends in the new world order of organised crime.

 Slack about crime stories in the press was taken up by war news and political rhetoric telling everyone how it was only a matter of time before the Allies struck back, and when the headlines heralded the meeting of Roosevelt and Churchill at Casablanca following the taking of Africa, it became common knowledge that Italy was not far behind.

Lansky was successful in making the Sicilian connection and that Thursday night, within yards of John Roebling’s Brooklyn Bridge, a meeting of unprecedented magnitude took place on Front Street.

Meyer Lansky, in his last major act with the Unione before going legit after the war, laid out Lucky’s plan to traffic heroin into Siciliy from Turkey following the Allied invasion. Lucky would provide the Navy strategic intelligence about the island in exchange for reinstatement of as many of the local politicians as he could wrangle. The

O. S. S. would be only to happy to cooperate.

These “politicians” would in turn help export the “slow death” to the United States after the war. Only one of the five family heads was against the plan to shift from prostitution, extortion and robbery to drug trade. He objected on moral grounds. In time he would be persuaded to reconsider. The others were tripping over themselves to get involved.

The next day a trustee passed the word to Lucky that “the Dodgers were a shoe-in”. Lucky immediately ordered Lansky to donate fifty large to the campaign fund of the Honorable Judge McVay. The judge who, coincidentally would preside over Lucky’s bid for parole in less than two weeks.

 

***

 

“Whatch’a readin’?” Doc talked to Louie over the screeching of steel wheels the as they passed into the East River tunnel. They were on the F train to Brooklyn. Doc wanted to snoop around Bushwick Creek before approaching the Brooklyn D. A. Louie carried the copy of the New York Daily News with the report of Ira’s death.

“Winchell’s new column. He’s slammin’ Luciano again.”

“Luciano? He’s been up the river for half a dozen years. Must be hard up for material.”

“Winchell says they outta hang ‘em.”

“Ever notice how much braver Winchell got after Luciano got tagged?”

“He says here he has sources that say Luciano’s people gave Roosevelt nearly seven thousand for his ‘32 campaign. That’s how he beat Smith.”

“Ya mean Walter’s tryin’ ta say the Presidency can be bought? Say it so Joe!”

“Says here further, that that’s why FDR let all them drug dealer’s go while he was still Governor. All them one’s that went back to Sicily.”

“Walter’s braver then I thought.” The train slowed to a halt. “This is us.”

A taxi from the station dropped them at 14th and Kent. Doc and Louie stared in disbelief as they exited the cab. A giant iron gate, patrolled by a pair of Marine sentries greeted them.

“Son-of-a-gun!” Louie expressed their surprise. “It’s a god-damned Navy base. It didn’t used to be a Navy base.”

“Yeah, but now it is and we got a snowball’s chance in hell of gettin’ in there.”

“Unless we enlist.” Louie jokingly suggested.

“Been there, done that. I need a drink.”

“Jees Doc, where we gonna find a bar in Brooklyn?”

 

***

 

Brooklyn, although only one of the five boroughs, was the third largest city in the country and so was large enough to it’s own police department, fire department and District Attorney’s office.

Even during the war the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office was habitually swamped with murder cases of every mode and description. However at a special session of the senior investigators and prosecutors with the borough D. A. himself, Ira Birnbaum’s homicide was stamped a priority. The fact that he was a federal employee weighed heavy and part of his motivation for moving as swiftly as possible was to avoid a federal investigation by solving the crime quickly.

“Justin, what have we got for sure?” The D. A. addressed the head investigator at the special afternoon meeting. The investigator read from a hastily composed file laying in front of him on the large conference table.

“White male, late seventies, early eighties, found face down in the reeds at Bushwick Creek. Cause of death asphyxiation secondary to strangulation. Manhattan resident, federal employee. Survived by wife.”

“Who found the body?”

Coupl'a guys fishin’ in the river.”

“Where’d he work?”

“Third Naval District. Mail clerk.”

“Mail clerk? What happen, somebody’s relief check come late? Who the hell’d wanna take out a mail clerk? Any priors?”

“Not this guy. Paragon citizen.”

“Possible motives?”

“He was close to retirement. He and the wife hadn’t saved much. We think maybe he was in over his head. Sharks, ponies. Who knows?”

“You think it’s Mob related?”

“Virtually certain of it. Has all the earmarks. Strangulation, dumped in the East River. Probably met the perpetrator, or perpetrators at Greenpoint on one false premise or another and that’s where they gave it to him.” The investigator, who spoke with confidence, finished his remarks and sat down.

“Gentlemen, for years the Mob has been using Brooklyn for all it’s dirty work. Meanwhile whenever there’s some kind of breakthrough on the crime front Manhattan gets all the credit.” The assembled group nodded and commented to each other in agreement. “I intend to change all that. I spoke to the mayor this morning and he’s agreed to allow us to carry the ball on this one. As of right now, I’m open for suggestions.” One of the junior investigators spoke up in the back.

“Sir, I understand this may not be what you want to hear, but . . . realistically we may never catch the guys that did this.” Loud objections flooded the room as the young man continued to make his case.

 “In a way, it’s not all that critical that we do. But if we can parley this murder, this heinous act of violence, arrogantly perpetrated against the people of this fair city, in flagrant defiance of all that is right and just, then . . .”

The objections began to subside as the group began to realize where he was going. “We can dominate the headlines of all the major dailies for at least two to three days. Be a helluva boost for the campaign image.”

“I like the high profile angle.” The D. A. nodded his support. “John get a hold of Patricia. Draw up a press strategy and get it out to the API and UPI for tomorrow. What else people, c’mon talk to me.”

“History of similar crimes in the last six months and how we have to move to curb the ever growing menace?” Someone else chimed in.

“Go with it but change it to the last year. What else?” The D. A. was anxious to maintain the momentum.

“A special joint presentation to the widow by the mayor and the D. A. Great photo op!“ Someone else suggested.

“I hope you mean the Brooklyn D. A., Samuelson?”

“You mean there’s another D. A.?” Laughter circulated the room. Suggestions flowed for the better part of an hour and by late afternoon there was nearly enough material to launch a presidential campaign.

Ira Birnbaum’s murderer may never be brought to justice, but it was sure as hell gonna look like he was.

 

***

 

“I can’t for the life of me figure out why the hell anyone would want to kill Ira.” Doc twirled his shot glass idly as he spoke.

“The universal motive Doc. You taught me that.” The only problem Doc and Louie had finding a bar was which one to choose. They settled on O’Casey’s on 14th and Nassau. Webs of shiny cardboard shamrocks and green crepe paper loomed everywhere.

“Yeah, greed. But what the hell could he possibly have that anyone would want?” The middle aged barmaid wearing a green paper hat floated over to the duo.

“You boys wanna go again?” Doc looked up at her.

“Yeah one more.” Doc pushed some of the coins forward which he had laying on the bar.

“Well he sure as hell wasn’t into anything illegal.” Louie said authoritatively.

“You sound like you know that for a fact.” Doc was surprised at Louie’s statement. Louie took one last pull on his beer.

“I do. I had Doris ask around the neighborhood when we first got the case. Any cleaner the guy would squeak.”

“Son-of-a-bitch! That gossip circle is good for somethin’, ain’t it?”

“Doc, there’s gotta be a connect with the money.”

“I agree Louie. But he wasn’t killed for money.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe information.”

“Somthin’ he found out about the money?”

The barmaid brought the drinks, took a few coins from Doc’s pile and began to walk away. “Hey doll!” Doc called after her.

“Yeah?” She came back over.

“You familiar with the Coroner’s office?”

“You that desperate for a date, Honey?”

“Never knew a waitress could resist a bad joke, Louie.” Doc fired back. “I need ta know if there’s a bar or restaurant nearby.”

“There’s Botticelli’s on Temple. Great food, good service.” She informed him.

“You got a phone?”

“In the back, near the John.” Doc glanced over his pile of coins and picked up a dime.

“Ya got a couple’a nickles?” He handed her a dime.

“You want me ta dial the phone and drink ya drink for ya while I’m at it?” She asked.

“We goin’ bar hoppin’?” Louie threw in.

“Nah. Just had another brainstorm. Be right back.”

“You guys cops or somethin’?” The barmaid asked. Louie slid right into the roll.

“Yeah. Workin’ a murder case.” He leaned forward to emphasise the secrecy of the case. “Very hush hush. Guy worked for the Feds.” The barmaid had been around the block.

“You mean that old guy they fished out of Bushwick, the mail clerk? Amateur job. It wasn’t the Mob. That D. A.’s just lookin’ ta get himself re-elected.” Doc returned from his phone call and the barmaid walked away.

“You want another one? We got a little while yet.” He asked Louie.

“Nah, let’s walk a little. Talk about the case.” They headed for the door and once over on Nassau Street, flagged a cab. As they got in Louie offered a theory.

“Doc, I been thinkin’. That was an amateur job. It probably wasn’t the Mob. I'd say that D. A.’s probably just sayin’ that ta get re-elected.”

 

***

 

Doc and Louie were now accompanied by Harry. Doc had phoned him from O’Casey’s, and they met at Botticelli’s.

The three entered the police headquarters building which housed the Coroner’s main office and approached the watch commander’s desk.

“Coroner’s office?” Doc was brief, but authoritative. They had no business sniffing around this murder case, and if they got caught it would be very expensive. Especially with the phoney twenties and fifties Doc was carrying.

“Downstairs, turn right.” The burly Sergeant never looked up from his paperwork until they had walked away. He puzzled at Harry’s limp and smiled at Louie’s shoes.

“Doc how come we were waitin’ till six-thirty ta show up over here?”

“Change a shift. Night guy's more likely ta go for a bribe. Besides less of crowd after hours.”

As they turned right they could see the Coroner’s office was about fifty yards ahead. However, that was as far as they were going.

The hall was jammed with reporters. Thirty or forty of them. The D. A. was taking the high profile angle seriously. In just over twenty-four hours, Ira’s murder had become national news.

Wading through the press corps was the little headache. The big headache was the two policemen standing in front of the office door. Not rookie kids either. If these guys owned dark suits they could have worked for Luciano.

Halfway through the reporters Doc diverted the trio into the men’s room. Once inside he cocked back his ball cap and put on his game face.

“This ain’t gonna be easy guys. If we get nailed it’s all over but the cryin’. Harry, give me the sack. Doc brandished the government, bifold wallets.

“These I. D.’s will likely get us by. But neither of you has to do this.” Harry and Louie reached for the wallets simultaneously.

“I wanna be Johnson.” Louie declared.

“What is this ‘What’s My Line’?!”

“We gonna stand around jabber jawin’ all night or we gonna do this thing?” Harry asked as he limped towards the door. A moment later they were in front of the two cops guarding the door. Doc did the talking.

“We’re hear to see the Coroner.” He flashed his Treasury Department I. D., thumb partially obscuring the photo.

“Is it about the Birnbaum case?”

“Yeah, why?”

“His personal possessions are still at the D. A.'s. They didn’t bring them over here.” The officer explained. Harry was quiet, but Louie did his best to look like a mean treasury agent.

“Why would we want his personal possessions?”

“Ain’t you guys here to see if his money was phoney?” This is where Doc pulled ahead of the pack in the P. I. business. When he was pitched a curve ball, he could swing low and inside.

“No, we work with him, down at Third Naval District. His boss, Admiral Mancino, asked us ta look in on how it’s going.” The officers looked at each other. “The Admiral’s flying out to D. C. tomorrow. He wants ta know the score before he leaves.” The cops looked at each other a second time in a challenge to see if either one was willing to assume responsibility. Doc picked up on their reluctance. “The Admiral has to report whether or not your people are doing all you can. If not the FBI’ll be brought in.” They slowly stepped aside to let the trio pass.

As they went through the door both cops noticed Louie’s bowling shoes.

“Talk about dedicated. You’d never get me in off the alleys to go back to work.” The older policeman commented.

 As soon as hey got inside Louie and Harry realized right away that Coroner’s “Office” was a misnomer. Through the dim light of the large, open room, they saw what was a large medical lab. Glassware covered black marble topped tables, a large beaker boiled, discharging some sort of distillate into a stainless steel receptacle and the whole place appeared abandoned.

“Igor, send up the kites!” Louie commented in a bad accent. Harry shook his head.

Doc disappeared off to the right and Louie went poking around like a kid in a toy store. Harry heard Doc and some young guy talking in the back. Although the voices were subdued, they were clearly audible.

“Look, I appreciate your orders from the D. A., but they dragged this guy out of retirement and flew him all the way up here.” Doc explained.

Harry saw the kid poke his head around the corner to look at him. He waved and Doc continued. “Now I know it’s highly unlikely, but if you guys miss somethin’, especially on the forensics of the money, it’s gonna look pretty bad for the department.” Harry realized Doc stopped to let it sink in. “Now you may not get fired, but you’ll sure as hell be buyin' your own coffee and donuts till you retire.” A moment later Doc and the kid emerged from the back

“Doctor Kravitz this is Special Agent Harry . . . Patton.”

“No relation.” Harry quickly added.

“And that . . . that’s agent Johnson.” Doc pointed over to where Louie was trying to see how fast he could get the centrifuge to spin without his pen falling off. “Doctor Kravitz, Harry is one of the world’s leading experts on currency forensics.” They shook hands and Doctor Kravitz displayed a guarded admiration for Harry.

“Harry, the good Doctor has agreed to let us examine a sample of a twenty they have from the money which was found on the deceased.” Kravitz showed Harry to a table and helped him get situated.

While Harry looked through the microscope, Doc quizzed Kravitz.

“Was the victim killed in Brooklyn?”

“No, somewhere else. Probably across the river.”

“How’d they do it?”

“Strangulation. Yesterday, between eleven and one, rough guess.”

“It’s phoney.” Harry announced.

“We haven’t determined that yet.” Kravitz explained.

“Why not?” Harry asked in genuine disbelief.

“We've been concentrating on the body. We haven’t gotton around to the sample and the experts from Albany haven’t arrived.”

“Have you done a simple smug test or a litmus?”

“Well . . .no” Kravitz was puzzled. Harry sat back from the scope and went into action.

“I need two strips of litmus paper, five drams of hydrochloric acid, two drams of sulphuric acid, some bicarbonate of soda, sucrose two droppers, and three pipettes. Oh, and some phenolphthalein, if you have it.” Harry looked at Kravitz who was motionless.

“And a partridge in a pear tree.” Louie chimed in.

“You guys are the strangest treasury agents I’ve ever seen.” Kravitz commented looking around the room at his guests. He turned to Harry. “You want that SO4 concentrated or diluted?”

Harry worked for about ten minutes, Kravitz asked questions and finally a page of notes was handed to Doc, which he read aloud.

“Hand engraved, soft metal plates. Three to six months old. Manufactured south-eastern U. S. All same batch.”

“What does that mean all same batch?” Kravitz inquired.

“We had a similar case last year.” Doc countered as he continued to read. “That mean anything to you Harry? Soft plates.”

“Yeah. Limits your run ‘cause the plates wear down. If you’re runnin’ twenties best you can do is twenty, twenty-five grand. Upside is you can carve your plates faster.”

“Then whatta you do?” Kravitz asked.

“You melt the plates down so they can’t be traced. Who ever did this wasn’t in it for the long run. Sounds like they just needed spendin’ money.”

“What about this south-eastern U. S. How can you tell that?”

Doc knew Harry was good, but he had never seen him shine like this. The only time Doc remembered Harry discussing money was when he used to complain about the government reneging on the Expeditionary Force Bonus promised to the First War veterans. That and the fact that he would clam up if anyone asked where he got the dough to open the news stand.

“There’s a distinct style. I recognise the workmanship.”

Kravitz and Doc looked at each other in amazement. Harry made it more clear.

“I think I know who made these notes.”

“Who?!” Kravitz was astonished.

“I’m sorry but that’s classified by the Department of the Treasury.” He answered authoritatively. Doc was proud of Harry.

“Doctor Kravitz, have you done the autopsy yet?” He asked to divert attention from Harry.

“Isn’t gonna be one. Not unless we get an exumation order.”

“It’s a homicide why wasn't there an autopsy?”

“Two reasons. His religion, which says he has to be in the ground, intact before sundown the next day. And the fight.”

“What fight?”

“The one that’s going on between the Mayor’s office and the D. A. right now about spendin’ two to three million on the court battle along with the ensuing press war.”

“What court battle?”

“The one it’s gonna take to get him outta the ground and on the table. You know how many lawyers that guy had? Plus we just found out he’s got a five and a half million dollar estate bequeathed to orphaned Jewish children, providin’ the money doesn’t get used for legal battles. You wanna be the shit who forces a a bunch of Jewish orphans to miss out on five million so it can go to lawyers?”

“Can’t fight City Hall, huh?” Doc smiled as he remembered Ira’s passive demeanor.

 “Guess you won’t need those guys from Albany after all, eh Perfesser?” Louie added tapping Kravitz on the back as they left.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

 

 

The taxi ride from Brooklyn back to the Village was a frenzied debate of murder theories and potential motives and enroute there were three stopovers. Two for drinks and one for Chinese take out. By the second drink stop, the cab driver turned off the meter, and joined the trio for a beer. Intrigued and drawn into the deliberations, Murray, the taxi driver, reasoned that it was okay to turn off the meter because he was helping to solve a crime. Besides, he was due to go off duty in a mere four and a half hours anyway.

After dropping Louie home, Doc, Harry and Murray proceeded to Christopher Street. Murray was naturally invited up to continue the debate, but explained he had to get home to his wife and seven kids so Doc tipped him a twenty.

“Harry, do you really know who made these bills or were you just yankin’ his leash?” Doc asked the next morning lying on his desk, where he had spent the night. He held one of the fifties up and was examining it.

“Scheinfeld. Ernie Scheinfeld.” Harry was in the cot.

“How do you know him?” Doc prepared himself for a captivating story which never materialized.

“Reputation. Never really met him. But anybody who can say the word counterfeit knows about him.” Harry could see that Doc was wondering if he was being strung along. “Honest ta god Doc! Never met him, he was way outtta my league. Never did business with anyone he didn’t know. So they say.”

“That’s how you knew the southeast?” Doc had walked across the room to man the hot plate.

“Yeah. He used to operate outta Hot Springs a lot. Mob jobs mostly.”

“Is he still around?”

“Depends on what ya mean.”

“I mean like, you know where he is? Can we talk to him?” Doc’s excitement was building, but Harry maintained an even keel.

“Sure. Everybody knows where he is. And I guess anybody can talk to him. Long as you’re there during visitin’ hours.”

“You’re enjoyin’ this, ain’t ya? Ya old bastard!”       

“Louisiana State pen, ten to twenty.”

“What happen? He spell ‘In God We Trust’ wrong?”

“Back alimony. Said he’d rather go ta jail then give her a penny.”

“Man of principle, huh?”

“Hey Doc, was all them bills crumpled up the same?” Harry propped himself up on one elbow and assumed a quizzical look.

“Jees Harry, no idea. What does it mean if they were?”

“When you do a run ya want the new bills ta look old before ya pass ‘em, like they was used. So there’s a variety a’ways to do it. Basically they should look crumpled. Like they been handled.”

“So whatta we do?”

“Get a few of ‘em out.” Doc and Harry began to compare the real notes with the home made brand. Soon the desk, table and any other available flat surface was occupied with money, neatly laid out in rows, by denomination.

“Harry, this ain’t workin’ too good. Lets move the furniture away and use the floor.” After ten minutes of crawling around the floor, Harry found something.

“Well whatta ya know!!” Doc looked up at Harry as he made his exclamation. Then the inevitable happened. Laying the bills out on the floor seemed like a good idea at the time, until Hurricane Louie barged through the door.

“Hey guys! What’d I miss?” The bills flew in every direction.

“God-damn it Louie!!” Doc jumped up but Harry stayed down on the floor staring at two of the twenties he pinned to the floor with his fingers..        

“Louie, sit at the table.” Harry instructed while his eyes continued to scan the rows of notes.

“What for Harry?”

“I want ya to do somethin’ for me. Sit at the table.” Louie complied while Doc started laying out the bills again. Harry went over to Louie’s table and handed him a single twenty, and then a separate stack of twenties. “Look through all these notes and put them in numerical order. But keep this one separate.”

Harry walked over to Doc who was trying to arrange the bills.

“Ferget that Doc, look at this.” He handed Doc the two twenties. Doc saw it right away.

“Son-of-a-bitch! Why would they do that?”

“Come on Doc, that’s the easy part! They switched the fake dough for the real stuff. Even Louie could figure that out!”

“Hey, guys some’a these numbers are the same!”     

“Keep lookin’, you’ll see a lot of em’s the same. Each real bill will have an identical serial number on a counterfeit bill.” Harry explained. “Doc, run downstairs, get me a couple of bags. We’ll weed out all the Monopoly money, and see what we have left.” Doc returned with the cash bags a few minutes later and, as he came back in something else occurred to him.

“Harry, when did Sheinfeld go up the river?”

“Before the war started. Thirty-five or six I think.”

“And you said last night you thought these bills were how old?”

“Six months to year, max.” Doc and Harry looked at each other.

“If Scheinfeld made these, he did it while he was still on the inside.” Harry nodded in agreement.

“I found one!” Louie yelled excitedly.

Knowing that Harry was secretive about having done time, Doc was hesitant about posing his next question. But he couldn't let it go.

“Harry is it possible? I mean are there art studios or something in the joint?”

“I only done two years Doc.” Louie looked up from the table and then glanced at Doc, but remained silent. “But it was in a federal pen. And there ain’t no possibility that I know of ta have the time and materials you need ta carve plates on the inside.” Harry was emphatic.

“Couldn’t they have been made before he went in?”

“No way! They're soft metal. They wouldn't have kept for five or six years. Heat, humidity, general abuse. They would’a been ruined. Any little defect, a bump, a chip, would'a rendered 'em useless. Easy to trace. Besides, who the hell would you trust with a pair of plates of that quality?” Doc sat at his desk.

“They were definitely made on the inside?”

“He had backin’. I’d stake my leg on it! Someone with a helluv’a a lott’a pull. Like in the Mob, or in the government.”

Doc involuntarily turned towards the window as his thoughts raced ahead of him. “Or in the department of the Treasury?” He half whispered loud.

Silence shrouded the room. Doc continued in a subdued voice.

“Those pricks murdered an old man because he found out they switched the money.”

“Doris is right. All the rats aren’t 'over there'.” Added Louie.

Doc continued to stare out the window, thinking about his wife leaving him for money, his business partner’s tactics for money and the motivation of the D. A. to stop his father at all costs as they collided in a blinding light in his mind. There it was again. That feeling in the pit of his stomach like falling off a tall building and waiting for the impact, only it never comes. But the feeling stays.

“Doc. Hey Doc!” It was Louie. “DOC! The phone!” The ringing of the phone suddenly snapped him out of his trance. He reached down and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” He spoke in a mechanical voice as the residue of the disturbing thoughts lingered in his mind.

“Doc, it’s me.” The soothing sound of Nikki’s voice cleared the air.

“Doc . . . I just called to see . . . if we’re still on for the parade.” Doc was instantly alerted by the forced composure he detected in Nikki’s voice. “Kate’s here and she asked me to call.” That was her signal to Doc that she was upset about something, but didn’t want Kate to know.

“Put her on.” Doc had to know if someone was in the house with them. Kate’s voice would tell for sure.

“Hi Doc! This is Katie! I’m really excited for you to take us to the parade! Mommy says there’s music, clowns. All kinds’a neat stuff!” Doc sat down, relieved.

“You count on it sweetheart! I’m excited too! Put your mommy back on, okay?”

“Doc?”

“Are you alright?” He asked.

“Remember those men you mentioned? I think they were here.”

“Why? Why do you think they were there?”

“I found something they might have left.”

“Bring it in the morning. I’ll have a look at it.”

“But Doc! It’s a book. A strange book, with . . . “

“Nikki! Bring it tomorrow! I’m sure it’s nothing. See you at noon. At Woolworth’s.” He hung up.

Nikki had no idea what the hell the comment about Woolworth’s was or why Doc down played the importance of the black book. Not knowing about the developments of the last twenty-four hours, she also couldn’t understand that Doc was just being cautious. It was a good thing too.

 

***

 

Huddled in the cramped space of Redbone’s makeshift, basement office, were three of the very men Doc and Nikki sought to avoid. Mistakenly believing that Doc probably had the book, they listened in on the phone call. At least one in their company was shocked to hear that Nikki actually possessed the secret document.

“Just outta curiosity, where did you morons stash that book?” Johnson pushed away from Redbone’s desk and addressed the two men who stood before him, heads bent to one side to avoid the steam pipes criss crossing the ceiling.

“We thought it’d be a good idea ta have someone ta blame it on . . . case they start a investigation.”

“Case they start a investigation.” Johonson mocked the agent’s reply. “Your mother have any kids that lived? Case they start an investigation! So you picked A GOD-DAMNED SECRETARY!! What the HELL would her MOTIVATION be for stealing a top secret CODE BOOK?? Keep people from copyin’ her JELLO RECEIPIES??”

“We were just try’n ta cover our asses!” The agent who had been doing all the talking sought unsuccessfully to extinguish the fuse he ignited. “Besides, how the hell did she get it?” He asked seeking to change the subject.

“WHO GIVES A FUCK!!! SHE GOT IT!!”

Redbone arrived in the basement to check the pressure in the number two boiler. He had no idea he had visitors until Johnson’s little temper tantrum attracted his attention, and drew him back towards his office.

“If we don’t get that book back and she goes to anybody with this, they’ll be a hundred investigations. Every agency, newspaper and freekin’ aspiring politician in the country will want a piece of this! There won’t be a hole deep enough to hide in! Worse yet we got two more outsiders dragged into this thing that we gotta contend with!” Johnson’s voice was tainted with desperation as he tried to make his cohorts understand the ramifications of their mistake.

The old metal door creaked open to reveal Redbone’s frail, bent frame standing in the doorway.

“Who da hell are you people and why’s you in my office?” The dumbfounded look on the agent’s faces only lasted until Johnson gave the order.

“Take care of him!” One of the lackeys grabbed the defenceless old man and pinned his arms behind his back. The other had seen one too many movies, and hit Redbone in back of the head with a pistol butt, causing him to yell out and kick wildly with his feet. His heavy work boot found a mark in the agent’s shin who disengaged, howling and hopping around the room, both hands holding his leg.

The second agent, remained occupied restraining Redbone’s arms, and that’s when Johnson intervened. A punch to the jaw, followed by two vicious blows to the back of the head with his brass knuckles rendered the frail man unconscious.

The agent, who had not uttered a word until now, released Redbone, allowing him to fall to the floor and looked at Johnson.

“Looks like now we got three, huh?”

“Three what?” Johnson enquired with a puzzled look.

“Three ta contend with.”

“Less than a year to retire.” Johnson said to himself.

“Should we go to Woolworth’s?” Enquired the agent with the bruised shin.

“Yeah, good idea. We’ll just split up so we can cover all hundred and twenty-nine of them in the greater New York area quicker! Fuckin' morons!”

“You wanna go after the book?”

“No. We’ll wait until tomorrow. Use the parade as cover.” Johnson replied.

“What about him? He ain’t breathin’ too good!” The agent with the bruised shin asked, pointing to Redbone. Johnson eyed Redbone’s brutalized body before answering.

“Fuck him. By the time they find him we’ll be back in D.C. with a cover story.”

“And McKeowen?” Johnson thought before answering. A smile crept across his face as he stared through the agent.

“Deja-fuckin’-vu.” He uttered under his breath. The two agents exchanged glances.

“That guy’s father was a prick, and his kid’s a prick.”

“You knew his father?”

“Yeah. I helped the D. A. on an operation one time to control some rogue cops. Now I get to take this prick out.”

 

***

 

Although winter appeared to have lost her way to New York City, tell tale signs of the season encroached. The defoliated trees in front of Gracie Mansion in Carl Schultz Park waved in the late afternoon breeze.

The Mansion is normally reserved for charitable, humanitarian and social functions as opposed to hard core, political head-banging sessions. Those are done down town. However, Friday afternoon, the thirteenth, was a notable exception.

A single patch of brown, wind-swept grass was the first thing that caught Captain MacFall’s eye as he stepped out of the marbled entrance into the blustery afternoon, donning his white dress gloves. Despite the fact it was the informal request of Fiorrello LaGuardia which brought him to the Mansion, he thought it prudent to wear his dress blues. Out of more than courtesy, LaGuardia accompanied him to the door.

“So can I tell the council we’re on the same sheet of music?” LaGuardia sought one last confirmation.

“I understand your position, Mayor, but I must repeat myself. I’m not at liberty to discuss anything relating to any classified operations in the Third Naval District.”

“Roscoe, I have to tell the city council members something! There are serious privacy issues here! I thought we . . .”

“Tell them what you like, sir. All I can say, off the record,” MacFall looked LaGuardia in the eye, “is that I promise you there won’t be a problem.”

“That’s all the city can ask Captain.” The mayor extended his hand. MacFall reciprocated.

“Thank you for your hospitality. Look forward to the parade tomorrow.”

Captain MacFall’s black, 1938 Chrysler staff car pulled around to meet him, and as he got in, he instructed the driver to take him back to Church Street.

To the staff driver, who had been with MacFall over three years now, the Captain seemed unusually quiet.

“Ya think the Pin Stripes'll do it on Sunday, sir?”

MacFall continued to gaze out at the bluish-grey East River. He watched a pair of river tugs as they effortlessly cut through the current, heading up river and memories of the DE’s he served on and the sea-going tugs which serviced them at each liberty port flowed through his mind.

“Sorry Eddie. I was somewhere else.”

“The ball gme. The papers are sayin’ we could wind up with a second Murder’s Row!”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far. But if Gherig has a good day, there could be a lott’a bookies with smiles on their faces come Sunday night.” Sunday night, he realized. One day before Monday. Monday which would be seven days since he had been in Washington and been given the seven day deadline for the operation.

He remembered Charlie Haffenden’s words, “Like pulling a band-aid off.” MacFall made a decision.

“Eddie, what time is it?”

“Sixteen-thirty, sir”

“Belay Church Street, head for the Astoria.”

“All ahead full for Hotel Astoria, aye sir.” MacFall smiled at Eddie pretending to man a ship’s helm while at the steering wheel.

Traffic was accumulating, but not yet jammed, and fifteen minutes later they were cross town and pulling into the hotel car port at the front entrance.

“Put the priority tag in the windshield Eddie, and wait over there. I have no idea how long I’ll be.” Eddie eyed the hot dog cart across the street.

“Sir! I missed lunch. Any chance me runnin’ over for a coupl’a tube steaks?” MacFall eyed the cart as well.

“Stand by. I’ll take care of it.” Walking past the doorman, the Captain handed him a five dollar bill and asked him to run across the street. The doorman at first refused until he was told to keep the change. MacFall gave him Eddie’s usual lunch order. Four dogs, heavy mustard and sauerkraut and two Yoo Hoos.

The last time Captain MacFall had seen the mezzanine suite, it was devoid of anything except some furniture and Commander Haffenden. As he opened the door this time, he was greeted by a scene which appeared to be nothing short of mayhem.

There were at least four people busy, dashing back and forth across the rooms, two more at desks, busy writing away, and a line of what MacFall guessed to be operatives, waiting to see the Commander. One of the uniformed personnel sighted the Captain and immediately called out.

“Attention on deck!” Everyone momentarily stopped in their tracks, stood at attention and awaited MacFall’s counter order.

“As you were!” The room slid back into a noisy buzz. Proceeding straight to the Commander’s back room, the Captain let himself in and was greeted with a picture which made his mission even more difficult then it already was.

Camouflaged by mounds of paper work Commander Haffenden sat at his desk, head down, all but oblivious to his surroundings. He could not see who entered the room, without permission, and assumed it was the next operative, there to give his report.

“You’re supposed to wait until . . . Captain! Out slummin’ sir?” Haffenden stood to greet his commanding officer.

“Quite an op you got going here Commander. Well done.”

“Thank you sir. Things are finally on track. We’re flowing pretty good. This time next week we’ll have the last of the rotating schedules worked out for the Bronx and Queens, and that’ll be all five boroughs.”

Haffenden was surprised to see the Captain on his home turf. This was only the second visit from his boss since the operation began. He was however, prepared for the rough seas he was about to face. The delinquent reports he assumed the Captain was there to complain about were nearly finished, and Haffenden was confident he could fend off any attack MacFall was about to launch.

“Sir, I have the back status reports and I apologise if you got any flak from the higher-ups.” Haffenden began digging through the paper mountains.

“Haff, let’s take a walk.” The Captain suggested. Haffenden looked up and stopped rummaging.

“Sir, it’s near seventeen-hundred. I have to get the next shift of operatives out before eighteen-hundred. There are others coming in, we’ve got . . . ” Haffenden had a bad feeling as he watched the Captain stand, signalling they were going to have a heart-to-heart, regardless of the Commander’s busy schedule.

He decided that if he were to accept what ever form of bad news the Captain couriered, he would do it at his desk, in his office.

“We can talk here, sir.”

“Why didn’t you set this up down town? I’m not tryin’ to second guess mind you. Just curious.”

“Space, prying eyes. Besides, I can get food here, got a bed in the back and a rain locker in the head. No real reason to leave.” MacFall chose his words carefully, without being condescending.

“That’s what I explained to the people down town. It’s that level of dedication that drove me to pick you for this project.” As the Captain began to talk in terms of “The Project”, Haffenden began to experience serious concern.

“Pull the band aid sir.” MacFall sat up straight in his chair.

“I just came from LaGuardia’s place. They’ve received some complaints from some influential business types concerning privacy issues.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“These guys are no dummies. They have connections too. They know you’re snooping around their places of business.”

“We’re snooping around where ever the trail takes us. Besides, most of the leads on that target list come straight from D.C.! The FBI, the Pentagon. The president’s own advisory committee fer cryin’ out loud! On top of it they all want separate reports of the findings, and they’re tellin’ us they don’t want each other to know about it!”

“I understand your dilemma.”

“Since when do local officials influence Navy policy anyway?”

“That’s not the only issue.” Haffenden waited for the Captain to continue.

“This murder case is bringing unwanted focus on our existence right here in the middle of Manhattan. They feel things like little old men being dumped in the East River scare people and increase their feelings of paranoia.”

“They damn well should! There’s a war on god-damn it!”

“Look!” MacFall took a breath. “It’s not just him.”

“What are you tellin’ me?”

“Chuck, it’s outta my hands.” Now Haffenden sat back in his chair. A strong sense of betrayal crept over him.

“You’re shuttin’ us down because we're not producing?”

“I told you it’s outta my hands!” The Captain was becoming increasingly irritated at the difficulty of his task.

“Why? Because a bunch of money hungry merchants in the down town area are scared to go out at night? This is the murder capital of the world for fuck’s sake! They’ll catch the guy!!”      

MacFall, as an experienced executive, understood the dynamic of allowing a colleague time to adjust to bad news, and so permitted Haffenden to continue. The Commander readjusted his sights.

“We’re just gettin’ on track here, sir. The increase in manpower was exactly what we needed. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these contacts lasted until after the war! Some of these guys are really playin’ ball here!”

“How many spies ya catch Chuck?” MacFall reluctantly reduced the argument to the numbers game.

“We’re buildin’, you know that. Just gatherin’ momentum! It’s barley been six weeks fer Christ’s sake!”

“How many?” Haffenden sat in silence. Now MacFall entered into the convalescent stage of the mission.

“Look, Haff. You’re not really being shut down. It’s more like a conversion.”

“Conversion? Conversion to what?”

“The Casablanca summit was an important turning point in the war. Now that we have Africa, we can turn our sights to the continent. It’s not official yet, but most of the D.C. boys are bettin’ it’s gonna be Italy by way of Sicily. Some sources have already agreed to work with us to gather intell on potential landing sights.”

“Where do I fit in?” Haffenden asked cautiously.

“They’re calling it ‘F’ Section. They want you to head it up.”

“Am I officially being relieved of command?” Every officer’s worst nightmare.  A sure dead end to a career. MacFall laughed at the suggestion.

“Relieved? Don’t be stupid!” He leaned into the desk. “I’m not supposed to tell you, but you’re to receive a special commendation.”

“For what? Not catchin’ spies?”

“Don’t loose your military bearing Commander. Not at this late stage in the game.” At that exact moment Commander Haffenden made a vow to himself. Immediate retirement the day the war ended.

“Anything else I need to know?

“One more thing. I need you down at Church Street, zero seven hundred tomorrow. Report to the mail room. The new clerk will issue the remainder of the op fund. Arrange an escort, take the money to the Federal reserve on Wall Street. Find a guy named Paladin. Your contact code is ‘You can’t take it with you’. Go with him.” Haffenden was puzzled.

“What for?”

“Accompany him to the incinerator vault and observe him burn the remainder of the fund.” Haffenden was completely lost.

“Am I at liberty to ask why? There’s just over twenty thousand dollars left in that op fund!”

“You’re not at liberty to ask, you don’t have a need to know. However, I am at liberty to tell you. D.C. is worried about accountability. About the possibility that if the money is sent back, somebody might start sniffing around.”

“Well why not just leave it where it is and use it for ‘F’ Section?”

“No need. They’ve already allotted funds for the new op. They’re worried about how to explain the money if it went back up the chain. People would find out that the Op was . . . converted. It’s an unnecessary security risk.”

“When do we have the fire sale?” MacFall was pleased to hear Haffenden maintained a sense of humour.

“Cease and desist not later than midnight tomorrow. See you in my office zero eight hundred, Monday morning.”

Faster than it was begun, Operation Underworld was laid to rest.

MacFall never told Commander Haffenden about the deadline for Operation Underworld he had been given the week prior in Washington.

In addition, Haffenden never received his copy of the top secret message, informing him that his op fund was suspected of having been tampered with and that an investigation was underway in connection with the disappearance of forty-five thousand in counterfeiter bills from the U.S. Treasury.

 

***

 

Nikki sat bolt upright in bed. Had she dreamt the sound or was it real? The clock on the night stand read one-thirty.

There it was again. A knock on the door. Who the hell was at the door at this hour? Her mind raced. Kate!? The knock came again, this time a little louder.

Her fear mounting, Nikki jumped out of bed, threw on her night gown and raced down the hallway. Passing by the front door, enroute to the kitchen, she gasped as the intruder knocked again.

Frantically rummaging through the silverware drawer, Nikki found the Thanksgiving carving knife.

Standing to one side she spoke through the door.

“Who is it?” Her throat was dry and the words were difficult to form and came out as a whisper.

“It’s me!” Doc’s voice whispered back. Nikki unlocked the door and opened it slowly. Still brandishing the knife, she greeted Doc.

“Jesus Christ on a cross!! You scared the hell outta me!” Doc peeked his head through the door.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We were just in the neighborhood conducting a survey, and were wondering if you happened to have any highly classified, government documents laying around the house?” Nikki let him in.

“So now I'm dating Emmet Kelly? How the hell did you get past the vestibule? I didn’t ring you in!”

“Trade secret, Sweetheart. You alright?”

“Nothing one of those magic teas of yours wouldn’t cure! Come into the kitchen so we don’t wake Kate.” She locked the door behind him and followed him into the kitchen.

“Get the book.” Doc instructed and after Nikki set the kettle she reached into the cupboard and removed the sugar bowl. Removing the lid, she held it over the sink and fished out the small black book. Handing it to Doc, he flipped through it, shaking sugar crystals out onto the table.

Nikki set the tea tray and motioned to be quiet as she led Doc into the front room. She took a seat in the bay window and clutched her tea with both hands.

“Well? Whatta think?”

“Looks like an ordinary address book. Some sort of non-standard, internal code. Names, places, dates.”

“So, whatta we do ?”

“We make a deal.”

“But . . .”

“But nuthin’! We make a deal. The book for our lives back. They get it, they agree to leave us alone.”

“And if they don’t, we go to the press or somethin’?”

“I don’t think that’s gonna be an option.”

“So how do we get it to them? Cops?”

“Definitely not the cops! These guys are Feds. They control the cops.”

“You were a cop. Don’t you have any friends left on the force?”

“Not so’s you’d notice.”

“What then? The mail?”

“A meet, face to face. It’s the only way.”

“Doc, that’s risky!” As Nikki spoke, Doc realized that she was ignorant of Johnson’s involvement in Ira’s murder.

“I’ll call one of the Treasury guys you work with. What’s the name of the head guy? The creep?”

“Johnson, Robert Johnson. Doc that guy’s bad news!”

“How do I get a hold of him?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t be down town at this hour.”

“Is there a way to get him a message?”

“Call the OOD.” They went back out to the kitchen, Nikki dialled the phone and handed it to Doc.

“Third Naval District, Chief Petty Officer Badowski.”

“Chief, I need to contact Treasury Agent Johnson, Robert Johnson.”

“You’ll have to call back at the main number, tomorrow after zero nine hundred, sir.”

“It’s sort of an emergency Chief. I have some information for him.” Nikki leaned over and whispered into Doc’s ear.

“Tell him it’s a Micky Mouse priority!” Doc displayed a puzzled look, covered the receiver and mouthed “What?”

Nikki nudged him in the ribs and whispered loudly, “Tell him!”

“Chief Badowski, this message is a Micky Mouse Priority!” Doc spoke with the authority of the Joint Chief himself.

“Sir, Agent Johnson can be reached at Murray Hill-7-9232. That’s his home phone sir. Please treat it with discretion.”

“Rest assured Chief, I will.”

Doc replaced the receiver and smiled at Nikki.

“None’a your shit, you! I don’t make them up! They come down from D. C.”

“Wanna have some fun?”

“Whatta you gonna do?”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly two. Whatta you gonna do? Tell me!”

Doc dialled the number the Chief gave him, listened as someone picked up, and Doc quickly hung up.

“What the hell was that?” Nikki asked.

“Musta been the wrong number. A woman answered.”

“Probably his wife. Or than again, maybe not.” Doc redialled and this time it was an angry male voice that answered.

“Who the hell is this?!”

“Agent Johnson?” There was a brief pause on the other end.

“McKeown.” Johnson recognised the voice from the wire taps as well as the street encounter.

“Actually it’s the Eve Arden Lady! I understand your supply of roll-on asshole is running low. Time to reorder!”

“Figured I hear from you. You’re a real wise ass, aren’t you McKeown?” Johnson understood the advantage of not letting on he was caught off guard. “I hear your old man was a wise ass too!”

Doc suddenly felt a surge of anger roll over him as Johnson turned it back on him.

“Sounds like you lost your sense of humor Mac-Keowen.”

“You want your book, Quisling?”    

       “I’m listening.” Johnson drew satisfaction from hitting a nerve.

“This book is like penicillin. We meet, tomorrow, I give you the book then, like a venereal disease, you go away.”

“Your place or mine, hero?”

“Somewhere public, just the two of us.” Doc looked at Nikki.

“A museum?” She whispered.

“Hayden Planetarium. There’s a one o’clock show.”

“I’ll be there. Hero.”

“And Johnson, don’t waste your time wreckin’ my office. It ain’t there.”

“Aw, gee Mac-Keowen! You shoulda told me earlier. Now I feel bad!”

It was worth a try, thought Doc. Johnson continued.

“By the way, that Federal agent you assaulted? He has a wife and kid to feed.”

“Well that’s good news. ‘Cause now he has somebody ta’ feed him. I guess that puts you a little short’a players, don’t it, Bob?”

“We’ll manage! You just show up, ‘Doc’!”

“You’ll know me. I’ll be down front wearin’ . . .’

“Yeah I know. A skirt! It’s your day tomorrow, isn’t it? The day when you Irish wear skirts?”

“I’m not Irish.” Doc said in a calm voice.

“Scotts, Irish, all the same to me. Buncha worthless drunks! Same as you're old man.”

Doc hung up slightly pissed off at letting Johnson get to him.

“What’d he say?” Nikki asked. Doc realized for the first time, he was compelled to smile whenever he looked at her.           

“He said, 'Happy St. Patrick's Day'.” Nikki took Doc’s hand and led him back out to the bay window. As they sat down and looked down onto Mercer Street, sporadic snow flurries sparkled in the lamp light.

“Should I tell Kate we’re not gonna make the parade?”

“Don’t even think about it! The parade doesn’t start until two. I’ll drop the book off at one and still have plenty of time to meet you, Kate and Louie’s family by two.”

“Louie’s family?”

“Sure. You’ll like them. They’re great people.”

“I like Louie, and I suppose it would be nice for Kate to be around some new people.” Nikki never saw it coming, but once Doc sprung it on her, she was angry and flattered all at once.

“His wife is real nice too. As a matter of fact, I was thinking . . . maybe to save some time in the morning, you and Kate could spend the night at Louie’s.”

“To save some time? You’re crazy! It’s two a.m.! Kate’s sound asleep!”

“Look, these guys are not pulling any punches! It would be better if you and Kate were some place else for a day or so. By tomorrow afternoon this’ll all be over and we can have our lives back.”

“Doc, I don’t know! Stayin’ in a stranger’s house, Kate in a strange bed . . .” Nikki was startled when the downstairs buzzer rang. “Who the hell is that?”

Doc peered out the window.

“Well, whatta ya know? It's Louie.”

“You son-of-a-bitch!” She raised her hand. Doc caught her by the wrist and gave her a quick kiss on the lips.

“That's five cents in the swear jar!”

The buzzer rang again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 

 

“Winthrop Pinchnell, of Pinchnell Real Estate is doing his patriotic duty. Winth . . . Mr. Pinchnell has agreed to allow the use of his empty lot at the corner of Hudson and West 12th Street for tomorrow afternoon’s rubber drive. So get those old tyres, tubes and garden hoses down to West 12th and Hudson, tomorrow afternoon from noon until six, and ‘Help stun the Hun!’ And remember, if you’re looking for a store, a home or even an apartment, Pinchnell’s will help you ‘pinch’ the most real estate for your dollar!”

Doc rolled over and averted his eyes from the bright Winter sun flooding the room. For the second time that week he’d spent the night sleeping on his desk. His radio case was broken, and the speaker hung by a wire, but the black, enamelled Emerson still operated.

 He considered renting a room uptown the night before, but reasoned that they would have searched his office and that they knew he wouldn’t be stupid enough to carry the book with him. So, being sure that Nikki and Kate were safely tucked away at Louie’s, Doc decided it was okay to return to Christopher Street.

“. . . And finally this update from the Provincial Chinese capital of Canton. The Chinese Ministry reports that Chan Khai Shek’s Liberation Army has halted the Japanese Imperial forces . . .” Doc glanced around the room.

Whether or not Johnson and his goon squad actually searched the office for the book was questionable. What was clear however, was that they left their mark. Not a single stick of furniture remained intact. Files littered the room, all the trophies were broken and Doc’s cot had been slashed apart.

It wasn’t until he finished his futile search for Ira’s file, that Doc saw the piece that didn’t fit the pattern.

There, stuck in the wooden partition with a pearl handled stiletto, was the picture of his father. The knife was carefully stuck between the eyes. He pulled it out of the wall, laid the picture on his desk and put the knife in his pocket. Johnson mentioned his father during their phone conversation, why? What could he possibly know about my father? Doc decided it was probably through the publicity of the case that Johnson knew, and was only using the information to scutch him.

Kicking a path through the debris, Doc made his way to the sink.

As he began to shave he felt uncomfortable at the thought that his friends had been sucked into this mess. He then wondered what Johnson’s next move would be. One thing was for sure, there was no chance he was going to let anyone walk away from this. However, with Nikki out of sight, Doc bought himself some time to form a plan. He had three hours.

Halfway through his shave, the phone rang, and Doc immediately wondered who the hell could be calling. Louie knew not to call until he heard from Doc and Nikki was with Louie. The options narrowed. It must have been Johnson. Maybe he wanted to change the meet or buy time to set his trap. It was five rings before Doc decided to pick up.

“Calling to gloat about your handiwork, asshole?” Doc asked as he surveyed the damage.

“No! Calling to warn you about this treasury character, dumbshit!”

“Sullivan! What the hell do you want?”        

“It’s Detective Sergeant Sullivan and I already told you what I want! I don’t know what kindaa shit you got yourself into, but it’s pretty god-damned deep, boy-o!”

“What the hell you talking about?”

“A patrolman from the thirty-fifth saw J. Edgar Hoover himself in Central Park with this treasury clown last week and now I catch wind you’re goin’ ta meet him up at the planetarium!”

“And here I thought they jumped me, wrecked my office and murdered my client by mistake.”

“Sounds like they were on the right track wreckin’ your office and kickin’ your ass. Who was this client ya got murdered?” Did Sullivan know, or was he fishing?    

“Fuck you, Sullivan! Why are you callin’? And make it the Reader’s Digest version, I got a date!”

“I’m callin’ ‘cause I promised your father I’d keep an eye on you. But I didn’t promise him I’d lose my job for you! So now you come clean, or I’ll send a squad car over and we’ll talk about this dead client down here! If you have knowledge about a murder you’re required by law to come forward! By the way, your licences up to date?” Doc was too tired and irritated to care about Sullivan’s threat. “You got no friends in this department, McKeowen. And most of ‘em would throw a ceilie if you got dusted. So I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you!”

“Stop it, will ya? I’m gettin’ all misty eyed!”

“Your’re a regular wise ass, you know that?”

“Yeah. Apparently word's out.”

“I don’t know what the connection is McKeowen but you’re running with the big dogs now! This ain’t no divorce case!”

“Thanks for the update Sully. I’ll be in touch.” Sullivan continued to rant as Doc replaced the receiver on the hook. “This just keeps gettin’ better!”

Sullivan took himself off the drug raid detail the day Doc’s father was killed. So much for the ‘promised your father’ spiel. If Sullivan didn’t know about Ira, why did he call?  Whatever it was he called to tell Doc, he was torn between telling him and the consequences to himself if he did set Doc wise.

Doc finished washing up, put on his bomber jacket and ball cap and left, not bothering to turn off the radio.

“Here’s a tip for you parade goers out there. If you’re packing up the family to go watch the big event, dress warm! That beautiful white stuff you see outside your window right now is going to pick up by parade time, and the Central Park Meteorological Center says there might be a little accumulation.” The hourly NBC chimes sounded, signalling it was ten o’clock.

The Front Page was closed and Doc had to use his key to let himself out through Harry’s. He thought that unusual as Harry didn’t normally celebrate holidays.

“Doc! I been waitin’ for your call! What’s the plan? Where do we meet?” Louie’s excitement made it more difficult for Doc to give his rookie partner the bad news. Doc had ducked into Feinstein’s Druggists for a hamburger and egg cream breakfast before the big game, and was calling from a phone booth in the back.

“Sorry Mancino. You’re not in on this one.”

“Doc! You gotta be shittin’ me!” Louie was devastated.

“Look, Louie.” Doc chose his words. “This is not what you signed on for. Not your run-of-the-mill P. I. stuff. This is serious, nasty, we’ll put your kids and grandmother in prison, drain you dry and make sure you can’t ever earn a living again type shit! The kinda stuff that makes Tojo and Tokyo Rose look like Roy Rodgers and Dale Evans, ya follow?”

“Gimme a break Doc! If you’re tryin’ ta scare me outta this, it ain’t workin’!”

“Louie! Listen-to-my-words! You have a wife and kids! There are licensing issues here!’”

“Like what licensing issues?”

“Like you ain’t got one! Look, I need you to watch out for Nikki and Kate! You have no reason to do this! Am I gettin’ through to you?”

“Jesus Doc! What better OJT? As for my wife and kids, Doris told me that no matter what happens I have to stay with you until this thing is over! And if I gotta choose ta risk my life or argue with Doris no fuckin’ contest! This is my chance of a lifetime! And if you’re so worried about loved ones, why are you doing it? Why not let the cops handle it?” The question about loved ones had never occurred to Doc.

“Because, they killed a client. They killed a client and someone I care about might be next. It’s gettin’ personal.”

“Care about, or love?”

“Don’t push it, asshole! I need you in the back field in case I blow it.”

“Aw, c’mon Doc! If we don’t come out on top on this, it’s back to garbage trucks for me. Besides, I already got my own brass knuckles!”   

“You’re not gonna listen to me no matter what I say, are you Bonehead?”

“Not a chance in hell Doc!” There was a long pause on Doc’s end of the line as he realized it was safer to know where Louie was and what he was doing than to risk him meandering about when things got thick.

“Make sure Doris stays in the house with the girls, and doesn’t even think about leaving until she hears from us! You got that?!” The ‘us’ part was all Louie needed to hear.

“Roger that, Green Hornet!”

“Don’t start that shit! This is serious!”

“Doc, don’t lose your sense of humor on me, huh?”

“Get over to the office, and don’t move until you hear from me! I’m meetin’ this Bozo at one.”

“I know, at the Hayden.” Doc thought about Sullivan’s call earlier.

“What, did somebody take out an ad in The Times, fer Christ’s sake?”

“Nikki told me!”

“All right, get over to the office. I’ll call and give you an update as soon as I made the drop. And Louie . . .” Doc hated to say it, but given Louie’s propensity for not being in the right place at the right time, he felt obligated. “I might get myself up the creek on this one, savvy? You need to be there! Got it? Kato.”

“Roger that Doc! Count on me! And Doc?” Doc sensed Louie was going to say something sentimental.

“What?”

“If you die, can I have your desk?”

“You're a Sick son-of-a-bitch Mancino. You know that?”

 

***

 

“Hey Al. Get a load’a this!” The gate guard perched in his armored tower high above the fence line called over to his partner as a black, chrome-plated, Chrysler limousine pulled up outside the steel gates of Great Meadows.

“Three guesses who that’s for, and the first two don’t count.” The second guard replied.

From their vantage points, the guards continued to watch as the limo pulled up next to the granite wall beside the gate, and Meyer Lansky got out followed by Socks Lanza.

Both were dressed in silk suites and Lanza carried a clothes bag and a pair of brown wingtips. The two made there way through the gates with no resistance from the sentries, who knew why they were there. In fact, by way of every newspaper in the country the entire New York penal system knew why they were there.

Lucky Luciano had made parole.

An hour later, dressed in his new, charcoal grey suit and shoes, Lucky escorted by Lansky and Lanza, walked through the gate a free man, sorta.

Even though the parole board granted him parole, they were ever mindful of their political careers. The board, the judge and the Governor attached severe restrictions, actually, only one restriction. Get the hell out of the country.

Ironically it was D. A. Hogan, the Third Naval District, and Commissioner Lyons who were directly responsible for Lucky's favorable parole decision. Despite the fact he had up to forty years remaining on his greatly inflated sentence, he was out of prison because of the aforementioned bureaucrat's refusal to cooperate with the parole board when questioned about Lucky’s contribution to the war effort. Instead of being told that Lucky had or had not made a contribution to his adopted land, the parole board investigators were essentially told it was none of their business. So, by way of showing their authority, and the fact that they had no sense of humor about being told to piss off,  they set Lucky free.

“Do you, Charles Luciano, understand and concur with all the conditions of your parole as set forth by the New York State Parole Commission?” The tall, lanky administrator, one of the two who would accompany Lucky to New York City and keep him under close eye until Monday morning, spoke mechanically as he filled out yet another document for Lucky to sign.

“Sure, I understand. You want me to take my boys and go home.”

“Sign here please.” Lucky signed and without waiting for his copy of the papers, walked out of prison. The two administrators followed the new limousine in their state issued, 1934 Ford.

“So how long you got?” Lanza asked Lucky as they made their way down the mountain road.

“Forty-eight hours. Then they getta watch me leave.”

“These rat bastards gonna be with us until Monday morning?”

“They might hang around but sometime tomorrow they’ll take a powder and some INS guys ‘ill show up. They’re the one’s gotta put me on the boat.”

“The boat? Why don’t you fly Boss? You could go first class! We could’a bought you a ticket!” Socks asked.

“They’re the ones kicking me out. Let them pay for the ticket!” Lucky looked out the window at the world he hadn’t seen for six years. Smiling he added, “I’ll take a plane when I come back.”

 

***

 

The parade route was scheduled to start south of the American Museum of Natural History, a structure which dwarfed the adjacent Hayden Planetarium situated next door to the museum.

The early afternoon crowd were dressed in heavy, winter clothing, and snow continued to lightly coat the pavement as wind sporadically made its way up the avenue.

McKeowen cautiously approached from the 78th Street side and slowly walked up Columbus Avenue, to the back of the museum complex. At 81st Street, across from the park, he took full advantage of the steady stream of spectators making their way down Central Park West by peering around the corner. He noticed that there were an inordinate amount of police in the area, but put it down to crowd control. To play it safe he decided to enter the Hayden through the museum, via the annex hallway.

“Excuse me, miss?” Doc was at the coat check just inside the door, and a young girl came to the counter.

“Yes sir?” Over her shoulder Doc could see the nearly full lost and found bin. He shifted to a thick Jersey dialect.

“Miss, I was here last month, on a field trip with some of my students, and . . . well I’m embarrassed to say it. But I was so tired, I think I left my overcoat here.”

A few minutes later, Doc strolled through the museum annex, wearing a grey tweed overcoat on top of his leather jacket, and approached the lobby of the planetarium. He stood there for a few minutes, glancing around the room as he pretended to read the program until he picked out two of Johnson’s stooges. One he recognised and the other was new. Johnson brought reinforcements. It was five minutes until one, and after assessing his situation, he proceeded directly into the planetarium theatre where the crowd were taking their seats.

Doc took a seat in the front row, and removed the overcoat, letting it fall back onto his seat, no sooner did he have his arms free when two men sat down, one on either side of him. The one on his right was Johnson, the other was another new face.

Doc looked at all four of the exits of the circular room and saw that each was manned by an agent accompanied by a policeman.

“Jees Bob, how many assholes does one guy need?”

“Hi Mac-Keowen, how’s the bedroom peepin’ business? I hear Sammon is doin’ real well uptown. Even lives in a penthouse now.”

“I really want you to know how flattered I am that you take such an interest in my personal life. But let me ask you something. How does it feel to murder a defenceless mail clerk in his eighties?”

“I don’t know Mac. You tell me.”

Johnson reached into his breast pocket and dropped a piece of paper into Doc’s lap. As he read it Doc realized what Sullivan was too cowardly to tell him. It was an arrest warrant with Doc’s name on it, for the murder of Ira Birnbaum. It was hard to contain himself, but Doc focused on knocking Johnson off balance as soon as possible.

“And just in case you’re thinkin’ about any local connections, you’ll notice it’s a Federal warrant.”

A middle aged couple holding tickets approached the seats where Doc and the two agents were sitting. The man double checked the ticket numbers and then looked to Johnson. The tourist adjusted his glasses as he spoke in a mid-western dialect.

“Excuse me, I believe you’re in our seats.” Johnson looked up at the man and smiled.

“Hit the bricks, Mortimer. These seats are taken.” The couple exchanged glances.

“Excuse me, sir but we paid for those seats!” The man insisted. Johnson flashed his badge.

“Tough shit Henry! Looks like you either stand or go look at the dinosaurs! Now get the hell outta here before I run you and the misses in for loitering!” The wife tugged at her husband’s arm and they walked away. Doc called after them, smiled and waved.

“Welcome to New York!” The house lights began to dim and an older man stood at the podium which was off centre of the amphitheatre.

“Guess this means the deal is off?” Doc held up the warrant.

“Oh no, we still got a deal. You give me my book and I’ll think about speakin’ to the judge so you don’t get the chair. But I can’t make any promises. That young D. A. over in Brooklyn is makin’ a pretty big deal over this murder.” Johnson leaned in to Doc in mock emphasis of his point. “Rumor has it he’s talkin’ about goin' for governor.”

In the centre of the room two trap doors opened up and a large, black object began to rise above floor level. It gave the appearance of a six foot metal ant, freckled all over with white dots as it slowly came to life. It was the Zeiss projector. Doc saw his cue.

“This little black book must be pretty important, huh?”

“Where is it?” Johnson didn’t want to play any more.

“You get the book, you leave everyone alone!”

“Otherwise what? You’re gonna give it to the press? The papers have been notified that a top secret document has been stolen by a murder suspect, and if anything surfaces, they’re to notify me personally. Any other clever moves, rookie?”

“Always one step ahead, huh Bob?”

“I get my book, you don’t face espionage charges along with premeditated murder. Last chance hero, where is it?”

The smile Doc had been wearing evaporated from his face as he hung his head. Putting his hand over his mouth, he nodded at the projector, just as the show’s presenter began his lecture about the wonders of the night time, Winter sky.

“Taped underneath.” He said to Johnson. Johnson looked at McKeowen and then at the projector.

“C’mon, I’ll show you.” Doc offered. Johnson slapped his hand on Doc's chest and pushed back into the seat.

“No! You sit there, and don’t even think about moving!” He turned to the other agent. “He's under arrest. If he moves, shoot him!”

Johnson walked over to the astronomer presenting the lecture while brandishing his badge, and ordered him to stop the show while the back up cops and agents closed ranks in front of the exits. By now it was obvious to everyone in the house that there was some kind of disturbance down front and Johnson was being showered with assorted cat calls and abuses which temporarily distracted him, until he yelled back at the crowd to be quiet, this was a police matter.

At the same time the other agent produced a pair of handcuffs and ordered McKeowen to put his hands behind his back. Doc complied while judging the distance to the Zeiss projector to be about ten yards. The presenter’s podium looked to be about twice that, and when Johnson momentarily turned his back giving orders to the speaker, Doc stood, hands still behind his back, gripping the overcoat off the seat back.

One moment the agent was looking at his handcuffs, opening them, the next moment everything was black. Doc had him covered in the heavy garment, punching furiously until the agent offered no more resistance, and fell to the floor. The crowd whistled and began to clap. This caught the attention of Johnson who was so affronted by McKeowen’s audacity that he saw red.

Charging at Doc, who was scanning the room after punching bag practice on the agent, he ran at full speed, his hat flying off and his open coat flapping behind him. Johnson couldn’t have done Doc a bigger favor.

Doc stood perfectly motionless, posed as if to catch Johnson as he attacked. Instead, at the last second, Doc side stepped the charging bull, and grabbed hold of him as he flew past, pushing Johnson as hard as he could, head first into the steps leading up the aisle.

The crowd let out a tremendous cheer, and Doc made his break for the base of the projector, between the trap doors. As the cops and agents scurried down the aisles to converge on the center of the theater Johnson rolled over, rubbing his head to tumultuous applause, while looking around, trying to focus on the room.

Running at full speed Doc dived to the marble floor and slid through the open trap doors into the darkness below. After getting to his feet, Johnson regained his focus and started shouting orders.

“You two, down the hole, now! Berryman! Take a cop and search the projector!” Then he turned to the presenter. “You, perfessor! Where does that hole lead to?”

Doc was learning the answer to that question as they spoke. The hall beneath the lifting device for the projector was barley wide enough for one man to walk through, bent over. Originally designed for repair access only, it was unlit and showed no signs of ending. Doc could hear the two men following him, stumbling around in the dark, trying to light a cigarette lighter.

He guessed he was under the annex passageway and assumed there must be an access panel somewhere. Suddenly Doc felt a wall in front of him with his foot. He systematically felt right and left. More walls. It was a dead end. The sounds behind him grew louder as he quickly ran his hands up and down all three walls while above he could hear the other agents and policemen running through the annex.

Finally he felt an iron latch. Lifting it as slowly as he could to avoid unnecessary noise, he pushed open the narrow steel hatch, and peered through to the other side. A short iron ladder, embedded in the wall led up to a grate in the museum floor.

“I see light!” The voice behind him signalled he was spotted. Slamming the door hard he braced his foot against the adjoining wall and pulled out as hard as he could on the latch of the handle. The latch bent, not much, but enough to keep the handle from being able to slide open. The men behind the door rattled it furiously but couldn’t open it.

Back inside the planetarium, a very annoyed crowd were being told that the show had been cancelled, and refunds would be afforded. The Zeiss projector revealed no little black book, and so was lowered and the trap doors were closed and locked.

Up on the lobby level, the men’s toilet door slowly opened and Doc stuck his head out, looking up and down the hall. He saw a welcomed sight. A bank of phone booths just outside the ladies toilets only yards from the main exit. Time to call for back-up.

Once inside a booth, he unscrewed the overhead light and dialled the office. He could sneak out and lay low until Louie showed up with a cab.

Through the line Doc heard the office phone continue to ring. And ring, and ring.

“God-damn it Mancino! You better be dead or dying!”

“He’s in here!” Through the glass of the double folding doors, Doc could see a cop’s uniform, and an arm pointing into the phone booth.

The cop grabbed at the door handles and Doc followed suit. He resisted letting the officer open the doors just long enough to establish a rhythm, and as the cop gave one determined mighty pull, Doc released the handles, trapping the officer’s right hand between the doors as they folded open. The cop yelled, Doc punched him twice in the stomach, and closed the doors so he could collapse onto the floor, gasping for breath.

With no hope of back-up, and the lobby crowd now swollen with the ranks of the planetarium people, Doc reckoned the main exit was a good bet. The parade was due to start in less than half an hour, so the streets should be equally as mobbed.

Once again Doc donned his Negro League baseball cap and tried to blend in. The crowd ebbed and flowed around the twin Brontosaurii mounted on their bronze replicated landscape, displayed in the center of the massive lobby. Doc could see the sunlight peering through the large brass doors as he approached them. He cautiously looked around, no cops, no agents.

Then Doc hit the floor, hands sprawled in front of him. Shit! He’d been tackled from behind. He was able to roll over and see the cop who tackled him removing his Billy club from its holster. Things switched to fast forward.

The cop swung and Doc rolled left and the hardwood club struck the marble floor. Doc pinned the arm holding the club to the floor and climbed onto the cop’s back. Holding the officer by the hair, Doc slammed his face into the floor and the fight was over. Out of breath, soaked in sweat, he looked up. The exit was only ten feet away.

As he rose to his feet and looked around, he was struck in the back of the head and fell to the floor. Doc kept waiting for unconsciousness to overtake him, but it didn’t. Instead he rolled over onto his back and looked up. He recognised the agent who was swinging down hard with the cop's Billy club towards his face. Doc instinctively moved to block the blow, and the full force was taken by his right forearm. He knew instantly, his arm was broken.

Strange how you notice insignificant details of your surroundings when you’re scared, thought Doc. He focused on the polished marble floor. Then turned to the walls, and ceiling. He thought about the great times he spent here as a kid and how for the longest time he vowed to be an archaeologist in a far away place, and dig for dinosaur bones. Then things slammed into focus.

Amazingly the agent wasn’t swinging any more. He was standing upright calling to other police and agents. Doc seized the moment. Kicking the agent’s feet out from under him, he watched as feet flew in one direction and the Billy club in another. The bone crunching thud when his head hit the floor and the agent writhing in agony holding his lower back told Doc he had bought more time.

Doc struggled to his feet, one knee at a time cradling his arm, and continued to make his way to the door. The pain surged up his back and into his head, as he made his way through the crowd. His brain on high alert he pushed the door open with his left shoulder and stepped out into the sunlight.

The cold, fresh air helped to clear his head and he was compelled to take the stairs one at a time, holding his broken arm close to his chest.

Leaving the danger of the museum and entering the carnival atmosphere of the street was surrealistic. In opposition to the relative dark and quiet of the museum, everything outside was colourful and busy, like a Dali painting. A clown across the street stood against the Central Park wall selling balloons, dozens of men in kilts made their way south to the parade route and women in varied costumes accompanied them as kids scurried in all directions. Doc tried to focus on making it into the park to hail a cab.

Crossing Central Park West was easy as traffic was blocked off further north to accommodate the parade. Weaving between a marching band just forming ranks and some shivering baton twirlers Doc heard a voice from behind.

“Hey, asshole!”

As he stood in the middle of the side walk, across the street, Doc slowly turned and saw a treasury agent standing on the side walk behind him. Something was wrong. This guy didn’t look like Johnson or any of the other agents, fat and sloppy.  As the agent slowly removed his top coat, Doc stared in disbelief.

The guy’s chest rose to touch his jaw, and he had no discernible neck. His biceps nearly exploded out of his sleeves and Doc thought that he looked like an Aryan genetic experiment gone amuck. It was one of the few times McKeowen regretted not carrying a gun.

Doc decided, under the circumstances, there was only one reasonable course of action. He took a deep breath, held his broken arm, looked around . . . and ran like hell.

Through the crowd and up the side walk, trying desperately to make it to the park wall he scurried on the icy walk. Maybe I could lose him in the undergrowth. Yeah, the bare, winter, defoliated undergrowth! Shit! As he reached the wall, Doc heard a sound like raw meat slapping the pavement.

Just as he got one leg over the low granite wall, a woman screamed and he looked to his left in time to see a couple of dozen balloons floating into the air and the balloon selling clown frantically administering non-stop punches to no-neck. The agent was on his knees, but the clown, now with a strangle hold on the agent's neck tie, kept punching. Blood spurted from his face, and on the fifth or sixth punch, the unconscious agent fell face first onto the pavement with a sickening thwack. Blood pooled around his face.

The clown was out of breath propped against the park wall for support when a panicky woman made her way through the on-lookers and ushered her kid away from the scene.

"It's okay lady. He just tried to steal the kid's balloon." Doc squinted, stared and made his way over to the clown. In between gasps he spoke to Doc, “I have got to get another set of these!” He held up his right hand covered in blood and brass knuckles. “Hey Doc! How’s it hangin’?”

“Louie! What the . . . ?” Louie’s big clown feet flopped over to Doc.

“I tailed you all the way from down town! Never even seen me, didja?” Doc smiled and fell back against a soot stained bench, holding his arm. “Doc! You Okay?”

“I think I got a busted arm Louie.” Doc looked very pale. “We gotta get outta here before the rest of the goons show up.”

Louie helped his friend over the short perimeter wall into the park and they kept to the narrow footpaths snaking through the shrubs and trees. By the time they reached Belvedere Lake, ten minutes later, Louie noticed Doc was slowing down.

“Here Doc, sit here.” Louie brushed the light, powdery snow from a bench and sat Doc down facing the frozen lake. He walked over to a garbage basket and removed the rest of his clown outfit stuffing it in the receptacle. He put the collar up on his coat and returned to Doc.

“Louie . . . ” Doc inquired in between pants. “. . . why’d ya keep hittin’ that guy so many times?”

“He wouldn’t go down!” Louie put Doc’s collar up as well then adjusted his ball cap. “Besides, it’s jocks like him that are always yaking about how bowling ain’t a real sport. They piss me off.” Louie rubbed his hands together. It was getting colder with a slight wind and the snow was now falling in big, wet flakes and starting to stick.

“Hey Doc, you want some coffee, or you want to push on to the hospital? Lenox Hill is only about six or eight blocks away.“

“Sure thing, Kato” Came Doc’s weak reply. Louie smiled and looked over at his friend. He did his best to conceal his horror as he saw the back of the bomber jacket was covered in blood oozing from the back of Doc’s head. Doc slowly closed his eyes and slipped into unconscious.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

 

Treasury agent Berryman dashed out of the taxi even before it came to a full stop in front of number 90 Church Street. Flashing the night sentry his credentials, he went directly upstairs to the Department of the Treasury office where Johnson, and two other agents were packing up.

“They found him!” Berryman announced as he burst through the door. Johnson was taking a framed certificate off the wall and turned towards Berryman with a smile.

“Where?”

“They think he was taken to Lenox Hill Hospital!”

“Huh, Park Avenue. He didn’t make it very far, must be hurt pretty bad. That’s a good thing.” Johnson nonchalantly turned back to packing and placed the framed D. A.’s special commendation into a box. The other agents resumed their tasks as well. Berryman had a puzzled look on his face.

“Well? Aren’t we gonna go get him?” Johnson didn’t turn as he kept working.

“What for? Cops know where he is. He’s hospitalized, where the hell’s he goin’? Besides, our job is done. They’ll arrest him, he’ll spend one to two years tied up in court, that’s if he can afford a good lawyer, then the rest of his life in jail.”

“But there’s no evidence he did it. What if he walks?”

“Walks? Come back to Kansas Dorothy! Guilty until proven innocent. Plus the publicity around this thing. The cops know he did it, the D. A. will take it from the cops, make sure he gets the right judge, the rest is history. Even if he gets a good lawyer, he can’t fight the system from inside a cell. End of story.”

“Hey Boss, what about the money?” One of the other agents was holding a small leather carrying case as he spoke to Johnson.          “How much is left?”

“Little over eighteen grand.”

“Divvy it up five ways. Give me Robbie’s cut, I’ll take care of it. The rest of you . . .” The agents stopped what they were doing and paid attention. “. . . every man is responsible for himself. That not only means the money, but your alibis, and everything else. From the time you walk out of this office, you’re on your own. Questions?”

Their silence signalled they were in agreement. Johnson turned back to Berryman.

“You reschedule the travel arrangements?”

“Yeah, here.” He reached into his breast pocket and took out a thick envelope and opened it.

“This is your plane ticket. Your wheels up at eight-thirty. You guys are goin’ out by train, nine forty-five. All separate cars” He dealt out train tickets to the other agents as he spoke. “I’ll follow tomorrow by car. We meet back on F Street Monday morning, and go back to work.”

“Last chance. Questions, comments snide remarks?” No one spoke. “Gentlemen, it’s been a slice.” Johnson headed for the door.

 

***

 

As evening settled in the glitter of the falling snow caused the trees, greens and lake to take on a magical, Winter wonderland ambience. The view across Central Park East from the tall office buildings and apartment houses revealed a fairytale quality not often seen in a war-time metropolis. The serenity was momentarily interrupted by the flashing red light of a Cadillac ambulance and the shrill echo of its siren resonated throughout the neighborhood as it made its way down the avenue.

The side doors of the vehicle were lettered in gold leaf and red enamel, “Lenox Hill Hospital, N. Y. C., N. Y.”

“When the hell you think you’re gonna see a machine ta monitor the human heart inside a ambulance? And besides standin’ on it to reach high places, what we gonna do with it?” The ambulance driver spoke with the courage of his convictions. His partner, slumped down in his seat gazing out the window, answered with the same amount of intensity.

“If we vote at the union meeting to take the pay cut, and let them institute their new training program, we’ll know how to use the machine!”

“You’re dreamin’ Carlos! We ain’t doctors! We drive a meat wagon, dat’s it! Pick ‘em up and drop ‘em off. Period! It's simple. All you gotta do is think about it. We ain't paid, trained or supposed to save nobody's lives!”

“I got somethin’ for you to think about! Think about all them medics and Navy corpsmen coming back after the war. All that shit they seen and done! Watcha you think? They’re gonna go back to deliverin’ milk and bread?” The driver signalled his rejection with a smirk.

The ambulance pulled up to the emergency department and unloaded the patient. The blood soaked blanket which covered the patient’s face horrified several people in the waiting room as the gurney was wheeled down the hall to the morgue holding area. Two people in the waiting area took no notice at all.

Nikki and Louie stood in the back corner of the room, pretending to drink their coffee. After what seemed to be an eternity, a doctor, who appeared older than his years, found the duo and told them Doc was awake and asking to see them.

“Which one of you two checked me in here?! The cops are searchin’ every hospital from the Bronx to Coney Island!” Doc’s way of saying hello as they entered the room. Nikki was embarrassed and started to answer until Louie put his hand on her arm and stepped forward.

“You got seven stitches in your head, your arm is broke in two places and they gave you two pints of blood! You passed out fer Christ’s sake! What were you gonna do? Go home and take an aspirin with a whiskey chaser, Doctor Mayo?!” Doc closed his eyes and put his head back on the pillow.

“Shit Louie! I’m sorry! I’m a little pissed off about that son-of a-bitch gettin’ over on me.”

“We used a fake name.” Louie reassured Doc.

“We? Do I want to hear this one?” Louie launched into the story with a smirk of pride.

“We told them you guys were married. You got in fight over her, with your brother-in-law. He's a Jar Head and he's pissd off 'cause you ain't in uniform. Ya bum!” Doc fought back an agonised smile. “Your name’s O’Malley. Should be ashamed of yourself, not doin' your bit!” Nikki felt obligated to interject.

“If you don’t like it, we can fly to Vegas and have it annulled. Mr. O’Malley.”

“So it’s a conspiracy!”

“How ya feelin’, cowboy?” Nikki put on her brave face. What she really wanted to know was, if Doc was going to be stupid enough to go after Johnson. Doc pointed to his head with his right arm wrapped in a thick cast.

“Except for these little guys inside my head pounding away with sledge hammers, I don’t feel too bad.”

“Just pretend it’s another hangover.” Louie consoled Doc as he helped himself to Doc’s Jello-o. Nikki moved over and sat on the side of the bed and Doc sensed the impending tone of conversation and told Louie to go look for a nurse.

“But Doc, I'm married! Besides, you got a buzzer hanging right there next to . . . ”

“Louie! Why-don’t-you . . .” Louie copped on when he realized Nikki was no longer sitting, but laying on the bed.

“I’ll go find a nurse.”

“Thank you Louie.” Doc said as he turned back towards Nikki.

“Doc, I know you want to go after him . . . ” Nikki spoke hesitantly for fear of how Doc might interpret her words. “But this guy is worse than bad news, he’s evil incarnate. There’s no way they can prove you killed Ira, ‘cause you didn’t do it. Plus we know about the phoney money scam, we can peg him on that! Doc what I’m tryin’ to say is . . . “

“I know what you’re tryin’ ta say baby, and it means a lot. But if I don’t find him, he sure as hell will find me. He’ll duck down ta D. C. for awhile, but he ain’t gonna let me walk away. And that means he has to deal with you too. I can’t let that happen. That’s what I’m tryin' ta say. In my own pathetic, clumsy way.” Doc smiled and put a hand on Nikki’s face. She leaned forward and kissed him. He forgot about the pain in his head as he held her with his good arm. Just as they were about to kss again Louie burst into the room and ran around the bed to peer out the window.

“What’s a matter, you piss the nurses off too?” Doc asked. Louie continued to look out the window.

“Doc, I got good news and bad news. The good news is we still got two or three minutes.” Louie did a good job of concealing his excitement.

“Till what?” Doc slid off the bed and stood there.

“Till a whole shit load’a cops comes bustin’in through the door.” Doc held Nikki by both arms.

“They don’t know about Louie, where he lives. Go there, stay there! Wait for me to call. If I call you from any place other than jail, you’ll know I’m okay! Got it?” Louie threw Doc his clothes and Doc began to dress quickly.

“But Doc, what if . . . “

“We’re outta time, baby. Get outta here now, go down to the waiting room, sit there, read a magazine like you’re waitin’ on somebody and wait till it blows over, then just walk out through the back door.”

“You ready Doc?  It’s all clear.” Louie had the door partially open, peering down the hallway and as Doc approached the door Nikki grabbed his arm.

“They’re flying outta LaGuardia tonight, back to Washington.”

“How do you know?”

“I talked to Agnes, the secretary who made the arrangements for them.”

"I owe ya one, Sweetheart!" Doc smiled and stroked her cheek.

“There’s just one thing I want you to do for me.” She added.

“Name it.”

“Get that prick son-of-a-bitch!”

“If you’re tryin’ ta get me to love you, you’re doin’ a helluva job!” Louie was getting nervous.

“Any time this week, Romeo!” Doc kissed Nikki and followed Louie through the door.

At street level, over a dozen uniformed officers accompanied by two detectives poured out of five squad cars and stormed into the hospital lobby. They assembled at the reception desk and looked to their chief detective for instructions.

“Remember, this guy’s not just a cop gone bad, he’s a murderer! Be careful!” With that the police moved to infiltrate the building.

At the elevators the officers were directed to split up and cover all four elevators and both stair wells.

Doc and Louie were descending the stairs as fast as possible.

“They’ll have to find out what room you were in. That’ll buy us some time.” To his credit Louie was thinking strategically however, no sooner had the words left his mouth when they heard the police rushing up from one floor below.

“Looks like they already know.” Doc suggested. “Quick! In here!” He grabbed Louie’s arm, and led him from the landing into the third floor ward.

As the door closed behind them they instantly realized if they were looking to blend in they were definitely in the wrong place.

Female nurses and pregnant women were everywhere. They were in Maternity. Back on the stair well, a senior officer shouted orders to his minions.

“Last man in line, check each floor as we go then catch up! Do it!”

“Yes sir!” As the detail passed by the third floor, the last officer in line stopped on the landing and pulled the door open. Stepping onto the Maternity Ward he saw nothing suspicious about a few pregnant women standing around chatting and two new fathers standing in front of the new born window, congratulating each other, and tapping on the glass. He moved on.

A few minutes later McKeowen and Mancino were in the lobby. The main entrance was covered so they diverted down the hall to try and get out through Emergency.

Reckoning that they weren’t looking for Louie, and so wouldn’t recognise him, Mancino went through the exit first. He made it safely and standing outside in the falling snow, signalled Doc that the coast was clear. Doc carried his bomber jacket over his arm to conceal the blood stains on the collar and his cast as he walked to the exit.

Outside on Park Avenue there was no trouble hailing a taxi and in a moment they were heading south.

“Airport, on the double!” Doc instructed even before they were in the cab.

“What for? Airport’s been closed for two hours.” The cabbie reminded Doc of Spike Jones with glasses on relaxation tablets. “Blizzard’s movin’ in.”

“What if we wanted to go to D. C.?”

“Washington D. C.?!” Dollar signs flashed before the cabbie’s eyes. “How much money you got?”     

“Not by cab! Public transport!”

“Well, ya got your storm movin’ up from the south, specifically Pennsylvania. All your secondary roads were closed an hour ago. That means . . .” Doc and Louie looked at each other. “. . . that all your primary roads will be closed in about an hour. That eliminates your cars and buses. So . . . “

“Hey pal! How ‘bout we skip the meteorology lesson and you tell us the best way to D. C.! Tonight?”

“Best bet is, if you gotta travel tonight, is by train.”

“Penn Station?”

“Only place to get a train to D. C. from the City.”

“How long to get there?” The cabbie gestured with open hand to his wind shield.

“You tell me!” Through the wet glass and the rhythmic slapping of the wipers Doc and Louie saw red tail lights the entire length of Park Avenue fading into the darkness.

“Shit!” Faced with the possibility of losing Johnson, Doc realized that confrontation was becoming an obsession.

On the long cab ride from 77th Street to 29th, McKeowen had adequate time to consider the ramifications of not intercepting Johnson in time. Not only would Johnson be able to solidify his position and reinforce his alibi if he made it back to Washington, but Doc would be faced with evading the police for an indefinite period of time. Johnson had to be stopped and made to show Doc’s innocence, but how?

“I wouldn’t worry about it if I wuz you.” Suggested the hack.

“Oh yeah, why not?” Doc set his sights on the cabbie.

“If your planes are down, your trains are gonna be delayed. Penn Station is gonna be a mess!”

Describing Penn Station as a mess was like saying Fred Astair and Ginger Rogers could dance a little. It was pandemonium. The foot and a half of fluffy white stuff which had fallen since that afternoon had turned into thick, black slush as a result of the non-stop traffic. Wors yet, it showed no signs of letting up, and even seemed to be getting worse with wind adding to the discomfort, forcing more people inside.

Commuters had been converging on the unsuspecting station staff since midday bound for all points up and down the Eastern Seaboard and, for the most part, were concerned with getting back to their jobs and homes by Monday morning.

Entering through the East Portico, the two were overwhelmed by the scene which greeted them. Thousands of stranded commuters were jammed into the expansive Grand Concourse.

“Doc! There must be ten thousand people in this place! How are we gonna find him?!”

“He's here we’ll find him.”

“Hell, he may not even be here!”

“He’s here Louie. I can smell him.”

“Jesus! Talk about a needle in a haystack!”

“This must be what the train stations in Europe looked like when the Nazis went on the rampage.” Doc’s analogy was a good one.

Penn Station is large enough to be considered a small town, and this city within a city was packed with people. People sleeping on benches, sleeping on their luggage and sleeping on cafe tables and chairs. Some even sleeping standing up. In the midst of the undulating crowd, Doc and Louie found a porter who directed them to the lower level platforms. Downstairs they found an engineer, sitting on a bench, eating a sandwich and reading a newspaper oblivious to the chaos.

“Hey, Buddy. Where would we get the train to D. C.?”

“Best place tonight’d be Carolina or Florida.” The engineer took a swig of his orange Nehi soda and continued to read. Doc was maintaining his patience, but only by a thread.

“How about from here?!”

“Everything is shut down from here to Pittsburgh south to Altoona. I don’t see anything leaving this station tonight.”

“What tracks do the D. C. trains leave from?”

“Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven and sometimes twenty-eight. End of the platform.” He added through a mouthful of bologna on rye.

At the same time Doc was getting a lesson on the station plan on track fourteen, Johnson was waving his Treasury Department badge in the face of the platform manager, down on track twenty-five, attempting to beg, borrow or steal three seats on a train south. He neglected to take into account New Yorker’s attitudes toward emergencies, national disasters and catastrophes.

“Look Mac. I don’t care if you’re J. Edgar Hoover, the Attorney General or Amilie Earhart, all the trains that are leaving this station tonight, are gone. Read my lips. No more trains!”

As Doc and Louie moved up the platform dodging commuters, Mancino sought to organize their plan of attack.

“Okay Doc. How we gonna do this? You want me to distract him? Sneak up from behind?” Doc stared straight ahead perusing the crowd and kept walking towards the south bound tracks, weaving between commuters with surprising dexterity. “Or maybe you could sneak up from behind?” Doc didn’t answer but increased his pace. “Look Doc, I know you’re pissed off to beat the band, but . . .”

Doc stopped, opened his jacket, and continued to glare forward.        

“Told ya he was here Louie.” Louie looked at Doc’s evil grin and transfixed eyes. Then, following Doc’s line of sight, saw Johnson, off to one side of the crowd about fifty feet ahead, standing in front of a railroad employee arguing.

“Doc we gotta talk about how we’re gonna do this! We can’t just go up and get this guy!” Louie’s voice which previously registered excitement, now began to register apprehension.

“Why not Louie?” Doc continued the look of a man possessed as he began to walk. His pace quickened and he soon pulled ahead of Louie as he broke into a run, still dodging commuters. Louie ran, two steps behind Doc, not so successfully negotiating the crowd.

“Doc, there might be more than one!” Doc ignored the pleas. “They got GUNS!” Without breaking stride Doc reached into his jacket and produced a Colt .45 and a strange looking pistol Louie had never seen. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit! Now WE got guns! Why didn’t I listen to you on the phone!” Louie spoke as he tried to run faster.

“What the hell is that thing anyway?!”

“Marakov 7.65.”

“Fuckin’ great! Now we’re huntin’ elephants in Grand Central Station!”

Johnson was at the peek of his frustration and thought he was having a bad night until he glanced around through the crowd. He could see the night was going to get a lot worse.

At first he wasn’t sure it was McKeowen, but as the aberration drew closer, the bruised face, blood stained jacket and cast poking out of the jacket sleeve, confirmed his worst fears. For the first time since he knew McKeowen existed, Johnson realized what he was dealing with. Beaten, bruised and broken, this bastard kept on coming. He didn’t give a shit, it only seemed to piss him off worse. Now, with nothing left to lose, he was ready to cross the line.

“Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you about the train situation, agent Johnson?” The manager asked for a second time.

“Never mind that! Where’s the nearest transit police?”

“What?”

“TRANSIT POLICE! WHERE ARE THEY?”

“Ground level, upstairs, why?” Johnson was already moving.

“Call them! Tell them they’ve got a convicted murderer on the premises!” Doc was only twenty feet away by now and picking up speed. Johnson saw the guns, and broke into a run.

“A what?”

“Do it! NOW! Tell them he’s armed and dangerous! Shoot on sight!” Johnson abandoned his luggage taking only a black leather satchel, and darted into the crowd. The station manager stood, and watched as Doc and Louie flew past the small booth.

As no trains were arriving or departing, there was eight or ten feet of space, closest to the rail heads on the platform, which for the most part was clear. Doc saw it first and moving to his right was able to close the distance between himself and Johnson.

By the time Johnson realized where he was it was too late. He already passed the last flight of stairs to the upper level, and Doc was only two tracks behind, and closing fast. Johnson looked around at the people and then at a porter driving a luggage tractor. Reaching the end wall of the lower level, with the tracks to his right he waited until the tractor, with its train of empty carts, turned to head onto the last platform. As it passed in front of him he could see Doc over on track twenty-nine, standing on a bench waving hello at him.

Doc was surprised when he heard the two shots. He didn’t expect even Johnson to fire in a crowd. As he ducked behind a post, Doc understood what Johnson was doing. He wasn’t being shot at, Johnson fired into the air. The shots had the desired effect. Even jaded New Yorkers knew when to duck.

In seconds every one was on their hands and knees, there was screaming and, commuters on their way down the stairs were now quickly on their way back up.

Doc peeked carefully around the post, Johnson had vanished. Where the hell did he go? Doc quickly hopped back on the bench, weapons at the ready, and scanned the crowd. No sign of him! Fuckin’ Houdini!

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS, AND PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! THIS IS THE NEW YORK CITY TRANSIT POLICE! DO IT NOW!”

Doc turned around and saw three Transit cops, about forty to fifty yards away drawing a bead on him. There was no way it was going to end here! Putting his hands up slowly to buy time, he realized they had snub nosed .38’s. They were at the outside limit of their accurate range. He made a decision.

He fell to the floor, rolled under the bench and off the platform and onto the track. Once there, he ran. Shots rang out behind him, but from the ricochets he knew he was out of range.

Through the shadowy tunnels Doc couldn’t see where the tracks exited uponto the streets, even though he now judged himself to be about four hundred yards from the passenger platforms. A hundred yards ahead the track disappeared into a warren of tunnels, and he hoped Johnson hadn’t made it that far ahead and lost himself in the labyrinth. Then McKeowen got a break.

Two more shots echoed through the tunnel, and the bullets hit the wall behind him high and to the left. It was too soon for the Transits to be this close. He had found Johnson.

“Why don’t you give it up McKeowen? The cops’ll get you sooner or later.”

Doc was crouched behind a metal tool bin, against the far wall and smiled as he thought to himself, “That’s supposed to be my line.” He didn’t call back, gambling that Johnson wasn’t sure where he was. After about five minutes the gamble paid off.

Footsteps echoed through the tunnel, and Doc peered over the tool bin to see Johnson’s dark figure running along the tracks to the farthest branch of the railway. Doc stood, felt a little dizzy and steadied himself on the metal bin as he felt behind his head. His hand came back with blood on it. The wound had opened.

As he took off after Johnson, he heard three gunshots from Johnson’s tunnel. Louie!

Doc realized that in his blind fury, he had lost his unarmed friend back on the platforms. This is his neighborhood and he musta known where the tunnels came out! Stupid bastard! Doc shook off the dizziness and ran for all he was worth. Reaching the tunnel he didn’t like what he saw.

There was a man, in coveralls and a work hat, bent over another man who was lying on the ground. Doc looked at the chest and head wounds as he approached the scene. It was a Transit cop. The older man in coveralls looked up at Doc while stooping to hold the head of the dead policeman.

“He just popped outta the wall and shot. Nuthin’ I could do. Never said nothin’. I thought I was next!”  The old man was in shock. Doc put a hand on his shoulder and crouched down next to him.

“It’s okay, Pop.” Doc consoled in between breaths. “Take it easy. They’ll be some more cops along in a minute. You just tell them what you saw, okay?” The old man nodded in agreement. “Where does this tunnel come out?”

Johnson had run as far as he could and slowed to a walk. A sign on the tunnel wall told him he was no longer under Madison Square Garden, but nearing the back of the General Post Office so he figured he must be past Eighth Avenue. He picked up his pace again, and soon saw the lights of Ninth Avenue, about two hundred yards ahead, peering back at him. He walked swiftly, smelling freedom, while adjusting his clothing and smoothing his hair to shake off the dishevelled appearance then reloaded his weapon.

As Johnson emerged from the south bound tunnel, adjacent to 31st Street, he stopped, dropped his satchel and stood motionless.

There, about a hundred yards ahead on the track flanked by four Transit police guns drawn, with his arms folded across his chest, was former garbage man, U.S. Treasury agent and almost P. I., Louie Mancino.

Johnson instinctively looked behind him, and Louie called out.

“Never look back, Johnson. Somethin’ might be gainin’ on ya!” Johnson swung back around blasting. Louie and the cops dove for cover with bits of ice covered rock and timber flying around them and, once on the ground, Louie yelled out.     

“It’s okay guys! Treasury agents only carry wheel guns. He’s only got six shots!”

There was a lull in the gun fire and Louie and one of the cops rose up and brushed the snow from their clothes. Two of the others tentatively followed.

“Let me show ya why Satchel Paige never made it to the majors!” A composed Johnson called back. He reached into his over coat and removed a pair of chrome plated .45’s.

Dirt and rock exploded around their feet as the .45 rounds shattered the stone and ricocheted off the steel rails. Louie’s group spread out, ran for cover and burrowed deeper into the gravel and frozen dirt with their hands. When the shooting stopped and they looked up Johnson was gone. The cops looked at Louie who smiled back.

“Must be new issue!”

As Doc emerged from the tunnel, the nervous cops drew a bead on him. Doc stopped where he was and raised his hands.

“NO, NO, NO! He’s one of us!” Louie jumped in front of the police with his hands in the air until they relaxed their guard.

“Mancino! You okay?” Doc called out running on the loose gravel.

“Bastard’s got an arsenal!” The men were forced to talk loudly to one another, as the wind surrounding them raised the level of ambient noise in the rail yard. Doc began giving instructions to the police.

“He killed a cop, body’s back there. Be careful tramping around the crime scene. You’ve got a witness so get a hold of the NYPD right away so they can talk to him. There’s a good chance there’s a couple more of them back there posing as treasury agents, here’s their I. D.’s.” He gave the transit cop two of the bifolds. “Be careful, they’re armed! Which way’d this one go?” The officer he was addressing, responded.

“He headed off towards 31st. But if he stays on foot he won’t get far. This stuff is supposed to get worse. He’ll have to find shelter.”

“Or transportation.” Louie added.

“Exactly where the hell are we?” Doc asked, still talking in a hurried tempo. The cop used his gloved hand to indicate directions.

“10th, 9th, 33rd and 31st.”

“So West Side Drive’s that way?”

 “Couple'a blocks, but ta get on it ya gotta hit Eleventh Avenue and head south.” Doc and Louie began to climb the granite embankment to the street level and Doc called back.

“Let your Captain know there’s two men in pursuit. We’ll call in on the nearest police phone when we make contact! Got it?”

“Yes sir. Nice working with you Agent Mancino!” Louie waved back from halfway up the embankment, and Doc looked at him.

Once on street level the two were unsure of which way to go. Any direction would have been a guess. The question was answered when a loud scream followed by cries for the police emanated from Ninth Avenue.

“Let’s go, agent Mancino!” At the corner of Ninth they were in time to see a vehicle speeding away, down West 31st, and a women violently beating a mail box with her purse.

“Louie find us something to drive, fast!” Doc ran over to the women. “Ma’am, what happened?”

 “Dickless Bastard stole my cawr! Ran up, pulled me out and stole my gowd-damned cawr! I find out who he is, I’ll cut his bawls off wit a butta’ knife! A RUSTY ONE! So help me GAWD!!” She hit the mail box once again. Doc took the irate women by the shoulders and looked her in the eye.

“Describe your car to me. It’s very important!”

“Dark Green Mercury, tan interior, Wendal Wilkie bumper sticker, why? Youse guys cops?”

“No, but, we know the man who did this. We’ll take care of your car.”

Doc heard a horn beep and looked to his right. Louie sat in a mother-of-pearl white ‘32 Ford coupe’ hot rod with a dark haired stranger, barley out of his teens in the driver’s seat.

Doc shouted instructions to the confused women as he ran to the car.

“Find the nearest police box. Call the station house tell them what happened. Tell them the guys in pursuit think he’s headed towards the Battery.”

“What’s the number?” She called back.

“Just pick it up and talk!” Doc got in and gave the order. The Hot Roder spun a 180 on the snow covered street and they were in pursuit. Louie noticed the radio was on.

“Hey! Gene Krupa! Mind if I turn this up?”

“Be my guest, Cool Breeze!” The young driver answered, as they sped down West Side Drive, “Drum Boogie” blasting away.

Due to the deteriorating weather conditions, traffic was sparse on the WSD. Ice hadn’t yet formed, but the wet snow made it impossible for the cars to do over fifty and not spin out of control.

Just south of Canal Street, around Pier 29 Louie spotted him.

“Doc! There he is! A few blocks ahead, step on it!” Louie instructed.

“No! Don’t! Drop back.” Countered Doc. The driver was confused.

“Doc, why?”

“He’s not speeding. He doesn’t know we’re back here. Drive slow, keep about ten car lengths back. After Chamber’s Street, there’s only a coupl’a places he can get off.”

“Say Dad-eo, how’d you know this cat was makin’ fer the Battery?”

“He want’s outta here and south as soon as possible. The GW is either jammed or closed, and without going all the way ‘round through Brooklyn, Jersey’s the best bet. Maybe tryin’ get out in the morning at the Newark rail yard.”

“That’s far out! You should be like a private investigator dude or somthin’!”

“Naw! Pay's lousy and the conditions are shit.” Doc answered just as Johnson spotted them. He sped up and weaved in and out of the few cars and trucks on the drive.

“Don’t loose him!”

“Not to worry, Big D!” The young hot rodder’s driving was impressive. He brought them to within eight or ten car lengths in no time. “You want me ta get next to him?”

“No, hold it here. He’ll have to slow down at Battery Place to turn onto State.” Johnson again surprised them. He had no intention of slowing down, or turning.

All three watched, stunned as Johnson picked up speed, and headed straight for the wooden barricades bordering Battery Park. His car flew off the exit ramp, became airborne and his chasey ploughed through the top half of the red brick wall.

“Sorry Doc!!” The driver slammed on his brakes, and executed two perfect donuts in order to loose momentum and stop before the broken barricades. “That cat does not have both oars in the water!” The Mercury slammed hard onto the park lawn, and sped off around the Castle Clinton Monument.

“Go around to State Street! Go, GO!” They fish-tailed out and rounded State Street in time to see Johnson tearing through the lower end of the park. Two late night lovers scattered as he sped towards them knocking over trash baskets and taking out a couple of signs.

From their cold seats in the hot rod they could see Johnson continuing to drive down the foot path through the south barricade and on past Pier One.

“Shit!”

“What’s wrong Doc?”

“I was wrong about Jersey! It’s Pier Two!”

“So?”

“Governor’s Island! It’s a federal reservation! He gets out there we can’t touch him. We go anywhere near that place they’ll shoot us hen arrest us!”

“What’a we do?”

“Step on it!”

In less than a minute they came to a screeching halt in front of Pier Two, next to the dark green Mercury sitting on the pier its door open, engine still running. Doc was the first one to reach the waist high accordion gates of the loading ramp. A sign posted the hours of the ferry and showed that the last run of the day to the island was an hour ago. But Johnson was nowhere in sight. A fog horn sounded over on Pier One and Doc vanished around the corner.

Louie and the driver caught up and saw Doc standing on the edge of the ramp, staring at the growing wake of foam as the Staten Island Ferry lumbered out of the slip. Johnson waving good-bye from the fantail.

Doc wasted no time and ran past the two. Looking at the slowly widening gap Louie thought Doc ran back to get a running start.

“Doc what the hell you doin’? You can’t jump that . . .” Mancino was only partially right. He turned just in time, and was forced to push the bewildered hot rodder out of the way in mid-dive to avoid being hit by the oncoming Mercury.

Doc hit the ramp at nearly forty miles an hour, but the wet snow reduced traction significantly. Taking off wasn’t a problem, but the gap to the fantail of the ferry was now twenty feet wide and growing. The car leaned to the left once airborne due to the weight of the driver, and Doc squeezed the steering wheel, sat back with his elbows locked and held his breath.

The last thing he saw was Johnson running for all he was worth and the horrified faces of the two crew members as they dove away from the path of the incoming car and slid into the fantail bulkheads. The undercarriage jack-knifed from the impact as it hit the deck just forward of the rear wheels. The front axle broke on impact and dug into the timber decking, as the vehicle began to slide backwards towards the water.

Doc pushed desperately at the door, but the impact had jammed it closed.  He looked through the rear window to see the foam wake generated by the rhythmic churning of the ship’s screws growing slowly larger. The low rumble of her engines grew louder as the slow but steady backwards sliding of the vehicle threatened to end the chase. He banged and kicked harder at the door.

Suddenly the windshield exploded with gunfire and Doc ducked under the dash. Three more rounds ripped through the seat upholstery in rapid succession before he was able to return fire by sticking his hand over the dash and shoot in the direction of the upper deck. The suppressive return fire seemed to work and Doc took advantage of the lull.

Bleeding from the forehead after hitting the steering wheel on impact, and covered in broken glass, his cast cracked open, he scrambled to climb through the wind shield. Once outside the vehicle, clinging to the hood ornament, he was about to make one last thrust to the deck, when the car slid out from under him.

Doc hit the deck hard, lost his .45 and most of the air in his lungs. Rolling over and gasping in an attempt to regain his breath, he peered over the edge of the deck and watched the Mercury slip backwards through the iridescent green foam of the wake and vanish silently into the cold darkness. “Hope you had insurance lady.” His coffee break didn’t last long.

A double ping and sparks from the deck cleat near his head gave him incentive to scramble to cover behind a large steel chest full of life preservers.

He heard screaming with the last volley of shots and looked across into the car deck where some passengers and a crew member were huddled against the interior bulkhead of the super structure.

“How many passengers on board?” Doc yelled at the crew member. The crewman yelled over his shoulder to someone behind him. Another shot reminded Doc to keep his head down.

“YO! Donnie! How many tickets?”

“Fifteen!”

“Fifteen passengers, five crew.”

“How many in the pilot house?”

“Two!” Doc knew the engineer was below, so it was likely to be the Captain and mate above.

“You two and the passengers get down to the engine room. Dog the hatch! Stay there till I come for ya! You understand?” The crewman signalled okay and began to herd everyone through the narrow hatch and onto the ladder. A single shot ricocheted off the chest to Doc’s right and he reckoned Johnson was bracketing his target.

Waiting till a second shot sounded Doc exposed himself to the shooter’s blind side of the steel box and took careful aim with the Marakov through the heavy snowfall. As he focused on the overcoat moving across the upper railing, the chest came into perfect view.

Squeezing off a single round, he saw blood spatter on the bulkhead behind his target and the man’s stomach area quickly became a mass of red. The limp body tipped over the rail and fell two decks in a broken heap about ten yards in front of him. Doc breathed a sigh of relief.

Rising up slowly with his back against the port side bulkhead, he had an irresistible urge, probably out of morbid curiosity he thought to himself, to look at the man who he didn’t even know, who was willing to put him in prison or take his life. Holding his arm wrapped in the remnants of his soaking wet cast, his hair matted to his head with freezing water, he approached the body, and kicked it over. There was a sudden burning sensation running through his leg and he heard a shot.

Falling to his knees, Doc struggled to understand what was happening as he stared at the face of the body lying on the deck. It was one of the unknown agents from the planetarium.

Crawling into the car deck out of the line of fire, a voice called after him while he stared at his Marakov lying in the open, next to the body.

“Hey Mac-Keowen! Happy St. Patrick’s Day! How come you didn’t wear your skirt to the party?” Doc frantically tore a piece of his shirt and tightly wrapped it around his leg wound.

“Johnson? Isn’t that a slang term for penis?” Doc yelled back.

“Listen, I’d love ta chat all night Mac, but I gotta get over to Governor’s Island, you understand. So I got a friend comin’ down to help ya outta your misery.”

“Still subcontracting your dirty work, Bob?” While he spoke Doc looked at the body of the dead agent and then at the five foot long steel fog nozzle clipped to the bulkhead. The sign above the apparatus read, “For Emergency Use Only!”

A minute later a second agent came down through the hatchway from above to the main deck level and instantly fired three rounds through Doc’s brown leather bomber jacket into the slumped over form lying on the deck. Before the last round was discharged, the agent was struck across the back of the head with the hose nozzle repeatedly until he was unresponsive.

“Asshole! Your supposed to say ‘hands in the air’, first!" Doc threw one in for good measure. "I had that jacket for twelve years!” Picking up the agents gun and looking for any other visitors, Doc spoke to the unconscious agent as he frisked him. “That’s the second time I pulled that on you dumbshits!”

The passengers in the engine room were not fairing well. Between the choppy wintry waters and the unexpected, prolonged length of the ferry ride, speculation erupted into arguments about hijacking, kidnapping and pirating the ferry to some far away place like Atlantic City.

All they wanted when they boarded was to get back to a nice warm house and a quiet meal. Instead the noise of the hot, smelly engine room began to grate on their nerves as they apprehensively awaited their fate. 

A scared, middle-aged bakery clerk clung to her husband as they stood beneath a hot noisy bilge pump.

“Jesus Phil! What if dare Nazi saboteurs, sent ta take over the ship!?”

“I think there are more important ships then the Staten Island Ferry, Edna!” The man held his wife to reassure her. “Besides, if it is something big not to worry, there’s probably government agents on board right now!”    

Doc frisked the unconscious agent for extra rounds while he tried to formulate a plan. He was feeling a little light headed and knew he would have to move fast. He couldn’t tell if it was getting colder or it was the loss of blood as he struggled with frozen hands to retrieve his damaged jacket.

Doc struggled up the iron ladder way to the pilot house, and pushing open the door, he was forced to blink his eyes several times to clear his vision. He didn’t like what he saw.

The Captain was sitting in the corner with his hand on his chest, trying to stem the bleeding, and Johnson stood behind the Mate who was at the helm, a gun to his head.

“I gotta give you credit, Mac. You don’t quit! You’da made a good treasury agent!” Doc stood, propped up against the doorway of the pilot house, arms outstretched in front of him, the .45 pointed at Johnson. Doc reached into his hip pocket and produced the little black book. The rocking motion of the boat aggravated Doc’s ability to maintain a bead on Johnson as he held the book up for Johnson to see.

“Thank you. Throw it here.”

“Take the gun away from his head.”

“Book! Now!” To emphasise his point Johnson fired his weapon just above the head of the crew member who cringed.

“You must be pretty scared of whoever this belongs to.” Doc tossed the book across the center-board console, away from Johnson and the Mate, purposely throwing it hard enough to land on the deck on the opposite side of the pilot house.

Johnson reacted instantly and fired two rounds at Doc from around the left side of the Mate’s head. The sailor fell to the deck, holding his left ear, deafened by the report of the weapon.

Doc’s attempted dive to cover behind the console was more a fall and crawl manoeuvre. Johnson spoke as he fired two more rounds through the console.

“Just outta curiosity, why didn’t you bring the book to the Planetarium?”

He then took time to kick the Mate out of his way as he came around the center-board, firing ahead of him. On the other side all he saw was a circular trail of blood, and quickly surmised Doc was coming at him from behind. Instead, Doc dove for the Telegraph and was just able to signal the engine room for full aft before Johnson emptied his weapon into the signalling devise. Despite an heroic effort, the Mate was unable to remain at the helm, and was forced back onto his knees and cover his head as the pieces of the shattered Telegraph flew around him.

Realizing his weapon was empty, and now possessing the two things he wanted, the book and his leather satchel, Johnson abandoned his desire to fight. Making for the port side hatch he scooped up the book and scurried down the ladder way. Doc forced himself onto his good leg and lifted a fire extinguisher off the bulkhead, near the hatch. Without looking he flung it with everything he had so that it ricocheted off the companionway bulkheads and down the ladder. Hearing it hit its target, Doc said to himself, “Spare in the ninth.”

Making his way down the ladder, and across the deck, he watched as Johnson, blood covering his face, tried to get to his feet without success. As he attempted to crawl towards the fantail, Doc grabbed him and punched down hard at his face.

“You should’a used your secret decoder ring, Dickhead!” Doc bent down and took the book from Johnson’s hand. “You were ready to kill people for this. You think I was gonna let you get your hands on it?” Johnson’s face was covered in a puzzled look, as he first stared up at McKeowen and then the little black book.

“Yeah, that’s right. This is my little black book. The one with Charlene Meeny’s phone number in it. The real one’s been mailed back to Third Naval District.” Police boat sirens sounded in the distance. “Uh-oh, Bob! Sounds like the fat's about to sing!” Doc looked over the starboard fantail and saw the blue flashing lights of two NYPD Harbor Patrol boats quickly closing in on the ferry. However, the smile melted from his face when he looked out over the bow.

With an unmanned helm the rudder had swept the vessel into a wide arc to port. They had completely missed Governor’s Island, which was now off the starboard rail, and were heading directly into the piers of Brooklyn Heights.

Doc immediately thought of the passengers and crew below as he watched the waterfront lights grow rapidly larger. Johnson took advantage of the distractions when McKeowen stepped forward to limp around the felled agent to get to the pilot house. Grabbing him by the ankles, Johnson brought Doc to the deck, and immediately began to punch his leg wound, opening the clot and causing it to bleed vigorously. Doc yelled in pain, but refused to release his grip on Johnson collar. He punched him repeatedly with the tattered remnants of his cast, ignoring the pain in a blind fury. Doc spoke as he intensified the beating, speaking his words in between punches.

“I was gonna be a treasury agent . . . but they wouldn’t let me! Found out my parents were married.”

In the pilot house, the Mate struggled furiously to avert what seemed to be an inevitable collision with the oversized freight docks on the Brooklyn waterfront. Unable to communicate with the engine room due to the smashed Telegraph, he could only pull back full on the throttle, and fight the helm hard to port. The Fairbanks-Morse motors vibrated the entire vessel in protest, and began to overheat which spooked the passengers and caused them to run for the ladderway.

Johnson kicked his way free and made it to his feet. Doc was running out of gas, fast. Lying on the deck he noticed Johnson desperately clinging to the black leather satchel. Both men were far too engrossed in their struggle to notice that the police boats had caught up to the ferry and now were attempting to put men aboard, underway.

Using everything he had left, Doc made a desperate dive for the bag as Johnson intensified his grip.

“What’s in the purse, Gladys?” Doc managed only a partial grip, tore the bag open, and turned it upside down. The stormy wind scattered money across the fantail of the ship, and out into the harbor. Notes of varying denominations swirled into the night air and clung to fixtures and bulkheads.

Johnson screamed like a wounded animal clutching the near empty satchel, wet notes stuck to his face and chest. Rage consumed his mind as he bent over, grabbed Doc by the collar and lifted him to his feet. Doc hung like a wet rag, smiling, exhausted and soaked in frozen snow and blood. Johnson dragged him to the edge of the fantail, and looked at Doc and then at the churning wake.

“Say hello to your father, you Irish prick!” Now with their faces only inches apart, the wind and snow whipping between them, Johnson was puzzled at Doc’s smile. Suddenly he understood.

A painful burning sensation in his ribs made him look down where he saw Doc’s left fist covered in blood, tightly clutching the stiletto which was buried to the hilt. Doc moved his face closer to Johnson’s, and spoke in a loud whisper.

“I’m Scottish, not Irish.” Doc twisted the knife deeper into the agent and Johnson opened his mouth as if to yell in agony, but nothing came out. “And it’s called a kilt.”

Releasing his grip on Doc, who crumpled to the deck in a painful heap, Johnson stumbled backwards, struggling to remove the long, slender knife from his ribs. Glancing up, mouth still open in disbelief, the last thing he saw was the surrealistic sight of Mancino and two policemen, moving across the slippery deck, back lit by a police boat spotlight.

He stumbled back, still fumbling for the knife, and tripped over the mangled fantail safety gate, rolled off the fantail and disappeared into the white foam of the wake.  The wake instantly turned pink, and tatters of shredded clothing churned to the surface, mixing with the remnants of the money floating off the deck. Louie ran over to Doc, and surveyed his wounds.

“Doc! You okay?”  

“Call Lennox Hill, will ya? See if they still got my room.” Louie looked back at the jetsam which peppered the wake.

“I'll have the mixed green salad with extra tomatoes!”

“Your’re a sick son-of-a-bitch Louie.” Doc's eyes slid closed and head dropped back onto the wet deck.

The large white wake continued to arc across the harbor back towards Manhattan and back to Pier One, as the first snow fall of the season, which came in the form of a blizzard, began to show signs of letting up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

 

 

Doc didn’t mind Monday mornings, especially this Monday. It was nine thirty, a lovely young nurse who'd give Veronica Lake a run for her money had served him breakfast, he was still in bed and he was offered pain medicine on request. To top it all off his favorite switchboard operator was enroute to pick him up.  

Rumors floated through the nurses' station that Doc was to have a press conference with LaGuardia, as soon as he was well enough. In addition, he had the pleasure of telling the head nurse that he was too tired to take the long distance call from Tampa which had come in an hour before.

“Well! Look at you! Mr. High and mighty!” Doc was sitting up in bed reading the newspaper, amused by the much embellished accounts of the “Staten Island Ferry Hero”. He looked up to see Nikki standing in the doorway. She was dressed to the nines and had turned heads from the lobby all the way to Doc’s room.

“I’m sorry, did you make an appointment with my secretary?” Doc asked in a mock executive voice. Nikki slowly sashayed over to the bedside, one hand on hip the other holding her black clutch.

“You have a secretary? What a coincidence. I’m currently unemployed and dropped by to talk to you about a possible position!”

“What position would you prefer, Ma’am?”

“Well, naturally I would be looking to work my way to the top as soon as possible.”

“So, you want to be on top? In an executive sense, I mean.” Nikki pretended to ponder the question.

“That would depend on who’s under me. You understand.”

Doc lost his composure, laughed out loud and grabbed Nikki, pulling her into the clean, crisp sheets of the hospital bed.

“Ow!! God . . . darn it! This fu . . .freakin' arm!”

 “Getting old cowboy?”

“It ain’t the years sweetheart, . . . it's the mileage.” Hugging him Nikki looked into his eyes.

“You sure it’s okay to leave here? The doctor told me at least a week.” She asked suspiciously.

“That head nurse makes Boss Tweed look like the Pope and I’d rather watch a Singing Randy movie than eat hospital food for one more day!”

“You have lost weight. Mrs. Paluso is gonna have a field day with you!”

“Can’t wait to meet the lovely lady!”

“So what are you tryin’ ta say?”

“It’s the end of the third reel. Point me towards the sunset!”

Nikki got up off the bed and crossed the room to help him pack.

“You fit all your stuff in this little bag?” She asked, holding up Doc’s Y.M.C.A. bag.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“We need to go shopping!”

“God help me!” Doc closed his eyes and dropped his head.

“What?”

“I forgot about that part of it!”

“Very funny! Get your ass up!” She began to put his toiletries into the bag.

“I got a phone call from Shirley this morning.”

“Shirley?! Where the hell is she?”

“Connecticut. She eloped.”

“Eloped?! Jesus this whole time we’re worried sick about her! Did she have anything to say?” Doc spoke as he struggled into his trousers.

“Yeah. Wanted to know if she missed anything.”

Twenty minutes later Doc McKeowen and Nikki Cole were riding up the West Side Drive in the back of a Yellow Sunshine cab, headed for Mercer Street, and an indeterminate period of rest and relaxation.

 

***

 

Louie was in his glory. For the first time in the six months he’d been with Doc, he was in charge of the office.

He occupied himself with menial tasks, basking in the comfort of actually belonging to the small firm, and thinking how proud Doris was that morning as she packed him an extra package of Yankee Doodles cup cakes in his lunch.

“McKeweon and Mancino, Private Detective Agency?” The postman enquired asked the sign painter was putting the finishing touches on the big eyeball in the middle of the glass panel. The sign painter gave him a 'What's the matter, you illiterate look?' and continued to paint.

As Louie was cleaning up the files from Johnson and his goons’ redecorating party, there was a knock at the door. Louie walked over, opened it and was confronted by the elderly man in a U. S. Post Office uniform. He was holding a carton in one hand and a slip of paper in the other.

“Doc McKeowen?” Louie smiled to himself, reached into the breast pocket of his new three piece suit and produced one of the treasury department leather bifolds. He held it up and let it flop open in front of the postman. It contained a photo I. D. and a brand new Private Investigator’s license personally issued earlier that morning by the Deputy Mayor. Louie Mancino, Licensed private Investigator.

“Louie Mancino, Private Dick. What can I do for you?”

“I’m not supposed to give this ta nobody but a guy named McKeowen.”

“It’s okay. I’m his partner. I’ll sign for it if ya want. Doc’s in the hospital, he got shot up. Maybe you seen it in the papers?”

“Yeah. That’s how I knew it was time to deliver this package.”

“What is it?”

“Beats me. Ira give me the ticket a few weeks back. Says if somethin’ should happen ta him, I was ta get it outta classified storage and get it ta some Mickey named McKeowen.”

“I promise ya, he’ll get it.” The mail man was unsure of what to do. “Look, you can call Norma if ya like. She’ll vouch for me.” He was reassured by Norma’s name, gave the box to Louie and left.

Louie set the box on Doc’s desk trying not to succumb to the temptation of opening it.

He signed reports, sorted files and swept some more. All the while glancing at the carton. He dusted, dreamt and finally decided.

Carefully opening the mysterious package, Louie knitted his brow, then held his breath as he looked inside. His mouth dropped open and he fell back into the chair.

Neatly stacked in denominational order, was twenty-two thousand dollars in cash.

Harry would later verify that the notes were real, and that the serial numbers were the originals for the counterfeit bills they discovered last week.

 

***

 

For the last forty-five minutes methods of transport of every shape and description arrived in front of the main gate depositing pressmen, police and members of the public onto the planks of pier 88 along Luxury Liner Row just off 49th Street. It was utter chaos.

Normandie’s charred hull had long since been removed and moored in her berth and scheduled to depart for Naples in two hours and forty minutes, was the eloquent but ageing luxury liner, Laura Keene.

From stem to stern she was surrounded by longshoremen brandishing various tools of the trade such as bailing hooks, “J” bars and skiff hooks. They stood shoulder to shoulder behind a rank of U. S. Coast Guard sailors armed with white Billy clubs. As an added precaution, LaGuardia had ordered the pier canvassed with city cops. Lucky would have more protection than any U. S. president.

 The only people, without exception, who were permitted to board the beautiful vessel via her single gang plank, were those who the Chief Stevedore decided were legitimate ticket holders. For fear of trouble, the crew members had been ordered to report the night before.

“Fuckin' Sicily! Whatta shit hole! I’ll be back here before the end of the year. Have everything ready.” Lucky directed his comments to Socks Lanza, sitting directly across from him in the black Chrysler limousine as they pulled off Bank Street onto the pier.

“Whatever happened with that treasury agent, wanted to get in on the ground floor with us?” He asked.

“Was gonna come up from D. C. so we could see what he had. Never showed for the meet.”

“Fuck him. There’s plenty’a others where he came from. Keep things ready, you’ll hear from me in a coupla months.”

As the limousine turned off Bank Street and drove onto the dock, past the “No Vehicles Beyond This Point” sign, the longshoremen forcibly parted the mob of reporters and rubber-neckers.

Lanza was compelled to yell over the din of the crowd as they got out of the car.

“Hey Charlie!”

“Yeah?”

“How does it feel to be a star?”

With his topcoat draped over his shoulders he made his way to the gang plank escorted by six of Lanza’s union men while ten federal officials, representatives of various agencies, rushed to meet him but were not allowed to come in contact. As soon as his foot touched the deck of the Laura Keene, the Feds considered their duty done, and disappeared. Despite the fact his deportation was ordered by the U. S. government, Lucky was determined to disallow them to play a part in the actual execution of the order.

Although he had no idea what he would have done had trouble broke out, the Captain of the liner considered it his duty to be there when his famous guest came aboard, and so stood by symbolically at the top of the gang plank.

The reporters were unable to accept the fact that they were not going to get to grill Lucky and so pushed forward and shouted questions at him, even after he was out of sight. When this tactic failed, they turned back on the government bureaucrat standing to the side of the ramp, on the inside of the human cordon.

“We were told by Immigration there was gonna be a press conference with Lucky!” One reporter yelled out, receiving jeers of support from his colleagues crowded around the entrance, unable to cross the triple picket line. Formal notices had been sent to the press by INS that Lucky would give a press conference. Unfortunately, no one at INS told Lucky.

The lanky INS officer now stood erect on the gang plank, behind the army of longshoremen, and adjusted his glasses as he responded to the agitated demands of the press corps.

“I’ll see what I can do.” He said, in an attempt to placate the angry mob. He made his way up the ramp and vanished into the passageways of the ship only to return a few minutes later, physically escorted by two of Lucky’s torpedoes back to the top of the gang plank.

“Ahh . . . Mr. Luciano has changed his mind and declines to speak to the press at this time.”

“Give us a break! Your office released an official memo yesterday saying he would talk to us if we showed up!”

“This wouldn’t be a political ploy to show us what a good job you’re doin’ after we criticised you for lack of criminal deportations during the war, would it, Francis?” One reporter shouted out.

“Well? How ‘bout it, ya schmuck!” The government official made a lame attempt at self defence.

“Mr. Luciano just wants to relax in his modest accommodations and is looking forward to seeing his homeland.“

The reporters had little alternative but to mill around the dock and speculate.

“What the hell is all the mystery? It ain’t like his deportation wasn’t in the papers for the last two weeks!” One of the frustrated pressmen said to a colleague. Being pushed aside to make way for a second, third and fourth limousine, the second reporter responded as they watched a New York District Court judge, a well known former police official and several prominent businessmen get out of the cars.

“There’s your answer!” Impeccably dressed and bearing fruit baskets, boxes of expensive clothes and other gifts, the newly arrived entourage approached the gang plank brandishing Longshoreman's Union identity cards.

“Dock workers must'a gotta raise!”  The second reporter commented as the officials were admitted to the ship.

“Yeah, looks like they’re payin’ pretty good these days!”

The first reporter, determined not to accept the chain of events, made his way to the gang plank entrance, only to be stopped with a hand to the chest by a pugnacious stevedore.

“Sorry, dock woirkers and union members only. Dis here’s a dangerous place. You could axsa’dentaly trip over a deck fixcha or somethin’. Next ding ya know, dar’s lawsuits!”

The reporter looked to the New York City policemen who were standing a short distance away, watching the scene.

“Well? How ‘bout it?!” He addressed them in a frustrated tone. The two cops smiled at each other, and shrugged to the reporter before resuming their conversation about the Yankee's victory over the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Lucky’s deportation was in reality a bon voyage party in the grandest sense. Anyone entering the first class cabin was greeted with visions of elaborate, oversized fruit baskets, a room full of dignitaries, canapés and a glass of Dom Perignon served by a ship’s steward standing behind the four foot long, chocolate layer cake in the shape of Luxury Liner.

There was no name on the hull.

No one showed up without an envelope, a small package, or in Frankie Costelloe’s case, a valise full of cash to pay homage to the god of organised crime who, in 1907 arrived at this very same port, riding in steerage on a freighter which was one step above a garbage scow. Now, with his abject poverty and squalor a distant memory, Lucky Luciano was being sent off with the honors of a prince.

A prince of thieves.

THE END

EPILOGUE

 

 

The ineffectiveness of Operation, or Project Underworld, will probably never be officially acknowledged. No case of sabotage in the operational area of the New York City waterfront was ever discovered or claimed. Six would-be German saboteurs did land out in Long Island but, apparently underestimating the requirement for a local dialect, were quickly apprehended when one of them stopped to ask directions. The last of them was captured in a high speed pursuit through Times Square. Apparently they also underestimated the Midtown traffic.

Officials for more than thirty years denied the existence of the operation, in all probability motivated by their apparent poor judgement to employ high profile, organised crime figures in a top secret operation, which they had earlier touted as the scum of the earth. However, in fairness to its originators, spurred on by desperation and panic, it must have seemed like a good idea at the time.

Coincidentally, on the morning of the 9th of February, 1942, as Normandie was meeting her demise, Roosevelt vetoed HR 6269, a bill which sought to require all aliens to register with official authorities. Roosevelt believed the bill would impede the spirit of cooperation between allied nations as it was worded specifically to include foreign dignitaries.

As regards the players, D. A. Thomas Dewey made two attempts at Governor based on his prosecution record, and won in '42. Attempting to follow the Yellow Brick Road he ran for presidential nominee for the Republicans and lost to Wendall Willkie who lost the election to FDR. He was re-elected Governor, got the Republican candidacy in '44 and lost himself to FDR. He gave up in 1952 and went into private practice in upstate New York where he could frequently be seen in organized crime establishments gambling and socializing in his off hours.

The Kefvauer investigators noted this, called him as a witness during their infamous 'hearings' and he told them he was too busy to testify. In 1964, over the high profiled and energetic protests of the Italian-American community, they named the New York State Thruway after him.

Speculation continues as to why he agreed to approve parole for Luciano. He turned white and his mouth dropped open in 1940 when he found out from a fellow prosecutor how close he came to being assassinated by Dutch Schultz and it was Lucky who saved his life. He also knew Lucky had done something for the war effort. However, at least two sources, Luciano and Lansky, admit he received up to $90,000 from the Unione for his 1946 gubernatorial campaign. He was later heavily implicated and then connected in dealings with Meyer Lansky specifically with Mary Carter Paints, national conglomerate and Resorts International.

Thomas Dewey died in 1971.

Frank Hogan, former Chief-of-Staff to Dewey, retired from public office after gaining notoriety by prosecuting the perpetrators of the quiz show scandals, Lenny Bruce for obscenity and several college basketball teams for rigging games and later assisted Senator "Tail Gunner Joe" McCarthy in his infamous witch hunts. He was re-elected nine times, retired in 1973 and died in April of 1974.

Murray Gurfein joined the OSS, served with distinction in France and was an assistant prosecutor in the Nuremberg Trials. He was later appointed by Nixon to be a U. S. District Court Judge and went against the government in the famous Pentagon papers Trials.

He died in 1979.

Fiorello LaGuardia, elected in 1933, was sworn in, walked to his new office phoned D. A. Dewey and told him to arrest Luciano. From that point on he spent his life cleaning up and re-building New York City. Bennet Field on Long Island was eventually renamed several times but to this day remains LaGuardia Airport. He retired after three terms and died in 1947.

Charles Heffenden, the unsuspecting lynch pin of Anastasia's original plan to get Lucky released, retired after the war and became very sick in the early fifties. He was the key figure who refused to help Luciano later in his bid for freedom after the war. However, with some reticence, Heffenden testified before the circus-like freak show which became known as the Kefvauer Hearings in the early fifties, stating that Lucky did help the government. Sort of. He died in 1952.

J. Edgar Hoover, who started his dubious career in 1919, was permitted to remain in power until his death in May of 1972. Both Johnson and Nixon waived mandatory retirement rules to allow him to linger on the thrown. He remained, �g. . . the best Director organised crime ever had.”, until the Kefvauer Hearings focused the spotlight on organised crime after the famous Appalachian bust occurred. Up to forty members of the various families were arrested when their meeting was accidentally discovered as somebody drove by a remote house in upstate New York and saw all the flashy cars and well dressed people wearing expensive Italian shoes. It was then that the American public realized that, aside from the government, crime was also organized in the U. S. These events made it no longer profitable or politically advantageous for Hoover to ignore the now unsolvable problem.

Only weeks after the sinking of the Normandie Albert Anastasia, born Umberto Anastasio, President and CEO of Murder Inc., became private Anastasio U. S. Army enlisting presumably to disappear for awhile. The photo of his death on the front page of the New York Times, is world renowned as he lies covered in blood, his bullet riddled body sprawled out on the floor of a New York City barber shop where in a fit of confusion after being shot several times he attacked the mirror thinking it was his assassins. His murder on October 25th, 1957 in the barber shop of the Park Sheridan on 56th Street and Seventh Avenue in Manhattan, gave rise to a barber shop tradition still adhered today, at least in New York City. While getting your hair cut the chairs face away from the mirror.

As regards the Normandie, after she was launched on October 29, 1932 with the entire world following the events, she embarked on a non-stop ten year career of notoriety. The largest object ever set in motion by man at the time, Normandie was the center of international attention the day she took to the sea. Naturally the world's largest bottle of Champage was used to christen her with VIP's and dignitaries in attendance to include Madame Lebrun, wife of President Albert Lebrun, who officiated the launch and set the behemoth in motion.

As the enormous hull entered the waters of the Loire, a tremendous backwash swept ashore, dousing spectators and washing workers into the river. The floating work of art would go on to set several speed and passenger records until confiscated by the U. S. Navy at the outset WW II when she would be stripped of her luxurious trappings and plush furnishings to be re-named U. S. S. Lafayette and be entered into the registry of the U. S. Navy. Although captured in 1939, and not officially seized by the Navy until December 7, 1941, debates raged for the better part of a year as to her ultimate function, troop or aircraft carrier. The argument was settled at about 2:15 p.m. on February 9, 1942. Just as Titanic and Lusitania were never recovered, neither was Normandie ever salvaged.was Normandie. Despite the Third Naval District’s claims she would be salvaged, she humiliatingly lay on her side, beside the 49th Street pier, (Pier 88), for nearly a year.

She was righted in 1943, and towed to the Brooklyn shipyards where, for the duration of the war, she remained a sideline spectator. In 1946 she made her final voyage, under tow, the short distance across the harbor to the Port Newark shipyards. Just as she was launched in October and Albert A. met his demise in October, it was in October they started to cut her up for scrap and, thanks to her massive size it took until the following October to complete the job. I was once shown what I was told was a piece of her superstructure at the home of friend in Jersey City, New Jersey.

To this day most contemporaries of Normandie know it was a fire. Many people I interviewed still believe the initial, incorrect reports, of a U-Boat in the harbor. The quote below, credited to Charles T. Collins, an 18 year old U. S. N. ironworker, was taken from a Normandie web site quoting The Journal of Applied Fire Science, Volume 8, #4, 1998-1999. The fact that there are a number of dedicated sites about the Normandie implies there is somewhat of a cult following of her short but interesting history.

 

"I was working on a chain gang. We had chains around some pillars and eased them down when they were cut through. Two men were operating an acetylene torch. About 30 or 40 men were working in the room, and there were bales and bales of mattresses. A

spark hit one of the bales, and the fire began. We yelled for the fire watch and Leroy Rose, who was in our chain, and I tried to beat out the fire with our hands. Rose's clothes caught fire, and I carried him out. The smoke and heat were terrific."

 

As a graduate of the U.S. Navy Damage Control/Fire Fighting course in San Diego, I can state that the above actions given in this statement, if accurate, violate no less than three, possibly as many as five of the Navy's standard fire safety procedures at the time. However, there was no reported action taken against any worker or supervisor. There would have been no point.

The report given by Admiral Andrews to the press is taken verbatim in this manuscript from news paper accounts. He is quoted as saying it was May Wests, (a type of life preserver), which acted as the initial fuel for the blaze. Other reports blamed fresh paint, a worker named Sullivan, (who is listed as a carpenter not a welder), and various other circumstances and materials.

Admiral Adolphus Andrews' statement in answer to the question of a possible breach by a saboteur, also gives confusing details regarding security.

 

“I’m not telling you that couldn’t happen. However under the circumstances I’m telling you that it would have been impossible due to our unbreachable security.”

 

Most mainstream papers in New York reported the fire originated on the promenade deck but show a ball room or dinning room space of some sort in their accompanying photos, despite the fact that photos of every part of the ship, including the engine room were available. However, the case is not so open and shut as some may like it to be.

Thomas Dewey's high profiled prosecution of Luciano is well documented. The ties and relationship between Luciano and Albert Anastasia are well documented as is Anastasia's loyalty to Charlie. T he following statement is from Wikopedia;

 

“During WWII Anastasia appeared to have been the originator of a plan to free Luciano from prison by winning him a pardon for "helping the war effort." (Well documented by FBI files and independent historical research). With America needing allies in Sicily to advance the invasion of Italy and the desire of the Navy to dedicate its resources to the war, Anastasia orchestrated a deal to obtain lighter treatment for Luciano while he was in prison, and after the war, a parole in trade for the mafia protecting the waterfront and Luciano's assistance with his associates in Sicily.

To accomplish this goal, Anastasia set out to create problems on the New York waterfront so that the United States Navy would agree to any kind of deal to stop the sabotage. The French luxury liner SS Normandie, [sic], which was in the process of being converted into a troopship, mysteriously burned and capsized in New York Harbor. While newspaper accounts suggested it was the act of German agents who had infiltrated the United States, it has been suggested that Anastasia ordered his brother, Anthony "Tough Tony" Anastasio, to carry out the sabotage."

 

Meyer Lansky in his memoirs/autobiography states he had a chat with Anastasia after he was discharged from the Army and returned to New York.

 

“I told him face to face he musn't burn any more ships. He was sorry. Not sorry because he'd burned the Normandie. Sorry because he couldn't get at the Navy again. He hated them."

 

Joachim Joesten, author, along with Sid Feder, of The Lucky Story, the only complete biography of Luciano, was granted an interview in 1953 at the Hotel Turistico in Naples. The question was put to Luciano as to whether or not it was Albert Anastasia, of Murder Inc. fame, who set the fire aboard the Normandie, presumably to dupe the Navy into believing there were saboteurs and using the Mob to protect the waterfront and thus return Lucky control of the vast territory. Lucky’s retort, accompanied by a shrug, was, "I guess he got a little carried away."

Years before this interview it was well documented that soldiers, sailors and Marines, when in Naples, sought him out or asked about him, often seeking autographs. Curiously, firemen had a special propensity to meet Lucky and get his signature on a menu or what ever was at hand. Some papers did suggest German saboteurs, which would have been all that Anastasia and Luciano would have needed. Whatever happened it worked like a charm. Lucky was down state and out of “Siberia in less than 48 hours. He did regain control, Albert A. disappeared and J. Edgar got a bloody nose. Once again the New York docks were back in the hands of the Unione.

Prior to the invasion of Sicily Luciano also helped with information urging the entire Italian-American community to cooperate with Haffenden's people. Once again his efforts were rewarded as organized crime members were installed as mayors and officials across the island country in the wake of the successful Allied invasion. The missing link between the Far Eastern poppy farmers and the American drug importers was established as planned. Salvatore Lucasia, (Lucky Luciano), was deported in 1946 after an extensive, essentially unproductive investigation by the New York State Parole Board concerning his involvement in Operation, or Project Underworld, a title it was unlikely they even knew. It was out of shear frustration, due to lack of cooperation by the Navy and the N.Y.C. D.A.'s office with the parole board investigation, that the Board gave Lucky his walking papers. The father of organised crime spent the rest of his life attempting to re-enter the U.S. and made it as far Cuba, where he was asked his blessing to eliminate Benny Siegel, the founder of the Las Vegas empire, for skimming Vegas receipts, primarily from the Flamingo.

He died in the Naples airport awaiting a flight to leave Sicily on January 26th, 1962. He was flown back to New York and interned in St. John's cemetery with one of the largest funeral processions in New York history. For the remainder of his life Lucky harbored nothing but disdain for the poverty of his homeland, and sought to escape it and return to the New World.

He died trying.

GLOSSARY

 

 

Automat - A self-serve eating establishment whereby the customer is required to insert coins into slots adjoining small compartments with glass doors which contain the desired food item. Horn and Hardart’s were the pioneers in this food service technique and popularized it throughout the greater New York area for more that twenty years.

 

Bee Line - To move in a straight line towards something; interpreted to mean move swiftly towards a given location or person.

 

Bozo - A popular American clown figure.

 

DE’s - Destroyer Escorts. Smaller than a Destroyer.

 

Flipped - “Flipped Your Wig”, to have gone crazy.

 

Goim - One who is not Jewish; not of the faith. Usually Christians.

 

Grapevine, The - A source of unfounded gossip; rumours. In naval terminology “The Scuttlebutt”.

 

G.W. - Short for The George Washington Bridge.

 

INS - Immigration and Naturalization Service.

 

Lead pipe cinch - An absolute sure thing. An event whose outcome is 100% certain.

 

Maxine, Patty and Leverne - The three Andrews Sisters.

 

OJT - On the Job Training.

 

Regular Coffee - The most common way to take your coffee in New York City at the time, with milk and sugar.

 

Savvy - To understand or comprehend.

 

Schmoe - A looser.

 

Schmuck - A sucker.

 

“School’s out, Satch!” - Wise up. In the “Bowery Boys” films, Satch was the reflective/comic relief character who always had to be told the score.

 

Scutch – Short for Scucheem, American mispronunciation of Sfaccimme. Sicilian for son of an unmarried, pregnant woman in heat. A Son-of-a-bitch or bastard. To annoy, aggravate or purposely irritate.

 

Shadow Box - To compete against one’s self; interpreted to mean to a waste of time.

 

The Silver Clipper - Joe DiMaggio, famous New York Yankee team member who in 1942 earned 96 hits in 56 consecutive games. Second husband of Marilyn Monroe.

 

Singing Randy Movie - Merriam Morrisson’s, (John Wayne), attempt to break into cowboy movies. Randy was a singing cowboy who gave the audience a number before and sometimes after, killing the bad guy, and winning the girl. It was an effort to compete with Gene Autrey and Roy Rogers.

 

“The skinny” - The story, the low down, the dope, what’s going on.

 

Yoo Hoo - A popular chocolate soda/drink