You live here, in the neighborhood? Angelo asked the boy.
Around the corner, the apartment just over the butcher shop, George said with a nod. My dad works there in the back, slicing up hindquarters.
Go home now, but I'd like to see you back here tomorrow morning.
What for? George asked.
Angelo pushed his chair back and stood, looking down at the boy with empty eyes. I'll let you know when I see you again, he said.
Angelo walked away, his head bowed, toward the back room behind the bar. Pudge stood and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. How much did Wells pay you to deliver his message? he asked.
He didn't pay me, George said. And I didn't ask him to.
So why do it at all? Pudge asked. You don't look the type that scares.
I'm not, George said, turning away from the table to face Pudge. I just always wanted to come into this place, but I never had a reason.
Is it like what you thought it would be? Pudge asked as he slid his chair back into its slot.
No, he said. It's not even close to what I thought.
Nothing ever is. Pudge moved toward the back room to join Angelo. If you're as smart as you act, you might do yourself a favor and learn that lesson now. It'll end up saving you a lot of grief down the road.
ANGELO CRACKED OPEN a peanut shell and stood staring up at a bearded lady sitting on a large throne, a midget in blue tights on her lap. He was next to Pudge, both of them squeezed in among the crowd filling the basement of the St. Nicholas Arena, all there to gaze at the Carbone Brothers Circus's traveling freak show.
Pudge shoved a hand into Angelo's large bag of peanuts and pointed up to the bearded lady. You think somebody like her ever gets laid?
I don't see why not, Angelo said. You take it past the beard, she's not that bad-looking.
Pudge tossed the peanuts into his mouth. It would be worth the dough just to see a naked woman with a beard. I mean, you don't even need to take it any further than that, unless she's hiding something we haven't seen before.
You can worry about her later; she'll be here all week, Angelo told him. Let's deal with Wells first.
He's running late. Pudge glanced at his pocket watch. For a guy who likes to have meetings, he doesn't seem to be in too much of a hurry to get this one started.
Angelo looked beyond Pudge's shoulders, past the faces packed tight in front of each booth, and saw Jack Wells hand a ticket stub to a young man in a red jacket and black top hat. He just came in, Angelo said. I told the kid to have Wells meet us over by the sword swallower. That's where he's heading now.
Pudge turned and caught a glimpse of Wells, walking with his hands in his pockets, toward the booth in the farthest corner of the basement. He nudged an elbow in Angelo's side and the two of them began to edge their way slowly through the crowd. You think that guy's got himself a gimmick going? Pudge asked over his back. Or does he really jam those blades down his throat?
Everybody's got a gimmick going, Angelo said, tossing his bag of peanuts into a packed garbage bin. Why would sword swallowers be any different from the rest of us.
JACK WELLS WAS dressed in a rumpled blue suit, the jacket stained with coffee drops and cigar burns, the wrinkled pants desperate for a pressing and the shoes scruffy enough to be thrown out with the morning trash. He looks more like a rummy than a gang boss, Pudge said to Angelo.
That's his gimmick, Angelo said. He gets your attention by the way he dresses. Wants you to take him for a soft push. But we've already seen his other side. And no matter how this meeting goes, we'll probably see it again before one of us dies.
This is where you guys decide to hold a meeting? Wells asked, frowning, as both Angelo and Pudge walked up to him. They stood by an iron rail separating them from a thin, long-haired sword swallower. Every other place in town taken up?
We wanted you to feel at home, Pudge said. He ignored Wells's outstretched hand, staring instead at the man in the red leotards as he reached into a brown canvas bag for a handful of swords, each one a different shape and size. Besides, the circus kicks back a cut to our crew. This gives us a chance to see how good the business is doing.
From the size of the crowd in here, there must be a lot of money to be had in freak shows, Wells said, putting his hand back down by his side. But there's no money at all to be had in a gang war.
You should remember that the next time you go ahead and start one, Angelo said.
The move had to be made. Anger and defiance filled Wells's voice. I did all I could to avoid it. But Angus refused to listen, refused to admit that he couldn't go it alone anymore, that he needed to bring in fresh partners.
Angelo stepped close enough to smell the cheap cologne splashed across Wells's unshaven face. What do you want?
Let's bring it to an end, Wells said. We both lost people we didn't want to see die. There's no need to go through it anymore. There's no profit in it and there's no win in it.
I don't think you want to walk away from it empty-handed, Pudge said. How big a cut are you looking for?
Before the war started I expected to take over all of Angus's action. Wells stared up as the swallower gulped down two blades.
And now? Angelo kept his eyes only on Wells.
Twenty-five percent the first year, Wells said. It goes up five percent a year after that with a forty cap. You get to take over Angus's crew and I keep what's left of mine. I can't make you a fairer offer than that.
You'll pay your end of the protection payroll? Angelo asked.
Take it out of my weekly cut. Wells turned to face Angelo. I'll trust you not to take more than you need.
And what do we get from you? Pudge now turned his back on the swallower to lean against the rail.
Ten percent off the top on all my beer and policy business in the Bronx. I'll kick it up to fifteen after two years. That should add between eight hundred and a thousand dollars a week to you and your crew, ballpark figure. Maybe a little higher around the holidays.
What if we say no? Angelo asked. He hid his disdain of Wells with professional care, burying it behind a relaxed, indifferent pose. He had learned enough to know that the business and personal ends of his life, though always linked, needed to be dealt with as if they were separate entities.
Why would you? Wells shrugged. You come out of this running a top-level crew and with a lot more money in your pockets. I walk away with a bigger cut of what I had before this all started. I don't see any losers standing here.
What about the ones not left standing? Pudge asked, his anger just barely below the surface.
If it was them instead of us here, the same deal would be cut, Wells said. Now I didn't come all the way down here just to see a dwarf get shoved inside a lion's mouth. I came looking to walk away with a peace deal. So before I start munching on peanuts and popcorn, I need to know if we're putting away the guns.
Enough people have died, on both sides, Angelo said, giving Pudge a quick glance and a nod. The war's over. At least from our end.
Jack Wells took several long seconds to look at their faces. That's good, he finally said, reaching out his arms to both of them. Now, instead of enemies, we're partners. Which is the way it should have been from the very start.
When Wells turned and disappeared into the crowd, Pudge looked at Angelo. I don't like the bastard, he said. And I trust him even less. I should have pulled one of those swords outta that guy's mouth and shoved it in his heart.
He doesn't give you much to like or trust, Angelo agreed.
So how long do you suppose this peace treaty is gonna last?
I hope forever, Angelo said. He slipped his hands into his pants pockets and looked up at the sword swallower bowing dramatically as all those around him cheered and applauded. Or at least until it's time for one of us to die.
GANGSTERS USE THE months or years between gang wars to prepare for the next big battle to come. In their business the only way to further a career or strengthen a position is through death. Gang bosses decide to wage a fight for any number of reasons--the love of another mobster's wife, the desire to take over a rival's turf, the need for more money for their crew, anger over a perceived insult. The reasons usually are slight, providing scant cover for a visible greed. Like many executives in the corporate world, a gangster is consumed with an insatiable desire to possess what belongs to someone else. Unlike legitimate power brokers, however, mobsters are not satisfied with a mere Wall Street-backed takeover, no matter how lucrative. They will not rest until they live to see their opponent buried.
It's been a truth about us from day one, Angelo told me, many years after his meeting with Jack Wells. No gangster is ever happy when he's at peace. The main reason he's in the business is to eliminate his enemies. I've read stories about some of the great gangsters and I read where people say that they were so smart, they could have run big corporations instead of being criminals. Maybe some of that's true. But no gangster, great or not, would ever give up what he has to go into the business world. He wouldn't be able to follow the same set of rules. If I'm in charge of General Motors, then that means I want the guy who runs the Ford Motor Company dead, no matter how long it takes. And then once I see him put in the ground, I take over that company and make it part of mine. That's the biggest difference between a gangster and an executive. They may think about killing the guy they're up against. We go right out there, in the middle of the day if we have to, and we do it.
10.
Summer, 1931 THE PEACE BETWEEN Angelo, Pudge and Jack Wells lasted more than three years. In that time, both squads secured enormous profits and were placed in strong positions to reap even more. The underworld was thriving while the rest of the country was in the grips of the Great Depression, with more than eight million Americans out of work and in desperate need of cash. While 2,294 banks were closing nationwide, New York gang bosses increased the interest they charged on cash loans to three percent a week. The labor force was losing, on average, three workers a day, and movie theaters were showing daily double features to provide a fantasy refuge for those without jobs. Meanwhile, the country's most powerful gangsters had mapped out a plan that would eventually broaden their enterprise into a national crime syndicate that would be structured in such a way as to maximize profits from every possible venue, legal or not. As Dick Tracy made his first appearance in the Chicago Tribune, eager to do battle with the underworld, real gangsters were lording over a democratic kingdom whose very foundation seemed to be on the verge of collapse.
It was our time, Pudge liked to say of those years. Maybe the greatest time ever to be in the rackets. Everywhere we turned, there was money to be made. That's why we all made the move to take our business national. It gave what we did a structure and made it all the easier to take money that we earned illegally from gambling or booze and spread it out to legal setups like transportation and banking. Back in those years, even as young as we were, anybody in the rackets who had himself any kind of a brain knew that if we kept it all going the way it was, sooner or later the whole country would belong to us. But for that to work, you needed a lot of patience. And there were too many gangsters who didn't have that. I guess that's true wherever you go, no matter what sort of racket you're in. There's always somebody in the middle of the pack who just can't wait.
ANGELO AND ISABELLA walked down lower Broadway, holding hands, stopping every few feet to look at the displays in the store windows. The last three years had been good ones for Angelo. He and Pudge had solidified their hold on Angus's crew, expanding the core group to where it now numbered more than one thousand salaried members. Unlike the other gang leaders, Angelo and Pudge were not exclusionary gangsters. They were the first to accept Jews in their ranks and ventured out to upper Manhattan and the outer boroughs to recruit selected members from the more organized of the black gangs. Both actions were done solely for business, not social, reasons. Black gangsters wanted a piece of the action at a time when no one wanted a piece of them, Angelo said. To get in, they were willing to handle twice the work with a smaller cut of the profits coming their way, which meant more in our pockets. We brought in the Jews for an even better reason. They were prime-time killers. They would go anywhere, at any time, and didn't care who they had to shoot. And like the blacks, they did it more to get the attention, knowing that, in our business, it's reputation not race or religion that eventually brings in the big haul. A lot of those Jewish shooters we first hired later went out on their own and formed Murder, Inc. That's when their price went up, but even then, they were still more than worth it.
Angelo and Pudge were both quick to embrace the notion of a national crime commission and drew up and sent out an array of proposals as to how it could best be implemented. They were part of a new generation of American gangster, moving to the faster pace of a money-driven century and taking full advantage of every opportunity. Where past gangsters were once content to bribe a wide array of police officials, they now were in a position to run their own candidates for political office and have their own judges appointed to the bench. The underworld ran the wards, secured the banks and controlled the import and export of all goods that crossed the ocean and passed state lines.
It was like the industrial revolution for crooks, Pudge would tell me. For whatever the reasons, during those years, we were left on our own. The feds were just starting out and couldn't find their ass with either hand. The local badges were just looking for a bigger payoff. And John Q. had his hand out for anything we could give him. We had it all and we ran it all and it didn't look like anybody would ever be able to touch us.
The business relationship with Jack Wells was also running on a smooth track. Wells had solidified his power base and gained some respect among his peers for the war he had waged against McQueen. He had expanded his beer distribution ring beyond the Bronx to where it now reached as far north as Toronto and as far to the west as Scranton, Pennsylvania, willingly kicking back a small share of the large profits to Angelo and Pudge. The two sides still did not trust each other, but as long as the money kept coming in, there was no reason to fear the outbreak of new hostilities. Angelo knew that another confrontation with Wells was inevitable. There was too much past blood between them for a final war not to be fought. Angelo was, for the time being, content to let the false peace between them run its course.
ISABELLA PAUSED WHEN she saw Pudge, a large teddy bear shoved under his right arm, walk toward her. For the baby, he said. I wanted to be the first to get the kid one.
Thank you. She took the bear from him. I'll be sure to put it where he can see it. Isabella was nervous around Pudge. He relished his role of gangster, took more pleasure from it than her husband did. It was always easy for her to forget who Angelo was and what he did for a living when she was in his company. She could never do that with Pudge.
I know you don't much care for me, Pudge said. I can't say I blame you. You're a smart woman and I never could get them to go for me.
You are a good friend to Angelo, Isabella said. I will always respect that.
I won't let anything happen to him, Pudge said. I swore my life on it. That holds true now for you and for his baby.
If you can keep my husband alive, then you will be a good friend to me as well.
My job's been getting easier as he gets older, Pudge told her. He's very good at what he does.
It might be better if he weren't, Isabella said. It might lead him to start looking for some other work to do.
Stuff like that's always nice to think about, Pudge said. It never has anything to do with the truth.
And what is the truth?
There's no other way for either one of us.
Why are you telling me all of this? she asked.
So you won't ever hate him, Pudge said. I don't want you to look at your husband and have you see the gangster looking back. The way you do when you look at me.
I know him in different ways than you do, Isabella said. And what I know I can never hate.
Pudge nodded. Then he's a lucky man, he said.
WHY DO WE need to choose a crib so long before the baby is born? Angelo asked Isabella as they stood in front of a window display featuring an extensive array of hand-sewn rugs.
She turned to him, smiled and rubbed a hand gently across his face. Angelo, the whole room should be ready before the baby is born, she said. Unless you want him to sleep with us.
Why do you always say him and never her? He covered the top of her warm hand with his.
Because I know it is your son inside me. She looked down and patted the slight bulge in her belly. He's too quiet not to be. All the other mothers tell me that their babies kick and punch. Not mine. He sits inside there and thinks. Just like his father.
They turned away from the window and continued on their walk, their hands automatically reaching out and clasping. We haven't talked about what name to give the baby who's getting all this new furniture, Angelo said.
That's not going to be too difficult, Isabella said. If I'm right and it is a boy, we will name him Carlo, after your brother.
Angelo stopped and turned to stare at his wife. He put his arms around her and they embraced, holding each other under a brutal afternoon sun, Angelo's face buried in the crook of her neck, overcome with a rush of emotion. I love you, was all he could manage to say.
We should go, she whispered into his ear. I told the man at the furniture store we would be there no later than one.
They walked in silence for several blocks, still holding hands. Angelo was anything but a gangster when he was in Isabella's presence. She brought to the surface feelings of warmth and kindness that he had long ago learned to suppress. When he was around her, Angelo never gave any thought to his business ventures or the motives behind the actions of his enemies. He gave in to the facade of the happy husband eagerly awaiting the birth of his first child, finding a degree of solace in the relaxing nature such a pose afforded.
How did you find out about this store? Angelo asked.
A friend of my cousin Graziella told her about it, Isabella said. He builds all the cribs by hand and they last forever. No matter how many children we end up having.
I never thought I would want a child, Angelo said. I was always afraid of the idea.
What are you afraid of? Isabella asked.
I don't know what kind of father I'm going to be, Angelo said. I only know the kind of father I don't want to be.
You won't be like your own father. That won't happen with you. She had listened to enough of his early-morning nightmares to know how that fear haunted his sleep and tormented his soul. You are not the same kind of a man.
In many ways I'm worse, Angelo said. What will my son think of what I do?
I don't know.
I don't want him to be what I am, Angelo said firmly. I want him to be a good man.
He will be, Isabella said with resolve. I promise you that.