Gangster (25 page)

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THE ALBINO WOLFHOUND locked its thick jaw around the pit bull's muscular neck. The crowd of men surrounding the dirt pit cheered and tossed more money into the huge box next to Jack Wells.

    Double my action, Big Jack, a large bearded man in bib overalls and a hunter's coat shouted. And gear yourself to watch your favorite pit bull die.

    Be a pleasure to take your money, Wells shouted back. And if he loses out to an albino dog, then my old Grover deserves nothing short of death.

    The small barn was smoke-filled and crowded. Sixty men stood in a tight circle around a split-rail fence, watching and wagering on the blood sport of dog fighting. Once a month, regardless of the time of year or what else was going on in his life, Jack Wells ventured up to an empty Yonkers farmhouse to rule over a series of matches featuring the fiercest dogs in the tristate area. Kegs of beer and empty steins lined the walls and full bottles of whiskey were available at discount prices, as the screaming wagers often reached as high as five thousand dollars a battle.

    A dog needed to die in order to lose. It was going on two years now, but Jack Wells's pit bull, Grover, named after his favorite American president, Grover Cleveland, had yet to lose a match, tasting only--and literally--the warm blood of victory. Between bouts, the dog was fed the finest cuts of raw beef. He was given a daily bath in a mixture of pure bleach, hand soap and dry ice to keep his skin rough to the touch and hard to cut. He also had his front incisors filed and sharpened daily. Grover was allowed no displays of affection, his mean streak kept fresh for his monthly battles in the dirt ring. He was locked in a large mesh cage in the back of the barn on the days he wasn't scheduled to fight, prodded regularly with long sharp sticks by the attendants paid to care for him. Each night, before his supper, a long leather leash was strapped around Grover's neck and he would be taken to the fields outside where he would chase down ten live rabbits let loose for him to kill. The inhumane treatment served its intended purpose. Grover was the meanest dog in the ring and every owner feared putting his best up against him. If the guys on my crew were half as tough as that dog, Wells would often brag, I'd own more than a chunk of the city. I'd own half the damn country.

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WELLS HELD A lit match against the end of a cigar as he watched Grover spin from the wolfhound's grip and clamp his strong jaw muscles on one of his hind legs. Grover ground his teeth down hard and the sound of a bone snapping could be heard even above the loud noise of the crowd. Wells blew out the match with a thick white line of smoke and smiled, sensing yet another in an unrivaled string of victories. He turned to his right and caught the eye of the wolfhound's owner. Do your dog a favor, he shouted across the room, shoot him dead now, before my Grover starts tearing him apart. A couple of minutes more and you won't be able to sell his carcass to the dog food buyers.

    The man, in a three-piece suit and bowler hat, dropped a handful of money to the floor, turned and walked out of the barn. The crowd edged in closer, standing in silence, staring down at the bloody slaughter taking place just beneath their feet. The wolfhound was lying flat on the ground now, his white coat drenched in blood, half his torso torn away. Grover was in a foam-induced frenzy, biting and chewing frantically, ripping at exposed bone and flesh. This match is over, Wells, a man from across the fence shouted out. Call it and let the poor beast die in peace.

    It's over when I say it's over, an angry Wells shouted back. And that's not gonna happen until I see my dog standing over a dead one.

    Angelo Vestieri waited in the rear of the crowd, his back against a stack of fresh-cut hay, watching as Wells held court over an odd mix of farmers, hunters and hoodlums. He had been there for the bulk of the evening, safely hidden by the thick backs and raised arms of men eager for a closer look and a larger wager, his lungs burning from the smoke fumes he inhaled. He knew that this fight would be the last one for the night and that soon the crowd would begin to disperse, walking away with what was left of their money and their dogs. He also knew, as Ida the Goose had told him years earlier, that Jack Wells would be the very last to leave the barn.

    It was close to dawn when Jack Wells stood in the bloodstained pit of the barn and counted his winnings. Grover, tired and bitten-up, stood by his side, drinking from a large bowl of cold water, white foam as dense as lard still running down the sides of his mouth. Wells folded the bills and nodded a final good-bye to the last straggler, a middle-aged farmhand carrying a bandaged rottweiler out a side door. He leaned down and ran a hand slowly across Graver's back, checking the severity of his wounds.

    It's gonna take more than a couple of bites to put you down, tough guy, he said to the dog, his soft voice swelled with a parent's pride. I'll get you fixed up and then we'll come back here for one last go-around. After that, you can call it quits and have your way with as many bitches as you can handle.

    Grover growled and continued to lap at his water with a casual indifference. The dog's eyes had a vacant look, his nose was stuffed with mucus and blood, and his breath was still hot and moist. Small pools of blood had formed around his four paws.

    It took me awhile, but I finally figured you out, Angelo said, stepping out from the back of the barn, standing now under the overhead lights, facing Wells and the dog. You're the kind of guy who orders the kill but never gets his hands bloody. Likes to let others lead his fights. Even his own dog.

    Wells looked up at Angelo's words. Grover showed off a mouthful of teeth and gave out a low bark, more routine than menacing. I didn't know you were a fan of the dog fights, Wells said. I hope you didn't lose too much betting heavy against my boy here.

    I'm not, Angelo said. And I didn't.

    It would be nice if I could offer you a little something to drink, Wells said with a shrug. But my booze supply is on the low side this month. I don't know if you heard about it or not, but one of my Bronx warehouses just took a big hit.

    I don't drink, Angelo said. And I don't make a move on my partner, unless he gives me a reason.

    Jack Wells kicked aside a rock and stepped closer to Angelo, his bleeding dog now resting his head next to the water bowl, his watery eyes giving way to sleep. I'll tell you what, he said. I'm gonna give you a chance to walk away from all of this. You're young still, probably saved a good chunk of the cash you made. Here's your shot to quit the rackets, leave with what you got and leave alive. Best deal I'm ever gonna put on a table for anybody.

    I love my work, Angelo said. He spoke in a calm and steady voice, both hands in his pants pockets, his eyes staring over at Wells. And I'm too young to retire.

    You're too young to die, too, Wells said. But as sure as there's buffalos on nickels, I'm gonna see you dead.

    Angelo took a slow look around the barn, gazing at the bales of hay stacked three deep and at the horse stalls, shuttered and clean. He turned to his left and peeked through the fence, droplets of blood still dripping off its rails, the brown dirt mixing in with the spillage of bone and fluids. What better time than right now? he said.

    Wells bent to his waist and rushed into Angelo, who braced himself for the hit, arms out to his side, his feet spread wide apart, the heels of his black shoes digging into the thick dirt. Angelo grunted as he wrapped his arms around Wells, raising a knee into the smaller man's stomach. The two fell together, crashing through the loose bolt of a horse stall. Wells flailed away at Angelo's head and chest, full-force blows raining down on his rib cage and cheeks, causing him to gulp for breaths of air. Angelo squeezed a handful of dirt between his fingers and tossed it into Wells's eyes, momentarily blinding him, then he tossed Wells off his stomach and jumped to his feet, his chest burning with pain, blood flowing out one side of his mouth.

    You're not good enough to take me down, Wells said, his breath coming in short puffs. And you never were. If you wanna know the truth, your wife would have put up a better fight.

    Angelo flew off his feet, the weight of his body crashing down hard against Jack Wells, ramming his back up along the side of a wooden pole. He then began to throw punches in a blind fury, attacking Wells from every possible angle, landing flush rights and lefts to his head, swinging his right knee repeatedly and viciously into his groin and stomach. It didn't take long. Wells crumbled in a slow heap to the ground, his legs folded over one another, his head falling forward and to one side. Angelo continued hitting and stomping him, his shoes moving in a slow rhythm from the dirt floor to Wells's face, their tips tinged with lines of blood. Sweat blanketed Angelo's angular frame. The knuckles of his hands were shed of all their skin and coated with rich, thick red streaks.

    A long, muscular arm reached up from behind Angelo and brought an end to the assault.

    He's had it, Pudge said, whispering into Angelo's right ear, a firm grip on his chest and arms.

    Angelo was breathing heavily, the air wheezing its way out of his mouth, his hair matted down, his face bright crimson. He glanced over his shoulder at Pudge and nodded. Help me toss him into the pit, he said.

    Angelo grabbed Wells under the shoulders, Pudge lifted his legs and they walked his prone body out of the horse stall. They stopped in front of the split-rail fence and Pudge kicked open the spring latch with his foot. They tossed Jack Wells down into the center of the dog fight ring and watched him land on his back, his head bouncing off the hard dirt. He lay there spread-eagled and dazed, at rest in the ooze of bone, blood puddles and the split-open carcasses of dead animals.

    Pudge pulled two guns from his waistband and handed one to Angelo. They did not wait for Wells to speak. Nor did they say a word. Neither Angelo nor Pudge had any interest in pleas or sentiment or declarations of revenge. They were interested in one thing only, so they stood above the dog pit and emptied their revolvers into Jack Wells, twelve bullets in all. As soon as they were done, they tossed their guns into the pit and turned away.

    The war was over.

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THERE'RE SOME HORSE blankets over in that corner, Pudge said to Angelo as he stood above Grover, the dog still bleeding and moaning in pain.

    What do we need with a dog? Angelo asked, walking past the stacks of hay and reaching into the darkness for a thick brown blanket. Especially one that'll probably bite us first chance he gets.

    We could always use another friend, Pudge explained. He took the blanket from Angelo, kneeled down and gently wrapped it around the dog. He stood, holding Grover close to his chest. And if we're ever in a pinch, we know he can fight.

    Pudge started to walk toward the double doors leading out of the barn. We'll drive him down to that doc that used to take care of Angus's dog. If anybody can fix him straight, he can.

    The dog's a killer, Angelo said, following in Pudge's shadow, turning to give Jack Wells a final look. Thought I'd mention it, just in case you forgot.

    So are we, Pudge said, stopping and turning to face Angelo. Just in case you forgot.

12

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Spring, 1934

IT WAS THE spring when Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker were gunned down on a dirt road fifty miles east of Shreveport, Louisiana, bringing to an end a two-year string of armed robberies that had netted them a top haul of $3,500. Later in the year, John Dillinger would walk out of a Chicago movie theater, his arm wrapped around the woman who had betrayed him to the FBI agents who would soon shoot him dead. His body was found with nothing more than pocket money jammed inside the slit of an old wallet. Later that summer, the U.S. Army turned over Alcatraz Island in San Francisco Bay to the Bureau of Prisons where it would eventually house Al Capone, George Machine Gun Kelly and the Birdman, Robert Stroud. All three front-page public enemies would die broken men.

    It was also the spring in which twenty-eight-year-old Angelo Vestieri and thirty-one-year-old Pudge Nichols ruled over the largest and most profitable gang in the New York underworld. It was a distinction that earned them millions in untaxed dollars and two seats on the nine-member National Crime Commission they had helped establish three years earlier. They shared in their power equally, trusting only in one another, allowing no entry into their private domain. They steered clear of publicity and tabloid exposure, fearing that such notoriety would propel Justice Department investigations into their activities. Angelo studied the habits of the industrial and business leaders of the day, and sought to follow their ways. He read the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times. He devoured books on business and banking techniques and read as many biographies of world leaders as time permitted. Pudge loved to work with numbers and had an intuitive knack for investments. He utilized both of these strengths to further swell the gang's portfolio. They were modern-day gangsters determined to rule their violent world with the unbeatable weapons of fear and finance.

    They were taught the skills of laundering money from Park Avenue realtors and bankers who were allowed to frequent their brothels free of charge. They then quickly turned those lessons into an intricate and well-structured revolving door of cash that transferred the illegal gains of prostitution, gambling and whiskey into the safer havens of real estate and business holdings. We didn't want anyone to know how much we had and how much we owned, Pudge once told me. That kind of information makes people jealous and, in our line of work, leads to somebody getting shot. So we bailed out a banker in financial trouble, took over a piece of his bank, sealed our records and kept our main holding companies listed under other names. And then, every eighteen months or so, we would switch them all around again, names and all. If anybody came looking, it would take months, even years, before they could track one dollar of the cash back our way. We took over control of the town and nobody even knew it was gone.