Operation Underworld (11 page)

Despite all of his self-posturing, the thing he had the most difficulty dealing with was the possibility that anyone even remotely associated with the Mob may be shown, by their helping the War Department, to have any redeemable values.

As the taxi cruised up a deserted Central Park West past the Museum of Natural History, Gurfein couldn’t help but think how the shadowy images of the park seemed appropriate for the mood. His mind drifted further, noting how the picturesque peacefulness engulfed the entire scene and how it would look in just a few hours as the morning sun broke over the treeline, soon to be shattered by the brutality of rush hour traffic.

As they passed into the 90s, one last chilling thought occurred to his active, worried imagination. Was there any chance the Navy intelligence people could have underestimated the current state of German technology? What if the U-Boats had a longer range and extended sea life than the government knew about? Unlikely, he reassured himself. America had the greatest scientific and military minds in the world. That’s how we’d beaten them in the last war. Besides, the Krauts were essentially neutralised at Versailles.

These were the thoughts that raced through Gurfein’s mind as the cab rounded the corner and pulled to a halt at Broadway and 103rd. It was shortly after midnight when he attempted to exit the vehicle but was blocked by two men getting in. It was Guerin and Lanza. Socks sat facing the two lawyers who in turn were sitting with their backs towards the rear of the taxi.

“Where’re we going?” asked Gurfein nervously.

“Somewhere else,” Lanza quipped. Continuing on for another few blocks, the driver altered his northerly direction and turned west until they came to Riverside Park. Another right-hand turn meant they were again heading uptown, and Guerin noticed a sign in the park as they drove by:
Grant’s Tomb Next Left.

“You’re a regular Bob Fuckin’ Hope, Lanza,” Guerin cracked. Socks smiled. Gurfein looked puzzled.

After pulling into the park just south of the memorial, the three men got out. Lanza paid a twenty, and deliberately waited until the two lawyers were out of earshot before telling the driver to go over to Amsterdam Avenue and wait.

Lanza walked past the others and across the narrow stretch of park to the wrought iron fence overlooking the Hudson River. The lawyers followed and when they reached Lanza, Guerin stepped off to one side to allow his client and the DA’s representative to talk. Gurfein immediately began to paint the picture for Socks.

“Here’s the story, Socks…”

“It’s Mr Lanza.”
Off to a good start
, thought Guerin, standing on the sidelines, lighting a smoke.

“The Navy needs our help. They been losing supply ships left, right and centre to the U-Boats. They don’t think the subs can stay out that long, or that the Krauts have enough of them to keep rotating their Wolf Packs.”

Socks glanced at Guerin, then back at Gurfein. It was too hard to swallow. The US Navy looking for Socks Lanza to come to the rescue? Even with a war on, there wasn’t a chance in hell they would want to get Mob guys mixed up in a legitimate operation, he thought. The DA was up to something.

“So?”

“So, they think the Krauts are being supplied from here. By a network or something.”

“You tryin’ ta tell me you think some’a my guys are supplyin’ Nazis!”

“No. But such an operation would take an organised network and a fair amount of logistics. These guys would need fresh water, food, fuel, medicine and God knows what else. This wouldn’t be any nickel and dime operation.”

“So whatta ya want from me?”

“They can’t find any leads.”

“So why don‘t you guys do what you always do? Frame somebody? Or are you askin’me ta play spy?”

“Not exactly. The Navy wants to place agents on the boats, trucks and in the markets.”

“Fuck you!” Lanza backed away as he exploded with anger. Guerin was startled. “I was born durin’ the fuckin’ day, but it wasn‘t fuckin’ yesterday!” He turned to a startled Guerin. “Can you believe this shit? This prick wants to put Feds inside my operation!”

“Socks, calm down!” Guerin threw down his cigarette and walked over to his client. “Calm down, damn it!”

“This bastard wants to put cops in my market! Can you believe the cahoons on this guy?”

“Don’t be stupid! He’s got nothing to do with it. If you agree to help, you’ll deal straight with the Navy. No one else,” Guerin reasoned with Lanza. Socks looked at both of them and then again at Guerin. He began to settle down. As much as any man could, he trusted his lawyer.

“How do I know they won’t be Feds?” he asked.

“If they are, or if the DA tries to sneak a Fed in, anything they obtain, or try to obtain, will be inadmissible. Besides, if you want I can have them checked out.” The two lawyers exchanged glances. “But I’m telling you, I met the Navy guy you’re going to be dealing with. He‘s on the square.”

“Is he ex-cop?” He wanted as clear a picture as possible.

“No. Strictly intelligence work,” Guerin reassured him.

Socks walked around a little in small, irregular circles and lit a cigarette.

“You’d be doing your country a great service,” prodded Gurfein.

“Yeah, wouldn’t hurt your career either, would it, councillor?”

Socks was told that not only would he not be given any consideration for his help, but that it would probably not even be permitted to be brought up at his upcoming trial. There was nothing that Gurfein or Hogan were going to do to jeopardise a conviction. His lawyer made one last plea.

“Socks, I’m tellin’ ya. It’s on the level.”

Socks stood, hands in pockets assessing the two lawyers. “I’ll call you in a day or so. I’ll see what I can do.” With the sparkling lights of the Jersey shoreline at his back, Lanza slowly walked away. He was headed in the direction of Amsterdam Avenue when he stopped and turned. “Hey, Guerin! You comin’?”

Turning to Gurfein as he walked away, Guerin said, “Don’t worry, he’ll do it. He’s got no choice.” The lawyer caught up with Lanza.

“Look, I don’t want to call that prick. I want to deal with this Navy guy, what’s his name?”

“Haffenden, Commander Haffenden.”

“Hey!” It was Gurfein calling after the other two men, who were by now across the street. “How am I supposed to get back downtown?”

“Call a cab!” Socks suggested, and then continued walking.

“You know, he could lean on you pretty heavy at the trial,” counselled Guerin.

“You think for a second he’s gonna play Mr Nice Guy? Let me tell you somethin’. When guys like that develop political ambitions, they find ways to bend the law and then go around tellin’ people it’s ta fight crime. Then, after they get away with it a’nuff times, comes the delusions of grandeur and invincibility! Then it’s only a small step to ignoring the law altogether.”

“Voice of experience talking, Joey?”

“
Basta conoscerne uno, per conoscerli tuti
. Ya seen one, ya seen ’em all!
Capito
?”

The two figures faded into the dark mist.

Next morning, the two figures of Socks Lanza and Guerin emerged from the bright sunlight and passed through the large, revolving brass doors into the palatial lobby of the Hotel Astor. Outside, the New York winter air was crisp and cold, but inside the elaborate lobby it was a warm, comfortable and lush. An atmosphere neither man was a stranger to.

The immaculate detail and spaciousness of the vestibule was impeccable. Plush, intricately woven, red and gold carpet was bordered with black rope and ran snugly into the richly stained and varnished mahogany baseboard. The walls were a combination of paper and paint, coloured in soft maroon and eggshell. The ceilings of heavily moulded plaster reliefs, were ornamented with massive, gold-plated chandeliers large enough to require a crew of ten men to install. Once on the inner borders of the huge, rotating, brass plated doors, save for the attire of the guests scattered about the lobby, one would think it was still 1870.

The two men made their way to the staircase on the left and ascended to the mezzanine level. Although this was not Lanza’s first time in the Astor, he was forced to think to himself as he looked around for sentries, “If this is a set-up, they’re sure goin’ the whole hog!”

Owing to the sizes of the suites on the mezzanine level, there were a limited number of them. Guerin knew the suite number, and despite the growing irritation he felt for all this cloak and dagger stuff he wasn’t making a penny on, he was curious as to how the third reel was going to play out. He gave two short knocks and a voice yelled to come in.

Each room was large enough to permanently house a family of four, and was just as plushly decorated as the lobby.

“And they call us crooks!” Lanza said in a low voice to Guerin as he closed the door behind them. Straight ahead, down the long hall, was some sort of sitting room, and off to either side of the hall were four other rooms, two on each side.

Socks and his lawyer walked down the hall poking their heads into each room until they found the one which was occupied.

“What the hell’s he doin’ here?” Socks blurted out. He was standing in the doorway of the last room on the left, pointing as Guerin caught up with him.

“I’m just here to baby-sit, Socks.” Gurfein, seated in the corner, was basking blissfully in Lanza’s surprise.

Lanza recalled how easy it was to bait and evade the cops when they chased him as a teen and quickly composed himself. “Your tax dollars at work, eh, Murray?”

“At least we pay taxes, Lanza!” Gurfein was easily goaded.

“We pay taxes too, councillor,” Socks retorted in a matter-of-fact tone. “The taxes you haul in from the people we employ alone, more than pays the salary of everyone in City Hall, with some left over to help the war effort. Of course that’s only a rough estimate. It’s very difficult to know exactly how much is extorted from us in graft.”

“Gentlemen! We’re not here to play cops and robbers.” It was the man seated behind the broad wooden desk, an impressive figure dressed in civilian clothes. He looked to be late forties, early fifties, but well built. Socks was impressed with the man’s presence and shook his hand with respect as the man introduced himself.

“Mr Lanza, Lieutenant Commander Charles Haffenden, thanks for coming.”

Gurfein smirked silently as he thought to himself,
Mr Lanza! Gimme a break!
Socks sat down in the chair facing the desk. Guerin stood, as there were no more chairs in the room. The lawyer, in his sixties, was visibly uncomfortable.

“Mr Lanza, I’m told you can help us.”

“Please, Commander, call me Socks,” Lanza said, pretending not to notice Gurfein’s glance. “What is it I can do for youse?”

Commander Haffenden had been briefed about Lanza’s legal situation, and so understood fully the relationship between Gurfein and Socks. He also knew why the DA’s representative was there. It had very little to do with Lanza. He would no doubt be tripping over himself to report back to Hogan the instant the meeting was over. Little did he realise he was out of his league.

Charles Haffenden had not only been in service since 1917, he was considered a founding father of Naval Intelligence. He played in the same playground as Aaron Banks and ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan. While people like Hogan and Gurfein were paying for tips and blackmailing petty criminals, men like Haffenden were spying on heads of state and collecting data as field operatives behind the lines in enemy territory.

“Well, I believe your lawyer has already filled you in on the details of the difficulties we’re having with our shipping?”

Guerin had no idea what Haffenden was talking about, but kept quiet. Lanza caught on right away.

“Yeah, all the details,” he responded. Gurfein sat up straight and looked at Haffenden.

“Good. What can we do?” Haffenden continued. Socks reached into his pocket and produced a pen. He wrote two phone numbers on a piece of notepaper he took from the desk and slid them across to the Commander.

“Call me at either one of those numbers in a day or so, sir.” Lanza stood along with Haffenden, and they shook hands.

“Nice to have met you, sir.”

“Likewise, Socks.” Gurfein remained seated.

Lanza left first and as Guerin was putting his hat on, he turned to Gurfein and quipped, “Told ya he’d do it.”

Commander Haffenden put on his coat as well and indicated to Gurfein that it was time to leave. Gurfein tried to get a look at the piece of paper on the desk, but Haffenden scooped it up and put it in his pocket.

“Commander, I have a right to know what’s on that paper!” They started down the hall towards the exit.

“Ya know, Murray, I get the impression you’re the kinda guy likes ordering secretaries around.” Haffenden stopped to open the front door to the suite. He reached in his pocket and produced a piece of paper. Outside in the hall, he addressed Gurfein again.

“I’m told you’re an expert in Sicilian?”

“Yeah, So?” Haffenden handed him the piece of paper and proceeded to walk down the corridor towards the stairs.

“Get back to me with a translation on that, will ya?” Haffenden was about to set the ground rules for the NYCDA’s relationship with his intelligence network.