Operation Underworld (14 page)
Under the cloud of spent tobacco, the larger of the three men ate as if it were his last meal and, increasingly agitated by the shrill scraping of the knife and fork on the big man’s plate, Lanza snubbed out his cigarette and broke the silence.
“So whata ya tellin’me, Jimmy? I’m no good no more?” Socks looked Jimmy square in the eye, who twirled his empty cup of demitasse.
“I ain’t sayin’ you’re no good, Socks! It’s just that a lotta the guys are a little edgy right now, that’s all.” Jimmy’s words were compelled to escape in between mouthfuls of
primavera
. He hoped that Lanza would get the picture without him having to spell it out.
“This guy’s straight up, I’m tellin’ ya. You can talk to him yerself. He’s got guys all over the place. The docks, on trucks, on the boats.”
“That’s exactly the problem, Socks. Feds all over the place. A lotta people don’t think that’s such a good idea, ya know?”
Awaiter approached the table from the side just as Socks let go on Jimmy.
“They ain’t Feds! They’re Navy!” Lanza kept his voice down, but let his growing irritation seep through. The young boy detoured to the other side of the room.
Jimmy looked at the other man at the table who had been sitting in silence since the start of the meal. It was tradition to politely avoid talk of business until after the meal, and so up until now he had only engaged in chit-chat. He accepted the signal from Jimmy, and took over the conversation.
“Socks, I gotta give it to ya straight. There’s talk’a you makin’ deals.”
“Deals wit who?” He was coming to a slow boil. Not because of the accusation, it really wasn’t an accusation. If the Camardos said they heard rumours, then there were rumours. And Lanza was pretty sure he knew the source.
“The DA. Some guys got it figured that you cut a deal ta let the Feds in on some of the operations, so they’d go lighter on ya.”
“They ain’t fuckin’Feds! They’re United States fuckin’Navy!”
“Navy, DA, Treasury, they’re all the Law, Socks.” Frankie spoke in a controlled tone, and Socks began to see the futility of his argument. It was a tactic as old as the frontal assault, but a lot less risky for the accuser. Once you were put on the defensive with a simple accusation, no matter what you said, you sounded guilty by virtue of the fact you were defending yourself. No substantiation or real evidence was needed.
“Does the DA know about this little party?” Lanza certainly couldn’t lie about that. Frankie would never have asked if he didn’t already know the answer.
“Dem DA’s are only there for one thing, Socks. Ta become politicians. We got Soldiers, Lieutenants, Captains, and a Boss, they got Assistant DA’s, DA’s, Attorney Generals and Governors. Look at Roosevelt. Sure, he helped us out when he was Gov’ner, but what the hell? Was mostly our money got him elected.” His partner was moved to chime in.
“Better than that little worm Dewey. Frames Lucky, buys the judge and Charlie goes up for fifty years fer a crime ain’t worth ten! Am I right, Socks or am I right? Tell me. You agree or not?”
“Yeah, I get yer point. Now, you look me in the eye and tell me you think I’m a fink.” Lanza knew he risked Frankie’s friendship with this challenge, but he was too frustrated to care.
“Socks, it don’t matter what I think…”
“Look me in the fuckin’eye and tell me you think I’m a fuckin’ fink!” Lanza was leaning over the table now, only inches from Frankie’s face and staring him straight in the eyes.
Jimmy instinctively reached under the left breast of his jacket. Frankie reached over to lay his hand on Jimmy’s forearm. Frankie kept eye contact with Socks, and pointing his index finger, replied, “I don’t think you’re sellin’ out Joey. I wouldn’t never peg you for a fink. Never. But lettin’ this DA in on operations is bad business.”
Lanza at last felt some relief and fell back in his chair. He took a deep breath, let it out and peered across the table at Jimmy. “What the fuck was you doin’? Scratchin’ ya tit?” he asked with half a smile.
“Socks, look here. You want the Camardos involved, you know whose okay you gotta get? Right?” Lanza didn’t answer right away. “Are we okay? Socks! Are we okay or what?” Frankie prodded.
“Charlie would never deal with these bastards. Not after what they done ta him in court,” Socks replied, reaching for the check. “Yeah, we’re okay. But do me a favour, will ya?”
Frankie nodded a ‘What?’
“Next time leave this big prick at home, will ya? He eats like a fuckin’ horse!”
For the first time since the turn of the century the overall labour situation in America was stable. The violent union wars of the twenties were replaced by the violent labour wars of the thirties and the Depression, which in turn gave way to the retooling and re-employment required by the war effort. There was an unwritten ‘no strike’ agreement for the duration of the war amongst the waterfront labour force, and virtually every individual or entity involved in labour utilised this time to posture and jockey for political position in preparation for the day when things would return to normal.
A significant piece of the union pie was being sought after by the American Communist Party, represented by the Industrial Workers of the World labour union. In 1942, the CPA were a legitimate political party and, in contrast to any other party, stood on a platform composed almost entirely of labour issues. They held sway with large segments of the labor population of America owing to their earlier victories against vicious factory owners in New England and New York, and until the witch hunts of the Late Forties there were no widespread fears of Communists taking over the country and eating all the babies.
The labour union leaders of other factions, however, were very afraid. The Communists offered members of the labour force something the other parties would not even talk about, a share in the pie. However unsuccessful this would prove to be in later years, at the time it was a difficult enticement to ignore.
The party had gained considerable momentum on the West Coast and the man out there doing all the talk about pie sharing was a man named Harry Bridges.
Harry made the mistake late that February, of coming to New York. He compounded this error in judgement by letting his intentions be known, before leaving the West Coast, that the goal of his pilgrimage would be to organise labour in New York.
Officially, he was functioning completely within the law, as a duly elected representative of a legitimate political party and an international labour union.
But that was in California. Seems way out there on the sunny West Coast, Harry hadn’t gotten the word that New York labour was already organised. By some Italians.
From LaGuardia Field, Bridges took a taxi into mid-town and arrived at the Hollywood Hotel about mid-morning, across from one of Luciano’s former favorite night spots, the Paradise. Although the Hollywood did not boast the elaborate floor shows of the Paradise, the service was good, the rooms spacious and it suited Harry’s love of comfortable surroundings. After all, if one were to battle the bourgeois, one had to understand its ways.
The effeminate desk clerk saw nothing unusual in the dark-haired, medium-built man in the dark grey suit and as Mr Bridges registered, the desk clerk rang for a Front, and then handed the new guest his metal tagged room key. The bell boy, who had been leaning against the wall reading a comic book, took his time getting to the desk and Harry headed for the elevators. Waiting for the guest to be out of earshot, the desk clerk, in his lispy dialect, addressed the Front.
“Franklin! I’ve told you time and again about that gum! Take it out of your mouth this instant or I’ll report you to Mr. Carlson!”
The bellhop made an exaggerated gesture of swallowing the offending confectionary.
The frail little desk clerk, about half the size of Frankie the bellhop, did not think it a good idea to push his luck, so when Frankie approached, the clerk turned and occupied himself at the back desk.
As Frankie watched the new guest walk towards the elevator, he squinted his eyes in a gesture of faint recognition. Turning the register around, he read the name and smiled. He carried the two suitcases to the elevator, which had already taken Mr Bridges up to his room. Setting them aside by the large fern, he went across the lobby to a bank of phone booths.
“Lemme talk to Mr Lanza.” Frankie felt like a kid at Christmas when he pulled the door shut.
“Who the hell is this?”
“Frankie. I need to talk to him.”
“Frankie who?”
“Frankie, over at the Hollywood. Tell him I got something for him.”
“Hold on.” The bellhop knew he had a chance to start establishing his reputation in The Unione. Frankie reckoned that if his guess was right, he would no longer have to wait for his piece of shit brother-in-law to get him connected.
“Yeah, who am I talking to?” Lanza asked impatiently.
“Mr Lanza! This is Frankie. Frankie the bellhop, uptown at the Hollywood Hotel.
“Frankie the bellhop?”
“Yes sir. I think I got somethin’ for ya.”
“Yeah, like what, Frankie the bellhop?”
“You know that Commie Pinko labour guy from California?” He had trouble containing himself.
“Harry Bridges the Commie? What about him?”
“Guess who just checked into room 1017?” By now, the diminutive desk clerk had swished across the lobby and was heading towards the phone booth.
Lanza asked in a low, slow controlled voice, registering increasing satisfaction as he spoke. “He’s there, at the Hollywood?” There was a momentary pause on Lanza’s end of the line. “Room 1017, is dat right?” Lanza reconfirmed.
“Yes sir. I’m supposed ta take his bags up right now.”
“Well, nice job, Frankie the bellhop. You still want in at the union?”
“Hedy Lamarr got nice tits?”
“Go down to Fulton Street on Monday morning. See Joey DiTorrio. Tell him I sent ya. Hey kid, what the hell is that bangin’ sound?” Lanza held the receiver away from his head and looked at it. The desk clerk had found Frankie.
“Nuthin’, Mr Lanza. I’ll take care of it, thanks.” Frankie hung up and slid open the bi-fold door. The clerk stopped his banging, and took a step back from the phone booth.
“Did you put Mr Bridges’ bags in the elevator?” Frankie the used-to-be bellhop gave no verbal response. Instead, he walked back over to the fern, lifted the two suitcases and threw them into the open elevator. He reached in and pushed several buttons, and the cases disappeared behind the closing doors.
Removing his small, round, blue and gold cap, he walked over to the reception desk, and after tossing the cap over the desk, Frankie magically produced the gum from his mouth he was supposed to have swallowed, and spat the wad on the open register book. Giving a broad smile to the clerk, who prudently remained across the lobby, he slammed the book closed and pressed firmly, being sure to smash the gum flat.
Bravely, from his safe position by the phone booths, the clerk called out that Frankie had better find another job because he was never going to work at the Hollywood again.
Oh yeah. He was going to report him to Mr Carlson, too.
Lanza’s luck that morning ran thin after Frankie’s phone call. Although he immediately dispatched a reception committee, by the time they arrived uptown, Bridges had left his room. Next, he called Commander Haffenden’s suite at the Astor, but there was no answer.
Lanza instructed the three men to hang around the hotel and call when Bridges returned. Their wait was short. About an hour later, Harry walked across the lobby and took the elevator up to his room. Socks picked up the phone on the first ring.
“Yeah, who’s talking?”
“It’s me.”
“Commander! I was just tryin’ ta call you!”
“Have you got something for me on the other dock situation?” “No. But we got an out of town visitor.”
“Who?” Haffenden’s anticipation quickly peeked as he harbored hope that someone had finally caught a saboteur.
“Harry Bridges.”
“The labour organiser?” Haffenden was seriously surprised.
“Yeah!”
“So?” He did not attach the same significance to this development as did Lanza. Then again, Haffenden was not involved in illicit labour manipulation. Not technically.
“
So
? He’s a Commie!”
“Socks, being a Communist isn’t illegal.” It never occurred to Lanza that Haffenden would give him any opposition on this.
“What if he starts talking some of that Commie shit out here? What if he came out here to disrupt the unions? What about if he’s in cahoots with some German spies or somethin’? Then it would be illegal! Right?” Haffenden knew what Lanza was driving at. He wanted Haffenden’s okay to take care of Bridges.
If he gave the nod, and anyone ever found out he sanctioned violence against an elected representative, the operation, as well as his career, may be over. On the other hand, if he told Lanza to lay off, he might not have as much co-operation as he was presently enjoying. Haffenden’s long silence ended.
“Do what you gotta do. Only, I don’t need to know how. Just let me know when it’s done.” There was nothing more to say. He hung up.
Socks called the hotel and gave his men their instructions. Then he placed a second call and arranged for a flight.
Harry didn’t know it yet, but his pilgrimage was over.
