Operation Underworld (31 page)
Earlier that day Lyons had 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 Chrissakes, Commander, keep it ta yerself, will ya? We got friends on the line!”
“Not anymore, 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 savoured. 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 still! Anyway, take care of the details.”
“Already started prepping the paperwork 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 auspice, 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 me 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 to 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.
“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 and 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 nowhere 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 was 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’ll 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 humour, 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 admiration 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 organisation. 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 bodyguards 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 topcoat 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 bodyguards 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.
“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 realised 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! Jeez! 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, the most well known zoo on the eastern seaboard.