The Hoods (10 page)

On occasion we reluctantly participated in a big heist, and then only when the finger was an old and dependable connection. We had such a heist on the fire, an old commitment which had been brewing. We were waiting for the all clear signal from the finger. Supposedly it was a hundred thousand dollar diamond heist.

Sometimes, from sporadic and slight clashes between mobs, violent and open warfare broke out on a national scale. The newspapers raised a clamor, and the public became alarmed, the federal and local authorities sent word to the underworld “to pipe down,” or they would “clamp down.”

But greed and hate conquered. The mob war continued until, after awhile, a leader arose, our old friend Frank, from the Harlem slums. He called us up. We met, and he outlined his plans. We assured him of our unequivocal support. He told us he would send word when he was ready to put his plans into action. We assured him we would respond to his call, day or night.

In spite of the fact that I ran around with all sorts of women and had been intimate with many of them, I could not overcome my deep childhood worship of Dolores. I had not seen her outside the theater. She never gave me a date: she wouldn't have anything to do with me. I went to the theater where she was performing an average of twice a week just to sit and look at her. She was unaware of my presence. I sat in a trance watching her night after night, loving her more intensely as time went by. It was puzzling to me, a knock-around guy, acting like a schoolboy. I sent her flowers and a diamond wristwatch which she refused to accept. There were times when I was desperate and made foolish plans to force myself on her, to have her at any cost. With an effort I would control my crazy thoughts. She became an obsession with me. Everything else was secondary. I was in a bad state.

Luckily, an exciting event took my mind off Dolores. We received word from Frank. The gigantic conclave of the mobs from all over the country was to be held. He sent us the address. We attended.

It was a fantastically colorful gathering. The meeting came off just as Frank had planned, and the national criminal combination was formed with Frank as supreme authority.

When we got home from that meeting, there was word from the finger: we must go into action on the diamond heist tomorrow. He left full instructions. I was against it.

“Why take a chance on a heist? Guys in our position?” I argued.

Big Maxie was adamant. First of all I gave the guy my word; secondly, taking chances is our stock-in-trade,” he said. “We go through with it tomorrow. I got it all planned out.”

“But Max,” I continued, “we just got back from a trip. We're tired—”

Max cut me off. “We'll take a quick pick-me-up. We'll go over to Joey's place and kick the gong around.”

We piled into the Caddy. Cockeye was at the wheel. We drove to Joey's place. Secretly, I was becoming addicted to opium smoking. I indulged in the pipe more frequently than the rest of my companions because I seemed to need it more. I don't know if it was because I was tense, or because of what I called in my mind “my Dolores phobia.” Perhaps it was because there, I actually possessed Dolores, and it was the only place she did not shun me. In my pipe dreams she ardently reciprocated my love to the point where it gave me real and complete physical gratification.

But I wasn't sure of the real reason I craved the pipe so much. I do know I looked forward to the peculiar dreams of current happenings mixed with Elizabethan adventure, to the vivid colorful dreams of kings and barons in exotic places. Some I participated in; others I just watched as an excited and interested observer. I enjoyed reading English history, so I supposed that was the reason my dreams invariably had an old English flavor.

I hid my impatience until I got out of the car. I was the first to relax on the cot, with the pipe in my mouth. I lay peacefully back on the pillow, reviewing the excitement of the last few days. The pipe tasted just right. Hazily I thought, good old Joey, he always has the best opium, and he certainly knows how to prepare it for smoking. I inhaled the moist, sweetish vapor. It began to give me a feeling of peace and supreme happiness. A blurred vision of Dolores danced briefly before my eyes. I inhaled deeply, slowly, languidly. I exhaled. I watched the moist, shadowy vapors rise and take shape above me. Big Max appeared as a baron, a robber baron. We followed him into an inn. We went into the back room, where we sat down at a table. Big Max pounded the table; he roared, “Bring us ale.” Grinning, Fat Moe appeared carrying large foaming mugs of ale on a tray.

The picture in my mind disappeared again in the thin curl of vapor, and I lay in a happy stupor, with the memory of the exciting message from Frank running through my mind.

It was a dream of how the criminal combination was formed.

There we were, dressed in fancy Elizabethan clothes. We were swashbuckling robber barons. We lost our slangy, East Side intonations, and spoke in the stiff, stilted speech of the period. We were seated around a table in the back room of the “Moosehead Inn.” We were drinking strong ale from large tankards, playing a card game. Large stacks of gold coins were piled before each of us. Short muskets were under our chairs within easy reach. Our beaming host, known as the Fat Moose, was kept busy running in with fresh supplies of ale.

In the midst of the noisy playing, a dusty courier ran in with a message from the notorious Baron Francisco, the Lord of Harlem.

Big Maxie put his pasteboards down and unfolded the note. Moving his lips, he read the message to himself. We looked on curiously. He took a sip of ale, cleared his throat, smiled grimly at us, and said, “Gentlemen, this is what we have been waiting for.” He tapped the paper in his hand. “This is the summons to attend the meeting of all the robber bands in the land, at our friend Francisco's castle. This meeting is being called to formulate a plan of action, which will transcend in daring and importance any organization of barons in all history. It is a very ambitious scheme for uniting all the robber bands in the land under one supreme leader. Methinks my good friend Baron Francisco hankers after the leadership. And I swear by all the good and holy saints that he shall have our support.” For emphasis Big Maxie banged the table a shattering blow with his powerful fist.

“What say you, my comrades? A toast to our friend Baron Francisco and all his plans.”

We raised our tankards in salute and shouted, “Success and good fortune to our friend, Francisco.”

We drank our ale in one gulp.

Big Max smacked his lips and wiped them with the back of his hand. “Let us make haste, for it is a long journey.”

We mounted our powerful steeds and flew like the wind through the night, thundering through small hamlets, shooting our muskets in the air, awakening the frightened villagers out of their peaceful slumbers.

At daylight we made a hurried stop at a wayside inn. Swiftly we gulped some food and large quantities of ale. The foolish innkeeper made the fatal mistake of asking payment. We joyously shot him to death and burned his inn to the ground.

At nightfall, dusty and tired, the horses covered with lather, we arrived at Baron Francisco's well-fortified castle. Armored guards with pikes and muskets were stationed all over the well-kept grounds. Other heavily armed barons were arriving. Torchbearers escorted us over the drawbridge and into the brilliantly lighted castle.

We were assigned comfortable quarters, where we rested. Then bathed and freshly attired in brightly colored velvet doublets and cavaliers' plumed headgear, we strutted around the room admiring each other's costumes. We swaggered into the immense dining hall where we were embraced in warm greeting by our host, Baron Francisco.

A serving man led us to our seats at the vast table. I thought to myself, this is indeed royal repast to set before murderous and bloodthirsty cutthroats. There were golden platters filled with the choicest viands: whole wild boar, roast pig along with all sorts of game and fowl cooked in wine and spices. There were heaping bowls of a new, exotic dish called spaghetti cooked in true Siciliano style. There were platters laden with every variety of knish, salvers filled with a Jewish delicacy, chopped chicken livers, and tureens filled with kreplach soup. There were platters of strange fruits from distant countries across the sea, and trays of cakes and pastries in all shapes and sizes soaked in liquors.

Baron Francisco sat regally at the massive table. At his right sat his most trusted counselor, the fastidious, the cold-blooded dandy, Philip of Kasetel.

Seated at the left of the Baron was the glib Hugo, nicknamed the Jolly Rogue, Prince of Man and Haton with a secret ambition to be the Lord Mayor of all York. He was dressed in a luxurious garment of tiger skins signifying membership in the ancient powerful clan of Tam-on-Knee.

Standing behind the Baron in a group were his personal bodyguards, the fiercest knights in all the land. One of them was the scowling, vicious, truculent Joseph, laughingly called Joseph the Ray-o-Sunshine.

I recognized Sir Charles the Bullet, dealer in plain and fancy methods of violent death, and Sir Michael, the Trig of Cappolah, a bloodthirsty deadshot with his pistol, as well as many of the assassins from Francisco's baronial domain of Harl.

Seated all around the table as far as the eye could see were all the name robber bands of the land: Sir Joseph, the Adonis, Lord of Brook; Sir Arthur, the Dutch, Lord and Master of the Bronks. And standing behind them was the mad-eyed killer, Vincent of Coll. Alongside him was a tall muscular garroter, the Bow-Legs from the Wine-Burg Country. There was the notorious scar-faced one of the Midland Country of Chi, Lord Capone and his motley crew. There were the destructive, murderous, purple knights of the Northern Country of De-Troy. Wild William, Lord of the far southwestern country of Tex and his wild skillful riders. Peter the Printer, Lord of Thompson, whose dexterity at counterfeiting documents and money was legendary. There was the sly and unscrupulous Charles the Lucky, leader of the fearsome black-hand secret Guild of Sicilies. There was the cunning and ostentatious Edward the Elder, the senior brother of Baron Francisco and his Latin crew called the Forty Thieves.

On the other side of the table was the long-legged Baron Zwill, Keeper and Protector of the New-Ark and South Jersey Countries. Next to him was Owney the Madden, Lord of West-Town with his murderous Celtics. There was Erik the Book and William the Moore of Passaic and Lord of the Northern Jersey Countries. There were the cold calculating pair, the Leopard and Gurrah, Lords and Masters of East-Town and their fierce and vicious Semites. There were Meyer the Lance and his partner the Buggsy Eagle with their mercenary crew, a mixture of drug-crazed Latins and Semites who kill for hire to the highest bidder.

I turned to my comrades and said, “In all history such an aggregation of blackguards and corrupt politicians never before or since has gathered together under one roof.”

“Did you include yourself in that statement, Sir Noodles?” the big one gravely inquired. I ignored his comment.

All through the feasting, between mouthfuls of food, there were growling curses and murderous side-glances, promising death. The air was heavy with evil. Only out of fear and respect for our host, Baron Francisco, did this devilish gathering refrain from self-destruction.

After we had our fill of food and drink, an earsplitting clang from an immense gong rang out. An abrupt silence fell over the dining-hall. The startled guests looked furtively at each other. A figure stood up with arm raised for attention. All eyes were centered on him. It was the Dandy, Philip of Kasetel. There was scorn on his handsome countenance as he stared coldly up and down the massive table.

In a clear, unhurried, cultured voice, he said, “Now we come to the business at hand. I will explain briefly why my Suzerain Lord...,” he made a courtly bow to Baron Francisco, “has called this unusual gathering of sworn enemies together. To operate in unity is for your common advantage. Fighting and slaughtering among yourselves for territories is pure waste. There are enough spoils for all. Bloodshed has to stop! We are going to combine all the robber bands in the land into one organization. This organization shall be called the 'Combination.'”

There were mutterings and a negative shaking of heads from a few guests. Philip of Kasetel stared them into silence. He leaned over the table; his piercing eyes looked ominously from one group to the other, reading their thoughts. He was tense as he continued.

“This 'Combination' will require a supreme leader.” With a sly smile he said, “Of course, you have free choice who he shall be.”

The smile left his face, his voice changed to a vicious growl as he continued slowly, measuring and emphasizing every word. “But, there is no question as to who it shall be, for there is only one who is truly fearless and of royal blood amongst us.”

Philip of Kasetel hurriedly signaled to Sir Joseph the Rayo, standing behind the Baron Francisco. Joseph reached behind on the sideboard. He handed Philip a wrapped packet which he calmly uncovered, disclosing a gold and jewel encrusted crown.

The audience looked on in startled amazement as Philip put the crown on Baron Francisco's head. He said, “By the unanimous consent of all the Lords of the land gathered here, I crown thee King Francisco. The first supreme leader of the 'Combination' of robber barons.”

In a regal manner King Francisco rose and smiled to the hushed and startled assembly. There was resentment on the face of some of his guests. He threw a challenging glance around the table. He bowed in mockery.