The Outfit (59 page)

Thus, like Mooney, Johnny Rosselli began to fall increasingly out of favor with his superiors. In his stead, the Outfit’s other West Coast mouthpiece and labor relations consultant, Sidney Korshak, took up the slack. In 1997,
Vanity Fair
magazine devoted a sixteen-page article to the shadowy Korshak, calling him “one of the great hidden figures of twentieth-century organized crime . . . Las Vegas was one of his kingdoms.” But what the article failed to note was that Korshak was totally controlled by Chicago, and specifically, by his handler, Curly Humphreys.

FBI wiretaps throughout the period detail Humphreys’ command over Korshak, who was by now also negotiating contracts for top-flight Hollywood entertainers, many of whom desired to pad their wallets with lucrative weeklong engagements in Sin City. One bugged conversation showed Humphreys worrying that Korshak was “getting too big for his britches.” Frequently, Curly would have to remind Korshak whom he worked for, as on the occasion when Sidney arranged a Las Vegas booking for singer Dinah Shore at a hotel not run by the Outfit. Since only Humphreys was allowed to contact Korshak, the idea being to insulate the valuable asset from gangster tarnish, it fell to him alone to straighten out Sidney. Humphreys, who continued to place calls to Korshak under the name Mr. Lincoln, was incensed and let Korshak know it.

After ordering Korshak to keep Shore “out of the wrong places,” Humphreys added, “Anything you want to do for yourself, Sidney, is OK, but we made you and we want you to take care of us first . . . Now we built you up pretty good, and we stood by you, but anything else outside of the law business is us, and I don’t want to hear you in anything else . . . Anytime we yell, you come running.”

Korshak indeed came running to the Outfit’s rescue whenever it perceived it was losing the public relations war. Such was the case with one of the underworld’s most vocal opponents, composer and television pioneer Steve Allen. The Chicago native and creator of the talk show genre became an outspoken anticrime activist in 1954, when he chanced upon a photograph of a man who had been severely beaten after speaking out against the installation of pinball machines in a store near a neighborhood school. Allen, under the threat of advertiser desertion, produced a two-hour documentary on labor corruption for New York’s WNBT, from where his
Tonight
show originated. After the documentary aired, one of the interviewees, labor columnist Victor Reisel, was blinded by an acid-thrower, and Allen endured slashed tires on his car and stink bombs set off in his theater. Then there came physical threats. One anonymous caller referred to the Reisel attack and told Allen, “Lay off, pal, or you’re next.”

But the hoods totally misread Allen, who was only emboldened by the threats. Over the years, Allen continued to take every opportunity to sound the clarion call, against not only the underworld, but also against its upperworld enablers. Allen made frequent trips to Chicago, where he spoke at benefits for the Chicago Crime Commission. His Van Nuys office contains more than forty binders labeled “Organized Crime,” holding thousands of notes and newspaper clippings. But the entertainer’s stance had a powerful impact on his career.

“I was blackballed in many lucrative establishments,” Allen recalled shortly before his death in 2000. “I was only invited to play Vegas twice in my entire career.” This alone deprived Allen of millions of dollars from a venue he would have owned if given the opportunity.

In 1963, Allen was hosting the syndicated late-night
Steve Allen Show
when he received a call from Sidney Korshak. “I was asked to take it easy on Sidney’s friends,” Allen recalled. Not long after politely refusing Korshak’s request, Allen felt the power of the underworld-upperworld collusion once again. “We had a terrible time booking many A-list guests for the show,” Allen explained. It was clear to Allen that Korshak, in connivance with Jules Stein’s entertainment megalith, MCA, had chosen to deprive the
Steve Allen Show
of the MCA talent roster, which at the time represented most of Hollywood’s top stars.

Despite the talent embargo, Allen concocted a wonderful program with his staple ensemble of brilliant ad-libbers such as Louie Nye, Don Knotts, Bill Dana, and Tom Poston, as well as quirky personalities like madman Gypsy Boots, and then unknown Frank Zappa, who appeared as a performance artist, bashing an old car with a sledgehammer. But Allen’s 1963 run-in with Korshak would not be his last encounter with gangster intimidation.

While the fuming Accardo and Humphreys kept the organization afloat in Chicago, the man who was supposed to be the day-to-day boss remained on the nightclub circuit. In July 1961, the Bureau learned through its Las Vegas bugs that Mooney and Phyllis were going to transit Chicago on their way from Las Vegas to Atlantic City. Alerted, the Chicago Field Office dispatched five agents to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport on July 12, with the intent of driving Giancana over the brink by serving a grand jury subpoena on Phyllis, whom Agent Roemer disparagingly referred to as Giancana’s “mistress” (Giancana was a widower).
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The plan was to separate the pair, with the former marine boxing champ Roemer assigned to sequester the volatile Giancana, while the others interviewed McGuire. According to both Roemer’s and Giancana’s versions, the confrontation was explosive, with Giancana launching into a profanity-laced tirade. Not only did Mooney repeatedly scream “motherfuckers” and “cocksuckers” at the agents, but he did the same to innocent travelers observing the altercation as they walked by.

At one point, Mooney chided the agents about their unrelenting probing into his private affairs. He asked sarcastically if they knew that he owned 35 percent of Marshall Field’s, 20 percent of Carson’s, and 20 percent of Goldblatt’s Department Store. He was then asked if he had any holdings in Las Vegas, to which he replied, “I own ninety-nine percent of Las Vegas. And in Florida I own the Fontainebleau, the Americana, and the Diplomat.” Although these were obvious exaggerations, there was probably some truth in all the boasts, but given the Outfit’s penchant for hidden ownerships, the truth will forever be elusive.
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“I know this is because of Bobby Kennedy,” Giancana yelled at Roemer. Using hoodlum parlance, Mooney fumed, “You’re going to report this to your boss, and he’s gonna report it to the superboss . . . You know who I mean, the Kennedys . . . Well, I know all about the Kennedys, and Phyllis knows a lot more, and one of these days we are going to tell all . . . I’m going to light a fire under you guys and don’t forget that.” When Giancana was asked if he wanted the agents to call his aide Butch Blasi to give him a ride, Giancana said, “Yes, call Butch, and tell him to bring two shotguns with him.” And to make absolutely certain Roemer got the point, the furious boss snarled, “Do you know how many people I’ve killed? I might have to be responsible for another one very shortly.”

After being cursed at for an hour, Roemer also lost his cool and began his own shouting match with O’Hare patrons, yelling out to the unwary baggage-toting travelers, “Look at this piece of garbage, a piece of scum. You people are lucky to be passing through Chicago - we have to live with this slime. This is Sam Giancana, the boss of the underworld here. Take a good look at this prick.”

Before being reunited with McGuire and catching their connecting flight, Giancana walked up to Roemer and pounded a finger into the agent’s chest. “You lit a fire tonight, Roemer, that will never go out,” Giancana threatened. “We’ll get you if it’s the last thing we do!”

At the Armory Lounge shortly after the confrontation (and with the G listening in), Giancana told an associate, “If a man would call me what I called them fellows [at O’Hare], I’d shoot them right there.” The longer Giancana stayed on the topic, however, the hotter his temper grew. In a few moments, it had reached its extremely low kindling point, prompting the gangster to scream, “I’ve had enough of that guy [Roemer]. I’m putting up a fund of one hundred thousand dollars to figure out how to get that cocksucker.”

The absurd notion of whacking a G-man was brought before Giancana’s bosses, who quickly disabused the fiery gangster of the idea. Mooney had requested such a sanction before, and the reply from Accardo was always the same: “That would be counterproductive. The whole FBI would come down on us from all over the country if we hit one of them. Call it off. Now.” Giancana obeyed, although once out of earshot of his own “superbosses,” he vented to his driver, “I’m the boss of this Outfit. Fuck anybody else!”

To be sure, Accardo and Humphreys had not turned their swords into plowshares, but their sanctioning of violence had greatly decreased in recent years, possibly due in no small part to their mellowing with age. Humphreys especially was deeply involved in charitable projects. In addition to his contributions to Native American children in Oklahoma, Curly was the sole executive in charge of the mob’s “family pension fund,” making certain that the gang widows of Capone, Nitti, Guzik, as well as Virginia Hill, were regularly compensated. Humphreys also found time to visit the terminally ill Frankie Ferraro daily at Wesley Memorial Hospital, and after Ferraro’s passing, looked after both Ferraro’s widow and his mistress.

When in Florida, one of the few forays Humphreys took away from his home was to visit Mae Capone and her boy Sonny on Palm Island. Humphreys alone sided with Sonny when he requested a $24,000 loan from the Outfit to shore up his foundering Miami Beach Restaurant; Curly was once again outvoted by “the spaghetti benders.” Jeanne Humphreys remembers, “We had to sneak money to Mae. It was our own money.” The FBI overheard discussions concerning Curly’s anonymous contributions to the Red Cross, the Salvation Army, and “various Catholic and Jewish charitable organizations.” With Libonati, Curly raised funds for Boys Town and helped to establish the American-Italian Welfare League in Chicago.

Like Humphreys, Joe Accardo was frequently linked to unadvertised philanthropy and displays of conscience. Once, when an FBI informer named Bernie Glickman had ratted on some crooked fight promoters, he was badly beaten by Phil Alderisio. Worried that the Outfit had put a murder contract out on Glickman, who had steadfastly refused to name Accardo, Agent Bill Roemer, using Ralph Pierce as intermediary, sought a sit-down with the man himself, Joe Accardo, a man whom he knew so much about, but had never met. After consulting with boss Accardo, Pierce called Roemer.

“In the Sears parking lot at North and Harlem at midnight,” Pierce told the G-man. After his midnight arrival at the suburban intersection about forty-five minutes from the Loop, Roemer waited ten minutes before Pierce appeared from a Sears doorway.

“Walk west for a couple blocks,” Pierce instructed, before walking away. Roemer did as instructed, and after about two blocks, the most powerful mob boss in the nation walked out from the cover of a tree. The two men shook hands, and Accardo allowed Roemer to search him for a wire (the meeting was not authorized by Roemer’s superiors and he feared blackmail). “I’m the guy who should think
you’d
be wired,” Accardo joked. However, as soon as the agent touched Accardo, six men exploded out of two cars parked nearby.

“Hold on,” Accardo ordered his men. “I think it’s OK.”

Accardo suggested the two just take a walk and chat, and the two adversaries proceeded through the dark suburban streets “exchanging pleasantries,” according to Roemer, all the while tailed by Accardo’s cars.

“What is it you want from me?” Accardo eventually asked.

Roemer explained the situation with Glickman, assuring Accardo that the hood was not squealing on the boss.

“I want your word that he won’t be harmed,” Roemer said. “Call off the contract.”

“You believe what you read in the papers, huh, Roemer?” Accardo chided. “Is there a contract?”

Roemer sidestepped that debate and told Accardo that Glickman had been left unprotected by the Bureau, which had resulted in the Alderisio attack, and that Glickman was in need of medical help and peace of mind.

“Roemer, I thought we were supposed to be the bad guys,” Accardo said. “It seems to me here
you
are the fuckin’ bad guys.”

Roemer begged Accardo to show mercy to the infirm Glickman, who, the agent insisted, had shown undying loyalty to Accardo. After a few minutes of silence, the boss promised that Glickman would not be touched.

“You’ve got my word,” Accardo said. Then the two men inquired about each other’s families, as if they were old high-school classmates attending a reunion. The next day Roemer drove a stunned Glickman to Accardo’s River Forest Palace, so he could hear could hear about his indemnity from the boss himself. In his book
Accardo: The Genuine Godfather,
Roemer described what happened next: ’[Accardo] took Bernie to his personal physician. The physician put Bernie in St. Luke-Presbyterian Hospital . . . and treated him while Bernie recuperated from his ordeal . . . Accardo had paid all the bills.’

The tensions with the G were temporarily ameliorated in the fall of 1961 as social gatherings held sway. On September 23, 1961, ten months after the election, Joe Kennedy threw a thank-you party for Frank Sinatra at the family’s Hyannis compound. According to the Sinatra clan, Joe wanted to show his appreciation for Sinatra’s enlisting the Giancana support in West Virginia, not to mention the Outfit’s critical role in the general election. Two weeks later, Sinatra was in Chicago attending the coming-out party for Paul Ricca, who had just been released from prison.

The party atmosphere was not long-lasting, at least as far as the volatile Giancana-Sinatra relationship was concerned. Giancana had concluded by now that Sinatra had lied about intervening on his behalf with the Kennedys. Perhaps Mooney had expected some good word after Joe Kennedy’s party for Sinatra in September. According to Sinatra biographer Randy Taraborrelli, the singer consistently lied to Mooney about pleading his case with Papa Joe. Taraborrelli spoke with Philadelphia mafioso Nicolas D’Amato, and Sinatra’s fellow singer Dean Martin, both of whom were aware of the dangerous game Sinatra was playing.