Boardwalk Gangster (17 page)
Read Boardwalk Gangster Online
Authors: Tim Newark
“Maybe that sounds crazy right in the middle of the war,” said Lansky, “but one of those agents told me later that those words were magic. People smiled and after that everything was easy.” Even if Luciano wasn’t there, his reputation was opening doors.
The young renegade mafioso led Alfieri to the local headquarters of the Italian navy. With the assistance of his armed henchmen, they killed the German guards outside and broke in. They blew open a safe and inside Alfieri found documents describing German and Italian defenses for the island as well as a valuable radio codebook. Secret maps revealed the locations of minefields and the safe routes through them, thus saving many American lives. It was a tremendous breakthrough for which Alfieri was awarded the Legion of Merit—his actions “contributing
in large measure to the success of our invasion forces,” said the presidential citation. It was a medal that Luciano might well have felt he deserved, too.
in large measure to the success of our invasion forces,” said the presidential citation. It was a medal that Luciano might well have felt he deserved, too.
But Marsloe, Alfieri, and their colleagues were only four intelligence agents compared to the hundreds of others serving with the army. Their impact on the campaign in Sicily began and ended on the coast. From then on, it was up to the military officers of the Counterintelligence Corps (CIC) to assist the advance of their frontline soldiers into the heart of Sicily, and they did not have the benefit of Luciano’s briefings.
Or did they? There is a notorious story that is often quoted as proof that Lucky Luciano’s long shadow hung over the fighting in Sicily.
Five days after the Allied landing, on July 14, 1943, an American fighter plane flew low over the small town of Villalba in central Sicily. As its wings nearly brushed the terra-cotta roofs of the buildings, native Sicilians could see a yellow banner fluttering from the side of the cockpit. They swore it bore a large black “L” in the middle of the flag. As the aircraft swooped over a grand farmhouse on the outskirts of the town, the pilot tossed out a bag that crashed into the dust nearby. A servant from the farmhouse hurriedly retrieved it and showed it to his master.
The owner of the farmhouse was Don Calogero Vizzini. A little man in his sixties with a potbelly, he dressed in the usual understated style of a local businessman with his shirtsleeves rolled up and braces hauling his trousers up over his stomach. The image belied his true importance. Don Calo was, in fact, the leading mafioso of the region, and he would later become a major player in postwar Sicily, when he would have direct links with Luciano.
As Don Calo opened the bag dropped by the pilot, he saw at once that an important message had been sent to him by his friend in New York. Inside was a yellow silk handkerchief bearing the “L” of Lucky Luciano. It was a traditional Mafia greeting, and Don Calo knew exactly what he must do next. He wrote a
coded message to another mafioso, Giuseppe Genco Russo, and instructed him to give every possible assistance to the advancing Americans. Six days after that, on the twentieth, according to the legend, three U.S. tanks rumbled into the town center of Villalba. Children danced around the vehicles, hoping for sweets and chewing gum. A little yellow pennant flew from the radio aerial of one of the tanks—on it a black “L.” An American officer emerged out of the tank and, speaking in the local Sicilian dialect, asked to see Don Calo. The crowd parted as the mafioso made his way toward the tank. He handed his yellow flag with a black “L” to the American, who helped him climb up onto the hull and then disappeared with him into the turret.
coded message to another mafioso, Giuseppe Genco Russo, and instructed him to give every possible assistance to the advancing Americans. Six days after that, on the twentieth, according to the legend, three U.S. tanks rumbled into the town center of Villalba. Children danced around the vehicles, hoping for sweets and chewing gum. A little yellow pennant flew from the radio aerial of one of the tanks—on it a black “L.” An American officer emerged out of the tank and, speaking in the local Sicilian dialect, asked to see Don Calo. The crowd parted as the mafioso made his way toward the tank. He handed his yellow flag with a black “L” to the American, who helped him climb up onto the hull and then disappeared with him into the turret.
The following day, the twenty-first, the Americans braced themselves for an assault against a mountain pass at Monte Cammarata, to the north of Villalba, held by Italian troops reinforced by Germans armed with eighty-eight-millimeter antitank guns and Tiger tanks. But during the night, Don Calo and Russo had worked their magic and their agents had quietly stolen into the Axis camp. By the next morning, the Italian troops had taken the persuasive advice of the Mafia henchmen, dumped their uniforms and weapons, and disappeared into the hills. The few Germans left behind were hopelessly outnumbered and promptly withdrew their forces. Surely there could be no better example of how Luciano and his Sicilian Mafia contacts were helping the Americans win the war in Sicily. It would be—if it were true.
The Villalba tale was first told in 1962 by Michele Pantaleone, a journalist whose family had lived in the town for years. His account was then taken up by the British travel writer Norman Lewis, who repeated it for an English-language audience in his much admired book about the Mafia,
The Honoured Society.
The only problem with this is that Pantaleone was a very biased source. He was a brave campaigner against the Mafia in his country, but he was also a Communist supporter who was in direct competition with the political power wielded by
Don Calo. Added to this was a long-running dispute between the Pantaleone family and the Vizzinis over who owned the rights to a local property. As a result, American OSS agents based in Sicily considered him an unreliable witness.
The Honoured Society.
The only problem with this is that Pantaleone was a very biased source. He was a brave campaigner against the Mafia in his country, but he was also a Communist supporter who was in direct competition with the political power wielded by
Don Calo. Added to this was a long-running dispute between the Pantaleone family and the Vizzinis over who owned the rights to a local property. As a result, American OSS agents based in Sicily considered him an unreliable witness.
None of this would matter if only there were other records that corroborated Pantaleone’s story. But the daily field reports kept by the U.S. Army as it pushed on through Sicily, reveal a very different picture of the events around Villalba in July 1943. Documents kept at the U.S. Army Military History Institute record that it was a mechanized unit—the Forty-fifth Cavalry Reconnaissance Troop—that entered Villalba on the twentieth. All they found, according to their daily journal, were two small Italian tanks that had been wrecked and abandoned by the retreating Axis forces. Nothing was mentioned of a major body of Axis troops located at Monte Cammarata. Indeed, other U.S. troops were already fifty miles north of Villalba on their way to Palermo and reporting minimum resistance, if any at all. The Third Cavalry Reconnaissance Troop was also operating in the area and their daily journal for the twentieth and twenty-first reports that the road from Cammarata to Santo Stefano was clear. Any minor resistance was quickly overcome as U.S. troops plowed on toward Corleone. None of this verifies the story told by Pantaleone.
A final piece of evidence is provided in the memoirs of Luigi Lumia, a onetime mayor of Villalba. His source was a young man who accompanied Don Calo into the American tank, acting as interpreter for the Mafia boss. According to the interpreter, Don Calo was taken away to be questioned about an incident a few days earlier when an American jeep had come under fire and one of the soldiers was killed. The shots had come from a clump of olive trees near a farm. The Americans shot back and this ignited a field of dry crops. Don Calo nodded sagely, knowing exactly what had happened. The fire had spread, he explained, and set off some boxes of ammunition left by the retreating Italians. It sounded like heavy gunfire, but really it
was nothing—the Americans faced no local resistance at all. The explanation sounded farfetched to the American interrogator and he lost his patience with the old man. He began shouting at Don Calo, telling him to get out and walk back to his town. This was an enormous loss of face for the mafioso and he was profoundly embarrassed by the whole affair.
was nothing—the Americans faced no local resistance at all. The explanation sounded farfetched to the American interrogator and he lost his patience with the old man. He began shouting at Don Calo, telling him to get out and walk back to his town. This was an enormous loss of face for the mafioso and he was profoundly embarrassed by the whole affair.
“It was already nighttime,” recalled Lumia, “and Calogero Vizzini, tired and browbeaten, was driven back to his house, halfway between the Americans and the countryside. He told his interpreter not to tell anybody what had happened and then lay down in his bed and went to sleep.”
Don Calo would have far preferred the tale told by his enemy—Pantaleone—to be spread around, as that made him look more important than the reality of this humiliating clash revealed. Maybe that is why the Villalba legend has endured for so long. It presents Don Calo and Lucky Luciano as far more integral to the American victory in Sicily than they really were.
In truth, it is clear that the American advance in central and western Sicily was too overwhelming and swift for there to be any opportunity or need for the Mafia to come to their assistance. The only direct proof we have of Luciano’s influence is on the coast during the initial landing phase with the testimony of the four naval intelligence agents. Beyond that, the mobster’s influence was not needed and not called on. That is the truth of what happened in Sicily in 1943. Lucky Luciano might have been itching to get into the combat zone, but there was no need for him.
Despite the truth that Luciano had little impact on the Sicilian campaign, he got his reward for his general wartime assistance from the U.S. government in early January 1946. After spending nine years, nine months in jail, his nemesis Governor Thomas E. Dewey commuted his sentence.
Far from hiding the nature of Luciano’s service to the nation,
Dewey made a statement to the legislature in which he said, “Upon the entry of the United States into the war, Luciano’s aid was sought by the armed services in inducing others to provide information concerning possible enemy attack. It appears that he cooperated in such effort though the actual value of the information procured is not clear.”
Dewey made a statement to the legislature in which he said, “Upon the entry of the United States into the war, Luciano’s aid was sought by the armed services in inducing others to provide information concerning possible enemy attack. It appears that he cooperated in such effort though the actual value of the information procured is not clear.”
A month later,
New York Times
journalist Meyer Berger speculated further on what this aid might be. He claimed that Luciano had been pardoned “ostensibly for help he gave the Office of Strategic Services before the Army’s Italy invasion. It is understood that Luciano provided Army Intelligence with the names of Sicilian and Neapolitan Camorra members, and a list of Italians sent back to their native country after criminal conviction in the United States.”
New York Times
journalist Meyer Berger speculated further on what this aid might be. He claimed that Luciano had been pardoned “ostensibly for help he gave the Office of Strategic Services before the Army’s Italy invasion. It is understood that Luciano provided Army Intelligence with the names of Sicilian and Neapolitan Camorra members, and a list of Italians sent back to their native country after criminal conviction in the United States.”
The reporter appears to have got his facts wrong, as we know it was U.S. Naval Intelligence that communicated with Luciano in jail, not the OSS. But the reference to the precursor of the CIA is intriguing due to future references to Luciano perhaps playing a role in the Cold War. Certainly, OSS agents were very active in Palermo and had close links with major Mafia figures in Sicily.
Luciano might have been free, but he was no longer welcome in America. In preparation for deportation to Italy, he was moved to a cell on Ellis Island, the entry point to the United States for his family and so many other immigrants thirty-nine years before. Meyer Lansky, Frank Costello, and Moses Polakoff visited him there for their final instructions from him. To comply with government rules that only $60 could be taken out of the country, Luciano gave up the $400 in cash he had on him to Costello. With no limitation on the use of travelers’ checks, Costello gave Luciano $2,500 in unsigned checks and explained to Luciano how to sign for them. Three unnamed relatives visited him on Ellis Island, perhaps his brothers and sister.
On February 9, Luciano was escorted by two agents of the U.S. immigration service onto the seven-thousand-ton freighter
Laura Keene,
which was shipping a consignment of flour. Reporters swarmed around the dockside, wanting a final picture of the king of the underworld. Fifteen journalists were refused admittance to the pier by a menacing guard of longshoremen armed with baling hooks. They’d been provided by the Mafia to keep the media at bay and their boss told the reporters to “beat it.”
Laura Keene,
which was shipping a consignment of flour. Reporters swarmed around the dockside, wanting a final picture of the king of the underworld. Fifteen journalists were refused admittance to the pier by a menacing guard of longshoremen armed with baling hooks. They’d been provided by the Mafia to keep the media at bay and their boss told the reporters to “beat it.”
Six police guards working in pairs watched Luciano twenty-four hours a day in eight-hour shifts during his period of custody on board the
Laura Keene.
Officially, they denied the presence of any liquor or extra food on board for Luciano, but Lansky told a different story.
Laura Keene.
Officially, they denied the presence of any liquor or extra food on board for Luciano, but Lansky told a different story.
On the evening before Luciano’s departure, all the city’s top mobsters gathered on board the freighter for a farewell party. They included Meyer Lansky, Frank Costello, Albert Anastasia, Bugsy Siegel, William Moretti, Tommy Lucchese, Joe Adonis, and Stefano Magaddino. Someone must have bribed the police guards generously. Champagne corks popped and they laughed about old times. “We had a wonderful meal aboard,” said Lansky, “all kinds of seafood fresh from the Fulton Fish Market, and spaghetti and wine and a lots [
sic
] of kosher delicacies.” Luciano loved his Jewish food.
sic
] of kosher delicacies.” Luciano loved his Jewish food.
“Lucky also wanted us to bring some girls to take along with him on the ship to keep him company. I asked Adonis to do something about that … Joe found three showgirls from the Copacabana Club and there was no difficulty in getting them aboard. The authorities cooperated even on that. Nobody going into exile ever had a better [s]end-off.”
An FBI report gives yet another version of Luciano’s last days in America. An anonymous FBI agent visited him on board the
Laura Keene.
Laura Keene.
“I had no trouble whatsoever with the stevedores on the pier or on board the ship,” he reported, “nor was I molested or threatened.” The stevedores, “chiefly Italians, looked upon Luciano as more or less a hero, and that any word from him requesting that the reporters be barred was all that was needed to have it carried
out by the stevedores as an order … there would have been bloodshed if the reporters tried to storm the pier in an unauthorized entry.”
out by the stevedores as an order … there would have been bloodshed if the reporters tried to storm the pier in an unauthorized entry.”
The agent flashed his ID to the steamship guard and was shown to Luciano’s cabin.
“When I entered Mr. Luciano’s cabin, I told him that I was stopped by the representatives of the press at the end of the pier and that they would like to interview him. He reacted unfavorably to the idea and he told me that since the press had not been too nice to him in the past, he had no desire to give any statements.
“Mr. Luciano was quartered in a cabin known as the ‘gun crew quarters’ aft of amidship. In the cabin with Mr Luciano was the first mate who informed Luciano that he would have to remain in the quarters assigned to him, until the ‘old man,’ meaning the captain, orders the change of quarters.”
The FBI agent contradicts Lansky’s story of a farewell feast. On Saturday evening, February 9, he was told by guards that Luciano had baked macaroni and steak for dinner. He asked for a cup of tea but was told there was none and he settled for a drink of milk. They stated there was “no evidence of any parties, drinking or visitors to Luciano during the time he was under their surveillance” from midnight to 8:00 A.M. on Saturday the ninth through Sunday the tenth. They denied he had been visited by Albert Anastasia.
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