Boardwalk Gangster (5 page)
Read Boardwalk Gangster Online
Authors: Tim Newark
With the money still pouring in, Rothstein continued to gamble heavily. It was his first passion and he couldn’t give it up. It cost him his longtime marriage to his wife, who eventually decided she was finished with long nights spent alone. In September 1928, he joined a high-rolling game in a friend’s apartment in midtown Manhattan. Eight men sat around the table. They started first with dice, moved to stud poker, then, wanting to “speed” the gambling, went for cutting the deck with the highest spade winning. Rothstein’s good luck—and gambling skill—deserted him and by the time the game ended, he was out $340,000. He threw down a bankroll of $37,000 and everyone knew he was good for the rest. But two months later, he still hadn’t paid up.
On the evening of November 4, he was sipping coffee at Lindy’s delicatessen and restaurant at Fiftieth Street and Broadway when at 10:45 P.M., a telephone call came through for him. He got up from his usual booth, slipped on his overcoat, and told the headwaiter, “McManus wants me over at the Park Central.” McManus was one of the players he owed, and Rothstein dispatched his chauffeur waiting outside Lindy’s to get some cash from his apartment.
Twenty minutes later, Rothstein was found staggering toward the service entrance of Park Central Hotel. A bellboy thought he was drunk and called the house detective. By then, Rothstein was leaning against a wall and asked them to call for a doctor. Rothstein had been shot in the groin and was rushed to the hospital for an emergency operation. Two days later, he was dead. He told no one who shot him—and in the end no one was convicted for his murder.
In the meantime, Rothstein’s attorney, William Hyman, realized there were some highly incriminating financial records sitting in his deceased client’s apartment. Every deal he ever made, every politician and lawman he ever paid off, every aspect of the New York underworld was carefully annotated in the pile of ledgers he kept meticulously throughout his career. “If these papers are ever made public,” said Hyman, “there are going to be a lot of suicides in high places.”
It was now a race between the district attorney and the Mob to see who could lay their hands on the most sensitive of these records. Charles Lucania was one of the first mobsters through the doors of Rothstein’s apartment, and he grabbed the papers he wanted. It indicated the degree to which he had become involved in Rothstein’s empire. He had himself to protect, as well as gathering information on his rivals. Alongside Lansky, he was ambitious to position himself as the new Rothstein, but so were many other mobsters.
Thirteen days after Rothstein’s killing, Lucania was arrested alongside George Uffner, a narcotics associate of Rothstein, and
James “Fats” Walsh, his bodyguard. Bizarrely, they were accused of a payroll robbery near Central Park on October 5, 1928, in which two men got away with $8,374. In truth, it was just a way for the police to question the three men informally about what they knew of the Rothstein murder. When witnesses to the robbery failed to identify the prisoners, they were discharged.
James “Fats” Walsh, his bodyguard. Bizarrely, they were accused of a payroll robbery near Central Park on October 5, 1928, in which two men got away with $8,374. In truth, it was just a way for the police to question the three men informally about what they knew of the Rothstein murder. When witnesses to the robbery failed to identify the prisoners, they were discharged.
The ripples caused by Rothstein’s death spread out like an earthquake. Documents from his desk were leaked to shame the ruling political and police administrations. In the following years, a thorough investigation was carried out into the magistrates courts of New York, and new lawmen were brought in to sweep away the old corrupted system. Among them was a young special prosecutor called Thomas E. Dewey, who would in due course become nemesis to Charles Lucania.
Rothstein’s death left a gap in the New York underworld that the Sicilian Mafia rushed to fill. In truth, Rothstein’s decline in real power had already allowed them in, but his removal certainly left the question open as to who could replace him—an uncertainty that would provoke rival gang leaders into outright warfare. The outcome of this vicious conflict would determine whether Lucania had the cunning and the brutality to become the new boss of bosses.
SURVIVING THE RIDE
I
n 1925, an elegantly dressed man stepped off a ship arriving in New York from Palermo in Sicily. Tall for a Sicilian at five feet nine inches, Salvatore Maranzano was powerfully built. At thirty-nine years old, he was in the prime of his life. Well educated, he spoke Latin and liked to use elaborate and poetic vocabulary. He had trained to be a priest. One young hoodlum, himself recently arrived in America, was very impressed by him. “He dressed like a conservative businessman,” recalled Joseph Bonanno, “preferring gray or blue suits, soft pinstripes on the blues. He didn’t wear any jewellery other than a watch and his wedding band.” Bonanno was twenty-one years old and ready to be led by such a man. “His voice had an entrancing echolike quality. When Maranzano used his voice assertively, to give a command, he was the bellknocker and you were the bell.”
n 1925, an elegantly dressed man stepped off a ship arriving in New York from Palermo in Sicily. Tall for a Sicilian at five feet nine inches, Salvatore Maranzano was powerfully built. At thirty-nine years old, he was in the prime of his life. Well educated, he spoke Latin and liked to use elaborate and poetic vocabulary. He had trained to be a priest. One young hoodlum, himself recently arrived in America, was very impressed by him. “He dressed like a conservative businessman,” recalled Joseph Bonanno, “preferring gray or blue suits, soft pinstripes on the blues. He didn’t wear any jewellery other than a watch and his wedding band.” Bonanno was twenty-one years old and ready to be led by such a man. “His voice had an entrancing echolike quality. When Maranzano used his voice assertively, to give a command, he was the bellknocker and you were the bell.”
He was the direct antithesis of Joe “the Boss” Masseria—even those who worked closely with him regarded him as a
peasant, a pig, in his manners. Within three years, Maranzano and Masseria would be at war with each other—and Charles Lucania would gain most from their bitter struggle.
peasant, a pig, in his manners. Within three years, Maranzano and Masseria would be at war with each other—and Charles Lucania would gain most from their bitter struggle.
There were several reasons why Maranzano arrived in New York in the mid-twenties. In Sicily, the Fascists were in power and Benito Mussolini had vowed to eradicate the Mafia. The Italians could not have two masters, he declared, and the criminal families had to be brought to heel. His chief prosecutor, Cesare Mori, jailed hundreds of mafiosi and hounded them remorselessly. As well as Maranzano, Joseph Bonanno fled the island after he refused to don their black shirt and join the Fascist party.
But there was another stronger reason why Maranzano came to America—the smell of money. Stories of the fortunes to be made from Prohibition had flowed back to the old country and Maranzano was an accomplished operator. He came with the blessing of Don Vito Cascio Ferro—the boss of bosses in Palermo who had mercilessly shot down an American detective in a park when he came to investigate the links between American and Sicilian organized crime.
Maranzano was respected and had close links already with several established mobsters in the United States. They all came from the seaside town of Castellammare del Golfo, a few miles to the west of Palermo. A little fishing port dominated by the remains of a castle, it was the birthplace of Stefano Magaddino, Gaspar Milazzo, Joe Aiello, and Joseph Bonanno. “The Castellammarese tended to stick together,” said Bonanno. “We had our own distinct neighborhoods, not only in Brooklyn and Manhattan, but also in Detroit, Buffalo and Endicott, New York. Not only did we all know each other, but were often related to one another.” It was a ready-formed Mafia family.
Using his natural authority and charm, Maranzano carved a niche for himself in the bootlegging business, seeking slowly but surely to attract key mobsters away from Joe the Boss. He approached Lucania, but even though the Lower East
Sider recognized his sophistication, he resented his old country manners. He didn’t want to bend the knee and kiss the ring on the don’s finger. Also, like Masseria, Maranzano hated the Jewish gangsters who formed an essential part of his crew. Lansky warned Lucania against getting too close to either of the Sicilians.
Sider recognized his sophistication, he resented his old country manners. He didn’t want to bend the knee and kiss the ring on the don’s finger. Also, like Masseria, Maranzano hated the Jewish gangsters who formed an essential part of his crew. Lansky warned Lucania against getting too close to either of the Sicilians.
“Once you accept such an offer,” he told him, “you’ll find yourself under their total control. Neither will hesitate to kill you the minute he thinks you’ve stepped out of line. Each of these guys wants to maintain his own empires and squeeze the life out of the other. You’re the pawn in their game. Only it isn’t a game. Our lives are at stake.”
Lansky’s strong-arm man, Bugsy Siegel, wanted to take on the Sicilians and wipe them out, but Lucania and Lansky decided to play the long game. Taking their cue from the master—Arnold Rothstein—they wanted to assert their power by making money and buying influence. “Shooting and killing was an inefficient way of doing business,” said Lansky. But no one told that to the Sicilian bosses. Was Lucania, in fact, an early victim of the conflict between Maranzano and Masseria?
Underworld legend has it that on October 17, 1929, Charles Lucania was found stumbling along Hylan Boulevard in Staten Island at 1:00 A.M., his face a bloody mess, his eyes so swollen he could barely see out of them, his neck and throat slashed. He’d been taken on a one-way ride in the back of a car, thoroughly beaten, and left for dead in a wooded field. When he regained consciousness—he couldn’t believe he was still alive—he just wanted to get back to Manhattan. The first person he saw, he barked at to get him a taxi. The man was a patrolman and took him to the 123rd Precinct station, where a surgeon from the Richmond Memorial Hospital treated his wounds.
Realizing they had a top mobster in their custody, the police swarmed around him, asking him questions. Lucania said he
had been abducted by several men he didn’t know as he stood at Fiftieth Street and Third Avenue. They had put handcuffs on him, dragged him into a car, and when they finished with him threw him into a field. He said he believed it had all happened in New Jersey—he didn’t know it was Staten Island. Beyond that, he wouldn’t give any more information and told Detective Gustave Schley to “forget about it.” He didn’t want the police to take any further action—he would take care of it himself.
had been abducted by several men he didn’t know as he stood at Fiftieth Street and Third Avenue. They had put handcuffs on him, dragged him into a car, and when they finished with him threw him into a field. He said he believed it had all happened in New Jersey—he didn’t know it was Staten Island. Beyond that, he wouldn’t give any more information and told Detective Gustave Schley to “forget about it.” He didn’t want the police to take any further action—he would take care of it himself.
But the police weren’t buying it and believed the whole situation was too suspicious to leave alone. Lucania was charged with grand larceny of an automobile pursuant to a police alarm on October 16. He was arraigned on October 17 and released on bail of $25,000 two days later. In the meantime, he was taken to Richmond Memorial Hospital for further treatment.
Detectives visited the location where he had been found—eight hundred feet from the Terra Marine Inn—and when they searched the ground about ten feet from the road, they found small pieces of adhesive tape and a bandage saturated with blood. Witnesses who had been on the corner of Fiftieth and Third at the time of the abduction were questioned, but no one knew anything. Lucania had $300 in cash on him and a watch and chain worth $400, neither of which was stolen from him—so it was not a simple mugging.
Twelve days after the ride, Lucania appeared before a grand jury at Richmond County Court House, St. George, on Staten Island. As he stood up in court to give his testimony, he gave his name as Charles Lucciano—two “c”s noted in the court transcript—possibly the first official record of his now familiar name.
For the last four years, he said, he had lived at a house in Ardonia, Ulster County, the northernmost county of the New York metropolitan area. He was not married and lived alone. When he was not living in Ulster County, he said he stayed with his parents at 265 East Tenth Street. His main business
was a restaurant he owned at 232 West Fifty-second Street, but he had sold that eight months previously and was living on the money. He was currently occupied as a private chauffeur and owned a Lincoln 1928 model automobile, but he had no taxi license and could not give the names of anyone he had driven. Richmond County District Attorney Albert Fach then noted the scars on the mobster’s neck.
was a restaurant he owned at 232 West Fifty-second Street, but he had sold that eight months previously and was living on the money. He was currently occupied as a private chauffeur and owned a Lincoln 1928 model automobile, but he had no taxi license and could not give the names of anyone he had driven. Richmond County District Attorney Albert Fach then noted the scars on the mobster’s neck.
“How did you receive those?”
“I really don’t know how I received them,” said Luciano, “because the time I was picked up by the men in the car I was knocked out and that’s all I remember until I woke up in the woods on Staten Island.”
Four men picked him up at 6:30 P.M., while he was waiting to meet a date he called Jennie. They claimed they were police officers. One put handcuffs on him and pulled him into their car. Once inside, they started kicking and punching him.
“One of the men then put a handkerchief over me and hit me and that’s all I know,” said Luciano.
At some stage, they stuck adhesive tape over his face. Beyond that, Luciano could give no further information. DA Fach then tried to paint a picture of Luciano’s criminal life.
“Have you ever been known by any other name?”
“Lucky.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all.”
“Was that the family name or a combination of the Charles and your last name?”
“Charles Lucky,” said the mobster, not quite answering the question.
Fach then listed some of Luciano’s previous criminal charges, including felonious assault. Luciano denied everything.
“You realize you are under oath?” said the DA.
“I suppose you have the record of arrests I was under and I couldn’t tell you if I remembered them all.”
Exasperated, Fach tried to relate some of Luciano’s past activities to the abduction and beating.
“You have enemies?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Make any in the drug business?”
“None at all.”
“Engage in liquor traffic?”
“No.”
“Sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Never been charged with violation of the Prohibition Act?”
“No.”
Getting nowhere fast, Fach returned to the central mystery of the attack on the gangster.
“What is it all about?”
“I don’t know,” Luciano said, shrugging. “I haven’t the least idea. If I did, I wouldn’t have been in that car or found in the woods.”
“Did you ever have such an experience before?”
“Never.”
Luciano denied ever saying he would take care of the perpetrators of the assault and with that, he was dismissed and released from custody. Shortly afterward, Ulster County authorities sought to revoke a pistol permit they had issued to him, but he denied ever having a permit and had no revolver. Ever helpful, Luciano promised to check in with the authorities when he next went home upstate.
Rumors ran wild that Luciano was the victim of a gang war, and when the so-called confessions of
The Last Testament of Lucky Luciano
came out forty-five years later, it seemed to confirm this. In that account, Vito Genovese is supposed to have picked him up on the Manhattan street corner on the seventeenth and driven him to Staten Island, where he was met by Maranzano. The Castellammarese boss told Luciano that he
wanted him to kill Masseria. Luciano refused and the next thing he knew he was hanging up by his wrists from a beam. Men masked with handkerchiefs used their fists, clubs, and belts to beat him, burning him with cigarette stubs. Meyer Lansky, in his recollections,
Mogul of the Mob,
backs up this version and also links it to the Castellammarese feud with Masseria. He reasoned that Maranzano wanted to threaten Luciano into doing his dirty work for him because he was so close to Masseria and could get around his security.
The Last Testament of Lucky Luciano
came out forty-five years later, it seemed to confirm this. In that account, Vito Genovese is supposed to have picked him up on the Manhattan street corner on the seventeenth and driven him to Staten Island, where he was met by Maranzano. The Castellammarese boss told Luciano that he
wanted him to kill Masseria. Luciano refused and the next thing he knew he was hanging up by his wrists from a beam. Men masked with handkerchiefs used their fists, clubs, and belts to beat him, burning him with cigarette stubs. Meyer Lansky, in his recollections,
Mogul of the Mob,
backs up this version and also links it to the Castellammarese feud with Masseria. He reasoned that Maranzano wanted to threaten Luciano into doing his dirty work for him because he was so close to Masseria and could get around his security.
When Lansky visited the battered Luciano, it was the opportunity to dub him with his famous nickname. “From now on we’re going to call you ‘Lucky,’” said Lansky, “because you ought to be dead.”
In the light of seeing the actual court transcript of Luciano’s statement just two weeks after the ride, this all now seems nonsense. Luciano was already known as Lucky and was happy to use the name, unlike other accounts, which claimed that no one dared used it in his presence. In fact, a
New York Times
article described him as “Charles (Lucky) Luciania” in their report just the day after the event.
New York Times
article described him as “Charles (Lucky) Luciania” in their report just the day after the event.
The more fanciful story of torture by Maranzano also unravels as other mobsters who knew Luciano closely told a different tale in later years. First, there is the obvious flaw that a beating delivered by Maranzano’s men to a mobster with a reputation like Luciano would achieve the very opposite of what they wanted—it would turn Luciano into Maranzano’s undying enemy. In which case, once the humiliation had been inflicted, it would have been better to finish him off, as the Sicilian would get his revenge one way or another—and Maranzano, being of the old school, would have known that very well.
It was Luciano’s longtime associate Frank Costello who gave the most convincing inside account of that night to his attorney. He said that Luciano was picked up by several men in the back of a car and driven to Staten Island. They were not
mobsters but cops. Costello said they wanted Luciano to tell them where Jack “Legs” Diamond was because he had disappeared after committing a murder in his Hotsy Totsy Club.
mobsters but cops. Costello said they wanted Luciano to tell them where Jack “Legs” Diamond was because he had disappeared after committing a murder in his Hotsy Totsy Club.
Luciano wouldn’t tell the police and he was punished with a beating that consisted of his head being stomped on and boots ground into his face. According to Costello, there was no knife slashing or use of ice picks or hanging from rafters. It was a police interrogation with force. The irony of the situation was not lost on Costello, who said that Luciano “almost got himself killed on Staten Island just to protect a jerk he didn’t even like.” That isn’t exactly true, as Luciano liked Diamond enough to let him stay at his house in the country, often when he was on the run.
Costello’s version is backed up by Sal Vizzini, an undercover narcotics agent who talked to Luciano about the incident in 1960. Fifteen years before Luciano’s so-called memoirs appeared, Vizzini said that Luciano told him that he was picked up outside his house by plainclothes police. He was pushed down on the backseat of the car and tape was stuck over his eyes and mouth. Luciano believed he was on a car ferry to New Jersey and kicked out the side windows of the car to attract attention, but no one responded, except one of the cops in the car who worked him over.
“One of them was pounding me in the face,” recalled Luciano. “He must have had on a big ring or something because he busted my lip under the tape and cut my chin open and ripped my throat. I could feel blood all over me and I kinda passed out.”
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