Toughs Page 22

  "But it's good enough for me?"

  "Don't get all insulted." Gina gave Freddie a pat on the shoulder.

  The men put out their cigarettes and went about digging in to breakfast. Gina pulled up a chair next to Loretto and served herself a couple of pancakes. Next to her, Freddie held the syrup bottle up high and let it drizzle down onto his plate.

  Augie said to Loretto, "The Castellammarese got plenty of pull on the docks. Maybe they can work out something for you."

  "Maybe," Loretto said, "but they won't want to cross Luciano."

  Freddie said, "What's Luciano got against you?"

  "Long story," Loretto said.

  Freddie held up a bite of pancake on his fork. "I got time."

  Gina said, "Leave Loretto be."

  "Luciano will know I've been with Vince upstate and I think he may have had the impression that I would let him know Vince's whereabouts soon as I knew them. Which I didn't do."

  "He may have had the impression," Augie repeated. "Mammalucc'," he said. "Keeping you alive's gonna be a big job."

  Gina asked Loretto, "Are you really in that much trouble?"

  "Nah," Loretto said. "It'll blow over—but I've got to be careful for a while."

  Augie pushed his empty plate away. "You'll stay with us," he said, an order as much as an announcement, "till we find a way to get this straightened out."

  "Where?" Gina said. "With Mama?"

  "He'll be safe there," Augie said. "No one would dare put a hand on Mama. Luciano would never permit it. They still got some honor."

  "I don't like it," Gina said.

  "Where's he gonna stay, then?" he asked Gina, and he looked at her pointedly.

  Freddie said to Loretto, "We'll be your bodyguards. You can sleep on the couch."

  "You won't have to worry, Gina," Augie said. "We'll keep an eye on him twenty-four hours a day. This way, we'll know where he is at all times and you won't have to worry about a thing. See?" He turned to Loretto. "This is best all around till we can figure out something."

  "Sure," Loretto said, and he picked up his coffee cup. "I appreciate it, Augie."

  "You're welcome," Augie said. He winked at Gina. "Don't worry," he added, "we'll keep him safe."

  "I'm sure you'll keep an eye on him," Gina said to Augie. Alongside her, Freddie had cleared his plate and was reaching for seconds. Gina put her arm on his shoulder and gave him an affectionate squeeze. "Eat," she said to the others, and she scooped another pancake for herself.

  4:00 p.m.

  Lottie waited in a plushy carpeted dining room, a grease-stained brown paper bag clasped in her hands. She wanted not to be impressed by the crystal chandelier dangling over a long polished wood table, by the fine art on the walls or the china cabinet with its arched doors, behind which rows of ornate dishes and stemware were on display. She kept her eyes focused impassively on a winding staircase. She was in Samuel Leibowitz's house. The maid who'd let her in had asked her to wait in the dining room. She'd said Mr. Leibowitz was upstairs, in the library, and would be down in a moment, and so Lottie waited quietly. This was the kind of home where her mother had worked as a maid, where Lottie would come as a child and play in the basement among the soiled sheets and dirty laundry and shelves of cleaning products. The upstairs of that house, the house where her mother worked, was a wonderland of nooks and crannies to be explored, of precious objects to be touched, of bookcases and sculptures and art in elaborate frames. She of course was not allowed upstairs, though she'd sneak up any chance that arose, until the banker's wife put a stop to it and forbade her mother from bringing Lottie to work. Now, all these years later, something in Lottie felt like a child again, a child who had wandered where she was not allowed.

  When Leibowitz appeared at the top of the stairs, he was dressed casually in khaki slacks and a blue knit shirt. "Miss Kreisberger," he said, midway down the flight, "though we have no history of clairvoyance in my family, I feel quite certain I know the purpose of this visit."

  "Mr. Leibowitz," Lottie said, "I'm here to ask you to represent my boyfriend, Vincent Coll."

  "Please," Leibowitz said, "call me Samuel." He approached Lottie and extended his hand. A trim man in his fifties, he was bald to the very top of his head, where the remaining thin strands of hair were carefully combed over and slicked down.

  Lottie let go of the brown paper bag long enough to shake hands. "Vince says he'll pay whatever you require."

  Leibowitz clasped his hands over his belly and affected a look of amused annoyance. "This is, you realize, Miss Kreisberger, a Saturday evening. I don't work on Saturdays."

  "I'm not asking you to work, Mr. Leibowitz." When she tried to hand Leibowitz the paper bag, he waved it off and pointed to the dining room table. "I only want to know if you'll take his case and to leave you this retainer." She placed the paper bag on the table.

  "I had heard," Leibowitz said, "that young Mr. Coll was represented by Albert Vitale."

  "He doesn't want Vitale." Lottie rejoined Leibowitz at the entrance to the dining room. "He wants you."

  "It's Saturday, Miss Kreisberger." Leibowitz went to the front door and opened it slightly. "First thing Monday morning, I'll arrange to have a meeting with Mr. Coll."

  "So you'll represent him, then?"

  Leibowitz pulled the door open. "You've left your paper bag. . . . I've agreed to meet your boyfriend on Monday. . . ." He shrugged, meaning Yes, it looks like I'll be representing him.

  Lottie said, "Thank you," shook his hand again, and left the house.

  On the street, Joe was waiting for her at the wheel of his old De Soto. Flo was beside him in the passenger seat.

  "He'll do it," Lottie said as she got in the car. "He took the money."

  "I don't know why Vince's got to have his own feckin' big-shot Jew lawyer," Flo said. "We might need that money the way things are going."

  Joe said, "Leibowitz got Capone off, that's why. If he can get Capone off, he can get Vince off."

  "Capone didn't shoot no wop five-year-old kid," Flo said.

  Lottie laid her head back on the seat, closed her eyes, and almost immediately felt sleep coming on. "I'm exhausted," she said. She heard Flo say, "A night in the feckin' slammer'll do that to you," and then she felt the car moving as Joe pulled out onto the street. She wanted to say something more, something about Vince and his lawyers, but the words wouldn't come—and then she was remembering her mother again and the basement, playing with a rag doll and watching the flight of stairs that led to the upper rooms and everything she wasn't allowed to touch that was up there.

  10:00 p.m.

  Vince was sleeping restlessly in the Tombs. He didn't think he was sleeping, but he was. When they first brought him in and stuck him on a floor with a dozen cells, he'd complained about the dinner meal: a pair of fat hot dogs that tasted like garlic. The other mugs in their cells heard him complaining and took up with him, and in no time everybody was banging on their cell bars with tin cups and tossing hot dogs till they were bouncing around everywhere, and Vince was in a righteous fury, clasping the cell bars and screaming about the rights of prisoners and the slop they were feeding them that he wouldn't serve to a pig, the others yammering right along with him till the warden came and said he'd get the local restaurants to deliver hamburger steaks if they'd all just quiet down, and a cheer went up, with everybody congratulating Vince soon as the warden was off the floor, congratulating him and every one of them calling him Mad Dog like it was the greatest, most fearful name in the world. Later they moved him to another cell with no one else on the floor, and when he was leaving they all wished him luck, telling him to beat the rap, and again his name was Mad Dog, like they were talking to some kind of hero.

  He couldn't fall asleep in this dump, and he didn't think it strange that there was a dog in the cell with him, a big husky like the one from that Alaska book he'd read at Mount Loretto, Buck, the big dog's name in the book. Buck was in the cell with him, right alongside his cot, and every once in
a while he'd lean over and pet the big dog's head. He was glad for the company. Did they think he couldn't take some time in the slammer? Hadn't he practically grown up in places like this? Come here, he patted the bed and Buck looked at him but wouldn't get up on the cot. Instead, the big dog pawed at an old wooden door that was weathered green like moss. He could see Buck wanted to go out, but Vince was tired and really wanted to sleep, so he didn't get out of bed. He rolled over and buried his head in a pillow. They'd never make this murder rap stick, not if he could get Leibowitz to be his lawyer. He was a big shot now, he needed a big-shot lawyer. He was Mad Dog Coll. Wasn't that what everyone called him? Even the guards, he'd heard two of them talking quietly like they couldn't be heard and one said to the other That's Mad Dog Coll in there, like they were talking about a saint or the president. That's Mad Dog Coll in there.

  Vince rolled over again and cursed himself for not being able to fall asleep, though of course he was sleeping, though restlessly. If he could have stepped out of himself and looked down from the roof of the cell, he'd have seen a young man tossing about in his sleep, turning from one side to the other, throwing his arms about, and all in all looking tortured, like he was struggling in a bad dream and trying to wake himself from the depths of it.

  Monday - October 4, 1931

  12:30 a.m.

  Dutch said, "There's no chance Frank and Tuffy will get off. They got two Edison guys saw Tuffy shoot Mullins in the face, and Frank waitin' in the car." He was sitting in a big stuffed leather chair with his legs up on an ottoman and one of his favorite girls in his lap, a little redhead with a button nose and a sly smile. She was a baby, not yet twenty, but all the men in this little circle knew her intimately. Her name was Vicky, she was one of Polly Adler's girls, and they were at Polly's place on Central Park West. It was storming outside, and through a tall window behind Dutch the trees of Central Park swayed in the wind and rain.

  Charlie Lucky sat across from Dutch in another high-backed, deep-buttoned leather armchair. The five men in the tight circle of chairs pulled close to a round marble coffee table were smoking cigars and drinking good liquor. The carpeting under their feet was plush and the walls surrounding them were lined with books. Dutch and Bo had called Luciano and Big Owney and invited them to celebrate Vince Coll's arrest. When Richie Cabo heard about it, he invited himself to the party.

  Luciano said, "That Vitale, he's a good lawyer."

  Cabo was already half drunk. He had a tumbler of bourbon in one hand and a cigar in the other. "A good lawyer might be able to get them off."

  Bo said, "Clarence Darrow couldn't get them mugs off."

  Cabo wriggled in his chair, pushing his squat body toward the table, where he flicked the ash off his cigar. "Unless somethin' happens to them witnesses."

  Owen Madden, dressed impeccably as always, said, "Nothing will happen to the witnesses." He held a crystal brandy snifter between his thumb and forefinger over his crossed legs. The snifter matched the Waterford decanter on the table. Madden was still a few months shy of his fortieth birthday, but among this group that made him the elder statesman.

  Cabo said, "Don't be so sure about that," and fell back in his chair.

  Owen paid no attention to Cabo. To Dutch and Bo he said, "My good friend Walter Winchell tells me the trial will be short and sweet and they'll both get the chair." The way he said my good friend Walter Winchell made it clear he didn't like the man.

  Luciano said to Big Owney, "Is it true what I hear: Winchell's on your payroll?"

  Owen offered Luciano a wink and smile as an answer.

  Dutch said, "Too bad about Tuffy. I always liked that kid."

  Bo said, "Nobody told him to go to work for Vince. He stayed with us like he should've, he wouldn't be in this mess."

  Dutch gave Vicky a squeeze and pushed her out of the chair. "Go bring us some more girls," he said. "This party's getting dull."

  "That's right," Luciano said. "Bring Polly back with you, too. I like that broad." He raised a glass. "To Vince Coll gettin' the hot seat!"

  The men raised their glasses. Bo said, "Good riddance to bad rubbish!"

  Vicky gave Dutch a kiss and sauntered away, exaggeratedly shaking her ass.

  Cabo said, "I still say, don't be jumpin' the gun. They ain't convicted yet."

  The others ignored him until Luciano added, "He's got a point. With out a witness, they can't have much of a case against Coll. Plus, word gettin' around town is he's got Leibowitz defending him."

  Owen said to Luciano, "They'll all wind up in the chair. Tuffy and Frank for the murder of Joe Mullins, and Vince for the murder of the Vengelli boy."

  Luciano looked around the circle at Bo and Dutch and Owen, all of whom seemed to understand Madden's certainty. "What do you mugs know that I don't?"

  Big Owney was silent a long moment, as if deciding whether or not to share what he knew. Finally he said, "They got a witness saw Vince shoot the Vengelli kid. Top secret."

  "No kiddin'?" Luciano sounded angry at being the last to know. "Who's the witness?" He tossed down his drink and bent to the table to refill his glass.

  Owen said, "That even I don't know."

  "And if he don't know," Dutch said, "nobody does."

  "Yeah?" Luciano added a touch of defance to the anger. "Well, I never heard about no witness. It smells fishy to me."

  "You don't say?" Dutch took a sip of his drink, spilled a little whiskey on his lapel, and didn't seem to notice. To Madden he said, "Now that's a shame ain't it? Coppers gettin' up to no good."

  Madden said, "Breaks my heart when they play fast and loose with the law like that." His tone and manner were so righteously outraged that it took everyone a moment to realize he was joking and break out in laughter.

  "You swells haven't started the party without us, now, have you?" Polly came into the room amidst a crowd of girls in lingerie, all of whom went about draping themselves over the men seated in fat leather chairs, massaging their shoulders or sitting in their laps or planting a kiss on their lips. Polly herself took a seat on the ottoman at Dutch's feet and leaned in to him for a friendly peck on the cheek.

  Outside, the wind and rain picked up, though everyone at the party was having too good a time to notice the Central Park trees whipping back and forth in the wind as if trying to rip themselves up by the roots, or the way the rain pelted their leaves so that they seemed to be a crowd of hands waving frantically, the whole park like a furious horde beyond the window, whistling and howling in the wind.

  Winter

  · 1931-1932·

  Tuesday - December 1, 1931

  8:00 p.m.

  When Gina and Loretto sat down to dinner with Mama and the family on Thanksgiving night, the air had been clear and crisp, and by the time dinner was over an inch of snow covered the streets and fire escapes, with icicles already forming on the tenement ledges and dangling toward the highest windows. Now, six days later, snow had turned to slush, and what was left of it gathered in grimy clumps that formed a small barrier between the streets and the sidewalks. Maria Tramonti was at the window of Gina's apartment with a cup of coffee cradled in her hands. From the kitchen table, where Gina was busy with a spatula scraping a fresh batch of chocolate-chip cookies from a baking sheet, she could see Maria's reflection in the window glass.

  Loretto had just started a steady job at fifteen dollars a week clearing trails at Innwood Park, and Gina was telling Maria all about it as she slid the chunky chocolate-rich cookies onto a holiday serving dish, the apartment redolent with the sweet smell of cookie dough and melted chocolate. The trail-clearing jobs, which were employing a thousand men, had been created by the Park Department and the Emergency Unemployment Relief Committee and were supposed to be limited to men with families to support, but a friend of Gaspar's had called in a favor and got Loretto hired. He was working three days a week and driving to and from the job in Dominic's old Packard, which Gaspar's widow had given to him.

  Maria listened and occasionally made
a sound or threw in a word or two to show she was paying attention, but Gina stopped abruptly when she saw the sadness on Maria's face reflected in the window glass. She pushed the cookies to the center of the table, picked up her own cup of coffee, and joined Maria in looking out to the street. On the table in the living room, a copy of the New York Evening Post was open to a story about the Joe Mullins trial. Frank and Tuffy had been convicted of murder and sentenced to death in the electric chair. The trial had lasted four weeks, but it had only taken the jury an hour and half to return a guilty verdict.

  Gina put her arm around Maria's shoulders and gave her a quick hug.

  Maria said, "That's wonderful for Loretto," and lifted the cup to her lips. She took a sip as if she were drinking from a bowl. "What does he do?"

  "Mostly cutting down trees," Gina said. "Grading. Cutting new trails, clearing old ones, that kind of thing." Gina knew what was troubling Maria but couldn't think of anything to say. Patsy was still in the bootlegging business, working with Mike and Lottie and Vince's gang in the city and Jack Diamond upstate—and things had gotten rougher with Vince locked up. A week earlier, Patsy had shown up with a gash on his thigh where he'd been grazed by a bullet. "Loretto's got to be careful," Gina said. "He shows his face in a speakeasy, he's likely to get himself killed."