Toughs Page 33

  "Give these mugs a minute to clear out," Mike said, meaning the workers who were still making their way out of the building. "We bought off the guy at the door."

  "How do we get to the brewery?" Anthony Domini asked.

  "Same way everybody else does," Mike said. "There's a tunnel goes under the street."

  "Big secret," Frankie Evangelista said. Prohibition agents had barred the doors to the brewery, making it appear from the street that the place was shut down. "Like anybody with a nose can't smell beer brewing a mile away."

  "All right," Vince said. "Let's be about our business."

  The tommy guns the boys were carrying were hardly invisible zipped up under their coveralls, but at least they weren't completely out in the open. Someone not paying attention might miss the bulge extending down from chest to pants leg.

  At the door, the guy waiting for them nodded to Vince and then walked away.

  "Hey, Vince," Patsy said, "you paying those birds enough for a nice long vacation?"

  Vince said, "Don't worry about it," and he held the door open till everyone passed through, with Loretto at the back of the line. On the other side of the door a short, dark hallway led to a second door. Vince looped his arm through Loretto's. "Once we're in the brewery, you're guarding the door for us," he said. "You just stand there. Anybody tries to get out, you shoot 'em. Anybody tries to get in, you shoot 'em. Got it?"

  "Sounds simple enough."

  "I need somebody at the door with brains and balls enough not to let us get trapped in there."

  In front of them, Mike said, "This is where the shootin' starts." He waited at the door for the others to join him. "This opens into a warehouse." He lowered his voice. "Not more than a handful of guys in there usually, and most of 'em will run soon as they see us." He pulled a tommy gun free of his coveralls and zipped up again, as did everyone else.

  Vince said, "I'm going through first," and offered everyone one of his light-up-the-room smiles. "Don't any of you mugs shoot me in the back."

  "I don't know," Frankie Evangelista said. He waved his chopper around. "My aim ain't so good."

  Vince winked at him. To everyone he said, "You ready?"

  Mike said, "There's another door across from us. And through that one there's a tunnel under the street that comes out in the brewery. That's where the real fun will start."

  Jo Jo held out the cardboard box full of pineapples he was carrying. "You mugs watch out for me," he said. "I could blow us all to smithereens."

  Vince looked everyone over, waiting to see if anyone else had something to say. When everyone was quiet, he saluted them by tapping the barrel of his chopper against his forehead and then threw open the door and jumped into the warehouse, shooting.

  The handful of workers scattered with the first burst of gunfre. A few of them hit the ground and crawled behind boxing crates; a few leaped over the crates and dove for cover. Only two mugs went for their guns, both of them dressed in suits that identifed them as Madden's boys and not brewery workers. They pulled pistols from shoulder holsters and fred blindly, hitting nothing but the high walls of the warehouse. They both ran for a tall window that appeared to open into an airshaft. Vince went after them, caught them climbing through the window, and emptied two quick burst into them up close before joining the rest of the boys as they pushed through the second door and into the tunnel under the street.

  Loretto waited for Vince at the tunnel entrance, his chopper in one hand pointed at the ceiling, his other hand holding the door open. Vince brushed by him without a word and ran to catch up with the others. Loretto lagged behind, keeping an eye on what was going on behind him as well as in front of him. To his surprise, his nervousness, his churning stomach and racing heart, had quieted. He seemed to be moving on automatic, not thinking, not feeling, just moving: all eyes and ears. He saw everything in sharp relief—the makeshift brick walls of the tunnel, the cigarette butts and empty packs and newspaper pages that littered the ground—and his hearing was attuned to the source of every sound, the footsteps of Vince and the boys racing ahead of him like a herd of animals let loose, the way the brick walls muffled every noise, the voices behind him in the warehouse, even the sound of the warehouse door opening and closing, so that hearing was strangely like seeing, as if he could actually see workers charging out of the warehouse by the sound of their footsteps and their voices and the banging of the door.

  Before they reached the second set of doors at the other end of the tunnel, someone kicked them open and was met by a burst of machine-gun fire that flung him backward, his own chopper flying out of his hands and skittering across a rough concrete floor. A moment later, they were inside the brewery and Vince was looking up at high red brick walls and a latticework of black catwalks and ladders over a dozen brewing vats with hoses and pipes and gauges everywhere, a row of round metal pipes climbing the walls and disappearing into high vents. Big belt-fed machine guns on tripods were set up on the highest catwalk, each of them pointing out windows to the street and each of them with a folding chair alongside. Of the four, two were unattended. The other two had men working furiously to get them turned around while others lay on their bellies on the catwalk with pistols and choppers, putting down a constant stream of fire at the entrance to the brewery.

  Vince and the boys quickly backed into the cover of the tunnel. As soon as they had entered the brewery, Frankie Evangelista had been knocked nearly unconscious by a bullet that grazed his temple, gouging out a slice of skin a quarter-inch deep. He crumpled to the ground before Jo Jo, fring wildly up at the catwalks, dragged him back into the tunnel. From up on the catwalk someone yelled, "Good to see ya, Mad Dog! Come on in! We're waitin' for ya!" Loretto, at the other end of the tunnel guarding the doors, recognized the voice immediately, even though he had only seen him once before and he had only spoken a few words. It was Joey Pizzolatto, the mug who'd pointed a gun at his head and was about to send him to meet his maker before Mike interfered and clocked him with the john's porcelain tank cover.

  "Bastards got us pinned here," Anthony Domini said.

  Jo Jo peeled back his coveralls, took off his shirt, and wrapped it like a bandana around Frankie's head. "You okay?" he asked his brother as he came around.

  Frankie pulled himself to his feet, his face red as the blood seeping through his makeshift bandage.

  From the catwalks, more taunting and laughter: "Hey, Mad Dog! What's keeping ya! Come on! We're waitin'!"

  Vince peeked around the corner of the door and was greeted by a volley of machine-gun fire that tore one of the doors off its hinges. It fell over like a drawbridge closing. "They got those big machine guns turned around," he said.

  "All of 'em?" Paul Martone asked, backing up a little.

  Frankie Evangelista laughed and yelled, "Hey! One of you bastards shot me in the fuckin' head!"

  While the brewery erupted in laughter, Frankie took a pineapple from out of the cardboard box and lit the fuse. It took a second for the others to catch on, but when they did, everyone pulled a pineapple out of the box with one hand and a cigarette lighter out of their pockets with the other.

  "Hey, boys!" Frankie yelled. "You hear that?"

  The brewery went silent then, the only sound the crackling sizzle of fuses protruding from a half-dozen pineapples. The homemade bombs looked like huge black versions of the cherry bombs everyone set off on the Fourth of July.

  Somebody high up on the catwalk yelled, "Son of a bitch," and Loretto heard a quick succession of footfalls on metal as everyone up there scampered for the ladders, realizing the bombs were coming—but no one could have made it down from the catwalks before Frankie tossed the first pineapple directly under the steam engine, and the others followed suit, tossing pineapples out into the maze of machinery and temperature gauges, vats and pipes and hoses. The first explosion ricocheted off the walls and was followed by a screaming hiss of steam and the screams of men falling from the catwalks, scalded by the steam and thrown through the air by
the blast. The next explosions collapsed the inner brick walls and left only the outer facade of the building standing.

  A rolling cloud of dust, steam, and hops rushed into the tunnel, pushing Vince and the boys in front of it, all of them moving with a fleetness of foot that was surprising even to themselves, not stopping till they were out of the warehouse, which quickly filled with steam and dust, and then out in the underground garage, where they stopped for a moment and looked themselves over. They were all soaking wet and covered with grime that reeked the yeasty smell of malt. Their hands and faces, any part of them that hadn't been covered, were pink from the steam. Jo Jo, who had been shirtless, looked like a lobster from the chest up. They stood around in a mob looking each other over.

  Jo Jo, gazing down at his chest, said, "Last time I was this pink it was at the beach. I got drunk and fell asleep in the sun."

  "Jesus," Anthony Domini said, "no more Madden's Number 1! Now we're in trouble!"

  "Come on," Vince said, and they made their way to the cars. Loretto alone among them was quiet. He walked quickly with his eyes focused on the ground, his face somber, as if he had just remembered something troubling. Patsy noticed and asked if he was okay. "Yeah," Loretto said. "It's that malt smell. It's making me sick." Once he was in the car, he put his head down between his knees.

  Patsy said, "Open the windows. The stink's gonna make us all sick."

  The boys laughed and opened the windows, and Patsy slapped Loretto on the back, and then the car was climbing the ramp and squealing out on the street, where the sun was just coming up, casting a red glow up and down the avenues.

  Saturday - January 9, 1932

  10:00 p.m.

  Duke Ellington with his top hat cocked jauntily atop his head leaned over the table, listening attentively as Big Owney told a story about Cab Calloway, Harold Arlen, and a couple of the Cotton Club dancers. Ellington was decked out in a tux with a white bow tie, his mustache trimmed so thin it might have been drawn on, while Madden was dressed elegantly as usual in a tailored suit with a blue silk tie. Walter Winchell, in comparison, looked like a vagrant in a cheap suit with his tie loosened and a flask in hand. The sprawling room around their table buzzed with conversation and laughter as Ellington's band warmed up after a break, waiting for him to join them. When Madden finished his story, the three men laughed and Ellington slid his seat away from the table, ready to go back to work. Winchell looked toward the entrance to the club and then to an exit by the stage. Four or more of Madden's boys lingered at every exit or entrance. "What gives with all the extra security?" Winchell asked Madden. "It couldn't be that young Master Coll is giving you a case of dyspepsia, could it?"

  Madden's smile dropped away. "Are you saying a punk like Coll might cause me problems, Walter? I'd think a man in your position would know better."

  "You know me," Walter said, "always looking for a scoop."

  Ellington got up from the table, tipped his hat to his companions, thanked them for their gracious company, and did a little rhythmic dance, dipping and bouncing on his way up to the stage, which brought on a round of applause from the room.

  Madden got up and leaned over the table to Winchell. "You want a scoop?" he said. "Here's your scoop: Mad Dog Coll's not long for this world."

  Winchell raised his flask to Madden. "A few more details would make for a better story."

  "When the time comes," Madden said, and he slapped Winchell on the shoulder, friendly but maybe a little rougher than necessary. He pointed to the back of the room, where Big Frenchy was standing beside a closed door with his hands in his pockets. "Got to go," he said. "My partner's waiting for me."

  "They're upstairs," Big Frenchy said as Madden joined him and they went together through the door and up a flight of stairs. When they reached Madden's private rooms, Frenchy opened the door for him. Inside, seated at a long table, were Lucky Luciano, Dutch Schultz, and Bo Weinberg. There were several bottles of whiskey on the table, and the men were drinking and talking. No one looked particularly happy.

  As soon as Madden came through the door, Dutch slapped his glass down. "That son of a bitch torched two of my beer drops and jacked three shipments—and it's not even five full days since we bailed him out!"

  Frenchy took a seat next to Dutch. "That's why we're here," he said calmly.

  "You're talking about your shipments and your beer drops?" Madden asked. He sat at the head of the table. "It'll take me months and a small fortune to get my brewery going again."

  Luciano said, "He hit two of our breweries in Pennsylvania. They're also gonna be out of action for a while."

  Dutch's collar was unbuttoned, his tie loosened, and there was a stain on the lapel of his jacket. "Where's he hiding, this little bastard? You mean to say between all of us, we can't find him and put him out of his misery?"

  Madden poured himself a drink and tapped his glass on the table. "Obviously," he said, "we can't let this go on. The kid's crazy. He's causing serious problems."

  "That's what you called us here to tell us?" Dutch said. "You thought maybe we hadn't noticed?"

  "Between us," Madden went on, "we've lost more than a dozen men already. He's hitting our breweries, our speaks, our drops, and he's blowing up our trucks, not even bothering to steal them."

  Dutch finished his drink and slapped the empty glass down, making his frustration with Madden obvious.

  "What's that tell you?" Luciano asked Madden, ignoring Dutch. He sipped his drink with one hand and straightened his tie with the other.

  "It tells me his point is to disrupt our business."

  "When are you gonna quit telling us what we already know?" Dutch poured himself another shot. "What's Coll thinking? We're gonna go to him on our knees and beg him to play nice?"

  Madden tapped the table again. "I don't know what the little lunatic is thinking."

  Frenchy opened his arms, addressing the whole table. "Is he really crazy enough to think he can take on the whole Combine?"

  Madden took a cigar from his pocket and pointed it at Dutch. "Soon as he shows his face, we'll kill him. Meanwhile, we've got a problem. At the rate he's going, if we don't get him soon, he'll wreck our businesses—"

  "He's already wrecking our businesses," Dutch said. "We got speaks, we can't fill their orders."

  Madden said, "In Chicago, Capone's asking what's going on. He's lost shipments from us and from Atlantic City. The Atlantic City shipment, they didn't even take the whiskey. They blew it all up along with the trucks."

  "That's my point," Luciano said. "He ain't actin' reasonably. What's he up to? What's his plan?"

  Bo said, "Might be right now he's sending us a message. He beat the rap and he's back—and we'd better cut him in or else."

  "I'll cut him in," Dutch said. "I'll cut his throat from ear to ear."

  "Gentlemen," Madden said. He waited until he had everyone's attention. To Luciano he said, "I don't care what his plan is. I have no intention of dealing with him. There's only one thing you do with someone like him, and we all know what that is."

  "But we can't find him, or any of the boys he's got workin' for him," Bo said. "We're lookin' everywhere."

  "They all got to go," Dutch said, slapping the table. "The Evangelistas, Domini, Martone, the Loretto kid, Mike Baronti, Patsy DiNapoli—all of them! And I wouldn't be against puttin' one in that Lottie bitch, either."

  Madden played with his whiskey glass. "Let's concentrate on Coll for now. We'll worry about the rest of them later."

  "Like I said." Bo took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tapped it on the table. "We're looking."

  "But we're not making progress quick enough," Madden said, "so this is my plan. I'm calling another meeting here in New York for next Friday night. I'm inviting the Chicago boys, Capone and Nitti and them. If we get Coll before that, I'll call it off, obviously. If not, then we'll put our heads together and figure out what to do next. Coll can't take on the whole damn world. Between all of us, we'll get him."

>   "This is bullshit." Dutch got up and motioned for Bo to join him. "Call your meeting," he said to Madden on his way to the door. "If I find Coll first, I'll bring you his heart on a platter. You can feed it to your dogs." He walked out without bothering to close the door behind him. Bo gave Madden a look as if to say, That's just Dutch, and then followed him out to the stairs.

  "He has an especially mercurial temperament, that one," Frenchy said of Dutch. He took a pear from a bowl on the table and bit into it. Downstairs in the club, the band was playing "The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea," and the bouncy rhythm floated up the stairs and into the room.

  Luciano asked Madden, "Can you at least get us a good table at this joint?"

  "That I can do," Madden said, and he held the door open for him.

  "Just keep that Winchell creep away from me," Luciano added.