Operation Underworld Page 16

  “Yes John, go on.”

  “That’s all I got out of it, sir. My concern is that he’ll get my office mixed up in something that’s potentially embarrassing for us all. That damned guy sees Communists in his sleep! And he’s convinced that all unions are Communist strongholds.”

  “J. Edgar never did have much respect for the American working man. I believe he never will.”

  “Well, whatever it is, he’s bound and determined to root it out,” Jackson insisted.

  “Where did you leave it?” the President coaxed.

  “I didn’t try to deter him on two counts. First, I figured he was off on another paranoid delusional wild goose chase. The second was to keep him out of my hair for a while.”

  “Did he give you anything in writing, a report, a memo?” FDR wanted to know. McCrea sat forward.

  “No, sir. All verbal. He was rattling on at the station until I changed the subject.”

  “To what, Robert?” Jackson looked at the President and then at McCrea.

  “It’s alright, Robert. I don’t keep anything from Captain McCrea.”

  “I confronted him with the Inga Arvad situation.” As soon as he spoke, Jackson realised he was in over his head. That no one else knew that Hoover had something on Joe Kennedy’s kid.

  “Why confront him?”

  “He wants to go ahead with the spy trial.” FDR and McCrea instantly realised the negative implications of that course of action. Jackson was inadvertently dealt a new hand of cards by FDR.

  “What is the status on Miss Arvad’s case, Robert?”

  “She’s being released for lack of evidence. We don’t have anything.” Jackson monitored their reactions carefully.

  FDR’s intercom buzzed and he immediately responded.

  “Miss Tully, I indicated that we were not to be disturbed,” he said calmly. FDR always maintained an even keel except in the direst of circumstances.

  “I’m sorry, sir but there’s an urgent message for you, just arrived by special courier.”

  “What class message is it, Miss Tully?”

  “It’s a ‘Flash’, sir.” McCrea and Jackson looked at the President. In the present day atmosphere of daily surprises on a global scale, everyone remained prepared for the worst.

  “Have him wait, Miss Tully. I’ll see him directly.” FDR turned back towards Jackson. “Make sure you patch things up with the press, Robert. Let me know if I can say anything to them to help.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I appreciate you coming to me on this. Sorry we couldn’t be of more help. I really don’t think anything is going to come of it, but keep an eye on J. Edgar for me. If anything evolves let me know.” The Attorney General stood to leave, and shook the President’s hand. McCrea remained seated.

  The President waited a brief interval after Jackson was gone before he spoke. Then he turned his chair 180 degrees to face the picture window. Gazing out onto the winter lawn, he directed, “I want that little shit shut down, John! Keep it contained, but get him the hell out of that back yard. He’ll muck things up on the Third District people just as sure as Hitler’s a mad man. This thing leaks and we’ll all be tap-dancing to blazes!” He turned back to face the Captain. “How are they doing up there, anyway? Any results?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. Progress has been slow. The DA’s office has improved their batting record ever since ’36…”

  “The Luciano case.”

  “Yes, sir. And as a result Third District reports having trouble recruiting operatives.”

  “Well, we need to catch some bad guys or shut this thing down.”

  “I’ll pass the word, sir.”

  FDR clicked the intercom and spoke to his secretary.

  “Miss Tully, will you send in the courier, please?”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “John, what’s Jack Kennedy’s status?”

  “He’s been relieved at the Office of Naval Intelligence and is awaiting a hearing to determine fitness for duty.”

  “Don’t kick him out. I believe Joe said he wanted PT boats?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The courier entered. He was a Navy Lieutenant and saluted smartly as he reached across the desk and handed the message to the President. FDR dismissed the officer and ripped open the red seal on the envelope. He sat there for an inordinate period of time, transfixed by the message. He slowly put a hand to his mouth and then suddenly and forcefully slammed the desk while continuing to stare at the piece of paper.

  “HOT DAMN IT!” FDR’s raised voice startled McCrea, who slid to the edge of his seat and was unsure how to respond to the President’s reaction.

  “Sir, is everything all right?”

  FDR sat up straight and once again turned back to face the window. From behind the high-backed chair, McCrea heard FDR’s voice as he spoke slowly and distinctly. FDR held the message up as if to emphasise its magnitude.

  “The Italian navigator has entered the New World.”

  McCrea slowly rose to his feet. “That little genius son-of-bitch! He’s done it!”

  Enrico Fermi, from his laboratories hidden in Soldier’s Field, Chicago, had just informed FDR that he had discovered the secret of nuclear fission. The gate had just gone up on the nuclear arms race.

  Without turning his chair from the window, FDR again addressed his aide.

  “John, contact ONI. See that young Jack is stationed in the Pacific. Put him with the PT’s. The only thing he can get into a scandal with out there is palm trees.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  One positive side effect of the war was the upturn in the wartime economy. Another was the technological advances everyone saw slowly creeping into their daily lives. Automats were a good example. Although Horn and Hardart’s automats had been around since before the war, now more than ever they appealed to the new mass production mentality. The massive walls of small, glassed-door, coin-operated slots which allowed the customer to view, select and pay for the desired food items in one easy step, ensured that White Castle hamburger stands no longer had the corner on the fast food market.

  The attractive woman with the two small children had her hands full. While trying to push her tray along the serving line, she was forced to wrestle with her young son who insisted on putting all the nickels into the slots himself and attempting to remove the plates of food from their pigeon holes. The two men in dress suits smiled as they watched the little girl, who was standing ahead of her mother, occasionally sneak a spoonful of pudding from her own tray. For one final time Mom lifted the feisty youngster, and allowed him to deposit the money into the tiny slot and open the small glass door. He refused to take the plate out. It was piled with vegetables.

  The two men approached the register at the end of the self-service food line and handed the girl in the white and blue uniform their money to pay for their fountain drinks.

  Ten minutes later the two men, seated at a table in the corner of the large banquet room, had finished their meal and were both nursing cups of coffee. Commander Haffenden opened the conversation.

  “Ya know, I remember the Saturday morning my dad told me we were gonna have a talk about the birds and the bees. Late that afternoon, after the movies, hot dogs and ice cream, we were back in the house and I still knew as much about the birds and the bees as I did that morning before we left.”

  “That obvious, Charlie?” Captain MacFall asked with trepidation.

  “Look, bad news is like removing a bandage that’s been on for a week. Ya just gotta get a good grip on it and yank.” MacFall rarely had lunch with his staff members, especially at three in the afternoon. Haffenden thought he was prepared for what was coming.

  The lack of a crowd in the automat not only meant that it was quiet and conducive to the meeting, but magnified the silence Haffenden endured before McFall could bring himself to speak.

  “I was in the skipper’s office this morning. We talked for an hour and a half.”

  “That’s
a big chunk of the Old Man’s schedule.”

  “Washington wants you to expand the operation.” Haffenden sat back in his chair. The bandage was ripped off but it felt good. Something was wrong. The key phrase which got by Haffenden was the “Washington wants you”, in lieu of “Washington wants us”.

  “They’re worried about our results, aren’t they?”

  “Don’t worry about what they’re worried about. Just do your job.” MacFall tried to speak in a reassuring tone.

  “What about resource allocation?”

  “Get me a list by tonight. I’ll have authorisation from DC by tomorrow.” That’s too fast, thought Haffenden.

  “Look, sir…”

  “Roscoe.” That didn’t make Haffenden any more comfortable. “Captain, it takes time to build an operation like this and still keep it under wraps.”

  “Believe me, that subject was brought up this morning. Everyone understands your position and what you’re trying to do.

  Trust me, Charlie, I sure as hell wouldn’t want this damn mission!”

  “Sir, I should think they were happy the threat isn’t what they thought it was!”

  “They’re politicians, Charlie, not military strategists. Which is why, when this is over, I’m hanging it up.”

  Haffenden was surprised. “How does Meriam feel about that?” “Are you kiddin’? She’s already got the Florida condo picked out.”

  It occurred to Haffenden that he never really considered retirement. “Level with me, sir,” he requested.

  “Fair enough. They’re worried. They’re worried that you haven’t produced any bad guys. They’re worried that word of the op might leak and fowl up their precious plans for office after the war and, worst of all, they’re scared shitless of losing any more ships.”

  “Jesus! Are we that far behind?” Haffenden was not privy to ship production statistics.

  “No, not really. The boys upstairs figure this time next year we’ll have the Krauts down from forty to ten per cent of total production. But that’s not the point. It’s the morale thing. Nobody in the greater tri-state area believes for a New York City second that the Normandie was an accident. Besides, the boys upstairs are still gun-shy from the Hindenburgh thing.”

  “What do you think?”

  “What’s important is if the general public thinks there’s bad guys in every neighbourhood, we’re liable to lose control.”

  “Speakin’ about bad guys in the closets, what about Hoover and his mob?”

  “Unofficial orders are they’re to be shut down.”

  “Did I get your ass in a sling for that Tompkins Park manoeuvre?”

  “Not really. But next time maybe you don’t need to send the cuffs and badges to the DA.”

  “Honest ta God, sir, I already had that set up on the premise they were Hogan’s goons. It wasn’t till after the fact that we found out they belonged to Hoover.” Both men stood and slowly walked towards the door.

  “It’s not an issue. But what will be an issue is if we lose another vessel in port. We’ll all be in the shit locker. No pressure, mind you.”

  “Gee, thanks.” The two officers were out on the street and preparing to go their separate ways.

  “Anything else you need from me, Charlie?”

  “Yeah, if it comes up, I’d rather not have to deal with that DA again.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not likely.”

  Socks stepped off the pilings and into the six man motor launch and took a seat in the front. When he was comfortable, he signalled his coxswain and they started south towards Pier 14, a quarter of a mile away. Just far enough so the FBI agents on stake-out could eat their cold sandwiches and drink their lukewarm coffee undisturbed while Socks was in one of his favorite restaurants enjoying a hot steak, some pasta and glass of wine.

  After exiting the launch, he made for a pay-phone on Exchange Street. This increased inconvenience was one of the topics he was discussing with his lawyer only minutes later.

  “Please hold for Mr Guerin.” It was cold inside the phone booth.

  “Socks? What is it? They run ya in?”

  “No, I’m okay. But I need your help.”

  Guerin was puzzled but had his suspicions. “I’m listening.”

  “Look, this Navy shit’s gettin’ pretty thick, I want out.”

  “Yeah? Congratulations! Me too!”

  “What the hell you talkin’ about?”

  “I been on the phone six times with that god-damned DAso far. And that’s just this week. Every time I bump into a lawyer at the courthouse who represents one’a you guys, he wants to know if you’re makin’ a deal, fer Christ’s sake! Then he’s worried his client is gonna wanna make a deal.”

  “So what?”

  “So what? I’ll tell ya so what! Guys in my game aren’t crazy about spendin’ two weeks preparing for court and then havin’ the client cop a plea!”

  “Look, that’s their problem! I ain’t makin’ no deals with them pricks, and anything you hear is strictly grapevine! Now, help me get the hell outta this Navy deal, will ya!?”

  “No can do, Socks!”

  “What the hell you mean, ‘no can do’?” Lanza was offended at Guerin’s attitude. “I’m your lawyer, Socks, not your career counsellor. This secret shit is over and above the call of duty. I got other clients, ya know.”

  “Are you tellin’me you can’t do nuthin’, or you don’t wanna do nuthin’?”

  “What’s the difference? Look, it’s your game. I work in the courtroom, not on the streets and back alleys.”

  “You’re tellin’me you won’t call the Commander for me?”

  Guerin was getting tired of playing footsie. “What am I? Fucking Mata Hari? You work for Haffenden. Talk to him! I’m busy!” Guerin hung up.

  Lanza stared at the receiver, thinking, what the hell am I gonna’ tell him?

  Stepping out onto the street, he felt the dip in temperature as he noticed the sun silhouetting the Bayonne Bridge as it set in the distance. He turned and walked back to the launch.

  The next morning found Lanza a long way from the stench of fish. He was standing in front of a bank of ornate elevators. The magnificent gilded Art Deco reliefs and the lobby which occupied an entire city block meant he could only be in one place, the Empire State Building.

  The evening before, Socks had paced nervously in front of his phone for an hour and a half debating whether or not to call the Commander. At about half past seven, the debate was settled when his phone rang. It was the Commander, he wanted a meet. When he mentioned Fay Wray in the conversation and the prearranged code for the time, Lanza knew where to be.

  The familiar ding of the elevator bell signalled one of the two express elevators had arrived and Lanza put his cigarette out and boarded. As the four passengers quickly climbed to the eighty-sixth floor where they would be required to change cars, Socks smiled at the three foreign girls holding their stomachs and probably remarking, in some language he was unfamiliar with, about the speed of the elevator. He thought about the sumptuous meals he enjoyed on this very spot, 103 storeys lower, when the Waldorf-Astoria stood here less than a decade ago.

  Out on the observation deck he lit another cigarette and surveyed the landscape. You could almost see the entire waterfront, he thought to himself. The whole piece of the pie.

  The three foreign girls were now holding tightly onto the guard rail and babbling away at each other when the building increased the momentum of its sway as the wind picked up. Socks found it soothing.

  “They say on a clear day you can see four states.” Lanza slowly turned to his left to see a man in a grey suit leaning on the rail next to him. It was Haffenden.

  “Be a shame if they have ta tear it down fer lack’a tenants,” Lanza answered.

  “Lack of people, Socks. That’s why we’re here.” The wind began to pick up. “Let’s go inside.” Taking seats at the back of the Tippy Top Coffee Shop, Haffenden continued.

  “The people in Washi
ngton are real grateful for what you’ve been doin’ for us, Socks.”

  “Yeah? How grateful?”

  “Sorry, we’re still not authorised to offer anybody a deal.”

  “Look Commander, about Brooklyn…”

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t do nuthin’ over there.”

  “What are you telling me?”

  “Sir, I’ll lay my cards on the table. I want out.”

  “Out like outta the Brooklyn part?” Haffenden knew he was kidding himself, but it was worth a try.

  “Out like in-out out. The whole shootin’ match. I can’t do nuthin’ else for ya.” Lanza respected the officer and felt remorse at letting him down, but he was tired of not sleeping at night through worry about his reputation in the community.

  “Socks, I just got word that they’re so happy with us, they want us to expand the operation!”

  “Expand the operation?!” Socks was shocked. Whatever residual doubts the veteran mobster might have had about pulling out instantly evaporated.

  “… and the building was completed ten months ahead of schedule and one million dollars under budget just nine years ago!” The voice of the female tour guide faded out onto the observation deck along with the clatter of the first tour group of the morning, as the meeting was momentarily interrupted.

  “Sir, I’ve got my own problems piling up faster than I can keep up with ’em. But the reality of the situation is, I just ain’t got the juice you need. I can’t approach the Comardos directly, I don’t know shit about Bayonne and hell, halfa them Jersey piers are military!”

  Haffenden knew that the military piers were no more immune from Mob infiltration and corruption than the fish piers. However, it was clear his best source was already a lost cause.

  “Socks, we can’t just let you walk away.”

  “What? I know too much? You gonna whack me, Commander?”

  “We don’t operate like that.”

  “Sure ya don’t. You just put people away somewhere, real cosy like, for national security’s sake. In detention camps.”

  Haffenden was doing what he didn’t ever want to do with one of his sources. Getting pissed off. “Third Naval District has nothing to do with those camps!” he retorted.