Operation Underworld Page 5

  “Sir, we don’t know it was sabotage. The official investigation doesn’t even start until today.”

  “You want to proceed on the premise that it wasn’t and wait for them to hit us again?” the Captain responded, to no one in particular.

  The agent had only stated what most of the half dozen operatives in the small conference room were thinking. Which didn’t make it any easier when the CO pointed out the obvious to him. MacFall now stood facing the men in the sparsely furnished office. An awkward silence filled the room.

  Gathered in this conference room were some of the most powerful military men in the country with, what they believed to be, the most powerful government in the world backing them. They were unaccustomed to defeat. However, now it appeared that not only had the enemy won the war in Europe and were winning the fight in the Atlantic, but he was knocking on America’s front door.

  The primary goal of the intelligence group, which up until this meeting had been the security of the Atlantic convoys, had now been shifted to the security of the New York harbour, and it was to this end that MacFall sought ideas and suggestions. The Tuesday morning meeting continued.

  “Sir!” It was Lieutenant James O’Malley. “Seems to me what we really need is inside information about what’s really going on, down on the waterfront I mean.”

  “Thank you for your blinding insight, Lieutenant.” The Captain rarely employed sarcasm, but he was genuinely in the dark and didn’t like it.

  “DC has tripled our allocations, broadened our legal powers beyond our wildest dreams and we’ve even stooped to hiring girls.”

  The tension was broken and laughter circulated the room when the lone female agent present smiled at MacFall and slowly gave him the finger. Just then the door opened, and a burly, late middle-aged man made his way to a seat.

  “Has anyone considered the idea of using… uh… snitches?” O’Malley continued.

  “Glad you could join us, Agent Johnson.” McFall was in no mood for lack of punctuality.

  “Late at the range,” Johnson grunted back as he perused the room. “What’s all this about snitches?”

  “Don’t tell us. Another three hundred,” the civilian agent seated next to Johnson quipped.

  “Maybe I shot a two-nine-nine.”

  “Maybe I’m doin’Veronica Lake.”

  “We’re battin’ around ideas to upgrade intel on the docks,” McFall interrupted.

  “So somebody suggests stoolies? Who’s the FNG?” Treasury Agent Johnson often regarded himself as the only one in the room with any level of expertise.

  The OIC attempted to answer.

  “It was…”

  “I’m the FNG,” O’Malley shot back.

  “You think for a New York City second the Pentagon’s gonna give you money to pay snitches?”

  “We used paid informants all the time at the DA’s office.”

  Looking around the office, Johnson continued in his vein of antagonism. “Will all the DA’s please raise their hands?” Noting the lack of response, he added, “Gee, kid, I don’t see no hands. How ’bout that!”

  “I realise you’re a lawyer, Lieutenant O’Malley but… sounds a bit thin,” McFall prompted.

  “You don’t pay them in cash, sir. You barter with them. Sort of like using military script in a theatre of war.”

  “The United States Treasury is not about to print anything that can be counterfeited. You can take that to the bank.”

  “You’re missing the point. You don’t actually have to give them anything. Just tell them you’re going to give them something. Or better yet, just make them think you’re going to give them something!”

  “Like what?”

  “Like… you’ll get the local cops off their back for a while. Or like, you want to know who the dirty cops are so you can get them off the take and save the crooks money. You just gotta use your imagination.” O’Malley was a lawyer and made a persuasive argument.

  With her heavy South Boston dialect, the lone female agent joined the fray. “I say hear him out.”

  “You would,” Johnson shot back. After an exaggerated glance around the room, the woman smiled.

  “Somebody fart?” she loudly asked.

  “Fuck off!”

  “Snappy come-back, J. J.! Wonder why you’re always striking out with the girls?”

  Johnson glared at her.

  “People!” It was McFall, once again trying to keep the train on the tracks. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir, most of us still have a lot of our old contacts. If we could somehow organise and enhance that information, we could pool it and draw up a plan of action. Theoretically, we could develop one helluva network.”

  “Theoretically!” Now it was one of the civilians joining in. “I was on DA Hogan’s staff and I don’t know about this stoolie idea. I can tell you from experience that the Mob has no sense of humour about songbirds. And the Mob controls the waterfront. Period! Nobody was allowed to even think that at the DA’s office, but that don’t change the facts. Nothing goes on down there without their say-so or them knowing about it.”

  Johnson saw his chance to euthanise the idea. “Gentlemen! You too, Betsy Ross. Do we honestly believe that stoolies, the most untrustworthy of criminals, the scum of the scum, are about to risk gettin’ their heads ventilated just to help the people who are being paid to put them away? It’s a stupid idea!”

  “Hell! They could be bumpin’ off Germans and dumpin’ their bodies in the East River right now and we’d be none the wiser!”

  “Yeah! Can you see some poor dumb Kraut bastard caught down on the West Side Drive by a couple of union guys?” The civilian agent mocked a German accent as he held his hands in the air, in mock surrender. “Nein, nein. I am nut a polleece man! I am only a shpie!” There was a ripple of laughter.

  “As that may be our dream scenario, gentleman, we can’t bank on it. I would also remind you that our infiltrators are not necessarily German. They may just as well be Italian Facists or

  Spanish Anarchists.” MacFall interjected the sobering thought to the assembled group, and everyone was involuntarily reminded that the overwhelming majority of the people they would have to deal with on the waterfront would be Italians or Sicilians.

  “‘Stupid’ is a little strong, don’t you think, Mr Johnson?” O’Malley was careful not to use Johnson’s title. O’Malley folded his hands on the table in front of him and looked across at the bureaucratic treasury agent.

  It took a couple of beats to soak through to the rubber-stamp-orientated agent, but he eventually came to the realisation that he was being challenged. The older man continued the volley.

  “Sorry I hurt your feelin’s, Junior. But we have a serious situation here. We have a lot of things to do and no time to do them. This is no time to be grasping at straws.” Although the row had essentially been reduced to the two men, civilian against military, everyone else paid close attention to where it was going.

  MacFall sat in his chair at the head of the table and observed with more attention then the others exactly how O’Malley defended his argument.

  “Has it been tried?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes it has! And as soon as it was sent up for approval, it came right back down again. Disapproved!”

  “On what grounds?” The Lieutenant knew he was losing ground but refused to yield.

  “On the grounds it was stupid. Worse yet, politically risky.”

  “With all due respect to the Treasury Department, your people aren’t exactly trained for wartime counter-intel.”

  “If you have a better suggestion, I’m willing to listen,” offered the Lieutenant.

  The fat, balding man lost what little composure he had left. “You know what, sonny? I’ve been in government service since before the last war! Since before you were born, god-damn it! I made my bones on the Palmer raids, fer fuck’s sake! And, besides having no respect, you haven’t got the faintest idea what the hell ballpark you’re
playin’ in!”

  “At the very least we could kick it around and see if anything comes out of it. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?” O’Malley’s calm demeanor kept pace with Johnson’s growing anger.

  The pent-up tension of the room became even more restrictive, and some of the men were embarrassed that their weekly meetings had come to heated exchanges. Everyone remained silent. Johnson felt he had no choice. The federal employee slammed his briefing folder shut, stuffed it into his bag and headed for the door.

  “Sir, I have a full agenda, and no time for childish ideas. I’ll read a copy of the mimeo on the rest of the meeting. Good day, gentlemen.” Johnson made a grandstand exit.

  O’Malley remained sitting with his hands folded in front of him on the conference table. A second civilian, sitting at the far end of the table, broke the silence.

  “Sir, I know Frank Hogan’s office as well as anyone. I don’t know that they’re going to be in a big hurry to reveal their mob sources. Stoolies are their primary source of success in the courtroom. That’s how Dewey got to Dutch Schultz and it’s the only way he could nail Luciano.”

  “Jim, do you think the prosecutor’s office will work with us?” MacFall had already come to the conclusion that it was worth a shot.

  “Sir, they are very protective of their sources of information. It gives them tremendous leeway in the court room. But, given how critical our situation is…” O’Malley left his sentence hanging as he realised the direction it was taking.

  “Very well. Are there any other suggestions, gentlemen? Lady?” MacFall asked, as the meeting pressed on.

  “Yes, sir.” It was the Commander. “I’ve drawn up a plan, along with a rotating schedule for a surveillance operation, that I’d like you to look at, sir.”

  “What is it?” asked the Captain, as he was handed the folder containing the details of the proposed operation.

  “It’s a plan to place agents on some of the strategically located skyscrapers overlooking the waterfront. They’ll be issued binos and a hand radio, and pull six-hour shifts. They can watch for any suspicious activity and radio it in.”

  “What happens at night when it’s too dark to see, Commander?” asked MacFall, as he flipped through the plan outline.

  “Uh… they, er, pack up and go home, sir,” came the resigned answer. Nobody laughed.

  “Sounds like a good stop-gap measure, Commander.” He handed back the folder. “See that it’s put into action.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything else?”

  The agents sensed the end of the meeting was at hand, and began to pack up. The Captain called one last time for input and then reminded various members of the group of different details requiring attention, before adjourning.

  “Tomorrow, zero seven, sharp. O’Malley, need to talk to you.”

  As the men filed through the door, MacFall came up behind O’Malley, who was last in line, and spoke to him. “Lieutenant, I’m heading across town, walk with me to the elevators. I want to talk to you.”

  The puzzled young officer complied, and when the duo were clear of the office and out of earshot of the secretaries, O’Malley spoke first.

  “Sir, I apologise. I know I was out of line, but that dumpy bastard really gets my goat with his bureaucratic attitude. I don’t mean to ruffle feathers, it’s just…”

  He was cut off in mid-sentence as the CO raised his hand, displaying the same smile he had worn half an hour ago. “I’m glad you ruffled his feathers, Jim. Johnson doesn’t make much of a contribution, but we’re stuck with him until he retires next January. Just don’t make it a habit.”

  “Thank you, sir, I won’t.”

  “Anyway, that’s not why we’re talking.”

  “What is it, sir?”

  “If we’re going to do this thing, we need to approach Hogan’s office in the right light. At all costs, they must not know how grave the situation is. Someone from here will have to contact someone from there. We’ll have to do it fairly soon, and I’d like that someone to be you.”

  O’Malley was surprised that Captain MacFall had made these decisions so soon. He was also pleased and surprised at having been asked to make first contact.

  “Thank you, sir. I really feel there’s potential here. If we can tap into the information pool already in place…”

  Once again he was cut off. “Save it for the Admiral, Lieutenant. He’ll need the convincing, not me. He’s the one that’s going to have to sell it to Washington.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The elevator arrived and MacFall got on. “Meet me at Hogan’s office at eleven hundred hours. You’ll liaise with Murray Gurfein.”

  After the doors closed, Lieutenant O’Malley hung his head and rubbed his eyes, mumbling to himself. “Gurfein! Great! Alounge singer sired by a used car salesman! Only not as sincere.”

  The elevator doors opened into the lobby and as he crossed the hall behind the reception desk, Lieutenant O’Malley checked his watch: 10:35 a.m.. It’s only a fifteen minute walk to the DA’s office, he thought to himself. Save cab fare as well.

  “Goodbye, Lieutenant O’Malley.” The echo of a female voice filled the lobby. O’Malley turned his head as he made his way to the exit.

  “Goodbye, Shirley.” He waved and gave a cursory smile, putting on his gloves.

  “You’re incorrigible!” Nikki said to Shirley.

  “If that means I think he’s cute, you’re right. I’m… what you said!”

  Exiting through the brass-plated double doors, O’Malley was temporarily overwhelmed by the bright winter sunlight. The noise of the traffic combined with the cool air to remind him of how much time he spent cooped up in an office.

  Walking through the streets of the city, he was distracted by the faces of the passers-by. He could not help but notice for the first time since America had entered the war a few short weeks ago, that there were no real changes in the expressions on the faces of the people as compared to before the war. Not like the film footage coming back from Europe. Those were people who had not only seen the face of war, but had lived through it, too. There was one similarity, though. The shortage of working-aged men. Fortunately, in America it wasn’t due to casualty rates or slave labour camps. But things were already getting tight. There was even talk about suspending the major league ball clubs for the duration. That was ridiculous! What would they do? Get women to play baseball?

  Well, the men may be away fighting and dying, but at least they’re not hanging around some soup line waiting for a handout, he concluded.

  O’Malley shook the cold off as he entered the City Building. The fat, red-faced security guard at the reception window asked him who he was there to see.

  “Lieutenant James O’Malley. I’m here to see the DA.”

  “Yes, sir. You just take the elevator to the – ”

  “To the fourth floor and turn left.” He finished the security guard’s sentence. “Thank you very much, officer.” While riding in the elevator, he was struck by a powerful sensation of déjà-vu, as if it was just another pre-war work day.

  In the office, he was greeted by a secretary who had a man sitting on her desk.

  “I’m here to see Mr Hogan.”

  “Jim!” It was Murray Gurfein, one of Hogan’s prosecutors. He hopped down off the desk and made his way over to O’Malley. “Welcome back, sailor boy. Good to see you!”

  Gurfein hadn’t changed, he thought. Worse yet, he still acted as if he and O’Malley were old drinking buddies, despite the fact they had hardly ever worked together before. O’Malley noticed that Gurfein still wore civilian clothes.

  “Come on in, Jimmy boy, Captain MacFall is in with DA Hogan. Ah, Nancy, sweetheart, could we have some coffee?” The DA’s secretary didn’t even give him the courtesy of an annoyed glance. She just kept typing.

  The two men moved into the inner office where Hogan took a seat behind his desk. O’Malley and Gurfein arranged chairs next to MacFall in front of Hogan, and the pow-wo
w began.

  “So, how can we help the United States Navy?” Hogan asked. “

  Jim, I haven’t told the District Attorney about your proposal yet. So why don’t you give him the Reader’s Digest version, and we’ll take it from there.”

  Over the next ten minutes, the chief prosecutor was made familiar with the assumed potential for saboteurs to infiltrate New York Harbor, and how the Navy proposed to deal with the problem using stoolies. O’Malley couldn’t help but notice that both times he mentioned the word ‘sources’, Gurfein and Hogan shifted positions.

  When he had finished, both civilian lawyers sat in silence for a moment, and Hogan finally asked, “What exactly is it you would like us to do?”

  “Well, first off, tell us if you think they’ll work with us. I mean, do you think they’re patriotic enough?” asked the Lieutenant.

  “I think you’ll find that most of the hoods here, despite the fact that they’re liars, cheats, thieves and murderers, are good loyal Americans,” volunteered Gurfein.

  “Mussolini not only made the trains run on time, but when he first began his rise to power, he didn’t want any competition in the country, so he kicked the Mafiosi out of Italy.”

  As was usually the case, with the exception of the loyal American part, the DA’s office was about twenty years behind on the accuracy of its information.

  What Hogan said concerning the Mafioso was true. His point, however, was moot. The Mafioso no longer controlled crime in New York, or in most of the rest of the country, for that matter. Although names like the Black Hand, La Cosa Nostra and Mafia would last well into the twenty-first century, the organisation now in control was the The Syndicate, run by The Commission.

  The third year of the Great Depression was the only profitable year for Universal Studios between 1929 and 1936, thanks to one film, Dracula. Coincidentally, it was a profitable year for men like Buggsy Siegal and Meyer Lansky, as they began to organise crime nationwide. They were not alone. They worked under the direction of the man who would become ‘The Boss of Bosses’, Lucky Luciano. When Lucky finished implementing his national plan for organised crime, there were only three basic differences between the Unione and any other American corporation.