Operation Underworld Page 8

  “Well, there you are, partner. A nice, simple client to ease you back into the saddle.” Louie was still holding the mail in his hand and Doc asked what was in it.

  Shuffling through the four pieces, Louie recited, “A subpoena, the electric bill, another subpoena and an invite to join the Ancient Order Of Hibernians.” Louie couldn’t repress his smile as Doc shook his head.

  “Give me that.”

  Doc took the envelope from Louie and made his way around behind his desk. From a drawer he took a large rubber stamp and stamped the post in several places with the words, Scottish! Not Irish!

  Louie laughed as Doc handed him the solicitation and told him to put it back in the box.

  “Louie?” Doc flopped into his chair.

  “Yeah?”

  “How do you do it? I mean, spend so much time away from Doris and still have such a healthy relationship after twelve years?”

  “I dunno. I guess it’s… true love,” Louie said in a mocking voice.

  “Bullshit! It’s ’cause she’s horny all the time. That’s why you married her in the first place.”

  “Yep. Body of a woman, sex drive of a man. Hell, only way it could be any better was if she was a rich mute and owned a liquor store.”

  “Come on, shit head! I’m tryin’ to be serious here! Emotionally, what makes it work?”

  “Jesus, Doc. You’re startin’ ta sound like those phony letters in True Romance magazine.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “The truth?”

  “Yeah, the truth.”

  Louie took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Than he sat down next to the desk and spoke in a serious tone. “Doc, I love her so much that… that when I’m away from her, I’m so miserable I feel like she’s here.”

  “I asked for it.”

  The brass letters, 2B, were neatly polished and contrasted aesthetically against the black enamelled door of the apartment. Doc knocked, and to his surprise the door opened immediately, as far as the safety chain would allow, as if someone had been standing there waiting for him. An elderly woman, maybe early seventies but spry, very short, undid the chain and opened the door. She was visibly upset. Doc rechecked the sheet of paper.

  “Yes?” she enquired.

  “I‘m looking for Mrs Birnbaum?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs Norma Birnbaum?”

  “Yes, that’s me.” The elderly woman held a tissue in one hand and spoke with a Jewish accent.

  “I’m Mr McKeowen. The detective.”

  Opening the door wider, she gestured for Doc to come in, then locked up behind him.

  The modestly decorated rooms were immaculate, and Doc thought about his office. Contributing to the feeling that he was visiting his grandmother’s house, was the fact that the air was saturated with the delicious aroma of some food which Doc did not recognise, simmering on the stove.

  “Ah… Mrs Birnbaum. You have a daughter, that wants to hire a private investigator?”

  “No, I half no daughter.” If Louie screwed this up, I’ll brain him!

  “I was told someone wishes me to investigate the possibility of… infidelity. That their husband may be having an extra-marital affair. Is there a woman in this building in that situation that you know of, Mrs Birnbaum? Perhaps with another name?”

  “Did your muther half a difficult delivery? I am Norma Birnbaum! I am da voman! Andt my husbant is cheatingt on me! Mit a rich, younger bimbo no less!” she declared, making her way to the kitchen.

  Doc was taken off guard. If this guy is anywhere near her age and is foolin’ around, I gotta meet him, he thought.

  “What makes you think Ira has been seeing someone else, Mrs Birnbaum?”

  “Dink? DINK? I don’t dink. I know! A voman knows dees dings. Since the war started! Maybe he wants to sow some vild oats, who knows? In case we’re invaded, maybe. Come, sit!” They both took seats in the kitchen.

  “What did you notice, since the war started? That made you suspicious, I mean?”

  Mrs Birnbaum explained as she stirred pots and made tea.

  “The usual. Stayingt out late. Goink to verk at odd hours. Dinks like dat.”

  “Has there been any money missing, say from his pay, or anything like that?”

  She shook her finger vigorously as she spoke. “No! Dat’s how I know da little hussy is rich. He still gives me all his money, and den some! But he still has money to play mit da hoochie-coochie.” Norma embellished the words with pelvic gyrations.

  “What does your husband do, Norma?”

  “He is postal clerk. You know, for dee postal office.”

  “So, he works at the 42nd Street Station?” Doc asked as he kept notes.

  “No. Two years ago they give him promotion and easier job, downtown. Soon, he retires. He is seventy-nine, you know! Andt still vorkingt! We promise each other he only vork until he is eighty. You know, that way we can spend last twenty years or so together.”

  Doc‘s eyes involuntarily widened. “Well, it’s important to be optimistic. Your plans may still work out, Norma. How long have you and Ira been married?”

  Mrs Birnbaum stood up straight, and allowed her slight shoulders to set back ever so gently. “Today is our anniversary! Fifty-seven years, two months, and seventeen days! Today!”

  Jesus! I should live so long, thought Doc.

  “Well Norma, here’s what we’ll do. Why don’t you give me his work address. I’ll have a look around, and we’ll see if we can’t work this thing out.”

  “I yust don’t vant I should lose my Ira, Mr MackQuen.”

  “He vas in da films, you know. Da real films! Not dis talkies nonsense! He vas an actor! He vas friends mit Joelson!”

  She began to sob, and Doc got edgy. He was useless around crying women.

  “Norma, I really need you to act as normal as possible, keep up your daily routines, and wait for me to get back to you. Okay?” He handed her a tissue from the box on the table. “Now what’s the address?”

  “It’s on Church Street. Number ninety, Church Street.” He couldn’t place it, but Doc recognised the address. “Here, eat some soup.”

  “No thanks, Norma. I really need to… ”

  “Eat! Eat!”

  Doc realised he was out-gunned and gave in.

  Chapter Seven

  In 1936, Murray Gurfein was instrumental in the conviction of the Boss of Bosses, Charlie ‘Lucky’ Luciano. This conviction, which resulted in a sentence roughly five times greater than any ‘normal’ criminal would receive, was intended to put Luciano away for the rest of his life. It didn‘t.

  Some of the tactics employed by DA Thomas Dewey compelled many people working with him to ask questions. In particular, why the majority of the dozen or so witnesses they called said nearly the same exact thing. Or why the three key witnesses had recanted their statements almost immediately after testifying and had then signed sworn statements to that effect. Lastly, there was the issue of perjury on the part of some of the witnesses for the prosecution, along with the DA threatening those very same witnesses with imprisonment if they did not testify as directed.

  Of course, there can be little doubt that the mobsters probably made some threats as well. But apparently Dewey’s boys threatened harder, and his political ambitions, of which he made no secret, were eventually fulfilled. He was able to buy the Governorship of New York.

  Although Dewey’s shady victory had taken place three years previously, Gurfein, as head of the rackets division, had gotten nearly as much mileage out of Luciano’s conviction. And now it was time to meet another one of these hoodlums. Only this time Gurfein would not have the safety of a courtroom. He would meet him face to face, alone on his own turf. At midnight.

  To complicate matters, he was going to ask this gangster for help. Even if he hadn’t been ‘asked’ by the DAto do this, as head of the NYC Rackets Division it was his responsibility.

  Murray had a problem. If he came back empty-handed, it wouldn’t go w
ell for his career. If he came back with something, he would probably have to make a deal. A deal he had no authorisation to make.

  Standing outside the City Hall, Gurfein held his watch towards a lamp post so the faint glow would allow him to read the dial in the winter darkness.

  Eleven forty-seven. Shit! he thought to himself. Desperate to find a taxi to take him uptown, Gurfein stepped out into the street and peered downtown into the gloom of the night. As if on cue, a cab pulled out from around the corner, and came to a stop in front of him.

  Getting in through the back door, he didn’t notice the ‘off duty’ roof light was lit and, before he could get himself seated, he felt the cab pull away.

  “103rd and Broadway,” he instructed the driver.

  “I know,” came the response. The lawyer wanted to ask questions, but thought better of it.

  It was at least a twenty minute ride uptown, even without traffic, which gave Gurfein time to think. He nervously shifted his position several times before settling down and gazing out the window into the desolation of the Manhattan night. Ah, what the hell? he reasoned to himself. If the hoods co-operate, the DA looks good. If not, they look like what they are, a bunch of scumbags. If it all goes to shit somewhere down the line, I can always say I was ordered by Hogan to do it, in spite of the fact I was repulsed by being told to do business with known criminals. He practised how to say ‘repulsed’, and make it sound believable.

  Despite all of his self-posturing, the thing he had the most difficulty dealing with was the possibility that anyone even remotely associated with the Mob may be shown, by their helping the War Department, to have any redeemable values.

  As the taxi cruised up a deserted Central Park West past the Museum of Natural History, Gurfein couldn’t help but think how the shadowy images of the park seemed appropriate for the mood. His mind drifted further, noting how the picturesque peacefulness engulfed the entire scene and how it would look in just a few hours as the morning sun broke over the treeline, soon to be shattered by the brutality of rush hour traffic.

  As they passed into the 90s, one last chilling thought occurred to his active, worried imagination. Was there any chance the Navy intelligence people could have underestimated the current state of German technology? What if the U-Boats had a longer range and extended sea life than the government knew about? Unlikely, he reassured himself. America had the greatest scientific and military minds in the world. That’s how we’d beaten them in the last war. Besides, the Krauts were essentially neutralised at Versailles.

  These were the thoughts that raced through Gurfein’s mind as the cab rounded the corner and pulled to a halt at Broadway and 103rd. It was shortly after midnight when he attempted to exit the vehicle but was blocked by two men getting in. It was Guerin and Lanza. Socks sat facing the two lawyers who in turn were sitting with their backs towards the rear of the taxi.

  “Where’re we going?” asked Gurfein nervously.

  “Somewhere else,” Lanza quipped. Continuing on for another few blocks, the driver altered his northerly direction and turned west until they came to Riverside Park. Another right-hand turn meant they were again heading uptown, and Guerin noticed a sign in the park as they drove by: Grant’s Tomb Next Left.

  “You’re a regular Bob Fuckin’ Hope, Lanza,” Guerin cracked. Socks smiled. Gurfein looked puzzled.

  After pulling into the park just south of the memorial, the three men got out. Lanza paid a twenty, and deliberately waited until the two lawyers were out of earshot before telling the driver to go over to Amsterdam Avenue and wait.

  Lanza walked past the others and across the narrow stretch of park to the wrought iron fence overlooking the Hudson River. The lawyers followed and when they reached Lanza, Guerin stepped off to one side to allow his client and the DA’s representative to talk. Gurfein immediately began to paint the picture for Socks.

  “Here’s the story, Socks…”

  “It’s Mr Lanza.” Off to a good start, thought Guerin, standing on the sidelines, lighting a smoke.

  “The Navy needs our help. They been losing supply ships left, right and centre to the U-Boats. They don’t think the subs can stay out that long, or that the Krauts have enough of them to keep rotating their Wolf Packs.”

  Socks glanced at Guerin, then back at Gurfein. It was too hard to swallow. The US Navy looking for Socks Lanza to come to the rescue? Even with a war on, there wasn’t a chance in hell they would want to get Mob guys mixed up in a legitimate operation, he thought. The DA was up to something.

  “So?”

  “So, they think the Krauts are being supplied from here. By a network or something.”

  “You tryin’ ta tell me you think some’a my guys are supplyin’ Nazis!”

  “No. But such an operation would take an organised network and a fair amount of logistics. These guys would need fresh water, food, fuel, medicine and God knows what else. This wouldn’t be any nickel and dime operation.”

  “So whatta ya want from me?”

  “They can’t find any leads.”

  “So why don‘t you guys do what you always do? Frame somebody? Or are you askin’me ta play spy?”

  “Not exactly. The Navy wants to place agents on the boats, trucks and in the markets.”

  “Fuck you!” Lanza backed away as he exploded with anger. Guerin was startled. “I was born durin’ the fuckin’ day, but it wasn‘t fuckin’ yesterday!” He turned to a startled Guerin. “Can you believe this shit? This prick wants to put Feds inside my operation!”

  “Socks, calm down!” Guerin threw down his cigarette and walked over to his client. “Calm down, damn it!”

  “This bastard wants to put cops in my market! Can you believe the cahoons on this guy?”

  “Don’t be stupid! He’s got nothing to do with it. If you agree to help, you’ll deal straight with the Navy. No one else,” Guerin reasoned with Lanza. Socks looked at both of them and then again at Guerin. He began to settle down. As much as any man could, he trusted his lawyer.

  “How do I know they won’t be Feds?” he asked.

  “If they are, or if the DA tries to sneak a Fed in, anything they obtain, or try to obtain, will be inadmissible. Besides, if you want I can have them checked out.” The two lawyers exchanged glances. “But I’m telling you, I met the Navy guy you’re going to be dealing with. He‘s on the square.”

  “Is he ex-cop?” He wanted as clear a picture as possible.

  “No. Strictly intelligence work,” Guerin reassured him.

  Socks walked around a little in small, irregular circles and lit a cigarette.

  “You’d be doing your country a great service,” prodded Gurfein.

  “Yeah, wouldn’t hurt your career either, would it, councillor?”

  Socks was told that not only would he not be given any consideration for his help, but that it would probably not even be permitted to be brought up at his upcoming trial. There was nothing that Gurfein or Hogan were going to do to jeopardise a conviction. His lawyer made one last plea.

  “Socks, I’m tellin’ ya. It’s on the level.”

  Socks stood, hands in pockets assessing the two lawyers. “I’ll call you in a day or so. I’ll see what I can do.” With the sparkling lights of the Jersey shoreline at his back, Lanza slowly walked away. He was headed in the direction of Amsterdam Avenue when he stopped and turned. “Hey, Guerin! You comin’?”

  Turning to Gurfein as he walked away, Guerin said, “Don’t worry, he’ll do it. He’s got no choice.” The lawyer caught up with Lanza.

  “Look, I don’t want to call that prick. I want to deal with this Navy guy, what’s his name?”

  “Haffenden, Commander Haffenden.”

  “Hey!” It was Gurfein calling after the other two men, who were by now across the street. “How am I supposed to get back downtown?”

  “Call a cab!” Socks suggested, and then continued walking.

  “You know, he could lean on you pretty heavy at the trial,” counselled
Guerin.

  “You think for a second he’s gonna play Mr Nice Guy? Let me tell you somethin’. When guys like that develop political ambitions, they find ways to bend the law and then go around tellin’ people it’s ta fight crime. Then, after they get away with it a’nuff times, comes the delusions of grandeur and invincibility! Then it’s only a small step to ignoring the law altogether.”

  “Voice of experience talking, Joey?”

  “Basta conoscerne uno, per conoscerli tuti. Ya seen one, ya seen ’em all! Capito?”

  The two figures faded into the dark mist.

  Next morning, the two figures of Socks Lanza and Guerin emerged from the bright sunlight and passed through the large, revolving brass doors into the palatial lobby of the Hotel Astor. Outside, the New York winter air was crisp and cold, but inside the elaborate lobby it was a warm, comfortable and lush. An atmosphere neither man was a stranger to.

  The immaculate detail and spaciousness of the vestibule was impeccable. Plush, intricately woven, red and gold carpet was bordered with black rope and ran snugly into the richly stained and varnished mahogany baseboard. The walls were a combination of paper and paint, coloured in soft maroon and eggshell. The ceilings of heavily moulded plaster reliefs, were ornamented with massive, gold-plated chandeliers large enough to require a crew of ten men to install. Once on the inner borders of the huge, rotating, brass plated doors, save for the attire of the guests scattered about the lobby, one would think it was still 1870.

  The two men made their way to the staircase on the left and ascended to the mezzanine level. Although this was not Lanza’s first time in the Astor, he was forced to think to himself as he looked around for sentries, “If this is a set-up, they’re sure goin’ the whole hog!”

  Owing to the sizes of the suites on the mezzanine level, there were a limited number of them. Guerin knew the suite number, and despite the growing irritation he felt for all this cloak and dagger stuff he wasn’t making a penny on, he was curious as to how the third reel was going to play out. He gave two short knocks and a voice yelled to come in.