Charley and Meyer and Owney

Owney Madden got out of the big Packard and slammed the door. He straightened his back and stretched. Put his head back and took a deep breath. He loved the smell of the city. The smell of wet asphalt after the early evening rain was a bracing tonic for his soul.  Ever since he had come back from Sing Sing he always stopped to savor his freedom. Simply because he knew how fleeting freedom could be. They could take it away from him so quickly. He had to enjoy it while he could.

He reached up to make sure that his fedora was set at its proper place. Jaunty but not at a foolish angle that some of the boyo’s aped as they tried to be stylish. Owney liked to look right. Not foolish. He couldn’t afford to look foolish. It would be a death sentence.

He approached the door of the ginmill and stopped. His driver Feeney jumped in front of him to open the door. Owney nodded at him and walked through the door. Les majeste could not be tolerated. You had to show that you were the king. All the time. Without exception.

Owney stood at the front of the bar and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. There were several men all sitting separately at tables and booths along the wall.  One man sat alone at the far end of the bar nursing a whiskey. A nondescript man. A tired….. no an exhausted man. A man in his thirties who looked like he was much older. One you would pass in the street without a backward glance. He had on workingman’s clothing and was wearing a tin flat cap. Shabby but clean he seemed like every other poor soul that was wandering through this Depression. Except for one difference.

He had killed more men than anyone else extant in New York City.

Charley and Meyer and Owney

Joe the Boss was sitting at a table in front of the social club on Mulberry St. He was sipping on an espresso and nibbling at a plate of miniature pastries. Of course for Joe nibbling meant stuffing half a cannoli in his mug and swallowing it whole. Powdered sugar was all over his vest and the debris of his simple repast were strewn across the table.

He looked up and saw Giuseppe Morello limping down the block toward. The Clutching Hand was dragging his leg and holding his deformed arm close to his chest. Which was not unusual. Everything that Giuseppe did was held close to his chest. That was what made him so valuable. That was what made him so dangerous. That was why he was still alive after he had whacked Umberto Valenti and took on the mantle of Boss of All Bosses.

“Buon pomeriggio Don Giuseppe I wonder if I could speak to you for a moment” asked the elderly Mafiosi as he stood with his hat in hand. You knew how much this ate at his soul. You just couldn’t see it reflected in his demeanor. It was an impressive performance. “I have a few things we should speak about.”

“Of course Don Giuseppe of course” said the fat Boss as he waved a half-eaten cannoli around like a symphony conductor waved his wand. “Sit. I will call for some coffee.  Perhaps a pastry?”

“Coffee would be fine” said as he sat down at the table. “We have a problem my Don. The younger generation is just too involved with the Irish and the Jews. Word has come to me that greasy fanook Costello doesn’t just want to take a name like the Irishe! He is in business with some of them up in Boston transporting imported whiskey direct from England. He is laying it off with Madden on the West Side. You know we can’t get mixed up with the Irish. They are too close to the police. When they get caught as we know they will they will offer us up as a gift to save themselves. It is a sure thing. We can’t let that happen.”

Meyer and Charley and Owney

Meyer Lansky sat at a table in Lindys. He was quite uncomfortable. A plate of cheese cake and a stale coffee sat in front him. Dreck. He hated this joint.

Not that he hadn’t been there many time before. When he was working with Arnold Rothstein he was there all the time. He just didn’t care for the food. When you were a real Yid from the Lower East Side you didn’t go for the gentrified uptown nonsense they fed the tourists. Still it was a good meeting place. Neutral ground as it were.

He was there because he had a message from Owney Madden. When you got a message from Mr. Madden it behooved you to listen to it. Or at least listen to him. His rep preceded him. With the current situation with the Italians it was not the time to open a second front with the Irish. One war at a time.

The front door opened and two immaculately dressed walked in. Owney and his erstwhile partner Big Frenchy. Unlike the Italians and his some of his own landsman the Irish had no problem partnering up with other ethnics. Oh they hated them to be sure. But they still wanted to make money off of them. Meyer always admired that about them. They were good whores. Taking on all comers.

Charley and Meyer and Owney oh my!

Owney Madden walked into the warehouse on Tenth Avenue. It was near the railroad yards on his native West Side. A huge Norway rat squeaked and skittered into a corner and through a gaping hole in the wall. Water dripped in the derelict structure as a light flickered in the distance as he walked to back.

Roger Toughy was a big muscular rough neck. He was a terror on the docks of the West Side. He thought that made him something. He was learning how little he really was.

He was tied to a stout wooden kitchen chair with knotted hemp rope. He struggled but he was not able to break himself free. Then he saw Owney approaching. He stopped struggling like he had been hit by lightning.

Charley and Meyer

Joe Masseria sat at the table and lowered his face to a full plate of fettucine. It was slathered in butter and cream and covered in pecorino Romano cheese. He shoveled into his mouth with his usual sophistication. Joe the Boss resembled a pig in almost every particular. He ate like one. He grunted like one. Rutted like one. Thought like one. Consume, consume, eat, eat, that is mine… mine I tell you. Flecks of spittle and cream sauce flew through the air in hideous mist that covered the area near the porcine Boss of All Bosses.

Charley and Meyer

Giuseppe Morello limped into his parlor floor apartment on Pleasant Avenue. It had been a hard day. In a long string of hard days. He hung his old fashioned hat on the coat rack and his worn jacket as well. He did not dress in the style of the new style Mafiosi. They were all flash. Expensive pin striped suits. Loud ties. Big white fedoras. They looked more like pimps than men of respect. But then they were a different generation. Sons are expected to reject their fathers. Unless sense was beaten into them. You could do that back home in Sicily. Not so much here in this Golden Land. That was the root of so much of their problems.

Giuseppe sat in his favorite overstuffed chair. He rearranged the doily that he had disturbed with his withered limb. His wife Lena came in with a large cold glass of water and his pills. She set them on a coaster on the side table and looked at her husband. They had been married for fifty five years.  She had been his one true partner.

He picked up the water and gulped down his pills. The helped with the pain. A least a little. It was all he had since he would never get any better. His wife stood next to him. That was unusual. He looked up at her. “What is it?” “I am sorry to bother you but Ciro is here. He is in the kitchen. Can he come in and speak to you.” “Of course, of course he is my brother after all. Tell him to come in. Make some espresso. We will talk.”

Charley and Meyer

Owney Madden got out of the big Packard sedan in front of a nondescript gin mill on the corner of 46^th and 9^th.  He shot his cuffs and adjusted his tie. He liked to look just right. It was a legacy of his days as a poor kid in Hell’s Kitchen. He always dressed to the nines and affected the look of the WASPs that controlled the city. The real racket guys.

The door to the pub opened and Big Bill Dwyer beckoned him inside. “God bless ya Owney, thanks for coming. Let’s sit and talk over a dram. We have some things to discuss.” “Sure thing Bill. Lead the way.”

They walked into the pub which was typical of the gin mills of the time. A few decorations such as a buffalo head and an autographed photo of John L Sullivan in a cracked glass picture frame. This place was famous for being one of his haunts back when he was touring the country threatening to beat up anyone in the joint. Of course he would never have done that to Owney. You see he earned his nickname at a very early age. They called him “The Killer.”

As they approached the back booth Owney hesitated for just a second. There was an Italian fella sitting with his back against the wall. Owney though he recognized him. His name was Castiglia or something like that there. Of course he tried to pass himself off as an Irishman so he went by the moniker of Frank Costello.

Enough with the Mustache Pete's

Charley walked into the barber shop at the crack of noon. He had wandered down from his residential room and wanted to spruce up after his usual room service breakfast to spruce up before his usual round of meetings and sitdowns.

“Good morning Senor Ross…I be witcha in a minute” said Enrico the barber. There were a few Italians that worked in the toney WASP world of the Waldorf Astoria. Charley was just about the only Italian that stayed there. It was toney not Tony.

Charley stopped short. He recognized the stubby body under the towel in the chair. It was Albert. He didn’t belong there. Charley was always wary when somebody showed up where they weren't supposed to be.