Chicago Wipeout Read online

  This seemingly benign old gentleman, so proud of this lavishly ostentatious office in which he spent perhaps eight hours per year and a criminal record spanning nearly fifty years, with a list of arrests covering six closely-spaced typewritten pages and on every charge from intimidation to mugging and murder, conspiracy, bribery, rape, simple assault, assault with intent, bookmaking, counterfeiting, bootlegging, and everything that could be worked into a busy lifetime of crime. In appearances before various crime committees, Giovanni had taken refuge under the fifth amendment for a grand total of one hundred and thirty-seven times. With all of this, however, Don Gio had been convicted of but two crimes since his fourteenth year, and both of these convictions were later reversed by friendly appeals judges.

  Talk had been going around lately that the capo was getting soft with age, that he spent too much time pampering himself in places like Nassau and Rio and Honolulu, that he had so many personal “legit” financial interests now that he wasn’t too inclined toward the nitty-gritty of syndicate management—and most of this kind of talk had been coming out of the downtown territories ruled by Joliet Jake Vecci.

  Apprised of this loose talk by concerned court attendants, Giovanni usually waved it off with a chuckle; he would point out that Nixon had his winter whitehouse, his western whitehouse, his summer and spring and fall whitehouses—why the hell shouldn’t Don Gio have his places to get away from the pressures sometimes. As for personal financial interests, what the hell was he supposed to do with all his money, sit and look at it? Hell no, he put it out to work for itself, and with enough spreading around to give the tax boys crying fits, and these other Chicago boys could learn something from the Don’s example if they’d listen more and cry less. Crime might some day start listening to all the nasty things being said about it, and it might stop paying, after all.

  And Don Gio would laugh and step into his gold-trimmed limousine or his private Boeing 727 and go off somewhere to forget the pressures and the damn FBI guys falling all over him everywhere he went and writing down what he ate and if he grunted or burped.

  On this particular night, however, the Capo was not laughing. The time had come to face a pressure or two head-on.

  First off, this Bolan punk. The kid had been allowed to run too high, wide and handsome for too damn long, and it was about time someone shoved a cold bar up his rear and lowered him slowly into one of those blast furnaces down at East Chicago.

  Secondly, there was this matter of shameful insubordination and maybe even open rebellion within the family ranks. When high-ranking and responsible officers starting running around and assing it up like common street soldiers, then something was certainly going very sour with the organization. Gio would have to make an example of this latest trespass, even though things went way back between the Capo and this old buddy from the street days under Capone, this Pietro Lavallo whom Gio in the old days always called Golden Peter because he always had such luck with the girls. So now this little Golden Peter was the magnificent fuckup, Pete the Hauler, and old times never paid the way for new ones. Pete Lavallo would have to pay his own way now; it was the price of manhood in a disciplined society.

  And now this latest blow, the exclamation point for this matter of family discipline. Sure, the Don had known for a long time that his old pal Jake had been agitating for something. But this? And at such a time?

  The Capo scowled and drummed his fingers on the polished teakwood surface of his Chinese desk and tried to read the minds of these three young men standing here and telling him about a street war right within the family. Did they really believe it theirselves? Were they hoping their information was good—or bad? Was everybody looking for their Don to step down and place the mantle of power on younger shoulders? Were they looking for a shoot-out between the oldsters, and a whole new deal?

  This tough Larry Turk was telling him, “There is a Phil Tarrantino with our friends in Jersey, Mr. Giovanni. He was made by way of Danno Giliamo, and in fact he was with Danno in England on that Bolan hunt over there. He got hurt during that, Danno tells me, and he’s been just sort of recuperating and taking it easy. Danno last saw him on Monday—he said he was drifting toward Vegas. Maybe some light action in the heat out there might help him get back on his feet.

  “So I don’t know, Mr. Giovanni—I can’t locate no handle on the boy in Vegas. It could be that he just drifted this far, and got stuck by the storm and is just waiting a chance to move on. I’d say—”

  “When we’re in this office here,” the Capo instructed kindly, “you can call me Gio. All of you. Okay? It sounds better.”

  “Sure, Gio.”

  “I wish you’d brought this boy out here so I could talk to him myself personal. I like to hear it right from the horse’s mouth.”

  Benny Rocco shifted about nervously and admitted, “I made that decision, Gio, and I’m sorry you don’t like it. The boy was nervous as hell and I could tell that he would blow right out if I started pressuring him. I wanted to keep him friendly.”

  “Well, maybe you handled it right after all, Benny,” Giovanni replied. “At least …” The steely gaze shifted to Charles Drago, the chief doorman and undeclared security boss during the club’s normal operations. “At least I got to say Charlie used his head, getting more than one witness to what was being told.”

  Drago smiled soberly and said, “Thanks, Gio. I don’t know why, I just didn’t think you’d want to be bothered with—I mean, it didn’t seem that important at the time. You know how this stuff goes around. I figured it was just some more of that gossip always drifting up from the Loop.”

  “Yeah,” Giovanni replied sourly.

  “That stuff about the police cars is what turned me around,” Rocco stated quietly.

  “Yeah,” the Don agreed, slipping even deeper into the thronelike chair. “With good cause. Jake has more personal clout than even I got. I should’ve took him off that territory a long time ago, I guess. The way him and City Jim have been cozying it up these past few years … I guess … well, so you boys think it’s straight stuff, eh? Turk? You’re willing to risk everything you’ve built up on the strength of what this will of the wisp from Jersey told you with miles of phone wires between you?”

  “It checks out, Gio,” Turk assured his Capo. “I sent two boys around there, my own personal boys, to really look it over. Jake has got about a hundred boys all right, mobbed up at Manny’s. None of ’em even knew what they were doing there, except they were told they’re going to be riding in police cars. Then these crew chiefs came out of the office and threw my boys out. I mean flat tossed their asses out in the snow.”

  “That’s a carpet offense right there,” Rocco muttered, adding, “They’re cooking something, I’d bet my life on that, Gio.”

  Drago put in, “Jake was sure anxious to have a cozy talk with Turk, I know that much. And he sure put the soft pressure on me to keep it to myself.”

  “You’re saying that he was trying to recruit Turk,” Giovanni observed.

  “It sure would make a person think so, the way he was quieting it around.”

  “That just shows how crazy he really is,” Turk muttered.

  “Well I guess I don’t like it at all,” the boss declared, scowling even harder. “I just can’t picture Jake coming all out that way. Sly stuff, yeah, maybe I could picture that. But this coming all out … even to joining up with or recruiting Bolan … I can’t see Jake doing that.”

  “If you’ll pardon me, Gio,” said Rocco, “it does sound pretty sly to me. If he’s moving in under cover of this Bolan thing, and maybe even using this boy to run interference for him, then I’d have to say that was a pretty rotten trick.”

  “Yeah you’re right there, Benny,” the Capo mused. His gaze shifted to Larry Turk. “I proposed you, Turk, you know that—for this thing you’ve got now.”

  “Yessir, and I appreciate the honor, you can believe that.”

  “I didn’t do it for honors. I told the council you are the
only man for the job. And I sincerely believe that.”

  “Thanks, Gio. I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t. Now … about this other matter. Pete the Hauler. Of course, we’re not supposed to discuss this beforehand. But … well, you understand, this is a really unusual thing we got going here tonight, I mean all of it together.” He drummed his fingers on the desk top for a moment of quiet thought, then he sighed and said, “Light me a cigar, Charlie.”

  In misery, Turk thought, Well here’s where Pete the Hauler gets let off.

  Drago had produced a silver cigar holder and carefully placed in it a roll of leaves that were valued at approximately $50, considering the expense of having a box specially flown up each week from Jamaica. He lit the cigar, then removed it from the holder and passed it to the Capo. The silver holder went back into Drago’s pocket and the Capo went on with his “forbidden discussion” with Larry Turk.

  “But listen now, Turk. I know that what happened down there this evening between you and Pete is just like you claim. I know that, mainly because I know you, and especially because I know Golden Peter Lavallo. He and Louis were about the next thing to asshole buddies … I’ve even wondered about those two sometimes. Well, anyway, I can understand how he could go off his rocker that way and want a piece of Louis’ assassin for himself. I mean, you just naturally understand these things.”

  Here it comes, thought Larry Turk.

  “Understanding is one thing, of course,” the Capo quietly went on. “Discipline is something else again. You know, with all respects to the dead, I never much liked Louis Aurielli. I went along with him mainly for Pete’s sake. I’m telling you this so you’ll understand what I’m going to say next. Pete Lavallo and me go back a long ways. And I love that boy, I really love ’im. But I love this thing we got, all of us, a whole lot more. And because of that, I’m going to send Pete back down the ladder. I’m going to take away everything he’s got. Can you understand that? Everything. I’m going to strip him bare, and I’m going to exile him. I think I’ll send him to Arizona or maybe New Mexico. And if he can behave himself out there for a year or two, I’ll let him come back. But he’ll come back just as stripped as he was when he left. Now that’s what I’m going to do to Golden Peter Lavallo.”

  The three younger men standing at the desk were obviously highly impressed by this kingly predisposition of a pending case.

  Larry Turk fidgeted and commented, “I really didn’t mean he should get hit that hard, Gio. I just wanted it understood that I couldn’t stand for that kind of stuff, not when I’m supposed to be running a thing.”

  “You boys sit down,” Don Gio commanded, suddenly aware that they’d been standing there for quite some time.

  The three exchanged glances with each other and pulled up chairs in a semi-circular lineup in front of the desk. Giovanni puffed on the cigar and stared at the ceiling for perhaps a full minute, then the eyes dropped and found their level with Larry Turk’s troubled gaze.

  “Why do you think I’m telling you all this, Turk?” the Capo asked. “And with these other two boys right here listening in. Why do you think?”

  Turk didn’t have to think. He knew. The thing was almost ceremonial—something pretty great was being conferred here tonight. He hesitated slightly, then replied, “I guess you’re showing us your love for this thing of ours, Gio.”

  “That’s right, that’s part of it. I don’t love it this much, though, just because I’m the boss. It’s the other way around. I’m the boss because I love our thing this much. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Yessir, and I appreciate the lesson, I really do.”

  “Okay, don’t mention it. But think about it. You think about it, and when you’re done thinking you tell me what all this means to you.”

  “I guess I can tell you right now, Gio.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s a damn shame you have to be part of this dirt that’s going on, and I don’t like you being a part of it. By your leave, Don Gio, I’m taking full charge of things out here tonight. I don’t want your mind bothered with such trash. With these two boys sitting here as witnesses, I’m saying that I take full responsibility for what goes on here at this place—and all over town, for that matter. However it comes out, I’m the one made the decisions.”

  “So. About what?”

  “About everything,” Turk declared. “But in particular about Joliet Jake Vecci and his downtown rag-a-tags.”

  Don Gio promptly left his fully automated throne, walked around the desk, placed his hands upon Larry Turk’s shoulders, and kissed him full on the mouth. Then he quietly said, “All right, you boys leave me alone now. And send Pete the Hauler in here.”

  The three confidants to the throne took a hurried leave, and once they were outside, Larry Turk chuckled nervously and said, “Shit, I hope that’s no kiss of death.”

  “It wasn’t,” Charles Drago assured him. “I never saw the old man do that before. He was genuinely moved, Turk. He really was.”

  “Well I didn’t mean that part,” Turk replied. “I mean, if we win, sure, it’s going to be beautiful. But what if we lose? Who’s holding this big dirty bag, eh?”

  Rocco added, “And what if we win here and lose somewhere else. You know what you just did, Turk. You just offered to take all the blame, in case the nationals decide something ain’t exactly straight about all this.”

  “We’ll worry about that when we need to,” Turk replied brusquely. “Right now we got a lot of things to do. First we got to pull some people offa that Bolan watch. He’s tying down just about all the talent we got. And I guess we’re not going to play that game, not with what we know now. And we gotta start contacting people. I’ll work the underbosses. Benny, you take over and start working on the caporegimes and the freelooting civilians, I mean all of ’em. Charlie, you got the oil—I guess you know what your job is.”

  Drago grinned and replied, “Okay, I’ll start phoning people in Jake’s outfit.”

  “You guys have to know,” Turk declared soberly, “I’ll always remember you for this.”

  Humorously, Rocco said, “You don’t think we’ll ever let you forget. You know, this could go down in history.”

  “And what about Bolan?” Charles Drago asked darkly.

  “Fuck Bolan,” Larry Turk growled. “That guy is way down on my list of worries right now.”

  The trumpets of destiny were loudly sounding the call to battle, it seemed, and more than one empire had been built upon the ruins of war. The turkeymaker would do well to remember, however, that the world is subject to both wars and rumors of wars—and “that guy”—wherever his place on Larry Turk’s list, is something of an expert in both.

  11: INSIDE STRAIGHT

  The atmosphere in Manny’s back room had become almost unbearably dense with smoke from cigars and cigarettes, and there was hardly room left to cram another person inside. Crew chiefs sprawled about on the floor, some sitting with their backs against the wall, others kneeling or squattng on their haunches. They had carefully left a “pacing path” for the boss, however, and the old man was seemingly bent on wearing out the thin carpeting along that route, muttering to himself in monosyllabic Italian and every so often pounding his palm with a fist or slapping the wall above the head of a crew chief. Meninghetti and Spanno sat in straightback chairs and stared glumly into space.

  No one was talking; all seemed to be quietly pondering the fates of the night. When the boss “thought”—everybody “thought.”

  Then Captain Hamilton came in and left the door standing ajar, wrinkling his nose at the stale air. He caught Vecci’s eye during a downward pass and demanded, “Well?”

  “Well I ain’t decided yet!” the underboss snarled.

  “You’ve got to make up your mind, Jake,” the Captain pleaded. “I can’t keep those cars circling the neighborhood all night. People are already starting to notice. Either we start loading right now or I’ve got to sen
d them on without you.”

  “Since when,” Jake coldly wanted to know, “is a kinky Chicago cop, even a fat-ass captain of detectives, so damn sure of living through th’ night?”

  Hamilton’s eyes recoiled and he replied, “Don’t threaten me, Jake.”

  “That’s not a threat, it’s a promise!” Vecci yelled. “Now shut up and lemme think!”

  Hamilton crossed over and edged his rear end onto the desk. Mario Meninghetti caught his eye with a sympathetic smile; Hamilton gave him a sick one in return.

  The pacing continued for another minute, then Vecci planted his feet and punched a quivering finger toward the police captain. “I ain’t sending my soldiers out on no routine patrols until I find out what the hell is going on around here!”

  The cop nodded his head agreeably. “I think you’re right, Jake—that’s good thinking. So let’s cancel the whole thing. What you need is a defense line, not a patrol.”

  “Shut up! Just shut up! Mario!”

  Meninghetti looked up quickly. “Yeah, boss?”

  “Tell me again. Tell me what he said. Exact words now, exact!”

  “They said that Charlie Drago is calling around. He’s saying the time has come to leave the sinkin’ ship. Any boys that make it out there by midnight will be welcomed with open arms. Anyone showing up after that, meaning anyone from the Loop regime, had better just keep on going clear outta the state.”

  “That ain’t exactly the way you told me before!” Vecci cried.

  “Christ, Jake, I’m not no tape recorder.”