Chasing the Stargazer
With Help from Luigi Pirandello, Nucky Johnson, and Thomas WolfeBy Ronald R. KoegleriUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Ronald R. Koegler
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-5221-8 Chapter One
May 13, 1929 Atlantic City "Jake, whataya mean? They ain't got no rooms for us? What the hell's going on here? Where's Charlie Lucania?"
"Charlie's been talkin' to the manager, Al. He says Nucky Johnson took care of everything, but the manager don' want no Jews or Eyetalians in the hotel."
The beefy, powerfully built man who spoke first looked at Jake like he was out of his mind.
"No Jews or Italians? That's all we are is Jews and Italians!"
With that, he began pushing his way through the crowded hotel lobby toward the desk. On his way, he was stopped several times by men who grabbed his arm and started talking to him; it was several minutes before Jake saw him arrive at the registration desk. He could see Al gesturing at the young clerk, and then he saw the clerk pointing Al toward the other end of the long desk. Al started off in that direction. Men stepped back hurriedly to give him room, pulling women with them.
He stopped in front of a conservatively dressed younger man standing behind the desk at the far end. It was the same guy Jake had seen talking to Charlie Lucania earlier, probably the manager who told them they had to leave.
Mr. Smyth-Jones was the assistant manager. When the desk clerk phoned him in a panic, Smyth-Jones had hurried to the front desk and found this strange collection of men and women trying to register for rooms they claimed were reserved for them. The first thing the clerk told Smyth-Jones was that these people didn't resemble the names on the reservations—Smith, Brown, Jones, Baxter, Anderson, James, Hamilton, Vick, Partridge—and they could not show identification to prove that they were the people with the reservations. Mr. Smyth-Jones didn't have to read the entire list to confirm that the clerk was right. Those were American names, and only one or two in this group could pass for Americans.
"They certainly do look able to afford the Breakers, though," Smyth-Jones thought, noting the expensive materials and well-tailored fit of the clothes on many of the group. But most of them looked out of place here at the Breakers. Perhaps it was all the bright colors or the garish accessories they wore that gave them such an eccentric appearance. A few could have passed for successful businessmen, but just as many looked like Broadway dandies, and some were dressed in a grossly vulgar manner, especially the women.
Almost all the men were smoking cigarettes or had a cigar clamped between their teeth. Many appeared foreign, and he was sure that some were Jews. They spoke in loud voices in English, but now and then he heard expressions or words that he recognized as Italian. They weren't taking being turned away gracefully, either; they were milling about, some of them cursing. He heard atrocious language and bad grammar. Even if those Jews hadn't been in the group, he couldn't allow them to stay at the Breakers. He wished he could find Mr. Abbott and get his advice, but this was the manager's day off. If they didn't leave soon, he would have to call the police.
Of course, if Nucky Johnson had made the reservations as they claimed, then calling the police wouldn't do any good. He couldn't understand why these people had been sent here instead of the Ritz, where Nucky made his headquarters. Surely even Nucky Johnson knew of the guest policies at the Breakers. Mr. Abbott could not have known who these people were, or he wouldn't have permitted the hotel to accept the reservation. Smyth-Jones was certain most of them were crooks or gamblers.
And those women! He found his gaze drawn back to the redhead he had seen earlier, the one with the tight, red dress and the large bosom. She was talking to a mink-coated peroxide blonde who dangled a cigarette from one hand, reminding him of someone he had seen last year in a bad London play before taking this job in the States. Two or three of the women were matronly, but others were quite young, and many were overly rouged.
Smyth-Jones felt himself flinch when a giant in a lemon yellow suit waved his hand a few inches in front of his face. A large diamond flashed on the man's little finger, and a diamond-studded watch chain decorated the huge belly. A smaller diamond glistened faintly from a stickpin holding a dark yellow striped tie onto the pale yellow shirt. The brim of a brown fedora rode a few inches above the man's fleshy face. Beginnings of a one-day beard broke through a thick layer of white powder, outlining an area where no beard grew along the path of a scar slashing across the left side of his face from two inches in front of his ear to his chin. A smaller scar was visible below his left ear, and another crossed his jaw. Large, red lips and deep, black eyebrows contracted in intense anger completed a picture that sent a chill down Smyth-Jones's spine.
From thirty feet away, Jake "Greasy Thumb" Guzik watched as Al waved his arms in the man's face. How different things were from a few days ago. It was only last Monday that he had seen Al take a baseball bat and break almost every bone in the bodies of three of the toughest boys in Chicago—Scalise, Anselmi, and "Hop Toad" Giunta. Of course, they were tied to chairs at the time, but Jake still couldn't believe that this jerk-off hotel manager was standing up to Al. Maybe it was good for Al and the rest of the dagos to get a sample of what Jews had to put up with all the time.
Jake knew Al was making a fool of himself, but you had to admit that he was an imposing figure; Jake wouldn't like to be the guy telling Alphonse Capone that he was too much of a crumb to stay here. Al was only twenty-eight, but he looked a lot older, closer to Jake's own age of forty-one. He was a mass of fat and muscle, weighing God knows what, maybe over two hundred fifty pounds. Al was so wide that he seemed shorter than he actually was, but Jake knew that Al was a good five or six inches taller than he himself was at five feet five. From the rear, it looked like Al had no neck. His fat, round head seemed to grow directly out of the huge body.
Jake couldn't hear what they were saying from where he was standing, but he hoped that Al wouldn't lose his temper completely. Al always wanted high-class guys to work for him, guys who were smooth and made a good impression, but he lost his own temper so quickly. It had gotten worse in the last few years.
Jake saw Al heading at a fast clip toward two men standing at the side of the huge lobby near the Boardwalk entrance. He debated whether to go over and try to calm Al down, but he recognized Charlie Lucania and Ben Siegel, and he figured they'd be able to handle Al. Charlie never seemed to get excited, and in his conservative suit and white shirt, he looked like he owned the joint. Besides, Al respected Charlie. They weren't cousins like some people thought, but they knew each other growing up in New York. Al still called him Charlie "Lucania," but the New York boys called him "Luciano."
Through the doors behind Charlie and Ben Siegel, Jake could see the Garden Pier beyond the Boardwalk. Earlier, to pass the time while they waited for the boys from New York to arrive and handle the registration, he and Frank Nitti had walked over to the pier and out to Keith's Theatre on the end. They found out it wouldn't be open for another month, and some musical called Rio Rita was going to be there in the summer.
Then they had walked down the Boardwalk. The season hadn't started, so it was pretty empty. That was good, because you could see who was getting near you. Everyone said this was neutral territory, but that was probably a bunch of crap. They went a few blocks to the Steel Pier, a long pier with vaudeville and movies and a ballroom. It wasn't open, either.
On the way back from the Steel Pier, they stopped at the Globe Theatre, their attention drawn to a Mae West poster advertising her appearance there in July in a play called Diamond Lil. Frank had declared that Mae West was "some broad," and Jake had grunted his agreement as they approached the Breakers Hotel.
Jake began to feel sleepy, and he wondered if the whole meeting was going to be screwed up, starting off with this reservation shit. They were taking a big chance, everyone meeting like this. If someone set off a bomb in the lobby of the Breakers Hotel, most of the rackets in the country would be without a boss. There was Waxey Gordon and Nig Rosen and Boo Boo Hoff from Philadelphia. The Purple Gang was here from Detroit, and Moe Dalitz and the Mayfield Road boys from Cleveland. On the Boardwalk, they had seen Longy Zwillman, who brought all the booze in to North Jersey. Then there was King Solomon, the boss guy from Boston that Al pointed out. Everyone from New York was there except Maranzano and Masseria, all of Charlie's boys. Anastasia and Mangano were coming from Brooklyn. There were lots of guys Jake didn't know, too; even Al didn't know all of them.
Jake noticed one man watching Al and Charlie closely from a few feet away, and he recognized John Torrio. John used to be the big boss in Chicago until he picked up some lead poisoning, got scared, and took off for Europe. Now he was back, but he was in with the New York gang. Jake waited for a sign of recognition, but John kept his eyes on Al and Charlie.
Jake yawned. All night on the train, Al had kept him awake with his scheming. They had followed a crazy timetable, changing trains a lot, because Al was sure that Bugs Moran had men out looking for him. Shit, Moran knew damned well where they were going. He wouldn't be surprised if Bugs showed up here, even. Al said the bosses wanted him and Bugs to bury the hatchet, but Bugs was too mad about his boys being killed.
Frank Nitti and Frankie Rio moved over to where Jake stood and asked if anything was happening about the rooms. He shrugged and gestured toward where Al and Charlie were talking.
"I thought Charlie could calm Al down, but it don't look like it," he said. "Remember how he was on the train, always had us lookin' for Moran?"
Frank Nitti nodded. They could see Al still throwing his arms around, and they could hear him cursing. Now Charlie had his hand on Al's arm, talking to him and leading him toward the street entrance while Al continued to yell. Ben Siegel followed, not saying anything, his attention distracted by the redheaded broad.
As Charlie and Al approached, most of the men in the group congregated in their path, including Jake and the two Franks. Jake nodded to Nig Rosen and Boo Boo Hoff. He also nodded to Waxey Gordon, whom he didn't really know but who stayed close to the rest of the Philadelphia boys.
Charlie stopped and said, "I'm sorry, folks. Nucky says it's his entire fault, and he made a mistake booking us into this kind of hotel where we couldn't enjoy ourselves. There are enough limos outside, and we're going to go to a real party hotel, the Ritz, so everyone follow me."
Jake joined the group, walking alongside Al, who seemed to have calmed down. Al muttered to him, "That Johnson is a real asshole, a real shmeck."
"Schmuck," Jake said. "You mean schmuck."
Al looked at Jake. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. It's Yiddish. It means he's a prick."
Al nodded, momentarily distracted by this new knowledge. Just as they reached the curb, a black limousine pulled up. A colored driver got out and opened the door for the group. They got in, with Frankie Rio and Frank Nitti on either side of Al in the back, and Jake got in the front seat. Al motioned to the driver, and he pulled out behind the lead black limousine that held Charlie and two of his boys—Lepke Buchalter and Ben Siegel. Behind them, another black limousine with a dented front fender followed closely; Jake had seen Frank Costello, Joe Adonis, and two women enter it before they left. Dutch Schultz had gotten into the next limo, but Jake didn't know the guys with him. He had never liked Schultz—a Jew who had converted to Catholicism—though he had never spoken to him. Jake regarded Judaism as the only true religion. His father and mother and his eleven brothers and sisters were all Orthodox Jews. He saw no conflict between his religion and the pimping that he and his older brother, Harry, had gotten into with help from their father.
The line of black cars headed down New Jersey Avenue and then turned left at the first corner onto Pacific Avenue. By now, Al was cursing out Nucky Johnson again. Then he asked Frankie Rio, "Do you know what happened? I think Charlie fucked up. I don't like it, changing the hotel. Maybe it's a setup."
"Not with women along," Jake said.
"He's right, Al," Frankie Rio said. "Nucky Johnson registered us all under names like Brown and Jones and Smith. Maybe he knew they don't allow no dagos and Jews. But the clerk took one look at us and wouldn't buy it, so he called the manager."
"I'll let Nucky know what the hell I think of all this when I see him," Al said.
Jake had never met Johnson. He asked Al, "Didn't you tell me you knew him?"
"In New York. I met him there. A lot of Charlie's booze comes through here, and Nucky is always in New York to see him about the booze, mostly just fucking around with the broads. Charlie likes him because he thinks he dresses classy and screws high-class broads—you know, movie stars and chorus broads from them Broadway shows."
"Hey! Look't that snorky limo!" Frankie exclaimed, pointing at a powder blue Pierce-Arrow passing slowly in the other direction.
They saw a man's head sticking out one of the windows, and they heard him shout at the chauffeur, "Turn this damned car around!" Then they saw him waving and yelling at the cavalcade of cars going in the other direction.
"Follow me!" he bellowed. His head was out the window, shouting, as the Pierce-Arrow finally got turned around and was passing them again, this time rapidly in the same direction.
"Stop this goddamned car!"
Jake flinched at Al's loud voice behind him in the closed car, and their startled driver jammed on the brakes.
Al lurched out the door, shouting, "Stop these fucking cars. Nobody throws Al Capone out of any two-bit hotel and gets away with it! Get out of that car, Nucky!"
The cars had stopped. The line of cars stretched from Arkansas past Missouri Avenue, and traffic was blocked on both streets. The men got out of the limousines and moved toward the center of the street, half-angry at Al for this new delay and half-curious to see what would come of the confrontation. People on the sidewalks had stopped, trying to see what the commotion was about.
On the Oxford Hotel porch, guests gathered to watch what was happening a few feet away. Among them was Rosie Carter. She had been walking along Pacific Avenue and stopped to lean on the wooden railing of the Oxford and talk to her friend Mary, who was sitting on the porch. She was holding the hand of her youngest child, a boy of about two who was climbing out of the go-cart his mother had been using to push him home. Mary and Rosie both stared at Alphonse Capone and Nucky Johnson.
The Pierce-Arrow backed up to where Al was standing and yelling, and Nucky got out. At first, Nucky tried to outshout Al and get the cars moving again with a booming greeting and an apology for what had happened. He was a tall, good-looking man, several inches over six feet tall, and he was huskily built, filling out a tailored, dark blue suit with a red carnation in the lapel. Standing next to him was a shorter, stockier man who said nothing and kept his eye on the crowd.
"We're going to the Ritz Hotel. That's where Meyer Lansky and his blushing bride are, in the honeymoon suite. Maybe he needs some help, so we're all going to stay there. There'll be a party tonight in my rooms, and we've got all the champagne you can drink. If you want anything and I'm not around, just talk to Louie here, and he'll get it for you. And that means anything! You're all my guests. So let's get back in the cars and get going!"
"Wait just a minute!" Al interrupted Nucky. He looked madder than ever. "What do you mean, getting me tossed out of a fucking hotel? You and Charlie owe me some answers."
Jake and Frankie Rio said later that they figured it was a draw, the shouting match that went on then in the middle of the street. Nucky had a foghorn voice, but Al was plenty loud, and they both knew all the insults and curses. Every once in a while, Al would interrupt himself to shout some obscenity over at Charlie Lucania, who looked bored.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Chasing the Stargazerby Ronald R. Koegler Copyright © 2011 by Ronald R. Koegler. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
