The Lucky Luciano Story

By Ovid Demaris

CHARLES “LUCKY” LUCIANO was an Organization Man with a difference. The organization he belonged to was The Mafia—a natural setup for a vicious thug with unlimited ambition and a heart of ice. Murder by murder, rape by rape, he established the biggest chair of brothels ever seen in New York. Everything—everyone—he touched turned rotten. He knew he had it made when he had more cops on his payroll prostitutes. Pal of Al Capone, Frank Costello Buggsy Siegel, Albert Anastasia, Lucky became the absolute ruler of a private empire built on vice, corruption and murder. This is the Lucky Luciano story—brutal, shocking, with nothing left out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hauraki Publishing
• Release date: Oct 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781787201316

Ovid Demaris

Ovid Demaris (born Ovide E. Desmarais, 6 September 1919 - 12 March 1998 as) was an American author of books and detective stories. A former United Press correspondent and newspaper reporter, he wrote more than twenty books and hundreds of newspaper articles. Born in Biddeford, Maine, Demaris obtained an A.B. degree in History and English from the College of Idaho and an M.S. degree in Journalism from Boston University. During World War II, he served in the Air Force as a personnel officer. After the war he worked as a reporter on the Boston Daily Record, then as a Boston Bureau staff man for United Press, and finally became Ad Copy Chief of the Los Angeles Times. Mr. Demaris is most noted for historical or biographical books about the Mafia and other gangland characters such as “Lucky Luciano”. His books have been translated and published in 10 foreign countries. He died in 1998 aged 78.

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Text originally published in 1969 under the same title.

© Pickle Partners Publishing 2016, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE LUCKY LUCIANO STORY

BY

OVID DEMARIS

16 pages of photographs

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

INTRODUCTION 5

CHAPTER ONE 6

CHAPTER TWO 15

CHAPTER THREE 19

CHAPTER FOUR 31

CHAPTER FIVE 35

CHAPTER SIX 42

CHAPTER SEVEN 46

CHAPTER EIGHT 51

CHAPTER NINE 74

CHAPTER TEN 77

CHAPTER ELEVEN 82

CHAPTER TWELVE 91

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 100

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 104

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 111

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 117

EPILOGUE 123

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 125

INTRODUCTION

LUCKY LUCIANO was a frequent visitor at lavish underworld parties in the Twenties. Dressed in top hat, white tie and tails he presented a formidable image. His greasy black hair, swarthy complexion, droopy eyelid and massive jowls gave him a sinister resemblance to Dracula. And yet he was vaguely attractive to some women. They found him exciting as well as filthy rich. More often than not the admirer ended up on a pallet in one of his brothels.

CHAPTER ONE

He sat in the open touring car, his right arm draped along the top of the red leather upholstered seat, his left hand casually resting on the polished mahogany steering wheel. Perspiration glossed his dark swarthy face, highlighting the sunken cheeks and massive jawline, giving a mottled appearance to the large pock-marked nose. There was a wary, hungry look in the dark opaque eyes when he turned his head to appraise the girls streaming out of the sweat-shops in the heart of the garment district. Some of the girls gave him sly glances, while others, more bold, stared directly at him. A knowing smile twisted the corners of his thick lips as he slowly fired a cigarette. He enjoyed the image he presented. The image of a wealthy young sport out slumming.

A tall thin girl with blond bobbed hair and brightly painted cheeks jumped up on the running board. Hi, good-looking. How about a little ride?

Blow, he said.

I’ve seen you around here plenty of times, she said. Waiting for anybody special?

Yeah, he said, giving her a dark look, his right eyelid drooping nearly shut.

Okay for you, she said. You’ll be sorry.

Go on, he said. Go home and grow some tits.

The girl’s face tightened angrily. Ah, go take a flying—

Without removing his right arm from the seat top, he let out the clutch, jerking the car forward. The girl screamed and fell to the sidewalk, her legs kicking her dress up around her hips. He glanced balefully at the flash of white thighs and continued down the street.

At the tender age of sixteen Rose Marie Finazzo had the full-blown figure of a mature woman. Even her shapeless cotton dress could not hide the lush curves of her voluptuous hips, not the tender ripeness of her abundant bosom which moved so freely under the thin gray fabric as she hurried along the crowded sidewalk. It was at the intersection, while waiting for the traffic light to change, that she first saw the touring car cruising slowly down the street toward her. It was the most beautiful car she had ever seen. It was fire-engine red with a yellow tonneau and yellow spoke wheels. The driver seemed so relaxed. A cigarette dangled from a corner of his mouth and the smoke curled lazily across his expressionless face. Only his dark eyes seemed aware of his surroundings, and they flashed swiftly across a sea of admiring faces. Rose Marie could feel the mounting excitement of the girls as the car neared the intersection. Then those same dark eyes were moving up and down her own body and she felt the blood rise to her face in embarrassment. Quickly, she spun around and hurried across the street, unaware of the red traffic signal. That young man had to be awful rich, she thought. A car like that would cost hundreds of dollars, maybe even thousands.

When she heard the horn she gave a nervous start, her head snapping around and her mouth dropping open in surprise.

What’s the rush, baby? the young man said, swinging the big car to the curb.

You scared me, she gasped, not knowing what else to answer.

Come here, he said. I wanta talk to you.

What for?

Maybe I wanta give you a ride home. Who knows?

She took a step toward the car, looking more closely at him. He was dressed in a tight-fitting double-breasted suit and his shoulders seemed as broad as a football player’s. The suit was black, with a light pin stripe and looked very expensive. His shirt was also black and his necktie a pure white. Both were made of silk. Set jauntily on the back of his head was a pearl-gray snap-brim hat. His hair was black and wavy and fell across his forehead in thick ringlets. When he smiled his small teeth looked very strong, hardening the already sharply hewed features.

Well, make up your mind, he said, nonchalantly flicking ashes from his cigarette.

She hesitated a moment longer. He was the image of the wealthy young gentleman from uptown. Rose Marie had read enough dime novels to know that sometimes a rich young man fell in love with a poor young girl—and they lived happily ever after—uptown.

Shake it up, he said. I ain’t got all day.

She bit nervously on her lower lip. Will you take me right home?

Nothin’ doin’. I’ll take you for a spin first, then a big dinner. You’re gonna live it up, baby.

Well, it’s awful hot, she said, nodding in agreement. It would be nice to take a spin.

He reached across the seat and flung open the door. Get in and stop wastin’ time.

Okay, she said, nervously stepping into the car. Some of the girls called out to her and she waved back to them without turning. Tomorrow, she knew, she would be a celebrity. Everybody would be eager to learn the details of her evening out with this prince charming. Slowly, she shifted her body in the seat and smiled reassuringly. Why, he looked like just a boy, not much older than herself even.

Are you Italian, too? she asked.

Naw. Sicilian.

That’s the same thing, ain’t it?

He shook his head, ashes dropping on the wide lapels of his black worsted suit. Dammit, he growled, furiously brushing away the ashes.

My name is Rose Marie, she said, extending her hand like she had seen actors do in the nickelodeon.

He ignored the hand and leaned over the side of the car to spit out the cigarette butt. How old are you? he asked, his dark eyes appraising her figure.

Sixteen. I’m a century baby.

A what?

A century baby. I was born on New Year’s day. I was the second baby born in the whole city of New York, only a minute and forty seconds after the century was born. If I had been the first we would have got all kinds of nice prizes.

Yeah. What, for instance?

Money. I’ve forgotten how much now. And furniture and things like that. Papa was very disappointed.

Probably junk.

Oh, no. They gave real nice things. She shrugged. Oh, well, I never have to worry about how old I am. All I have to do is look at a calendar and it’s right there.

Big deal.

My mother died, she said, her eyes misting.

What about it?

The doctor tried to force her and she wasn’t ready.

Knock it off.

I’m sorry.

Let’s grab a bite to eat. I know a good place in Harlem.

Harlem?

What’s wrong with Harlem?

I’ve never been there.

Well, there’s a first time for everythin’. He gave her a sharp look. Her face was not pretty. Her nose was too long and too thick at the bridge. It made her warm brown eyes look sunken and close-set. Her eyebrows were also too thick and her hairline too low. Even her dark shoulder-length hair looked coarse and unkempt. Only her mouth seemed attractive. It was full and soft, curving slightly upward at the corners.

Is this dress okay?

Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a private booth.

She nodded. What’s your name?

His head spun around, his dark eyes hardening. What’s it to you?

I don’t know. I just thought I’d ask.

Everybody calls me Lucky.

She was silent for a moment, and then when she spoke, her voice was low and very soft. I want to go home.

Okay, okay. I’m Charlie.

Was it Salvatore in Italian? That means ‘savior’.

Yah, baby. That’s me. I’ve saved a lot of people. Maybe, I’ll save you. He was laughing now but his voice sounded harsh and mirthless. His dark eyes moved across her body again, but this time the look was unmistakable. She looked away. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen that kind of look before. All the tough boys in her neighborhood looked that way when they made dirty cracks about her body. They all whistled when she walked by and some of the tougher boys stuck their hands in their pockets and jiggled the front of their pants. Just playing a little pocket pool, Rosie, they called. Want to shoot a game? She knew what they meant, all right. Enough of them had tried at one time or another. Since the age of eleven she had been fighting them off in hallways and alleys, and sometimes even on the sidewalk. They worked in pairs usually, converging on her from both sides, their eager hands viciously squeezing her breasts and buttocks, trying to knock her down for a better look up her dress. Then they ran, holding themselves in the front, laughing and yelling, also without mirth.

You’d look better with some paint on your face. Give you class.

I don’t like paint. It’s cheap.

What are you, stupid? Wanta live in the slums all your life? Listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. A dame with your equipment don’t have to work in no sweatshop. Believe me, I know.

She nodded and stared straight ahead. They were in Harlem now and the sun was slowly dropping behind the shabby tenements. Half-naked kids played intricate games in the middle of the street while the grown-ups sat on broken steps, talking and drinking. Mothers openly fed their babies, their tired eyes gazing sightlessly at the darkening sky.

It was a basement restaurant with polished brass rails leading down marble steps to a thick wooden door held by huge wrought-iron hinges. The mere sight of the entrance intimidated her. Whatever self-confidence she had possessed in the car suddenly evaporated in the smoke-filled air of the dimly lit dining room. Her legs began to quake and she tried to cover the front of her cheap dress with trembling hands. Her first impulse was to turn and run from the room, away from the searching, mocking eyes of the well-dressed patrons sitting around the tables. Then his hand tightened on her arm and she felt herself propelled across the room toward a private booth at the rear. A waiter in a white jacket pulled open the thick green drapes and smiled knowingly at her as Charlie pushed her inside the booth and slid in after her. Charlie said something to the waiter and the drapes were closed again, shutting out the babble of conversation from the dining room.

Like the dump? he asked, lighting another cigarette.

Her tongue licked nervously at her lips as she carefully smoothed the front of her dress. I’ve never been in a place like this, she said. I didn’t know they had places like this in Harlem.

There’s all kinds of places in Harlem. You’ve got to know your way around.

Are you rich? She blurted out the words without realizing she had spoken them.

I ain’t poor, he said.

It must cost a lot to eat in here.

Don’t worry about it. Ever had green-turtle soup?

She shook her head.

Well, you’re gonna have lots of things you’ve never had before. First I’ve ordered some cocktails. Ever had a martini before?

I’ve only had wine.

Dago?

Yes, and once some sherry.

The waiter brought two glasses and a pitcher of martinis. Charlie sipped his and kept refilling hers. After three refills her brown eyes began to sparkle. I feel good, she said, giggling. I’m not afraid of those people out there no more. You’re not drinking. What’s the matter? Don’t you like—what you call ’em?

Martinis.

Yeah. Don’t you like ’em?

I’ve got to be careful. I’ve got a bad heart.

You do? Oh, I’m sorry. Gee, that’s too bad. I think I’ll have another one.

He filled her glass and carefully placed his arm across her shoulder. Slowly, he pulled her against him. How about a little fun? he said his hand brushing lightly against her breasts.

Don’t do that, she said, waving her finger at him. What if the waiter came in?

He don’t care. He knows what it’s all about.

I care. What do you think I am?

Okay, go on. Drink it up.

She nodded and tipped the glass up to her mouth. "I never had