Chasing the Stargazer: With Help from Luigi Pirandello, Nucky Johnson, and Thomas Wolfe

By Ronald R. Koegler

Memories of lifeguard days and of political boss Nucky Johnson get psychiatrist Don Carter thinking about his youth in Atlantic City. Plagued by guilt over an arrest made under the Boardwalk three decades earlier, Don returns to his hometown and finds a wasteland of empty lots and gaudy casinos. Gone is the vitality of former times, when Nucky and then Hap Farley ran the show. As Don puts it, The town has turned to shit!

What he doesnt know is that the stargazer he arrested so long ago is waiting for him.

Soon Don is swept up in a criminal world he does not understand. Complicating the situation is his infatuation with Laura, an old flame. In desperation, he turns to a man he has deliberately avoided for yearsBenito Desimone, his wifes uncle and a leader of the Philadelphia Mafia.

Benito shares Dons love for Pirandello and uses the Sicilian author to try to bring him to his senses about Laura. When Benito makes Don an offer he cant refuse, Don has to decide whether to join forces with him. This psychological thriller reaches its dramatic climax in the mountains of North Carolina.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450252225

Ronald R. Koegler

Psychiatrist Ronald R. Koegler spent summers as a lifeguard in his native Atlantic City while attending Stanford University and Temple Medical School. He lives in Santa Barbara, has written or edited five books and over fifty articles, studies karate, and once discussed guns with Elvis Presley.

Book preview

Contents

Illustrations

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Illustrations

Breakers Hotel (G.T. Photochrom)

Nucky Johnson (studio photo; photographer unknown)

Merry-Go-Round Bar (Robert Ruffalo Collection)

Lifeguard stand (author’s photo)

Seagram’s sign (Robert Ruffalo, Hess Collection)

Captain Young’s residence (W.G.D. Phila.)

Atlantic City hotels (no attribution)

Under the Boardwalk (author’s photo)

Boardwalk with rolling chairs (Jack Freeman)

Viewing the stars (author’s photo)

Abandoned Capitol Theatre (author’s photo)

Taj Mahal Casino (author’s photo)

Glamorous Atlantic City Boardwalk (author’s photo)

The Boardwalk and Globe Theatre (Sithens Post Card Co.)

Carter Hotel (author’s photo)

Steel Pier high-diving horses (Robert Ruffalo, Hess Collection)

Lucy (Curteich—Chicago)

Steel Pier (Curteich—Chicago)

High-wire act on Steel Pier (Robert Ruffalo, Hess Collection)

The Storm (no attribution)

Pitchpoling (amateur film in possession of Ted Manos)

Blenheim Hotel being imploded (Robert Ruffalo, Hess Collection)

Babette’s (Tichnor, Robert Ruffalo Collection)

Atlantic City Auditorium and Convention Hall (Tichnor)

Many thanks to Charles Draper, retired captain on the Atlantic City Beach Patrol, who helped after Willie died and who knows just about everything about lifeguards, past and present.

Thanks to Robert E. Ruffalo Jr., owner of Princeton Antiques in Atlantic City, who provided advice and images, as well as permissions for the use of Hess photographic material.

Thanks, also, to Dana Dubinsky, my editor, who worked to make this a much better book.

Finally, thanks to Carolyn, my wife, for her forbearance and patience as I worked at my computer for long hours, revising and re-revising and revising yet again.

Chapter 1

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 Eye-talians 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.

missing image file

Breakers Hotel

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!

missing image file

Nucky Johnson

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.

A few of the passersby withdrew, frightened by the threat of violence and the cursing. But Rosie Carter hardly moved. Look, Donnie, she said, picking up the two-year-old. That’s Nucky Johnson. The boy seemed fascinated by the yelling and not at all frightened, so Rosie moved to the curb where they both could get a better view. She watched in amusement as Donnie started laughing at the men in the street.

Finally, after about ten minutes of shouting, Nucky half picked up and half dragged an astonished Al Capone over to the car and dumped him in the backseat.

Then Nucky boomed out, All you fuckers follow me!

After a startled silence, most of the group applauded and cheered, and everyone got back in the cars. Al looked really mad now, and Jake wondered what would happen when they got to the Ritz.

Nobody’s picked me up since I was a little kid, Al said. If we weren’t on neutral ground, he wouldn’t get away with that.

Frank Nitti said, That Nucky’s strong as hell.

Al just grunted. The cars were moving, not stopping for traffic signals as Nucky led the way.

Rosie Carter turned and walked back over to the porch railing of the Oxford Hotel, proudly holding her son. He wasn’t even scared, Mary, she said. But did you ever hear such language? Who were those men, and who was the man shouting at Nucky Johnson?

Those were the biggest gangsters in the country, Rosie. Max, the hotel manager, who had come out from the office in the middle of the excitement, answered her question. The guy arguing with Nucky was Al Capone from Chicago. It’s in the morning paper about all of them having a big meeting here.

You hear that, Donnie? We just saw Nucky Johnson and Al Capone, Rosie said as she put Donnie back in the go-cart. Donnie, who suddenly acted sleepy, seemed unimpressed.

I’ve got to get back to the hotel, she said, straightening up. Donnie was ready for a nap before all the shouting started.

Mary said, Donnie loved the excitement. He’ll be a politician someday like Nucky, make lots of money, and take care of you in your old age.

Max interrupted, saying, Or a big-time crook like Al Capone. He’ll buy you a high-class hotel to run, maybe the Ritz or the Ambassador.

Rosie laughed and started pushing Donnie in his go-cart toward the New Washington Hotel around the corner on Missouri Avenue. She couldn’t wait to call Nellie, who claimed she knew Nucky so well, and tell her how Nucky picked up Al Capone and threw him in the car and how Donnie enjoyed it.

While Rosie Carter pushed Donnie toward the New Washington, the limousines containing assorted mobsters began arriving at the Ritz-Carlton, where the hotel staff greeted them effusively. In small, noisy groups, they entered the lobby, pausing briefly at the sight of the Merry-Go-Round Bar as it swung lazily around.

missing image file

Merry-Go-Round Bar

Then Nucky’s voice was heard above all the tumult, shouting, And here’s the blushing bridegroom, coming down to get some rest and say hello to everyone!

Several of the New Yorkers cheered as Meyer Lansky, all five foot three inches of him, came over to greet Charlie Lucania and Ben Siegel. Meyer looked younger than Ben because of his short stature and thin frame, but he was twenty-seven, and Ben (no one called him Bugsy to his face) was only twenty-three. Meyer wasn’t smiling, and he didn’t look glad to see them. He had just started to say something to Charlie when a loud noise from the corner of the lobby made everyone turn their heads. A table went flying through the air, and pictures from the wall flew after it. One narrowly missed Nucky Johnson, who appeared to be the intended target. Al was becoming violent. John Torrio motioned to Charlie, and they headed over to try to placate Al.

Frank Costello shook his head and then gave a nod of agreement as Joe Adonis came up to him and said, He’s got too much of that Neapolitan temper. He’s going to give us all a bad name.

Yeah, Costello agreed. But it’s more than that. Johnny Torrio says he never was like this in the old days. You know what Charlie said about it not being safe to walk around in Chicago with all that killing going on, and the Valentine’s Day business in February, and those three guys last week. He’s giving us businessmen a bad name.

I’d rather work with the Jews than with someone from Naples, Adonis said. Those guys are all like that, except maybe Johnny.

Meyer Lansky and Ben Siegel walked over. If they had heard the last remark, they didn’t say anything about it.

Costello asked Meyer, How’s it going with the bride? You heard what happened to us at the Breakers?

Yeah, Meyer said. But don’t worry about it. Nucky’ll make it up. I’ve got the biggest suite you ever saw, and the place is full of champagne.

Oh, yeah? Whose booze is it? I can’t get any champagne in New York. Costello was really interested.

Meyer laughed and said, You won’t believe it, but Nucky took all the labels off, so no one can tell where it came from. He don’t want any of us getting killed over who supplied the champagne.

I think it was a smart move, but I bet Longy Zwillman got it for him. He’s the only one who has it, and he lands it right on the beach here, Siegel said.

Costello smiled and nodded, and then the smile disappeared. I was just telling Joe that Al is giving us a bad name with all those hits in Chicago and the way he yells and loses his temper. Look at this, right here in the Atlantic City paper! With that, he thrust a folded newspaper at Lansky, who took it and started reading it out loud.

‘Another chapter in Chicago’s long story of gang warfare was written with the finding of the bodies of three men just across the Indiana line, identified as John Scalise, Albert Anselmi, and Joe Perardi,’ he read. Perardi? Who’s he?

That’s ‘Hop Toad’ Giunta, Costello said. The paper’s got it all screwed up.

Hop Toad? Him? Adonis asked. You ought to see that guy dance, all dressed up in a soup-and-fish outfit.

Well, he won’t be dancing around anymore, Costello said. They buried Hop Toad in his tux and dancing shoes in Mount Carmel Cemetery. And some of us are going to be hopping into jail if this don’t stop.

What’s this crazy stuff about Johnny Torrio? Lansky asked.

‘Police blame the slayings upon the reported return of Johnny Torrio, who retired from the beer wars after rivals had wounded him in two previous encounters,’ Lansky read. There he is, he said, pointing to the top photo.

I told you, Costello said. This hick paper got it all screwed up. Johnny hasn’t left New York.

We’re all getting into trouble because of Capone, Joe Adonis said. His voice had been low, and they were all talking quietly, but he looked around carefully to locate Frank Nitti and Frankie Rio before continuing. Al and his boys did it. That’s why Al is so nervous. He’s always scared about Bugs Moran trying to kill him, and now he’s got more enemies.

Frank Costello looked at Meyer and said, They’re not businessmen. They’re gangsters. Al came right into our territory and got Frankie Yale without a word to any of us. And it’s making people upset, so they’re after the feds to do something, or it’s going to be tough on all of us.

Lansky, speaking softly, said, I talked to Charlie about this problem. Maybe the feds will solve it for us.

Whataya mean?

Joe Adonis thought he knew, but he wanted to hear Meyer say it. He respected Meyer’s ability to come up with ideas to solve their problems, and he never could get over all the money they had made from the numbers racket after Lansky told them how to organize it.

The feds are trying to build an income tax case against all of us, Meyer said. But they’re really after Al because of all those damned shootings in Chicago, ‘specially when those guys got killed on Valentine’s Day. If we don’t support Al, he won’t make it. That’ll kill two birds with one stone—get him out of circulation and take the heat off the rest of the boys. Then Meyer turned to Siegel. Come on, Ben. I want to show you the honeymoon suite. To Costello and Adonis, he said, Anna’s a little upset about doing all this business on our honeymoon. I sort of forgot to tell her that you boys would be in town, so I have to take it easy about introducing everyone. Now that we’re all at the same hotel, she’s going to be asking questions. I had to promise to drive up to Canada with her in a few days.

Well, you’ve been married four days now, Siegel said. It’s time to show her who’s the boss.

No, I think Meyer wants to stay on good terms with Poppa Citron so he can be a big produce man someday, Frank said, winking at Meyer.

Meyer smiled tightly and did not wink back. Then he and Siegel walked off toward the elevators. Frank knew that Ben Siegel and Meyer Lansky had each been best man at the other’s wedding, but he hesitated to kid Siegel or ask if Esther, his wife, was here with him. Siegel could be explosive.

Joe and Frank walked over to where Charlie Lucania and John Torrio stood. What happened to Al? I don’t hear no noise, Joe said.

He’s gonna get rooms here, and he’s gonna get rooms at some other hotel, too, Charlie said. I think it’s called the Jefferson—so he can stay wherever the hell he wants. He don’t want anyone to know where he’s sleeping. Only he won’t be sleeping. He’ll be spending all his time looking under the bed for Moran. Or he can stay at the President. A lot of the boys from Chicago are staying there. Maybe Bugs Moran will stay there, so’s the two of them can sleep together.

They all laughed at the idea. Anyhow, he shut up, Charlie said. The Chicago boys decided to stay at the President because they don’t think we should all be together. The party’s already started in Nucky’s rooms here at the Ritz, and there’s lots of booze and broads. Tomorrow we meet at the President Hotel. And then maybe we’ll take a ride in some of them rolling chairs. After that, we’ll go down on the beach where no one can hear us. And if those reporters follow us onto the beach, we’ll just go in the fuckin’ water.

Charlie looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, and then went on. A few of us are talking tonight, and then we’re meeting with Al tomorrow night at the President Hotel. Then we’ll all get together and maybe sign some paper or something to divide up the territories and stop this fighting. It’s real bad, the picture of John in the local paper. And that story came from Chicago—if Moran sees it and thinks John done those guys in, he’ll be after John again. John don’t like it at all, and he’s been talking to the guys. We all decided that we got to do something right away.

They all waited for John to say something. Bugs knows I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, he said. So he’s goin’ to sign a peace with Al tomorrow not to have no more killin’.

I heard Moran changed his mind about comin’, Charlie said. Has anybody seen him?

They all shook their heads. I know what he looks like, Costello said, and I ain’t seen him.

The group fell silent as two men walked by. The shorter one looked over and greeted John Torrio.

Frank? Jake? How’re things going? John asked.

After they passed, Frank Costello said, Phew. Somethin’ stinks.

John laughed. That’s the short guy, the Jew who looks like a fat duck with three chins. Jake Guzik. Handles the whores and books for Al, the same as he done for me. He always smells bad. And the other guy is ‘the Enforcer’—Frank Nitti—he’s the chief muscle.

John lowered his voice. Be careful what you say about Guzik. Al killed a guy just for roughing Jake up a little.

Yeah, well, don’t worry about me gettin’ near Guzik, said Frank. Somebody should tell him to get a bath.

It don’t help, John said.

I don’t give a damn how that pimp smells, said Joe Adonis. Al’s the problem. What the hell are we going to do about him?

John said, We’ve got Al scared. Told him there are contracts out on him in New York and Chicago. We’re gonna tell Al he should do something to turn off the heat, maybe turn himself in, maybe in Philadelphia—get caught with a gun, somethin’ like that—serve a week in jail, maybe, take the heat off.

Would that be enough? Joe asked. I mean, just a week or two? There’s a big mess in Chicago. The cops in New York are all talking to me about it. There is a contract on him in New York, but bumping him off would just mean more bad publicity, and we don’t need that.

John Torrio looked at Charlie Lucania, who had been unusually quiet.

John and me and some of the others have been talkin’, Charlie said. Let Al think he’ll only be in jail for a week or two. While he’s cooling his heels, we’ll have time to get our commission organized, with Johnny to settle things, and by the time Al gets out of jail, there won’t be a place for him. He can retire to Miami and have his fits down there. And if he won’t go to Miami, he’ll be retired permanently.

Frank smiled. This was what he wanted to happen when he helped set up this meeting, and now he knew that Torrio had come around. Al is on his way out, but he don’t know it!

May 17, 1929

Philadelphia

Alphonse Scarface Al Capone, Chicago gang leader, was sentenced by the judge today to serve one year in jail. He was found guilty of carrying a concealed deadly weapon. Capone began serving his term immediately. It was rumored that Capone deliberately sought arrest in order to escape death threats from rival gangsters. He told the press that such rumors were not true. In fact, he said he had just signed a truce on the dotted line in Atlantic City. Capone claimed that the agreement was signed with Bugs Moran. Capone added, And he’s supposed to be my big enemy.

Chapter 2

May 1985

Miami

A short, stocky man in a baseball cap watched the crowd entering the Pan American terminal. Sweat marks showed under his arms and across the small of his back, dark islands against the bright yellow of the short-sleeved sport shirt that was pushed into rumpled plaid slacks. A soiled white warm-up jacket hung over his left arm, and dark hair escaped in irregular bunches from under a cap that covered the top of his large head. He coughed. Abruptly he picked up a small suitcase and hurried toward the entrance, moving with surprising agility and grace. He slowed as he came alongside a tall man in a lightweight tan suit walking toward the sliding doors.

Without breaking stride or seeming to notice his new companion’s presence, the taller man said, How’s it going, Bill? Everything all right?

Yeah, the stocky man said. Most of it’s in the islands by now. The rest is on the way to Cleveland.

Good. Well, I’ll be seeing you in a few days. You have instructions, right?

The boss said for me to go wit’ you, only I’ll be in coach. He’s worried there might be trouble—in LA. He bent slightly after trouble as he coughed, and the words in LA came out in a hoarse wheeze. The cough was dry and lasted a few seconds.

Yeah. Maybe. The other man sounded doubtful. Don’t get too close. Keep your eyes open, and see if anyone’s watching at security and at baggage claim in LA. See if I’m being followed when I leave the airport in LA. You know where I’m staying?

Sure.

All right. Get lost. But then he stopped, looked hard at Bill, and said, You had that fucking cough the last time I saw you a few years ago, and now it’s worse. How the hell are you going to watch someone making all that noise?

With that, the taller man turned and hurried toward the first-class counter. For a moment, Bill stared intently at the departing figure. Then he moved slowly in the same direction.

* * *

Have you ever attended movies or burlesque shows or vaudeville shows or other theatrical presentations expecting to see a considerable amount of nudity? After seeing these presentations, did you become sexually excited?

You’re damned right!

Describe them in detail. How old were you? What, in particular, caused you to become sexually excited?

Well, I was thirteen years old, and I snuck into the Globe Burlesque with Robbie Walters because we thought we would see ‘a considerable amount of nudity.’ We saw these women dancing around with no clothes on, which caused Robbie and me to become horny, but then Robbie showed me a man at the end of the row playing with himself.

He laughed. Where had the name Robbie Walters come from? If he had tried to think of that kid’s name, he never could have. But now he could picture Robbie’s round face and those big ears, and Robbie’s voice telling him, Be quiet, damn it! as he held the side door open.

He looked again at the sheet of questions copied from an old textbook and then turned toward his wife, saying, People had different ideas about sex thirty years ago.

But she wasn’t there. He saw a man and a woman in the next line staring at him. Had he been thinking out loud again? Probably. Anyway, everyone knew that psychiatrists were crazy, especially those from California.

Don! Over here!

Following the sound of Delia’s voice, he saw her standing about thirty feet away, trying to attract his attention but unable to move her arms, which were forced out like stubby wings by small bags and a coat stuffed under them. She turned away and rushed toward the ticket counter. Guessing that a new check-in line had opened, he grabbed the three large bags and hurried after her, stumbling and lurching at first as he struggled with the heavy suitcases. Other passengers now moved in the same direction, but he had gathered momentum from an earlier start and pushed through, turning his body sideways and using the bag in his right hand as a battering ram. He managed to stay ahead of the crowd swarming in his wake. Ahead, he saw Delia reach the ticket counter, drop the bags, and turn around to look for him.

As he hurried to stay ahead of the pushing, shoving crowd, he decided that the veneer of civilization had cracked. Either that or he was caught in a time warp sending him back to a pre-civilized era. The savage in man is never quite eradicated. And Thoreau had never waited in an airline terminal.

Navigating the last few feet, he reached Delia and let his bags fall to the floor. Passengers lined up behind her, and several looked at him suspiciously as he edged in front of them. Only one couple and a lone man were between them and the counter.

Congratulations! he said, his voice quavering from the exertion of running with the heavy bags, and they both laughed at the sound of it. He gazed smugly at the rapidly growing line behind them.

Why were you rushing like that? Delia asked. I had a place for us.

The concern in her voice caused him to smile, and at first he was pleased that she seemed worried. But he also felt annoyed.

I would have been trampled to death if I hadn’t kept moving. Don’t worry. Exertion doesn’t cause heart attacks.

The thought of Andy Schlichter, who had dropped dead on the tennis court a month ago, made him more annoyed. He knew Delia was thinking about Andy, but she didn’t mention Andy’s death as she took his hand.

Don didn’t like being treated as one of the frail elderly. He was heading toward sixty at an accelerating pace, but hell, he still worked out regularly and was almost as strong as he had been thirty years ago. Maybe he hadn’t boxed for a few years and he no longer ran every day, but he hit the heavy bag three times a week for five three-minute rounds. He wrestled occasionally and practiced his moves and kicks. Sex didn’t seem as important as it had before, though; too bad there wasn’t an exercise to keep up your sex drive.

He dismissed thoughts about aging and looked around. He saw the queue of passengers behind them stretching into the distance, the line now as long as the one they had left. Delia had done well. An ordinary American is no match for an Italian-blooded woman in a shoving match. Waiting passengers were mellow again, speaking in calm voices, pretending that they had not just stampeded.

Behind him in line stood a stocky man in a dirty, white baseball jacket and a baseball cap with a big C on it. The words Cleveland Indians circled around an Indian head near his left shoulder. A small boy with blond hair who had been standing nearby watching went up to the man with the cap. Are you a baseball player, Mister? For the Cleveland Indians?

Don was impressed. The boy didn’t look more than seven years old, and he had read and understood the lettering.

The man seemed amused. Yeah, he said. I’m a catcher, but not for the Indians. He added, I catch people. Don thought this was a strange thing to say to a kid.

The boy blurted out, I’m going to be a baseball player when I grow up!

Just then, an anxious mother dashed up, grabbed her son, apologized for his bothering them, gave the boy a tongue-lashing for wandering off and scaring her half to death, and led him away by the arm.

Don turned his attention to the ticket counter. Delia was collecting their tickets from somewhere in her purse. The sign on the counter said First Class, and the agent was repeating, to no one in particular, I’ll take coach passengers here. This man was older and looked more distinguished than the other agents, with a full head of graying hair, styled perfectly. His voice was low and vibrant.

Maybe this is the president of Pan Am getting to know his customers, Don whispered to Delia as they watched the pair first in line checking in. One was an elderly man, obviously hard of hearing, accompanied by an anxious young woman about twenty-five years old. She argued with the agent, who was telling her that her tickets couldn’t be used today. Her voice was loud, as though the agent also had a hearing problem. When she realized that she had lost the argument, she turned to her companion and explained why the agent was insisting that they pay additional money.

The man who was second in line shifted from one foot to the other, making no effort to hide his irritation at how long it was taking to ticket the couple ahead of him. He looked about sixty to sixty-five years old, and he had a short beard and a heavy mustache. He was a little over six feet tall, husky with a moderate paunch, his skin brown, his nose prominent and off-kilter. Don pegged him as Hispanic, except for the nose, and then decided he wasn’t Hispanic, but deeply tanned, maybe Italian or Greek. He wore a light-colored tropical suit with a dark blue tie, and he kept muttering to himself.

The couple had quieted down, and the woman, at least, appeared resigned to the agent’s decision. She handed him a credit card before helping her companion swing two large bags onto the scales. Then she signed the voucher and collected her receipt and tickets, and the two of them left with their hand luggage, the man complaining loudly about the extra charges. Don could hear her patient, answering voice dissolving into the other noises of the terminal.

The man in the tropical suit cursed at the departing couple before stepping up to the counter, where he presented a passport and ticket to the agent. Don decided it was a first-class ticket when he heard the agent apologize for adding coach passengers to the line, explaining that two of the agents usually assigned to the coach desks had suddenly taken ill. Then he apologized again for the delay because of the passport, at the same time handing the passport to another agent who had been standing in the background.

Don watched the interplay between the passenger and agent with interest, curious about the man’s lack of bags, his thick piece of hand luggage, and the small, brown briefcase he held close against his chest.

Don admired the fit of the man’s suit. Either it was hand tailored or he had wonderful luck in buying clothes. The clothes, the crooked nose, and the hint of a once-trim athletic build gave him the appearance of a well-dressed ex-fighter.

He felt a nudge from Delia and looked over to see the agent staring impatiently at him. Another boorish coach passenger, the man’s eyes said. Don handed him the tickets while Delia looked for something else in the caverns of her purse. Without saying a word or changing his expression, the agent accepted the tickets and began punching the computer terminal. Then he paused, looking puzzled.

Don anticipated his question and said, The reservation was changed. We were going to fly to Asheville on Delta, but now we’re going straight back to Los Angeles.

Dr. and Mrs. Donald Carter?

Don resented the irritated tone, but nodded.

The agent pushed some keys rapidly and then seemed satisfied. Smoking or nonsmoking? he asked without looking up.

Nonsmoking, Don heard himself say. We’d also like to have seats by the window.

The only reply was more computer key punching. A few moments later, the agent handed Don the boarding