Sex, Lansky decided, was a destructive impulse unless kept under rigid control. Like too much drinking, like the use of drugs, it could make a man vulnerable. Napoleon he admired for divorcing his wife in order to assure an heir. Octavius, he thought, set an example for strong men by ignoring Cleopatra’s charms.
Siegel he considered a young rooster; Lucania could be diverted from serious business by the sight of a fresh piece; on the other hand, Lepke had ‘control and profited by other men’s weaknesses.
Lansky’s goal was power. Before he could control others, he knew he had to control himself. Sex could not be ignored, but it could be mastered. The best solution was to find a wife, make her happy with a home and children, and put intercourse on a regulated basis.
*
Capone at that time enjoyed—and the word is meant literally —a national reputation for ferocity. Mafia members were so proud of him that Capone, although a Neapolitan by birth, was belatedly admitted into the Honored Society. He achieved only the rank of capo decina—head of ten—and his power rested on a combination put together originally by his mentor, Johnnie Torrio. Irishmen, Jews, and Italians made up the Chicago Syndicate, and the Mafia, as such, was relegated to a secondary role in the life of the Windy City. Capone had more to fear from George “Bugs” Moran than the Mafia.
**
While much impressed with Torrio and his ability to work with men of all ethnic backgrounds, Lansky considered the Big Seven—and, for that matter, the Americanization of the Mafia —only a step toward the grander scheme he had evolved through his contacts with non-Mafia gangsters in Cleveland, Detroit, Miami, New Orleans, and other cities. Perhaps Torrio sensed his younger friend’s ambitions. A quiet family man, who loved good music, Torrio one day gave Lansky some advice.
“There are two ways to power,” he said. “A Capone can rule for a while by blood and terror, but there will always be some who fight him with his own weapons. On the other hand, the man who can make money, big money, for others will even- tually be regarded as indispensable.” Lansky pointed out it hadn’t worked that way for him in Chicago.
“I was ahead of my time. There was too much easy money around. To get it, all you had to do was kill. Brains weren't needed. That’s why I got out.”
With the Maranzano-Masseria war raging, Lansky wondered if things had changed very much.
“Yes,” said the Old Master. “And they'll change a lot more soon. Prohibition is doomed. With it will go the supply of easy money. Brains will be needed then, my friend. The man who has them will survive while all the muscle-minded bastards rot in jail.”
“Sometimes you have to use muscle,” said Lansky. “People don’t always know what is best for them.” “Correct,” said Torrio. “But learn from my experience. Whenever you have to kill, make your colleagues understand— or at least believe—that the removal of someone is for the common good of all. Then they’ll back you up.” Lansky understood. ‘
“When you had Colosimo rubbed out, it was for the common good. Everybody went along. But when you knocked off Dion O’Banion . . .”
“It started a war,”’ finished Torrio. “It was a personal thing;
the bastard had double-crossed me. I knew it was a mistake, but I was fed up with Chi anyway. Too many bastards thinking they were Mussolini.”
Lansky sat silent, puffing on a cigarette. Torrio didn’t drink or smoke. Then, his thoughts moving ahead, he asked about the Dutchman. Wasn't Torrio taking a considerable chance? With someone who liked to kill?
“We use the tools that come to hand. Dixie Davis keeps Schultz under pretty good control, and he’s got Jimmy Hines in his pocket. To do anything in this town, you’ve got to have Tammany Hall on your side.”’
“Istill don’t like it,” said Lansky. “The Seabury investigation is going to cause a lot more heat. It could be a bad time to ride the Tammany tiger. Look what happened to Miro.”
“You're right of course,” said Torrio. “Roosevelt’s going to get into the act soon too. He’s got to if he wants to beat Al Smith for the nomination.”
“So”
“So I’m making plans. Soon as Repeal comes, I’m going legit.
There'll be plenty of dough in legal liquor so long as I can stay out of sight.” The conversation became technical, and Lansky had much to think about when he went home that night.
*
That Meyer Lansky learned early the value of invisibility was proved by one of the most unique photographs ever taken by the New York police. Informed that some well-known punks were meeting in the Hotel Franconia on West Seventy-second Street, Captain Michael McDermott of the police alien squad led a raid on the hotel. Eight men were rounded up and taken to headquarters where a group picture was made.
Fans of the Mafia have conveniently ignored the picture for obvious reasons. Not one of the men was of Italian or Sicilian descent.
Bugsy Siegel, co-boss with Lansky of the Bugs & Meyer Mob, was there, Louis (Lepke) Buchalter and his co-partner, Jake “Gurrah” Shapiro, who would form Murder, Inc., when Lansky became too important to attend to enforcement duties, were in the picture. There was Philip Kovolick, known var- iously as Phil the Stick and Little Farvel, who in future years would serve Lansky as combination bodyguard, chauffeur, and courier. There was Harry “Big Greenie’”’ Greenburg, whose ultimate murder was ordered by Lansky and executed by Sie- gel. Joseph “Doc’’ Stacher was in the group.
Ultimately he would become one of Lansky’s most valuable aides in the control of international casino gambling and would be deported to Israel when an old man. Hyman “Curly” Holtz, an expert on labor racketeering, had his picture taken with the rest.
So did Harry Téitelbaum and Louis “Shadows” Kravitz, both important members of the Bugs & Meyer Mob. Meyer Lansky was not in the picture. He gave the orders, but it was up to Siegel and Lepke to meet with underlings to see that those orders were carried out.
But in 1934 there was a meeting Lansky could not and did not want to avoid. Top gangsters from around the country gathered to form the National Crime Syndicate.
Information about the conference has leaked out over the years, and only the FBI doubts it happened. Informants tipped New York cops, but the political protection Lansky had worked so hard to achieve paid off: There was no roust, no publicity.
To the long list of stool pigeons who have talked about this meeting, this writer has added a new name. It can’t be revealed, however, for the man is still alive and living in some comfort in Miami Beach. The FBI knows the man, but since he doesn’t have an Italian name, they have never questioned him about his early career. He wouldn’t talk to “the Feebees” anyway.
*
A Manhattan grand jury attempting to probe the numbers racket early in 1935 revolted when it seemed apparent the dis- trict attorney, William C. Dodge, didn’t share the zeal of the jurors. A special prosecutor was requested, and the youthful Dewey—who had convicted Waxey Gordon for the Feds—was appointed. He immediately began a probe of Schultz, who had succeeded in getting back many of his old numbers writers and was beginning to roll again.
Feeling that he had escaped the devil only to land in the deep blue sea, Schultz went to Lansky with a suggestion. If the NCS would knock off Dewey, he would join the syndicate without demanding the return of his other rackets.
“We got to hit him,” urged the Dutchman. “He’s a menace to everybody.”
Lansky, remembering the syndicate’s decision not to hit reporters and cops, promised to take the matter up with the commission. Albert Anastasia, operations chief for the Bums, was intrigued by the challenge and volunteered to investigate the possibilities. A short time later, he presented a detailed outline of the proposed hit. Lansky, Luciano, and Lepke agreed it was practical but vetoed the idea from a policy standpoint.
Lepke said there was no question he was dangerous, but pointed out he was a hero and they dared not touch him.
Lucky felt they had to do something—for all he knew he might be next. What the hell did Dewey want anyway? Lucky asked.
Lansky shrugged. To be governor, what else? Dewey was ambitious—that was his weakness. Don’t worry, said Lansky, sooner or later he’d need them.
“Yeah,” said Lucky, “but in the meantime how do we get him off our backs?”
“If he sends you to the can, I'll get you out. That’s a promise.”
The word of Meyer Lansky was already legendary in the underworld, and no one had more confidence in it than Luci- ano. ‘The man was in deep trouble and knew it. If Dewey didn’t get him, the Intelligence Unit of IRS would. Elmer Irey, the man who got Capone, headed the Intelligence Unit and was feared more than either Dewey or Hoover. After all, unless someone dug up the evidence, Dewey couldn’t prosecute. Or so reasoned Luciano in 1935. He was soon to change his opinion.
With the decision to leave Dewey alone—much to Anastasia’s disgust—there remained the problem of Schultz. That proved much simpler. The Dutchman was sentenced to death for reasons of policy as well as greed. Schultz was an old-timer, a Mustache Pete in his own right. To knock him off would produce no heat—just the reverse.
“It’s a public service,” said Lepke, and Lansky nodded. Even Johnnie Torrio smiled.
On October 23, 1935, Dutch Schultz was burned down in the Palace Chophouse in Newark. Because of Anastasia’s attitude the job was given to Charlie “the Bug” Workman, a veteran killer from the old Bugs & Meyer Mob. Just to give the execution an NCS flavor, a killer was imported from the Cleveland Syndicate. After all, Dalitz and Company had a personal interest.
The Dutchman lived a few hours and mumbled to police ste- nographers who sat beside his bed. He kept talking about John, apparently blaming him for the shooting. Years were to pass before police identified the mysterious John as Torrio. And when they did, most of them agreed Torrio deserved a lot of credit. Removing the Dutchman was indeed a public service.
As much as anything, the killing of Schultz signaled an end to the era of independent warfare and free-lance competition.
The National Crime Syndicate had survived its first challenge.
*
Lansky met with Lepke a few days after the blast to consider what to do. Both men agreed quickly that to attempt to operate another opium plant would be highly reckless, indeed. However, Lepke was not ready to quit the narcotics business.
Back in the twenties when Rothstein decided rum-running was getting out of hand, he turned to narcotics smuggling.
Yasha Katzenberg had been his principal aide in setting up pipelines to Hong Kong. He knew the ropes and would be willing to try again. Lepke had a fix in with certain Customs officials in New York and could guarantee the passage of any number of trunks that Katzenberg could send or bring back from the Orient.
“Tt’s foolproof, Meyer,” said Lepke.
Lansky stared at the soft eyes of his old friend. With his control of the clothing industry in New York, to say nothing of a hundred other rackets, Lepke had become a top man in the NCS. Yet his ambition grew with his wealth, and perhaps his ego as well.
Gambling was one thing—a clean racket—but horse was another. Politicians and the public could wink at handbooks and casinos; the dope trade was safe only as long as it was concealed.
The explosion of Seymour Avenue wouldn’t be forgotten. A shift to smuggling was a step in the right direction, but only a step. Better by far to put the racket back on the shelf for a while and concentrate on other things. To continue would be to court disaster.
So Lansky reasoned, but he said nothing of his thoughts. Let Lepke stick his neck out if he wished.
“Sounds like a good idea, Lep,” said Lansky softly, “but count me out. I’m overextended now, if you know what I mean.”
Lepke knew. In fact, he had warned his friend about spreading himself too thin about the country. Too much dependence on other people. “You don’t mind if I go on without you?”
“Hell, no,” said Lansky. “Go ahead and best of luck. Maybe later when some of my joints start paying off, I can buy in on your deal.” “Any time,” said Lepke, and the two men shook hands warmly.
“Need any help with the fur business?” asked Lansky as he headed for the door.
“Nah,” said Lepke. “It’s in the box.”
The reference was to a federal indictment returned in 1933 which charged Lepke, “Gurrah” Shapiro, and 156 others with violating interstate commerce laws related to the fur trade.
Trial of the case was pending. All the defendants were found guilty and given the maximum sentence—two years in prison and a $10,000 fine. Little enough, but more than Lepke wanted. When Judge John C. Knox refused to permit bail pending appeal, Lepke turned to U.S. Circuit Judge Martin T.
Manton, who had rendered service for “Big Bill’’ Dwyer back in the twenties. Manton promptly released Lepke on $3,000 bail and later was presiding judge when the circuit court reversed Lepke’s conviction.
As the man had said, it was “‘in the box.”
*
“Yeah, and we helped the bastard get there.” Lucky snorted.
“And what good did it do us? Think he’d give me a pardon?”
“Not Roosevelt,” said Lansky, “but maybe Dewey will.”
“Are you hitting the horse?” asked Luciano. “He’s going to put me in and then let me out?”
“Stranger things have happened in politics,” replied his friend. “Just remember my promise.”
On the night of February 1, 1936, special prosecutor Dewey struck. More than 40 brothels in Manhattan and Brooklyn were raided by flying squads of detectives working under Dewey’s orders. More than 100 prostitutes were arrested as well as a number of pimps.
The grilling went on for days. Dewey hoped to find a few squealers who, in return for a deal, would put the finger on Luciano. He succeeded. Whether or not their song was sincere remains a matter of some dispute. Luciano maintained until his death that he was framed. Lansky believed him.
When enough madams had told stories implicating Lucky as the Boss, and a few pimps had added confirmation, the hunt for Lucky began. As previously noted, he was found in Hot Springs and, after considerable difficulty, returned to New York where a new indictment containing ninety-one counts was waiting. Extortion and organized harlotry were the charges. Bail was set at $350,000.
The trial was a circus. Dewey paraded scores of whores, madams, and pimps to the stand, giving New Yorkers a picture of commercial sex sufficient to jade the appetite of any voyeur. Almost all of them said what was expected—that Charlie Lucky was the Boss.
Conviction was a foregone conclusion, bearing in mind the reputations of Dewey as the “fighting district attorney” and Luciano as “the czar of organized crime.”
In his opening address, Dewey acknowledged that “never did Lucky or any codefendant actually see or collect from the whores,” but he painted him as the man at the top who gave the orders.
Testifying in his own behalf, Lucky stated that his business was “gambling houses and booking horses.” He might have saved his breath. After the jury had found him guilty on all counts, the presentence report added insult to injury. It stated in part:
“His ideals of life resolved themselves into money to spend, beautiful women to enjoy, silk underclothes, and places to go in style.”
Spotlighted were not the factors that made him dangerous to society—his long and dangerous fight to Americanize the Mafia, the way he had helped introduce business methods into crime —just the easy vices that brought him publicity and made hima target for ambitious politicians.
Reading those words in Florida, Meyer Lansky found confirmation of the personal policies he had decided on long before. Survival in the jungle of crime and politics required not only courage, brains, and patience, but also limited appetites.
*
Lucky was looking ahead. Relying on Lansky’s promise, he expected to get out of prison within a reasonable time and wanted to keep his organization intact. Adonis was loyal and wouldn’t try to take over, and the help of the Honored Society would strengthen Lansky’s position.
To the capos in the various cities went couriers with the message: “Cooperate with Lansky; he has promised to spring the Boss.” In thus passing the word, Lucky hoped to put his friend on the spot. If he kept his word, he stood to gain tremendous prestige. If he failed, the Honored Society would know whom to blame.
Lansky was shrewd enough to know exactly what Lucky was doing and was entirely agreeable; it fitted perfectly into his general program. The man who got Luciano out of prison would achieve an almost unique status within the organization. ‘This was directly in line with his ultimate objective.
At that point Lansky had no specific plan of action to achieve his goal. Carefully he had marked his potential rivals; they would be taken care of one by one over the years. It was a game for Meyer Lansky, a game of wits with living players. Wealth was not the objective, for of that he had more than enough, nor were the trappings of power. It was the exercise of power that Lansky enjoyed; to study others, to profit by their mistakes was his technique. He was only thirty-four when Lucky was con- victed. He had plenty of time.
The execution of Dutch Schultz in 1935 got his name on the front page of the New York Times. But it was only one name among many. The conviction of Lucky in 1936 brought more publicity, but again he was not singled out. Few people outside the NCS had any idea of his active role in many parts of the country. His task at this point was to create a base for future operations, to make friends by helping individual gangsters make money, while remaining as much of a mystery as possible.
*
Meyer Lansky’s instincts in staying out of the deal with Lepke were soon justified. The stakes were too high and there was too much heat. Someone talked, and the Federal Narcotics Bureau got the jump on Dewey, whose men were probing the garment industry and the bakery racket, in a race to get Lepke.
From his hiding place, Lepke called on all the resources of Murder, Inc., to eliminate the witnesses against him.
Albert Anastasia, who was paymaster of the Bums, was happy to oblige. Not only did he keep the gangster well hidden, but he personally ordered the execution of at least twelve witnesses.
The silent war between the invisible Lepke on the one hand, and the forces of law and order on the other, was a natural for ambitious politicians and empire builders. The hunt for Lepke became the biggest sensation since the Lindbergh kidnapping.
One million “wanted” circulars were distributed throughout the country, and the search was literally worldwide. He was ru- mored to be in Poland; other stories had him in Havana under the protection of Batista; he was said to be in Greece where Katzenberg was captured.
J. Edgar Hoover called Lepke “the most dangerous criminal in America” and dropped the pursuit of bank robbers to meet with his rival gang buster, Tom Dewey. Sitting in was Harry J.
Anslinger, head of the Federal Narcotics Bureau, and New York Police Commissioner Lewis J. Valentine. For the first time a coordinated effort against crime was worked out. The four men decided to continue their individual efforts but to pool all information at the top level. The FBI offered a $5,000 reward, and Dewey added another $25,000. Little enough, considering the money and power available to Lepke.
It was the time of the Big Heat. Lansky found business in Havana and stayed there much of the time, while keeping in close touch with developments in New York. Even then he wasn’t safe. The FBI interviewed him at the Hotel Nacional in 1939. Beyond listing his office address as 1450 Broadway, New York City, Lansky gave little information. He hadn’t seen Lepke for years, he said, but was certain the guy wasn’t in Havana.
Lansky had every reason to be certain—he knew Lepke had never left New York. While the greatest manhunt in history shook the bushes from Boston to Los Angeles, Lepke was living like a king in a variety of hideouts provided by Anastasia.
He put on some weight, grew a bushy mustache, and took long walks. Meanwhile, he bossed his industrial rackets and gave contracts for the elimination of possible witnesses.
Big as he was, Lepke had to have the consent of the board of directors before ordering anyone knocked off. Lansky, as a ranking member, had to give his consent, and it posed some problems. Lepke had to be given his way, up to a point. To refuse to cooperate would have endangered all Lansky’s plans. Yet Lansky wanted some witnesses to survive; he wanted Lepke caught and convicted. Timing was the important thing. If the heat continued long enough, it would be possible to argue that Lepke had to be sacrificed for the good of the rackets.
Harry “Big Greenie” Greenberg provided an object lesson. A longtime enforcer for Lepke, Big Greenie went on the lam when the heat began. He got as far as Montreal before his money ran out. Reasoning that Lepke wanted him to stay lost and had plenty of cash, he wrote to a friend in New York asking for dough. Implicit in the request was the threat that if Lepke didn’t supply it, Big Greenie might just try for the $30,000 reward the cops had put on Lepke’s head.
It was a reckless thing to do. To have paid Big Greenie anything after a threat would only invite more demands later. The man was dangerous—and not just to Lepke. If he talked, he could put Meyer Lansky in the soup, for he had worked with Lansky in the garment industry as well as with Lepke.
A kangaroo court met in Prospect Park one night and passed the death sentence on the absent Greenberg. The contract went to Albert “Allie” —Tannenbaum, a trusted triggerman who had learned the ropes with the Bugs & Meyer Mob. Allie immediately went to Montreal, but Big Greenie had decided discretion was the better part of valor. He had disappeared. He surfaced briefly in Detroit but vanished once more before ‘Tannenbaum could get there. Months passed and no word. Meanwhile, the increasing heat on both the syndicate and the Mafia had cooled the respect and, indeed, the affection in which Lepke was held.
The word spread that Lep was kill crazy, and even those who had no legitimate reason to be worried felt threatened. Lansky passed the word that a deal could be made for Lepke. He could be turned over to the Feds and put away on the narcotics rap. Then, when the time was ripe, he could be sprung. He might be through as a racketeer, but he had stashed away plenty of loot—he wouldn’t starve.
Anastasia objected, arguing that the heat would soon pass.
Big Albert sensed that if he could save Lepke, he would be well rewarded and perhaps replace Lansky as the syndicate’s gambling man. Lansky, he argued, was too soft. If Dewey had been knocked off back in 1935 as Dutch Schultz suggested, all this trouble wouldn’t have happened.
But in confiding his suspicions to Lepke, he aroused a fear in the man. Lepke knew well the unwritten law that any man could be hit if he refused to cooperate for the good of the organization. Lansky was powerful enough to persuade the board of directors to sentence Lepke to death. Anastasia could protect him from the FBI, from Dewey, but no one could protect him from the judgment of the NCS.
As Lepke wavered, at the right pyschological moment Lansky sent in Dimples Wolensky with a bright thought. A deal had been made with J. Edgar Hoover, he said. Hoover guaranteed that Lepke would remain in federal custody and his coopera- tion would be taken into account if he were convicted on the narcotics rap.
Hoover, as head of the “G-men,” had a national reputation.
While he had never moved against organized crime as such, and, in fact, denied that such an animal existed, he was a national hero. If you couldn’t trust Hoover, you couldn’t trust anyone—or so Lepke reasoned.
A deal of sorts was worked out. Details have been buried in the FBI files for obvious reasons. One version has leaked out, however, and it differs from the popular one so publicized by Walter Winchell.
The head of a giant liquor company, whose roots went back to Prohibition and whose friends included Johnnie Torrio and Meyer Lansky, made contact with a high-ranking subordinate of Hoover, and arrangements were made to surrender Lepke.
The aide was told that Lepke would be promised no state prosecution; Hoover was not informed of the promise. The aide was later given a good job by the liquor man.
Winchell, the newspaper columnist and radio personality, had been broadcasting appeals to Lepke to surrender and was brought into the act to explain how contact was made. In re- turn he would get the scoop of the year, and Hoover’s prestige would be enhanced beyond the wildest dreams of his press agents. Everyone, in fact, would profit but Lepke.
The story of the surrender has been told many times. Anastasia, still sullen, still protesting, drove Lepke from Third Street, Brooklyn—the last of his hideouts—to Manhattan. On Fifth Avenue at Twenty-eighth Street, the car stopped. Lepke, wearing dark glasses, got out and walked to a parked car where Winchell and Hoover waited.
“Mr. Hoover, this is Lepke,” Winchell said formally.
“How do you do?” said Hoover, as the man he had hunted throughout the world sat down beside him.
“Glad to meet you, I’m sure,” said Lepke.
But he was considerably less glad by the time the ride ended.
Lepke discovered that Hoover knew—or pretended to know— of no deal. As far as he was concerned, Lepke had just surrendered as any good citizen would do upon learning he was wanted by the FBI.
Actually, Lepke wasn’t legally wanted. The FBI had entered the hunt on the assumption that Lepke as a fugitive from a federal indictment had fled across state lines to avoid prosecution. In fact, of course, Lepke hadn’t left New York City.
Lepke almost leaped from the moving car when he learned the truth. But a glance out the window convinced him that to do so would be instant death. The FBI had not allowed its chief to go on a dangerous mission alone. Cars that had been hidden in the shadows were escorting them now, and those cars were filled with special agents who had gunned down John Dillinger as soon as he made a gesture toward his pocket. The FBI had made its reputation up to that point by killing—not convicting—the Ma Barkers of the Midwest. The public applauded as FBI spokesmen pointed out how the state had been saved the expense of a trial.
While there was life, there was hope, decided Lepke, and he stayed where he was. But his thoughts turned to Moey Dimples who had sold him a bill of goods.
Anastasia remembered Dimples too, and perhaps that is the reason why four years later the man with the cutest nickname in all Mobdom was shot down in midtown Manhattan. Had Albert dared, he would have gone after Lansky—the man who he believed gave Dimples his orders—but Lansky was bigger than ever. Anastasia decided to wait.
Despite his temper, he, too, possessed patience. To have killed Lansky, assuming it were possible, would have brought down the vengeance of the Mafia which was still waiting for Lansky to get Lucky out of prison.
In Havana Lansky heard the news with ironic amusement.
Lepke would be convicted on the narcotics charge and sen- tenced to fourteen years. But that was only the beginning.
Dewey, enraged when Hoover and Winchell captured the headlines, charged that Hoover had broken their pact on pooling information. Dewey had not been informed of the deal and didn’t even know Lepke was in New York until he read it in the paper.
Nevertheless, he made the best of a bad situation. Lepke was promptly indicted for his extortions in the bakery field. Conviction was easily obtained, and Lepke—still claiming he had been double-crossed—was given another sentence. This time it was for thirty years to life, and Dewey could claim to have achieved twice as much as the Feds.
The surrender of Lepke, coming as it did a few months after the conviction of Johnnie Torrio on income-tax charges, made 1939 a decisive year for Lansky.
*
The case of Big Greenie was not as easily closed. When Greenberg reappeared after months in hiding, the problem of Lepke had been solved; yet the danger to Lansky remained.
Which may help to explain why Bugsy Siegel risked his neck.
Greenberg was found in Hollywood, California, the personal province of the handsome Siegel. Perhaps he was trying to get as far away from New York as possible. On the other hand, he might have hoped to make peace with Lansky by appealing to Siegel. If so, he waited too late to try.
Bugsy immediately reported Greenberg’s location and personally rushed East to decide what should be done.
In conferences with Zwillman, Adonis, and by courier, with Lansky, the original death sentence was reaffirmed. Siegel went home to keep an eye on the target while Tannenbaum made ready to finish him off.
From a waterfront pier two guns were stolen and delivered to Tannenbaum just before he boarded a plane in Newark. The courier was Longie Zwillman.
In Los Angeles a few hitches developed, and Siegel—who hadn’t killed anyone for several years—decided he’d better oversee the execution in person. A lot had happened since Siegel won his spurs with the Bugs & Meyer Mob, and even the reckless Bugsy had learned the value of insulation. Yet here he was, the West Coast representative of the National Crime Syndicate, going out on a hit like any two-bit gunman. Perhaps he feared that if Big Greenie talked, he as well as Lansky would be implicated. Or perhaps he was just bored and thought a killing would help keep the restless Jack Dragna in his place.
Big Greenie was living at 1804 Vista Del Mar and taking full precautions. He went out only at night to buy a newspaper. On November 22, 1939, almost three months after Lepke surren- dered, he left as usual to buy a paper. Returning a few minutes later, he passed two cars parked at the curb. One car blinked its light, a signal to the gunman waiting in the shadows in front of Big Greenie’s house.
Unsuspecting, Greenberg stopped. The gunman walked over and pumped several bullets into him. Burton Turkus, the assist- ant district attorney who investigated the case, identified the killer as Frankie Carbo, the Mob’s fight manager who in his day handled several world champions. Siegel and Tannenbaum waited in the cars. Later that night, Tannenbaum was driven to San Francisco where he caught a plane back to New York to report mission accomplished.
Siegel went home to telephone Lansky, then at the Nacional in Havana. The conversation was cryptic.
“Know something, Meyer?” asked Bugsy.
“What?” asked Lansky.
“Tomorrow's Thanksgiving,” said his ex-partner. “You can celebrate.” There was a brief pause, then as casual as ever, Lansky commented:
“You’re wrong, Ben. Today is Thanksgiving here and I’m already celebrating.” Siegel looked at his watch and remembered the time differential.
“Damned if you ain’t right,” he said.
The Big Heat in New York, coupled with Lepke’s attempted war of extermination, had made a lot of minor punks nervous and angry. Inevitably, one of them decided to talk—and he set off a chain reaction without precedent in criminal history.
The man who started it all was Harry Rudolph, an allegedly unstable character considered somewhat crazy by police and hoods as well. On January 24, 1940, the district attorney of Kings County (Brooklyn) received a note from Rudolph, who was then in the city workhouse serving time for a misdemeanor. Rudolph wanted to talk about a murder.
The D.A.’s men went to see Rudolph. He had been brooding about the murder of Alex Alpert, a good friend, who had been knocked off by the “Bums of Brownsville” on November 25, 1933. When asked why he waited so long to talk, Rudolph replied that he had been trying to talk for years but no one was interested. Either his reputation as loony had prevented anyone from taking him seriously, or his insistence on the existence of a murder mob sounded too preposterous.
The district attorney’s office was then engaged in a drive to rid the streets of hoodlums. Rudolph’s story gave them an excuse to pick up three notorious hoods and at least hold them for trial. An indictment was quickly secured and warrants issued. One of the men named was Able “Kid Twist’ Reles, an old as- sociate of the Bugs & Meyer Mob.
A day later, Reles walked in and surrendered. He had been arrested many times and, in fact, was currently charged with vagrancy and free on bond. This time he was sent to the Tombs to await trial. Slowly it dawned on him that this rap might be serious. An attorney visited him on March 21 and apparently confirmed his worst fears. Immediately after the lawyer left, the Kid wrote a note to his wife instructing her to tell the district attorney, William O’Dwyer, that he wanted to talk.
In retrospect, the decision of Reles was not surprising. For several years minor gangsters had been singing to Tom Dewey in return for immunity. As the boys put it to each other: “I went down to Dewey’s office and cut myself a piece of cake.” The surrender of Lepke convinced a lot of hoods that it was time to look after themselves. Reles, one of the smartest, wasn’t worried about the Alpert killing; he knew all too well that under New York law more than the testimony of one man was needed. But there were scores of other murders, and who knew when someone else would get the bright idea to squeal first? If anyone were going to sing, Reles wanted to be the canary.
All he asked of O’Dwyer was complete immunity in all murders. In effect, he got what he wanted. O’Dwyer promised to give him immunity in every case in which he supplied information. If he held back anything, and evidence could be secured elsewhere, he’d have to take his chances. It was a shrewd deal; only by making a complete confession about every murder in which he was involved could he be sure of ultimate freedom.
He also recognized that if he were to live to enjoy that freedom, he had better nail as many gangsters as possible.
So the song began. Blessed with almost total recall, Reles wore out a string of stenographers as he talked for twelve straight days, supplying intimate details of more than eighty- five murders and information about a thousand more.
One of them—just one of them—was the execution of Big Greenie in Hollywood, California. Reles could link Bugsy Sie- gel to the crime, having been present at some of the conferences in New York prior to the killing. He could also finger Allie Tannenbaum who had carried two guns West and participated in the rub-out. Allie was picked up immediately, and after sit- ting in a cell for a few weeks decided that, like Reles, he’d better make a deal. In due course he got around to the murder of Big Greenie.
Under heavy guard, Reles and Tannenbaum were flown to Los Angeles and, amid great secrecy, testified before a grand jury. Five men were indicted for murder, and among them were Frankie Carbo and Bugsy Siegel. But both had vanished before the indictment was made public.
Siegel was found hiding in the attic of his $200,000 thirty-fiveroom home. When he denied knowing any Big Greenie, he was reminded of the picture made years before when he, Lepke, Big Greenie, and several others were arrested in the Hotel Franconia. Bugsy had no comment.
After being questioned in a hotel room, Siegel was taken to jail where a horde of reporters and photographers was waiting. He borrowed a comb and a necktie from an obliging detective, dusted off his shoes, and faced the press his usual debonair self.
Jail was not too great a burden for Bugsy. Evidence was un- covered showing that he lived like a king in prison and was permitted to go out for a night on the town when he became too bored. To the Hollywood starlets, he was now a bigger man than ever—a romantic figure. After making dozens of gangster movies, the stars and would-be stars found it thrilling to have a real one in their midst. Records seized from Bugsy’s home proved just how popular he had become—and how much money he had borrowed from film personalities who never expected to get it back.
To an uneasy Lansky, Bugsy sent a message of reassurance:
“Don’t shit in your pants, bud; I’ve got the D.A. in my jock strap.” How much of this was a boast remains unknown, but on December 11, 1940, John Dockweiler, the newly elected district attorney of Los Angeles County, went into court and moved the indictment be dismissed. Only later was it learned that Siegel had contributed $30,000 of the Mob’s money to Dockweiler’s campaign. Allegedly, from his cell Bugsy wrote an angry letter demanding a refund and got it. He also gained his freedom.
California authorities have since blamed O’Dwyer back in Brooklyn. Allegedly, O’Dwyer—who, like Tom Dewey, had po- litical ambitions—didn’t want to risk his precious stool pigeons out in the wilds of California where any conviction would feather some other prosecutor's nest. Allegedly, he refused to let Reles and Tannenbaum fly out to testify.
Burton Turkus, the assistant district attorney who did most of the work for O’Dwyer in the Murder, Inc., probe, gave an- other explanation. It was discovered that one of the local wit- nesses—that is, California witnesses—had not told the whole truth, so the indictment was thrown out. Bugsy, now more of a celebrity than ever, went free.
Some months later, a bewildering series of events began that even now is not fully explained.
Early in September, 1941, O’Dwyer permitted Tannenbaum to fly West again to testify once more before a grand jury. A new indictment was returned, this time naming only Siegel and Carbo as alleged murderers. Lepke, who had been named in the original indictment as a coconspirator, was not mentioned. Apparently the theory that Greenberg had been killed to protect Lepke, and on his orders, had been dropped.
On September 15, 1941, Lepke went on trial again—this time for a New York murder. Reles and Tannenbaum were the principal witnesses, but there were others who could supply the necessary corroboration to Tannenbaum’s testimony.
Tannenbaum testified on November 11, 1941, and his tale of murder put Lepke in the electric chair.
One day later, Abe Reles, the canary who could sing but couldn’t fly, went out the window of the Half Moon Hotel on Coney Island where he had been guarded by picked men behind steel doors. He was found dead on the pavement.
The murder of Reles—no one who knew the man believed he killed himself or died by accident attempting to escape— didn’t help Lepke. On December 1, 1941, Louis Buchalter—to use Lepke’s right name—was found guilty of murder in the first degree. Next day, a stern judge sentenced him to die.
But Reles’ death got Bugsy Siegel off the hook in far-distant California. As in New York, state law required corroboration of the testimony of an accomplice. Tannenbaum’s testimony was not enough, and there was no other witness to confirm Siegel’s part in the death of Big Greenie. Shortly thereafter, the second indictment against Siegel was dismissed. The case was closed.
The details of how Reles was tossed out the window while six guards slept have never been made public. The entire affair was hushed up, and not even the Kefauver Committee could unravel it.
A newspaper report quoting an unidentified official got little attention. The official allegedly said: “A well-known West Coast tracketeer was sent here a month ago with orders to see that Reles escaped or was killed.” Another story reported that “powerful West Coast interests” got word to Reles that he would be $50,000 richer if he fled before the trial of Bugsy Siegel.
An official investigation of these reports uncovered the fact that a visitor to Brooklyn, just before Reles went out the win- dow, was none other than Meyer Lansky.
Hank Messick
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