Operation Underworld (22 page)

Socks stepped off the pilings and into the six man motor launch and took a seat in the front. When he was comfortable, he signalled his coxswain and they started south towards Pier 14, a quarter of a mile away. Just far enough so the FBI agents on stake-out could eat their cold sandwiches and drink their lukewarm coffee undisturbed while Socks was in one of his favorite restaurants enjoying a hot steak, some pasta and glass of wine.

After exiting the launch, he made for a pay-phone on Exchange Street. This increased inconvenience was one of the topics he was discussing with his lawyer only minutes later.

“Please hold for Mr Guerin.” It was cold inside the phone booth.

“Socks? What is it? They run ya in?”

“No, I’m okay. But I need your help.”

Guerin was puzzled but had his suspicions. “I’m listening.”

“Look, this Navy shit’s gettin’ pretty thick, I want out.”

“Yeah? Congratulations! Me too!”

“What the hell you talkin’ about?”

“I been on the phone six times with that god-damned DAso far. And that’s just this week. Every time I bump into a lawyer at the courthouse who represents one’a you guys, he wants to know if you’re makin’ a deal, fer Christ’s sake! Then he’s worried his client is gonna wanna make a deal.”

“So what?”

“So what? I’ll tell ya so what! Guys in my game aren’t crazy about spendin’ two weeks preparing for court and then havin’ the client cop a plea!”

“Look, that’s their problem! I ain’t makin’ no deals with them pricks, and anything you hear is strictly grapevine! Now, help me get the hell outta this Navy deal, will ya!?”

“No can do, Socks!”

“What the hell you mean, ‘no can do’?” Lanza was offended at Guerin’s attitude. “I’m your lawyer, Socks, not your career counsellor. This secret shit is over and above the call of duty. I got other clients, ya know.”

“Are you tellin’me you can’t do nuthin’, or you don’t
wanna
do nuthin’?”

“What’s the difference? Look, it’s your game. I work in the courtroom, not on the streets and back alleys.”

“You’re tellin’me you won’t call the Commander for me?”

Guerin was getting tired of playing footsie. “What am I? Fucking Mata Hari? You work for Haffenden. Talk to him! I’m busy!” Guerin hung up.

Lanza stared at the receiver, thinking,
what the hell am I gonna’ tell him?

Stepping out onto the street, he felt the dip in temperature as he noticed the sun silhouetting the Bayonne Bridge as it set in the distance. He turned and walked back to the launch.

The next morning found Lanza a long way from the stench of fish. He was standing in front of a bank of ornate elevators. The magnificent gilded Art Deco reliefs and the lobby which occupied an entire city block meant he could only be in one place, the Empire State Building.

The evening before, Socks had paced nervously in front of his phone for an hour and a half debating whether or not to call the Commander. At about half past seven, the debate was settled when his phone rang. It was the Commander, he wanted a meet. When he mentioned Fay Wray in the conversation and the prearranged code for the time, Lanza knew where to be.

The familiar
ding
of the elevator bell signalled one of the two express elevators had arrived and Lanza put his cigarette out and boarded. As the four passengers quickly climbed to the eighty-sixth floor where they would be required to change cars, Socks smiled at the three foreign girls holding their stomachs and probably remarking, in some language he was unfamiliar with, about the speed of the elevator. He thought about the sumptuous meals he enjoyed on this very spot, 103 storeys lower, when the Waldorf-Astoria stood here less than a decade ago.

Out on the observation deck he lit another cigarette and surveyed the landscape. You could almost see the entire waterfront, he thought to himself. The whole piece of the pie.

The three foreign girls were now holding tightly onto the guard rail and babbling away at each other when the building increased the momentum of its sway as the wind picked up. Socks found it soothing.

“They say on a clear day you can see four states.” Lanza slowly turned to his left to see a man in a grey suit leaning on the rail next to him. It was Haffenden.

“Be a shame if they have ta tear it down fer lack’a tenants,” Lanza answered.

“Lack of people, Socks. That’s why we’re here.” The wind began to pick up. “Let’s go inside.” Taking seats at the back of the Tippy Top Coffee Shop, Haffenden continued.

“The people in Washington are real grateful for what you’ve been doin’ for us, Socks.”

“Yeah? How grateful?”

“Sorry, we’re still not authorised to offer anybody a deal.”

“Look Commander, about Brooklyn…”

“Yes?”

“I can’t do nuthin’ over there.”

“What are you telling me?”

“Sir, I’ll lay my cards on the table. I want out.”

“Out like outta the Brooklyn part?” Haffenden knew he was kidding himself, but it was worth a try.

“Out like in-out out. The whole shootin’ match. I can’t do nuthin’ else for ya.” Lanza respected the officer and felt remorse at letting him down, but he was tired of not sleeping at night through worry about his reputation in the community.

“Socks, I just got word that they’re so happy with us, they want us to expand the operation!”

“Expand the operation?!” Socks was shocked. Whatever residual doubts the veteran mobster might have had about pulling out instantly evaporated.

“… and the building was completed ten months ahead of schedule and one million dollars under budget just nine years ago!” The voice of the female tour guide faded out onto the observation deck along with the clatter of the first tour group of the morning, as the meeting was momentarily interrupted.

“Sir, I’ve got my own problems piling up faster than I can keep up with ’em. But the reality of the situation is, I just ain’t got the juice you need. I can’t approach the Comardos directly, I don’t know shit about Bayonne and hell, halfa them Jersey piers are military!”

Haffenden knew that the military piers were no more immune from Mob infiltration and corruption than the fish piers. However, it was clear his best source was already a lost cause.

“Socks, we can’t just let you walk away.”

“What? I know too much? You gonna whack me, Commander?”

“We don’t operate like that.”

“Sure ya don’t. You just put people away somewhere, real cosy like, for national security’s sake. In detention camps.”

Haffenden was doing what he didn’t ever want to do with one of his sources. Getting pissed off. “Third Naval District has nothing to do with those camps!” he retorted.

“You think I ain’t thought ahead? There’s a dozen guys with inside info on what I been doin’ fer you. And there’s a certain lawyer with a sealed letter and instructions to go public if there’s any monkey business, should I go to trial.”
This guy’s not as dumb as as I thought
. “Now, I played it straight with you right down the line. And I’ll keep playin’ straight with you, Commander. But I gotta be here long after this war is over and you go home and retire. And them guys in the DA’s office don’t give two shits about me, you or the man on the moon, so long as they get up the next rung of the ladder and get a shot at makin’ governor.”

In light of recent events, Haffenden could find no flaw in Lanza’s argument. “Does that mean you’ll still help me out where you can?”

Lanza felt the sincerity in the request. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll tell you who’ll get you access to the whole fuckin’shootin’match.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Charlie Lucky.”

“Luciano? Lucky Luciano?”

Lanza smiled.

“But he’s outta circulation, in prison somewhere. For life, according to our information.”

Lanza stood and slowly stepped away from the table. “Yeah, hold onto that dream, brother. Sorry I can’t be of any more help, but I won’t do you or your project much good if they throw me in jail.”

The Commander remained seated to digest what he had just been told, and Lanza patted him on the shoulder as he walked past, heading for the elevator back down to street level.

Haffenden considered his next course of action, then left to locate a phone.

“Captain MacFall, please.”

“I’m sorry, sir, Captain MacFall has left the building. May I put you through to someone else?” Nikki’s pleasant voice responded on the other end of the line.

Haffenden thought for a moment. “Yes. Put me through to Commander Marsloe’s office.”

“One moment, sir.” The Commander could hear the buzz of the line, and after it rang three times, a voice answered.

“Yeah?”

“Tony?”

“No, wait a minute. I’ll get him.” He heard the receiver being laid down and a short time later Marsloe was on the line.

“Hello, who is this, please?”

“Tony, it’s me, Haffenden.”

“Charlie! What can I do for you?”

“Who answered your phone?”

“Ah, just one of the treasury guys. What can I help you with?”

“You worked on the Mafia stuff in Hogan’s office, didn’t ya?”

“I was the resident expert on Sicilian affairs, yeah, why?”

“I need an organisational flow chart. A sort of an order of battle if you will, and – ”

“Charlie, that’s gonna be kinda hard.”

“Why?”

“Because we don’t have one.”

“You telling me the best intel service in the world doesn’t have the skinny on a bunch of gangsters?”

“Ah… that’s about it, Haff.”

“Well, who does?”

“Only one person that we know of.”

“Well, who the hell is that?”

“The head of the Mafia.”

“Christ, Marsloe, give me a break! Who the hell is the head of the Mafia?”

“Well… we’re not exactly sure.”

“Sicilian expert, huh? In the largest prosecutor’s office in the world? What the hell did you do? Swap lasagne recipes?”

“Hey, don’t take it out on me! We could take a page, ya know”

“Shit, sorry, Tony. I been running into a coupl’a walls lately, that’s all. Thanks anyway.”

An hour later, Commander Haffenden was back on the line to MacFall explaining the situation with Lanza. He couldn’t mention names on the phone but he made it clear that the DAwould have to be consulted for some background information to kick-start the new phase of the operation. Haffenden tried, unsuccessfully, to convince MacFall to approach Hogan on his behalf.

“Sir, we go back to those guys with hat in hand and they’ll use that leverage for every mile it’s worth!” Haffenden pointed out.

“We’ll have to do something to preclude that, I suppose.”

“Sir, I’m certain if we both go over there together…”

“What’s this ‘we’ jazz? You got worms? Charlie, I told you this is your show. You’ll have to handle it. That’s that. Now I’ll call around and grease the skids, but I highly suggest you plan on being over at the DA’s office in the a.m., Commander. Clear?”

There was a pause before Haffenden answered. “Aye-aye, sir.”

“And Haffenden, whatever you do don’t bring up the wires. Those people have no appreciation for flamboyance!”

“No sense of humour, huh?” Haffenden couldn’t fight off the grin involuntarily creeping over his face.

To the Commander’s pleasant surprise, when he rang Hogan’s office a short time later, the secretary informed him she was to give him an appointment at his convenience; that the District Attorney instructed her to leave the schedule open. They agreed on two o’clock that afternoon and Haffenden hung up suspicious and bewildered. Grease the skids? He must have sent over a fifty dollar hooker with a lobster dinner!

Commander Haffenden was not a politician. He’d never had the slightest interest in politics. He was a sailor, first, last and always. Consequently, he would not deduce that Captain MacFall never spoke to Hogan. That he never had to. Instead, the DA’s motivation came from a phone conversation designed to employ a different angle of attack. In fact, the skid-greasing was by way of Fiorrello LaGuardia’s office. The mayor’s secretary conveyed the message, and Hogan’s schedule parted like the Red Sea.

When Haffenden entered Hogan’s office that afternoon, he found it would be a three-way meeting. He wasn’t comfortable with that so he asked to speak to Hogan alone. Gurfein, with a hurt puppy look on his face, stepped through the door into the reception area.

“Big boys only, huh?” The secretary didn’t bother to turn around as she made her remark to Gurfein, who flopped down onto one of the over-stuffed sofas and picked up a magazine.

“Shut up!”

“Snappy comeback,” replied the secretary, as she continued to type.

After explaining what he needed from the DA, Hogan asked who the mystery man was. Haffenden cocked himself back in his chair and was amused at the expression, which bordered on shock, on Hogan’s face.

“Luciano! That may not be doable, Commander.”

“Let’s start with where he is. Where do we find him?”

“He’s a lifelong guest of the Gray Bar Hotel.”

“Which branch?”

“Clinton State Penitentiary, up in Dannemora.” The Commander began taking notes.

“We’ll use the Lanza strategy. Who’s his lawyer?”