Uncle Al Capone (18 page)

As soon as Theresa and Maffie said the word, we all went to the dining room and sat down together. Aunt Maffie put a thick Chicago telephone book on a chair for me. We ate and ate and ate, and drank wine, dago red. I toasted with wine with the adults, but after one glass, I had to switch to root beer.

This was the last time we would all be together, and when I close my eyes, I can remember every minute. Most of all I hear the noise, a low rumble that rose and fell as the conversation became more or less boisterous. The food and alcohol flowed, and the rowdy Capone boys jostled each other still, even as adults. But we all focused on Al, sitting at the head of the table, our eyes on him as if he were at home plate and we were the spectators.

After Christmas, just before the first of the year, Al and Mae returned to Florida. Uncle Al’s 47th birthday was January 18, and Mae had a party arranged for him at their home on the Saturday before. All the high society people in Miami were invited.

Not long after the party, we got word that Al had become very ill. Aunt Mae arranged for two male nurses to take care of him around the clock. The doctors said that he had a mini-stoke, followed by a bad case of pneumonia. With his weakened immune system, the prognosis was grim. He had a couple of days at best, the doctors told us. My father, Grandfather Ralph, Grandmother Theresa, Uncles Mimi and Bites, and I took the train down to Miami, expecting the worst.

I can remember all the people in the house holding vigil. Uncle Al laid in bed, his eyes closed and his breathing labored. Aunt Mae called in their priest, and he offered prayers. My grandmother cried and prayed the rosary. Reporters with their cameras had gathered at the front gate. My grandfather asked them to leave us alone but they wouldn’t, so he finally took some beer out to them. To my family, liquor solved everything.

After a few days, Uncle Al unexpectedly recovered. He could get out of bed and walk around, and even started playing cards again. He loved to play gin rummy. He started sitting at the card table on the pool deck and begged people to play with him.

Sure that Al was on the mend, my father decided we would return to Chicago where I already missed a few days of the second grade. My grandmother and Aunt Maffie returned a few days later. Uncle Al continued to improve and according to my aunt Mae, he was his old self again. My grandfather Ralph stayed in Florida to help Mae and to take care of financial matters.

On the morning of January 25, my seventh birthday, Al’s doctor said he was well enough to go into the pool and swim some laps. Uncle Al was a strong swimmer, like my dad. After his swim, he took a shower with the help of his two male nurses. He got out of the shower, and the nurses prepared to powder his skin with talcum powder. In those days, the men in our Italian family always smelled of talcum powder. I can still recall that sweet smell. As Uncle Al stepped out of the shower, he dropped to the floor, dead in an instant from a massive stroke.

Suddenly, and without warning, the Al Capone Era came to an end. It was an era that saw him rise from obscurity and poverty in Brooklyn to become one of the most famous men of the twentieth century.

No doubt many Americans greeted his death with an emphatic “Good riddance.” Many held the opinion that Uncle Al gave Italians a bad image of lawlessness and brutality. But the fact remains that when Al was growing up, Italians were the lowest on the totem pole of America’s unofficial caste system. And although he did help to perpetuate the image of Italians as criminals, I believe that to a large percentage of Italians, Uncle Al engendered a sense of pride that one of their own could be considered the boss of Chicago, with most of the high-ranking police and politicians on his payroll.

As for his family and friends, his death was greeted with profound sadness. Gone was this man who had lifted the entire family from poverty to prosperity. Gone for Theresa was the loving son who at the peak of his reign as “King of Chicago” had phoned his mother every day. Gone was the generous man who took care of his brothers and sister financially and otherwise. Gone was my favorite uncle who bounced me on his knee, told me knock-knock jokes, taught me to swim, to play “rock, paper, scissors,” and to play songs on the mandolin. He was so kind and gentle with me and the rest of his family. I couldn’t believe it when I later learned of his title as “Public Enemy Number One.”

The family knew of his plans to get out of the rackets once and for all and prove he could be successful in legitimate business. Call us naïve, but each member of our family always believed that Al never intentionally hurt an innocent person, though he did deal harshly with those who threatened him and his beloved family. Al himself swore, “I never stuck up a man in my life. Neither did any of my agents ever rob anybody or burglarize any homes while they worked for me. They might have pulled plenty of jobs before they came to me or after they left me, but not while they were in my Outfit.”

Our family also knew of his struggles with syphilis, and they knew of his frequent bad dreams, reliving the trauma of the many attempts on his life. Over the years he dodged hundreds, if not thousands, of bullets. He learned of some plots that included bombs and others that involved poison. And he lived through a stabbing and the torture in Alcatraz.

He survived it all. But, this stroke brought it all to an end.

Or was it the end? The Al Capone Era seems to be constantly revived by the endless stream of books, movies, and television shows that either deals directly with Uncle Al or yields a strong influence by him, such as
The Godfather
,
The Untouchables
, and
The Sopranos.

There are few people in the world, living or dead, with a name as well known as Al Capone. We know this from research, and from personal experience. My husband and I have visited more than 50 countries, and if we happen to mention to the natives that we are from Chicago, people often say, without knowing that I am a Capone, “Chicago. . . Ah, Al Capone!” (Sometimes this is followed by “Bang, Bang!!” as they mimic shooting a gun.) On January 25, 2007, the sixtieth anniversary of his death, five hundred newspapers ran articles about Al Capone. The Associated Press ran a story that was picked up around the globe. Among its points: today, the Capone name is still synonymous with Chicago, despite city efforts to end or downplay the association; thousands of tourists every week take regular bus tours to Chicago spots that Capone made famous, including his burial plot, where many leave flowers and other tokens of respect; the Chicago History Museum records 50,000 hits every month for the portion of its Web site devoted to Capone; those fascinated with Capone include a large number of Europeans and other non-Americans who visit the city.

In just the two weeks prior to writing this paragraph, the following has transpired:

-
The Wall Street Journal
and many other newspapers in the United States and other countries, ran front page stories about uncle Al and our family.

- I have had several requests for interviews on national television and radio.

- Film makers have inquired about the documentary and screen play rights to
Uncle Al Capone.

It appears that Uncle Al will forever be a part of American history and folklore.

On the day he died, one of Uncle Al’s nurses called downstairs to Aunt Mae. When she saw his motionless body, she gasped but didn’t say a word. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and she dropped to her knees and gently touched his arm. She leaned over and said something, barely audible, kissing him on the forehead. After a moment, she stood up, stiffened her body, and said, “We’ve got to call Ralph and Sonny.” My grandfather had returned to his hotel the night before, thinking that all was well.

My grandfather immediately called Lou Rago, a good friend of the family and the owner of three funeral homes, Rago Brothers, in Chicago. Lou Rago made all the arrangements in consultation with my grandfather. In order to avoid arousing suspicion from the crowd of reporters that perpetually staked out Al’s home hoping to get a photo of Al or Mae, Philbrick Funeral Home spirited Al’s body away in a regular car. Lou Rago and his brother took turns driving back to Chicago on Highway 41.

My family wanted to bury Al with dignity and that meant they had to fool the press. That evening, my grandfather came out of the house and announced to the reporters that Al had died. Shortly afterwards, a hearse pulled up in front of the house and entered through the gate, which then closed behind it. A short while later, the gate opened and the hearse drove away with reporters following it, to Philbrick, where the next day a wake was held with a closed, empty casket. It was attended by family members who were still in Miami and a host of big shots from Florida, including Desi Arnaz, who had gone to St. Patrick’s High School with Sonny. Two days later, the family returned to Chicago by train. Philbrick Funeral Home placed the empty coffin on the same train. The press reported that Al’s body was on the train with them, but in fact it was already in Chicago, at Rago Funeral Home. In the meantime, the Outfit was putting out the word of when and where the real wake would be held, along with the day of the funeral mass and procession.

Uncle Al had a wonderful wake. I still remember how he looked in his coffin. It was a bronze color with a large cross on the inside of the lid. The handles were gold. The bottom of the casket was covered with a blanket of gardenias. There were so many flowers that they filled the other chapels and the lobby. After the wake, my family donated most of them to local hospitals—the funeral home did not have enough flower cars to take them to the cemetery.

I remember all the people. It was non-stop for twenty-four hours.

Mae had announced to the press that a private funeral would be held for Uncle Al on February 4, at Mt. Olivet Cemetery, but on the first of February, again unbeknownst to reporters, family and friends attended a high mass at Holy Name Cathedral, followed by a procession to the cemetery. The church filled with people and the procession lasted for several long hours. I was in the second car, sitting with my grandfather Ralph and my dad. Looking out the back window at the long line of cars, I couldn’t even see the end of it.

The funeral procession ended at Mt. Olivet where Al was interred in a temporary grave in a vault in a wall.

Four days later, on February 4, a dreary, cold day, a Rago hearse took his coffin from the wall and transported it to the gravesite where a few members of the family, Grandmother Theresa, Aunt Mae, Grandfather Ralph, and Uncle Matty waited with a large number of reporters. The gravediggers served as pallbearers.

I can still remember Aunt Maffie returning to the Prairie Avenue house where I waited with my dad. She was very proud of herself. She said, “Well, we pulled it off!”

Chicago, 1947 – 1950

All I ever did was sell beer and whiskey to our best people. All I ever did was supply a demand that was pretty popular. Why, the very guys that make my trade good are the ones that yell the loudest about me. Some of the leading judges use the stuff.

- Al Capone

1947 became a memorable year for many different reasons. Peace again filled the world. The Marshall Plan offered help to European nations so they could recover economically after World War II. Jackie Robinson became the first black major league baseball player. Al Capone died. And for me, I made my First Communion.

In the life of a Roman Catholic, the First Holy Communion is a very special day, and mine was even more important for my family, because it occurred less than four months after my uncle Al died. It gave everyone in my family something happy to look forward to.

Sunday, May 11, 1947, Mother’s Day, was a gorgeous spring day, with just enough nip in the air to remind us that Chicago winters tend to linger. I must have been the happiest seven-year-old girl in Chicago. Grandma Theresa bought me a beautiful new dress with a matching veil, white patent leather shoes, and, of course, a purse. Waiting with the other second grade children to file into the St. Philip Neri Church, I felt like a princess. I was walking on air and nothing could bring me down—except maybe the nun who yelled at some of us girls for wearing the patent leather shoes.

“Look. Look in the shoe’s reflection. Right up the dress! And in Church! I should make you all walk barefoot!”

But still, I was so excited. I was at the center of attention for the extended Capone family. Everyone showed up: Grandma Theresa, Al’s son Sonny with his two oldest daughters, both my parents, my grandfather Ralph, and my cousin Gabey. And everyone met at Grandma’s afterward for a picnic prepared in my honor.

The next day, however, wasn’t so wonderful. To all my classmates in school, I had always been known as Deirdre Gabriel. No one knew my connection to Al Capone. But the South Shore edition of the
Tribune
outed me. In listing those who had received Communion, it added gratuitously, “Deirdre Capone, otherwise known as Deirdre Gabriel, made her First Communion at St. Philip Neri Church, with Al Capone’s family in attendance.”