White Shadow (56 page)
Authors: Ace Atkins
I packed my bags, sick of Havana and Cuba and Castro. I remember how his speeches would echo and echo through the old brick-lined streets of Havana and off the stucco walls for hours. Empty words and promises that would only grow more paranoid and weak as the decades passed.
On my way out, I learned that Santo Trafficante was missing. I’d called the newsroom and Hampton Dunn blessed me out for not calling before and asked me how much money I was spending. He gave me an address he’d gotten from a Fed in Tampa.
I found a taxi, and we made our way down the Malecón.
Trafficante had lived in a tall, luxury apartment building in the Vedado.
A kidney-shaped fountain with dirty, stagnant water stood at the front of the building and inside I found soldiers with guns napping on leather furniture and drinking rum. Two boys passed by me at the front door carrying a large television.
It was there that I met a boy named Pedro who did not speak English but told me through my driver that he’d worked for Santo Trafficante. He was a large, dark boy with blue eyes who told me that the police had come for Trafficante days ago and that his wife and daughters had left the country.
I found out the next day that Trafficante was in jail.
The Capri had been gutted and the pool drained to keep chickens. The Sans Souci’s grounds were now a place for sugar plantation workers to sleep, with the casino turned into a stable for livestock.
I tried to interview Trafficante before I left.
I wanted to tell him.
I wanted to shake his hand and look him in the eye and tell him about the White Shadow. I wanted him to know that Charlie Wall and Eleanor had the last word.
But he was locked up tight.
He would stay for almost a year.
Trafficante had to have special permission to attend his daughter’s wedding in Havana and then had to go right back with the murderers and Batista henchmen and the insane.
I learned many years later that his entire family fortune had been lost.
Santo Trafficante returned to Tampa in 1960.
Ed Dodge was gone from the department, and instead Santo was met at the airport by Ellis Clifton. (Clifton told me this story about ten years ago from his home in Georgia, where he grew peaches and told stories to his grandchildren about his days as a detective that they didn’t believe.)
Santo stepped off a plane in a beaten gray suit about thirty years out of style. As photographers snapped his picture, he begged Clifton to let him go home and change first. “This is a disgrace,” Santo said. “They could’ve at least given me a decent change of clothes.”
Clifton drove Santo to the Hillsborough County Jail and took him to a back room to await the Feds, who wanted to talk to him about a variety of things, including the murder of Albert Anastasia in 1957 in New York.
Clifton was about to close the door when he turned back to Santo. The old newspaperman just had to know.
“How’d you get out?”
Santo took off the cheap jacket and rolled up the sleeves on the ill-fitting shirt.
“Cost me six hundred thousand,” he said. “You know, everyone thinks this guy Castro is a hero. Robin Hood. But you know what? He’s just a crook like the rest of us.”
Fifty years after Charlie Wall was killed, I drove to his house on Seventeenth. I stood outside the old metal gate and peered up on the porch.
It all looked the same.
A young black kid pedaled up on a bicycle and wanted to know if I was looking for the woman who lived there.
I said no. I told him I knew the man who once lived there.
“The man who was killed?”
I looked at the kid as he leaned into his handlebars.
“You know about that?”
“Sure,” he said. “You know that man had tunnels that ran from the back of the house all the way to Seventh Avenue.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, and there’s treasure down there. I’m gonna go in those tunnels someday and find it and buy my mother a new house and get presents for my brothers.”
I nodded.
I didn’t tell him the truth.
I let him dream.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ADDED INFORMATION provided by the work of: Hampton Dunn,
Yesterday’s Tampa;
Enrique Cirules,
The Mafia in Havana;
Scott M. Deitche,
Cigar City Mafia;
Ferdie Pacheco,
Ybor City Chronicles;
Lewis Yablonsky,
George Raft;
Harry L. Crumpacker and Bentley Orrick in the
Tampa Tribune: A Century of Florida Journalism;
David Halberstam,
The Fifties;
James A. Flammang,
Cars of the Fabulous ’50s;
and Tad Szulc,
Fidel
.
Yesterday’s Tampa;
Enrique Cirules,
The Mafia in Havana;
Scott M. Deitche,
Cigar City Mafia;
Ferdie Pacheco,
Ybor City Chronicles;
Lewis Yablonsky,
George Raft;
Harry L. Crumpacker and Bentley Orrick in the
Tampa Tribune: A Century of Florida Journalism;
David Halberstam,
The Fifties;
James A. Flammang,
Cars of the Fabulous ’50s;
and Tad Szulc,
Fidel
.
My humble thank-you to my direct, insightful editor, Neil, who allowed me to write the book I always wanted to write and for making it better. And to my hardworking wonderful agent, Esther, who made it all happen while telling me nothing but the bold truth.
From Ybor City to Havana, my greatest thanks to those who supplied help along the way: Joe Durkin, Tampa Police Department; Jody Habayeb and Ron Kolwak at the
Tampa Tribune;
Al Ford, retired detective, Tampa Police Department, and his wife, Joyce; Ellis Clifton, retired detective, Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office, and reporter, the
Tampa Tribune
and
St. Petersburg Times;
Bob Turner, retired reporter, the
Tampa Daily Times;
Leland Hawes, retired reporter, the
Tampa Daily Times
and the
Tampa Tribune;
Tom O’Connor, retired reporter, the
Tampa Tribune;
Orval Jackson, UPI and the
Tampa Tribune;
the late Jeanie Tomaini, retired circus performer; and a special thank-you to Charlie Welch, my guide and translator in Havana and across Cuba.
Tampa Tribune;
Al Ford, retired detective, Tampa Police Department, and his wife, Joyce; Ellis Clifton, retired detective, Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office, and reporter, the
Tampa Tribune
and
St. Petersburg Times;
Bob Turner, retired reporter, the
Tampa Daily Times;
Leland Hawes, retired reporter, the
Tampa Daily Times
and the
Tampa Tribune;
Tom O’Connor, retired reporter, the
Tampa Tribune;
Orval Jackson, UPI and the
Tampa Tribune;
the late Jeanie Tomaini, retired circus performer; and a special thank-you to Charlie Welch, my guide and translator in Havana and across Cuba.
Also a great thanks to Tim Green, who has believed in my work from the start. I’m honored to have you as a friend. And to my wife, Angela, fellow crime reporter, who I first met over a dead body and fell in love with at a kidnapping, you are the best.
BEHIND THE STORY
RETIRED DETECTIVE ELLIS CLIFTON was dying back in 2007, but he wanted me to meet him in Tampa for one last tour around the old crime scenes, past the bolita gaming parlors and into the old Mafia joints he’d bugged and often raided. He said we’d drink some beer, smoke some cigars (he said it was too late for them to kill him), and we’d talk even more about his days as the head of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s vice squad in the 1950s.
Ellis had been one of the key investigators on the Charlie Wall murder case, and we’d grown close while I wrote
White Shadow
. It seemed like every other day I had the pleasure of picking up the phone and bugging him with questions on police procedure, the power base of old Tampa, or the hierarchy of the city’s complex Sicilian mob. On that last trip with Ellis, we found the spot where Joe “Pelusa” Diaz had been slain in a shotgun attack in 1957, drove past Charlie Wall’s death house, ate some Cuban sandwiches in Ybor City, and drank a lot of beer. We smoked at the King Corona in Ybor City. We talked a lot about the Tampa of the 1950s.
White Shadow
. It seemed like every other day I had the pleasure of picking up the phone and bugging him with questions on police procedure, the power base of old Tampa, or the hierarchy of the city’s complex Sicilian mob. On that last trip with Ellis, we found the spot where Joe “Pelusa” Diaz had been slain in a shotgun attack in 1957, drove past Charlie Wall’s death house, ate some Cuban sandwiches in Ybor City, and drank a lot of beer. We smoked at the King Corona in Ybor City. We talked a lot about the Tampa of the 1950s.
He knew I wanted to write a sequel to
White Shadow
someday, as I’d planned the novel to be the first of a Tampa Trilogy, and he did not want to leave this world without passing on his experience.
White Shadow
someday, as I’d planned the novel to be the first of a Tampa Trilogy, and he did not want to leave this world without passing on his experience.
Ellis wasn’t alone. I’d also become great pals with former
Tampa Times
reporter Bob Turner and former Tampa Police detective Al Ford.
Turner was Turner. Ford became Dodge.
Bob Turner was a gracious, soft-spoken genius whose handwritten letters were the backbone for the narrative, each letter a detailed window into that world. Bob covered the Wall killing from the first moment police learned of the slaying. He knew all the players of the time, down to the desk officers in the police department to the copyeditors in the newsroom. But even more, Bob had a steel-trap mind, passing on exact descriptions of the period with the discerning eye of a newspaperman. After his death, I learned he’d been a mentor to countless young writers, his use of language without parallel. Just like his namesake in the novel, the real Turner read the dictionary for pleasure. One of his personal copies now sits on my desk.
Tampa Times
reporter Bob Turner and former Tampa Police detective Al Ford.
Turner was Turner. Ford became Dodge.
Bob Turner was a gracious, soft-spoken genius whose handwritten letters were the backbone for the narrative, each letter a detailed window into that world. Bob covered the Wall killing from the first moment police learned of the slaying. He knew all the players of the time, down to the desk officers in the police department to the copyeditors in the newsroom. But even more, Bob had a steel-trap mind, passing on exact descriptions of the period with the discerning eye of a newspaperman. After his death, I learned he’d been a mentor to countless young writers, his use of language without parallel. Just like his namesake in the novel, the real Turner read the dictionary for pleasure. One of his personal copies now sits on my desk.
Al Ford preferred straight talk and humor, and his conversations and insight helped me get to the heart of the crime and into the hearts of the principal players. I had known Al the longest, from back when I was on the
Tampa Tribune
crime beat and he worked as a consultant to the sheriff’s office. In the years that followed, I watched his slow decline with Alzheimer’s but always marveled at the absolute clarity he could recall his time as a detective. His wife, Joyce, had thankfully taken copious notes when his memory first started to falter, turning over so many stories and files.
Tampa Tribune
crime beat and he worked as a consultant to the sheriff’s office. In the years that followed, I watched his slow decline with Alzheimer’s but always marveled at the absolute clarity he could recall his time as a detective. His wife, Joyce, had thankfully taken copious notes when his memory first started to falter, turning over so many stories and files.
All three men are gone now.
I was fortunate to get to know them when I did. And I was even more fortunate to have them as friends.
The whole idea for the novel really started with a bunch of old newspaper clippings tossed onto my desk more than a dozen years ago by a colleague at the
Tribune
. The collection of stories from 1956 told the story of the death of Edy Parkhill, a gorgeous young woman married to a mob defense attorney whose mysterious death and later inquest led to a media frenzy. Right from the start I was hooked.
Tribune
. The collection of stories from 1956 told the story of the death of Edy Parkhill, a gorgeous young woman married to a mob defense attorney whose mysterious death and later inquest led to a media frenzy. Right from the start I was hooked.
It wasn’t for a couple of years, after the story continued to haunt me, that I made an inquiry with a friend at the Tampa Police Department. Several months later, I was told the original detective case files and notes had been copied from microfilm piece by piece because the film was so old and brittle.
In my downtime at the paper—a true rarity on the crime beat—I tracked down old witnesses and medical records, trying to make sense of the events leading up to her death. Against the wishes of my editor, I fashioned the story into a seven-part narrative that sat in the
Tribune
news banks for more than a year. It finally ran during the Christmas holidays due to the slow copy with many reporters out on vacation.
Tribune
news banks for more than a year. It finally ran during the Christmas holidays due to the slow copy with many reporters out on vacation.
To my surprise, “Tampa Confidential” was a hit, receiving hundreds of e-mails daily from readers excited about the next installment being published. The series was nominated for a Pulitzer, and I left the paper a short time later to write full-time on my series of crime novels based in the Deep South.
I should have been happy. I had a great series character and a steady paycheck.
But I knew I wasn’t done with Tampa. Faced with the power of a true, gripping story, it was hard for me to go back to straight fiction. In 2004, I started work on what would become
White Shadow,
and the research into the novel took me back to Tampa searching for those little pockets of the old city where clocks have stopped. I toured the streets with Clifton, Turner, Ford, and former
Tribune
newsman Leland Hawes, always my great guide into old Tampa.
White Shadow,
and the research into the novel took me back to Tampa searching for those little pockets of the old city where clocks have stopped. I toured the streets with Clifton, Turner, Ford, and former
Tribune
newsman Leland Hawes, always my great guide into old Tampa.
Charlie Wall’s house stands pretty much in the same condition it did in 1955. The Italian Club is now open to the public for weddings and an occasional karaoke party. I raided more police files, found forgotten crime photos, and cobbled together a prequel to “Tampa Confidential” about one of Edy Parkhill’s husband’s top clients—murdered mob kingpin Charlie Wall.
About halfway into the novel, I ran into a snag. The reports ended. The police narratives sped off a cliff into nowhere, with only a crumb of information that detectives were sent to Havana—Tampa’s sister city—to interview mafia players key to the corrupt casino empire there.
Cuba?
A short time later, I found myself on an old Russian prop plane out of Nassau heading to the island with several fifty-year-old addresses for mob boss Santo Trafficante cribbed from FBI records.
To re-create Tampa of 1955 was a true challenge. A mammoth portion of the city had been destroyed during Urban Renewal and I had to work from old photographs, maps, and memories to re - create the time.
In Havana, I walked right into the world of
White Shadow
. The Riviera Hotel was a time capsule of terrazzo floors and frozen 1950s clocks. Cigar smoke and classic Cuban ballads filled the streets of Calle Obispo, and vintage American cars prowled the surf-battered Malecón. My translator, Charlie Welch, and I took to the streets to match the addresses, spending time at the old Tropicana nightclub and into the neighborhoods of the Vedado.
White Shadow
. The Riviera Hotel was a time capsule of terrazzo floors and frozen 1950s clocks. Cigar smoke and classic Cuban ballads filled the streets of Calle Obispo, and vintage American cars prowled the surf-battered Malecón. My translator, Charlie Welch, and I took to the streets to match the addresses, spending time at the old Tropicana nightclub and into the neighborhoods of the Vedado.
One of the locations, Santo Trafficante’s luxury apartment, seemed to be a wash at first. The address led to a decrepit university dorm, and we were soon met with a curious security guard and the woman running the building, wanting to know why American tourists roamed her halls.
I explained I was a writer, but she wasn’t impressed.
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