Chapter 6: Greta

Greta lay in the dark feigning sleep. She loved Jose in her way, but their lovemaking was not why. He was too rough, too quick, too animal for her to find pleasure in his almost daily ritual. She knew he would not be fooled, unless he wanted to be, and she was right.

He came into the room, still fully clothed with only the removal of his heavy boots a concession to decorum. As he pulled back the covers to expose her nakedness, she shivered for a second then lay still and waited. He dropped his trousers around his ankles as he mounted her, strove home four or five times, then fell back as if in anguish. He was done.

No more than a minute later, Jose rose and left the room without a word. Greta knew he would be gone all night. Thank God.

 

The three of them met at the fish shop just after two in the morning. Frankie was the “owner” of this establishment during the day, but at night it was the campaign headquarters for Jose’s New York organization established here only two years before. Although still mainly an importer, Jose had soon realized that the real money in the business was in distribution. He already controlled the bulk product all the way from the mountains of Peru and Columbia, through Miami, and several other points on the east coast all the way up to Nova Scotia. His only territory left to conquer was the retail market on the streets of New York and San Francisco, and of Chicago and L.A., and these were the worlds of those damn wogs. The Cosa Nostra, the Sicilian mob, the Mafia, call them what you will, they controlled the streets of America’s cities.

 

“So how did it go today,” Jose asked, “Did you make the deal?” “Yea, but you’re not going to like it.” Frankie did not quite cower as he spoke, but the inclination of his torso fractionally away from Jose conveyed the message of submission to authority which was still the underpinning of the relationship between the three. Jose was the undisputed Boss, Frankie the head of operations, and Alex the enforcer. Over the years since that little fracas in the mountains of Peru their organization had grown to include thousands of other members, but only these three had the total mutual trust which set them apart, gave them the power, and kept them alive.

“They screwed us as usual, but we cleared three mill.”

The only sign of Jose’s rage was a slight tightening of the tendons in his neck. “We’ve got to do something about this. That shipment should have grossed five, and on the street it will bring twenty five!” He did not say, nor did it even occur to him to mention, that his organization had paid the farmers who grew the coco  leaves from which that shipment had been made less than twenty five thousand dollars.

 

Greta was in the kitchen when Jose awoke at noon. She was always there to serve him his lunch. She knew she had to be. When he appeared he had shaved and washed his face, but he still stank of stale sweat from a week of New York summer days. It seemed that even after his infrequent showers he still stank.

“You are early today, something important going on?” Greta did not really expect an answer because Jose only confided in her when he was insecure, and that occurred infrequently these days. She was therefore surprised when he answered, “Got to work out what to do about these wogs, they screw us all the time.” Greta knew what he was talking about having heard him rant about the Italians to Alex and Frankie during countless meals together over the years. “You got to take them out,” she said simply.

Jose would never have admitted to anyone that he often listened to Greta’s advice, and this time, had he not been so incredulous, and just a little intrigued, he would have ignored her comment, “And how would we do that, they’ve got ten times the force, and twenty times the firepower that we have got?”

“Use the only forces that can beat them, themselves and the Feds! They are so paranoid they will kill their brothers if they think they are cheating on them, and the Feds, they want the Mafia so bad, they will take no heed of who is giving them their prize.” The audaciousness of what Greta had just said hit Jose like a stone. He knew she was right, she was always damn well right, which was why he so desperately needed to control her.

 

Alex waited quietly. He had always loved hunting, and hunting humans was an even greater thrill. Success was the sweeter because of the danger and the fear. His quarry today was The Weasel, and he had to get him before eleven.

Sergio Stromboli, alias Harry the Weasel was one of the most feared members of the Gambino family who controlled most of the east side of New York. Harry performed a function for the family much like Alex did for his organization, ensuring compliance. Harry’s girl lived in the apartment at the end of the cul-de-sac that Alex had staked out. Everyone knew that Harry would be there, he was there every evening until nine when he would leave to join the others at the restaurant. This evening would be different.

Right on time the door of the apartment opened, and the little man emerged. Perhaps his small size was why he was so cruel when he did his job. He was smiling as he sauntered down the sidewalk and turned the corner into the street. Alex hoped that the sex had been good, because If Harry heard anything before he died it was only the whistle of the bullet as it pierced his scull. The silencer on the Browning automatic made hardly a sound, and it took just enough steam off the slug so that it stayed inside his victim’s skull. Alex did not want blood and brains all over the passenger seat of the car into which the body was quickly pushed.

 

An hour later, on the other side of town, Alex was again in hiding. He had a clear view of the door of the bar just down the street. He also had a perfect escape route planned into a nearby sewer, across two blocks to his waiting car. He was waiting for Mario and his cronies who always showed up here at eleven. Mario who ran his distribution from here, was reputed to be trying to muscle in on Gambino territory on the east. Mario also had screwed Jose out of two million dollars last week, at least that is how Jose saw it.

Cradling the sub machine gun he had retrieved from Harry’s car, Alex waited patiently. He hated these crude weapons. No precision, no satisfaction. He tensed as he watched the limo slow, and waited till all the occupants had emerged. He cursed silently as the last of the five turned to retrieve something from the seat before he moved away from the cover of the limo. Mario was nearly at the door of the bar when the first shot sounded. He was hit in the shoulder, and fell forward into the doorway before crawling to the safety of the interior.

Alex smiled, he could have shot him anywhere he pleased, and had he done so Mario would not have moved again, but this was not to kill. This way Mario would probably lose the use of his right arm, but would not die. Alex continued to fire till he was sure they knew where he was, and until he was certain that their returning fire was near enough to him for them to believe he had been hit. Then, only making sure that one shot had struck home on the man he recognized as the one who had called him a dirty dago during the meeting last week, he carefully dropped the weapon next to the body at his feet and disappeared into the night.

 

The police did not frequent this part of town at this hour, and would not have been near enough to here the shots, had they not been called to a nearby bordello by an anonymous call just fifteen minutes before. It was strange that there was no trouble at the address that they had been given, at least no trouble that they were going to be concerned about. The gunfire down the street was a great excuse for them to leave abruptly.

The police found the body of Harry the Weasel, and they found his gun. They also found the body of a man who, according to the driver, had been the only one who had alighted from the limo. Witnesses at the bar all confirmed that Harry had fired first, that the man he killed had succeeded in returning fire, and with a lucky shot had killed his attacker before he died. None of these upstanding citizens could provide any reason why this gunman who no-one could recognize would have committed this unprovoked attack and killed this likable man who often came to the bar for a friendly drink. No, they did not know his name either.

There was not much more to investigate, and experience showed that the witnesses were unlikely to be more helpful. The police report read:

 

“A gunman recognized as Sergio Stromboli, alias Harry the Weasel, a well known member of the Gambino Family shot and killed a member of the west city branch of the organization, who alone or more probably, considering the number of shots heard, with others, returned fire killing the attacker. It is possible that at least one other person was injured, as blood stains were distributed more widely than would be expected with a single victim.

“As we have no evidence that Stromboli did not act alone, nor any useable evidence that any person not already dead was involved, the case is considered closed, however, we should expect major consequences to arise from this incident.”

The man who wrote the report was a young sergeant in the New York police department, who would later begin a crusade against the crime families of New York, Fred Hanson.

 

Later that night Mario Provenzana, known simply as Mario because almost no-one could pronounce his second name, sat up in his hospital bed. “So what the hell was that? Who sent Harry, and why?” The only person there to hear his question was his top lieutenant, Tony Giacalone, “Gotta be Gambino. He must have got wind of the deal we made with the guys in the Bronx. One of them must have run to Papa.”

“You realize where this leaves us, it’s either Papa or me, and you are right in-between.” Mario did not look at Tony as he spoke, but he could feel him stiffen. “If we don’t get them, it will be our wives attending funerals, not theirs.”

Tony got up to leave, “You get some sleep, I’ll take care of it.” As he walked from the room Tony mused at the situation. Papa Gambino was his uncle through his mother, and he had been at Papa’s side throughout the years that Papa’s self opinionated son was away at university and traveling Europe. He had been sure he was in line for becoming Boss till the cursed kid returned to be anointed by his ailing father. There was no love lost between them now, family or not. Maybe this was the time for revenge.

 

Papa Gambino was everybody’s idea of the perfect grandfather. He was in his late sixties, graying, with just enough weight around the midriff for his lap to be a comfortable spot for all his thirteen grandchildren. He loved those kids, and nearly every kid in the neighborhood. He was also popular amongst the older residents of the district on the lower east side where he had grown up and lived for most of his life, not only because he was a respected businessman, but because he would get things done for them. A loan here, a permit there, when all was said and done, Papa made life easier for all of them, so long as they were prepared to be grateful.

Early in the morning on the day after the shooting, Papa was eating his usual breakfast at the corner deli. “What got into Harry last night? Who set him up to it? Any word on how Mario is?”

“Do not know, do not know, and OK, he will live, but none of that is the point.” The speaker was Carla Junior,  Gambino’s son, who ran most of the family business since Papa’s heart surgery. “Mario is going to think it was me sending him a message, which it was not, because he will suspect that I knew he was trying to get in to the Bronx, which I did. I was going to talk to him about that at Martha’s wedding on Saturday, now he will not believe that.”

He had not finished speaking when the man walked through the door and fired twice. The first shot hit Junior right on the breastbone, and he fell backwards, hitting the wall and the floor at just about the same instant. With a speed belying his age, Papa leapt over the counter and as he landed in a crouch, he pulled a small silver revolver from his pocket and fired at the intruder. His shot struck home, and the man staggered, but recovered quickly and ran back into the street, disappearing into the morning crowd.

Papa crawled round to his son and felt for his pulse. There was none, and it was clear from the gaping hole in Junior’s chest that there was no chance of revival. Papa bowed his head in pain, and knelt for a minute his lips mouthing a silent prayer. Then aloud, he said, “Damn that Harry, and damn Mario, now we will really have to send him a message.”

 

The war raged for almost three weeks, and the police could confirm thirty seven casualties. There were almost certainly more. Then Hanson received an anonymous call. “You want to stop this war, and get Gambino. Be at the corner of 10^th avenue and 37^th street at eleven tonight. Bring plenty of backup.”

It was almost a replay of the incident which started the war. The police had the area around the corner staked out well before eleven, and it was nearly a quarter after before anything happened. The silence of the night was shattered by sustained automatic gunfire not from where they were, but several blocks to the south. By the time the police got there, it was all over. several cars were burning, and several bodies were strewn in two areas, three on one side and two on the other. All but one were dead. The lone survivor was kneeling, dazed and clearly in pain from a shot through the right shoulder, his blood seeping over the sub machine gun on the ground between his knees.

Hanson immediately recognized the man as Tony Giacalone, longtime member of the Gambino family and lieutenant to Mario who it is believed had started the war. Tony’s gun proved to be the weapon which killed two of the three other men who also were members of the Gambino family.

Obviously nobody believed the story Tony told, even though he repeated it flawlessly every time he was questioned. According to him he had been walking his dog earlier that evening when he had been hit on the head. He woke up miles away in the middle of a gun fight. He had no idea how he got there. The evidence for murder was overwhelming, and even if he could get off, he was a dead man anyway. So when the FBI offered him a plea in return for testimony against his uncle, he took it.

 

It was the biggest break in the history of the war against organized crime. The “Boss” of the Gambino family and twenty of his senior aides were indicted with grand larceny, conspiracy and murder, as were a host of lesser members charged with a miscellany of crimes enough to keep the courts, the FBI and the local police busy for several years. Hanson himself was a hero, and he gratefully accepted a transfer to the FBI, at a considerable increase in pay and prestige.

 

 “What’s today’s count?” Jose was seated as usual at one of the small tables in the fish house. “Another three organizations with one hundred and forty three dealers came across today meaning we have twenty five groups and a total of over three thousand dealers. There can’t be too many more. It seems that there was not too much love lost between the street organizations and the Families.”

Jose laughed, “Damn, I’m glad Greta is on our side. That was a fiendish idea getting the Fed’s to nix the wogs and make room for us to take it all over . Got to give Alex his due though, that coup de grace implicating Giacalone for murder was a work of art. Speak of the devil.”

Alex entered the shop followed by a short stout blonde man, “This is Sean O’Grady. He’s OK, I checked him out before I agreed to bring him here to meet you. He’s got an interesting proposition.”

 

They both sat at the small table, and were offered and accepted glasses to drink from the bottle of rum already open in front of them. “It’s like this. O’Grady spoke with a broad Irish accent, “I am with the longshoreman union, the general secretary actually, and we have a deal that may interest you, and be good for both of us.” His already florid face became almost flushed as he warmed to the plan, “We were working with Mr. Gambino, but he is a little occupied right now. It’s something the unions all over the country have been doing for years. It works like this. We have payroll preparation service companies set up in key locales, and each week we deliver the weekly wages to docks, warehouses, factories and plants all around the nation. Here in New York we control from Connecticut to Philadelphia, there are other organizations in Boston, Baltimore, and even Chicago. To do this we need a lot of cash money, notes and coins and things. We hear that you have a supply of such cash.

“What happens is this, you deliver the cash on a regular basis in an official looking security van, we take a small cut to compensate us for our trouble, and we send you endorsed client checks for the balance, checks from the General Electrics and Ford Motor Companies of the world, accepted by any bank anywhere, no questions asked.” He sat there beaming, as if the idea had been all his own.

As usual Jose cut right to the chase, “How much can you handle, and how much is your cut?”

“Twenty, thirty mill a week, no problem, and we take only ten percent.” The slight sideways glance Sean made as he spoke, gave him away. There was plenty of wiggle room.

“We can do fifteen mill a week, and five percent.” Jose made it sound final.

“Seven and a half.”

“Six”

“Deal, when can we start?” Sean almost licked his lips as he spoke, and Jose realized he should have stuck at five percent. No matter, there would be the opportunity to fix that later.

 

“I suppose you already have the armored vehicle?” Seeing Sean nod his head, Jose continued, “How’s tomorrow.” The deal was done. As Sean left, Jose turned to Alex, speaking loud enough for it to be certain Sean could hear, “You know where to find him if we have any reason to?” The implication was quite clear, and the stiffening of Sean’s back signaled that it was not lost on him.

Jose’s final words to Sean as he left, “And me, I am Columbus to you and any one else who needs to know, you got that!”