Chicago Wipe-Out

10 A call to battle

Bolan made the final telephone probe of the series from a public booth on the near North Side. A smooth voice answered with the standard announcement: "Giovanni's."

Bolan put his voice in the streets and asked, "Listen, is this Charlie Drago?"

"Sure is, who's this?"

"This is — uh just call me Phil from Jersey. Listen, Mr. Drago, I was referred to you. I got something I don't know what the hell to do with. I was told maybe you're the right man to put it on."

"Who'd you say this is?"

"Just say it's Phil from Jersey. I'm just passing through, I don't live around here. But listen, I'm down in this bar, this joint on South State, and I hear this strange conversation in this next booth to me, see. And I..."

"Well now wait a minute. I got no time to be..."

"You better take time, Mr. Drago, if you'll pardon me. This is red hot stuff and I ain't asking for nothing in return."

Grudgingly, but with apparently growing interest, Drago replied, "Okay, what's this red hot stuff? Make it quick, eh?"

"These guys are talking about Bolan, this Mack Bolan creep. Listen, I know all about that creep. And one of them is saying it's sure funny how things're working out, with this Bolan turning out to be their best buddy. Naturally I keep on listening."

Drago interrupted the recital with a hurried, "Just a minute, Phil. I want to get somebody else in on this, too."

Bolan lapsed into silence, lit a cigarette, waited for a full two minutes, then he heard another telephone open onto the line and Drago's smooth tones told him, "Okay, Phil. Pick up where you left off."

"Where was I?"

"You're in this bar on South State and these boys are saying that things are working out now with Bolan their best friend. Take it from there."

"Okay, and I really perk up when I hear this. I'm afraid to look around the partition, I just freeze there with my head against the booth and I keep listening. This one boy is saying how they just been waiting for something like this, and I get he means the Bolan thing. Then I start getting a whole different idea when this other boy comes in with something about how he still can't figure the old man and Bolan cozying it. Well that put a whole different picture together, didn't it?"

"What old man?" asked a second voice from Giovanni's.

"I don't know, sir. That's just the way they mentioned him every time, just the old man. Anyway this other guy comes back with it's a good thing, 'cause the old man is about getting ready for an open war anyway. I get it right away these boys are talking up a street war, mixed up somehow with the Bolan thing."

"Is this all you heard?" Drago asked calmly.

"Naw, I also got it that this old man has got this hundred or so soldiers meeting at another joint somewheres around there. Let's see, Minnie's place or something I think."

"I never heard of no Minnie's place," declared the second voice.

"That's what it sounded like. Minnie's or something like that."

"How about Manny's?"

"Well, yeah, I guess it could've been that."

"God dammit," declared a totally new voice.

"How many boys did you say were meeting there?" asked the second.

Bolan/Phil-from-Jersey replied, "That's just how they said it, a hundred or so soldiers. Now I can't put this rest in no exact words, I mean you know how it is, a lot of grunting and hum-hawing around, and like you follow the drift but there really ain't that many words."

"Okay," Charles Drago put in. "What was this drift you got?"

"That these boys are gonna be loadin' up and comin' out to your place there, Giovanni's. And I heard something else just funny as hell."

"What's that?"

"One of 'em said something about police cars. I b'lieve they mean to make it look like a bust, you know?"

"God dammit," said the third voice.

"Wait, just wait," the second man drawled. "Let's sort this all out. Who is this giving us this story?"

"Phil from Jersey is all you got to know. I don't want to wind up in the middle of no local war. I'm just passing along what I heard. You'll have to take it from there."

"Are you one of us?" the man asked the "informant."

"Sure, I'm with — well, I'm familied-up in Jersey. That's all I want to say about that."

"Okay, we always got along good with our friends in Jersey. Now tell me, Phil — how did these boys think Bolan figured in all this?"

"Like I said, it sounded to me like he was mobbing up with them. Course, that sounds pretty far out. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe they're just using the creep as a smokescreen. You know."

"Yeah I know, Phil. Okay. Listen, we won't forget this. When the dust settles, you look me up. Okay?"

"I guess I don't know who I'm talkin' to."

"You just ask around for Benny Rocco."

Bolan's eyebrows lifted. Rocco was an up and coming big man in the North Chicago territory. The Executioner told the up-and-comer, "Okay, Mr. Rocco, I'll sure look you up first chance I get. Uh, Mr. Drago — are you still there?"

"Sure, I'm here."

"Okay, I guess that's all I know. I can't remember this boy's name that put me on you. But he said you'd want to know, and I figured you had a right to."

"You did right, Phil. And you'll never regret it. Give our regards to our friends in Jersey, eh?"

Bolan said, "You bet," and hung up.

He dropped his cigarette into the snow and hurried back to the war-wagon. The night was beginning to shape up now. And he did not wish to miss a minute of it.

The "back office" at Giovanni's in any brief comparison's with Manny's Posh would present the latter as an outhouse on a baronial estate. Heavily carpeted floors and panelled walls, a magnificent built-in bar and stereophonic sound system, original oil paintings, long and graceful leather lounges and heavily padded chairs, and even an adjoining powder room; a one-way window covering an entire wall and allowing an unrestricted view of the main clubroom — these were but the most notable features of this fabulous "office."

Arturo (Don Gio) Giovanni would proudly display to the most casual visitor the quieter but equally sumptuous details of this boyhood dream come true — such as the massive teakwood desk, handcrafted and flown in from Singapore; door, window, and even drapery remote-controllers built into the fantastic executive chair which was also fully automated and wired for sound and vibration; the sun and sauna terrace and massage room; and many miscellaneous fine appointments which made this truly "an office fit for a king."

And, of course, Giovanni deserved this office — he was the King of Chicago and diverse points east, south, north, and west. The imperialistic stretch reached into such unlikely places as Texas and Arkansas, to Florida and into the Caribbean, to Europe and even to Hawaii. Certainly no king, of any time or place, enjoyed more raw power and accessible wealth than this former Neopolitan street urchin turned American at the age of eight, reform-school veteran at fourteen, bagman and bodyguard and torpedo during the rough and rowdy pre-Capone Chicago of the twenties — and now undisputed boss of an empire with an annual take in excess of two billion dollars.

This seemingly benign old gentleman, so proud of this lavishly ostentatious office in which he spent perhaps eight hours per year and a criminal record spanning nearly fifty years, with a list of arrests covering six closely-spaced typewritten pages and on every charge from intimidation to mugging and murder, conspiracy, bribery, rape, simple assault, assault with intent, bookmaking, counterfeiting, bootlegging, and everything that could be worked into a busy lifetime of crime. In appearances before various crime committees, Giovanni had taken refuge under the fifth amendment for a grand total of one hundred and thirty-seven times. With all of this, however, Don Gio had been convicted of but two crimes since his fourteenth year, and both of these convictions were later reversed by friendly appeals judges.

Talk had been going around lately that the capowas getting soft with age, that he spent too much time pampering himself in places like Nassau and Rio and Honolulu, that he had so many personal "legit" financial interests now that he wasn't too inclined toward the nitty-gritty of syndicate management — and most of this kind of talk had been coming out of the downtown territories ruled by Joliet Jake Vecci.

Apprised of this loose talk by concerned court attendants, Giovanni usually waved it off with a chuckle; he would point out that Nixon had his winter whitehouse, his western whitehouse, his summer and spring and fall whitehouses — why the hell shouldn't Don Gio have his places to get away from the pressures sometimes. As for personal financial interests, what the hell was he supposed to do with all his money, sit and look at it? Hell no, he put it out to work for itself, and with enough spreading around to give the tax boys crying fits, and these other Chicago boys could learn something from the Don'sexample if they'd listen more and cry less. Crimemight some day start listening to all the nasty things being said about it, and it might stop paying, after all.

And Don Gio would laugh and step into his gold-trimmed limousine or his private Boeing 727 and go off somewhere to forget the pressures and the damn FBI guys falling all over him everywhere he went and writing down what he ate and if he grunted or burped.

On this particular night, however, the Capowas not laughing. The time had come to face a pressure or two head-on.

First off, this Bolan punk. The kid had been allowed to run too high, wide and handsome for too damn long, and it was about time someone shoved a cold bar up his rear and lowered him slowly into one of those blast furnaces down at East Chicago.

Secondly, there was this matter of shameful insubordination and maybe even open rebellion within the family ranks. When high-ranking and responsible officers starting running around and assing it up like common street soldiers, then something was certainly going very sour with the organization. Gio would have to make an example of this latest trespass, even though things went way back between the Capoand this old buddy from the street days under Capone, this Pietro Lavallo whom Gio in the old days always called Golden Peterbecause he always had such luck with the girls. So now this little Golden Peter was the magnificent fuck-up, Pete the Hauler, and old times never paid the way for new ones. Pete Lavallo would have to pay his own way now; it was the price of manhood in a disciplined society.

And now this latest blow, the exclamation point for this matter of family discipline. Sure, the Donhad known for a long time that his old pal Jake had been agitating for something. But this? And at such a time?

The Caposcowled and drummed his fingers on the polished teakwood surface of his Chinese desk and tried to read the minds of these three young men standing here and telling him about a street war right within the family. Did they really believe it theirselves? Were they hoping their information was good — or bad? Was everybody looking for their Donto step down and place the mantle of power on younger shoulders? Were they looking for a shoot-out between the oldsters, and a whole new deal?

This tough Larry Turk was telling him, "There is a Phil Tarrantino with our friends in Jersey, Mr. Giovanni. He was made by way of Danno Giliamo, and in fact he was with Danno in England on that Bolan hunt over there. He got hurt during that, Danno tells me, and he's been just sort of recuperating and taking it easy. Danno last saw him on Monday — he said he was drifting toward Vegas. Maybe some light action in the heat out there might help him get back on his feet.

"So I don't know, Mr. Giovanni — I can't locate no handle on the boy in Vegas. It could be that he just drifted this far, and got stuck by the storm and is just waiting a chance to move on. I'd say..."

"When we're in this office here," the Capoinstructed kindly, "you can call me Gio. All of you. Okay? It sounds better."

"Sure, Gio."

"I wish you'd brought this boy out here so I could talk to him myself personal. I like to hear it right from the horse's mouth."

Benny Rocco shifted about nervously and admitted, "I made that decision, Gio, and I'm sorry you don't like it. The boy was nervous as hell and I could tell that he would blow right out if I started pressuring him. I wanted to keep him friendly."

"Well, maybe you handled it right after all, Benny," Giovanni replied. "At least..." The steely gaze shifted to Charles Drago, the chief doorman and undeclared security boss during the club's normal operations. "At least I got to say Charlie used his head, getting more than one witness to what was being told."

Drago smiled soberly and said, "Thanks, Gio. I don't know why, I just didn't think you'd want to be bothered with — I mean, it didn't seem that important at the time. You know how this stuff goes around. I figured it was just some more of that gossip always drifting up from the Loop."

"Yeah," Giovanni replied sourly.

"That stuff about the police cars is what turned me around," Rocco stated quietly.

"Yeah," the Donagreed, slipping even deeper into the thronelike chair. "With good cause. Jake has more personal clout than even I got. I should've took him off that territory a long time ago, I guess. The way him and City Jim have been cozying it up these past few years... I guess... well, so you boys think it's straight stuff, eh? Turk? You're willing to risk everything you've built up on the strength of what this will of the wisp from Jersey told you with miles of phone wires between you?"

"It checks out, Gio," Turk assured his Capo. "I sent two boys around there, my own personal boys, to really look it over. Jake has got about a hundred boys all right, mobbed up at Manny's. None of 'em even knew what they were doing there, except they were told they're going to be riding in police cars. Then these crew chiefs came out of the office and threw my boys out. I mean flat tossed their asses out in the snow."

"That's a carpet offense right there," Rocco muttered, adding, "They're cooking something, I'd bet my life on that, Gio."

Drago put in, "Jake was sure anxious to have a cozy talk with Turk, I know that much. And he sure put the soft pressure on me to keep it to myself."

"You're saying that he was trying to recruit Turk," Giovanni observed.

"It sure would make a person think so, the way he was quieting it around."

"That just shows how crazy he really is," Turk muttered.

"Well I guess I don't like it at all," the boss declared, scowling even harder. "I just can't picture Jake coming all out that way. Sly stuff, yeah, maybe I could picture that. But this coming all out... even to joining up with or recruiting Bolan... I can't see Jake doing that."

"If you'll pardon me, Gio," said Rocco, "it does sound pretty sly to me. If he's moving in under cover of this Bolan thing, and maybe even using this boy to run interference for him, then I'd have to say that was a pretty rotten trick."

"Yeah you're right there, Benny," the Capomused. His gaze shifted to Larry Turk. "I proposed you, Turk, you know that — for this thing you've got now."

"Yessir, and I appreciate the honor, you can believe that."

"I didn't do it for honors. I told the council you are the only man for the job. And I sincerely believe that."

"Thanks, Gio. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't. Now... about this other matter. Pete the Hauler. Of course, we're not supposed to discuss this beforehand. But... well, you understand, this is a really unusual thing we got going here tonight, I mean all of it together." He drummed his fingers on the desk top for a moment of quiet thought, then he sighed and said, "Light me a cigar, Charlie."

In misery, Turk thought, Well here's where Pete the Hauler gets let off.

Drago had produced a silver cigar holder and carefully placed in it a roll of leaves that were valued at approximately $50, considering the expense of having a box specially flown up each week from Jamaica. He lit the cigar, then removed it from the holder and passed it to the Capo. The silver holder went back into Drago's pocket and the Capowent on with his "forbidden discussion" with Larry Turk.

"But listen now, Turk. I know that what happened down there this evening between you and Pete is just like you claim. I know that, mainly because I know you, and especially because I know Golden Peter Lavallo. He and Louis were about the next thing to asshole buddies... I've even wondered about those two sometimes. Well, anyway, I can understand how he could go off his rocker that way and want a piece of Louis' assassin for himself. I mean, you just naturally understand these things."

Here it comes, thought Larry Turk.

"Understanding is one thing, of course," the Capoquietly went on. "Discipline is something else again. You know, with all respects to the dead, I never much liked Louis Aurielli. I went along with him mainly for Pete's sake. I'm telling you this so you'll understand what I'm going to say next. Pete Lavallo and me go back a long ways. And I love that boy, I really love 'im. But I love this thing we got, all of us, a whole lot more. And because of that, I'm going to send Pete back down the ladder. I'm going to take away everything he's got. Can you understand that? Everything. I'm going to strip him bare, and I'm going to exile him. I think I'll send him to Arizona or maybe New Mexico. And if he can behave himself out there for a year or two, I'll let him come back. But he'll come back just as stripped as he was when he left. Now that's what I'm going to do to Golden Peter Lavallo."

The three younger men standing at the desk were obviously highly impressed by this kingly predisposition of a pending case.

Larry Turk fidgeted and commented, "I really didn't mean he should get hit that hard, Gio. I just wanted it understood that I couldn't stand for that kind of stuff, not when I'm supposed to be running a thing."

"You boys sit down," Don Gio commanded, suddenly aware that they'd been standing there for quite some time.

The three exchanged glances with each other and pulled up chairs in a semi-circular lineup in front of the desk. Giovanni puffed on the cigar and stared at the ceiling for perhaps a full minute, then the eyes dropped and found their level with Larry Turk's troubled gaze.

"Why do you think I'm telling you all this, Turk?" the Capoasked. "And with these other two boys right here listening in. Why do you think?"

Turk didn't have to think. He knew. The thing was almost ceremonial — something pretty great was being conferred here tonight. He hesitated slightly, then replied, "I guess you're showing us your love for this thing of ours, Gio."

"That's right, that's part of it. I don't love it this much, though, just because I'm the boss. It's the other way around. I'm the boss because I love our thing this much. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"Yessir, and I appreciate the lesson, I really do."

"Okay, don't mention it. But think about it. You think about it, and when you're done thinking you tell me what all this means to you."

"I guess I can tell you right now, Gio."

"So?"

"So it's a damn shame you have to be part of this dirt that's going on, and I don't like you being a part of it. By your leave, Don Gio, I'm taking full charge of things out here tonight. I don't want your mind bothered with such trash. With these two boys sitting here as witnesses, I'm saying that I take full responsibility for what goes on here at this place — and all over town, for that matter. However it comes out, I'm the one made the decisions."

"So. About what?"

"About everything," Turk declared. "But in particular about Joliet Jake Vecci and his downtown rag-a-tags."

Don Gio promptly left his fully automated throne, walked around the desk, placed his hands upon Larry Turk's shoulders, and kissed him full on the mouth. Then he quietly said, "All right, you boys leave me alone now. And send Pete the Hauler in here."

The three confidants to the throne took a hurried leave, and once they were outside, Larry Turk chuckled nervously and said, "Shit, I hope that's no kiss of death."

"It wasn't," Charles Drago assured him. "I never saw the old man do that before. He was genuinely moved, Turk. He really was."

"Well I didn't mean that part," Turk replied. "I mean, if we win, sure, it's going to be beautiful. But what if we lose? Who's holding this big dirty bag, eh?"

Rocco added, "And what if we win here and lose somewhere else. You know what you just did, Turk. You just offered to take all the blame, in case the nationals decide something ain't exactly straight about all this."

"We'll worry about that when we need to," Turk replied brusquely. "Right now we got a lot of things to do. First we got to pull some people offa that Bolan watch. He's tying down just about all the talent we got. And I guess we're not going to play that game, not with what we know now. And we gotta start contacting people. I'll work the underbosses. Benny, you take over and start working on the caporegimesand the freelooting civilians, I mean all of 'em. Charlie, you got the oil — I guess you know what your job is."

Drago grinned and replied, "Okay, I'll start phoning people in Jake's outfit."

"You guys have to know," Turk declared soberly, "I'll always remember you for this."

Humorously, Rocco said, "You don't think we'll ever let you forget. You know, this could go down in history."

"And what about Bolan?" Charles Drago asked darkly.

"FuckBolan," Larry Turk growled. "That guy is way down on my list of worries right now."

The trumpets of destiny were loudly sounding the call to battle, it seemed, and more than one empire had been built upon the ruins of war. The turkeymaker would do well to remember, however, that the world is subject to both wars and rumors of wars — and "that guy" — wherever his place on Larry Turk's list, is something of an expert in both.