Gang Pulp

Triple Cross By Jack Compton

The Dragnet Magazine, February 1930

Honesty among gangsters — that was what the new Commissioner thought. But the tough old police captain had different ideas.

The new Police Commissioner had some definite ideas.

“There’s only one way to handle these gangsters and racketeers,” he pompously told the grizzled old detective captain. “And that’s to be their pals. Give them an even break. They’ll meet you half way.”

“Bunk!” grunted the captain. “The only way to handle them birds is to kill ’em off — the faster the better. I’ve been on the force twenty-five years and I know.”

“Twenty-five years,” repeated the commissioner meaningly, “and you only a captain. Now take my—”

“I never did get a break on political graft,” cut in the captain, studiously flicking an imaginary speck from his uniform.

“Sir!”

“No offense,” the veteran officer replied simply. “I was just telling the truth — and you know it.” The captain rose from his chair and grinned at the over-dressed commissioner. “When you get near enough to them racketeers to give ’em an even break, I’d like to be around.” He moved the door.

The commissioner stopped in the act of taking a cigar from his desk humidor. “If you would like to be on hand, Captain, just remain in my office here for five minutes.”

Like a man who suspects his hearing of playing tricks on him, the grizzled old detective turned around. “Huh?” he inquired.

“I said,” explained the commissioner, as he adjusted a tiny flower in his button hole, “that if you remain here for five minutes you will see my theory become a fact. You will see me put an end to all gang war in this city.” The Police Department head coughed importantly and said, “The three biggest racketeers of the underworld are coming here at my invitation.”

“Suffering cats!”

The commissioner ignored the captain’s outburst and lit a fragrant Havana. “Of course, Captain, you’ve heard of Tony Sarotto?”

“The blackest murderer unhung!” snapped the detective.

“And of Mike Morgan?”

“Sure,” replied the captain sourly. “Mike’s checks will bounce him into the stir some day.”

“And of Big Sam Stevens?”

“Ugh! He’d drop his phoney money into a blind man’s cup.”

At that moment a pasty-faced clerk stepped into the commissioner’s office. “Mr. Sarotto, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Stevens to see you, sir. Shall I show the gentlemen in?”

“Gentlemen!” snorted the veteran officer.

The commissioner looked annoyed but did not reply to the detective’s sarcasm. He turned a stern face to his nervous clerk. “Show them in.”

And in came the racketeers three. First was the swarthy-faced Tony Sarotto. The short, stocky gangster crossed the floor quickly. His right hand was deep in his coat pocket as he glanced from side to side as if suspecting a trap. He nodded curtly to the commissioner’s cordial greeting and slipped into an indicated chair. A taunting smirk creased his dark features when he saw the detective chief.

But the veteran officer paid him no heed. He was thinking what an ass the new commissioner was about to make of himself. Second of the trio was the red-nosed Mike Morgan. The cocky Irishman swaggered into the room with a big grin for everybody. He dropped into the chair next to the captain and bummed a cigar.

Last was Big Sam Stevens. He tapped his ill-fitting derby in mock salute to the commissioner. Taking a celluloid tooth pick from his vest pocket he went vigorously to work while waiting for the commissioner to begin.

“Gentlemen,” smiled the new Department head to the assembled mob leaders, “I have called you here today so we can get together and put an end to this murderous gang war. I’m not a bad fellow to do business with. In fact, I’m going to offer a proposition to you that will double your income and save funeral expenses.”

Quickly following up his lead with a dollar cigar to each of the racketeers, the eager commissioner went on. “I have divided the three biggest rackets in this city into equal parts.” He turned to the lynx-faced Italian. “To you, Sarotto, will go all the rum business. No one else is to sell or truck it.”

Tony grinned as if to say, “Not a bad break.” The other two looked suspiciously at both the gangster and the commissioner.

“To you, Morgan,” the Police head continued, “will go all the bad paper. And anybody giving you the slightest competition in rubber checks will meet the severest penalty of the law.”

It was Mike Morgan’s turn to look pleased. And he did. Big Sam Stevens’s face twisted in a scowl and his hand edged toward the bulge at his hip. Where did he come off in this million dollar deal?

But the dapper commissioner was speaking to the big, raw-boned Swede. “To you, Stevens, will go the entire counterfeit money and slot machine rackets. And anyone else putting out a label or slug will get a life sentence.”

Three happy racketeers marched arm in arm from the commissioner’s office. No one would think that just an hour before they were planning to chop each other down with machine guns.

When they had left, the commissioner patted his pomaded hair and smiled triumphantly at the detective chief. “Well, I did it!”

“Baloney!” retorted the captain disgustedly. “Them gorillas will be throwing pineapples at each other in twenty-four hours. They couldn’t keep from fighting if they wanted to.”

“I’ll bet a brand new hat that my scheme works,” cut in the cock-sure commissioner.

“O.K.,” grinned the captain. “I need a new hat.”

When the three mob leaders reached the street, they each in turn dismissed their waiting armored cars and grim-faced henchmen. Then all three piled into a taxi bound for Mike Morgan’s apartment to celebrate.

Half an hour later they were comfortably seated in Mike’s luxuriant apartment. A score of whiskey and gin bottles covered every available table space and the room reeked with cigar and cigaret smoke.

It must have been about five o’clock that afternoon that the party was interrupted by a letter arriving by the elevator boy. Mike Morgan shifted his big cigar to the left side of his mouth and opened the envelope. With a booming laugh he turned to Tony Sarotto who was busily nursing a quart of gin.

“Here’s business for you, Tony.” The Irishman explained. “My brother-in-law who lives just across the state line wants ten barrels of rye before midnight. Will you sell them to me?”

“If I sell ’em to you,” the gangster pointed out shrewdly, “what’s to keep you from selling ’em again to the night clubs?”

“You can truck ’em across the state line yourself,” smiled Mike. “It’s on the level. See? And here’s my brother-in-law’s check to close the deal.”

The Italian gangster jabbed a cigaret into his mouth and fired it. “Deal’s O.K., Mike, but how do I know that check is?”

“Don’t have to take it,” snapped Mike, his grinning mouth straightening into a taut line. “I’ll write one myself,” he added.

“Geese, do you take me for a sap?” Tony wanted to know. “Cripes! your checks are too damn gummy to suit me. Wait up! No hard feelings, bozo. This is business!”

Big Sam Stevens who had been taking it all in, leaped to his feet with alacrity. He grabbed Mike’s arm playfully. “What’s the sense in you two punks fighting just as we’re about to crash the big dough. Ain’t you got no brains at all?” The big Swede reached for his well-stuffed wallet. “Tell you what, fellas, I’ll give Tony cash for that rum shipment. And you, Mike, give me your personal check to cover it.” The Swede raised a protesting hand as Mike started to speak. “No,” he firmly told the Irishman, “don’t say a word. I know that you wouldn’t stick a pal with bad paper. Neither would I set-up Tony with phoney money. Would I, Tony?” Tony rose to his feet “Let’s see it.”

Big Sam pushed a handful of crisp bills into the gangster’s hands, and jabbered like an insurance salesman. “Phoney money? Hey, guy, just look at these bills. Handle ’em. If they’re phoney, I’ll cat ’em!”

Taking the yellow-backs, Tony walked to the window and gave each a thorough examination. “Look O.K. to me, Sam. I’ll get over to the warehouse and load the trucks.”

Mike Morgan sat down at his writing desk and scratched off a check to Sam Stevens. “Of course, Sam, I wouldn’t throw you bad paper.”

Pocketing the check, the big Swede reached for his hat. “I’ll be running along with you, Tony,” he told the gangster. “Got to get home and slick up. Taking a swell skirt to a whoopee brawl.”

“Come around again, boys,” invited Mike as he took his new found friends to the door. They patted him on the back and said that they would.

Tony Sarotto’s black-curtained death car drew up before a gloomy, brick warehouse. Quickly stepping from the machine he walked up to a barred door under the weather-beaten shingle that read OFFICE. In a few minute’s time the heavy curtain behind the glass was slowly pulled aside and a grim face looked out. Then the door creaked open on rusty hinges. Tony snapped a few words in Italian to the man and led the way back into the interior of the warehouse.

Weaving in and out between barrels, cases and kegs, the gangster stopped before a group of men in sweaty under-shirts. He nodded for them to go on with what they were doing. Tony then sat on an upturned keg and struck up a cigaret.

“Geese,” he muttered to himself, “I’d be a sap to ship good rye to that dumb mick’s brother-in-law. He won’t know the difference anyway. Cripes! It would be a cinch to water the barrels.

“Hey, Angelo,” he called to one of the workmen, “fix up ten special barrels of rye right away.” Tony then hailed another dark-skinned man. “Cappo, get out your fastest truck for a run across the state line. Take three men with you — and Tommy guns. Maybe that mick will try to hi-jack the stuff.” The gangster’s swarthy face split in a wide grin. “It’ll be damn funny if he does.”

Angelo trundled out an empty barrel and held a grimy rubber hose over the brim. He twisted a spigot in the wall and water splashed into the barrel — nothing but water. When it was almost full Angelo fitted a small open-topped can into the water and adjusted it to the sides of the barrel. This he filled with his best rye. With a grin Angelo pressed the barrel top into place.

Tony got down from his perch and thrust a liquor gun into the opening barrel top. He drew a good shot of pure rye from the can. That’s exactly what Mike Morgan’s brother-in-law would do. But the other three quarters of the barrel would be water.

With ten barrels faked, the gangster ordered the men to the truck. One climbed to the top with his Tommy gun and two squeezed into the bulletproof cab with Cappo. A harsh grating of gears and the truck lumbered off into the night.

Big Sam Stevens was having one whoopee time with his swell skirt. From her frizzed red hair to her stilt-like French heels she was “there.” A lot of other guys thought so too and Big Sam had his hands full for a while. To this point he had broken two heads and sent one fresh wop for a ride. Then he and his redheaded lady friend settled down to emptying whiskey bottles.

It was well past midnight when he was showing her the fine points in the difference between real currency and the kind that he made. He bragged, “Not even that little dago Sarotto could tell the difference. It was easy fooling that mutt. Why, I stuffed a whole wad down his throat and they was phoney — phoney as hell!”

To Mike Morgan it seemed that he had just got into bed when his telephone jangled. Mike hurled several hot suggestions at it and rolled over with his pillow wrapped around his ears. But the instrument rang loud and stubbornly. Finally the Irishman slid his feet into bedroom slippers and knuckled the sleep out of his eyes. Reaching for the telephone he bawled:

“Who is it?” When the voice at the other end identified itself, Mike cooled down. “Oh, it’s you, Joe. Get the rye all right? Fine; but why the hell get me outa bed at this hour to tell me? — WHAT? — Them barrels was watered! — The old can trick, eh? — Huh? You’re gonna stop payment on that check? — It’s my tough luck, is it? — You dirty low-down—”

A click on the wire told Mike that his brother-in-law had hung up. The racketeer sat fuming and spluttering for the best part of a half hour. “Hell!” he growled. “I expected to make a neat little haul on this job — because that check I gave to Big Sam was a rubber. Now I’m sunk!” He leaped to his feet with clenched fists. “And it’s that damn little dago’s fault. I’ll fix him! He double-crossed me. Hell, you can’t trust nobody any more.”

The new Police Commissioner selected a fragrant Havana from his humidor and glanced at the dainty clock on his glass-topped desk. It registered fifteen minutes past ten. He looked out of his window at the serene fall morning.

“There’s only one way to handle gangsters and racketeers,” he told himself, “and I know—”

At that moment the grizzled old detective captain burst into the private office with a handful of precinct reports. He tossed them under the commissioner’s nose. “I know what’s on ’em,” he snapped, “so I’ll tell you and save time.”

The dollar cigar dropped from the commissioner’s gaping mouth. That flinty gleam in the captain’s eyes told him that something — everything was wrong.

With a grim smile, the detective chief started off. “Sarotto’s warehouse has just been bombed. Two of the wop’s death cars are smashed up in front of Big Sam Stevens’ printing plant. A dozen pineapples were tossed at the plant and it looked like the Frisco ’quake had parked there all night. Five of the Swede’s best rods are stiff in the street in front of Mike Morgan’s hangout which looks like all the bullets in the world had struck it. And a couple of Morgan’s high-speed armored cars are decorating lamp-posts in the wop district.”

The commissioner slumped in his chair and groaned.

“Yep,” said the captain as he moved toward the door, “the only way to handle them mutts is to kill ’em off. And I’m taking out a dozen riot squads right now to do just that little thing.” With his hand on the door knob, the veteran detective flung over his shoulder, “When I get back we’re going out and buy me that new hat!”