Capo di Tutti Capi - IV: Prologue
4 October 1951 – 2:00pm Eastern – A hotel suite in New York
“Call Moretti again, Dean.”
“No answer, Jerry. I think he’s gonna be ticked…”
“I know, I know; but how in heck was I supposed to know the Doctor’d say I had mumps this morning. Of all the crazy things. I didn’t even remember our lunch with Willie until just now – you know that. Try him again in another ten.”
“Okay. I called the guy at NBC radio about the rehearsal already so…”
Both men turned to the TV in the suite when they heard the name “Moretti” from the newscaster. They watched, stunned, as the anchor relayed the news: Willie Moretti, reputed crime boss, gunned down at lunch at Joe’s Elbow Room in Cliffside, New Jersey. There was an uncomfortable silence at the end of the news announcement. Martin was the first to speak.
“All in all, Jerry, I’m not too sad you got the mumps….”
4 October 1951 – 8:00pm Eastern – A hotel suite in Cuba
Lansky cradled the phone gently and walked out on the balcony.
“It’s confirmed.”
“Well, I didn’t think the news guys were making it up, but thanks. Crap. Frankie was against it, and I hadn’t made up my mind yet.”
“Anastasia didn’t want to wait. You and your omerta tradition, you know. Willie mouthing off at the hearings didn’t sit very well.”
“I know. I agree even, but I figured his brains were for mush anyway so it wouldn’t matter. Well, I don’t think the Commission will take any action, do you?”
“It’s the way they were leaning anyway…the penalty will be minor.”
Luciano nodded his agreement. He swirled his glass briefly before taking a drink. He looked meaningfully at Lansky.
“Since we’re speaking about Jersey…”
Lansky paused, and then what Luciano was leading up to came to him in a fully realized whole.
“Again? Didn’t we get enough people killed the last time?”
“Bruder, you know the numbers better than me, so you can answer your own question, no?”
Meyer paused in thought, fixing Charlie with a measured stare. There was no real anger in that stare – they had shared too much, achieved too much, together for that – and Luciano was correct about the numbers.
“I get it, Charlie, I really do. Profits in narcotics and Russian furs tripled for the 4 months the Pentangelis ran Fatlington. It’s a squalid little Jersey Shore town with a port large enough for our purposes and if we’re running it – however unofficially – it becomes a cash cow for the whole Eastern Seaboard. But the chaos, Charlie, it’s like the whole place is meschuge. Vegas doesn’t have that kind of margin but at least the people there aren’t maniacs….”
Luciano just looked at his friend, waiting. Meyer was anything but stupid. A brief pause was enough time.
“I see.”
Luciano nodded.
“Well then, paisan, since the Commission has already decided, my role is pretty simple. I’ll get the contacts rolling. So be it. “
4 October 1951 – 8:15pm Eastern – A hotel suite in Fatlington, New Jersey
The cool breeze felt good on his face after the hot, smoke-filled session of poker. This game, though technically illegal, wasn’t likely to get Fatlington’s top cop in trouble – after all the other players included a federal judge, two city councilman and His Honor TosaInu. Commissioner Fermanagh, looking out over the railing of the suite at the Hotel Abbatoir, staring over the dark Atlantic.
A cold chill ran down Fermanagh’s spine, causing him to straighten in surprise as he shivered. He felt himself quivering with…fear? Shaking off the feeling, he muttered to himself:
“Just the wind, you old mick, just the wind – nothing to worry about.”
As he turned back to the game, though, he didn’t – just couldn’t quite – shake the feeling he’d had. A cold October wind was blowing toward Fatlington.
