We, the people of the United States, are a queer lot — perhaps the queerest in the world. We're a sluggish, blind, and lazy lot. We're as paradoxical as an Irish bull. But we have our moments! We call America the Cradle of Liberty, and vote it dry. We us and kill us. We boast of our democracy. We high-hat such kingdoms as Italy, and most of us think Benito Mussolini is a despot. Italy has Fascism. But we have feudalism.
We've created a host of robber barons in the last ten years. We've let them amass enormous riches. We've let them pillage and slay. We've pampered and petted them. We've made them idols. We've cheered Alphonse "Scarface" Capone every time he was acquitted. We've cried "Persecution!" every time he went on trial. We've cheered Jack "Legs" Diamond when he was acquitted of burning the feet of a man he was charged with kidnaping.
We were glad to see these piratical figures get away with it. But we were well fed then. America, a full-stomached America, could laugh at the gunmen and their quaint and picturesque murders, could be good-natured about their kidnapings, their rackets.
"They're all right," we said. "They're out for the dollar, just as we are. And they keep us from dying of thirst. They only kill each other, anyway."
We let them go their ways. We let them establish themselves. We let them become powerful. We let them use our streets for slaughterhouses, let them turn machine guns loose on our busiest thoroughfares.
Innocent people have been killed, wounded, maimed for life — men and women and little children at play. Our rivers and our highways have been used for the dumping of grotesque bullet-riddled bodies.
We jailed women who sold a few bottles of whisky or home brew. Officers have shot down men who were carrying pint bottles of illicit liquor. We have hanged or electrocuted kids who made our feudal heroes their heroes, and who went out with guns to rob or to kill.
But have we hanged or electrocuted any of our feudal bootleg dukes? Name me one.
Scalice and Anselmi, killers imported from Sicily to help Capone and the Genna brothers in Chicago, were convicted of killing two policemen and wounding a third. But what happened? They got a new trial, and were acquitted.
Strange they should come from Sicily? Not at all. Sicily, the home of the Mafia, harbored the deadliest assassins in the world until the "despotic" Mussolini cleared Italy of its criminals. He jailed a lot. He killed a lot. But many of them are over here now — serving feudal liquor lords and getting rich.
Never in the history of the United States has there been such public flouting of law and order as we have permitted in the last ten years.
What other people would permit rival gangs to race recklessly down the streets of its big cities, shooting at each other with machine guns, killing each other, killing children, killing women, killing innocent men?
Hymie Weiss once took a cavalcade of motor cars past a hotel in Cicero, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago, and turned its walls into a huge Swiss cheese. The rest of the world was appalled. But America was phlegmatic. It was just a gangster gesture.
Weiss, affectionately known as "Little Hymie," lived to boast about that exploit. He lived three weeks.
Capone's machine gunners massacred seven men in a Chicago garage. Two of the murderers were dressed in the uniforms of policemen. America began to be shocked. A joke was a joke, but this was carrying a joke too far.
But what could be done about it? Everybody knew Capone had planned that massacre. But he was immune.
"Well," we said, "somebody will get Capone." And we let it go at that. A well fed, busy, money-making America could forget a massacre and continue to wink at gangsters.
But hungry men know no jokes. And there are many hungry men in the nation today. Factories have been closed. Stores have gone out of business. Municipalities are broke. Chicago cannot pay its teachers or its policemen or its firemen. Men who were prosperous a few years ago are begging half dollars of their friends.
Hungry men have no benevolent affection for feudal dukes or barons. They see things with new eyes. The gangster kings have felt the depression too, but they were the last to feel it, and they are not suffering much. Men drink most, it seems, when they are desperate.
The glamour has been stripped from the gangsters. Even the most stupid of us see them now as they are, yellow louts, red-handed plunderers. We have begun to realize they have waged actual war upon us in this last red decade. Hunger has made us see the truth.
We realize now that they have taken billions of dollars from us. They have not only flooded the country with cut whisky and green beer and new wine, but also with poison. They have charged outrageous prices for it. They have forced business men to pay tribute. They have "muscled in" on groceries, butcher shops, restaurants, hotels, drug stores, factories, industries of all kinds — even miniature golf courses. They have peddled "protection." They have forced little men out of business. They have made big employers cut salaries and throw workmen out of jobs. They have had as much to do with the present depression as the crash in Wall Street had.
They have taken over the government in many cities. They have bought thousands of city and state police. They have corrupted judges and city officials. They have bribed members of the coast guard. They have stolen the polls, intimidated and killed honest voters, torn up ballots. They have elected to public office men sworn to protect them — not to protect us. In some districts no candidate can be elected without their aid.
The great white father in Washington has talked of the "noble experiment." Millions of pious people have given thanks to God that America is dry. And our feudal murderers have killed each other. Thousands of them have been dumped into our back yards, and still they have grown in numbers and in power and in wealth. And young America, growing to manhood, is following their example.
Last August two nineteen-year-old boys, carrying a small arsenal with them, held up a pay-roll messenger, stole over $4,000 from him, shot the police guard dead, and fled in a taxicab.
A motorcycle policeman tried to stop them. They killed him too.
And then the new feeling in America showed itself.
Vincent Hyde, a fireman, picked up the motorcycle policeman's pistol and cartridge belt, jumped on the running board of another cab, and gave chase. He fired at the fugitives until he dropped, wounded. Rubin Katz, that taxi's driver, though he had a wound in the throat, never faltered until the fleeing car crashed against a truck. The police showed their heroism too, as they always do in emergencies. There were cops on the running boards of every car in the pursuit, targets for the bullets of the two kids in the taxicab ahead. Six were killed in that chase, including the bandits, their driver, and a little girl who was sitting with her father and mother in an automobile.
She was the second child killed within a month in the city of New York.
The man who drove, the kids who tried to ape their liege lords the gangster kings was Herbert Hasse. He seems to have been a hard-working, decent chap, a typical American citizen. He had a wife, a family. Gunmen probably didn't mean anything to him. Let them alone and they'll let you alone, he might have told you. Or he might have said, "Well, we got to get our booze some-where, and those guys only kill each other."
The bandits jumped into his car. It might have been yours. Any car will do for a bandit making an escape. They put a gun to Hasse's head and made him speed. He didn't want to, no doubt. But he didn't want to die. His family needed him. Somebody shot Hasse dead.
If those two boys had been real gangsters, out for some quick money — and gangsters do not hesitate to rob — they would not have killed the policemen intentionally. Gangsters are careful about killing cops — they want cops to protect them. They need police friendship.
But even if they were gangsters they wouldn't have hesitated a moment to kill every civilian man, woman, and child who got in their way.
It isn't so long since Vincent Coll's men, hunting an enemy in Manhattan, turned a machine gun loose in a street crowded with children. They riddled a baby buggy, and the slugs tore through the body of a sleeping child and killed him. Four other children were left lying on the sidewalk, unconscious or screaming with pain, before the gun was silenced and the car drove off.
We've stood for plenty, we star-spangled flag-waving Americans. And we've had more than enough.
Commissioner Mulrooney in New York City and Commissioner Alcock in Chicago have declared war on gangsters, real war. Mulrooney has told his men to shoot first, and shoot above the waistline. And he means it.
Governor Franklin D. Roosevelt of New York did his best to send Jack Diamond to jail. He failed. A crowd cheered when Diamond was acquitted. Jack Diamond, "the clay pigeon of gangdom," "the big shot-at," "the much shot," thief and murderer that he is, was cheered as though he were a national hero.
But the federal government doesn't think him a hero. It tried him in New York, and convicted him of conspiring to violate the prohibition law and of owning a still. Judge Richard J. Hopkins of Kansas gave him the limit — four years and a fine of $11,000 — and directed that he be prosecuted under the Jones law.
"Under that law," the judge said, "he might be sentenced to thirty or forty years."
Paul Quattrocchi, one of Diamond's lieutenants, was sentenced with him. Diamond has appealed, and is at liberty pending a hearing on the appeal. But jail seems certain for him — unless somebody saves him with a machine gun.
Capone is going to jail too. He has been indicted by a federal grand jury. He is accused of income-tax frauds and of 5,000 specific violations of the prohibition law. Sixty-eight of his vassals are named with him. It is charged that his syndicate's income from beer alone totaled $75,000 a day.
Government agents declare the syndicate operated all over the Middle West. They believe they have broken the power of the syndicate with this indictment, bankrupted its members, and stripped Capone of all his influence.
Capone had it all fixed, he thought, to make a bargain with the prosecution. He'd plead guilty and spend a few years in a nice jail where he could have every luxury. But Federal Judge James Wilkerson wouldn't bargain with him. Capone withdrew his plea of guilty, and he and his lawyers are talking things over. But, rest assured, Capone is going to jail. Judge Wilkerson sentenced him to thirty days for contempt of court last winter. He hasn't served that term yet. But he will. Unless — as in Diamond's case — some machine gunner catches him first.
The twilight of the gangs! Capone and Diamond will go to jail Coll will go to the chair if he's found. "Dutch" Schultz is done as a big shot since his arrest. This despite his acquittal. "Waxy" Gordon, Vannie Higgins, "Bugs" Moran — all the feudal princelings you can mention are wondering what will happen to them.
We've been fools, we Americans. But we've snapped out of our foolishness. We have been cowards. We are cowards no longer.
But have these gangsters been brave and wise?
Look at Jack Diamond. You could play him on a player piano. He's been shot four times. He's half paralyzed. He's half eaten with consumption. There are bullets in him the doctors are afraid to take out. He's had money. He hasn't much left. He's only thirty-four and speeding to his doom.
Look at Capone, who is reputed to have had $60,000,000. He's in fear of his life every moment. He's guarded by a hundred men constantly. He rides in an armored car. His guards surround him when he's at a theater, or a prize fight, or in any crowd. He wakes up every little while and goes to another bed — he has many beds — so an assassin will have a hard time finding him. He doesn't trust any of his guards. He dares not. He once trusted Anselmi and Scalice.
He was told that Anselmi and Scalice had ambitions. They wanted to be rid of him and join forces with Joe Giunta, whom Capone had made head of the Unione Siciliano.
Capone sent two men to test Anselmi. They found Anselmi ready to betray his king. They agreed to help him.
"Don't use your gun," one of them said. "That can be identified. I'll get you one. Wait here." He went into another room, shook the cartridges out of his revolver, removed the bullets, and put the empty shells back into the chambers.
Anselmi went upstairs, the gun in his hand. He went into Capone's office. Capone stood with his back to Anselmi. Anselmi fired twice. The pin clicked on two empty shells. Anselmi turned pale and put the gun away.
Capone turned. He appeared to have noticed nothing. He greeted Anselmi with a beaming smile. He shook hands with Anselmi. He embraced him.
"I am giving a big dinner tonight for you and Scalice and Giunta," he said. "I'll have all the rest of the boys there, but you three will be guests of honor."
The banquet was held in a roadhouse south of Chicago. All the guests were searched and frisked as they came in.
Scalice, Anselmi, and Giunta ate heartily and drank well. Perhaps they knew what was to happen. It they didn't, they were fools.
Capone got up at last and drank a toast to them, and made them stand in the middle of the floor. Then two men who had proved their loyalty to the king drew guns and told the guests of honor to line up against the wall.
"Here are three fine traitors," Capone said. He revealed their treachery. He reviled them in bitter words. Then he advanced slowly toward them, holding a baseball bat in his hands. He clubbed each one to death, and his men filled their bodies full of bullet holes.
"That's how we punish traitors," said Capone. "Throw them in some ditch in Indiana."
Capone may still have $60,000,000, but his life is one great nightmare of fear — the fear of being killed.
Do you call that courage?
The most cowardly rats in the world are men who live by the gun, men like Capone, Diamond, Schultz.
Capone fled from Brooklyn to Chicago years ago, to escape arrest. He lay low for a long time in the Chicago underworld. He was known as Al Brown. Johnny Torrio, who had known him in New York, taught him the art of murder. "Big Jim" Colosimo, the boss of the underworld, used him as a messenger boy, cursed and kicked him.
Big Jim put away his wife and took unto himself a beautiful young songstress, Dale Winter.
Big Jim was told that a load of booze would be delivered to him one afternoon, and he was to pay for it with cash. He had the money on him when he was killed. The killer got it. Johnny Torrio took over Colosimo's kingdom, and added to it joints all around Chicago.
Johnny Torrio and Al Capone had Dion O'Banion killed. Two men shook hands with him in his flower shop across from the Holy Name Cathedral; and while they held his hands, a third man pumped him full of lead.
George "Bugs" Moran, one of O'Banion's most fanatic friends, shot Torrio in the neck, and sent him screaming to a hospital. He was never any good to the racket after that. And Capone was king in his place.
One of the first things Capone did was to guard his person well. He brought in bandits who had fled the wrath of Mussolini, Mafiosi from Sicily, Camorristas from Neapolitan streets and alleys.
But, though they guarded him well, he was still afraid. He was afraid of Bugs Moran. He was afraid of the crazy Earl Hymie Weiss, of "Polack" Joe Saltis, of the red-faced McEriane. He was afraid of the O'Donnells.
He had good reason to fear Hymie Weiss, for that desperado had declared war on Capone "and all them grease balls," and he had bought a lot of machine guns. Weiss was the first of the bootleggers to use that weapon.
Every so often he went looking for Capone — but Capone had made himself hard to find. Hymie had neither guile nor imagination. He took a long time to make up his mind. But once he had made his plan — and it was usually the craziest he could think of — he executed it at once.
Capone had grown up to learn about forks and caviar and opera. Society women raved about the wistfulness of his voice. Weiss had remained a roughneck.
Capone kept himself in Cicero or in Florida. Weiss ruled the Chicago Loop, and made his headquarters over Dion O'Banion's flower shop across from the cathedral.
Capone tendered the olive branch to his enemies. They talked peace terms in a downtown restaurant. Weiss got very drunk — but when he sobered he doubted that Capone wanted peace, and determined to give him hell.
He learned that the Genna brothers, allies of Capone, were having him followed — him and all the other enemies of Capone. Chicago was full of Gennas, it seemed to Weiss. They were alky cookers. They employed hundreds of their countrymen to cook alky and sold it to Capone. They were rich — and getting powerful. Several high public officials attended one of their banquets.
Weiss put a police gong on one of his autos and went out hunting Gennas. He got Angelo first. And later he bagged Anthony. A cop got Mike — wounded him fatally after he and Anselmi and Scalice had killed two detectives. Jim Genna wasn't tricked by the sound of the gong into thinking Weiss was only a cop. He beat it back to Sicily. The other Gennas stayed in their homes until they could safely sneak to some spot far from Chicago.
There were more than 15,000 alky-cooking places in Chicago at the time. The Gennas owned all those on the North Side. They made millions of dollars selling this stuff — the basis of gin and whiskies. They used to "kick in" about $6,000 or $7,000 a month to be "let alone."
"They, only kill each other." The Gennas had bagged their fill — especially when they were collecting for the defense fund for their friends and found men unreasonable enough to refuse them money.
Angelo, who was the head of the Unione Siciliano — ostensibly a patriotic American-Italian society, but actually a union of alky cookers, bootleggers, and killers — had slain many men before he came to power. Weiss got him shortly after he married, killed him when he was rich and happy and respected and feared.
Weiss was one of the first to organize murder on wheels — steal a car, fill it full of trigger men, and go cruising around until an enemy was sighted, then "give him the bang" and tear through the streets to safety.
He got Angelo that way. Angelo was in his own powerful new car. Weiss' machine came up from behind. The guns roared. Angelo stepped on the gas and the car tore through Chicago's streets like a scared rabbit. Weiss car followed like a greyhound. Angelo tried to turn a corner quickly. His car skidded into a lamp-post — and the machine guns laughed as he screamed for mercy.
Weiss had to use treachery on Anthony. Anthony wouldn't go out of his house for anyone save his very good friend Antonio Spano — whom the Gennas had imported from their native-town, Marsala, Sicily. Spano was known as "the Cavalier."
Weiss found the Cavalier and held a gun to his head, and bade him telephone Anthony and put him on the spot.
"Talk all the spiggoty you want," he advised the Cavalier. "The guy with me is a wop. Talk wop to him. Luigi. Luigi will understand everything you say."
Anthony Genna met Antonio Spano on the corner Weiss had designated. He greeted him effusively. Spano held his hands tightly, as a friend should. And Weiss fired.
A Genna died as an O'Banion had died.
For the only time in his life Hymie Weiss had carried out a murder touched with a little imagination. It couldn't have been his own idea.
Anthony was shot in the back. He lived just long enough to breathe the name of his betrayer, the Cavalier.
Hymie was satisfied for a time. He would get Capone, but he'd have to wait. Meantime he had to help his fellow Pole, Joe Saltis. Saltis and Lefty Koncil were on trial for the murder of "Mitters" Foley.
Hymie attended every session of the trial. He put everything he had into the task of saving Joe — and so forgot to be careful.
He had no idea that six Sicilian machine gunners were waiting patiently for him to walk before their guns. They had spent days waiting. There was a machinegun nest across from the cathedral — with three men working in eight-hour shifts. There was another nest on the corner.
Those six gunners must have heard the ringing of vesper bells, the resonant sound of the organ, the voices of the choir, the chorus of the pious repeating the words of litanies. Perhaps they even joined in the chant at times, since there was nothing better to do.
Weiss left court with his bodyguard, Pat Murray, and picked up Attorney W. W. O'Brien and his investigator. Ben Jacobs. Sam Peller drove the car. They parked the machine at the corner of the cathedral shortly after three P. M.; and the gun in the nest across the street immediately came to life. Weiss and Murray dropped dead. The other three were wounded. More than fifty slugs are still in the corner stone of the church.
What did it profit Earl Hymie Weiss to be a bootleg king with power of life and death? There was a certain glamour about him because of his loyalty to the memory of his friend O'Banion. But was it brave to kill Angelo Genna when he was helpless? Was it brave to shoot Anthony Genna in the back while a traitor held his hands? Was it brave to take a small army of armored cars into Cicero and shoot up Capone's hotel? He had glamour, but he was a coward and a fool.
Incidentally, he wounded a woman during that silly one-sided battle in Cicero. He wouldn't have cared if he had killed her and a dozen others. She was in the path of his machine-gun bullets. It was just too bad. That was all. She had no business walking the street when a gangster king was out for a bit of murder.
They only kill each other — and any innocent man or woman or child who gets in their way.How quickly "big shots" of racketeerdom pay the price of their bigness; how short are the paths of gangster glory that lead to a "ride" and a "drink" meaning death — Mr. Doherty's account of them will demonstrate in next week's Liberty.
Publication Date: October 24, 1931