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.