Accardo brought the saloons into line, the strip tease dives, clip joints, night clubs, cocktail bars, shady hotels, and the gambling joints, big and little, and schooled them that there were no such things as independents.
“Everybody pays off,” he declared. “That way you run, see. But more important, you also buy yourself a license to live. How about that, huh?”
There were some objections by madams of houses. One of them, a woman named Fat Sally who ran a house on 19th Street off Wabash, gave Accardo an argument.
“How do I know you’re going to give me and the girls all this protection you’re talking about? I ain’t never seen you before in my life. To me you’re just another hood trying to muscle in.”
“Sally,” Accardo said, and smiled crookedly, “you’re a pretty smart girl. But right now you’re talking yourself into a mouth of missing teeth. I said the Syndicate is taking over. Either you run it with us or not at all.”
“Real tough, huh? Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Big Shot, I’ve had guys like you in here before. They didn’t scare me and you don’t either. You’re not going to kill me, that much I know. A few blows? So what? I’ve taken them all my life. Go ahead and hit me.”
Accardo grinned. “Sure, Sally, like you say.”
She was completely unaware of his next move, certain he would only talk, so when his fist flashed into her belly she was as much surprised as she was shocked by the terrific punch he threw at her. She doubled up and fell to the floor, her breath knocked out of her.
“Get up, you stupid broad!” Accardo told her. “Get up or I’ll kick your guts out!”
Sally crawled to a sitting position. She was still gasping for breath. She managed to get up on her hands and knees first, much like a fighter who has been floored and struggling to beat the count, and then she rose slowly to her feet.
“You’ve hurt me,” she mumbled, and held both hands to her stomach.
“That was a teaser, Sally. The next time you give me any of your lip your mouth is going to disappear into your chest.” He tapped her breast with a forefinger. “You understand me now, Sally?”
“Okay, okay. Now take that damn finger out of my chest. What’s your best offer?”
“Now you’re being smart. You’re going to run this joint like you have. The Syndicate will supply you with new girls every two weeks. We move the girls around. The Syndicate will pay for protection. In case of a bust, the Syndicate will bail out the girls, and you, and pay for the mouthpiece and the fines. The girls will eat here, and we’ll supply the food, towel and linen service. We’ll also pay the rent. How does that suit you?”
“How much of the take is the Syndicate going to want for all this jolly service?”
“Seventy-five per cent. The girls get fifty per cent of their take, less the fees for rent, food, linen service, bail and fines. The mouth piece is free. We keep him on a retainer.”
“Seventy-five per cent!” Sally screamed. “Mister, you’re bringing back slavery. The girls won’t stand for it.”
“Sure they will. Bring them in. All of them. I’ll convince them. Nice and easy.” He smiled. “No rough stuff. I don’t like to hit a girl. Go ahead, Sally.”
The girls came in, an even dozen, some of them in their late teens. Accardo looked them over. His eyes fell on a pretty blond. “How old are you, Sister?”
“Who me?” the girl answered.
“Yeah, you. How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“You’re a liar. I’ll ask you again. How old?” There was a hard note in his voice.
“Seventeen,” she blurted out.
“Where you from?”
“Davenport, Iowa.”
“How long you been in Chicago?”
“A month.”
“Who put you in this house?”
“A friend.”
“A friend, huh? You mean a pimp, don’t you? Get your clothes and bring them back here.”
“What for? I live here.”
“I said to get your clothes! Get them!”
While she was gone, Accardo explained the Syndicate’s plan to the other girls. “We’re going to be fair about this,” he said. “The important thing is that you girls will never have to do any time for working here.” He turned to the big hood beside him. “What’s the name of the beef for working in a joint?”
The big hood shrugged. “I think it’s called Soliciting and Selling. Or something.”
Accardo grunted. “You’re stupid. Well, whatever it is, you girls won’t get busted. But if you do, you’ll be out in a hot minute. Okay?”
The young blonde came in then with a small battered suitcase and set it down in front of her. She had changed into a print dress, plain black pumps, and a pert little hat. She looked like a high school junior ready for a date. She stared at Accardo questioningly.
Accardo dug a hand into a pocket of his trousers, took out a roll of bills and counted out several large ones. “Here’s a hundred bucks, Sister. You get on the first bus back to Davenport and stay there. If I ever see you in Chicago, in one of these joints, I’ll break both your arms and legs, see.”
Sally said, “A hood with a heart. That’s a new one.”
“Yeah, isn’t it?” Accardo shot back. He turned to the blond. “Okay, Sister. Take off.”
Tony Accardo’s success in organizing and policing the brothels and gambling joints added to his stature in the Syndicate. The big break came when the three top men over him — Paul “The Waiter” Ricca, Louis “Little New York” Campagna, and Frank Diamond along with Frank Nitti — became involved in the infamous shakedown of the movie industry.
George Browne, International President of I.A.T.S.E., and fat Willie Bioff, a notorious pander, decided to follow in the footsteps of Tommy Maloy, who headed Local 110 of the Motion Picture Operators Union. Maloy shook down every theater owner in the city for sums ranging from $500 to $5,000 on threats of calling a strike and thus shutting the theater down.
Maloy was a tough boy. He chauffeured for a time for Mossy Enright, head of the building-trades unions. Enright taught Maloy a great deal, but not enough to keep him from getting murdered when the Syndicate decided to take over. In contrast, Bioff was a weakling and a coward; Browne little better. How Bioff persuaded Browne to give him a piece of the action in the deal is unknown and must be regarded with a great deal of askance. Bioff, a pimp who handled street walkers and wornout whores, went in over his head and took Browne with him.
What was amazing in the operation was the success the two achieved from the very outset. They first tackled the Balaban and Katz chain of theaters. The chain included the largest movie houses in the Loop, the State Lake, Chicago, Oriental, and several others, as well as many houses in the outlying districts. They then went after the others.
Nothing that happens in Chicago unions escapes the Syndicate, and Frank Nitti heard of Browne and Bioff’s racket. He ordered the two picked up and brought to the Lexington Hotel. In the suite at the time were Nitti, Accardo, Ricca, Gioe, Little New York Louis Campagna, and Nick Circella, alias Nick Dean, boyfriend of Estelle Carey who was fated to be brutally slain because of him.
Nitti said, “You guys got yourself a sweet racket. How come you didn’t let me know you were shaking down everybody in the business?”
Browne fumbled around for words in explanation.
Nitti slapped a palm on the desk. “Crap! You hear me? Crap!” He pointed a forefinger at Browne. “You appoint Circella in place of Tommy Maloy as boss of Local 110. Next, we want fifty per cent of the take. You got any objections?”
“No, no,” Browne answered hastily. “But how about Maloy? He won’t take this lying down.”
Nitti let out a raucous laugh. “That’s where he’s going to be, lying down! You do like I say and leave Maloy to me. Now, one more thing. You guys are playing for peanuts. I’m going to send you two out to the Coast, to Hollywood. You do the same thing to those big shot producers out there that you’re doing to the movie theater owners here. Only not for the same money. Jack up the ante. Let’s say a hundred grand, or two hundred grand. They’ll pay off. They won’t want their studios shut down. I’ll send Circella out there after you have it set up. Okay, that’s it.”