Frank bought an engagement ring with his cut.
24
So he was a married man when he met President Nixon.
It was 1972.
Partially as a reward for the Tony Star thing, Frank and Mike had been bumped up from driving cabs to driving limousines and Town Cars.
When they weren’t driving, they were on the hustle. Frank probably put more hours in than your average working stiff, but it was different. It wasn’t like you were working for that hourly wage, with Uncle taking his piece out of it. Even though they were working hard, it didn’t feel like working; it was more like playing a game.
Which is why they called it “scoring,” Frank guessed.
That’s what they did in those days: They scored; they went out on scores. They scored merchandise off the backs of trucks, street tax from bookies, vig from shylock money, no-show jobs on construction projects.
They ran card and dice games, sports books, and lotteries. They made round-trip runs across the Mexican border-alcohol down and cigarettes back. They practically had a license from the San Diego cops to rip off drug dealers.
They were scoring, making money, although not much of it stuck to their hands. Most of it they had to kick up to Chris, who kicked up to Bap, who kicked up to Nicky Locicero. Even with all their scoring and hustling, they really weren’t getting ahead. Frank resented it, but Mike, being from the East Coast, was more old-school.
“It’s the way it is, Frankie,” he’d lecture when Frank would complain. “It’s the rules. We’re not even made guys yet. We gotta show we canearn. ”
Frank wasn’t into the whole “made guy” thing. He really didn’t give a damn about all that old Sicilian stuff. He was just trying to make a living, stash away enough money for a down payment on a house.
Three-plus years of busting his hump and he and Patty were still renting a walk-up apartment in the old neighborhood. And he was working all the time-when he wasn’t on a score, he was driving the limo, mostly back and forth from the airport to La Sur Mer Spa up in Carlsbad.
Mike about shit when he heard Frank had driven Moe Dalitz from the airport to La Sur Mer, or just “the Sur,” as it was known to the locals and cognoscenti. Dalitz went way back-he had been an admiral in Detroit’s “Little Jewish Navy” before the Venas moved in and chased him to Cleveland. He eventually became Chicago’s eyes and ears in Vegas, where he was considered “the Jewish Godfather.”
“Dalitz fuckingbuilt the Sur,” Mike said. “He got the Teamsters to put up the money.”
The Teamsters’ Central States Pension fund was jointly controlled by the Chicago and Detroit families, Mike explained. The go-between was a insurance executive named Allen Dorner, the son of “Red” Dorner, who was buddies with Chicago boss Tony Accardo.
“Dorner?” Frank asked. “Yeah, he was in my car.”
“Dalitzand Dorner!”
“Yeah, they were going to play golf,” Frank said.
The Teamsters played a lot of golf at La Sur. They kept Frank and Mike very busy running them back and forth from the airport, or around town, or out at night. Frank figured that’s why he’d been bumped up to Town Cars-the bosses wanted a connected guy driving the car so that the Teamsters and the wise guys could talk without worrying about it.
“Just drive,” Bap had told him. “Keep your ears open and your mouth shut.”
It wasn’t just Dalitz and Dorner, either. It was also Frank Fitzsimmons, who had taken over as president of the Teamsters while Hoffa was serving his sentence. Fitzsimmons loved the Sur so much, he bought a condo there and started holding the union’s annual board meeting at the hotel.
Then there were the out-and-out wise guys, mostly East Coast higher-ups getting out of the snow for a while. There was Tony Provenzano, “Tony Pro,” who ran the New Jersey Teamsters, and Joey “the Clown” Lombardo, who was the liaison between Chicago and Allen Dorner.
And Detroit guys-Paul Moretti and Tony Jacks Giacamone, who ran Hoffa.
One day, Bap called Frank and Mike, told them to get their limos “spit and polished,” to look sharp themselves, and be over at the airport exactly at nine the following morning.
“What’s up?” Frank asked. He figured something big was going on, because the night before he’d made two trips to the airport to pick up Joey the Clown and Tony Pro, and they’d checked into suites at the Sur.
What was up was that Frank Fitzsimmons, president of the Teamsters, was going to hold a press conference at the Sur to announce that the union was going to endorse Nixon for reelection.
There’s a surprise, Frank thought. The whispers around the Sur were that the Teamsters had funneled millions of dollars of illegal funds into Nixon’s campaign fund. In fact, the spa had become the virtual West Coast headquarters for the Teamsters since Dorner had bought himself a condo overlooking the fourth green.
Frank smirked. “So this is why Nixon pardoned Hoffa?”
Bap smiled and said, “Hoffa is nothing but a cheap leg breaker, out of his league with the big money. Fitzsimmons and Dorner are raking in so much cash, most people don’t want Hoffa back in office. Hoffa wants them clipped, but the fact is they’re making everybody too much money. Listen and learn, Frankie. Making money for other people is what keeps you breathing. Never forget that.”
Frank didn’t.
“Anyway,” Bap said, “after the press conference, you’re driving the union guys to the Western White House. You might meet the president, Frankie.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
Bap smiled, but Frank could see there was hurt behind it.
“I’m not on the list,” Bap said. “None of the guys are.”
“That’s not right, Bap.”
“It’s all bullshit,” Bap said. “The fuck do I care?”
But Frank could see that he cared.
In the morning, with his car gleaming, and himself in a freshly pressed black suit, Frank drove to the private airstrip in Carlsbad to pick up Allen Dorner from his private jet. Word was that Dorner had laid out three million dollars to Frank Sinatra for the Gulfstream, and that the money had come from the Teamsters’ fund.
“Good morning, Frank,” Dorner said as he stepped off the plane onto the tarmac.
“Good morning, Mr. Dorner.”
“It’s going to be a beautiful day.”
“Always is in San Diego,” Frank replied, holding the back door of the car open for him.
It was a quick drive to the Sur.
Frank waited in the parking lot with the other drivers as Fitzsimmons made his endorsement speech and the sixteen other board members stood by, beaming. All the board members are here, Frank thought, but the wise guys are nowhere to be seen.
“Do you believe,” Mike said, looking very spiffy and a little nervous as he stood beside his immaculate car, “that we’re going to the fuckingpresident’s house?”
After his speech, Fitzsimmons and three other board members got into Frank’s car. The other cars followed them as Frank led them out onto the 5 and drove up to San Clemente, to the Western White House.
Frank had been there before.
Well, not exactly to the house, but right below it, under the red bluff. He and some surfing buddies had hiked up from Trestles and found this great right-hand break under the Western White House. For some reason or other, this spot had the name Cottons.
Maybe I should tell Nixon about it, Frank thought as he pulled up to the gate, where Secret Service agents in their dark suits, sunglasses, and earpieces stopped him and checked the car out. Then again, he thought, it’s a little hard to picture Richard Nixon on a board.
Waving thatV for victory thing he did while hanging ten in the soup.
Cowabunga, dude.
The Secret Service guys let the caravan through. Why not, Frank thought. Nixon couldn’t be safer in his mother’s arms than he was with this delegation, although none of them was strapped, having received strict orders to leave the hardware at home. After all, we’re his people. We’re all making money together.