Chapter Nineteen
Eunice
New York, New York
“Born Salvatore Luciano,” the chief says as he stands in front of the meeting room, composed and impeccable. “But better known as Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano. He is the new target of our investigations.”
The name sends a ripple through the room. We’re familiar with Lucky.
Still, Dewey gives us a profile. “He’s thirty-seven years old, born in Italy, but he’s been living in New York since he was nine. This city is where he’s made his money, everything from drug peddling to the most savage of murders.
“Luciano is the one who called for Schultz’s last meal to become a massacre. It was a bloody scene. The murderers opened fire and didn’t stop until their clips were empty. It was overkill. Luciano was sending a message.
“This man is no ordinary tommy-gun-wielding hoodlum. While Schultz used brawn, Luciano uses his brain, and that makes him not only far more dangerous but more elusive. He knows how to keep his hands clean. To this point, he’s built an organization so layered that he’s untouchable…
or so he thinks.” The chief pauses and glances at me.
“We are now seeking to imprison one of the most cold-blooded criminals alive. And understand that while he is more thoughtful and calculating than Dutch Schultz, Luciano won’t hesitate to have anyone gunned down.
Any questions?” With no response, Dewey continues.
“The first order of business is to see if your rackets have been taken over by Lucky; in those instances, your investigations might be salvageable. Even if we have to start over in some areas, we will win this. We will use subpoenas and warrants…”
In my mind, I add, And wiretaps.
When Dewey glances at me again and gives me a curt nod, it’s almost as if he’s reading my mind. I understand why he didn’t mention the wiretaps—the fewer people who know about this, the better. I agree with Dewey’s caution. For the sake of what I’m building, this cannot leak.
“We will fight this war with every legal weapon at our disposal. And one last thing. While we are certain Luciano ordered the hit on Schultz, we’re not chasing justice for a dead man. Our focus remains on bringing the Mob down for extortion, gambling, drugs…and the other, typical rackets.”
Dewey dismisses us, and Murray and I fall into stride. His voice drops to a whisper. “Now that we have a target, those wiretaps could become our lifeline to Luciano, if he’s the one in charge. Have you listened to any?”
“Not yet. I begin right after lunch,” I say.
“The monitoring room was only ready this morning. We’re using the storage closet at the end of the hallway.
Dewey had the room gutted and sealed tight.
And yesterday, he handpicked Lisa LaFrance and another secretary to cover shifts to record the live conversations when I’m not in there. ”
“This is some operation because of you,” Murray says, sounding impressed. “Let’s hope we get something from those taps. But I’m still convinced it all comes back to the girls. Have you spoken to anyone else?”
“Not yet.”
“Even with all the evidence you’re gathering and the wiretaps, if we can get one woman to talk, I believe that will be the key,” Murray pushes.
That was exactly what I hoped when I visited Polly Adler all those months ago. But she showed me just how thick and unbreakable the walls around this world are.
—
Twilight has long gone, but Lenox Avenue is still pulsing with the rhythm of Harlem when I step out of the subway.
I pull the mink collar of my coat higher against my neck and bow my head as I push through the wind gusts on 145th Street.
As I move, my mind wanders to the scratchy voices that I strained to hear through the wiretaps all afternoon.
I was thrilled, at first, when I sat in front of that switchboard with the bulky earphones clamped tight over my head.
But it didn’t take long for frustration to set in.
I’d expected the voices caught in telephone calls to be crisp.
But instead, Jesse Jacobs’ and Abe Karp’s conversations drifted in and out, most of the time foggy and garbled as if they were mumbling from the bottom of the ocean.
And I hadn’t expected all of the other sounds—the hiss of the static, and voices from other lines tangling with theirs.
Sometimes they spoke so low, I half wanted to pick up the telephone, ring them directly, and tell them to repeat themselves—and this time, speak louder.
I chuckle as I reach St. Nicholas Avenue. Wouldn’t that have been a laugh?
When I round the corner, the sounds of the city—the bark of the street vendors and the blaring car horns—are swallowed by the hush of my Sugar Hill neighborhood.
The sudden quiet prickles my nerves. My gaze sweeps to the left, then the right, skimming the shadows that darken the stoops and alleyways.
I shiver, but I push it aside. Surely I’m only feeling a little unnerved because of my day, first learning that Luciano is our new target, and then the hours I spent on the wiretaps.
Still, I quicken my steps, hurrying to get to the warmth—and safety—of my own front door.
I should have taken a taxicab home. Not that any would have stopped for me downtown.
Not for a colored lady, and not at this hour.
But if I’d had the sense to plan ahead, I could have called Edward Johnson and his colored jitney service, the one Lisle and I often rely on when New York cabs won’t bother to slow down for folks like us.
I exhale when I see the soft glow from the light of my building’s entrance, but then a tall white man steps from the lobby. It’s not unusual to see white folks in this neighborhood. A few even still live in the building.
But the man is wearing dark glasses that I can see from yards away. A white man in dark glasses at night. My gut squeezes, and every warning rushes me at once—Schultz, Luciano, and the note slipped to me by the shoeshine boy.
I wrap my fingers tightly around my briefcase handle. This will be my weapon. My eyes do not leave the man as he strolls closer. When we are inches apart, he touches the brim of his fedora and gives me a polite smile before he continues on his way.
My shoulders loosen just enough for me to breathe. Surely that wasn’t one of Luciano’s hired thugs—or was it? I couldn’t ever recall a white man tipping his hat at me.
“Stop it, Eunice,” I murmur as I step into the lobby.
I glance to the left, where Mr. Meeks is speaking to two gentlemen. “Good evening, Mrs. Carter,” the doorman shouts out. “I apologize for the door—”
I wave his words away, then cross the lobby to the elevator, where I greet the elevator operator.
It is not until the gate rattles shut that I feel complete relief.
I draw in a steadying breath and chide myself.
It is good to stay vigilant, but I cannot flinch at every shadow or stranger.
This is New York City, for heaven’s sake.
As the chamber rises, my mind shifts to what I might face with Lisle tonight.
Once again, I’m guessing I’ll spend the evening alone.
Since I backed out on Martha’s Vineyard, Lisle has found reasons to remain in his office long past normal hours.
He claims he’s had late clients, but I imagine him at the Harlem Forum letting bourbon drown out the silence that has settled between us.
If I weren’t a teetotaler, I’d have grabbed Regina and ducked into the nearest local bar to toss back a few Bee’s Knees myself.
I’m a gangbuster by day, but the real battle is in my home at night.
The divide between Lisle and me is widening, and I am at a loss as to how to change our course.
Mr. Walker bids me a good night when I exit the elevator. But just steps away from my front door, I pause. A postal box sits at my doorstep. Why didn’t Mr. Meeks hold this for me downstairs?
Then I glimpse the return address: 233 Broadway. What in blazes is this? I just left the office, and Lisa, my secretary, didn’t mention posting a parcel to my home.
With a sigh, I slip into my apartment and flick on the foyer light. Perhaps there is something that Dewey or Murray wanted me to read and they forgot to mention it.
I rest the box on the dining room table, then find a paring knife and slice through the box’s string.
I lift the box’s flaps—and freeze. Inside sits a white doll, its cloth face smeared with black ink. The eyes have been gouged out and the mouth sealed with gray tape.
The rush of my blood pounds in my ears. This was delivered right to my doorstep. But by whom? In an instant, I see the white man in front of my building. Was it him? How did he get to my door? And if he could reach my door, what would stop him from breaking into my apartment?
“Eunice.”
I scream and spin, gripping the knife in my hand, ready to strike. But just as I raise my arm to plunge forward, I see it is only my husband. “Lisle”—I can barely get his name out—“what are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No,” I say, placing the knife on the table. “I didn’t know you were home.”
“I wanted to come home early tonight because I don’t like what’s happening between us.”
His words are like a balm, untangling the knot in my chest. But then Lisle glances past me, and I shift, trying to hide the box from his view. “What’s that?”
“Just…some papers…I brought home…from the office,” I stammer as I fold the flaps shut. Lisle can never see what’s inside this box.
“Oh,” he says, “I was hoping we could have dinner tonight…and talk.”
“Really?” His words steady me even more. “I’d like that, Lisle. I can have dinner ready in about an hour.”
Once again, he glances over my shoulder. “You brought work home.”
“This can wait.” Looking straight into his eyes, I add, “I’d much rather have dinner with you.”
“Good.” His grin spreads wide as he steps closer. “But I don’t want you fussing in the kitchen. Let’s go out to the Hotel Theresa for dinner.”
“I’d love that. Can you give me a few minutes to freshen up?” I say, briefly turning away from him and grabbing the box.
The box is between us when he presses a quick kiss to my lips. “Take all the time you need, sweetheart. I’ll be right here when you’re ready.”