Chapter Twenty-Three
Eunice
New York, New York
Abe Karp’s and Jesse Jacobs’ laughter crackles through the earphones, yanking me from my thoughts.
I’m not sure how much I’ve missed. Too much.
I cannot allow my mind to drift this way.
These wiretaps are too valuable to squander.
Still, I toss the earphones onto the table. I need a moment, just to steady myself.
It’s difficult to focus when my thoughts keep rushing back to Virginia. Her last moments in the police station have haunted me for the past two nights.
Virginia had shaken with fear when I’d taken her hand and helped her to stand.
But when I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair and draped it across her shoulders, she looked at me, puzzled.
I reached for my pocketbook, pulled out all the cash I had, and folded the three dollars into Virginia’s hand.
Then I summoned Officer Calcagnini back into the room. “We have no grounds to hold Virginia. Please release her through the back door.”
For a moment, the officer studied me; then he nodded like I knew he would.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and in a flash, the officer and Virginia were gone.
My steps carried the weight of my fear for Virginia as I paced. When Officer Calcagnini returned, I followed him down the corridor, stopping short of entering the waiting area.
From the shadows, I watched the policeman talk to Karp.
“I’m sorry,” Officer Calcagnini said. “There’s no one back there named Virginia.”
“What are you talking about?” Karp growled in a tone I’d often heard him use on the wiretaps. “You said she was here.”
“I thought you were talking about someone else.” The officer stayed steadfast. “I checked the list of girls brought in tonight. No Virginia here.”
Karp glared at the cop, then barged toward the corridor where I’d hidden. I pressed my back against the wall, shrinking into the shadows as Officer Calcagnini blocked Karp.
Karp shouted, “I’m going back there to check for myself.”
“I can’t let you do that.” The policeman stared down Karp until the attorney backed away.
Only when Karp exited the station did I breathe.
Ever since, I’ve been troubled with questions about what happened.
How had Karp known that Virginia was there?
Had they somehow followed her from where the cops picked her up?
Or were the eyes of the Mob in that police station—although I’m confident Officer Calcagnini isn’t part of any conspiracy.
And the question that torments me: Did Virginia get away? Is she safe now?
I’d hoped that maybe Karp would have mentioned Virginia on the wiretaps, but nothing has come through about her.
I sigh. If only I’d had just five more minutes with Virginia. She’d been so close to revealing something vital, I’m certain of that: I won’t ever let Lucky—but then the knock on the door finished what she’d started to say. I had to let her go, even if it meant losing a promising piece of evidence.
Still, she’d said the name Lucky. It had to be Lucky Luciano. And this would be our first connection to him and the prostitution racket. But Virginia’s statement is not enough, and I cannot share what she said with anyone without revealing what I did.
I try to push the memory aside. I cannot dwell on that missed opportunity, not when new leads are unfolding before me.
Shifting the earphones back into place, I will myself to focus. I hear the hiss of air, then the voice I’ve come to recognize as Abe Karp, especially after hearing him at the precinct. “Pete’s got those girls running double shifts now. They’re working harder than factory hands.”
The two men explode with laughter as though Karp’s words were the cleverest ever spoken.
“Pete brings in the numbers.” The other man, Jesse Jacobs, wheezes, sounding like he’s choking on his chuckles. “You gotta hand it to him; he flips those girls faster than a cook down at Schrafft’s flips flapjacks. If he brings them in before noon, they’re on their backs before sundown.”
“That’s what keeps the cash rolling in,” Karp snorts. “I don’t care if he works them till they drop dead in the gutter. There’re plenty more where those whores come from.”
This time, their laughter sounds vicious, and my stomach twists. I have to force my pencil to keep moving, to write down all that I’ve heard.
From these wiretaps, I’ve learned that Pete is Pete Harris, a booker and a central figure to the operation.
Apparently, Harris and the other bookers manage this racket like a finely tuned enterprise—organizing, coordinating, and dispatching the girls between the brothels with precision.
This finding has given me more than a glimpse into this corner of the business—it’s brought me one step closer to Luciano.
Pete Harris is more than just a top booker. According to Murray, Harris is rumored to be an associate of Luciano’s. Of course, rumors don’t stand up as evidence in court, but a wiretapped conversation linking Harris and Luciano will.
“I was with one last night, a real looker with a big mouth,” Karp says, dragging my mind back to their filth. “Had to slap her around a couple of times. Told her she was being paid to keep her legs open and her mouth shut.”
The disgust rises like bile in my throat. This is the difficult part—hearing men speak about these girls as if they’re nothing more than meat to be chewed up, then spit out. Every day since I started listening to these tapes, I remind myself that this is the path to justice.
When I return to the conversation, Karp and Jacobs have drifted from their crass talk to the bolts of their business. They discuss upcoming cases, arrange bonds, and sort through the stories they’ve given the girls in case any of them have to testify.
This is another thing I’ve come to understand from the wiretaps. The few times I’ve heard any of the girls represented by Rachlin testify in their defense, they all had a variation of the same story when asked why they were caught up in a raid.
“I don’t know,” they all said, and then would add another line: “I’m a student,” “I’m a tourist,” “I’m a model.
” And of course, none of them admitted to keeping company in a brothel: “I was at a party,” “I was having dinner with my boyfriend,” “I wasn’t there.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Finally, the wiretap line goes silent, and I exhale.
Even though I have to trudge through the trash of their conversations, a chain is forming.
From the wiretaps, I can tie Karp, Jacobs, and Harris—an attorney, bondsman, and booker—together in a corrupt scheme to organize the girls’ prostitution activities.
This would yield a charge of pandering—if we were so inclined—and bribery of the cops and the courts.
In addition, I have Pete Harris’ name mentioned enough times to justify another wiretap for him.
I want to listen to every man tied up in this racket. Eventually this will answer the question: Is this just a handful of bottom-feeders like Karp and Jacobs—which is what Dewey believes? Or is it what I believe in my gut—that this leads straight to the man at the top?
I gather my notes, and just as I prepare to turn off the machine, a scratch of static from the earphones catches my attention. Sliding the earphones back on, I hear Jacobs’ voice first:
“Hey, I damn near forgot to ask you. Did you hear what Carmen pulled in court yesterday?” He laughs again. “I heard she asked for her ten dollars back for this week.”
“I was there, and it wasn’t funny.” Karp’s voice snaps like a whip.
“Ah, come on. If I was shelling out ten bucks a week for guaranteed bail and a suspended sentence, I’d be mad, too, after two nights in the can.”
“Haven’t you heard what happened to Viola when she shot her mouth off like that in court?” Karp continues, his voice lower, sharper. “Tommy the Bull handled her….”
Quickly, I scratch: Carmen…ten dollars/week…guaranteed bail…suspended sentences…Viola…Tommy the Bull.
Karp says, “All of those girls know. Any one of them so much as whispers about the Combination, they’ll have a date with the bottom of the Hudson.”
My back stiffens, and I wait. What did Carmen say about the Combination? More silence, this time as heavy as a shroud. And neither man speaks again. Slowly, I remove the earphones.
The Combination. Words I was waiting to hear from these men.
But now my thoughts are with the girl named Viola…
and Tommy the Bull. What did he do to her?
I close my eyes because I’m afraid to know—but I do.
This is another name that’s been mentioned before.
Thomas Pennochio, once a bootlegger, now muscle at the top of the Mob’s ranks.
He could be another link in this chain getting us closer to Lucky Luciano.
I rise and collect my papers. But before I take a step, I bow my head and say a little prayer for Ginger and this girl who was mentioned today, Carmen. I hope neither met the same fate as Viola.
And then I take another moment and whisper a prayer for Virginia, too.