Chapter Twenty-Seven
Eunice
New York, New York
I spread the transcripts of the new wiretaps that we’ve captured over the past few days across my desk. It’s a treasure trove, all courtesy of Polly Adler.
I learned more from Polly than I dared hope.
In that alley, with my back pressed against the brick wall, she filled in several blanks.
I scribbled down every name she whispered, every role she mapped out.
As I made notes, I prayed these were the men who would form a strong chain of evidence reaching to the top.
I didn’t even notice I was shivering until my fingertips went numb, the chill completely forgotten in the urgency of what Polly was giving to me.
We hadn’t lingered long. After just a few minutes, Polly said, “That should be good enough to do whatever you need to do. With what I’ve given you, you could wiretap a slew of gangsters and raid every brothel in the city if you need to.” That was her farewell, and she walked away.
Back in the office, I pored over my notes before taking the information to Dewey, giving him the names from Polly, some that we’d heard before. But it was the name of Dave Betillo that made Dewey sit upright in his chair.
According to street chatter and police investigations, Betillo had once served as Al Capone’s bodyguard and was now a killer for Luciano.
Although he had never been charged with more than pickpocketing and attempted grand larceny, the FBI had linked Betillo to several murders.
However, there was never enough evidence to charge him with and convict him of those crimes.
“Did your source say there was a direct link between Betillo and Luciano?” Dewey had asked.
“Not exactly, but my source knows what we’re after.”
The chief nodded as he flipped through my notes. “Where did you get this information, Mrs. Carter?”
“My source has to remain anonymous. I gave my word.”
“And you trust this source?”
“Yes, this person has every reason to want us to succeed with this investigation.”
With a nod, Dewey said, “Reach out to Judge McCook for more wiretaps.”
—
Now, as I sift through these folders thick with transcripts, I am astonished by the scope of what we’ve gathered. Each file bears a name; I begin with the ones Polly gave me:
Thomas Pennochio, or Tommy the Bull. A name we heard on the taps before. An enforcer, a muscleman who roughs up the girls who get out of line.
Ralph Liguori and Jack Ellerstein, both bookers, although Liguori is also a strong-arm who handles the madams if they don’t cooperate.
Pete Harris, the top booker, whose role is already well-documented in the conversations between Abe Karp and Jesse Jacobs.
Then there are files from the names gathered from the wiretaps:
Meyer Berkman, a bondsman whose name surfaced on the wiretap of the other bondsman, Jesse Jacobs.
Benny Spiller, who runs Luciano’s loan shark racket.
And Dave Betillo, the final name Polly gave me.
It didn’t take long to tie Betillo to the day-to-day workings of this racket. We heard him barking orders at bookers, coordinating cash collections, and handling any problems with the madams. He ran it all like grease on glass—it was smooth, it was slick, it was efficient.
The door to the monitoring room swings open and Murray barges in, brandishing a newspaper. He only stepped away to get us coffee, but he thrusts the New York Evening Journal at me.
“You’d better read this,” he says, his voice pulled tight like a wire. “The chief was on his way to your office, but then he got a call. He gave this to me.”
My eyes land on the bold headline first: Dewey and His Twenty Against the Underworld Poised to Strike—Arrests Imminent.
My jaw clamps down as I continue reading.
Everything we’ve worked on is here—the ten-dollar payments from the girls to the bookers to Karp and the bondsmen; how Karp makes sure the girls don’t spend a night behind bars; how the girls are moved around by the bookers.
The article continues, quoting Dewey as saying an arrest for the head Mob man in charge is coming.
To this point, every newspaper report has stated that the investigation’s focus is on racketeering of all sorts. No one has printed a word about prostitution. But this is so thorough, I could have written it myself.
“You know Dewey didn’t say any of this. There’s a leak in the office.” I’m so angry, the edge in my tone could slice through steel.
“That’s what the chief said.”
“Who is it?”
Murray shrugs. “You know how leaks are. It could be any one of the attorneys, investigators, accountants, secretaries, or clerks. And there are cops coming in and out of here all hours of the day and night. This place has more foot traffic than Grand Central.”
Dewey did all he could to secure this place—locked files, closed windows. Even now, Murray and I are sitting behind a sealed door. But it’s impossible to put a lock on loose lips, and stopping leaks is beyond reason and reach.
“This changes everything,” I mutter, scanning the article once again. “Our whole case is laid out here.”
“It’s not all that we have,” Murray says, finally handing me my coffee.
“Is the chief in his office?” When Murray nods, I slide my chair back. “Let’s go talk to him.”
The chief waves us into his office as if he was expecting Murray and me. “Everything we’ve learned is here.” I hold up the newspaper. “All that’s missing are the wiretaps, the Combination, and the identity of this ‘head Mob man in charge’ that you mentioned,” I say wryly.
“That I allegedly mentioned.” Dewey chuckles, very accustomed to being misquoted in the press.
“At least they don’t know it’s Luciano we’re circling. I’d like to keep that out of the press because we don’t have a direct evidentiary connection to him yet,” I admit.
“Actually, Mrs. Carter, we may be closer than you think. Luciano may have just shown his hand.” The chief continues. “I just got a telephone call—Luciano’s on the run.”
Murray and I gasp.
“Seems this newspaper article cut too close to the truth. He left New York a few hours ago, and from what the men tailing him have said, it doesn’t look like he’s taking a short trip.”
“It’s an admission of guilt,” I say.
“I believe so,” Dewey says, and a flicker of satisfaction stirs inside me. Is the chief finally beginning to agree with me? He adds, “Not that we can use it as a confession in court.”
“Is he fleeing the country?” Murray asks.
“It doesn’t look like it. He’s on a train. We don’t know his destination yet, but we will. In the meantime, with a little more evidence, we may be able to compel his return wherever he lands.” The chief glances between Murray and me, inviting us to share a plan.
“I have an idea, Chief.” Without even glancing at Murray, I lay out a strategy that’s been taking shape in my mind ever since Polly mentioned it offhandedly in the alley that day.
“It’s the testimony from the girls and the madams that we need, right?
There’s a way to force their cooperation.
What if we raided every single brothel on my list—there are eighty—all at once?
One surprise hit across the city. Same night, same hour—we round up the girls and madams in one sweep. ”
“Interesting,” Dewey says, but I don’t hear confidence in his voice.
Still, I continue. “But the night before, we lock up the bookers, the bondsmen, and the attorneys. So the night of the raids, when the girls and madams make their usual calls to get out, no one answers. They’ll be sitting in those cells with no protection.
I think after a few days under arrest without any chance of paying for bail, they’ll be ready to talk.
” I pause and look at Dewey. “That’s how we’ll finally get their statements; that’s how we’ll finally crack this case. ”
Dewey stares at me silently for a long moment. “Raiding eighty brothels? At one time? I don’t believe anything like this has ever been attempted. Certainly not on this scale.”
“That’s precisely why it will work,” I say.
The corners of his lips twitch into a slow smile. “You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Carter. It’s bold, it’s brilliant, it’s damn good. Let’s do it.”