Chapter Thirty-One
Eunice
New York, New York
“It’s been a month,” the chief begins. “We’ve made the arrests, garnered the press, have potential witnesses sitting in jail…and yet, we have no firm connection to a major mobster.”
He glances at each one of the assistant district attorneys, as we are, once again, gathered in the meeting room.
“Those girls are sticking to their stories,” one of my colleagues says, frustration evident in his tone. “All of them are models or students or tourists. They have nothing to do with the prostitution racket. And the Combination? They’ve never heard of it.”
Others chime in:
“The girls I’ve spoken with can’t remember who they work for, can’t recall the brothel locations, and they have no knowledge of anyone above the madams.”
“Most of the girls refuse to speak to me at all.”
Even Murray adds, “I’ve done more than a dozen interviews, and not one of the girls has opened up.”
I understand their challenges. If I were one of the girls, I would stay silent, too.
The district attorneys haven’t treated the girls with any more respect than the men who exploit them.
They’ve questioned the girls in the most insolent manner—with sharp words, cutting tones, and threatening scowls.
Some of the men have made the women sit across the room, or they’ve worn gloves as if, just by answering questions, the girls might infect them with some vile disease.
“I’ve been able to gather more information from my interviews,” I say, and watch as every eye turns to me.
“Several girls have named Tommy the Bull, Ralph Liguori—the bruisers, as they call them—and known Mob associates. And when I ask the girls who those men work for, they’ve all said the same thing—the Boss. ”
“That’s it?” One of the assistant district attorneys scoffs. “The Boss.”
I’m tempted to retort that I’ve obtained more information than he has, but I only say, “None of the girls know the Boss’ name, although one did say Liguori was one of the Boss’ top lieutenants, and others have pointed to Dave Betillo.”
“This isn’t news,” the assistant district attorney pipes in again. “We all know who the Boss is, but unless we can get one of these girls to say it’s Luciano, we won’t have anything more than we had a month ago.”
“The point is the girls are talking to me. Every time I interview them, I gain a little more. I’m on the right track.” Turning to the chief, I say, “The girls trust me.” I pause, letting the unspoken words—and they don’t trust any of you—linger. “I just need a little more time.”
“Perhaps we need to reconsider our strategy,” Murray says. “Mrs. Carter has the girls’ trust; she should handle the interviews.”
The room hums until the chief raises his hand.
“All right. Mrs. Carter, you’re in charge of the ladies moving forward.
” To the men, he says, “That will leave more time for you to handle the bookers like Pete Harris and the bondsmen. And, of course, your own investigations separate and apart from prostitution,” he finishes.
Dewey has kept most of the assistant district attorneys on their initial assignments, holding fast to the hope that it will be some extortion racket or its like that will bring down Luciano.
“None of the bookers or bondsmen have talked either,” one of the men says.
Murray says, “Actually, Pete Harris has asked to speak to an assistant district attorney. But we’re letting him sit on ice for a little bit more. They’ve been behind bars for so long now, I expect that if Harris talks, others will follow.”
“This could be big,” another assistant district attorney says. “Harris has to know more than any of those girls.”
Dewey says, “Proceed and keep me posted.”
We all rise, but the chief stops me. “Mrs. Carter, a word in private.”
I stiffen but sink back into my seat. Dread curls around me. I’m certain the chief wants to express his disappointment that we haven’t gotten better results from the biggest raid in the city’s history.
But once the room clears, Dewey says, “I’m worried that Luciano isn’t at the top of the Combination.”
His words jolt me. This isn’t an admonishment; it’s worse.
“Chief,” I begin cautiously, “the girls have all spoken about the Combination and a boss, one man being at the top.”
He raises his hand. “I’m not questioning the existence of the Combination or that prostitution is an organized operation. You’ve convinced me there, Mrs. Carter. What I’m questioning is whether Luciano is the ‘one man.’ No one has mentioned Luciano or implicated him in any way.”
“The girls are just starting to talk. And soon we may have the opportunity to unlock Pete Harris. Once we have him, others will follow. We’ll get the link to Luciano.”
Dewey sighs. “All of the men we have—Thomas Pennochio, Ralph Liguori, Dave Betillo—they are all extortionists, loan sharks, murderers. Any one, or all of them together, could be running the Combination.”
“We know Luciano insulates himself with layers of men. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s at the top,” I say. “Even if one of his underlings is handling day-to-day operations, not one of them would dare run a racket of this scale without his direct approval.”
Dewey’s disdain for a case based on prostitution never wavers.
But today, I wonder if his skepticism is tied to the fact that Luciano has returned to New York.
After fleeing the city on the heels of the New York Evening Journal article, he returned, checking into the Barbizon Plaza Hotel under his usual alias of Charlie Ross.
Luciano has been gallivanting through the city, dining at the finest restaurants, throwing lavish parties at the swankiest nightclubs, and parading around with an entourage of menacing men and glamorous women.
It feels brazen, as if he’s taunting Dewey, saying that the law doesn’t apply to him.
A month ago, he looked guilty. Now he seems anything but.
“We’ll get the evidence, Chief.” I rise. “We’ll get what we need to stop Lucky Luciano.”
As I settle back at my desk, I feel a suffocating frustration with Dewey’s hesitation and the women.
For the past month, I’ve spent so many hours inside the New York House of Detention, speaking to the girls and madams, that the prison guards not only know my name, but they know I prefer the chair next to the radiator in the visitors’ room.
Every day, their words stay and resonate with me:
Daisy Wilson: “I thought I was coming to New York to be a seamstress, but by the time I figured it out, it was too late.”
Helen Martin: “Lil Davie tells me where to go. He keeps me moving from house to house, and I hate it!”
Frances Cooper: “I once caught a glimpse of the Boss when I heard Tommy the Bull say he was waiting outside. But by the time I got to the window, I only saw a shadowy figure slipping into the back of a black Packard.”
Nearly every girl ended their interviews with some variation: “I can’t say anything more, Mrs. Carter. If I do, the police will find me folded inside some suitcase tucked behind an alley dumpster.”
I won’t get to Luciano through the girls.
The madams are my path. Two—Jenny the Factory and Fat Rae—have spoken to me but have shared little.
Two—Mildred Balitzer and Nancy Presser—are addicts.
While the physical withdrawal has passed, I’m certain after the years of dependency on heroin, the psychological effects still linger. And finally, there’s Red Sadie.
No matter how many requests I’ve made, Red Sadie won’t even acknowledge that I exist. Her silence is as unyielding as the iron bars that confine her…and it speaks louder than anything she could say.
She has information.
But how can I make her talk? She believes that she can outlast us, that all she has to do is endure this confinement and eventually she’ll walk free.
I must break her resolve. And then, an idea comes to me.