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"Claws Against Gangdom"
May. 28th, 2022 09:57 pm"Claws Against Gangdom"
3/22/1933
I.
"Cripes, just look at this headline! UNDERWORLD FIGURES FOUND HORRIBLY MAULED. And it's even got a picture, not of the bodies but showing the bloody floor!" Aldo Lombardi shoved the folded newspaper across his desk at the three gunmen who cringed whenever he started yelling like this.
"I knew them boys! They was all right. Ricci was at my wedding, he could be trusted with anyone's daughter. According to this rag, all four of them were ripped up, quote "evidently by the claws of some large unidentified animal." I don't believe it! There ain't no animals in New York that can tear up four grown men and you know they were packing serious firepower."
As he felt his boss was waiting for a comment, the oldest of the thugs cleared his throated and ventured, "It sounds crazy, Mr Lombardi, but I gotta wonder if maybe the cops brought in a bear or a tiger from the zoo? Kept it in a truck and let it loose?"
Lombardi swung his black soulless eyes over his employees. He insisted that they shave and bathe daily, that they wear conservative suits and ties, with properly blocked fedoras. He even checked them to see their fingernails were clean and their shoes polished. His theory was that, the more respectable they looked, the less likely the police would be to give them a suspicious eye.
As for Aldo himself, he was impeccably groomed and dressed in a tailored pinstripe suit that fit his wide blocky body well. The thick greying hair was swept back from a high forehead and kept flat with pomade. The broad sullen face with its flat nose and beartrap mouth could not seem genteel no matter what he tried; he had given up on trying to pose as anything other than a brutal mobster.
"You're right, Lou, it does sound crazy," Lombardi replied in a quieter tone. "But it's a crazy time we live in. It's damn certain no tigers or bears escaped from the Bronx Zoo, that'd be all over the radio. I don't get it." He stomped around behind his desk and dropped down heavily as it creaked in complaint.
The chair and the desk, like all the decor in this penthouse, was in the Art Deco style that was all the rage. Lots of chrome and glass, geometric shapes, open space, recessed indirect lighting. Not that Lombardi cared for this sort of style at all, he would have much preferred solid old-fashioned dark wood and maybe a stone mantle over the fireplace. But this was how the suite had been furnished when he had taken it over.
Lombardi opened a gleaming stainless steel box, removed a Havana and clipped its end with a tool designed to do nothing else. He paused with the Ronson in his hand and moved his frightening cold eyes over his three lieutenants. "You guys are a few steps smarter than the usual mugs I have to rely on. Give me some ideas. Tell me how this could have happened. Pietro?"
"Boss, I was wondering about these lunatics the papers call 'mystery men.' Mark Drum, Dr Vitarius. The Sting. I understand that the Monk has been active around Hell's Kitchen lately...."
"Holy Mary Mother of God, I hate hearing that name!" screamed Lombardi. "That maniac has been slaughtering guys in our line of business as if he's in a war. You know what I think? I think the Monk is working for some mobster, maybe over in Jersey, thinning out rivals so there's room to expand. That makes sense."
"That's what I figure the Sting is up to, boss," Pietro continued. "Every time he gets involved in a racket, the businessmen end up dead or in the slammer. Remember the Weissman brothers?"
"Yeah, sure, I remember. I warned them not to even talk to the Sting. He wiggled things so they turned evidence against each other. Listen, you fellows take five. Smoke out on the balcony if you want. Let me read this story again."
"Whatever you say, Mr Lombardi." Two of the big men gratefully lowered themselves onto uncomfortable modernistic chairs that seemed to be glass over bent aluminum tubing. It was past midnight and they had been attending Aldo Lombardi since dawn. The third dug a nearly empty pack of Lucky Strikes from his jacket pocket, pulled the translucent sparkly curtains aside and stepped out onto the semi-circular platform that overlooked the treetops of Central Park West.
Lombardi drew deeply on his cigar and brought the newspaper into the circle of light from his gooseneck lamp. "These boys had nothin' in common," he said, mostly to himself. "One was running the jukeboxes on Coney Island, one was selling snow to the colored people in Harlem, the other two mostly ran cathouses. I wonder what they met to discuss?"
From the French doors leading to the balcony, an unfamiliar voice broke in, "Nobody get excited. Let's all stay calm, okay?"
( the rest of the story )
3/22/1933
I.
"Cripes, just look at this headline! UNDERWORLD FIGURES FOUND HORRIBLY MAULED. And it's even got a picture, not of the bodies but showing the bloody floor!" Aldo Lombardi shoved the folded newspaper across his desk at the three gunmen who cringed whenever he started yelling like this.
"I knew them boys! They was all right. Ricci was at my wedding, he could be trusted with anyone's daughter. According to this rag, all four of them were ripped up, quote "evidently by the claws of some large unidentified animal." I don't believe it! There ain't no animals in New York that can tear up four grown men and you know they were packing serious firepower."
As he felt his boss was waiting for a comment, the oldest of the thugs cleared his throated and ventured, "It sounds crazy, Mr Lombardi, but I gotta wonder if maybe the cops brought in a bear or a tiger from the zoo? Kept it in a truck and let it loose?"
Lombardi swung his black soulless eyes over his employees. He insisted that they shave and bathe daily, that they wear conservative suits and ties, with properly blocked fedoras. He even checked them to see their fingernails were clean and their shoes polished. His theory was that, the more respectable they looked, the less likely the police would be to give them a suspicious eye.
As for Aldo himself, he was impeccably groomed and dressed in a tailored pinstripe suit that fit his wide blocky body well. The thick greying hair was swept back from a high forehead and kept flat with pomade. The broad sullen face with its flat nose and beartrap mouth could not seem genteel no matter what he tried; he had given up on trying to pose as anything other than a brutal mobster.
"You're right, Lou, it does sound crazy," Lombardi replied in a quieter tone. "But it's a crazy time we live in. It's damn certain no tigers or bears escaped from the Bronx Zoo, that'd be all over the radio. I don't get it." He stomped around behind his desk and dropped down heavily as it creaked in complaint.
The chair and the desk, like all the decor in this penthouse, was in the Art Deco style that was all the rage. Lots of chrome and glass, geometric shapes, open space, recessed indirect lighting. Not that Lombardi cared for this sort of style at all, he would have much preferred solid old-fashioned dark wood and maybe a stone mantle over the fireplace. But this was how the suite had been furnished when he had taken it over.
Lombardi opened a gleaming stainless steel box, removed a Havana and clipped its end with a tool designed to do nothing else. He paused with the Ronson in his hand and moved his frightening cold eyes over his three lieutenants. "You guys are a few steps smarter than the usual mugs I have to rely on. Give me some ideas. Tell me how this could have happened. Pietro?"
"Boss, I was wondering about these lunatics the papers call 'mystery men.' Mark Drum, Dr Vitarius. The Sting. I understand that the Monk has been active around Hell's Kitchen lately...."
"Holy Mary Mother of God, I hate hearing that name!" screamed Lombardi. "That maniac has been slaughtering guys in our line of business as if he's in a war. You know what I think? I think the Monk is working for some mobster, maybe over in Jersey, thinning out rivals so there's room to expand. That makes sense."
"That's what I figure the Sting is up to, boss," Pietro continued. "Every time he gets involved in a racket, the businessmen end up dead or in the slammer. Remember the Weissman brothers?"
"Yeah, sure, I remember. I warned them not to even talk to the Sting. He wiggled things so they turned evidence against each other. Listen, you fellows take five. Smoke out on the balcony if you want. Let me read this story again."
"Whatever you say, Mr Lombardi." Two of the big men gratefully lowered themselves onto uncomfortable modernistic chairs that seemed to be glass over bent aluminum tubing. It was past midnight and they had been attending Aldo Lombardi since dawn. The third dug a nearly empty pack of Lucky Strikes from his jacket pocket, pulled the translucent sparkly curtains aside and stepped out onto the semi-circular platform that overlooked the treetops of Central Park West.
Lombardi drew deeply on his cigar and brought the newspaper into the circle of light from his gooseneck lamp. "These boys had nothin' in common," he said, mostly to himself. "One was running the jukeboxes on Coney Island, one was selling snow to the colored people in Harlem, the other two mostly ran cathouses. I wonder what they met to discuss?"
From the French doors leading to the balcony, an unfamiliar voice broke in, "Nobody get excited. Let's all stay calm, okay?"
( the rest of the story )
