“Mr. Capone. A Pleasure To See You Again.”
Friday, August 19, 1927: Chicago
We won our third straight against the White Sox today, 5–4 in 12 innings, with Wilcy Moore getting the win after relieving Shocker in the ninth. Neither Ruth nor Gehrig homered today, but yesterday Jidge poked one out in the 11th to win the game for us 3–2.
After the Babe’s titanic shot on Tuesday — which everyone agrees is the longest home run ever hit — the Home Run Derby between Ruth and Gehrig is now tied at 38 apiece.
We’ve won six of our last seven games, and seem to have righted the ship. At 82–33 we’re sitting a full 15 games ahead of the Senators, and it’s clear the only thing that could keep us out of the World Series at this point would be a rash of injuries — and even that probably wouldn’t be enough. With luck, Huggins will soon start resting some of the starters so that yours truly can get back on the mound.
My college pal, Steven, is always worried about the health of the team, and is constantly asking me about the players. He was cracking up the other night when I told him that Earle Combs was going to miss our next game because of an insane case of the shits from something he ate from room service.
Today I was telling Steven how Silent Bob Meusel is going to miss tomorrow’s game because of another one of his migraine headaches. Doc Woods believes Silent Bob gets migraines because he’s always playing the sun field, so Ruth can stay in shade and spare his eyes.
Meusel’s batting .350, which is sixth in the league, with 80 RBIs, seventh in the AL, and 19 stolen bases, good for third. I’m sure all his numbers would be even higher if he weren’t always playing directly in the sun — in left field in Yankee Stadium, and in right field most of the time on the road.
I’m in a phone booth in the lobby of the Cooper Carlton, our hotel in Chicago, talking with Steven about Meusel’s migraine when I notice that I’m being watched by a vaguely familiar man in an oversized dinner jacket. Like most of the men wearing dinner jackets in this town, this one has a bulge just behind his breast pocket.
I quickly wrap up my call with Steven. Then I walk briskly through the lobby and outside the hotel side door and head toward the lakefront. It’s the only place I can think of where the jacket and I can have an inconspicuous conversation.
Walking faster than normal, I make it down to the shoreline alone. It’s a warm night, but there’s a breeze that hints at summer’s end. In front of me, a half dozen sailboats catch it and dance on Lake Michigan.
I light up a cigarette and wait for the dinner jacket to arrive. It doesn’t take long.
“Pardon my indiscreetness, Mr. Thomas.”
“Nice to see you again,” I say, offering him a smoke. The jacket declines with a wave of his very large hand. “I hope you don’t mind my walking down here, but I thought it best that we talk away from the team — and I had a feeling you wouldn’t have any trouble following me.”
As I say this, I smile and look him directly in the eyes. Nothing’s coming back. He acts as if he’s never seen me before.
Then, speaking just as formally as he did the last time we met, and repeating himself almost verbatim, he recites his line, “I have been asked to cordially extend an invitation for you to join Mr. Capone at the edifice of the Metropole Hotel.”
What is the term Gallico uses for the way these goons talk, again? Goddamn, I can’t remember it — probably because I’m too busy trying not to appear nervous, too busy thinking, “How the hell would Schoolboy handle this situation?”
Oh, wait — “gangster aspirational” — that’s it. That’s what Gallico calls it. Normally I’d smile while remembering something like that, but I don’t want to offend the jacket.
“Sure that sounds swell,” I say. “Tell Mr. Capone I’m happy to meet him at his hotel. What time?”
“Now.”
He sweeps his long arm out ahead of him and gallantly points the way. “After you, Mr. Thomas.”
Right on the period of that last sentence, the headlights pop on a Packard idling about 90 feet away.
“Apparently,” I say, “my chariot awaits.”
Once again, I’m driven in the dark past Chicago’s Motor Row with its glowing automobile showrooms; their giant windows look like fish tanks filled with the latest models from Detroit, all of them whispering, “Take me home.”
Once again, at the end of my ride, I’m met at the awning of the Metropole by two more dinner jackets. They escort me through the busy lobby of the hotel.
Once again, on my way up to Capone’s office, my elevator stops between floors, so that one of the jackets can frisk me.
Once again, I’m escorted down a long hallway with plush red and gold carpeting, framed by green velvet curtains.
Once again, at the end of the hallway, two enormous dinner jackets stand sentry and frisk me once more before letting me into Capone’s suite.
Only this time, it’s just me. No teammates.
And this time the opulent office of the CEO of Chicago’s underworld is empty.
The door closes behind me. I’m not sure if I should stand or take a seat. Either way, I know I’m being watched.
On one wall there’s an American flag surrounded by a dozen or more framed photos. They all have little silver plaques on them with the names of the celebrity or politician or judge posing in the picture with Capone. I wonder if I’m looking at the spoils of Scarface’s own celebrity or just future evidence.
Two of the photos are of Scarface and Big Bill Thompson, Chicago’s mayor. On anyone’s list of the most corrupt politicians in America, Big Bill is a contender for the number one spot. He runs Chicago like it’s his own piggy bank. Big Bill and Scarface are essentially business partners.
Also on the wall is a picture of Scarface with Hack Wilson. Last month when Lazzeri, Koenig, Schoolboy and I had dinner with Capone, he told us he thought Wilson might be the next Babe Ruth. Schoolboy shut that thought down.
Another is Capone with —
“Myles.”
I turn around. It’s Scarface. He’s entered his office from somewhere behind his desk, through a door I hadn’t noticed this visit or last.
“Mr. Capone,” I say, “a pleasure to see you again.”
This time he doesn’t ask me to call him Snorky.
He ushers me over to a large red leather couch and matching red leather high back chair. It’s the sort of chair J.P. Morgan might sit in, if he were a gangster. The furniture goes well with Capone’s dark purple suit, lime green shirt and white tie. The effect of his ensemble is such that I almost don’t notice the bodyguard standing a few feet behind him.
Capone offers me a cigar, and lights one for himself before handing me his lighter. It’s the heaviest lighter I’ve ever held; solid gold and encrusted with diamonds. I’m sure it costs more than the car I arrived in.
“You boys have been havin’ your way with the White Sox,” he says puffing on his cigar.
“They’re a tough squad,” I start to say, but he cuts me off.
“What a shit team. One day I’ll get that piece of shit Comiskey to sell ’em to me. But dat’s in the future.”
The future? Not while Judge Landis is alive. Although, who knows, perhaps Capone’s already thought that obstacle through.
“Now ‘dem Cubbies, ‘dem boys could give youse Yankees some trouble in the World Series. They’ve won 13 of their last 15. Now they’re five games up on the Pirates — and six up on your girlfriends in St. Louis. I’m sure you boys would like to dance with da’ Cardinals again in October, wouldn’t you?”
“I like our chances, no matter who we play. But, yeah, we all remember how it ended against St. Louis last year — especially Ruth.”
“Ah, revenge. Revenge is a very sweet thing, Myles.” He chuckles. “Even on the ball field, I would imagine.”
There’s a short table between his chair and the couch with a pile of newspapers on it. Scarface leans forward and opens one of them to a middle page and tosses it back on the table.
“You seen deez advertisements?”
It’s the ad for Steven’s company.
There’s no sense lying. He knows I’ve seen them.
“Yes. They’re in the New York papers, too.”
“They’re in every paper in every city, Myles — New York, Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, Cleveland, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Miami — in all the ethnic papers, in both English and whatever language the paper’s in. Very smart.”
He smiles. But he’s not happy. I can’t help noticing that unlike the last time we met, he hasn’t bothered to put on a load of makeup to mask his scars. It makes it hard to look him in the eye.
“It’s come to my attention that you know the men behind this.”
Again, there’s no sense in lying — though I wish there was.
“I know one of them.”
“You’re pals from college with this Thornberry guy.”
“Yes,” I say, wondering what else Scarface knows about me.
“How long has your friend Thornberry been involved with Mr. Rothstein?”
“A while, since before we got out of school.”
“That Jew, Rothstein, ruined the 1919 World Series. He’s the reason the White Sox are shit now. He’s a sly man. Even for a Jew.
“And he’s smart — very smart. Shit, I met college professors that ain’t half as smart as that Jew. And he’s also a crook. And so’s his other partner, the one that owns the Giants.”
He’s talking about Charles Stoneham.
“Now let me explain somethin’ to you, Myles.”
Again, there’s that nasty smile. It shows off the scars.
“Those men are crooks, all three of them, includin’ your pal, Thornberry. Now, you probably think I’m a crook. But I ain’t no crook. I’m a businessman.
“I provide services for people. Those services may be illegal, but that ain’t my fault. None of my clients voted for prohibition. And prostitution ain’t never hurt nobody. I give people what they want. And I give ’em quality product — whether it’s booze or screwin’. And my gamblin’s on the level, too.
“But that Rothstein, that Stoneham, and your pal, Thornberry, the three of them are swindlers — just like all of Wall Street. They ain’t givin’ the public honest odds.”
Capone picks up another one of the papers. He opens it up to the stock pages, which list all the exchanges and companies being traded.
“I ain’t never bought a stock, and I never will. Wall Street is just one big legal scam to let the rich get richer.” He rifles through eight pages of quotes in the paper for stocks and commodities. “These ain’t companies, they’re stories — they’re fables your pals in New York are tellin’ the rest of the country, in order to pick their pockets.”
He stands up and looms above me. As I look up and see Capone holding the paper in his hand, I feel like a dog about to get beaten.
“I want you to go back to New York and tell your pal Thornberry that I don’t want him and that Jew doin’ any more advertisin’ in Chicago papers. You got that? Tell him I don’t care what the fuck he does in New York or the rest of the fuckin’ country, but he’s not peddlin’ this shit in Chicago. Not on my turf.”
“I understand, Mr. Capone. But you understand that I’m not back in New York until the end of the month.”
“Well, Myles, I’ll leave the details up to you.”
With that he stands up and walks over to his desk. Then he turns back to me.
“And one more piece of advice, ’cause I like you Myles.
“If you’re gonna keep feedin’ your pal Thornberry injury reports on the team, you should tell him not to be so greedy with his betting. He and whoever’s syndicatin’ with him are movin’ the needle on some otherwise meaningless games.
“I’d hate for Judge Landis to find out you’ve been helpin’ Arnold Rothstein bet against the ’27 Yankees. As bad as you’ve been pitching, that probably wouldn’t help your career.
“You know, Buck Weaver was a helluva third baseman for Chicago before Landis tossed him out of baseball and turned him into a drug store manager, and all he did was hear about the fix. Buck’s only a few blocks from here. You might want to drop by and see how he’s doin’.”
And with that the man who owns Chicago walks out of his office. Leaving me with a pile of newspapers.
- AL Capone
- Commissioner Landis
- SILENT BOB Meusel
- STEVEN
- ARNOLD Rothstein
- William “Big Bill” Thompson
- Hack Wilson
- 1927 Yankees
- August 17, 1927: “Ruth’s 38th Trims White Sox In 11th”. New York Times article and Box Score.
- August 18, 1927: “Gazella’s Patience Wins For Yankees.” New York Times article and Box Score.
