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Gurfein nodded.

“Classic thuggery,” Canidy said.

“Interestingly,” Gurfein said between sips of wine, “one skinny Polish Jew fought back. His name was Maier Suchowljansky—”

“Later, one

Meyer Lansky?” Canidy said.

“One and the same,” Donovan acknowledged.

Gurfein stared at his wineglass a moment, collecting his next thoughts as he methodically worked his thumb and forefinger on the stem, slowly spinning the wine. He continued:

“Even though Meyer ‘Little Man’ Lansky was five years younger than Luciano, Luciano liked him, respected him, learned to listen to him. They were running rackets in no time. Luciano got busted dealing drugs in his late teens, and spent months in the slam at Blackwell’s Island. Despite all that—or, rather, perhaps because of it—Luciano rose quickly in the underworld. He joined gangs, then ran them, running with some important Italian mob guys. Quote Italian unquote is key, because when Luciano wound up working with Joe ‘The Boss’ Masseria, it wasn’t long before it got bloody.”

Gurfein noticed that Canidy and Donovan had pushed back from their empty plates and so he turned his attention to what little remained of his meal. After a long moment, his plate clean, he picked up his wineglass and went on:

“As capo di tutti capi—boss of all bosses—Masseria made a lot of money, and Luciano, now his number two, made him even more. At one point, thinking he was doing what his boss expected him to do, Luciano suggested that they diversify—get bigger and more powerful beyond their already formidable wealth and influence—by doing business with gangs that weren’t Italian.”

“Why not?” Canidy said. “Lansky, Luciano’s most trusted friend, was a Polish Jew.”

“True. No doubt that’s what Luciano was thinking. But Luciano’s idea was to expand not only with gangs that weren’t just Italian—but with gangs that weren’t just in New York. He was already envisioning a nationwide syndicate. Whether he shared all of this with Masseria is unclear. But Masseria would have nothing of the idea of working with non-Italians. Luciano was persistent but ultimately frustrated. He got nowhere.”

Gurfein drained his glass, then slid it toward Canidy’s wine bottle. “If you would, please?”

As Canidy poured, Gurfein said, “Masseria, however, was beginning to fear Luciano—as any wise boss would with nowhere to go but down. So one night in October of ’29 a car pulled up to the curb where Luciano stood on the sidewalk on Broadway and Fifth Avenue, right there in front of the Flatiron Building, which he’d just come out of, and some guys jumped out and forced him into the backseat. They bound and gagged him and drove him out to Staten Island. They beat the living shit out of him, pistol-whipping and stabbing him, then strung him up in a warehouse by his wrists. Before they left him to hang there till dead, they also cut his throat.”

“Apparently, not good enough,” Canidy said with a grin. He knew how easy it was for someone not properly trained to try to slit a throat—and fail. It was harder, and a helluva lot messier, than the movies made it look.

Gurfein nodded. “That’s what makes him one tough Guinea sonofabitch. Beaten and bloody, he still somehow managed to work free of the rope that tied his hands, then he crawled out of the warehouse and wound up getting picked up by NYPD’s 123rd Precinct. The cops grilled him, but Luciano, true to omertà, said nothing, and they ran him to the hospital, where the cops had no choice but to let him go.”

“It’s easy not to snitch if you don’t know who tried to kill you. Did he?”

“Keep quiet? Yeah, he was faithful to the code—wiseguys don’t speak out, especially to cops, about the mob. Did he know who did it? No. Not at first. But over time, his counsel—Lansky—figured it out for him.”

“Masseria.”

Gurfein nodded. “And Lansky helped his pal plot revenge. So one day Luciano secretly approached Salvatore ‘Little Caesar’ Maranzano—”

“This is where it turned really bloody,” Donovan interrupted. “Masseria and Maranzano were bitter competitors and even more bitter enemies. And so began what became called the Castellammarese War. Many of the immigrants fighting this mob war, including Maranzano, had come from the western Sicilian town of Castellammare del Golf, hence the name.” He looked at Gurfein. “Sorry. Please continue.”

“Over the next couple of years,” Gurfein went on, “it was a real underworld bloodbath. Countless gangsters got gunned down. Masseria had been right to be fearful, because everyone was fearful. And it was in this crazed environment that Luciano set him up. He arranged to meet him at a restaurant in Coney Island, and the hit men were waiting.”

He sipped from his wine, then grinned. “So Luciano got revenge on Masseria for his attempted whacking. And Maranzano, who now called himself capo di tutti capi, rewarded Luciano by making him his number two.”

“Jesus Christ!” Canidy said. “Same song, different verse.”

“Yes and no. As with Masseria, you had Luciano playing second fiddle to the ruthless big boss. But with one difference: Maranzano embraced Luciano’s idea of a nationwide syndicate. He wanted to be capo di tutti capi of the United States. And in order to accomplish this, he felt he had to take out two obstacles: a gangster in Chicago named Al Capone—”

Canidy finished it: “—and a gangster in New York named Charlie Lucky.”

“As you say, ‘same song.’ And Luciano had played this tune before. So, with Meyer ‘Little Man’ Lansky’s help, he got Maranzano before Maranzano got him.”

Canidy sighed. “Is there any end to all this?”

Donovan said, “Oh, it just gets better.” He looked at Gurfein. “Pick up with Dewey.”

Gurfein nodded, then raised an eyebrow. “Colonel, you know it—and him—better than I do, sir. I suggest you pick up that part.”