Once Upon a Time in Chicago - CHAPTER 1
Once Upon a Time in Chicago
Chapter 1
South Side, Chicago, 1919
A towering man wearing a dark slate overcoat and a black fedora stepped into the small saloon on West 31st Street on the south side of Chicago. The tavern sat at the junction of the Irish Mob, Little Africa, and Little Italy territories of the city.
Bells on the door jingled and the handful of patrons at the bar turned to see who entered the establishment. Some were laughing and playing cards. Others debated headlines of The Chicago Daily News. A din of conversation and a haze of cigarette smoke lingered in the air. The place fell quiet as everyone fixed a concentrated gaze at the stranger. No one dared to move.
The man in the black hat sauntered to the wooden bar, took a seat, silently rested his leather-gloved hands atop the countertop, and waited. As he stared forward, he slowly drummed his fingers on the bar. The other patrons stopped their side conversations.
The owner of the tavern, Bartolomeo Scavuzzo, shuffled in from a back room, wiping his hands on a copiously clean dishcloth hung from his waistband. His wife, Theresa, had ensured that all of his dishcloths were as clean and as dry as could be. He scurried over to the bar, grabbing an empty highball glass. With a trembling hand, he filled it with two fingers full of his best brandy. Without making eye contact, Bartolomeo set the glass in front of the man in the black hat.
“You made me wait,” the man in the black hat growled. “I don’t like to wait.”
“I sorry, Signore Lombardo,” Bartolomeo choked nervously, his voice straining. A tightness tingled in his chest. “Won’t happen no more.” He skittishly motioned to the waiting glass, part of the supply that he had bought from Lombardo. In return for the alcohol, Bartolomeo also had to pay protection money. “Per favore, drink.”
Lombardo spoke again, “Not good enough. You need fifty more.”
Bartolomeo gasped and stumbled a step back. A deep wrinkle formed on his brow. He quickly scanned his livelihood, worried that Lombardo could ruin his business with a simple order to his hired goons. Bartolomeo feared for his life and his family but felt trapped by the call to payment. “Per favore. I give you everything I have. La mia famiglia... they must eat.”
“Figure it out,” Lombardo snapped. He rose from his seat, unbuttoned one button on his coat, and pushed it back to present a .38 Smith & Wesson Special strapped to his waist.
A collective gasp echoed throughout the tavern.
“Si, signore.” Bartolomeo nodded his head feverishly. He patted his sweaty forehead with a cloth.
“Then we have an understanding,” Lombardo hissed. He walked toward the saloon door, leaving the untouched drink on the bar.
“Papa!” Salvatore emerged from the back room, carrying a broom. At 10, he was Bartolomeo’s youngest son and he wore corduroy trousers and a newsboy hat. He flung his free hand toward the man in the overcoat. “I heard everything. Why do you let that man speak to you like that?” He jerked his head toward the door in a silent direction for the man to leave.
All noise in the tavern ceased.
Lombardo stopped, and glared at the young boy who stood a head shorter than his father. He raised a hand and formed a ‘gun’ with his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at Sal. As he cocked his pretend gun, Sal stumbled back, knocking over a trash can. Silently, Lombardo faced Bartolomeo once again.
“You need to teach your son to show some respect,” Lombardo warned. Ice and fire combatted each other from the tip of his tongue. “If not, he may encounter an…” He glowered at Salvatore once again. “...unfortunate accident.”
Lombardo pivoted, opened the tavern door, and walked out. The jingling of the door chimes echoed in the once-again silent tavern. Other patrons had been pretending not to stare at the ominous exchange. Some had quietly exited the tavern, avoiding any possible gunfire.
Bartolomeo exhaled, wiping a wrinkled hand across his sweat-beaded forehead. He didn’t want to provoke Lombardo any more than he already had.
“Salvatore!” Bartolomeo scolded his son, now that Lombardo was gone. He didn’t want to risk harm to his son. “What you thinking? You cannot speak to Signore Lombardo that way!”
“But Papa, you are a strong man. You taught me to be proud and stand up for myself,” Salvatore countered. “I’ve never seen you act that way, letting someone tell you what to do.”
“Bambino, some things you learn later,” Bartolomeo explained, embarrassed that he cowered in front of his son. He reached for Salvatore and hugged him close.
Out of sight of his regular customers, Bartolomeo snatched the glass of whiskey that Lombardo left behind and dumped it down the drain.
* * * *
Bartolomeo and his wife Theresa had six children. The oldest three were born in Sicily: Charlie in 1893, Rose in 1898, and Annie in 1899. After selling the family mule in Sicily for passage money, Bartolomeo left Theresa and the three children for the United States in 1903 in search of the American Dream. He ported in New Orleans and found work in the sugar cane fields. After a year of saving money, he traveled by train and foot up the Mississippi River, calling Chicago his final stop. After Bartolomeo gained stable employment as a laborer, he bought a brick three-flat building on Shields Avenue and a tavern a mile away on West 31st Street.
A year later, Theresa and the children sailed across the Atlantic and registered as immigrants through Ellis Island. They boarded a train and met up with Bartolomeo in Chicago. Over the next few years, three more children were born: Phillip in 1904, Salvatore in 1909, and Faye in 1911. Bartolomeo struggled to learn English in the new land but insisted that his children become fluent and lose the Sicilian accent. Theresa never learned the language of the melting pot nation, instead speaking to her children in Sicilian dialect. She signed English documents with an X.
The family of eight adapted smoothly into the neighborhood full of Italian and Sicilian saloonkeepers, restaurateurs, barbers, and grocers. The neighboring paesani formed an exclusive network trying to resist deep prejudice and discrimination from the already-established German and Irish immigrants in Chicago. More immigrants moved to Chicago every week - the Italians, the French, the Chinese, the Russian, and the Greek - each building their own mini-city within the city.
The Sicilians lived in connected homes on narrow streets, sharing a language, clothing style, food, and religion. Santa Maria Incoronata Catholic Church became an epicenter for community activity for them. Many Sicilians didn’t leave the neighborhood. They didn’t need to, nor did they want to. Women only went to the market, church or church-related events like baptisms, weddings, and funerals. Men sought camaraderie playing cards with each other in church social halls.
South Side families rooted for the Chicago White Sox a mile away in Comiskey Park, where fellow Italian-American Ping Bodie played. With the Union Stock Yards nearby, a pervading odor of manure, rancid blood, and grease filled the neighborhood air. Peddlers shouted their wares of produce and milk as trolleys clattered down the streets.
As the Italian neighborhood grew, so did crime and the need for protection from it. Giuseppe Lombardo was a bagman for his boss John “Papa Johnny” Torrio. Torrio formed an American Mafia La Cosa Nostra racket to sell private security and sold booze to the local Italian business owners. Sometimes, by using his gun, he warned other criminals to stay away from his clients, but often he sent henchmen like Lombardo to collect greenback pizzo without providing much safety to the locals. As don of the organization, Torrio became an extremely wealthy and feared man.
If an establishment refused to purchase liquor from the operation, people died.
When Prohibition started on January 17, 1920, taverns either shut down or operated illegally as speakeasies.
In 1925, Torrio decided to retire back home to Italy and gave total control of his $70,000,000 empire of bootlegged booze, gambling, and prostitution to his right-hand man: Al Capone.
Chapter 1
South Side, Chicago, 1919
A towering man wearing a dark slate overcoat and a black fedora stepped into the small saloon on West 31st Street on the south side of Chicago. The tavern sat at the junction of the Irish Mob, Little Africa, and Little Italy territories of the city.
Bells on the door jingled and the handful of patrons at the bar turned to see who entered the establishment. Some were laughing and playing cards. Others debated headlines of The Chicago Daily News. A din of conversation and a haze of cigarette smoke lingered in the air. The place fell quiet as everyone fixed a concentrated gaze at the stranger. No one dared to move.
The man in the black hat sauntered to the wooden bar, took a seat, silently rested his leather-gloved hands atop the countertop, and waited. As he stared forward, he slowly drummed his fingers on the bar. The other patrons stopped their side conversations.
The owner of the tavern, Bartolomeo Scavuzzo, shuffled in from a back room, wiping his hands on a copiously clean dishcloth hung from his waistband. His wife, Theresa, had ensured that all of his dishcloths were as clean and as dry as could be. He scurried over to the bar, grabbing an empty highball glass. With a trembling hand, he filled it with two fingers full of his best brandy. Without making eye contact, Bartolomeo set the glass in front of the man in the black hat.
“You made me wait,” the man in the black hat growled. “I don’t like to wait.”
“I sorry, Signore Lombardo,” Bartolomeo choked nervously, his voice straining. A tightness tingled in his chest. “Won’t happen no more.” He skittishly motioned to the waiting glass, part of the supply that he had bought from Lombardo. In return for the alcohol, Bartolomeo also had to pay protection money. “Per favore, drink.”
Lombardo spoke again, “Not good enough. You need fifty more.”
Bartolomeo gasped and stumbled a step back. A deep wrinkle formed on his brow. He quickly scanned his livelihood, worried that Lombardo could ruin his business with a simple order to his hired goons. Bartolomeo feared for his life and his family but felt trapped by the call to payment. “Per favore. I give you everything I have. La mia famiglia... they must eat.”
“Figure it out,” Lombardo snapped. He rose from his seat, unbuttoned one button on his coat, and pushed it back to present a .38 Smith & Wesson Special strapped to his waist.
A collective gasp echoed throughout the tavern.
“Si, signore.” Bartolomeo nodded his head feverishly. He patted his sweaty forehead with a cloth.
“Then we have an understanding,” Lombardo hissed. He walked toward the saloon door, leaving the untouched drink on the bar.
“Papa!” Salvatore emerged from the back room, carrying a broom. At 10, he was Bartolomeo’s youngest son and he wore corduroy trousers and a newsboy hat. He flung his free hand toward the man in the overcoat. “I heard everything. Why do you let that man speak to you like that?” He jerked his head toward the door in a silent direction for the man to leave.
All noise in the tavern ceased.
Lombardo stopped, and glared at the young boy who stood a head shorter than his father. He raised a hand and formed a ‘gun’ with his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at Sal. As he cocked his pretend gun, Sal stumbled back, knocking over a trash can. Silently, Lombardo faced Bartolomeo once again.
“You need to teach your son to show some respect,” Lombardo warned. Ice and fire combatted each other from the tip of his tongue. “If not, he may encounter an…” He glowered at Salvatore once again. “...unfortunate accident.”
Lombardo pivoted, opened the tavern door, and walked out. The jingling of the door chimes echoed in the once-again silent tavern. Other patrons had been pretending not to stare at the ominous exchange. Some had quietly exited the tavern, avoiding any possible gunfire.
Bartolomeo exhaled, wiping a wrinkled hand across his sweat-beaded forehead. He didn’t want to provoke Lombardo any more than he already had.
“Salvatore!” Bartolomeo scolded his son, now that Lombardo was gone. He didn’t want to risk harm to his son. “What you thinking? You cannot speak to Signore Lombardo that way!”
“But Papa, you are a strong man. You taught me to be proud and stand up for myself,” Salvatore countered. “I’ve never seen you act that way, letting someone tell you what to do.”
“Bambino, some things you learn later,” Bartolomeo explained, embarrassed that he cowered in front of his son. He reached for Salvatore and hugged him close.
Out of sight of his regular customers, Bartolomeo snatched the glass of whiskey that Lombardo left behind and dumped it down the drain.
* * * *
Bartolomeo and his wife Theresa had six children. The oldest three were born in Sicily: Charlie in 1893, Rose in 1898, and Annie in 1899. After selling the family mule in Sicily for passage money, Bartolomeo left Theresa and the three children for the United States in 1903 in search of the American Dream. He ported in New Orleans and found work in the sugar cane fields. After a year of saving money, he traveled by train and foot up the Mississippi River, calling Chicago his final stop. After Bartolomeo gained stable employment as a laborer, he bought a brick three-flat building on Shields Avenue and a tavern a mile away on West 31st Street.
A year later, Theresa and the children sailed across the Atlantic and registered as immigrants through Ellis Island. They boarded a train and met up with Bartolomeo in Chicago. Over the next few years, three more children were born: Phillip in 1904, Salvatore in 1909, and Faye in 1911. Bartolomeo struggled to learn English in the new land but insisted that his children become fluent and lose the Sicilian accent. Theresa never learned the language of the melting pot nation, instead speaking to her children in Sicilian dialect. She signed English documents with an X.
The family of eight adapted smoothly into the neighborhood full of Italian and Sicilian saloonkeepers, restaurateurs, barbers, and grocers. The neighboring paesani formed an exclusive network trying to resist deep prejudice and discrimination from the already-established German and Irish immigrants in Chicago. More immigrants moved to Chicago every week - the Italians, the French, the Chinese, the Russian, and the Greek - each building their own mini-city within the city.
The Sicilians lived in connected homes on narrow streets, sharing a language, clothing style, food, and religion. Santa Maria Incoronata Catholic Church became an epicenter for community activity for them. Many Sicilians didn’t leave the neighborhood. They didn’t need to, nor did they want to. Women only went to the market, church or church-related events like baptisms, weddings, and funerals. Men sought camaraderie playing cards with each other in church social halls.
South Side families rooted for the Chicago White Sox a mile away in Comiskey Park, where fellow Italian-American Ping Bodie played. With the Union Stock Yards nearby, a pervading odor of manure, rancid blood, and grease filled the neighborhood air. Peddlers shouted their wares of produce and milk as trolleys clattered down the streets.
As the Italian neighborhood grew, so did crime and the need for protection from it. Giuseppe Lombardo was a bagman for his boss John “Papa Johnny” Torrio. Torrio formed an American Mafia La Cosa Nostra racket to sell private security and sold booze to the local Italian business owners. Sometimes, by using his gun, he warned other criminals to stay away from his clients, but often he sent henchmen like Lombardo to collect greenback pizzo without providing much safety to the locals. As don of the organization, Torrio became an extremely wealthy and feared man.
If an establishment refused to purchase liquor from the operation, people died.
When Prohibition started on January 17, 1920, taverns either shut down or operated illegally as speakeasies.
In 1925, Torrio decided to retire back home to Italy and gave total control of his $70,000,000 empire of bootlegged booze, gambling, and prostitution to his right-hand man: Al Capone.
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