" The Rackets
Man," is very neat. It is an accurate indication of the biographer's whole treatment of his subject : the book, throughout, being a coolly ironic, racily entertaining pro- duction all about—as we know—the rise of a young New York Italian on the stepping-stones of other people's dead selves to higher things (though we must hasten to add that in saying this we cast no aspersion on Mr. Alphonse Capone's good name, the worst crime of which he has been proved guilty being that he was once found in possession of a firearm, while two or three hundred of his acquaintances have been " bumped off " by unknown persons since he has been boss of the " booze-running " or " alky-cooking rackets "). But we can suppose that Mr. Capone is not a very pleasant person to have as a rival, and that at least Mr. Pasley makes clear. His book is an elaborate record not only of all that is known about " the Big Shot's " public and private life, but of the whole of Chicago's gang warfare since the sawn-off shotgun first came into fashionable use. Nor can there be any doubt but that Mr. Pasley has tackled the problem in the right way. He sets out the facts, with a few cynical comments, and leaves it to others to decide what is to be done.
He does not leave it to the present reviewer, fortunately. This peaceful inhabitant of rural England frankly is just as much at sea on the matter as are the non-combatant inhabitants of Chicago itself. They would appear to be heartily sick of the whole business, as well as bewildered ; but with both police and politics hopelessly corrupt, what can they do ?
They are waiting, apparently, for someone strong enough to take their city in hand and clear it up (or for the Pro- hibition laws to be repealed, though that might hardly seem a welcome solution to everyone). Meanwhile this is the kind of thing that goes on :—
" As Lombardo and his bodyguard (the gangsters marked out for killing by their rivals) .passed the restaurant entrance, two men detached themselves from the sidewalk throng, and their hands were in the side-pockets of their coats. They cast quick looks up and down the street (the rush-hour, ` streams of humanity 'sluicing willy nilly' out of offices, &c.), and when within arm's length, opened fire. Lombardo fell in his tracks, two dum-dum bullets in his brain, the third president of the Unione Siciliono . to die by the gun. . . . This might be said to be Chicago's most open gangster killing. It could hardly have been more public if the assassins-had hired a hall. It was so conveniently staged that one enterprising newspaper, thanks to an agile photo- grapher, was able to present its readers a picture of Lombardo -and Ferraro lying as they fell, with the crowds still milling about them on the sidewalk. Scores were ready with descriptions. But in the end, it was written off in the familiar phraseology, ' Slayers not apprehended.' "
They never were, 'or are—with about one exception a year. If one of Capone's men happens to be involved, and temporarily held by the police, Capone has only to ring up the criminal judge and tell him to let his man go. And the judge does, or certainly has done once—a now historic incident. Capone never really knows anything about the matter. He was probably sitting in his private box watching the dog-racing at the time of the killing, and he can prove it.
There are four Al Capones, we are told. Al, the feudal baron of Cicero (the town he owns, where he has his machine-
gun-proof " castle"). Al, the Michigan Avenue business man —booze and racketeer boss. Al, the Seigneur of a Florida
estate. Al, the home boy. The home boy lives in a cosy little fiat with his wife and son, next door to a policeman, and if you happen to turn up unexpectedly for supper, why, good old Al (he has quite a following of hero-worshippers, it appears) will prepare a dish of spaghetti for you with his
own million-dollar hands. Then afterwards he will take ' you to the opera, if possible Verdi, which is his favourite. As another " human touch " it may be mentioned of Dion 013anion, Capone's Irish predecessor as boss of the rackets, that he was very well known as a horticulturist. He loved _flowers, could arrange a wreath of roses for one of his friends without shaking a single petal off—but he got shot in the back one day just as someone was shaking him heartily by the hand Witli-the-reeting; " Meestair O'Banioni-my free',"
This was a method of despatch invented by the Sicilians, who ' found it most useful.
Then there are the gangster weddings, with iced cakes ten feet high, murderers' funerals, costing millions of dollars, to which lawyers, judges, police, politicians, all are invited, and to which all come : and somebody else is taken for a ride on the way home. There are heads of police in the pay of the bootleggers, newspaper reporters (one, at least, the late Jake Lingle, " unofficial chief of police ") in the pay of both the police and the bootleggers, machine-gunners who dress up as police and massacre their victims in a garage, magistrates who—but if anybody wants to find out more about it all, he really must read this book. It is pre- posterous, puzzling, but only too true—and one can very easily have enough of such reading.
Let it only be noted finally that Mr. Pasley thinks the present conditions may possibly prevail for another ten years : but that Mr. Capone may possibly be superseded in the near future, because, as he admits, he can't sleep very well nowadays ; he thinks crime doesn't pay—though he has never done anything but supply a public demand.
H. M.
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