Touhy went out of his way to sully Agent Purvis, claiming
that Purvis had handcuffed and beaten him while he was held at the Elkhorn jail
and that the beatings resulted in broken bones etc. Touhy lied. His claim of
being unable to stand for long periods of time as a result of the beatings landed
him a desk job in Stateville prisons kitchen. Extensive tests conducted by the
state of Illinois and paid for by the US Justice Department showed no broken
bones in the places he claimed to have them. The state of Illinois then offered
to provide an attorney for Touhy so he could sue the FBI for the beatings,
Touhy, perhaps the most litigious prisoner Stateville had ever held, refused.
The Valley
Roger Touhy was born in a lawless neighborhood called “the
Valley.” It is gone and largely forgotten now, except by a scant few
descendants of the tens of thousands of Irish immigrants who huddled there for
a time, making that brutal slum the largest Irish ghetto west of New York.
Located in the heart of Chicago, the Valley was a flat
stretch of land partial to winter floods that would fill the water with human
waste from the nearby canals. In the summer it was insufferably humid. It was
always a dreary place, full of ancient wooden warehouses, overcrowded with
stinking ten-ements, stores with near-empty shelves, and saloons packed with
men who had long since given up their dreams of a better life.
Roger Touhy was born there in 1898. He was the last of seven
children in one of the thousands of working families jammed into the Valley.
While he was still an infant, Roger’s mother was burned to death when the
kitchen stove exploded. It was a remarkably common occurrence at the time,
leaving his father, James, an Irish immigrant and a lowly but otherwise honest
beat cop, to raise the family.
“My father,"Roger wrote, “was a Chicago police-man. An
honest one. Otherwise, he would have had a hell of a lot less trouble getting
the grocery and rent money.”
James Touhy eventually lost his four eldest sons to a local
thug named Paddy “the Bear” Ryan. An enormous hulk of a man, Ryan led the
notorious Valley Gang, which was organized in the middle 1860s. It inducted
members as young as twelve years of age, and, at least in the beginning,
gradu-ated them to the big leagues of crime at around age nineteen or twenty.
In 1870, its membership was mostly made up of the sons of
policemen and lower level politicos whose city hall connections kept their sons
out of serious trouble with the law. Using that clout, the gang was able to
transform itself from a rag-tag group of street urchins who stole fruit off
vendors’ wagons into a working criminal/political organization.
With time, the gang moved from its basement headquarters on
15th Street to its first official head-quarters, a popular saloon on the corner
of 14th and Mulberry Streets. From there, the Valley Gang moved into armed
robbery and big dollar larceny. But the gang remained a small-time local
operation in most respects. Then, in about 1880, the Germans began to move into
the Valley, followed by the Jews. The gang terrorized both groups, beating them
into submission and coercing cash from their shop own-ers when extortion became
the new money maker.
The gang continued to rule supremely over the Valley until
the turn of the century when great masses of Irish, Germans and Jews moved out
and were replaced by tens of thousands of southern Italians. Numerically
superior and just as tough as the Irish they replaced, the southern Italians
were less prone to intimidation than were the Germans and Jews. The Italians
had their street gangs as well, some with membership in the hundreds.
Inevitably, street wars between the Irish and the Italians
broke out frequently. As a result, the Maxwell Street police station had the
highest num-ber of assault and attempted murder cases of any police precinct in
the country, outside of Brooklyn. Again, what kept most of the Valley Gang
members out of jail were their powerful political contacts, made even stronger
by the gang’s willingness to rent itself out as polling booth enforcers.
However, unlike the smaller street gangs from the Valley—the Beamers, the Plugs
and the Buckets of Blood—who also rented out their services, the Valley boys
were known for their penchant to switch sides in the mid-dle of a battle if the
opposite side was paying more or if it appeared that they might win the
election.
By 1910, the gang continued to grow in power in the Valley
by having enough sense to allow a limit¬ed number of Jews and Germans into its
ranks. The Valley Gang remained the largest and deadliest gang in the area and
a whole new generation of Irish-American boys in Chicago grew to admire the
gang and its leaders “in much the same way” one sociologist wrote, “that other
boys looked up to, in a fanciful way, Robin Hood or Jesse James.”
By 1919, the Irish had surrendered their majori¬ty status in
the Valley but managed to retain politi¬cal control, just as they did
throughout most of Chicago as well. By that time, the gang transformed itself
into a social and athletic club which, in both votes and money, stood solidly behind several dozen
important politicos whose careers had been launched by the gang.
The first important leaders of the Valley Gang were Heinie
Miller and Jimmy Farley. Both expert pickpockets and burglars who flourished in
the 1900s. Miller and Farley, along with their lieu-tenants, “Tootsie” Bill
Hughes and Bill Cooney (aka “the Fox”) were described by the police as “four of
the smoothest thieves that ever worked the Maxwell Street district.”
Smooth or not, they all went to jail in 1905 for extended
stays and the leadership of the gang fell to “Red” Bolton. Bolton’s reign was
cut short by his own stupidity. He robbed a store in the middle of the Valley,
in the middle of the day, killing a cop in the process. No amount of political
influence could help. Bolton was sent away to prison where he died of pneumonia
in a few years.
With Bolton gone, the gang started to weaken compared to
it’s previous power, although it had a brief resurgence during the first World
War when Chicago was under a temporary alcohol prohibition and the gang went
into the rum-running business.
Rum-running brought the gang a lot of money. For the first
time, the Valley Boys drove Rolls Royces, wore silk shirts and managed to get
out of murder charges by affording the most talented lawyers, including the
legendary Clarence Darrow.
In the mid 1890s, when the gang was under the leadership of
Paddy the Bear Ryan, the Valley Boys were transformed into labor goons for
hire, with the Bear, acting as the salesman, boasting that his boys were the
best bomb throwers and acid tossers in the business. The Valley Gang solidified
that reputation during the building trades strike of 1900, which put some
60,000 laborers out of work for twenty-six weeks.
Operating under the street command of Walter “Runty”
Quinlan, who would eventually lead the gang, the Valley boys terrorized strike
breakers with unmerciful beatings and earned their reputa¬tion as pro-labor
thugs in an age when the bosses and factory owners paid better.
Paddy the Bear ruled the Valley for years and it was the
Bear who taught Tommy, Johnny, Joe and Eddie Touhy the finer points of the
criminal life. Weighing in at least 450 pounds, the Bear waddled when he
walked. But he was a solid figure full of fighting vigor and brutal vitality.
He was also an ignorant man, blatant and profane, utterly fearless when given
to one of his choking rages.
The Bear’s place was a dingy saloon at 14th Street and South
Halstead. There was a sawdust floor “to soak up the blood” as Jack Lait said. A
dirty, bent bar filled an entire wall. The rest of the room was packed with
rickety tables and grimy wooden benches. On the drab smoke-stained walls hung
pic¬tures of John L. Sullivan, Jake Kilrain and dozens of other Irish fighters
whom the Bear admired.
The Bear, whose specialty was making police records
disappear, worked seven days a week. With a dirty apron tied around his
enormous waist he held court, ruling over his kingdom with an iron fist like an
absolute dictator. The Bear was feared by the killers that surrounded him, so
much so that throughout his long career none dared to question him or usurp his
authority.
During the Bear’s leadership, no gang in all of Chicago was
tougher or bolder. Every criminal in the Valley had to swear allegiance to
Paddy the Bear or they didn’t work in the Valley.
It came to be that the Bear’s friend, Red Kruger, was sent
to Joliet Penitentiary on a variety of charges. Soon afterward Runty Quinlan,
the Bear’s second in command, started sleeping with Kruger’s wife.
This sordid romance threw the Bear into one of his rages.
One day when the Runt stopped by Paddy’s saloon for a beer, the Bear came from
around the bar and called him every name in the book. He punched the Runt to
the floor, picked him up and punched him to the floor again and again and
again. It was a terrible beating, even by Valley standards. When it was over,
the Bear told the Runt that he would beat him senseless every time he saw him.
Runty Quinlan swore his revenge.
Several days after the beating, Paddy the Bear was summoned
to the Des Plains police station to answer a charge for receiving stolen
property. “He could have,” noted one cop, “found his way blind-folded.”
It was morning when the Bear started out for the police
station. He waddled along Blue Island Avenue and stopped by Eddie Tancel’s
place. Eddie was another Valley Gang graduate who operated a bar in the area.
Once a professional fighter, Tancel—who was called “the Bulldog of Cicero”—had
won almost all of his fights with his famous knockout punch. He retired to his
Blue Island bar after he accidentally killed an up-and-coming fighter named
Young Greenberg with his gloved fist. The police would eventually close down
Tancel’s Blue Island saloon after it became the scene of one too many shooting
murders.
After leaving Tancel’s place, the Bear crossed an alley just
a half block from his saloon when Runty Quinlan sprang up from behind some
trash cans and shot Paddy the Bear several times in his enor-mous belly. Paddy
reeled out into the middle of the street, slumping down on the cobblestone and
fell to the ground. Quinlan stood over the Bear and fired four more bullets
into him.
Paddy the Bear was rushed to a hospital where a cop asked if
he knew who had shot him. To which Paddy replied, “Of course I know who shot
me, you idiot.” Then he paused and said, more to himself than to anyone
present, “But I didn’t think that the little runt would have the nerve to do
it.”
Then he died.
For the cops, the Bear’s last words were every-thing but a
confession. Runty Quinlan was dragged in for questioning but was released due
to lack of evidence.
Shortly after killing the Bear, Runty Quinlan went down
state to Joliet State Prison on an unre-lated charge. He was released several
years later during Prohibition and opened a saloon on 17th and Lommis Streets
at the border of the Valley. The place soon became a favorite hang-out for the
Klondike and Myles O’Donnell boys. Once, when police raided the joint, they
found ten bulletproof vests, two machine guns and a dozen automatic pis-tols
hidden behind the bar. “The Runt’s saloon,”said Jack Lait “was that kind of
joint.”
Paddy the Bear had one son, known as “Paddy the Cub.” Paddy
the Cub idolized his father who, for all his wicked ways, was an indulgent and
doting parent. Young Paddy never forgot his father’s mur-der and for years
nursed his hatred of Runty Quinlan. As a teenager he would see the Runt on his
way to school, leaning against the doorway of his saloon, uneasily smiling down
at him.
One day the Runt was lounging in a booth in his saloon with
three Valley Gang graduates: Fur Sammons, Klondike and Myles O’Donnell. The group
had been drinking for several hours and were mildly drunk when Paddy the Cub
slipped up to the Runt, jammed a revolver in his left temple and whispered
‘This is for my father, you son-of-a-bitch.”
He shot the Runt through the back of the head. After the
Runt fell to the floor, Paddy the Cub fired several more shots into the body
and then slowly and calmly walked out the front door of the saloon.
• • •
In 1919, after the Bear was killed, Terry Druggan and
Frankie Lake took over the Valley Gang. Druggan was a dwarf-like little man
with a hair-trigger temper and a lisp. He was ambitious and found the Valley
territory too restrictive for his high ambition. He soon extended his criminal
reach far beyond its borders.
Over the years, Terry Druggan had gained a rep-utation as a
fool and a clown. Despite this reputa¬tion Druggan proved to be a highly
effective leader. He was a smooth operator and a highly intelligent hood, and
by the third year of Prohibition he had made himself and most of his gang
members rich beyond their wildest dreams. By 1924, Terry Druggan could
truthfully boast that even the lowest member of his gang wore silk shirts and
had a chauffeur for his new Rolls-Royce.
Druggan was smart enough to enter into several lucrative
business agreements with Johnny Torrio. He was wise enough to pull the Valley
Gang off the streets and remodel them after Johnny Torrio’s restructured
version of “Big Jim” Colosimo’s outfit. With his alcohol millions, Druggan
bought a mag-nificent home on Lake Zurich and a winter estate in Florida. He
surrounded himself with yes-men and flunkies and parked twelve new cars in his garage. He had a
swimming pool although he couldn’t swim, a tennis court although he didn’t
play, and dairy cat-tle (which he admitted scared him), sheep and swine in his
pastures. He owned a thoroughbred racing stable and raced his horses, draped in
his family’s ancient Celtic color scheme, at Chicago’s tracks.
Once, when he was ruled off the turf at one track for fixing
a race, Druggan pulled his gun on the offi-cials and promised to kill them all
then and there if they didn’t change their ruling. They changed their ruling.
Frankie Lake grew up with Druggan in the Valley. He and
Druggan were inseparable compan-ions, as well as business partners in
everything. They even went to jail together.
In 1924, during the height of Prohibition, both Druggan and
Lake were sentenced to a year in the Cook County jail by Judge James Wilkerson
for con-tempt of court for refusing to answer questions regarding their
business dealings. Lake appealed to the President of the United States for
help. The President refused to intervene and the pair went to jail—sort of.
After a $20,000 cash bribe to Sheriff Peter Hoffman, “for the usual
considerations and conveniences” as Druggan put it, he and Lake were allowed to
turn their cells into working offices. They came and went from the jail as they
saw fit and were often seen in cafes late at night, retiring to their spa-cious
apartments on ritzy Lake Shore Drive.
On those rare days when they actually stayed in the
jail—waking up late and having breakfast in bed—their wives were regular
visitors. In fact, on several occasions Druggan had his dentist brought in to
fill a cavity. Later, when the story broke, a reporter asked Druggan to explain
his absence from jail. The gangster explained, “Well you know, it’s awfully
crowded in there.”He was right. In 1924 the Cook County jail, which had been
built to house no more than 500 inmates, was home to over 1,500 men.
The same thing happened in 1933 when Druggan was supposed to
be in Leavenworth Federal Prison for two and a half years on a tax eva¬sion
charge. Once again he bought his way out of the jail and was living in the tiny
town just outside the prison, in a three bedroom apartment with his girl¬friend
Bernice Van De Hauten. She was a buxom blonde who moved down from Chicago to
keep Terry company, much to his wife’s surprise. The story broke and Druggan
was moved from Leavenworth to Atlanta, without his girlfriend this time.
With the end of Prohibition, the Druggan and Lake Gang, as
the Valley Gang was then called, was completely absorbed by the Chicago
syndicate oper-ations and for all practical purposes ceased to exist.
Sometime around 1915 “Terrible Tommy” O’Connor brought Tommy
Touhy, and his brothers, Johnny, Eddie and Joe into the fold of organized
crime.
Jake the barber and Tony the Hat
The Birth of Vegas and the Death of Tony “The Hat”Tony
Accardo, Chicago’s new underworld boss, telephoned Johnny Rosselli, his man on
the west coast, and told him he wanted him back in Chicago for a meeting at
Meo’s Restaurant with Murray Humpreys and Paul Ricca.
Always the hustler, Rosselli knew that the boss¬es were
worried because they were losing what little presence they had in Las Vegas. As
the self-declared power west of New York they felt, as a matter of mob pride,
that they should have a major presence on the strip.
Rosselli filled them in on the situation at the Stardust. It
was aimed at being, as he dubbed it, a “grind joint,” a paradise for the low
rollers, located right at the heart of the strip. If they wanted it, the bosses
would have to pour a couple of hundred thou¬sand dollars into the place to get
it completed, but otherwise it was theirs. But first they had to deal with Tony
Cornero, aka “Tony the Hat.”
Las Vegas wasn’t built by gangsters alone, and no matter how
often it is written, Ben Siegel didn’t build the first casino there, either. If
any one hoodlum could take credit for inventing Las Vegas, it was Tony Cornero.
While it lasted, Cornero had an amazing life. He was born
Anthony Cornero Stralla in an Italian vil-lage near the Swiss border in 1895.
The Cornero family had owned a large farm there but his father lost it in a
card game. More bad luck came when young Tony Cornero accidentally set fire to
the fam-ily harvest, breaking them financially and forcing them to immigrate to
San Francisco in the early 1920s.
At age sixteen, Tony pleaded guilty to robbery and did ten
months in reform school. He moved to southern California and racked up another
ten arrests in ten years which included three for boot-legging and three for
attempted murder.
He was ambitious, but as late as 1922, Cornero was still
driving a cab. Eventually he decided to branch off into the rum-running
business. Starting with a string of small boats he smuggled high-priced whisky
over the Canadian border and sold it to the better clubs in Los Angeles. At the
same time, Cornero ran rum from Mexico to Los Angeles, his freighters easily
avoiding the understaffed Coast Guard. Next, Tony purchased a merchant ship,
the SS Lily, which he stocked with 4,000 cases of the best booze money could
buy and ran the illicit alco-hol into Los Angeles under cover of moonlight.
In 1931, Cornero decided to switch his effort to gambling.
He and his brothers moved to Las Vegas and opened one of the town’s first major
casinos, the Green Meadows, which was known for its staff of attractive and
friendly waitresses.
The Meadows turned a small, but healthy profit, and soon
Cornero was investing his returns into other casinos in the state, mostly in
Las Vegas. The money started to pour in and before long New York’s Luciano,
Lansky, and Frank Costello sent their rep-resentatives and demanded a cut of
Cornero’s action. Cornero who had always operated on the fringe of the national
syndicate, refused to pay. Instead he had built up his own organization and was
strong enough to turn the syndicate bosses down.
The syndicate, which had a small but powerful presence on
the West Coast, prepared for war and started by burning Cornero’s Green Meadows
casino to the ground. Realizing he could never win the fight, Cornero sold out
his interest in Nevada and returned to Los Angeles.
In 1938 Cornero bought several large ships and refurbished
them into luxury casinos at a cost of more than $300,000. He anchored the ships
three miles off the coast of Santa Monica and had gam-blers shuttled from shore
by way of motorboats. Cornero’s lead ship, the Rex, had a crew of 350 wait-ers,
waitresses, cooks, a full orchestra, and an entourage of enforcers. The first
class dining room served superb French cuisine and on most nights some 2,000
patrons flooded onto the ship to gamble, dance and drink the night away. Tony
was hauling in an estimated $300,000 a night after expenses, and the money
would have continued to pour in had he not become the center of a reform
movement in Los Angeles County.
State Attorney General Earl Warren ordered a raid on the Rex
and several other of Cornero’s off- coast ships. Cornero and the California
government fought a series of battles, with Tony’s lawyers argu-ing that his
ships were operating in international waters, and the California government
taking the indefensible stance that it didn’t care where they were, they were
still illegal.
Back and forth it went, until Cornero decided to fight back
after raiders had smashed almost half a million dollars worth of gambling
equipment on one of his ships,. When the law men came to raid his ships,
Cornero ordered his men to repel the attack-ers with water hoses. A sea battle
went on for nine hours and the lawmen finally gave up. But Cornero was beaten
and he knew it; he closed his offshore operations.
Tony tried to open a few gambling houses inside Los Angeles,
but Micky Cohen, the ruling bookie and drug dealer in the town, shut him down.
When Cornero refused to back down, Cohen had his boys bomb Cornero’s Beverly
Hills estate. Fearing for his life, Cornero took his fortune and moved back to
Las Vegas.
After several years in Vegas, Cornero undertook his dream to
build the largest gambling casino-hotel in the world, the Stardust. To finance
the construc-tion of the Stardust Tony had borrowed $6,000,000 from the mob. As
the casino neared completion Cornero couldn’t account for half of the borrowed
cash. The word on the street was that the bosses back east were whining that it
had been a mistake to give him the money in the first place, because Tony the
Hat was no businessman, just a dice jock¬ey with high ambitions.
The truth is that the syndicate had probably set Tony up to
fail from the very beginning. He never would have gotten a license to run the
place because he had a long criminal record and an even longer list of powerful
political enemies made across the state. And he had his enemies in the
underworld as well. His endless arguments with the New York syndi¬cates over
the size of the Stardust—five hundred rooms—were legendary.
Meyer Lansky and Frank Costello were both pos-itive that Las
Vegas would never be able to attract enough gamblers to fill all of those rooms
and the Stardust would cause a glut on the market, reduc¬ing prices for all the
other casino rooms.
Cornero knew about the license problem, of course, but it
didn’t concern him. He believed he could get a license anyway. A few hundred
grand went a long way in Nevada in the 1950s. But the word was that Moe Dalitz
had already taken care of that and there was absolutely no way that Tony
Cornero was going to get a gaming license in Nevada or anywhere else.
So, as the opening day drew closer, Cornero entered talks
with Dalitz about leasing the place to the Dalitz operation. Dalitz was
interested, but the terms that Cornero wanted were steep: a half a mil-lion a
month. So Dalitz bided his time because he knew Cornero was broke and would
have to come crawling back to him, and when he did they’d han¬dle him.
As fate would have it, Tony not only helped build the Vegas
that we know today but fittingly he died there, too. He dropped dead while
gambling at the Desert Inn, with Moe Dalitz, the Godfather of Sin City, looking
on with his fat arm draped around the waist of his slim and much younger wife.
Cornero had gone to the Desert Inn for a last chance meeting
with Dalitz to beg the mob’s favorite front man for financing to help him
complete con-struction on his casino—the forever troubled Stardust. The place
was scheduled to open in just two weeks, on July 13, 1955, and Cornero didn’t
have the cash to pay the staff or supply the house tables. He was in over his
head—Dalitz and every¬body else knew it
Cornero and Dalitz met for several long hours in a
conference that went nowhere. Cornero wanted the mob’s money and the mob wanted
Cornero’s casino. Neither party had any intention of giving anything to the
other. During a break in the meet-ing, Cornero went out to the floor of the
Desert Inn and gambled at the craps table and quickly fell into the hole for
$10,000. Then a waitress came and handed him a tab for twenty-five dollars for
the food and drinks he had. Cornero went ballistic. He was a guest of Moe
Dalitz. The waitress didn’t care; she wanted the money. Dalitz stood by and
watched as Tony Cornero suffered through the ultimate insult to a big timer in
Vegas.
Cornero screamed, ranted and raved and then grabbed his
chest and fell forward on the table, des-perately clutching his heart through
his shirt, the dice still wrapped in his hands.
For decades the story circulated in the under-world that
Cornero didn’t die of a heart attack, that his drink had been poisoned. If he
had been poi-soned, the truth went with him to the grave. An autopsy was never
performed. His body was shipped off to Los Angeles for a quick funeral where an
organist from the Desert Inn knocked out a rendi-tion of his favorite song,
“The Wabash Cannonball Express” and eight hours after he hit the cold floor of
the Desert Inn, Tony the Hat was eight feet under the ground.
Tony went out like the gambler he was. Of the estimated $25
million he had earned in his career as a gambler, Tony Cornero had less than
$800 in his pockets when he died.
Nobody checked the contents of the drink he had been sipping
before he dropped dead. No one cared enough to ask any serious questions. The
important
thing was that Tony Cornero was dead. Jake the Barber
Factor, a Chicago favorite, was moved into position as the Stardust’s new owner
of record, and everybody in mobdom was happy.
Well, everybody except Tony Cornero.
A few weeks after Tony’s death, Jake the Barber announced
that he had just purchased the Stardust.