“Election night, 1931, in the City of Moraine, the heart of the gangster ­infested area of downstate Illinois, known as Little Egypt. Marcus Stone, the new mayor., was thanking the people for sweeping his entire reform ticket into office.” Read More

“Chicago, February, 1932. Crime was a big business that was spreading from the dark alleys of Cicero, across town to the gentler, social atmosphere of the Gold Coast. Times were changing and crime was changing with them. Like any big business, it had to change, but it still required the services of hoodlums and gunmen, like Al Barberry and George Colleoni; the courtroom techniques of unscrupulous attorneys such as Paul Curtiz, and the guiding hands of the man at the top, the man who had come up from the ranks and had made the transition from gangster to big businessman: Augie Viale.”

Augie Viale had never made in inner circle of the Capone syndicate; he had never tried, not even after Capone was sent to Atlanta for tax evasion. With the help of men in public office willing to look the other way, Viale was too busy making a place for himself with narcotics and hot cars, and a new enterprise.” Read More

“On a peaceful evening in the Spring of 1931. Gang warfare had broken out with sudden violence on the streets of St. Louis. Tim Harrington, long-entrenched as the undisputed boss of the city, was fighting the challenge to his leadership. And the challenger was an upstart hoodlum: Joe Courtney. The most outraged citizen in St. Louis was Dink Conway, the owner of the swanky Jockey Club, a fashionable club house attached to the old Maxwell Race Tracie, converted into the finest restaurant and nightclub in the State of Missouri.”
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“A nice day in Chicago, March 31, 1933. At No. 1229 Houser Boulevard lived Joseph H. Bucco, his wife and daughter. Everybody knew Joe Bucco and liked him.”
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“Calum City, thirty miles from Chicago, population, 10,000. A city fighting for its life, divided over an election that could mean honest government, or a return to the jungle law of the underworld. ”
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“Outside the walls of Lewisberg Federal Prison, in the State of Pennsylvania, August 3rd, 1933. After serving two years and 17 days of the life sentence in a four man holdup of a Federal Reserve Bank shipment, three-time loser Frank Holloway, was on his way out again. The jail break was only step one toward the half-million dollar haul that had never been recovered. Now there were only two ways to cut the mellon: Half to Ed Johnson, custodian of the for tune who had never been caught, and half to Frank Holloway.”
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“Chicago, South Side. October, 1932. The depth of the Depression. A time of hardship and despair for many, of standing lines and waiting for a meal. For some, not even a place to sleep. A time of closed gates and no work signs. A time of hope, of small, desperate hope. Hope for a better tomorrow and a little break today. Any little break, any heaven-sent little windfall, to happen now, today, right now. The mobsters were equal to the task and came up with the numbers game. On the surface, it worked like a lottery. You chose a number from zero, zero, zero, to nine hundred and ninety-nine. Your chances to win were one in a thousand. If you were lucky, you got back six hundred for one. If you lost, you could play again tomorrow, and nine hundred and ninety nine times out of a thousand – you lost.”
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“The underworld has always lived by one law, the law of the jungle. The strong clawed their way to power, the weak died in a hail of machine gun bullets. In March of 1935, one of the toughest mobsters in New York City, the man who dominated the underworld at the moment, was Arthur Flegenheimer, better known as Dutch Schultz. During his career, Dutch Schultz and his mob were suspected of having committed over 100 murders. He controlled every racket in New York. He had branched out into liquor, narcotics, later shakedowns, the numbers racket. ”
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“In the latter part of 1933, an epidemic of hijacking broke out in the states of Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania. The similarity of the holdups identified them as the work of the Tri-State Gang. This time it was a factory shipment of radios. The routine was always the same: Big Bill Phillips, a cheap, hulking six-foot-four ox of a man, handled the truck. Artie McLeod, a cheap tin horn gambler, handled the burlap hood with style and efficiency. The oldest of the gang was Georgie Kaufman, a battered ex-pug who once fought Benny Leonard in Madison Square Garden. The fence was James Jonathan Harris, sometimes called Gentlemen Jim. A quiet-spoken Englishman from the moors of Yorkshire. He was a suspicious and ever-watchful man. Bobby May, second in command, three-time loser, an ex-con, San Quentin. The leader of the gang was Wally Lagenza, a pale, cold, blond beast untouched by any civilizing influences. The doctors at Dannemora once described him as a vicious, antisocial animal, dangerous, ruthless and depraved. Eliot Ness and his men had been assigned by Washington to investigate the activities of the Tri-State Gang. That same night, they drove down to Richmond, Virginia, where they met with Sheriff Wilson of Richmond County.
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