Free The Hoods by Harry Grey Page B

city?”
    “Why not? You know, organize.”

CHAPTER 8
    In the eighteen months I had been away from the city, four memorable changes had taken place. The war was over. Prohibition was in effect. Dolores was a minor dance sensation in a Broadway musical comedy. Big Maxie, Patsy, Cockeye, with a sort of subsidiary contribution from Jake the Goniff, Pipy and Goo-Goo, had built up quite a reputation among the hoodlums of the city as a tough East Side mob.
    I also discovered that in my absence a legend had grown up about my powers with the shiv. I was considered an expert shiv man. Maxie told me of some of the stories that were being told around the East Side. We both laughed at my mythical knife exploits.
    Our reputation as all-around tough guys and so-called killers was the force which hurled us into the actual violence incubated by prohibition.
    People came to us with what we called “contracts.” From all over town, from people we had never met or heard of came unsolicited propositions to heist big payrolls, wholesale jewelry firms, banks. Bootleggers and racketeers came to us with contracts to murder their business partners, sweethearts, brothers, husbands, wives or enemies. We were offered ridiculously small fees as well as fabulously large sums of money.
    At first we ignored and laughed at this deluge of unsought assignments. Then, either because we were flattered to be sought after by people in high and low places, or because we wanted the money or for a combination of these reasons, we finally capitulated. We began living up to our reputations, but we screened the contracts we took on through the wide mesh of our peculiar code of ethics.
    Like robber barons of old, by physical force and gall we took over most of the illegal activities on the crowded East Side. It was a large and lucrative domain. We were comparatively young as years are counted, but we were efficient veterans in all matters requiring nerve and brutality. Fate was kind, and our success gave us an air of cool arrogance.
    In a comparatively short period we had become acquainted with little mobs which had suddenly sprung up from the soup school districts of the city. To redeem a load of whiskey we had hijacked uptown, we had a slight encounter with Arthur Flegenheimer, the Dutchman, and his mob, who came from a wretched, cheerless and impoverished section of the Bronx. On a matter relating to cigarette machines we met with Joe Adonis, Leo Bike and some of their crew, who were recruited from the unhealthy, congested, dilapidated sections of Brooklyn. We had a slight brush with Tony Bender and Vito Genovese and their outfit, who originated from the stinking hovels and pigsties of the lower part of Greenwich Village. We had a tryst with Charlie Lucky and Lupo the Wolf, who came from the destitute, stable-like tenements of east midtown Manhattan. We discussed the “Black Hand” shake-down of one of their countrymen who was currently residing in our domain, where he had come seeking our protection. We met and formed a coalition with the most gentlemanly, the most honorable and the boldest hoodlum in the city, Frank or Francisco, from a miserable, overcrowded section of east Harlem. We met them all. It was a startling and irrefutable fact that without exception, they came from the same kind of poverty-stricken background we did. They came from different parts of the city, but they were all soup school alumni.
    We had six speakeasies, including the one on Delancey Street which was our general headquarters. We called that one “Fat Moe's,” in honor of Gelly's son. Fat Moe became our chief bartender and manager. Besides, we had a piece of the number racket that was being introduced into the East Side by a Porto Rican banker, and we were on many of the “off the track” bookies' payrolls. Bootleggers and “speakie” operators came to us for protection from jackal hoodlums who were shaking them down. Obviously, we charged a fee for our services. People found