Sam Giancana poured some more chianti into his glass and passed the jug for the others.
The meeting was drawing to a close, but there was still some food left – the lasagna from Bernie, and the wine. And the boys didn’t seem like leaving yet. Cigar smoke hovered above the round table. Baseball season was on so, of course, there was talk about the Cubs.
Giancana lit a cigar himself and blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. Which made him think for a moment of that prick, Castro – and how hard it had proven to get a decent shot at the bastard. The piss-off was surrounded by an elite corps of guards and every bit of food was tasted before going to him. And his schedule was never known in advance.
Giancana had to hand it – he was one tough target.
And Sam was running out of ideas.
Just then a call came in. One of his trusted aides, Joey Woods, took the call. After a moment, Woods came over to Giancana.
“Maheu – wants a chat,” Woods conveyed the message.
“About time,” Giancana puffed.
“Shall I?” Woods asked.
Woods then went into the back pantry to the drawer where Sam kept the rolls of quarters.
Five minutes later, Woods met Sam down at the pay phone by the deli with their bar-b-que chicken sandwiches. He handed Sam two rolls of quarters – for the call back to Maheu.
“Stick around, Joey,” Sam told the aide as he began tumbling quarters in.
Joey Woods nodded, and stepped down a few paces, his eyes wide and gazing around with a sharp, jerky alertness.
But if you looked carefully- it wasn’t watchfulness for Sam that had him so shaky and wide-eyed. It was pure paranoia.
Joey Woods had been with Giancana for four years. But he wasn’t working for him any more.
He was now and had been for the past four weeks, on the payroll of Joe Kennedy.
And reporting directly to him.
It was, quite frankly, a deal he couldn’t refuse.
Despite the enormous risk.
Joe Kennedy had offered him more money than he’d seen in his life, and more than he would see in his lifetime working as a secondary mob figure.
Trust fund for the children.
College fund, too.
But very, very quiet.
Nothing that would show.
Joe knew exactly how to set it up, invisible-like.
So nobody’d ever know the kind of money Joey Woods had come into.
Being a mole for Joe inside Sam’s circle wasn’t really something he wanted to undertake. He knew what would happen. He knew the risks. Not just death. But – most likely, a bloody, tortuous dying.
If he got caught.
But, truth was – he could get whacked easy enough just doing what he was doing. Way it was, this life. So why, Joey Woods thought, why not cash it in.
Because the money was too fucking good.
So he signed on.
Sam concluded his call to Maheu.
“They want me down in Florida. The Mongoose shit. Some guy wants to meet me. A Dr. Cubela. Y’ever hear of him?” Sam asked Joey Woods.
Woods shook his head.
“Anyway – says it’s important. Wants me down there – face to face.”
Woods nodded, but said nothing.
Sam eyed him closely. Joey hated when Sam did this. Made him think he was getting suspicious. Looking right into his soul – seeing something that made him think Joey wasn’t all his anymore.
”Ever been to Miami?” Sam asked.
“Book us. We’ll fly out tomorrow morning. Two rooms at the Fountainbleu. That ass-hole Sinatra’s playing down there. Boy, do I have a surprise cooked up for him!”
(Continue with Giancana and Joey on the next post)