Part 8

One night Fleishman and Gallagher were standing guard at Pier 57 aboard the French lineship _DeGrasse_. An underworld tipster had reported that the ship carried 1,500 cases of liquor which were to be smuggled ashore that evening. As they stood on the stern deck of the ship, a man dressed as a longshoreman walked up to Gallagher and asked for a light. Gallagher handed him a match and as the man touched the flame to his cigarette, the two agents saw well-manicured fingers and the gleam of a large diamond ring. Then they recognized their visitor as a hoodlum known as “Mike the Barber.” Whenever there was a waterfront murder at that time, the name of Mike the Barber was certain to be mentioned sooner or later in the police list of those to be questioned.

Mike the Barber had said suddenly to Gallagher, “You’re a new man, aren’t you?”

Gallagher said that he was, and the hoodlum said, “Where do you come from?”

Gallagher replied, “I’ve been working as a subclerk at the post office over in Paterson, New Jersey.”

Mike the Barber nodded. “Is that so? I happen to have a good friend over at Paterson. He is the assistant postmaster over there. You know his name, don’t you?”

Gallagher was evasive. He began to make excuses for not being able to recall the assistant postmaster’s name. Mike the Barber growled, “Oh, yeah? Look, you son-of-a-bitch, you forget everything you see here tonight or you’re liable to get killed.” And with that the hoodlum walked off into the darkness.

Fleishman and Gallagher knew their usefulness was over. Within minutes every member of the gang on the pier would know they were officers. Fleishman said to Gallagher, “You walk down the pier and walk down the middle of it--don’t get to the side where there is any cargo or anything else. Walk right down the middle in clear sight. I’m going after a taxi.”

Fleishman luckily was able to hail a cab, and he and Gallagher jumped in. As the cab wheeled from the pier a black sedan roared from the shadows to give chase. The frightened taxi driver finally shook off their pursuers and Fleishman and Gallagher returned to their rooming house.

The information they had gathered was turned over to the Department of Justice and prosecutions were begun. The crackdown didn’t halt the smuggling by any means, but it was a jolt to the underworld.

Then, on August 30, 1928, Lawrence Fleishman sat at his desk fingering a letter which the mailman had left at his office a few minutes earlier. The letter was postmarked Washington, D. C., and across the front was written the word “Confidential.”

Slowly he tore open the letter and began reading:

Sir:

You will report at the earliest date possible to Detroit, Michigan. As soon as you arrive in Detroit, you will register at the Barlum Hotel.... You are to work strictly undercover and you are to report to me daily by mail as to your findings.

You will report any dishonesty or irregularity on the part of any Customs employee, securing wherever possible such evidence as is obtainable....

(Signed) _Elmer J. Lewis_

Fleishman tossed the letter onto his desk and felt the excitement building up inside. The order really came as no great surprise, although he knew that it would be something of a shock for his wife to learn they were leaving immediately for Detroit. Their plans for the future hadn’t included any sudden, mysterious journeys to a city neither of them had ever visited before.

Fleishman knew the assignment would be dangerous. Yet he saw no reason why he shouldn’t take his bride along. He could rent an apartment and the stay in Detroit could be pleasant for both of them as long as business was separated from their home life.

This wasn’t an era for Fleishman or anyone else to be surprised over reports of graft and corruption in law enforcement. The papers were full of stories of prohibition agents and other officers being involved with gangsters in liquor smuggling. If Congress wasn’t ordering an investigation of a breakdown in law enforcement, others were. Bootlegging and racketeering had grown to be a multi-million-dollar industry. It was hardly surprising that an underpaid police officer was tempted when he could make $100 merely by looking the other way while a cargo of liquor was being unloaded.

There were times when Fleishman and his fellow agents were not proud of their agency. But the Customs Service was by no means the only enforcement agency tainted by crooks and weaklings. There was corruption rampant throughout the United States. The Federal government itself was only beginning to recover from the shocking scandals in the administration of President Harding. It was all a part of the revolution in manners and morals which had swept the country after the close of World War I. It seemed after the war that the vast majority of the citizens of the United States were eager for prohibition. Congress had voted overwhelmingly for the Nineteenth Amendment to establish prohibition throughout the United States. The dry forces had easily won ratification of the amendment when it was placed before the various states.

Then came the revolt. As soon as Congress passed the Volstead Act, to enforce the prohibition amendment, the country developed a prodigious thirst. Bootlegging became one of the country’s major industries. Revenue from the sale of illegal whiskey provided mobsters with unbelievably rich treasuries. It made millionaires out of bums. The gangsters were better armed, better disciplined, and better organized than the average law enforcement agency throughout the country. The cynicism of the period was summed up by Franklin P. Adams, who wrote in the New York _World_:

Prohibition is an awful flop. We like it. It can’t stop what it’s meant to stop. We like it. It’s left a trail of graft and slime, It’s filled our land with vice and crime. It don’t prohibit worth a dime, Nevertheless we’re for it.

In Chicago, the pudgy gangster named Al Capone fashioned a crime empire from the profits made on smuggled booze, prostitution and other rackets. At one time he and his mob controlled--literally--the city of Cicero outside of Chicago. They elected its officials, controlled the appointment of police officers, and dictated the affairs of the entire community, with the threat of the Thompson submachine gun to enforce their rulings. City governments--and even the Federal government at times--seemed powerless to cope with the marauders.

In Detroit the Purple Gang came to power, and among the major hoodlums was a man named Pete Licovoli, whose name usually cropped up whenever there was a gangland murder, violence, or a report of widespread corruption. He was a man whom Lawrence Fleishman would get to know well.

This was the state of affairs in September, 1928, when Fleishman and his wife loaded their belongings into their shiny new Model A Ford sedan and set out for Detroit.

On arriving in Detroit, they registered at the Barlum Hotel as Supervising Agent Elmer Lewis had instructed. The following morning Fleishman went to Lewis’ room in the hotel to be briefed on his mission. He was eager to meet Lewis, who was one of the Bureau’s veteran agents with a reputation for being tough, honest and efficient.

Lewis answered Fleishman’s knock on his door. He took Fleishman’s hand and Fleishman felt like a schoolboy as he looked at the big, broad-shouldered, sandy-haired man who towered above him. Lewis was 6 feet 4 inches of bone and muscle.

Lewis introduced Fleishman to Sumner C. Sleeper, the chief of the Detroit Customs Patrol. He was a man of medium height who had spent many years in the Service. The glasses he wore gave him the look of a schoolteacher.

Quickly Lewis got down to business and sketched the assignment Fleishman was to undertake: There were rumors, true beyond doubt, that some members of the Customs Patrol were deeply involved with the gangsters in smuggling whiskey into Detroit. The situation had reached the point where something had to be done to check the bribery and corruption, but there could be no effective prosecution until the Bureau had solid evidence that bribes were being offered and accepted.

Lewis explained that arrangements had been made for Fleishman to join the Patrol as a rookie. If offered bribes, he was to accept them and make a record of the serial numbers of the bills. He was to report daily in writing to Lewis, detailing everything that happened, along with the names of those involved in any wrongdoing. Only four men knew of his assignment--and he was to discuss his activities only with them. The four were Lewis, Sleeper and two assistant collectors.

“We hope,” Lewis said, “that within three months you can get enough evidence to break this thing wide open.”

It was agreed that as a “cover” Fleishman would tell anyone who was curious that after leaving the Navy he had found a job as bookkeeper for a large New York State gambling syndicate but the syndicate had been broken up by police, forcing him to find another job. The story sounded reasonable enough, because the newspapers had carried stories that summer of a big gambling combine which had been smashed by New York State police.

At the close of the conference, Lewis gave Fleishman a final bit of advice: “If you ever think they are suspicious of you, get to a safe place fast--and call me.”

Within a few days, Fleishman and his wife were settled in a modest apartment on Van Dyke Street not far from Detroit’s main downtown section. And on September 22, 1928, Fleishman reported for duty at the Customs Patrol headquarters at the foot of DuBois Street on the Detroit River. The Patrol offices were in an old wooden building enclosed by a high wire fence. There was an adjoining garage and a slip for the patrol boats alongside a boat repair shop. In addition to the office, there was a squad room for the patrolmen, where each of them had a locker.

During his first week on the job, Fleishman knew he was being watched with suspicion. He was never given an assignment with any of the night patrols. Each morning he was assigned to headquarters duty--which meant sweeping out the offices, tending the coal fires, carrying out ashes, filling cars with gas and oil, and sprinkling water on the sand pile in the front yard to prevent the sand from blowing into the offices.

At odd moments, Fleishman sat around watching the older men shoot craps in the locker room and joining in their talk. Slowly the wall of suspicion began to crumble, and during the second week he was assigned to a 12 midnight to 8 A.M. patrol with a senior officer named Raleigh Hampshire, a big, flabby man who looked as though he slept in his uniform.

In the first hours of the night they drove aimlessly along Woodward Avenue, parking occasionally to get a cup of coffee at an all-night restaurant, or just to sit and watch the traffic. From time to time, Hampshire questioned Fleishman about his background. Fleishman told him of his years in the Navy and his experiences in strange ports of the world. He even confided to Hampshire that he had been a bookkeeper for the New York State gambling syndicate--but this job had blown up when the police smashed the operation.

“Maybe you heard about it,” Fleishman said. “It was in all the papers.”

Hampshire obviously was impressed. “Yeah,” he said, “I read about that.”

This conversation apparently resolved any doubts that Hampshire had about his companion. After a time he said, “Let’s go see what we can find.” He wheeled the car from the curb and drove to a residential area which Fleishman later learned was the Lake St. Clair section, a respectable neighborhood of attractive homes.

Hampshire drove into the driveway of a large house with a tree-shaded lawn, and Fleishman assumed they were going to visit one of Hampshire’s friends. He followed Hampshire to the door, and when he knocked a man’s voice said, “Come in.”

They stepped through the door into a scene that Fleishman would always remember as one of the strangest he had ever witnessed. Stacked to the ceiling in what should have been the living room were cases of whiskey and sacks of ale. On an overturned beer keg sat a man cleaning a pistol. Six other men, using an overturned crate for a table, were playing blackjack. A young woman stood watching the gamblers while sipping from a bottle of ale.

No one showed any surprise at the appearance of the two uniformed officers. They only glanced at Fleishman and nodded when Hampshire introduced him as a new man on the job.

“Have a drink?” their host said.

“I’ll take a bottle of ale,” Hampshire said.

Fleishman nodded. “I’ll take the same.”

The hoodlum took a knife from his pocket and flipped open a blade. He ripped one of the sacks and took out two bottles. When he opened them, the warm ale spewed out on the floor. They sat and chatted for several minutes and then Hampshire signalled it was time to go. They bid everyone goodnight and returned to their car. As they drove from the house, Hampshire said, “It isn’t everybody that would give a new guy a break like this.”

“What do you mean, a break?” Fleishman asked.

“I mean introducing you to the guys back there,” Hampshire said. “You never can tell when you might be working with a special agent. But I figure you’re all right.”

“Thanks,” Fleishman said dryly. “I appreciate it more than you know.”

This was the break Fleishman had been waiting for. He knew that he had passed the first test and he figured that Hampshire now would pass the word to others that he was “okay.” When he returned home that morning he wrote a long report of the night’s events and mailed it to Elmer Lewis at the Barlum Hotel.

And then his reports became more and more interesting....

October 1, 1928. (Fleishman reported that he had made friends with a patrolman named Bill Tompkins, who lived only a few streets beyond his apartment. He became friendly by giving Tompkins a ride home after work.) Tompkins opened up wide this morning. He said: “Don’t let any of these guys give you the runaround. If you see them talking to bootleggers and they don’t let you in on it, or if they leave their boats or cars or act suspicious in any manner, you can be sure they are getting theirs and you are not. Just don’t let them put anything over on you. Every time they make a run it is good for a hundred each.”...

October 10, 1928. I reported for duty at base at 1 A.M. Detailed to land patrol with Inspector G. Slater.... Our first stop was at the foot of Orange Street in Wyandotte where the picket boat was tied up ... Slater talked to O’Rourke while I drove to a restaurant at Slater’s request. When I returned ... Slater said, “Well, it’s all fixed. We ought to be good for $125 apiece tonight.”... We drove down to the foot of 23rd Street and parked the car and went to sleep.... We woke up at 6:15 and a bootlegger named Hamilton came along. He said, “Is it all right to work?” Slater said, “Yes.”... He then told us he would see us around 8:30. We then left from the foot of 23rd Street and went to a restaurant on West Fort Street and had coffee. Left and drove over to the foot of Orange Street and Wyandotte. We were there about 7 o’clock. Bill O’Rourke ... handed Slater a roll of bills. Slater walked over to the picket boat and another boat was tied up there having a propeller fixed.... All I saw of this transaction was O’Rourke giving Slater a roll of bills. We then drove down to the River Rouge. In the car Slater gave me a roll of bills and said, “Count it.” I did and found $50. At the River Rouge we went to Peajack’s. We met his lieutenant who got out of a car, came over, and dropped a roll of bills in Slater’s lap.... After driving away Slater gave me another roll of bills containing $50. Slater said, “I bet you feel funny going into the base carrying $100.” I admitted that I did feel uncomfortable. Slater gave me quite a bit of interesting data. The night’s pay-off when they work the River Rouge is $970. They all work at once and the boat crews and the land crews must all be fixed. In addition Border Patrol must occasionally be fixed, nightwatchmen and policemen must be fixed, and recently the prohibition agents have to be paid off to discontinue their activities on the river. Slater also told me a number of fellows were very suspicious of me.... I said, “Why are they so suspicious of a new man every time?” Slater said, “Because every new man might be a special agent or a DJ (Department of Justice) man. But even if you are a special agent you are as guilty as I am because you have taken money too.”... Near 23rd Street Slater turned up a side street.... Then I saw Hamilton rounding the corner. He came over to the car and dropped a roll of bills in my lap. I handed it to Slater when we drove off.... This made $115 for my share of the evening’s profit. (Each bill Fleishman received he listed in his report giving the denomination and serial number of each.)... Returned to base at 10 A.M. and made out report: “No activities noted.” Slater made out a similar report....

By mid-November, Fleishman had been admitted to membership in the Patrol’s crooked inner circle. He was automatically included in the pay-offs made by the mobsters. He had found many of the patrolmen were honest men--but they were helpless with so many avenues for rumrunning left open around them.

Occasionally, Fleishman slipped at night into the Barlum Hotel to discuss the progress of the investigation with Elmer Lewis. The evidence of graft and corruption was piling up daily, yet Fleishman was troubled because he hadn’t been able to link the pay-offs to any of the higher-ups in the rumrunning syndicates.

“You’re doing all right,” Lewis assured him. “Just be sure you don’t get into any trouble.”

Fleishman said, “There’s one guy in this racket I would like to nail--Pete Licavoli. He’s responsible for a big part of this mess.”

Lewis nodded. “You’re not likely to get close to Licavoli. He plays it smart.”

Then one night Fleishman was detailed to the land patrol with Patrolmen James Mack and Shell Miller. They climbed into a Buick coach with Miller at the wheel and Miller headed the car out Fort Street to Military Road.

“Where are we going?” Mack asked.

Miller said, “I’ve found something worthwhile that I want to show you.”

He turned onto Jefferson Avenue and after a time he drove slowly by a lumber yard beside a railroad track. “That’s it,” he said. “I got a tip they’re handling booze in there by the carload. But they don’t ship it until it’s watered down. We’ll come back later and pay them a visit.”

The three men rode aimlessly around Ecorse until mid-morning and then Mack drove back to the lumber yard. They walked into a building where several men were making boxes. Suddenly Mack said, “Here comes a friend of mine.”

Fleishman saw a big, handsome man emerge from an office. He recognized him instantly from his pictures. He was Pete Licavoli, and very plainly Licavoli was upset.

“For God’s sake,” the hoodlum said in disgust, “where did you come from?”

“We just thought we’d pay you a visit,” Mack said. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Beat it,” Licavoli snarled. “Beat it and I’ll fix you later.”

Mack said, “Okay, boys, let’s get out of here.”

As they drove from the lumber yard, Mack said, “This thing is too good to put off. I’ll arrange for us to see Pete tonight.”

* * * * *

It was 5:40 when Mack and Miller picked up Fleishman at his apartment. They drove to Jefferson Avenue, where Mack parked the car. They walked down a long alley and Mack knocked on a door. They were admitted into an elaborately furnished restaurant which proved to be the private restaurant and hangout of Licavoli and his mob. The furnishings were in excellent taste. There were leather lounging chairs, a bar and the general atmosphere of a country club. Licavoli was seated at a table with one of his lieutenants, Sam Georges. He waved his visitors into seats.

Fleishman left the talking to Mack and Miller as they discussed how much Licavoli should pay to operate unmolested at the lumber yard shipping plant.

“This is the first time we’ve worked in a week,” Georges complained, “and we’re losing money.”

Miller said, “Do you expect me to cry for you?”

The discussion continued through dinner and several rounds of drinks. Finally it was agreed Licavoli should pay $400 a week to be left alone. The mobster pulled out a fat wallet, counted out the money, and handed it to Mack. He stood up and put his hand on Fleishman’s shoulder. “You boys come around any time,” he said. “The drinks are on the house.” And then he left.

In dividing the $400 pay-off, it was agreed that Fleishman would receive $110 and Mack and Miller $120 each, with $50 to be paid to the tipster who had pointed out the Licavoli operation to Mack. The money was divided as the men sat at the table.

In the days that followed, Fleishman’s letters to Lewis were filled with reports of gangster pay-offs. The evidence piled up so rapidly that officials of the Treasury and Justice Departments, Customs Service, and the Prohibition Bureau met in Washington to discuss when and how a crackdown should be made. Elmer Lewis was called from Detroit to take part in the conference.

Lewis urged the conference to keep a tight lid of secrecy on the meeting. He warned that any disclosure that a Customs agent was working undercover in Detroit would be certain to endanger Fleishman’s life. Sooner or later the hoodlums would discover he was an undercover man--and the Purple Gang gunmen would be after him.

But such news is difficult to keep bottled up in Washington. Part of the story, at least, was leaked to reporters. The following morning newspapers were carrying reports that a “big case” was expected to break soon over bribery and whiskey smuggling in Detroit. There was speculation, too, that a shakeup was coming in the Customs Patrol.

When Lewis read these reports, he arranged to take a train back to Detroit. He knew the news stories would be telegraphed to the Detroit newspapers.

At midnight on November 18, Fleishman reported for duty as usual. He was assigned to a patrol with two inspectors to cover the customary run along the River Rouge and the Wyandotte area. They visited the usual haunts, looking for any of the hoodlums who might be seeking an “all clear” signal for moving their whiskey across the river. None of them at the time had read the dispatches from Washington printed in the Detroit newspaper.

Shortly before dawn, the three men stopped in a Wyandotte restaurant for a bowl of soup and a sandwich. The restaurant was operated by Joe Rosen, one of the mobsters, and after a while Rosen came to the table. He whispered into the ear of one of the patrolmen and then hurried from the room.