Outside the courtroom, the photographers snapped incessantly at the man being escorted in by the police, the white lights flashing from all directions as the journalists jostled for space. The man in the centre of the fray had spent the past nine years behind bars for his role in organised crime: his name was Charles Luciano. Everyone knew him as “Lucky,” but his luck hadn’t held out forever. At one time, he’d thought he was untouchable; then came that asshole prosecutor Thomas Dewey, an overzealous moralizer who’d made it his mission to take down anyone with the slightest connection to prostitution. Guess he just hates women, Lucky had thought. He’d sentenced Lucky to fifty years in prison; half a goddamn century for a few hookers! Tough break, right? A bunch of Navy officers were pushing back the journalists. “Get back! All journalists outside, please!” bellowed one of the marines. The heavy courtroom doors closed behind them as Charles Luciano took his seat.
The interviewers stood up. They were from the Navy Intelligence Service. Lucky wondered what they wanted with him. Just this morning, he’d been serving his time in peace. Something was up. Were they going to put him back on the streets of New York? Fat chance! Still, prison wasn’t so bad; he still had his caviar, his champagne and good henchmen around him. He wanted for nothing. People make a big deal about it, but it’s not so bad if you know how to handle yourself. The one thing he missed was the women. He’d give anything to run his hand along a hairless thigh. Let’s find out what these guys want; with any luck, he’d be able to negotiate a conjugal visit.
“Salvatore Lucania, known as Charles Luciano, we have summoned you to this hearing today.”
“Yeah, that’s me, Lucky Luciano. What do you want from me now?”
“Let’s begin by reviewing your previous crimes. You were sentenced to fifty years in prison. The charges brought against you thus far are numerous and include the sale, trafficking and import of alcohol during prohibition, as well as involvement in street-level organised crime in New York. And you were sent down for pandering...over three hundred thousand women across the United States. However, Charles Luciano, we are not here today to discuss the past.”
“Please, Mr FBI agent, call me Lucky. What can I do for you?
The Navy officers and the intelligence agents sighed. It pained them to be dealing with a man like this. But they had no choice. The Allied Forces had landed in Sicily, and Lucky could be a big help to them against Mussolini’s forces. He’d arrived in New York’s Lower East Side when he was a boy of nine and built an empire that the US government needed. An empire that created jobs and helped boost the country’s economy. Charles Luciano was just a tool in the hands of the government. They’d left him in peace for a long time, never arresting him until the day they no longer needed him, until the day when the big families all made peace, until the day there was no more payback to be meted out. Lucky smiled. Nine years behind bars was no mean feat. If the Navy was here, that probably meant someone was robbing boats upstate. What did that have to do with him, a kid from the Lower East Side? As long as he was needed again. The man from the intelligence agency spoke again:
“Salvatore Lucania, aka Charles Luciano, we need your help.”
“Please, call me Lucky.”
“Our forces are preparing to land in Sicily. They need men and intelligence. The American government is prepared to give you your freedom, on one condition.”
“And what would that be?” Lucky asked.
“That you never again set foot in the USA. You’ll be deported to Sicily, where you’ll stay for the rest of your life.”
“What about New York?”
“You needn’t worry...we’ve taken control of your empire. It’s proven useful to our nation’s economy.”
“And what if this landing doesn’t come off?”
“America does not fail, Lucania!” the intelligence agent retorted angrily.
“And just how the hell am I supposed to live in Sicily, anyway?” Lucky asked, mystified. “What about my pals, Frank, Bugsy and the rest? We’ve known each other since we were kids. I can’t go back to Sicily. Who even knows if they’ve still got broads there with Mussolini in charge?”
Laughter broke out, and the crowd began to chatter. Then the silence resumed, a silence that spoke volumes. The former boss had no choice — he would have to collaborate with the government and the intelligence service. He would have to tell them all he knew: where the guns were hidden, their hideouts, their safe houses, all their little secrets.
“So I can never come back?” Lucky asked.
“That’s the condition. If you accept and co-operate...” the intelligence officer began,
“— Understood.” Lucky answered without hesitating.
“What is understood? Do you wish to stay in prison or to co-operate?” the intelligence officer asked him a final time.
Lucky Luciano collected his belongings from his cell. Today there’d been no caviar, no champagne. He slipped the letters he’d received over the past nine years into an envelope. He gathered his soap, his razor and his brush. He’d be spending the night in an intelligence service cell before being deported. The other prisoners were agitated. One of their own was about to leave this godforsaken prison. They chanted from behind their bars: “Lucky! Lucky!” Their cries grew louder and louder. Lucky Luciano left the prison and climbed into the armoured car that was waiting for him.
Alan Alfredo Geday