collar;
that was the rule. Except when locked in his cell, every man had to
keep his cap set squarely on his head.
He lived in a cell meant for two men but housing four. From their
stations and while walking their rounds, the guards could peer
through the chain-link cell doors at all times; and, unlike the
Louisiana guards, these did not leave the prisoners alone all night
while they went off somewhere and slept. It was a rule that prisoners
must not masturbate, and to be sure they didn't the rule required
them to sleep with their hands outside their blankets. When a guard
spotted a man with his hands under the blankets he would bang on the
cell door with his baton and order him to get his hands out. One of
the men in Maurie's cell was caught masturbating and spent ten days
in solitary for it.
After a little time, Maurie knew he would survive, but he was not
absolutely sure he wanted to. Weeks and months of his life passed in
utter monotony, wasted and never to be recovered. He did not suffer
from systematized cruelty but from constantly oppressive discipline,
total want of privacy, and austerity so severe that it dispirited
even men who had never known much of comfort or amenities.
Firetop arrived to begin his life sentence. Maurie saw him
occasionally but could almost never find a chance to say a word to
him, since they were not in the same company or the same cell block.
When he had served one year of his term, he appeared before the
parole board. In the argot of the prison, the board "flopped"
him — denied him parole. They thought of him as a gangster.
Besides, the Toledo police recommended he be kept in prison till the
end of his term.
That is why he was surprised when he was granted parole in 1934, with
a year of his term remaining. The board reasoned that it was
pointless to keep a man in prison for violating a law that had been
repealed.
Maurice Cohen never reported to his parole officer. He went directly
to Detroit. The Purple Gang was no more, but that didn't mean there
was no gang. Maurie was welcomed home with a wild party, at which it
was announced he was the new manager of a new carpet joint in Flint.
He was Maurie, he was the guy who hadn't squealed and had even done
time in the Ohio pen because he wouldn't squeal. There had to be
something good for a guy like that.
Maurie had an announcement too. From now on, he told his friends, his
name was Morris Chandler.
6
He was always glad to hear from Max. This time he was glad to have
the chance to do him a favor.
They had seen each other from time to time over the years, as
Chandler moved from managing the carpet joint in Flint to managing
others in various parts of the country. For eight years he managed
one in Saratoga Springs during the racing season, then moved to Fort
Lauderdale and managed one there during the winter. Max visited both
of them.
More and more, the Sicilians took over everything
the gangs had operated. It made no difference to Chandler. If
anything, the new managers had even more respect for a man who had
kept his mouth shut. With them, omertà was a matter of
honor, the essential quality of every man they trusted and accepted,
an essential foundation stone of their organization. Morris Chandler
would not become a "made man," would not be inducted into
their society, but they accepted him as a man of honor and courage,
whom they could trust.
He met many of them. Lucky Luciano, the greatest of them. Frank
Costello. Albert Anastasia. Joe Profacci. Carlo Gambino. Frank Nitti.
They weren't all Sicilians. Murray the Camel Humphries, in Chicago.
Meyer Lansky. Bugsy Siegel.
Max didn't want to know them. He wouldn't come near one of Maurie's
joints if he knew any of them were there.
5
1
MORRIS CHANDLER ASSURED JONAS THAT EVERYTHING was being arranged: the
telephones with scramblers, the relay through San Diego, new locks
... everything. And he hoped Jonas and Nevada would be his guests for
the show that evening.
Shortly they sat around
that was the rule. Except when locked in his cell, every man had to
keep his cap set squarely on his head.
He lived in a cell meant for two men but housing four. From their
stations and while walking their rounds, the guards could peer
through the chain-link cell doors at all times; and, unlike the
Louisiana guards, these did not leave the prisoners alone all night
while they went off somewhere and slept. It was a rule that prisoners
must not masturbate, and to be sure they didn't the rule required
them to sleep with their hands outside their blankets. When a guard
spotted a man with his hands under the blankets he would bang on the
cell door with his baton and order him to get his hands out. One of
the men in Maurie's cell was caught masturbating and spent ten days
in solitary for it.
After a little time, Maurie knew he would survive, but he was not
absolutely sure he wanted to. Weeks and months of his life passed in
utter monotony, wasted and never to be recovered. He did not suffer
from systematized cruelty but from constantly oppressive discipline,
total want of privacy, and austerity so severe that it dispirited
even men who had never known much of comfort or amenities.
Firetop arrived to begin his life sentence. Maurie saw him
occasionally but could almost never find a chance to say a word to
him, since they were not in the same company or the same cell block.
When he had served one year of his term, he appeared before the
parole board. In the argot of the prison, the board "flopped"
him — denied him parole. They thought of him as a gangster.
Besides, the Toledo police recommended he be kept in prison till the
end of his term.
That is why he was surprised when he was granted parole in 1934, with
a year of his term remaining. The board reasoned that it was
pointless to keep a man in prison for violating a law that had been
repealed.
Maurice Cohen never reported to his parole officer. He went directly
to Detroit. The Purple Gang was no more, but that didn't mean there
was no gang. Maurie was welcomed home with a wild party, at which it
was announced he was the new manager of a new carpet joint in Flint.
He was Maurie, he was the guy who hadn't squealed and had even done
time in the Ohio pen because he wouldn't squeal. There had to be
something good for a guy like that.
Maurie had an announcement too. From now on, he told his friends, his
name was Morris Chandler.
6
He was always glad to hear from Max. This time he was glad to have
the chance to do him a favor.
They had seen each other from time to time over the years, as
Chandler moved from managing the carpet joint in Flint to managing
others in various parts of the country. For eight years he managed
one in Saratoga Springs during the racing season, then moved to Fort
Lauderdale and managed one there during the winter. Max visited both
of them.
More and more, the Sicilians took over everything
the gangs had operated. It made no difference to Chandler. If
anything, the new managers had even more respect for a man who had
kept his mouth shut. With them, omertà was a matter of
honor, the essential quality of every man they trusted and accepted,
an essential foundation stone of their organization. Morris Chandler
would not become a "made man," would not be inducted into
their society, but they accepted him as a man of honor and courage,
whom they could trust.
He met many of them. Lucky Luciano, the greatest of them. Frank
Costello. Albert Anastasia. Joe Profacci. Carlo Gambino. Frank Nitti.
They weren't all Sicilians. Murray the Camel Humphries, in Chicago.
Meyer Lansky. Bugsy Siegel.
Max didn't want to know them. He wouldn't come near one of Maurie's
joints if he knew any of them were there.
5
1
MORRIS CHANDLER ASSURED JONAS THAT EVERYTHING was being arranged: the
telephones with scramblers, the relay through San Diego, new locks
... everything. And he hoped Jonas and Nevada would be his guests for
the show that evening.
Shortly they sat around
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