Read Online The Westies: Inside New York's Irish Mob by T. J. English - Free Book Online
Authors: T. J. English
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gambling or tending to his rackets, Spillane spent a considerable amount of time shoring up his reputation as a man of influence in the community. His marriage to Maureen McManus, of course, was his biggest coup. Among other things, it reinforced the symbiotic relationship that had always existed between the neighborhood’s various spheres of influence. To the old-time residents of Hell’s Kitchen, the coupling of Spillane and McManus evoked nostalgia for those days when the gangster and the politician walked hand in hand, and the Irish ruled the roost. Current reality was quite different.
Since the turn of the century reign of the McMani and before, outside commentators had been accusing Hell’s Kitchen pols of being under the influence of local gangsters. To a large extent, it was true, though anyone with a knowledge of New York City politics shouldn’t have been surprised. Hell’s Kitchen was far from unique in this regard. From the earliest days of Boss Tweed’s Tammany machine, a local district leader’s influence was based on his ability to deliver services and exert control in his community. In the Twenties and Thirties, that included unleashing gangsters on election day to make sure voters pulled the right levers—even if they had to do so with ten broken fingers. In return, a district leader was able to exert influence over a cop or a county judge when one of the local lads got busted.
By the 1960s, however, years of political reform altered the relationship between politics and crime in the neighborhoods. It became a lot less binding on both sides. Yes, Mickey Spillane still controlled a certain number of jobs in Hell’s Kitchen, which were in turn parceled out through the Midtown Democratic Club as political favors. And Spillane would still, at the behest of the district leadership, extend loans to local merchants unable to get credit from the banks. But long gone were the days when a local gangster could control enough votes to swing an election, or a local district leader have enough sway to keep his constituents out of jail.
Throughout the mid and late Sixties, the neighborhood continued its slippery slide towards ghettoization. Funds for low-income housing, always a staple in Hell’s Kitchen, dried up; older buildings stood empty and gutted. Drugs began to be a factor. The streets looked deserted a lot of the time, and there were random muggings, stickups, and harassment from landlords. It was getting so longstanding neighborhood folk couldn’t walk around anymore and feel safe.
At the White House Bar on 45th Street and 10th Avenue, Spillane heard these and other complaints. Usually he was surrounded by his underlings—an up and coming young kid named Billy Beattie, older friends like Tom Devaney, Tom “the Greek” Kapatos, the avuncular Tommy Collins, and Eddie Cummiskey. Old-time neighborhood residents came into the bar looking for a favor. Mickey took them off to the side or maybe into a back room and listened while they poured out their hearts. Maybe the guy had a business venture he thought Spillane might want to invest in. Maybe he’d been robbed by a local Puerto Rican kid and wanted to even the score. Maybe his wife or daughter had just gone into the hospital and he needed a loan to cover the bills.
Mickey listened quietly and did what he could. “Thank you, Mr. Spillane,” they would say. “God be with you.” Sometimes there were hugs and even tears as they reminisced about those long-gone days when the rackets were thriving and the neighborhood was all theirs. Spillane seemed to cherish these encounters. It made him feel like he was doing something for the community. It made him feel like he had respect.
Meanwhile, outside in the streets, there was something brewing that the courtly Spillane did not fully comprehend. In the late 1960s, kids all across America were questioning authority, with many traditions and conventions being swept aside. Respect itself was becoming outdated
Since the turn of the century reign of the McMani and before, outside commentators had been accusing Hell’s Kitchen pols of being under the influence of local gangsters. To a large extent, it was true, though anyone with a knowledge of New York City politics shouldn’t have been surprised. Hell’s Kitchen was far from unique in this regard. From the earliest days of Boss Tweed’s Tammany machine, a local district leader’s influence was based on his ability to deliver services and exert control in his community. In the Twenties and Thirties, that included unleashing gangsters on election day to make sure voters pulled the right levers—even if they had to do so with ten broken fingers. In return, a district leader was able to exert influence over a cop or a county judge when one of the local lads got busted.
By the 1960s, however, years of political reform altered the relationship between politics and crime in the neighborhoods. It became a lot less binding on both sides. Yes, Mickey Spillane still controlled a certain number of jobs in Hell’s Kitchen, which were in turn parceled out through the Midtown Democratic Club as political favors. And Spillane would still, at the behest of the district leadership, extend loans to local merchants unable to get credit from the banks. But long gone were the days when a local gangster could control enough votes to swing an election, or a local district leader have enough sway to keep his constituents out of jail.
Throughout the mid and late Sixties, the neighborhood continued its slippery slide towards ghettoization. Funds for low-income housing, always a staple in Hell’s Kitchen, dried up; older buildings stood empty and gutted. Drugs began to be a factor. The streets looked deserted a lot of the time, and there were random muggings, stickups, and harassment from landlords. It was getting so longstanding neighborhood folk couldn’t walk around anymore and feel safe.
At the White House Bar on 45th Street and 10th Avenue, Spillane heard these and other complaints. Usually he was surrounded by his underlings—an up and coming young kid named Billy Beattie, older friends like Tom Devaney, Tom “the Greek” Kapatos, the avuncular Tommy Collins, and Eddie Cummiskey. Old-time neighborhood residents came into the bar looking for a favor. Mickey took them off to the side or maybe into a back room and listened while they poured out their hearts. Maybe the guy had a business venture he thought Spillane might want to invest in. Maybe he’d been robbed by a local Puerto Rican kid and wanted to even the score. Maybe his wife or daughter had just gone into the hospital and he needed a loan to cover the bills.
Mickey listened quietly and did what he could. “Thank you, Mr. Spillane,” they would say. “God be with you.” Sometimes there were hugs and even tears as they reminisced about those long-gone days when the rackets were thriving and the neighborhood was all theirs. Spillane seemed to cherish these encounters. It made him feel like he was doing something for the community. It made him feel like he had respect.
Meanwhile, outside in the streets, there was something brewing that the courtly Spillane did not fully comprehend. In the late 1960s, kids all across America were questioning authority, with many traditions and conventions being swept aside. Respect itself was becoming outdated
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