Gurfein went on: “—their key job being to see that nothing interferes with troop shipments and with shipments of supplies and ammunition. In that capacity, and in the capacity of ensuring the general safety of the waterfront, they’re looking for subversive activities both in the harbor and on the coast.”
“Okay,” Canidy said.
“And because of that, they received all sorts of suggestions as to what happened to the Lafayette.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the ship was sabotaged by the mob as a very clear way of saying they controlled the waterfront and could do the same to any other ship—or ships—if Luciano wasn’t looked upon favorably for early release.”
“Any truth to that?”
“None whatsoever,” Gurfein said, somewhat defensively.
Canidy wondered what that was about.
Gurfein went on: “There have been suggestions that those with sympathy toward the Axis, particularly Fritz Kuhn’s followers in the German-American Bund, set it afire to keep it—and the troops and matériel it would carry—out of the war.”
“That’s plausible,” Canidy said.
“Yeah, it is. But so far, no one has turned up any proof. Just a lot of tips that go nowhere. Since she sank, it seems that every time someone sees a bluefish break the surface of the Hudson or East River he’s convinced it’s a U-boat periscope and the phones ring off the hook.”
Canidy said, “And when the guys from ONI check it all out—”
“They come up with next to nothing,” Gurfein said matter-of-factly, then chuckled. “Except maybe the occasional FBI agent lurking in the shadows quote undercover unquote.”
“Part of why no one was getting any information,” Donovan put in, “was because the mob does control the waterfront. You could put Navy guys everywhere—and they pretty much did—but then nobody talks, nobody answers questions, never mind provides leads, good or bad.”
Gurfein took a puff of his cigar and let out a big blue cloud.
“It’s like this,” he said. “You could be standing in the middle of Fulton Fish Market and pointing to a table stacked high with tuna and asking one of the union boys, ‘What kind of fish is that?’ Now, if he suspected you were a Navy guy, or working for one, he’d look you square in the eye and say, ‘Fish? What fish? I don’t see no fuckin’ fish,’ then grin like he knew he had you.”
“Meanwhile,” Donovan said, “ships were going down in record numbers. In March ’42, fifty were sunk, another fifty in April, more than a hundred in May, and on and on.”
Gurfein was nodding knowingly.
“Which suggested,” Donovan continued, “at least two grave situations: One, somehow information about when and where ships sailed was apparently reaching U-boats waiting, like sharks before a feeding frenzy, just offshore. Two, these U-boats seemed to have unlimited fuel; that is, they somehow were being refueled to
stay on station. There simply were too many being too successful.”
“So,” Gurfein said, putting his cigar in an ashtray and picking up his cognac, “ONI, being in charge of the waterfront, was under great pressure to get information. And because they were in charge of the waterfront, they knew that the mob ran it and that the mob controlled the fishing boats—if not directly, then had considerable influence indirectly, because the mob controlled the Fulton Fish Market, where catches from Maine to Florida—the entire eastern seaboard—were sold. And the fellow who controlled the fish market was—is—Joe ‘Socks’ Lanza.”
Canidy sat back in his seat. “So ONI approached this guy Lanza?”
Gurfein shook his head.
“Not directly. No way he’d talk,” he said, then took a sip from the glass before going on: “Joseph ‘Socks’ Lanza, age forty-one, a real brawler, an in-your-face kind of guy from the Lower East Side—oldest of nine kids—fought his way to be what’s called the business agent of local 124, United Seafood Workers union. A long history of charges—theft, homicide, coercion—that never stuck. No witnesses, no worries. Go figger, right?”
Canidy chuckled.
“It would be funny if it weren’t so true,” the former assistant district attorney said. “But it’s also funny—funny coincidental, not funny ha-ha—that when the D.A.’s phone rang with ONI at the other end of the line asking about a dock boss named Joe Socks, we had the guy under indictment for alleged extortion on the waterfront—your basic kickbacks from workers, and beatings if they didn’t pay.”
“Back to your basic thuggery,” Canidy said. “Wiseguy 101.”
“So we set up a meeting with a couple of the Navy boys and Lanza’s lawyer. We explained that we needed access, we needed answers, we needed tips, we needed anything, and would Lanza be willing to help?”
“What did you offer them?” Canidy said. “Some possibility of a deal on the extortion?”
Gurfein shook his head vigorously. “Not one damned thing.”