Glenn Beck - Miracles and Massacres - True and Untold Stories of the Making of America

As he finished tending to his pistol, Eddie sat back and looked around the luxurious office that he’d furnished with ill-gotten gains. Not everything here was of great value, though, at least not in the monetary sense. Some items were only mementos, worth little to anyone but him.

There were the old photos of his kids that were just beginning to yellow in their frames. He hadn’t seen the girls in years, and his boy had long since become a navy man—a pilot, to be exact.

One of the paperweights on his desk was a dented gas cap from Charles Lindbergh’s mail plane, a souvenir pocketed at Lambert Field after a ride-along with that soon-to-be-great man. A pair of blood-flecked boxing gloves that hung on the coatrack recalled a very short match he’d once fought in his misspent youth, an open-call tryout for a pro sparring partner. One quick right cross from his opponent had put Eddie facedown on the canvas and convinced him he was no Jack Johnson. There must be an easier way to make a million , he’d thought.

And so there was.

He checked his pocket watch, studied the door for a while, and decided that he wasn’t quite ready to walk through it for the last time. Maybe just one more drink, and for old times’ sake, just another short stroll down memory lane.

His tired eyes soon found another keepsake, this one displayed on its own side table. It was an artificial rabbit on a rusty metal stand, the odd invention of his first big legal client—and arguably the object that put Easy Eddie on the road to riches and, eventually, to ruin.

But that wasn’t really where the story started. For that, he’d have to go back a bit further.

Soulard district, St. Louis, Missouri

Twenty years earlier: December 31, 1919

The baby was crying and, before long, Eddie’s young son had joined in the wailing.

He couldn’t really blame hungry kids for making a racket, but that night it was just a little too much to swallow. With him and his wife not on speaking terms, Christmas had once again been a dismal, joyless affair. And now New Year’s Eve was threatening to turn out the same way.

At one minute to midnight, with no steady job, no prospects, and not a plug nickel to his name, Eddie had made himself a promise, an oath that couldn’t have been more solemn if he’d signed it in blood. He would make himself a wealthy man.

The bleak decade he’d just suffered through had finally and mercifully ended. There would be no more hopeless days, no more dead-end laboring just to scrape together another humble meal for the family table. No more drifting, no more despair, no more drafty walk-up apartments that reeked of cold cuts and day-old produce from the grocery store below. Right then and there, with the 1920s set to come roaring in, Eddie swore to change his life and his fortunes.

The next few years were a blur. Between working any job he could scrounge, day and night classes to complete his education at St. Louis University, and later studying law until the wee hours, there’d been far too little time left for his wife and children. But all of this was for them; at least that’s the way it had begun.

During his lowest times, Eddie’s father-in-law would encourage him with the same words over and over: Stay with it, son. The day you pass that bar exam, a lot of doors will open . He was right about that, of course, but if he’d really wanted to help, his wife’s old man would have added one more nugget of valuable counsel:

Be awfully careful what you wish for .

Sportsman’s Park

Cicero, Illinois

October 3, 1924

The fresh paint had barely finished drying in his first law office when Eddie met Owen Smith, the inventor of a more reliable, new-and-improved lure to entice racing dogs to speed around the greyhound tracks. The two of them were a good match: Mr. Smith needed help to patent his furry little robot, and Eddie needed the fee.

Now, a year into the relationship, Eddie had become Owen Smith’s chief business advocate—and business was getting better every day. The two men traveled extensively, selling operator’s rights to use the rabbit at dog tracks from St. Louis all the way to Hialeah in southern Florida.

This was their first trip to the Chicago area and, so far, it seemed to be a fruitful visit.

Eddie and Owen Smith had been seated in the track manager’s garish corner office, waiting as the man looked over the contract and considered their deal, when the door opened behind them.

Three imposing men entered the room and took stations near the entrance. A gorilla in a pin-striped suit is still a gorilla, but this trio of simians obviously belonged to somebody with a lot of swing. Soon another man appeared—balding, shorter, and stockier than the others.

When his eyes caught this last man, the track manager dropped what he was doing and stood like he’d been called before a hanging judge.

No one spoke up immediately, so Eddie broke the silence.

“We’re in the middle of a meeting here, fellas. Can I help you with something?”

The shorter man smiled humorlessly.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve heard that you can.”

“You’ve heard I can what?”

“Aw, let’s not play coy, counselor. I’ve heard that you can help me with something.”

Eddie blinked, and got to his feet. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“You don’t, but you should.”

The man gave only the slightest gesture and the track manager hurried from the room, followed closely by Owen Smith, who was well-known for his ability to take a hint.

The three big guys also left and closed the door, leaving Eddie and the sharply dressed stranger alone. Only then did Eddie notice the scars that trailed down the other man’s face. It looked as though at some point in his youth he’d lost a fight with a broken bottle.

Eddie put out his hand. “I’m—”

“I told you, I know who you are.”

They shook, and it felt to Eddie like he’d gripped a cold shank of Easter ham. “So, what can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’m looking to buy myself a little piece of this track,” the man replied, “and some people downstate are making things very difficult for me.”

“And?”

“And I hear you’re a guy who can make things easy.”

“I’m embarrassed to say that you’ve still got me a bit confused,” Eddie said. “Who are you?”

The man laughed and pulled the track manager’s rolling chair around the desk. He motioned for Eddie to sit, and then he did, too. “You talk real classy. That’s good. I like that.” His smile began to fade as he continued. “Yeah, I can tell you’re a college man, but here’s something I guess they didn’t teach you in school. See, when you do business in Chicago, the first thing you’ve gotta do is choose a gang. Fortunately you got real lucky this time, because the gang chose you.”

Eddie found that his mouth had grown uncomfortably dry. “And what gang is that?”

The man’s next words were spoken low, as if he thought there might be a lawman listening from behind the drawn curtains across the room.

“Pleasure to meet you, Easy Eddie,” he said. “I’m Al Capone.”

Uptown Chicago

August 9, 1927

Eddie worked his way through the noisy crowd at Capone’s favorite club, the Green Mill Lounge, glad-handing the VIPs and passing out tips like peppermint candy. He gave a wave to part owner Jack “Machine Gun” McGurn and got a respectful nod in return. Eddie had his new girlfriend on his arm, an illegal cocktail in his hand, and the band was playing “The Best Things in Life Are Free.” He thought that it had been a hell of a day so far.

When they reached Eddie’s table, the one always reserved near the stage, they sat and waved for the waiter.