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

“A gal down at work called this place ‘the blind pig,’ ” his girlfriend said, shouting over the music. “Why do you think she called it that?”

“It’s an old-time name for a speakeasy,” Eddie replied, “from the last century. Back in your grandfather’s day, they’d get around the law by putting a carny attraction of some kind in a room in the back—you know, a two-headed chicken or a three-legged cat—”

“Or a blind pig?”

“Right. And so they’d make you buy a ticket to see the pig, and then they’d give you the whiskey for free. No sale, no crime, see?”

She nodded, and smiled, clearly impressed.

“Thinking up stuff like that; it’s kind of what I do for a living,” Eddie said.

“That’s very clever.”

“And you’re very pretty.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” she said. She gave him a kiss and a wink and then turned in her chair toward the stage to listen to the band.

Eddie watched her for a moment or two. His divorce had been finalized not long before, and though the parting had been fairly friendly, it certainly hadn’t been a picnic. He thought of his boy, now a teenager, and his girls. The thought of them made him think hard about how his life had changed. A lot of dirty water had flowed over the dam in the last three years.

But a good man doesn’t go bad all at once.

His alliance with Capone had started small. Eddie had smoothed the way for deals to establish front-businesses for Big Al, his lieutenants, and, from behind the scenes, the big boss, Johnny Torrio. He’d told himself for a while that he wasn’t doing anything that any other capable attorney wouldn’t do for his clients. But, eventually, he faced the facts: a man couldn’t so much as walk across the street with Capone and stay clean. He was the King Midas of crimes and scams; everything he touched turned to possible jail time.

Even at the track—a seedy enough hangout to begin with—Capone wasn’t satisfied with simply gambling; he had to cheat. His favorite sure thing was to feed seven of the dogs a Porterhouse steak before a race and then bet heavy on the last, hungry dog. That was always good for a laugh and a hundred-dollar ticket at twenty-to-one odds.

All the while, little by little, Eddie had traded in his principles for riches, and each step downhill had certainly seemed like a worthy bargain at the time.

But then his affair with the mob took a giant step forward.

Early in 1925, Bugs Moran and the North Siders tried to assassinate mob boss Johnny Torrio. They’d shot him to hell right outside his home; but he’d lived. When he’d recovered, after a brief stint in prison for operating a bootleg brewery, the man they called “the Fox” had finally seen enough trouble. He left for Italy with his family and turned the reins over to his longtime protégé, Alphonse Capone.

On that same day Eddie had also received a promotion he’d never signed up for. One minute he was just a lawyer with a few loose connections to organized crime. The next he was the reluctant chief counsel to the new underworld king of Chicago.

From across the packed dance floor, Eddie noticed a stern-faced man sidling up to the bar. Maybe it was just his discount-store haircut, but he didn’t seem to fit in with the festivities. Then another oddball joined him, and this one definitely had Johnny Law written all over his ugly face. It was beginning to seem like a real good time to be somewhere else.

Eddie leaned to his girl and whispered, “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Where to?”

“Across town,” he said, giving her a sly, suggestive smile. “Come on, I want to show you around my office.”

It was a quick drive to Cicero, and when they’d climbed the stairs to Eddie’s private haunt he could tell that she was impressed.

That corner office where he and Capone had first met three years ago was now Eddie’s opulent base of operations. It was stocked full of things he’d always dreamed of one day owning: art, sculptures, handmade furnishings, and all the rarities and luxuries that dirty money could buy. The massive leather divan alone was worth more than Mayor Kelly’s touring car.

Hundreds of impressive cloth-bound volumes crowded his floor-to-ceiling shelves: casebooks and federal statutes, precedent opinions, lofty treatises, and details of many tens of thousands of regulations.

These books made for a classy backdrop, but they had a practical use as well. Unlike most attorneys, who used these books as a guide to the narrow letter of the law, Easy Eddie used them as a vast encyclopedia of loopholes, exploits, and artful legal dodges.

While others in his profession might advise their clients from the top floors of a high-rise building downtown, Eddie’s one-man firm overlooked the homestretch of the dog track at Sportsman’s Park.

Eddie had been told that many doors would open for him when he became a big-city lawyer. It was true; some of these doors led to politics, some to corporate power, some to a judge’s seat, and others down troubled streets and the never-ending fight for the rights of the common man.

But there’s one more door, an old, dark one, way down near the end of the hallway. That’s the one Eddie found, standing open just a crack, when he’d first hung out his shingle. He knew damn well he shouldn’t look at it, much less swing it wide and walk right through—but he’d done it anyway.

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“I never get out to the track and I love it here. Do you mind if I go down and make a bet?”

“Don’t mind at all.” He walked over and handed her a hundred, then gave her a pat on the bottom. “I’ve got a box right on the finish line. Just tell the boys you’re with me and they’ll get you whatever you want. Go on, I’ll join you in a few.”

When she was gone he sat at his desk. There were things to be done, as always, but he had no desire to do them at the moment. He poured himself a drink from the flask in his top drawer and before long he was lost in his thoughts again.

With Eddie’s growing wealth had come the free time he’d always wanted. But, by the time 1927 rolled around, it was far too late to save his status as a family man. All his business travels, along with his wandering eye, had finally run his marriage into the rocks. But, despite the rifts his choices had created, Eddie continued to provide for his kids, and held out hope that he could be a positive presence in their lives, however small that might be.

He’d bought his soon-to-be ex-wife and the kids a fine new home and tried to make up for the neglect of his fatherly duties through financial support. The girls, he was convinced, would be fine; their mother had raised them right. It was his son who’d proven to be a cause for concern.

Eddie saw a lot of himself in the boy. And that wasn’t a good thing.

• • •

Eddie had tried to teach his son the right things; things that a normal, at-home dad would be there to pass along. He taught him to play fair, to stand up to bullies, and to protect those unable to protect themselves. He taught him how to box and wrestle, and he took him to the shooting range until the boy had become an outstanding marksman. He took him flying, often talking their way into the cockpit so his son could try his hand at the controls. He’d tried his best—at least that’s what he told himself—but on one recent visit, he realized that his best hadn’t been good enough.

His son was also called Eddie, in honor of his wayward dad, but around the neighborhood he’d been picking up nicknames better suited to the billiard hall or the jailhouse than the Harvard Club. The kid was becoming lazy and spoiled as well, acting as if a cushy address on Easy Street were the only place he ever dreamed of living.