The File on Bobby Darin, Chapter 9

Chapter 9

When the Daily Mirror hit the streets the next morning, Dorothy Kilgallen turned with her morning coffee to Winchell’s column, On Broadway, to get the news about Bobby Darin’s non-appearance at the Copa the evening before. 

“Prima and Keely placeholders for Darin at the Copa,” the column began, “and man!  Did they hold the place!  Your faithful correspondent did Emcee honors for the hot duo who stepped up to the plate while Dream Lover Boy Bobby Darin was out, wrestling a head cold to the ground.”  The column continued with a brief interview of the recuperating Darin from his hotel room (“sorry, girls, we’re giving out no room numbers!”).  “Sez Bobby, ‘Keely is the real deal.  She’s a symphony.’  And how about Louis Prima at her side?  ‘Prima is aces,’ Bobby tells us.  ‘Every electron in his body moves to swing time.  My only regret is that I had to be out sick with a head cold for that night to occur, because it meant I couldn’t be ringside to enjoy it.’”

Dorothy Kilgallen folded the paper over and considered the column.  It all seemed very lighthearted.  Did a head cold really bring Nina Maffia to town on such short notice?  As Dorothy remembered the intense conversation she had overheard in the lobby of the St. Moritz, she had her doubts about Winchell’s story.  If it was a cover for something else, did it matter at all?  She decided that what this narrative lacked so far was a feminine perspective, and she wondered if it might be up to her to supply it.  Still at home in her robe and night cream, she called her secretary, Bella, at the New York Journal-American, and asked her to find the address for Mrs. Charles Maffia, somewhere in the wilds of New Jersey.

Meanwhile that same morning, Walter Winchell was taking a quick taxi ride to his next appointment, at the elegant double-towered Majestic on Central Park West.  He had been meaning to arrange a visit with Frank Costello, Prime Minister of the Underworld, for a while.  Because of the incident with the crowd outside of the Copa, however, he now found himself summoned to pay a call on the former crime boss of New York.  Winchell, Special Correspondent to the FBI, was also a conduit between the Mafia and the world of respectable citizens who enjoyed reading about the exploits of men like Lucky Luciano and Costello over cornflakes in the morning before trudging off to their own (mostly legal) pursuits.

Frank Costello, ever the considerate host, had tea brought in for Winchell on a very expensive-looking set of china.  The teacup was so delicate, Winchell was almost afraid to pick it up lest he break it.  The parlor in which they sat was silent and dark, with a high ceiling.  Black walnut floors were covered by an Oriental rug before the fireplace.  The deep red curtains were drawn.  The room was just a little stuffy.  Winchell was reminded of going to tea at his Jewish maiden aunt’s home when he was a boy.  This room was quiet and hidden away from the world just as his aunt’s was.  Both Costello and the aunt, Winchell reflected, were aping a level of gentility that neither of them actually possessed.  In a Jewish cemetery, somewhere in the formerly white neighborhood of Harlem, Walter Winchell’s maiden aunt turned over in her grave as she was being compared to a ruthless Mafia don.

Frank Costello had had enough of the world and was looking out on it occasionally from a safe retirement.  The old man sat comfortably in a wing-backed chair, wearing a white silk shirt and ascot beneath his favorite old sweater.  He was not handsome.  His face was large and fleshy.  His eyes were small, but they had a shrewd, watchful look to them.  His nose was also large and growing bulbous with the passing years.  His mouth was set firmly, like that of a judge presiding over a case, about to hand down a weighty sentence.  In repose he looked very serious and a bit dour, but he readily broke into a laugh and a smile whenever he heard something that pleased him.  Costello had seen much trouble in his life, and he had been quick to act to protect what was his and those who belonged to him.  Now, after a life of crime, Senate hearings, contempt charges, prison, and assassination attempts, he wanted nothing but to live in peace, occupying himself with matters such as the Copa.  He was very concerned with what he had heard about Bobby Darin being almost assaulted by a mob of unruly fans in front of Jules Podell’s place.  Frank Costello no longer owned the Copa; he merely took a friendly interest in it.

“It was rather frightening, Mr. Costello, I can tell you that,” Winchell said over his teacup.  “Why weren’t Podell’s men watching over things?”

“I’ve had a talk with Jules,” Costello told him, “and he understands that this cannot happen again.  So, Bobby Darin, you made sure he got away from that bad scene?”
Winchell assured him that he had gotten Bobby away safely, but the upshot was that Bobby could not perform that night, as Costello doubtless already knew.

“Yes,” Costello said, nodding slowly.  “Louis Prima and his lovely wife stepped in.  That was a lucky thing, but we have to keep good order in the club, around the clock, these crowds cannot be allowed to get out of hand.”  Costello stared hard with his small eyes at Winchell, trying to divine Winchell’s part in that little show in front of the Copa, but Winchell was able to assure him with an easy conscience that he had had no hand in starting it.  Quite the contrary!

Costello smiled slyly, “So, you weren’t creating a scene that you could put in your column, perhaps?”  Costello cocked his head as he posed this question.

Winchell laughed and dismissed this notion with a cautious wave of his teacup.  “Please, Mr. Costello!  I was cheated out of Bobby’s performance that night!  Surely you can see that I was the victim here!”  He finally put down the teacup as carefully as if it were a bomb.  Costello studied Winchell in silence for a moment before laughing at last himself.  No, Winchell was not some news hound who had to make stories happen in order to have something to write about.  Costello had known him long enough to understand this much.

Their talk turned to other matters.  As men who have a greater portion of their lives behind than ahead of them will, the pair of them fell to reminiscing about the good old days fairly quickly. “Ah, Prohibition, Walter,” Costello said, “you know what, that helped us in many ways.  When a housewife went down to her pharmacist to buy some bootleg under the counter so her old man could have a snort of whiskey after dinner, that put her on our side.  She was part of our world now, breaking a little law here and there, and the earth still kept turning as always, it made ordinary people thumb their noses at government just a little bit.  Sure, you want the cop on the beat to help you when your wallet gets lifted, but we are just as likely to know who did the finger work, and we could help to get that purse back.  And it all started because the wife got acquainted with us through the bootlegger.  So, we didn’t really have a problem with the Eighteenth Amendment.  Quite the contrary.”

Winchell said, “You’ve really given this some thought, haven’t you?”

Costello nodded ruefully.  “I had plenty of time to think about it the last time I spent ‘working for the state,’ I think that’s how the young men put it nowadays.  It was a mistake for me to ever testify at those damned Kefauver hearings, Walter.  Celebrity for someone in my position is not a good thing.”

Winchell nodded in agreement.  A Tennessee Senator gets his name in the paper by bringing organized crime into the light of day, and the arrangements of many people, most of them honest, hardworking people, are upset.  These hearings did not expound upon the efforts of the Mafioso to assist the United States in WWII with military intelligence both here and in Europe.  They were thugs, to be sure, but they were loyal American thugs.  Winchell shook his head in sympathy with Costello, wondering with him at the general unfairness of things.  Then as though remembering something, Winchell sat upright in his chair and said, “You said something about young men.  I want to ask you about the fellow you sent to see Bobby at the Copa lounge the other night.”

Costello appeared to be drawing a blank for a moment as he looked at Winchell.  Then he said, “Oh yes, young Vincent, Vinnie we call him.  He told me about that.  I wanted to send my good wishes to Bobby Darin.  Apparently they were not well received?”

Winchell cleared his throat before speaking.  “Well, that is to say, you know, I think Bobby was a little tired after doing his two shows, and he was unwinding, and he was just not ready to speak to another stranger that evening.  These shows, they really take it out of him, and I think Vincent just caught him at a bad moment.”
Costello considered this possibility.  “Yes,” he said at last, “I can understand that.  It’s too bad, though, because Vincent was not able to complete the errand that I sent him on.”

“Oh,” Winchell said, wondering if a piece in his Bobby Darin puzzle might be about to fall into place.  “Did the errand have something to do with ‘Big Curly’?”
“Big Curly,” Costello said.  “This name is known to you?”

Winchell related in detail the encounter between Vincent and Bobby at the Copa lounge, in which Bobby called himself Big Curly’s son.  Frank Costello looked down into his lap as he considered this information.  He seemed hesitant to speak.  After a moment, he gave himself the go-ahead to say, “Yes, that’s right, Big Curly.  That was what we called Sam Cassotto.”

“You knew Sam Cassotto?” Winchell asked.  He was very excited to hear this, but he remained outwardly relaxed, as though this was barely interesting information.
Costello considered in silence again before saying, “Sam Cassotto, yeah, he used to help us run rum out of Canada after Prohibition.”

“You were running rum after Prohibition was over?”

“That’s right,” Costello told him.  “We didn’t mind it being legal again, but we got used to not paying taxes on that booze, so we kept the old supply lines open for several years.  Sam helped us with that.  He wasn’t muscle, no rough stuff, you understand.” Costello paused in his story to light a slim cigar.  Once the cigar was lit, he concluded, “He was all right, Sam Cassotto was.”

Winchell waited in silence.  It was clear that Costello had something more to relate to him.  Although many people who frequented the Cub Room at the Stork Club would be surprised to learn it, Walter Winchell actually did know when to stop talking and merely listen when it was appropriate.  And so, he waited.  Finally, between puffs, Costello said, “I had some information about Big Curly that I thought to have young Vinnie pass on to Bobby.  But since you’re here, and you obviously have a friendship with Bobby, maybe you could relay the information to him.” 

Winchell bowed his head in silent acquiescence to the old don’s wishes.  Frank Costello seemed faintly annoyed as he looked down at the coffee table next to his right elbow upon which sat a small hand bell.  He put his cigar down in an ashtray and reluctantly picked up the small bell, which he regarded with distaste. “They want me to use this thing to call when I want something, but, I don’t know, I feel like a pansy or something, I just can’t do it.” Finally he placed the bell back down in its place, slowly rose from his chair and crossed the room to the heavy dark-paneled double doors into the hallway.  He opened the door and spoke in Italian to someone in the hall.  Winchell waited patiently for Costello to return and resume his seat. 

Two minutes later, the double doors opened.  Walter Winchell stood to acknowledge the entrance of a dark, plump Italian woman in a dark purple dress and apron.  She looked as though she had come from the kitchen.  She carried a large envelope over to Costello.  “Grazie,” Costello said to her as he accepted the envelope.  “Prego,” the plump woman replied.  She bowed her head and left the room, nodding to Winchell as she passed him. 

Winchell resumed his seat and smiled at Costello.  “Your secretary, Mr. Costello?”

Costello laughed like a barking seal.  His secretary, what a thought!  “I don’t need to keep a lot of people tied up here to watch over me these days,” he said.  “I had Vinnie dig up this file on Sam Cassotto the other day.  We wanted to show it to Bobby, but, with the way things went the other day…” His sentence trailed off into a shrug and a rueful shake of his head.

Winchell nodded.  “You keep files on your men?  Isn’t that a little, well, unwise?”

Costello picked up his cigar and resumed puffing.  “No, not always we didn’t, Walter.  But back in the early 30’s, things were getting, well, complicated.  There was no one family calling the shots at that time.  It got to where we didn’t know who was who, some days.  We put away a couple of our own men without even realizing.  Imagine!  The problems I had with their families, you don’t know!”  He shook his head sadly, thinking of those killed in error.  Then he resumed, “So we started keeping files, of a sort, not a lot of information here, but enough for our purposes.”

Costello held the file in his lap.  He leaned over to Winchell and said, “Now, Walter, you understand, I can’t let you take this with you, and I don’t want you to make any notes.  Just read it here, and you can relate to Bobby whatever you think he might like to know about Big Curly.  I owe his widow Polly that much.”

“You do know,” Winchell said, “that Polly passed on last year?”

Costello nodded sadly.  “Yes, we heard the news.  You know, I tried to give her some money when Sam died, but I guess she figured we didn’t work hard enough to spring him on that car parts job he was picked up for.  He was in Sing Sing when he died, you know, God rest his soul.” 

Winchell nodded as though he did know, though of course, the details were new to him. 

Costello continued, “He was picked up for busting up cars for parts,” (Costello did not mention that the cars were stolen), “and they put him in the joint, where he got pneumonia and died.  It won’t say it in the file, but Sam was hooked on morphine.  He started taking it after some bad dental work.”  Winchell rubbed his jaw in sympathy with Sam Cassotto.  “We think he had withdrawal because we couldn’t get the stuff in to him in the joint.  He died,” Costello concluded simply.

“What happened to the Cassotto’s after that?” Winchell asked.

Frank Costello shrugged and looked away.  “Polly didn’t want nothing to do with us.  Later we heard about her and the daughter moving to the Bronx.  By the time Bobby was born, and I knew nothing about that at the time, you understand, she had cut herself off from our circle, so I thought I should leave well enough alone.  I always felt bad about Sam, of course.”

At last, Frank Costello turned the envelope over to Winchell.  He looked questioningly at his host who nodded, “Go ahead, open it, read, read.”  Costello got up from his chair, and moved with his cigar over to the curtains.  As Winchell opened the envelope and pulled out a few yellowed pages of accountant’s ledger sheets, Costello pulled back the curtains ever so slightly for a peek out into Central Park. 

Winchell bent over the sheets, not trying to read all of the chicken scratching before him, but simply skimming the contents.  Columns were set up to indicate various activities including bootlegging, slots, gambling, and fencing of stolen goods.  No mention of drugs.  Either Big Curly or Sam was entered next to various columns with dates and a dollar amount followed by a check mark.  The sums of money were not large, nothing larger than one hundred dollars, most transactions being much smaller than that.  ‘It’s true what they say,’ Winchell thought to himself, ‘crime doesn’t pay.’  The first date was June 1930 (presumably when the record keeping became necessary), and the last was October 14, 1934.  After examining the file a few minutes longer, Winchell raised his head and said to Costello, “This ends in October 1934?  There isn’t any more?”

Costello closed the curtain and strode back across the black walnut floor.  He looked over Winchell’s shoulder at the yellowed pages.  “October ’34,” he said, “that’s when Sam was sent up.  His first offense!  That was bad luck, I didn’t have any way of getting to the judge in that particular case.”  Costello paused to consider.  He sighed and continued, “Anyway, they locked Sam up, and he died without his dope.  That was just a few days later.  I know it was tough on Polly and her family.  I let them down.”  Frank Costello slumped in his chair when he had finished his tale.

Winchell carefully placed the papers back into their envelope.  “So that’s the end of Sam Cassotto.”

Costello frowned and said, “I’m afraid so.  I wanted Bobby to know, this is all on me, and if I can ever be of any assistance to him, please let him know that.”  Costello was speaking more to himself now than to Winchell, who understood that the interview was coming to an end.  Winchell rose from his seat, and Costello stood at the same time.  He extended his hand to the newspaperman.  “Thanks for coming, Walter, you know it’s always a pleasure to see you.  Pardon me if I don’t see you out.  You know, I was shot in the lobby of this place, right in this building, not three years ago!  I love the Majestic, I will never leave it, but now I stay out of the lobby!”  He laughed once more his barking laugh and said goodbye to Winchell at the door of the apartment.  Winchell thanked Costello and made his escape.  He had to get out onto the city streets and walk.  His mind was in a whirl now. 

No wonder he could not locate Sam Cassotto’s obituary.  Bobby Darin had stated very clearly that Sam had died five months before his own birth in May 1936.  Winchell had had Rose Bigman go back to obituaries in December 1935.  But Sam had died fourteen months before that date.  He had died more than a year and a half before Bobby Darin was born.  Therefore, Big Curly could NOT have been his father!

If not Big Curly, then who?  Winchell hurried off to the Stork Club, where he always did his best thinking. 

Continued in the next chapter

The File on Bobby Darin, Chapter 10  (13+) Darin and Berhke visit the Brill Building. #1457736 by Gisele