Al Capone marries Mae Coughlin

On December 30, 1918 my uncle Al Capone married Mae Coughlin in Brooklyn, NY.

Al Capone The Golfer

Al Capone and his Chicago killers may have had deadly aim elsewhere, but out on a golf course they were hit and miss. Some recollections of those sporting days with Scarface
(This article first appeared in the Nov. 6, 1972, issue of Sports Illustrated.)

I was fresh out of the Army and recently married when a fire broke out in the two-story house in Indiana Harbor, where we rented rooms. We had gone to a movie that evening, my wife Rose and I—it was Claudette Colbert in Imitation of Life - and by the time we got back the building was gutted. Most everything we owned had been burned to ashes, maybe a couple of thousand dollars worth of stuff, a tragedy for an ex-staff sergeant earning about $125 a week as a roller in a steel mill. But one of the possessions that hurt me most to lose had no dollar value. It was a faded snapshot of a big, beefy man with a golf club in his right hand and his left hand around the shoulders of a 12-year-old boy. The boy was me. The man was Al Capone. And the scene was Burnham Woods golf course, 18 miles south of Chicago, where I caddied for Al for almost four years.
Earlier that year of the fire—1947—I was among the few mourners at Al's funeral in Chicago where the family moved his body from Miami. He had been out of Alcatraz eight years when he died. I don't suppose his passing grieved many people. Society remembered him as the original Public Enemy No. 1. I didn't have any illusions about that side of him either. But I remembered another side and I mourned him. I wanted him somehow to know I was there because, as a boy, I never had a better friend. Nobody had ever treated me or my family with such kindness.
In 1924, when I was 8, we moved from South Chicago to the little town of Burnham, which then had a population of about 800. The Torrio-Capone gang had been spreading into the suburbs for some time and in and around Burnham they had taken over quite a few breweries and opened half a dozen roadhouses with gambling, girls and booze. The gang had the full cooperation of the mayor, Johnny Patton, a jaunty character whom I never saw without an expensive cigar in his mouth. The newspapers always referred to him as the "Boy Mayor" because he had been operating a saloon of his own since the age of 14. He owned the biggest, fanciest house in Burnham, catercorner from our poor shack on Green Bay Avenue. He also operated the golf course where I caddied for Capone. At the time I went to the same grade school as his kids Jimmy and Frances.
My father was a railroad engineer and my mother hired out by the day as a housekeeper. They earned hardly enough between them to support their big family and all of us kids had to work while still in school. There were three other boys besides me and three girls. My oldest sister, Ida Mae, nicknamed "Babe," was the beauty of the family, with her jet-black hair, violet eyes and trim little figure, and it was Babe who brought Al Capone into our lives.
A city official gave me my first job a few months after we settled in Burnham. He was a man with a good many outside interests. One was a barbershop and I shined shoes there for a dime until he told me he was closing the shop. What he really did was convert it into a speakeasy. He said I could keep the shoeshine stand and the equipment. So I ran home to fetch the handcart I had won for selling subscriptions to the Chicago American, loaded everything onto it, and hauled it over to the Arrowhead Inn, Burnham's biggest, flashiest roadhouse. The chief of police moonlighted there as a bartender. I asked the manager, Frank Hitchcock, to let me set up my stand by the entrance. "Sonny," he said, "this ain't no place for a kid to hang around." I couldn't see why and begged for a chance to make a little extra dough. He finally agreed and I went right to work.
My very first customer was short and pasty-faced with real small feet. For the 10-cent shine he handed me a $1 tip. I learned later he was Johnny Torrio, who still headed the gang, with Capone the second-in-command. The next year he quit the country after a rival mob nearly killed him, leaving Capone the boss. Most of my customers were gangsters, though I didn't recognize any of them as such right away. There were Machine Gun Jack McGurn, an Italian in spite of his name, good-looking in a dark, snaky kind of way, a snappy dresser and smooth dancer—the girls were crazy for him—and Fred (Killer) Burke, who lived right behind our house for a while. A huge bear of a man with thick eyebrows and a bushy mustache, he seemed a friendly sort until you looked at his eyes. They were small and black and mean. Five years later McGurn and Burke took part in the St. Valentine's Day massacre ordered by Capone.
The pride of Burnham was its nine-hole golf course, started in 1924 and finished in 1925. Our house stood directly opposite, and in addition to shining shoes I would sometimes wait in line by the clubhouse with a lot of other kids for a chance to caddie. It meant picking up maybe another dollar or two. My sister Babe, who was then 16, found work there, too, as a waitress in the clubhouse restaurant. One night she came home waving a $10 bill. "Guess who gave it to me?" she said, all wrought up. " Al Capone!" Mom hit the ceiling. "You never go there again, you hear," she said. "You're going to quit that job."
It seems Capone and Johnny Patton had dropped in that afternoon 10 talk business over a cup of coffee. This was Capone's first visit. The idea of waiting on him rattled Babe so much that she spilled steaming coffee all over his white suit. He jumped up, yelling at her, and she almost fainted. But suddenly his whole manner changed. "I'm sorry, kid," he said, smiling and putting his arm around her. "I didn't mean to scare you, but that coffee is pretty hot." He told her he was planning to play golf at Burnham at least twice a week. When he left, he slipped her the $10.
Babe was too excited at the idea of meeting Capone again to pay any attention to Mom. She went straight back to the clubhouse the next day. I was standing in the caddie line when she sent a shaver to me with a message to go to the restaurant where somebody wanted to talk to me. I went there and for the first time saw Capone in the flesh. He was wearing a white silk shirt with his monogram, no tie, gray plus fours and a belt with a diamond buckle, and he was surrounded by his gangsters. There were Burke and McGurn and somebody they called Banjo Eyes because he looked like Eddie Cantor—I never did learn his real name—and a short, fat guy with heavy jowls, Jake Guzik, who from his slob looks I never would have taken for the business brains of the gang, Capone's right-hand man. He had a nickname, Greasy Thumb, that supposedly came from the days when he was a waiter in some Levee dive, such a sloppy waiter that his thumb kept sliding into the food.
"Kid, I need a good caddie," said Capone. "Your sister here tells me you're very good. Think you can carry all those clubs?" He pointed to a golf bag as tall as I was, leaning against the wall. I told him sure I could. "Let's go then," and he marched out to the first tee, followed by the gang. They made up a foursome—Capone and McGurn against Burke and Guzik, with a bet of $500 a hole. Capone teed off first. He fetched the ball a whack that would have sent it clear down the fairway, only he hooked it and it curved way off to the left into a clump of trees. I scrambled around on all fours for about 10 minutes trying to find it, scared to death Al would lose his temper and hit me or maybe shoot me, but all he did was grin, pat me on the head and call me Kid. "It's O.K., Kid," he said. "So we lose a stroke, that's all. Just gimme another ball." And I thought: "He can't be as mean and rough as he's cracked up to be."
A slew of bodyguards followed along the sidelines and after them all the other kids, staring open-mouthed at Al and jealous of me. Was I proud and awed! I could hardly believe it—me, Tim Sullivan, caddying for the Big Fellow. Every now and then he would spot a soda-pop stand just off the course and stop to buy us each a bottle.
He played a terrible game. I don't think he broke 60 for the nine holes. He could drive the ball half a mile, but he always hooked it, and he couldn't putt for beans. Guzik was worse and Burke didn't play much better. Only McGurn shot a pretty fair score, around 40. In addition to the regular $500 a hole, they kept making side bets and Al lost most of them. About $10,000 changed hands that day.
When it was over Al gave me a $20 bill, more money than I'd ever held in my hand before. "All this?" I said, dumfounded. He nodded. "Sure, why not? You earned it." And then he asked me how would I like to be his regular caddie. What
I didn't realize until I was a little older, he also wanted Babe to be his regular girl.
Al came out to Burnham twice a week on the average. I always caddied for him and he always tipped me $20 or more. It made a tremendous difference to the family budget. After a while even Mom, who worried herself sick at first about my associating with gangsters, didn't talk about it any more. Al's game never improved, not even after he took the club pro, Freddie Pelcher, down to Miami with him for the winter so he could get a golf lesson whenever he wanted. He paid him $100 a day, I was told, treated him to all the best whiskey he could drink and invited him along on the parties. I felt so bad about Al losing his ball so often I began cheating for him. I would keep a couple of extra balls in my pants pocket, drop one near the spot where his disappeared, and pretend I'd found it. He caught on pretty quick, but he just laughed and said, "You're O.K., Kid."
One afternoon when Banjo Eyes was playing against Al for big money he spotted me fishing for a ball in my pocket. "The boy's cheating!" he screamed. Al pretended not to believe it. They started arguing and Banjo Eyes called Al a liar. "Nobody can get away with that!" Al yelled, turning red in the face and swelling up like a bullfrog. "On your knees and start praying!" When Banjo Eyes hesitated, Al reached into his golf bag where he stowed his gun during a game. Banjo Eyes dropped to his knees, shaking, and I thought Al would blow his head off. I started crying from fear. I admitted I'd cheated and begged Al not to hurt Banjo Eyes. He calmed down right away, dropped his gun back into his golf bag, slapped Banjo Eyes on the back and said, as if nothing had happened: "Come on, let's finish the game."
Al once shot himself accidentally on the course. I saw him do it. He was lifting his golf bag when the revolver inside went off, shooting him in the foot. Probably one of the clubs jarred the trigger. Hopping around on the other foot, bellowing like a bull, he was a terrible sight. They drove him to the Hammond hospital, but the head doctor wouldn't let him stay more than a day. He was afraid some rival gangster out to-kill Al would shoot up the place. I tried to find out where they'd taken him so I could visit him, but they wouldn't tell anybody. He was back in a week, limping a little, but able to play nine holes. After that the boys double-checked to make sure the safety catch was on before they deposited any gun in a golf bag.
One afternoon Jake Guzik and Banjo Eyes turned up without Al. Jake waddled up to the caddie line and asked: "Where's the kid who caddies for Al?" I was at the end of the line, with about 20 boys ahead of me, but he jerked his thumb at me and told me to follow him. I said I couldn't, it wasn't my turn. His fat jowls shook. "You're caddying for me today, see," he said. "Let's get going." What could I do? I walked past the line, with 20 pairs of eyes burning holes in my back.
That Guzik, he was a lousy loser with a vicious temper. When he took his first swing at the ball and it moved about 10 feet, he kicked a tree. By the 5th hole he'd lost maybe a thousand bucks to Banjo Eyes. He'd been cheating, too. When he had a bad lie and thought nobody would notice, he'd shove the ball with his foot. On the 6th hole he landed in a sand trap. "How do I get out of here?" he asked me. I didn't know much about the game. I told him so, but he figured I was holding out on him for some reason. I had to say something, so I said to try blasting it out with a driver. He got the ball to the top of the trap and it rolled back. He tried three times and every time it rolled back. Then he blew up. He grabbed the driver like a bat and went for me, yelling every dirty name you could think of. I ran zigzagging across the fairway. Luckily, he was too fat and slow to catch me or I think he would have killed me. He stopped finally, out of breath, broke the club across his knees and threw the pieces at me. I stayed close to the clubhouse while he played the last holes with another caddie. When he finished, I got up enough nerve to ask for the money he owed me. He just snarled.
Next day half a dozen of them came, Al included, and I told him what happened. He called Guzik over to him. "What do you mean treating the Kid here like that?" Guzik said—I'll never forget it, of all the dumb alibis!—he said: "The Kid gave me a bum steer." Al moved in closer, scowling. "Why ask a boy? You're a grown man, ain't you? Besides, you never paid him. Pay him now." So Guzik pulled out his wallet and took $1 from it. "I said pay him!" Al shouted in his fat face, and he grabbed the wallet, removed two $10 bills, handed them to me, and threw the wallet at Guzik's feet. Guzik picked it up and waddled away without a word.
They all carried hip flasks and kept swigging as they went along. When they got high, there'd be some pretty wild clowning. They'd play leapfrog, turn somersaults, walk on their hands. There was a crazy game Al called Blind Robin. One guy would stretch out flat on his back, shut his eyes tight, and let the others tee off from his chin. They used a putter and swung slow and careful. Otherwise they would have smashed the guy's face. On the putting greens they'd throw down their pistol holders—clunk—and hold a wrestling match. I kept busy picking up the stuff that dropped out of their pockets—flasks, cigars, bills and change. They made an awful mess of the greens, digging up the grass with their knees and elbows. But there was never a peep out of the management. As soon as they left, the maintenance crew would head for the damaged area with wheelbarrows full of sod.
During a match the drunker they got the more they cheated and the more they caught each other at it. One time when Burke tried to sneak a better lie he and McGurn fought about the bloodiest fight I ever saw in or out of the prize ring. None of the gang tried to stop them. They just made a circle around them, laughing and cheering. A big crowd of golfers gathered, too, but they didn't make a sound. They seemed hypnotized. I got the feeling they were scared that if they said or did anything the gang would turn on them. It lasted about half an hour. Burke knocked McGurn off his feet a couple of times, but he came up quick. He'd been a prizefighter in his younger days and Burke was no match for him. Pretty soon the Killer had blood streaming from his nose, turning his white sport shirt red. One of his eyes closed completely. McGurn knocked him down 10, maybe 12 times, and at last he stayed down. I figured he might be dead. Banjo Eyes threw a pail of water over him. It had no effect. There happened to be a doctor in the crowd who finally brought Burke around. "Don't talk," he warned him. "Some of your teeth are loose, but you'll be all right after you see a dentist." Burke tried getting up by himself, but he couldn't stand. The boys made a stretcher with their hands and carried him to the clubhouse.
Besides Capone and Guzik that one time, the only other gangster I ever caddied for was Burke. When he played golf, the course looked like some farmer had plowed it—divots as big as your hand wherever he had taken a swipe at the ball. He was usually in the company of a peroxide blonde. She didn't play. She just walked along beside him. One time, after they'd emptied his flask, they disappeared behind a bunker. They were gone about 10 minutes and when they came back the blonde's dress had grass stains all over it. I was 10 at the time and I couldn't figure out what they'd been up to.
I learned the facts of life before I was too much older from Al and his boys. One afternoon on the links they kept talking about some kind of party they were going to throw at the clubhouse that night. An orgy, they called it. I'd never heard the word before and I was burning with curiosity. So after supper I went back to the clubhouse. The bouncer at the door laughed fit to bust when I asked to join Al's party. "Better go home and get your diapers changed," he said. I pretended to go but instead sneaked around to the back of the building. I was wearing tennis shoes that gave me enough traction to climb up to the second story where there was a little balcony and a window. I looked through and saw about 20 couples, most of them naked. Not Al, though. He just stood on the sidelines, watching and laughing. I found out then what an orgy was. When I got home, I avoided Mom. I felt too ashamed.

Tim Sullivan

Al Capone is released from Alcatraz

On this day, November 16, 1939 my uncle Al Capone was released from Alcatraz. My grandfather had a big party for him in his home in Cicero Illinois. My mother was pregnant with me at the time.
My family realized something was really wrong with my uncle due to the so called 'treatment' he received in prison.
I was born on January 25, 1940. Al Capone was supposed to be my Godfather but he was in a hospital in Baltimore cleaning chemicals out of his blood. His son stood in for him when I was baptized.

My uncle Al Capone's home in Miami Florida

My thanks to MB America for restoring the Capone family home in Miami Florida.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3316576/Miami-Mansion-Al-Capone-planned-infamous-St-Valentine-s-Day-massacre-eventually-died-restored-former-glory.html

America's 1st Freedom | The Volstead Act: An Exercise In Unintended Consequences

America's 1st Freedom | The Volstead Act: An Exercise In Unintended Consequences

Al Capone in St. Petersberg, FL

A New Look at

Al Capone in St. Pete

Part 1

Will Michaels

Over the years there have been numerous rumors, reports and stories about Al Capone in St. Petersburg. This article is an exploration and new look at those stories.

 “AL CAPONE PAYS VIST TO THE CITY” reads the caption on the front page of the St. Petersburg Times on February 10, 1931.  The article reported, “Al ‘Scarface’ Capone, reputed king of Chicago’s gangland, paid a visit to Pinellas county Monday, spending a few hours in St. Petersburg and later motoring to Tarpon Springs, where he spent considerable time looking over the sponge industry.  Capone, with a party of five, including one woman, was seen here by several persons.  Later in the afternoon a large crowd gathered at the Sponge Exchange in Tarpon Springs to see the famous baronial head of the beer racket.  Capone’s business on Florida’s west coast could not be ascertained, but there was plenty of speculation.”

The article continued, “Some said he came to visit his old but retired henchman, John Torrio, who long ago settled down to a quiet life after a reputed ‘break’ with ‘scarface.’  ‘There’s nothing to that,’ a man at Torrio’s home in a fashionable section here said Monday night. ‘Those two haven’t seen each other for four years [1927?].  Besides, John’s in New York.’….” 

“Capone was in St. Petersburg several years ago, stopping at a downtown hotel under the name of Al Brown, a moniker he discarded when he began his spectacular rise from a body guard for the late “Big Jim” Collissimio [sic] to his present position.  Later he went to Miami, where he bought the big house on Palm island.  Last year he was harassed by police and arrested time and time again.  The governor issued an order forbidding him to enter the state, but this was staved off by a federal injunction.  Capone and his party are making their trip over the state by motor.”

            Al Capone could well qualify as the most notable gangster in American history.  Starting out in Brooklyn as a youth in a local gang, he graduated to providing “muscle” in a protection racket operated by the Italian Five Points gang led by Paul Kelly and Johnny Torrio.  Torrio had recruited Capone into the gang.   Because of his smarts, Capone was promoted to bartender and bouncer in one of the gang’s establishments.     It was during this time that he was knifed in the face for insulting the sister of a patron, receiving his nickname “Scarface.”  (Much later he apologized to the knifer for insulting his sister and even hired him as an occasional bodyguard.)  Subsequently he became involved in a fight with a rival gang, and may have fled to Chicago to avoid retaliation.  Accounts of the exact circumstances of his relocation to Chicago differ.  But Johnny Torrio himself had previously relocated to Chicago to join the gang of “Big Jim” Colosimo.  Capone soon became a trusted lieutenant of Torrio, and was a behind the scenes party to Torrio’s subsequent murder of Colosimo.  In 1925 Torrio himself was the subject of a murder attempt by a rival gang.  He received gunshot wounds to the arm, jaw, neck, chest, and belly and still managed to survive.  Thereafter he was known as “The Immune.”   It was then that he announced his retirement and turned his gang enterprises over to his second in command, Al Capone.  But he continued to receive a cut of gang profits, perhaps as much as twenty-five percent, for ten years.  He also was to be available for “consultations.”

According to a 1925 Chicago Daily Tribune article Torrio visited St. Pete in late 1924, perhaps trying to elude the would-be rival gang assassins who finally caught up with him in early 1925.  Records verify that Torrio and his wife, Anna, traveled between Havana and Key West in December 1924.   They made the same trip in November 1925 with Al Capone and his wife Mae.  Capone’s biographer Robert Schoenberg stated that after Torrio’s retirement he and his wife went to Italy for two years. Assuming he stayed in Italy the whole time would have him returning to the United States about 1928.  However, there are travel documents for John Torrio and his wife Anna, giving St. Petersburg as their home address for the years 1926, 1927, and 1928.  The documents were for travel between Hawaii and the West Coast.  In May 1929, he was involved in organizing a loose cartel of Northeast bootleggers to prevent further turf wars.  This evolved into what became known as the National Crime Syndicate.  Chicago newspaperman Fred Pasley stated that while Capone was in prison on a weapons possession charge in 1929, Torrio was based in Brooklyn but commuted twice a month to Chicago, likely assisting with running the Chicago operations in Capone’s absence.  Otherwise he spent considerable time in real estate investments.  Beginning in 1939 he served two years in prison for income tax evasion. 

Torrio is identified as living in various locations in St. Petersburg.  These include 2300 Lakeview Avenue South (now 22^nd Avenue South); possibly also the 1600 block of Lakeview Avenue South; the 100 block of 14^th Avenue Northeast; possibly another location in the Old Northeast neighborhood; and Pass-a-Grille.  Travel documents for the Torrios (ship manifests) give a 2300 Lakeview Avenue South address. City directories for 1925- 1928 list George Jacobs, or his mother, living at 2300 Lakeview.  Later Jacobs’ mother is listed as living at 14^th Avenue Northeast.  George Jacobs was a known Torrio associate and brother of Torrio’s wife.

There is an amusing story of Torrio protecting a neighbor’s pecan orchard against a poacher with a pruning ax near his residence on Lakeview Avenue.  Torrio also sold (some accounts say donated) property with a grove and large home known as the “Green Cabin” at 2350 Lakeview in 1927 to the American Legion for use as the original American Legion Hospital for Crippled Children, forerunner of today’s All Children’s Hospital.  Today the site of the American Legion Hospital and Torrio’s 2300 Lakeview residence are the location of Sanderlin Middle School.

As Capone excelled in bootlegging, racketeering, vice, gambling, and other organized crime he made enemies.  One of these was Joseph Aiello, also in the Chicago “alky” and bootleg trade.  Capone had engineered the elevation of Tony Lombardo to the presidency of L’ Unione Siciliana (a powerful Chicago Italian welfare and political organization), a position to which Aiello aspired.  Aiello then went gunning for Capone.  Capone fought off Aiello’s would-be assassins, killing one after another, ten in all.  Police were tipped off about still another effort being planned by Aiello to murder Capone, which resulted in Aiello being taken into police custody.  Capone then sent six cabs full of gunmen to the police station where they waited for him to be released.  When the ambush was discovered police escorted Aiello safely from the station.  Aiello, like Johnny Torrio, then decided it was best to get out of town.  But even though Aiello escaped with his life the damage was done.

It just so happened that Chicago Mayor Bill Thompson was running for President, and the assault on the police station, combined with the rest of Chicago’s unsavory crime history, called the attention of the country to his inability to control his own city.  Though Mayor Thompson was on the take from Capone, his presidential aspirations trumped, and he ordered Capone out of the city.  It was at this moment that Capone made the only quote found mentioning St. Petersburg (December 5 1927).  “I’m leaving for St. Petersburg tomorrow,” he said, further explaining that he had some property there he wanted to sell.  As it turned out the reference to St. Pete was a ruse, and instead he went to Tijuana, Mexico, and then Los Angeles, where he was again asked to leave town.  But his mention of St. Petersburg is telling, a strange place to mention unless he had some connection to it.

Florida’s governor also added his voice to the chorus declaring Capone unwelcome. Chicago Tribune newspaperman Fred Pasley, in his 1930 biography of Capone, stated that Capone did in fact go to St. Petersburg in early 1928 after his sojourn out West.  Pasley wrote “The police met him at the [train] station and trailed him so assiduously that he stayed only overnight.”    No local documentation of this has been found.  Capone’s wife stated in a 1941 deposition that Capone was in St. Pete for a “short visit…fourteen or fifteen years ago [1926 or 27].”  If Capone in fact visited St. Pete in early 1928 it would have been ironic as the Southeast Regional Anti-Saloon Convention was being held in the city at the First Baptist Church.  After his possible brief stop in St. Petersburg Capone went to Miami, and in March bought a 14 room estate on Palm Island which he purchased from beer magnate August Anheuser Bush.  He called Florida “the garden of America, the sunny Italy of the new world, where life is good and abundant, where happiness is to be had even by the poorest.”

February 14 1929 was the date of the infamous Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre.  This involved the brutal execution of seven members of a rival Chicago gang.  Capone is widely assumed to have been responsible for ordering the killings, although he personally had an alibi.  He was in Miami meeting with an assistant district attorney from New York minutes after the slaughter occurred.  The massacre attracted world-wide attention, and further motivated public officials and law enforcement to bring Capone to justice. 

In May 1929, Capone was convicted of possession of a weapon in Philadelphia and was sentenced to a year in prison, most of which he spent at Eastern Penitentiary in Philadelphia. There Capone was allowed to furnish his cell, hire fellow prisoners as servants, and receive many visitors and mail.  The junk mail was thoughtfully discarded for Capone by the warden. He was released in March 1930, whereupon authorities in Chicago once more warned that he was unwelcome and that he would be arrested on sight if he entered the city.  Florida’s new governor Doyle E. Carlton followed suit.  He sent an identical telegram to the sheriffs of all sixty-seven Florida counties:  “IT IS REPORTED THAT AL CAPONE IS ON HIS WAY TO FLORIDA.  ARREST IF HE COMES YOUR WAY AND ESCORT TO STATE BORDER WITH INSTRUCTIONS NOT TO RETURN.  IF YOU NEED ADDITIONAL ASSISTANCE CALL ME.”  As if to help with Capone’s public identification, Time Magazine ran his photo on their cover for the March 24 1930, edition.

            Capone at some point attracted the active attention of President Hoover.  There are stories that Hoover was personally annoyed by Capone when in January 1929, Capone got more attention than the president-elect upon entering the lobby of a Miami hotel.  But Hoover denied any personal animosity towards Capone.  The more likely impetus was a meeting with a delegation of Chicago citizens who demanded federal action to deal with the gang disaster in Chicago in view of the city’s inability to do so.  Regardless of the circumstances, it is known that Hoover repeatedly raised the issue of Capone’s prosecution with his closest advisors after becoming president.   Ultimately the only charge the feds could get to stick against Capone was non-payment of income tax, and even that was minimal.  The indictment identified a little over one million dollars in income between the years 1924 and 1929, for which $215,080 in taxes were owed.  There is speculation that Johnny Torrio may have advised Capone to take the rap to get it over with, not expecting the long prison sentence he would receive.  In May 1932, at age 33, Capone was sent to the Atlanta Federal Prison.  In 1934 the government converted Alcatraz from a military to a federal maximum security prison for the most dangerous criminals.  Capone was among the first to be transferred there.  Contrary to the experience a few years earlier in Philadelphia, Alcatraz was as grim as it got.  There he occupied a 9 by 5 foot cell.  Personal furnishing was not permitted.  Mail was heavily censured and newspapers not allowed.  Visitation was restricted to twice a month family visits. Use of personal funds to purchase anything was forbidden.  He was paroled in 1939 and soon returned to his home in Palm Island where he died of cardiac arrest in 1947.

Finding Al - A Documentary: Did Al Capone really visit Moose Jaw?We're about...

The production company brought me up to MooseJaw. I am anxious to see this documentary.

Finding Al - A Documentary: Did Al Capone really visit Moose Jaw?

We're about...: Did Al Capone really visit Moose J aw? We're about to find out . . .

Gulf Shore Life article, Naples, Florida

Time Travel with Brian Ungar

Thursday July 10, 2015 8:00 PM EDT
http://www.orlandosentinel.com/travel/destinations/florida/miami/os-travel-channel-al-capone-miami-20150708-story.html

My uncle Al Capone helped black entertainers.

Dear Deirdre,

   I just ordered your book and I'm so excited to get it. I have been fascinated with your Uncle's story for years now. He was good friends with Cab Calloway. Cab's grandson Christopher (he runs the Cab Calloway Orchestra) is a very dear friend of mine and Chris often tells me how wonderful your uncle was to the black community and treated black entertainers with courtesy, respect and paid them what white performers were getting paid. I think perhaps the reason your uncle was considered an enemy of the state was because he was for helping the every day man. I live in NYC right now. They have recently begun tearing down your Uncle's old haunt in Gowanus to make luxury apts. That seems to be the way NYC is going right now. But I have always enjoyed the stories from the old vets talking about the good ol days when respect was in and Capone lived down the block. These guys have to be in their mid to late 90's now. This must have been right before he went to Chicago.

Needless to say I want to thank you for writing the book. I can't wait to read it and get insight from people who knew him personally and not on a glamorized Hollywood level. I've always loved that he set up the first soup kitchen in Chicago.

Anyway I hope to meet you one day and once again I am so excited to read your book.  Have a wonderful 4th of July weekend.

Katelan

Publicity in July 2015

Interest in me and my story continue to grow because the appetite for knowing the inside story of Al Capone continues to grow.
Below is a very well written article that just came out. It was written by a talented journalist who understood my story and translated it so the reader could understand. I am now in the process of writing a screen play.  I will have the script on June 30th. The plan is to have the movie released in 2016.

I will be on the Travel Channel on July 9th at 8:00 pm EDT. I am appearing on a show titled Time Travel with Brian Unger.

I am on PBS in Canada in July on a documentary titled "Finding Al". That will appear many times throughout the remainder of the year. It was sponsored by Ancestry.ca

Enjoy this article.

​

Al Capone the golfer

This article first appeared in the Nov. 6, 1972, issue of Sports Illustrated. Written by Tim Sullivan who caddied for Al Capone at Burnham Golf Club.


"Kid, I need a good caddie," said Capone. "Your sister here tells me you're very good. Think you can carry all those clubs?" He pointed to a golf bag as tall as I was, leaning against the wall. I told him sure I could. "Let's go then," and he marched out to the first tee, followed by the gang. They made up a foursome—Capone and McGurn against Burke and Guzik, with a bet of $500 a hole. Capone teed off first. He fetched the ball a whack that would have sent it clear down the fairway, only he hooked it and it curved way off to the left into a clump of trees. I scrambled around on all fours for about 10 minutes trying to find it, scared to death Al would lose his temper and hit me or maybe shoot me, but all he did was grin, pat me on the head and call me Kid. "It's O.K., Kid," he said. "So we lose a stroke, that's all. Just gimme another ball." And I thought: "He can't be as mean and rough as he's cracked up to be."
A slew of bodyguards followed along the sidelines and after them all the other kids, staring open-mouthed at Al and jealous of me. Was I proud and awed! I could hardly believe it—me, Tim Sullivan, caddying for the Big Fellow. Every now and then he would spot a soda-pop stand just off the course and stop to buy us each a bottle.
He played a terrible game. I don't think he broke 60 for the nine holes. He could drive the ball half a mile, but he always hooked it, and he couldn't putt for beans. Guzik was worse and Burke didn't play much better. Only McGurn shot a pretty fair score, around 40. In addition to the regular $500 a hole, they kept making side bets and Al lost most of them. About $10,000 changed hands that day.
When it was over Al gave me a $20 bill, more money than I'd ever held in my hand before. "All this?" I said, dumfounded. He nodded. "Sure, why not? You earned it." And then he asked me how would I like to be his regular caddie. What
I didn't realize until I was a little older, he also wanted Babe to be his regular girl.
Al came out to Burnham twice a week on the average. I always caddied for him and he always tipped me $20 or more. It made a tremendous difference to the family budget. After a while even Mom, who worried herself sick at first about my associating with gangsters, didn't talk about it any more. Al's game never improved, not even after he took the club pro, Freddie Pelcher, down to Miami with him for the winter so he could get a golf lesson whenever he wanted. He paid him $100 a day, I was told, treated him to all the best whiskey he could drink and invited him along on the parties. I felt so bad about Al losing his ball so often I began cheating for him. I would keep a couple of extra balls in my pants pocket, drop one near the spot where his disappeared, and pretend I'd found it. He caught on pretty quick, but he just laughed and said, "You're O.K., Kid."
One afternoon when Banjo Eyes was playing against Al for big money he spotted me fishing for a ball in my pocket. "The boy's cheating!" he screamed. Al pretended not to believe it. They started arguing and Banjo Eyes called Al a liar. "Nobody can get away with that!" Al yelled, turning red in the face and swelling up like a bullfrog. "On your knees and start praying!" When Banjo Eyes hesitated, Al reached into his golf bag where he stowed his gun during a game. Banjo Eyes dropped to his knees, shaking, and I thought Al would blow his head off. I started crying from fear. I admitted I'd cheated and begged Al not to hurt Banjo Eyes. He calmed down right away, dropped his gun back into his golf bag, slapped Banjo Eyes on the back and said, as if nothing had happened: "Come on, let's finish the game."
Al once shot himself accidentally on the course. I saw him do it. He was lifting his golf bag when the revolver inside went off, shooting him in the foot. Probably one of the clubs jarred the trigger. Hopping around on the other foot, bellowing like a bull, he was a terrible sight. They drove him to the Hammond hospital, but the head doctor wouldn't let him stay more than a day. He was afraid some rival gangster out to-kill Al would shoot up the place. I tried to find out where they'd taken him so I could visit him, but they wouldn't tell anybody. He was back in a week, limping a little, but able to play nine holes. After that the boys double-checked to make sure the safety catch was on before they deposited any gun in a golf bag.
One afternoon Jake Guzik and Banjo Eyes turned up without Al. Jake waddled up to the caddie line and asked: "Where's the kid who caddies for Al?" I was at the end of the line, with about 20 boys ahead of me, but he jerked his thumb at me and told me to follow him. I said I couldn't, it wasn't my turn. His fat jowls shook. "You're caddying for me today, see," he said. "Let's get going." What could I do? I walked past the line, with 20 pairs of eyes burning holes in my back.
That Guzik, he was a lousy loser with a vicious temper. When he took his first swing at the ball and it moved about 10 feet, he kicked a tree. By the 5th hole he'd lost maybe a thousand bucks to Banjo Eyes. He'd been cheating, too. When he had a bad lie and thought nobody would notice, he'd shove the ball with his foot. On the 6th hole he landed in a sand trap. "How do I get out of here?" he asked me. I didn't know much about the game. I told him so, but he figured I was holding out on him for some reason. I had to say something, so I said to try blasting it out with a driver. He got the ball to the top of the trap and it rolled back. He tried three times and every time it rolled back. Then he blew up. He grabbed the driver like a bat and went for me, yelling every dirty name you could think of. I ran zigzagging across the fairway. Luckily, he was too fat and slow to catch me or I think he would have killed me. He stopped finally, out of breath, broke the club across his knees and threw the pieces at me. I stayed close to the clubhouse while he played the last holes with another caddie. When he finished, I got up enough nerve to ask for the money he owed me. He just snarled.
Next day half a dozen of them came, Al included, and I told him what happened. He called Guzik over to him. "What do you mean treating the Kid here like that?" Guzik said—I'll never forget it, of all the dumb alibis!—he said: "The Kid gave me a bum steer." Al moved in closer, scowling. "Why ask a boy? You're a grown man, ain't you? Besides, you never paid him. Pay him now." So Guzik pulled out his wallet and took $1 from it. "I said pay him!" Al shouted in his fat face, and he grabbed the wallet, removed two $10 bills, handed them to me, and threw the wallet at Guzik's feet. Guzik picked it up and waddled away without a word.
They all carried hip flasks and kept swigging as they went along. When they got high, there'd be some pretty wild clowning. They'd play leapfrog, turn somersaults, walk on their hands. There was a crazy game Al called Blind Robin. One guy would stretch out flat on his back, shut his eyes tight, and let the others tee off from his chin. They used a putter and swung slow and careful. Otherwise they would have smashed the guy's face. On the putting greens they'd throw down their pistol holders—clunk—and hold a wrestling match. I kept busy picking up the stuff that dropped out of their pockets—flasks, cigars, bills and change. They made an awful mess of the greens, digging up the grass with their knees and elbows. But there was never a peep out of the management. As soon as they left, the maintenance crew would head for the damaged area with wheelbarrows full of sod.
During a match the drunker they got the more they cheated and the more they caught each other at it. One time when Burke tried to sneak a better lie he and McGurn fought about the bloodiest fight I ever saw in or out of the prize ring. None of the gang tried to stop them. They just made a circle around them, laughing and cheering. A big crowd of golfers gathered, too, but they didn't make a sound. They seemed hypnotized. I got the feeling they were scared that if they said or did anything the gang would turn on them. It lasted about half an hour. Burke knocked McGurn off his feet a couple of times, but he came up quick. He'd been a prizefighter in his younger days and Burke was no match for him. Pretty soon the Killer had blood streaming from his nose, turning his white sport shirt red. One of his eyes closed completely. McGurn knocked him down 10, maybe 12 times, and at last he stayed down. I figured he might be dead. Banjo Eyes threw a pail of water over him. It had no effect. There happened to be a doctor in the crowd who finally brought Burke around. "Don't talk," he warned him. "Some of your teeth are loose, but you'll be all right after you see a dentist." Burke tried getting up by himself, but he couldn't stand. The boys made a stretcher with their hands and carried him to the clubhouse.