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A sporty dresser, he used to put on mourning when any of his own men fell in battle. He wore flashy diamonds, a rose in his lapel. The sight of photographers used to drive him into a profane rage. Legends grew up about him: that he traveled in an armored car, wore a bullet-proof vest. With every gang murder that occurred in Chicago, his name was automatically connected. But the police could never fasten upon him even the semblance of legal guilt.
Chicago finally became too small for him. He went to Florida where officials did not receive him cordially. Through a dummy he purchased for $65,000 a great white stucco house with a nile-green tiled roof on Palm Island between Miami and Miami Beach, built a wall around it like a fortress. He attempted to win local favor by enormous dinners to all who would come, $20 tips to tradesmen. He served champagne regularly, barely sipped his own glass. About him were always seven swart Sicilians, his bodyguard. He collected his family about him, his Irish wife Mae, his brothers Ralph ("Bottles") and Matthew, tried desperately to live the life of a retired gentleman.
Last week, as he emerged from Pennsylvania, Miami officials announced that they would oppose to the limit his return to Palm Island, branded his presence as "a detriment to the whole community."
*Photographers' credit-line omitted by request.