did most of the talking. The topic that night was Joe McCarthy. The news was yet to be released, but Costello had just learned that the controversial, communist-bashing Senator had died. “All that booze finally got to him,” Costello said. McCarthy was such a heavy drinker that he sometimes ate a stick of butter before a night on the town just to coat his stomach against the alcohol. It wasn’t simply his appetite for liquor that destroyed McCarthy, however; the senator did everything to extremes, and that, in Costello’s opinion, is what created McCarthy’s problems. “He was going after the Commies, and that was a good thing, right?” Costello said. “But then he started doing wrong things and accusin’ everyone of being a Commie. Like I always say, you got to do things in moderation.”
Gene Pope smiled and drank some champagne. He knew JoeMcCarthy. They were part of the same crowd, and they never did anything in moderation. Gene Pope was a big man, six foot four and bulky, with wavy, slicked-back hair, heavy eyebrows, a thick jaw, and cherubic lips. He spoke in a laconic baritone—a cross between Humphrey Bogart and Jimmy Stewart; his deliberate manner masked his stunning intellect. Pope had attended Horace Mann, the exclusive New York City boys school where he became best friends with Roy Cohn. He went on to attend MIT, graduating at nineteen with a degree in engineering, and briefly attended Columbia Law School. Gene’s friend Cohn went on to become McCarthy’s chief counsel and was brought down in disgrace when his tactics and nepotism were exposed by Democratic counsel Robert Kennedy during a televised Senate hearing.
Don’t destroy yourself like McCarthy and Cohn did, Costello was telling Pope. “Like I always say,” Costello said, “you got to do things in moderation. Too much of anything is no good.” The mob boss may have been directing the comments toward himself as well, for that evening Costello had also learned that he was probably going back to jail—though he said nothing of the bad news to his friends. Costello picked up the $75 dinner tab, and the crowd went to Monsignore, further east on Fifty-fifth Street, for drinks. They ordered Scotches, except for Costello, who had coffee and two glasses of anisette. Pope wanted to go to the Copa to catch a show; Costello begged off. It was 11 P.M . and he needed to be clear-headed for an early morning meeting with his lawyer, Edward Bennett Williams. Costello bid his friends good night and took a taxi to his apartment building on Central Park West. There, a beefy thug walked up to Costello, put a gun up to his face, and said “This is for you, Frank” and shot the Prime Minister of the Underworld point blank.
The Costello hit was big news throughout the summer of 1957—occasionally knocking the
Confidential
trial off the front pages of the tabloids. Physically, Costello recovered, but he would never regain his old power.
Few were as shaken by the Costello shooting as Gene Pope. He was questioned by a grand jury about the shooting for fifty minutes, but repeatedly said he knew nothing. The interrogationwasn’t what bothered Pope. The failed hit marked the end of an era—the young publisher’s strongest remaining link to the world of political and financial power and corruption in which he had been raised. Pope had been jockeying for a solid position in that world, and had been counting on Frank Costello and the
New York Enquirer
to secure it for him. Now, after the shooting, he had only the
Enquirer.
With the
New York Enquirer,
Pope was trying to achieve the same sort of political clout that his father had built up with his media empire. It was a tough act to follow. Generoso Pope Sr. had left his family in Pasquarielli, Italy, in 1906 to come to America when he was twelve years old and had $4 in his pocket. He quickly got a job hauling water at a sand and gravel outfit called Colonial; within five years he became a foreman. By 1918 he
Gene Pope smiled and drank some champagne. He knew JoeMcCarthy. They were part of the same crowd, and they never did anything in moderation. Gene Pope was a big man, six foot four and bulky, with wavy, slicked-back hair, heavy eyebrows, a thick jaw, and cherubic lips. He spoke in a laconic baritone—a cross between Humphrey Bogart and Jimmy Stewart; his deliberate manner masked his stunning intellect. Pope had attended Horace Mann, the exclusive New York City boys school where he became best friends with Roy Cohn. He went on to attend MIT, graduating at nineteen with a degree in engineering, and briefly attended Columbia Law School. Gene’s friend Cohn went on to become McCarthy’s chief counsel and was brought down in disgrace when his tactics and nepotism were exposed by Democratic counsel Robert Kennedy during a televised Senate hearing.
Don’t destroy yourself like McCarthy and Cohn did, Costello was telling Pope. “Like I always say,” Costello said, “you got to do things in moderation. Too much of anything is no good.” The mob boss may have been directing the comments toward himself as well, for that evening Costello had also learned that he was probably going back to jail—though he said nothing of the bad news to his friends. Costello picked up the $75 dinner tab, and the crowd went to Monsignore, further east on Fifty-fifth Street, for drinks. They ordered Scotches, except for Costello, who had coffee and two glasses of anisette. Pope wanted to go to the Copa to catch a show; Costello begged off. It was 11 P.M . and he needed to be clear-headed for an early morning meeting with his lawyer, Edward Bennett Williams. Costello bid his friends good night and took a taxi to his apartment building on Central Park West. There, a beefy thug walked up to Costello, put a gun up to his face, and said “This is for you, Frank” and shot the Prime Minister of the Underworld point blank.
The Costello hit was big news throughout the summer of 1957—occasionally knocking the
Confidential
trial off the front pages of the tabloids. Physically, Costello recovered, but he would never regain his old power.
Few were as shaken by the Costello shooting as Gene Pope. He was questioned by a grand jury about the shooting for fifty minutes, but repeatedly said he knew nothing. The interrogationwasn’t what bothered Pope. The failed hit marked the end of an era—the young publisher’s strongest remaining link to the world of political and financial power and corruption in which he had been raised. Pope had been jockeying for a solid position in that world, and had been counting on Frank Costello and the
New York Enquirer
to secure it for him. Now, after the shooting, he had only the
Enquirer.
With the
New York Enquirer,
Pope was trying to achieve the same sort of political clout that his father had built up with his media empire. It was a tough act to follow. Generoso Pope Sr. had left his family in Pasquarielli, Italy, in 1906 to come to America when he was twelve years old and had $4 in his pocket. He quickly got a job hauling water at a sand and gravel outfit called Colonial; within five years he became a foreman. By 1918 he
Similar Books
