AL CAPONE, GANGSTER

Greymouth Evening Star, 11 May 1931, Page 8

AL CAPONE, GANGSTER

LADY JOURNALIST’S INTERVIEW. I stopped my car, on an impulse, in front of Al. Capone’s house m Miami Beach, Florida. Capone himself-was standing bareheaded on the pavement. I recognised him from liis pictures and from the scar on his cheek, like the welt from the lash of a whip. The famous bodyguard stood loiteiing just behind him. I told who I was, l bht lib did not appear to be interested (writes an American woman journalist). His manner was like that of any kindly, hospitable man proud of his estate. He said' “Conic in. Let me show you around.” He showed me through his garden to the water front. A double-storied loggia or bath house stood beside a deep, long swimming pool. It did pot seem, polite, somehow, to turn about and take a square look at '(japohe’s attendants. But whenever I glanced aside one of these seven oi eight heatly dressed, quiet young men just came along, standing there as if absent-minded, lounging in the shadow between the palm trees. I got offly one good look at Capone himself right out in the sunshine. He has the neck and shoulders of a wrestler,- one of those prodigious Italians, thick chested, nearly six feet tall. 'The muscles of his arms stretched the SleeVes of his light brown suit, so that, it seemed to be cut too small for 'hi pi. , The thing that struck me-most about Capone is his sincere belief that he is not getting a square deal, either from the law or from society as a Whole. He said: — “I don’t interfere with big business. None of the big business guys edn say .1 ever, took a dollar from ’em. Why, ■I done a favour for one of the big newspapers in the country when they .was up against it. Broke a strike for ’em? 'And what do I get for doing ’em a favour? “Here they’ve been, ever since, 'clamped on my back. I only want to do business, you understand, with my own class. Why can’t they let me alone? I don’t interfere with them any.” x • “Well, you’re king still —you’re still tsar of - . •” I trailed off, unable to 'say the word. “But they’re for ever after me. All The time trying to frame me. Why 'tlxey’ve got me framed in Chicago iiouf. If I don’t answer that tax charge, 'they’re going to get me on a ; up Vagrancy Act. It ain’t fair.” ! “But why do you want to go back: to Chicago to live, anyhow? The climate is simply awful. It’s always tooj hot or too cold. Wouldn’t you like to. live—Don’t you—Have you evep thought of leaving Chicago and going] to live in Italy?” ’ ! ’ “WliatTor should I live in Italy for?; Why should I? My family, my wife? my kid, my racket —they’re all in Chi-; cago. I’m no Eyetalian. I was born in New York 31. years ago.” “Thirty-one years ago!”

I couldn’t (juite smother my exclamation, for Capone, in spite of his smooth, swarthy face, looks like a man nearer 45; very much of the same general puw I come to think of it, as Mussolini.

Presently we came to the enclosed porch of the main house, furnished in excellent taste. Two wide open windows and a double door opened into the l iivihg-rb'om beyond.

' Glancing inside, I saw that the bodyguard had already magically transferred frsdlf fi‘om the shade of the Sheltering palm and was loitering afourid the 'living room, smoking cigr are'tteS, reading 'newspapers, chatting, perhaps, although. I never heard one sound of any kind from any of them. Capone and ! I sat 'down on either side of a small, glasS-topped table. For the first time I noticed 'liis hands. Enormous, powerful enough to tackle —wb'li, almost anything, although superficially soft from lack of exposure and highly manicured. Capdiie sat impassive as a Buddha, yet you began to sense the painful nervous tensity under the s.tblid exterior. His enormous hands rested hail’ clenched upbfi the table. Without raising his voice or looking around he called for a servant. A man in a white apron simply tore into the room. I said: “Tell me, Mr Capone, how do you pronounce your name?” “CqpQne—just ‘pone’—no ‘E’ to it.” Presently I began to probe a little further, feeling my way:

“When you got into all that trouble in Philadelphia, Mr Capone, was it because . . as .the newspapers said . “Oh, you think I was afraid!” His heavy head thrust forward. “I’ll show you how afraid I was.” And he went on to tell the story of his arrest in Philadelphia for carrying a revolver. GANGSTER’S EYES. Capone’s eyes are gangster’s eyes. Ice-grey. Ice-cold. I could feel their menace. The stirring of the tiger. For just a second I went a little sick. I had to fight the impulse to jump up and run blindly away. What happened was probably this: this question about Philadelphia 1 had struck full on the sensitive spot. I had aroused Capone, for the moment, to . a. flash of real hate and rage. The only thing every gangster fears most is fear. One sign of weakness, one second of faltering, and bis own wolf pack is upon him, tearing at his throat. This “underworld”, of theirs is a world clear cut, aside, and apart. Governed by its own laws. Its own ambitions. Its own kind of work. Its own kind of play. Its own angle toward success. Its own judgment of failure. Its own code of punishment and reward. Its special slant on love and death.

, So far as “their” world is concerned “our” world, oqr laws, our ambitions, our work, our play, and all the rest of it might as well be centred in Mars.

And yet in one corner of the covered porch were bright baubles and toys for Capone’s little boy. A set of miniature' golf slicks lay on cotton-snow beneath the branches. Maybe Capone has oilier ideas about the world lie wants bis boy to live in. lie continued after a while:

“They arrested me 1 I times in three day last year, right here in Miami. 1 paid a couple of hundred thousand for this place, and I’ve got. as much right to live hero with my wife and kid as any man. I guess 11 times in Ihroe days was too much even for the -rankers down there. It done me a lot of good. Why, I got sympathy for ilia t.”

He smiled his thick-lipped, boyish smile. You could see public sympathy,

if and whenever he gets it, means a whole lot to Capone. Feeling somewhat refreshed, after

the lemonade we had consumed, I ventured presently: “Tell me, Mr Capone, what do you think about Prohibition? Do you think it will ever be done away with?” “Yes, I do, and I’m all for that time to come. Prohibition has made nothing but trouble—trouble for all of us. Worst thing ever hit tjie country. Why, I tried to &et into legitimate business two or thrde times, but they wouldn’t stand for it.” He was pursuing his main thought of personal abuse as we moved finally, toward the door of the porch. I asked again: ! “You really think Prohibition will comb to ah end?” “Yes, and I tell you—l hope so. But it wqii’t come for about five years.” And he looked very thoughtful indeed. By the time we reached the big ironbarred gate the seven or eight neatly dressed athletic young men had already mysteriously preceded us. Capone himself unbolted the door. “Well, good-bye, Mr Capone.” I shook hands with him. “Good luck to you!” I called this as the motor started, and I meant it sincerely. .