SURPLUS PROPERTY: A Swell Thing

Up rose New York's Mayor LaGuardia last week before the Senate's War Investigating Committee. He was mad, as usual. This time he was fuming over the "junk-dealer philosophy" which he said was governing the disposal of surplus war property.

Mayor LaGuardia complained that cities short of supplies are unable to buy Government surpluses, but that these surpluses "are available through most unusual sources." A most unusual source, he said, was Manhattan's Worldwide Mercantile Corp., which conveniently shared its office with Consolidated Industries. A contact man for Consolidated Industries, said he, was none other than Irving Wexler, 58, alias Waxey Gordon, the beefy, slit-eyed top dog of New York City's beer runners in the lush days of Prohibition.

With relish Mayor LaGuardia recited Waxey Gordon's police record—14 arrests under seven aliases, and six jail terms. In 1933, when it was fashionable to convict racketeers for income-tax evasion, Waxey was given ten years. By 1942 Waxey was back, and in tune with the times; he was jailed for a year for running a black market in sugar. When Manhattan's police tapped Worldwide's phones, they were not surprised to hear the enterprising Waxey telling a friend: "I'm now in a swell thing . . . buying Government surplus business."

Cash from Waxey? The committee learned that the company had started in business on $35,000 from a Brooklyn trucker and Sam Lazar, Philadelphia's pinball tycoon. But the committee suspected that the cash actually came from Waxey Gordon and that he ran Worldwide, which had contracted for well over $100,000 in surplus property. The committee thought that the quickest way to find out was to ask Waxey. The committee was wrong.

Nothing for Waxey. Waxey appeared before the committee last week, freshly shaved, neat in an executive's blue suit, a blue tie splotched with yellow. His face was marred by a truculent frown. Waxey denied any financial interest in the two companies; explained carefully that he had no funds, that he had not worked regularly since 1933, that he lived on the kindness of friends. He had good reason to insist on his insolvency—Waxey owes the Government the fabulous sum of $3,000,000 on income-tax frauds, which he is paying off at the rate of $6 a week.

Waxey admitted that he did loaf around the Worldwide offices. He did put in telephone calls for both companies, "five, six, ten or 15 a day," but said he had worked only for Consolidated. When some caller asked him about surplus property he told them whatever he could—but not for pay.

New Mexico's Senator Carl Hatch asked Waxey about one telephone call which had to do with a black-market deal to sell trucks at 25% above ceiling prices. Waxey parried this, like most questions, with "maybe." Senator Hatch snapped: "You don't say no and you don't say yes. You just don't say anything."

"That used to be a nice song," said Waxey, unruffled.

Something for Justice. When Hatch continued to prod, Waxey pounded the table, glared at the Senator and began to ask questions himself. Senator Hatch tried to brush them aside. Waxey shouted: "Don't give me no deviated answers."