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Spirit of Capone lives on in Mobtown, Illinois

Mayor's $12m scam follows in footsteps of Scarface, Baldy and the Big Tuna

Al Capone marched into the Chicago suburb of Cicero on election day, seeking a safe refuge after Chicago itself had been taken over by a reformist zealot of a mayor.

In Cicero, Capone put up his own candidate, and his men canvassed voters at gunpoint to make sure there was no mistake. After new mayor Joseph Klenha was duly elected, he gave a brief display of independent spirit, which ended when Capone kicked him down the steps of city hall.

That was 1924. Ancient history? Not exactly. This week, the most recent incumbent of mayor Klenha's uneasy chair, Betty Loren-Maltese, is on bail awaiting sentence after being convicted of helping to steal $12m (£7.8m) of Cicero's civic funds in a Mafia-linked scam. She now faces eight to 12 years in jail.

It is the latest instalment of a 78-year saga that has led to Cicero (pop: 85,000) holding in perpetuity, without serious dissent and even with a hint of civic pride, the undisputed title of most corrupt city in north America.

But is the reign over? "The Cicero candy store is closed," announced Kathleen McChesney, local head of the FBI when Loren-Maltese was indicted.

"It's a nice thought," says David Boyle, a lawyer who has been campaigning to change the culture of Cicero. "But there are about 12 candy stores round here, and they've only closed down one of them."

Anyway, Cicero has always worked on the theory that if candy is dandy, then liquor, sex and gambling make money a lot quicker. Since Capone, the town has reputedly been run by a succession of interesting characters including Frank "The Enforcer" Nitti and Tony "Big Tuna" Accardo, up to and including the jailed mob boss Rocco Infelice, who some believe still runs the town from his cell, and Michael Spano, convicted along with Loren-Maltese.

From Capone's era until recently, Cicero was notorious for its all-night bars, gambling joints and brothels: "the walled city of the syndicate", one frustrated prosecutor called it. But there were thousands of industrial jobs around. "The place was hopping," Mr Boyle recalled. "Who cared if the mob were here?"

Not the local cops, who once handed out parking tickets to Chicago enforcers while they were raiding a gambling den. Nor the local politicians. Though the outward face of Cicero is more respectable now, the evidence at Loren-Maltese's trial suggested its inner workings have changed very little.

The scam was particularly brazen since it involved siphoning off the municipal employees' health insurance into a fake company. It was bound to be discovered once, as duly happened, a retired city worker found herself unable to pay for chemotherapy and the children of cops were refused treatment by dentists. "Even then," said David Boyle, "none of the cops had the balls to testify."

Much of the stolen money was frittered away on a failed scheme to build a casino in a particularly remote and unpromising part of Wisconsin.

No one disputes that Loren-Maltese, who rejoiced in the grand title of "town president" rather than mayor, has Mafia connections. Her late husband, Frank "Baldy" Maltese, pulled strings to get her the job shortly before he died, just before he was due to be jailed on racketeering charges.

But the voters elected her twice. And at a town meeting this week, one of her neighbours and supporters, Sharon Starzyk, was loudly cheered for a rousing defence of the fallen leader. "Until Betty came in, this town was unbelievable. She cleaned up the streets, she cleaned up the gangs, she made our town beautiful. Give her some credit!"

Ms Starzyk says Loren-Maltese was actually investigating the fraud, not perpetrating it. "It's guilt by association," she insists. And madam president undoubtedly still has strong support, especially from senior citizens who benefit from generous deals to have their houses painted and their lawns mown. The town is certainly less lurid, though most informed judges attribute that to changing Mafia priorities and public tastes rather than crusading zeal from the municipality.

Opponents also claim the deals for the old folks are only available to reliable supporters of the party machine - which, unusually for an American city, is a Republican one. And the secret ballot is still only a rumour in Cicero: at party primaries, voters have to declare their party affiliation out loud before being given a ballot paper.

In theory, the town should have turned upside down by now. In Capone's time, most Ciceronians were Czech migrants, grateful to the gangsters for supplying them with beer, which the government had foolishly made illegal. Now the overwhelming majority are Mexicans. But they have yet to seize political power: some are here illegally and most prefer to keep their heads down.

They live generally in unpretentious bungalows on pleasantly shady streets. So does Loren-Maltese, in a small and dreary brick place behind a privet hedge and a God Bless America sign. She is not a great advert for the wages of sin. At 3pm she was in a dressing gown, sniffling and looking a long way from being a Mafia mastermind, when she came to the front door and then politely closed it again.

Much of Cicero seems at least to sympathise with her, though, except for David Boyle, who had his garage blown up in the 1980s, but most prefer not to have their thoughts attributed.

"It's an OK place," said an elderly resident called Jenny, "but there's a lot of creeps about, if you know what I mean." And even Ms Starzyk admits: "We've always been Mobtown."

Cicero did try to rebrand itself recently as the birthplace of Ernest Hemingway, but that has the small disadvantage of not actually being quite true.

Maybe the next town president might consider a new motto instead. Perhaps silent enim leges inter arma (law stands mute in the midst of arms) or maybe just cui bono? (roughly, "Who gets the loot?") Who said those? Cicero, actually.

The real bosses of Cicero

Al "Scarface" Capone was born in Brooklyn in 1899 to Neapolitan immigrants. Rose to power in organisation run by Johnny Torrio. When Torrio retired, Capone became king of the Chicago mob in his mid-20s.

Moved to Cicero and ran the town and Chicago rackets from Hawthorn Hotel, where he shot three gunmen for disloyalty in 1929. Finally arrested for tax evasion and sentenced to 11 years in jail in 1932. Syphilis spread to his brain and he died in 1947. Alleged to have ordered the deaths of more than 500 people.

Frank "The Enforcer" Nitti was head of Capone's machine-gun squad, then his treasurer. After Capone was jailed Nitti took over until he too faced tax charges in 1944 and jumped under a train.

Tony "Big Tuna" Accardo was fond of fishing, hence the name. Also called Joe Batters or Joe Batty, due to skill with a baseball bat in situations not involving a ball. Boss of the Chicago gang after Nitti's death, and again after the flight to Mexico of ...

Sam "Momo" Giancana, Chicago boss from 1957 to 1966. Considered the most ruthless Mafia killer in US. Shot dead while frying sausages.

Jospeh "Doves" Aiuppa started as Capone's bodyguard and was reputedly boss of Cicero into the 70s. Arrested for illegal interstate transport of mourning doves.

Main sources: Bloodletters and Badmen by Jay Robert Nash (Evans, New York); Chicago Tribune.

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