If you want to understand the real Chicago Outfit, forget the movies. Forget the flashy suits and the public shootouts you see on TV. Honestly, the most powerful man to ever run Chicago—and maybe the most successful mobster in American history—was a guy who loved fishing, stayed married to the same woman for 58 years, and lived to the ripe old age of 86 without ever spending a single night in a prison cell.
His name was Tony Accardo, but you probably know him by one of his two legendary nicknames: Joe Batters or Big Tuna.
Most people think Al Capone was the peak of the Chicago underworld. Wrong. Capone was the loud, flashy opening act who burned out in his thirties. Tony Accardo was the long-running Broadway show that lasted eight decades. He was the "Genuine Godfather," the man who took Capone's messy, violent street gang and turned it into a cold, efficient corporate machine that controlled everything from Las Vegas casinos to the guys who fixed your neighborhood's vending machines.
Why They Called Him Joe Batters
You’ve gotta wonder how a guy gets a name like "Joe Batters." It sounds kinda sporty, right? Like he was a great baseball player?
Well, not exactly.
The story goes that back in the late 1920s, Al Capone found out three of his guys—John Scalise, Albert Anselmi, and Joseph Giunta—were planning to betray him. Capone invited them to a massive, multi-course Italian dinner. He toasted them, fed them, and then, according to underworld lore, he and his young bodyguard, Tony Accardo, pulled out baseball bats.
They didn't just beat them; they pulverized them right there at the dinner table.
After witnessing the young Accardo’s "work," Capone reportedly leaned over and said, "This kid is a real Joe Batters." The name stuck. It was a badge of honor in a world where violence was the primary currency. Even as an old man, Accardo was a guy you didn't want to cross.
Later on, the press gave him a much friendlier name: Big Tuna. In 1939, Accardo went fishing in Nova Scotia and hauled in a 400-pound tuna. A photographer caught a shot of him with the massive fish, and the Chicago papers loved it. Accardo actually liked the "Big Tuna" moniker better—it sounded less like a murderer and more like a successful businessman who enjoyed the great outdoors. He even had a wooden cane with a fish carved into the handle.
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The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre and the Rise to Power
Accardo wasn't just some muscle-bound thug. He was smart. He was one of the gunmen—allegedly—in the 1929 St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. While he was never convicted, many FBI historians, including the famous William F. Roemer Jr., believe Accardo was one of the men dressed as police officers who lined up the Bugs Moran gang against a garage wall and opened fire.
By the time he was 25, he was number seven on Chicago’s "Public Enemy" list.
But Accardo’s real genius was his ability to adapt. When Capone went away for tax evasion in 1931, the Outfit went through a series of leaders. Frank Nitti took over, then Paul "The Waiter" Ricca. But it was the partnership between Ricca and Accardo that really changed the game.
They realized that the "Capone way"—shootings in broad daylight and bribing every single cop on the street—was attracting too much heat from the feds.
A Shift in Strategy
Accardo pushed the Outfit into "cleaner" rackets. They took over labor unions, moved into the wire services that controlled gambling odds, and started "skimming" money from the massive new casinos being built in Las Vegas. Basically, if a slot machine took a nickel in a Vegas hotel, a fraction of that nickel eventually made its way back to Tony Accardo’s basement in Chicago.
Under his watch, the Outfit became a "silent partner" in the American dream.
He stayed in the background. He lived in a massive, 22-room mansion in River Forest, Illinois, but he didn't flaunt it like a rapper or a Hollywood star. He was a family man. He and his wife Clarice adopted children and raised them in a strict, suburban environment. If you lived next door to him, you’d probably just think he was a wealthy, somewhat grumpy retired executive.
The Man Behind the "Front Bosses"
One of Accardo's most brilliant moves was the creation of the "Front Boss." By the 1950s, the FBI was finally starting to wake up to the existence of the Mafia. Accardo didn't want to be the one answering questions in front of Congress.
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So, he "retired."
He promoted Sam "Momo" Giancana to be the public face of the Chicago Outfit. While Giancana was out hanging with Frank Sinatra, dating famous singers, and allegedly plotting with the CIA to kill Fidel Castro, Accardo was the one really pulling the strings from the shadows.
Giancana loved the spotlight. Accardo hated it.
Eventually, Giancana became a liability. He was too loud, too flashy, and he wasn't sharing enough of the profits. In 1975, Giancana was found dead in his basement, shot seven times while he was frying sausage and peppers. He had been scheduled to testify before a Senate committee. Most people in the know say Accardo was the one who signed the death warrant. He didn't care about friendship; he cared about the "business."
The Burglary That Sealed His Reputation
If you want to know just how scary Tony Accardo was, look no further than the 1978 burglary of his home.
Accardo was on vacation in California when a crew of professional burglars broke into his River Forest house. They didn't know whose house it was—or maybe they did and thought they were untouchable. They stole jewelry and some personal items.
It was the last mistake they ever made.
Within weeks, everyone involved in that burglary—and even some people who were just suspected of being involved—started turning up dead. They weren't just shot; they were tortured. Necks were slit, bodies were dumped in trunks. It was a bloodbath that sent a clear message: You do not touch the Big Tuna.
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Accardo never faced a single charge for those murders.
Why the "Big Tuna" Still Matters Today
It's rare for a mob boss to die of natural causes in his own bed. Most end up like Giancana or die behind bars like John Gotti. Accardo was different. He was the "CEO of Crime." He understood that power isn't about being the loudest person in the room; it’s about being the most necessary.
He was the last link to the Prohibition era. When he died in 1992, the director of the Chicago Crime Commission said it was "the end of an era." And he was right.
Today, his legacy lives on in weird ways. If you're a football fan, you might know his great-grandsons, Nick and Joey Bosa. Their grandfather, Eric Kumerow, married Accardo's daughter. It’s a strange footnote in sports history, but it shows how the Accardo family transitioned from the underworld into the American mainstream.
Lessons from the Life of Tony Accardo
So, what can we actually learn from a guy like this? Aside from "don't rob a mobster's house," there are a few real-world takeaways about how he operated:
- Insulation is everything. Accardo survived because he put layers between himself and the crimes. He used "front bosses" and gave orders through intermediaries. In business, this is called delegation; in the mob, it's called survival.
- Adapt or die. When Prohibition ended, Accardo didn't keep trying to sell illegal booze. He moved into gambling and labor unions. He saw where the money was moving and got there first.
- Silence is power. Accardo appeared before the Senate and invoked his Fifth Amendment rights over 172 times. He didn't talk. He didn't boast. He didn't write a "tell-all" book.
- Loyalty isn't a suggestion. He rewarded those who stayed quiet and dealt ruthlessly with those who didn't.
To dig deeper into the history of the Chicago Outfit, check out the Chicago Crime Commission records or read "Accardo: The Genuine Godfather" by William Roemer. It’s probably the most accurate account of how this one man managed to stay at the top of the food chain for half a century without ever wearing a set of handcuffs for more than a few hours.
If you’re researching the history of organized crime in the Midwest, start by mapping out the timeline of the Outfit’s transition from Al Capone to the Ricca-Accardo era. Look specifically at the Kefauver Committee hearings of the 1950s to see how Accardo handled federal pressure compared to his more hot-headed peers.