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Home > People Index Page > Gangsters
Without Honor
A Mob Informer Says Gangsters Will Do Anything to Get a Good Cigar
by "Richie"
The year was 1989 and the clock was slowly ticking
away my federal sentence at the New York City Metropolitan
Correctional Center (a.k.a. MCC). MCC was a warehouse for bad boys
whose hands had been caught in the cookie jar. My "cookies" were
counterfeit credit cards. I "handmade" thousands of them in my
basement to fill orders placed by the Genovese, Bonanno and Gambino
crime families, who ultimately distributed them through interstate
commerce. At the time of my sentencing, Visa International reported a
loss of $130 million for the year. There is little doubt that the loss
was partially due to my generous impositions on Visa, American Express
and MasterCard.
I treated myself to the advantages of plastic credit
credibility by indulging in fancy cars, racks of clothing, fine wine
and dining, jewelry and the wooing of many women. Only the best! To
toast my skill and success, I reflected upon my "good life" in the
company of countless good cigars...naturally! Oh, those cigars! They
were my subtle declaration of dominance and conquest, my advertisement
of success evident only to the cognoscenti and attentive to the
mystical parlance of rare smoke.
The winds of change were soon to have their way with
my schemes and trappings. When the indictments were handed up, my
"good life" was blown away like so much smoke in the wind. For the
time being, the wine, women and song would have to await my return. I
toughed it out through the court proceedings and found myself in the
unfamiliar surroundings of Terre Haute Federal Penitentiary in
Indiana. Despite being severed from my world, I was still able to
craftily obtain an occasional smoke, for you see, the cigar is a
succor to humanity and an ambassador of good will that knows no
bounds. Even the foreboding and seemingly impenetrable penitentiary
walls are no match for the determined cigar veteran seeking his
fulfillment.
Understand that cigars and the Mob share one of the
great unspoken pacts, which bind men to service for life. The cigar
has conveyed both overt and subliminal statements of power and stature
for many gangsters through the years, including the notorious Alphonse
Capone. Cigars became regular company to those men of power as well as
those seeking their approval and acceptance. The cigar has remained
the standard emblem of Mob power and mystique, a silent smoldering
remembrance of the glory days, an eternal flame.
Through my transfers from facility to facility, I
became acquainted with notorious Mob members whom I had previously
known only through stories and street lore. Within that world of
condemnation and incarceration, I had the great honor of enjoying a
good smoke with many of the men I most revered. Eventually, I landed
in New York City Metropolitan Correctional Center, where I was to work
off the balance of my federal sentence on an honor work cadre.
I was assigned to the enviable task of being barber
to the inmates, among whom were many of the Mob's most powerful,
dangerous members. MCC was the government's depository of choice for
many of those Mob kingpins who had fallen prey to the federal
Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO). The RICO
Act provided a far-reaching tool with which the feds swept the streets
of many mobsters.
Despite their efforts, the feds were unsuccessful at
getting charges to stick on John Gotti, one of the reputed kingpins of
the East Coast's underworld. Jury-tampering was the mechanism that
precipitated the prosecutorial failings, which earned him the name
"the Teflon Don." At the time he had successfully avoided conviction
on RICO charges, which made him the only Mob boss in New York to have
walked out from the MCC. Eventually, the government's relentless
pursuit brought Gotti to justice under a life sentence without
possibility of parole. Gotti's prison bed in Marion, Illinois was
feathered with RICO convictions on heading the Gambino crime family
and ordering five Mob murders, one of which was that of Gambino Boss
Paul "Big Paul" Castellano.
Paul Castellano met his end in a carefully-planned
shower of lead. He was gunned down in front of Sparks Steak House in
Manhattan in December, 1985. This hit, ordered by Gotti, paved the way
for Gotti to take control of the Gambino crime family. John Gotti's
brother, Gene, was also taking a federal broom ride down the bumpy
road. It took seven years of mistrials and hung juries to finally
sweep Gene Gotti and his associate John Carneglia into the MCC dust
bin for a 50-year countdown.
Mob turncoat Salvatore "Sammy Bull" Gravano later
disclosed that Gene Gotti and John Carneglia were the trigger-men for
Castellano's undoing. Those bad boys had some mortal enemies at MCC,
so each was separated to avoid escalating the ongoing Mob war between
families. They were secured under a 23-hour-a-day lockdown in a
special housing unit. Each was permitted one hour of "liberty" time
per day and a bit of extra consideration on "haircut days." Needless
to say, they had fast growing hair and required many haircuts. Of
course, haircuts also meant cigars. During one barbering session, Gene
was lost in a Punch Double Corona when a guard told him that an
attorney had arrived to meet with him about his appeal. Gene barked,
"Tell him to beat it! Can't you see I'm enjoying a cigar and having my
hair cut? Tell him to come back later." I was impressed with Gene's
priorities and the cool composure of a man condemned to 50 years in
prison.
MCC was opened in the mid-'70s and was bursting at
the seams when I arrived in 1989. Organized crime was taking a beating
at the hands of the feds. All those mobsters jailed at MCC made it a
living museum of history. There, the whole cross section of the Mob
was represented: bosses, capos, soldiers and a myriad of
associates. At first I did not realize the responsibility and honor
with which I would be entrusted by those men. A man's relationship
with his barber is personal and requires a great measure of trust,
since the quality and style of one's haircut is an outward statement
of the man himself. Rest assured that I gave some fine haircuts and,
in order to show respect and friendship, I handed out good cigars to
the men who I knew would enjoy them.
My original "seed stock" was a stash of Primo del
Reys, which I carried with me from the Danbury, Connecticut,
Correctional Facility. That "seed stock" quickly ran out, so I
cultured a system of supply and payment amongst a carefully selected
group of prison guards, assuring an uninterrupted supply of
cigars. That underground railroad was a lifeline to the men who were
clamoring for more and more cigars and specialties.
Anthony "Fat Tony" Salerno was the first guy I
supplied with cigars, and when the others heard about it, they wanted
cigars, too. Some were driven by the love of a good smoke; others
wanted cigars simply because of envy: another inmate had "one-up" on
him, and it was a matter of honor to "keep up" with the other
inmates. It was a matter of integrity and status in the prison's
society of powerful men that each lay claim to as much of the limited
booty as possible. The power of being the great giver of smoke and, in
effect, the prison "cigar-store Indian," cultivated their reliance on
me. No longer was I simply the barber. I was the link to outside
supplies and communication.
My duties permitted me to move about the facility
and, because I was known as a Mob guy, I had a green light to go
almost anywhere in the jail. The trust and freedom bestowed upon me
made me a natural for message-carrying and smuggling of
contraband. Countless bottles of "hair tonic" were actually transports
of fine olive oil, vinegar and colognes. My little barber's tool box
moved cookies, olives, Romano, provolone and mozzarella cheeses,
Italian sausage and garlic--the lifeblood of my paisans.
Most Mob guys are model prisoners who just want to do
their time, eat good food and, occassionally, "escape" in the smoke of
a good cigar. The demands on my little service broadened to include
running bets and sports pools, handling cash transactions, messages
and other commerce. The finesse required to keep the boys happy became
a greater aspect of the job as the jealousies and backbiting increased
amongst them. I had to walk a fine line of judicious favoritism
amongst the tangled and conflicting powers.
I was supplying both "Fat Tony" Salerno, the late
boss of the Genovese crime family, and Matty "The Horse" Ianniello, a
capo to Fat Tony. Fat Tony had countless achievements under his
belt that included allegedly masterminding and ordering the death and
disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa. Fat Tony was supposed to have had power
and control over the mechanisms of crime in many major U.S. cities as
well as the crime bosses who called those Salerno satellites their
own. New York was organized crime's hub, and Fat Tony was the axle who
always got the first grease. Fat Tony kept his trademark thick cigars
on duty at all times: H. Upmanns and Partagas.
Matty "The Horse" had a full plate set before him
with New York and New Jersey under his thumb, allegedly controlling
peep shows, the pornography industry, prostitution and bust-out joints
(hybrid go-go bar-gambling joints, which changed business names and
management with the phases of the moon). Matty was ultrapowerful and
also controlled the unions and the loan sharks. His influence was
apparently so widespread that, in the '70s, he was asked by the
U.S. government to lend his help in obtaining information to help
solve the famous Etan Patz kidnapping. Although Patz was not found,
and his kidnappers have eluded detection and capture, Matty was still
given a letter of commendation by the feds for his efforts in the
investigation. That letter was later presented, as testimony to his
character, for early parole on a RICO conviction.
During my stay at MCC, I was reunited with many men
whom I had known during my youth in the streets and homes of the
Mob. I am a product of both the Mob and my own ambition. If a man
wants the respect of the Mob, he first and foremost has to possess his
own unique character and be valuable to the Mob. By an odd twist of
fate, I found a place of honor in the Mob's penitentiary community
and, therefore, in the Mob in general.
When it was known on the streets that I was destined
for MCC, I was asked by friends on the outside to "tell Tony that
so-and-so sends regards," and "tell Fat Tony I said hello." Needless
to say, armed with well wishes and some plump, fresh Primo del Reys, I
made my way up to shake Fat Tony's big paw. His fearsome, captivating
eyes and air of dominance melted into the joy of a kid in a candy
store when he lit, and thoughtfully puffed, that fine, fat cigar. His
ear-to-ear grin told me we now had a bond, and I had a new obligation
to fulfill. The guards didn't dare stand between a mobster and his
cigars. To excuse the failure of duty, the guards figured, "what the
heck, it's not like a knife or a gun. What trouble can a couple of
cigars cause?" What a question that was. If they had only known.
The procurement of goods for the boys, and in
particular, tending to personal preferences for cigars, often became
quite a chore. One time I was approached by Fat Tony's driver,
Carmine, who wanted me to get him some cologne. I placed the order to
the outside right away; I didn't like to keep the guys waiting. When
the cologne arrived and made its way to me, I paid for it out of my
own pocket the way I did for much of the goods. Carmine happily took
the delivery, and the next time I bumped into him, he asked for
another bottle. I smelled a rat right through the French whore
fragrance and said, "hey Carmine, what are you doing, taking a bath in
that stuff?" Carmine got cocky and barked, "hey, a guy's gotta smell
good for his visits, ya know? What's the big deal? Can ya get another
bottle or what?" Carmine was disrespectful to me. I am a generous guy
who won't be used, so Carmine's not smelling so sweet anymore.
By now I had orders from Matty "The Horse" for some
imported cheese, pepperoni, olive oil and vinegar. Fat Tony wanted
some H. Upmanns; another wanted cologne, a radio for this one,
scissors for that one and there was always a dozen or two messages to
deliver. It was getting to be like a real full-time job. At times,
elaborate schemes were required to get the goods from the outside to
the inside, and even simple schemes can go awry.
The problems magnify when wise guys on the street
stick their big schnozzes in where they don't belong. I recall one
time that Fat Tony wanted some boxer shorts and a special box of
Davidoffs, which was "specially procured." I made the plans and told
Carmine what to do. Carmine told his visiting friend how to get the
cigars, which boxer shorts to buy and that he wanted a bottle of
cologne to be put in for himself. As I had directed, the package was
marked for football (my friend Anthony "Football"). The package was
dropped as planned at the notorious Holiday Bar, a watering hole on
Madison Street in Manhattan's Lower East Side, which has hosted a
number of murders.
The Holiday Bar was a favorite hangout of Mob guys,
neighborhood guys, gangster wannabes and newspapermen. Because the
Holiday was only three blocks from MCC, it was convenient to the guard
who was to pick up the package and relay it to me. On the day that the
package was expected, I was on my usual rounds when Carmine asked,
"so, you got the package?" I replied, "No Moe, the guard said it
wasn't there. What's going on?" Carmine was looking very red and
agitated by now and he spit out, "look that box of cigars cost $250
and Tony's underwear and my cologne was supposed to be there, too!"
The tension was rising, so I phoned the Holiday
Bar. The barmaid answered and replied, "oh yeah, that package was
dropped off for Football, but Jerry Chilli took it." Now my head was
spinning. I phoned Football and asked him to check and find out if
Jerry Chilli still had the goods. He said, "You gotta be crazy to ask
for those cigars back."
Understand about Jerry Chilli; he reputedly has his
own family within the great Bonanno crime organization. They're known
in law-enforcement circles as the Chili Crew. The Bonanno family
controlled the Fulton Fish Market and were into all aspects of
organized crime. They were the smallest of the five New York crime
families and were considered, by the other four, to be outlaws and
cowboys.
Those labels were applied for good reason. You see,
Philly "Rusty" Rastelli, a Bonanno capo and cigarette diehard
who occasionally smoked a cigar, allegedly ordered a power-move hit on
his own Don, the boss of the Bonanno family, Carmine "Lilo"
Galante. The job was to be done by Anthony "Bruno" Indelicato, a
faithful Avanti smoker, with the help of a few associates. Galante was
enjoying a late lunch in the courtyard beyond Joe and Mary's
restaurant in Brooklyn. He had just lit up what looked to be a
Presidente, a big power-and-prestige smoke befitting of the man's
stature, and that's when the hit came down. Right after his bodyguards
excused themselves to "powder their noses," in stepped Bruno and
company and the lead let loose. Carmine "Lilo" Galante was found
slumped in his chair, faithfully and peacefully smoldering
away. Carmine Galante had checked out in style--a quick finish with
his smoke still intact.
Through my dealings with a crooked New York City cop,
associated with the famous "Prince of the City" case, which was
prosecuted by the Knapp Commission, I had become a known associate of
the Chili Crew.
In 1983 I was introduced to Jerry Chilli. I walked
into the restaurant where Jerry was holding court over an assembly of
knockaround guys (associates from the neighborhood). The scene was
absolutely "Hollywood"--a movielike atmosphere. Jerry was nursing a
snifter of Remy Martin while he poked and prodded the air with his fat
Te-Amo Churchill, conducting the events. After all, Jerry wrote the
score, so it was only appropriate that he orchestrated it as
well. Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea" played in the background, and the
aroma of the Churchill wafted about while the volatile Jerry Chilli
imposed a mandate, in gruff gangster fashion, through a veil of blue
smoke. It was reminiscent of the "old days."
Chilli held his audience within his power, and using
his fuming cigar like a hypnotist's watch, he mesmerized them. As if
conducting the Philharmonic, Jerry gave the cue to each man in turn
that he might have his say. While the allowed one spoke, no other
dared open his mouth.
Jerry was ruthless and a businessman through and
through: even his own son-in-law, Constable "Gus" Faracci, was
reportedly disposed of when business required. Chilli's daughter was
convicted of harboring Faracci, who was wanted for the murder of
Everett Hatcher, a U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency undercover agent. The
massive manhunt for Faracci put the heat on the Mob, so they had him
executed Mob-style on the streets of Brooklyn.
Joe Chilli, Jerry's son, also a Bonanno soldier, was
gunned down in a Manhattan parking garage along with the stepson of
"Lefty Guns" Ruggiero, another Bonanno family member. Lefty Guns'
claim to fame was his making the mistake of introducing an undercover
FBI agent named Joe Pistone, a.k.a. Donny Brascoe, into the Bonanno
family. Lefty briefly joined the boys at MCC, regularly enjoying my
haircuts and an occasional Don Diego. Donny Brascoe's seven-year
infiltration of the Mob resulted in, among other indictments, the
conviction of Lefty Guns for 20 years.
It is said that Jerry Chilli once asked his son, Joe,
what he wanted to do with his life. Joe's reply was, "I want to be
just like you, with the power and the grand lifestyle." So that Joe
might prove his convictions, the story goes, Jerry handed him a gun
and had him kill a man on the spot. Jerry also never paid for anything
and lived by the motto, "only suckers pay."
This is what I was up against in recovering Fat
Tony's package. How do I tell Carmine, Fat Tony's driver, that Jerry
Chilli stole Tony's $250 box of cigars and was walking around smoking
them, while wearing Tony's boxer shorts, and dousing himself with
Carmine's cologne. Such behavior was typical of Chilli, an overt
statement of indignation, a maniacal display of dominance, like a
Bantam rooster in the Mob barnyard.
I could do the easy thing and replace the goods, but
that would be a sign of weakness. I had to be diplomatic, so I went to
talk with Matty "The Horse". While I tactfully explained the
situation, I also pointed out that Carmine, the hothead, was
threatening to have Jerry killed over this. After relating the whole
story to Matty, he quickly gave it consideration and doled out the
advice, "Ya know, these young, hotheaded guys, they still don't get
it. The pie was baked and eaten long ago; all that's left now is the
crumbs. Forget about this life."
At that point Matty threw his arms up and said, "See,
kid, there's no honor among the Mob. Not even when it comes to a box
of cigars."
"Richie" has become part of the Federal Witness
Protection Program. He has been a key federal-government witness
against organized-crime figures.
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