As our visiting time nears an end, Sully and I have our picture taken. It’s part of the visiting ritual: Girlfriends, wives, brothers, and other visitors stand in front of a fake background—a wide-open sky and trees, or some other nature scene that will never exist in reality within the prison walls. Sullivan and I lean in close together as a prison guard, for the price of two dollars per photo, snaps our picture with a Polaroid camera.
As we are waiting for the photo to develop, I mention to Sully that I’m currently working on a magazine article about some armed robbers who used state-of-the-art synthetic masks to disguise themselves while robbing a check-cashing store in Queens. I tell him, “Two black guys pulled off a couple of robberies disguised as white cops. That’s how good these masks are. You can completely alter your identity.”
I see Sully’s eyes lighting up. He’s like a cocaine addict who hasn’t done blow in thirty years when someone just placed a bowl of coke in front of him.
“Hey,” he says, “do you think they could make one of those masks according to specifications? Like, if I gave them a photo of someone, say, a guard in here, could they make a mask that looked like that?”
I smile, because I know where this is headed. “I don’t know, Sully. Maybe they could.”
We’re both smiling now. Riffing. It is a lark—a fantasy—that Sullivan, age seventy-four, down to one cancer-infested lung, could pull off one last glorious escape.
“How would I get it in here?” I ask.
“You fold it up and stuff it down the front of your pants, in your crotch area. You could get by security with that.”
I nod. Yeah, maybe I could.
“You pass it to me here in the visiting room. I’ll take it into the bathroom. I can get a guard’s uniform. I’d put on that mask and walk right out of here. They’d think I was a guard.”
Sully says all this with a twinkle in his eye. We both know that, although I write about criminals in books and magazine articles, and attempt to do so with knowledge and even a certain degree of intimacy, I am, after all, a civilian. I am not going to help Mad Dog Sullivan break out of prison.
I chuckle and say, “Okay, Sully, I’ll check and see if they can make that mask.”
“Yeah,” he says, “would you do that?”
Visiting time is over. There is a common practice for both visitor and inmate as a visit comes to an end: The inmate is escorted by a guard to a door on one side of the room, and the visitor is also escorted by a another guard to different door on the other side of the room. Visitor and inmate, knowing they will not see each other for months or years or maybe ever again, watch each other being led from the room, wanting to get one last look at their friend or loved one.
I shout across the room, “Take care, Sully. And stay out of trouble.”
Sully gives me a pumped-fist salute. He knows what I mean. Nearly on his death bed with lung cancer, bowed but unbroken, I watch him disappear through the electronic, steel-plated door, a twinkle in his eye, a smile on his face, visions of escape dancing in his head.
Acknowledgments
This book represents more than two decades’ worth of labor, all of it enabled and supported by contacts in “the field”; by editors and their staffs in the magazine, newspaper, and webzine trades; and by fellow journalists and friends who helped usher these articles from the proposal stage to published/posted reality. It is impossible to name them all. Some contributors have been lost to memory. Nonetheless, I have attempted to reassemble a list of those who played a role, either through professional obligation or personal generosity, in these articles having originally appeared in some of the best periodicals in the country.
You will notice that many of the pieces in this collection were first published in Playboy magazine. That is no accident. Over half a century, Playboy has been a tremendous supporter of quality journalism, especially crime journalism. I am particularly indebted to two former Playboy editors, Peter Moore and Chris Napolitano, who helped conceive and line edit some of the most complex and lengthy pieces in this collection. I also owe much respect to Hugh Hefner. Although we have never met, I tip my hat to Hefner for having created such a valuable forum for good work; for commissioning the best writers and paying them accordingly; and for being a tireless advocate for First Amendment rights, civil liberties, and courageous reporting.
The following acknowledgments are organized into sections, according to the particular piece for which an individual made a vital contribution.
Introduction and Part I: Bullet in the Ass
Special thanks to Gail Sullivan and Kelly Sullivan for facilitating my time with Joe Sullivan; to the late Mike McNickle, who worked with me as a research assistant on many of the earliest pieces in this collection; to Laurie Gunst, who graciously led me to many key sources in Jamaica and in Brooklyn; to Flo O’Connor at the Jamaican Council on Human Rights in Kingston; and to Steven Wong, who for many years served as my dai lo, or big brother, in New York City’s Chinatown, and who also led me to many key sources in Hong Kong, the city of his birth.
Part II: American Dream, American Nightmare
Thanks to the late Bob Callahan, who introduced me to the Mitchell brothers; to Susie Bright, renowned author and “sexpert,” who helped me understand the world of adult entertainment; and Tom Caldarola, a longtime friend who remains my “go-to” person in San Francisco. Thanks to the Chinese Staff and Workers’ Association in New York’s Chinatown for their assistance and for their tireless advocacy on behalf of Asian immigrants in the United States; to legendary civil-rights attorney Myron Beldock, who first helped me track down George Whitmore; to Regina Whitmore, George Whitmore’s beloved daughter; to Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and friend Jim Dwyer; and to Sewell Chan, deputy Op-Ed editor at the New York Times.
Part III: Narco Wars, at Home and Abroad
As a magazine writer in pursuit of a story, often I have found myself at the mercy of local reporters. Few were more gracious than John Caniglia of the Cleveland Plain Dealer, who shared sources and contact information on the Lee Lucas story. Also helpful in Cleveland were attorneys John McCaffrey and James Owen. Special thanks to Geneva France in Mansfield, who suffered a grave injustice at the hands of the criminal justice system in the Northern District of Ohio, and who remains a friend.
My investigations in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, were aided by a host of people across the border in El Paso, Texas. Special thanks to Valentin Sandoval, a well-connected filmmaker and poet who led me to contacts in Juárez and El Paso; to the lovely Valerie Anne Garcia, who kept me safe and sound at the Holiday Inn Express in downtown El Paso; to Howard Campbell, a professor at the University of Texas at El Paso and a highly knowledgeable source on the effects of the narco war in the borderland region; and to Carlos Spector, a civil rights attorney who continues to do essential work on behalf of Mexican immigrants and others whose lives have been thrown into chaos by the narco war.
Part IV: The Bulger Chronicles
I have been covering the Whitey Bulger beat for years and am greatly indebted to local reporters in Boston who have been on the front lines of this story, most notably Shelley Murphy and Kevin Cullen of the Boston Globe. For leading me to important sources; helping with logistics and the cultivation of contacts in Boston; and helping me to understand important details about the Bulger era, I would like to thank the following people: Pat Nee, Kevin Weeks, Jimmy Martorano, John Martorano, Marilyn Di Silva, Tommy Lyons, Paul Griffin, retired FBI agent Robert Fitzpatrick, Steve Davis, Richard Stratton, Sharon Branco, John Connolly, Jim Connolly, the late Teresa Stanley, and lawyer and author Harvey Silverglate. Special thanks also to Jim Carmody, manager at the Seaport Boston Hotel, and Lucas Whitmann, editor at Newsweek/Daily Beast.
Special thanks to Joel Millman, a friend and highly skilled reporter at the Wall Street Journal, for serving as a welcome sounding board over the years. And to Sophia Banda, friend, confidant, and sometimes personal assistant, who has been and remains a ray of sunshine in
my life. And, as always, to my longtime agent Nat Sobel and his crew at Sobel Weber Associates, Inc., who were instrumental in making sure this book found its proper home.
Finally, muchas gracias to legendary publisher Otto Penzler at MysteriousPress.com, who is responsible for getting this book into print and published as an ebook in record time. Having presided over the genre of crime writing—both fiction and nonfiction—as a publisher for nearly forty years, Penzler knows the terrain. And he and his new partners at Open Road Media have established themselves as skillful practitioners at the commingling—and transition—of books from the printed page to electronic formats.
Mostly, I am grateful to the Spirit that put me on this path, and am thankful for the confluence of circumstances that have made it possible for me to make a living doing what gives me the most fulfillment: investigating subjects that engage my head and my heart, and writing stories for the entertainment and edification of those who revere the written word.
The Westies
Inside New York’s Irish Mob
For John Patrick English.
Wherever he might be.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Contrary to popular opinion, no book—especially a first book by a novice author—is compiled in isolation. For their assistance I would like to thank my friend and colleague Bob Callahan, who got the project rolling in the first place, and my agent, Barbara Lowenstein. Gale Dick provided invaluable help with the historical research, and my brother, Terry English, formerly a Green Beret captain in Vietnam, showed me how to read often cryptic military records. I’d also like to thank my longtime friend and fellow journalist Frank “the Crusher” Kuznik, who provided the encouragement and criticism any writer needs to slog his or her way through the muck; and Lisa Wager, my editor, who wasn’t afraid to take the manuscript into a back room and slap it around a bit. I’m also indebted to William Urshal, Tom Dunne, and Michael Daly for their contributions.
There are hundreds of lawyers, cops, gangsters, and neighborhood people from the West Side of Manhattan whom I could thank. At the risk of leaving someone out (or, given the subject matter of the book, naming someone who would rather remain anonymous), I’ll offer a blanket “thank you” to all—you know who you are. I would be remiss, however, if I didn’t offer special thanks to Lawrence Schoenbach, Esq., Richie Egan, and everyone at the law firm of Hochheiser and Aronson.
Finally, I’d like to thank Francis and Marcelle Featherstone for staying in touch as long as they could.
1.–Church of the Sacred Heart, 457 West 51st Street (between 9th and 10th Avenue): Michael “Mickey” Spillane marries Maureen McManus, August 27, 1960; Billy Bokun marries Carol Collins, Flo and Tommy’s daughter, May 26, 1985.
2.–The White House Bar, 637 10th Avenue (at 45th Street), extinct, now the site of the Tenth Avenue Jukebox Cafe: Mickey Spillane’s place.
3.–501½ West 43rd Street (between 10th and 11th Avenue): Mickey Featherstone’s childhood home.
4.–The Market Diner, 572 11th Avenue (at 43rd Street).
5.–The Sunbrite, 736 10th Avenue (between 50th and 51st Street), extinct, now the site of Robert’s Restaurant.
6.–Sonny’s Cafe, 678 9th Avenue (between 46th and 47th Street), extinct, now the site of Midtown Bicycles: Mickey Featherstone gets a handgun from Jimmy Coonan to use at the Leprechaun Bar, September 30, 1970.
7.–The Leprechaun Bar, 608 9th Avenue (between 43rd and 44th Street), extinct, now the site of the Sea Palace.
8.–The 596 Club, 596 10th Avenue (at 43rd Street), extinct, now the site of J. T. Hudson’s Restaurant: Jimmy Coonan’s bar from 1972–79.
9.–444 West 48th Street (between 9th and 10th Avenue): Home of Denis Curley.
10.–452 West 50th Street (between 9th and 10th Avenue): Flophouse apartment shared by Billy Beattie and Paddy Dugan, among others.
11.–442 West 50th Street (between 9th and 10th Avenue): 1975 home of Alberta Sachs, Jimmy Coonan’s thirteen-year-old niece.
12.–Amy’s Pub, 856 9th Avenue (between 55th and 56th Street): Mickey Featherstone meets Sissy, December 1975.
13.–The Stoplight, 875 10th Avenue (at 57th Street), extinct, now the site of Armstrong’s Saloon: Michael Holly’s bar.
14.–Tom’s Pub, 854 9th Avenue (between 55th and 56th Street): Coonan and Featherstone pick up Rickey Tassiello, January 18, 1978.
15.–747 10th Avenue (at 51st Street): Tony Lucich’s apartment.
16.–New York Central Railroad tracks, 49th Street between 10th and 11th Avenue: Site of police diggings, October 1978.
17.–434 West 49th Street (between 9th and 10th Avenue): Jimmy Coonan’s childhood home.
18.–International Longshoremen’s Association Headquarters, 12th Avenue at 48th Street; Vincent Leone’s office.
19.–The Landmark Tavern, 11th Avenue at 46th Street: Coonan and Featherstone shake down ILA official John Potter, November 1978.
20.–Fran’s Card Shop, 746 9th Avenue (between 50th and 51st Street), extinct, now the site of Carewell Pharmacy: Card shop was run by Fran, Tony Lucich’s wife; drop site for some of Coonan’s loanshark payments.
21.–Westway Candy Store, 827 10th Avenue (between 54th and 55th Street), extinct, now the site of Oscar’s Deli and Grocery.
22.–520 West 56th Street (between 10th and 11th Avenue), Apartment 15B: Mickey and Sissy’s home in Hell’s Kitchen.
23.–Manhattan Plaza, 400 West 43rd Street (at 10th Avenue): Henry Diaz’s corpse thrown from a window, January 1981.
24.–Clinton Towers, 790 11th Avenue (between 54th and 55th Street): Jimmy McElroy and Tommy and Flo Collins’s apartment building.
25.–The Madison Diner, 600 West 57th Street (at 11th Avenue): ILA officials John Potter and Tommy Ryan meet with Featherstone, McElroy, and Kevin Kelly, March 1984.
26.–35th Street, between 10th and 11th Avenue: Michael Holly killed, April 25, 1985.
27.–Erie Transfer Co., 624 West 52nd Street (between 11th and 12th Avenue): Featherstone’s place of employment 1984–85.
28.–Carpenters Local 608, 1650 Broadway (entrance on 51st Street): John O’Connor shot as he enters an elevator, May 7, 1986.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part I
1: The Ghosts of Hell’s Kitchen
2: Last of a Dying Breed
3: Jimmy Sows His Oats
4: Mickey
5: Poetic Justice
Part II
6: No Corpus Delicti, No Investigation
7: Doin’ Business
8: West Side Story
9: Linguini and Clam Sauce
10: Having a Drink on Whitey
11: The Feds and Little Al Capone
12: The Westies, Once and for All
Part III
13: Bad Blood
14: Betrayal
15: In the Interest of Justice
16: Mickey’s New Friends
17: What Goes Around, Comes Around
Epilogue
Afterword
Author’s Note
What follows is a work of nonfiction. The events described are true and the characters are real.
While much of the dialogue in the book is taken directly from court transcripts, legal wiretaps, and electronic eavesdropping devices, in many cases it was based on interviews with the actual participants. It should be recognized that trial testimony and interviews sometimes produce conflicting versions of events. Where such conflict exists in testimony or recollection, the author has sought to provide a version of the facts which is in his opinion the most plausible. In addition, certain scenes have been dramatically re-created and in some cases a series of meetings or events condensed to provide narrative clarity.
“Good morning, gentlemen.… Nice day for a murder.”
—Jimmy Cagney as Rocky Sullivan
in Angels with Dirty Faces
PROLOGUE
At approximately 6:30 A.M. on the morning of November 4, 1987, Fran
cis Thomas “Mickey” Featherstone awoke in a cold sweat. He tossed and turned in his bed, then sat upright. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. His heart was pounding and his eyes stinging as he peered into the surrounding darkness. Slowly, he was able to make out the familiar stone walls, the grungy toilet, the overhead bunkbed, and the forbidding metal door of his cell. Featherstone let out a sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his brow with an already soaked bedsheet. Thank God, he said to himself, it’s only prison.
Featherstone’s night had been filled with bad dreams. He remembered seeing hundreds of human hands, pale and disembodied, reaching through the bars of a dingy prison cell. Then he saw himself on the floor of what looked like a hotel room, his wrists and ankles bound together with wire. He was surrounded by four or five conservatively dressed people—professional people. One of them, a man, put a gun to Featherstone’s head and pulled the trigger. He felt the pain, saw the blood spurt past his eyes. Then he woke up.
Over the course of his often troubled thirty-nine years, Featherstone had grown accustomed to nightmares like this. But it had been a while since he’d seen the images so clearly. Not since the early 1970s anyway, when, after returning from a stint in Vietnam, his near sleepless nights were frequently filled with severed body parts, glistening blood, and the sounds of incoming fire. Over the years he’d talked to many psychiatrists about these dreams and they all told him the same thing. “Post-traumatic stress syndrome,” they called it, using the popular post-Vietnam euphemism for battle fatigue.
As the years wore on and Featherstone gained distance from his war memories, the bad dreams subsided. More recent psychiatric evaluations gave him a clean bill of health. The nightmares would recur only if he were to engage in an “anxiety-inducing undertaking,” according to a psychiatrist he’d seen just weeks earlier.
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