“I gotta tell ya, this is the best restaurant I ever ate in, and I thank you very much.”
After he left the restaurant, the cops stormed in and grilled the owner.
“We know you were paying him money. What did he say to you?”
“He told me I had good food.”
Because of my dad, whenever I leave a hotel room, I keep the lights on, turn up the television, and on my way out of my room, I always say, “See you guys later.”
Although he loved and owned a lot of automobiles, my father drove Fords and Chevys instead of Mercedeses, and he expected the same of his associates. In his eyes, a top-of-the-line Chevy, Ford, or Buick was preferable to a Mercedes or Cadillac. It was a matter of perception.
His other rules included mixing up the meeting and collection locations on a week-to-week basis, even if the sites were only a block or two apart. Crew members would meet their clients on side streets that contained lots of bushes and trees. They avoided the clichéd gangster scenario of two guys loitering on a corner and looking around with their hands in their pockets.
While walking the streets, I would leave my hands outside of my pockets. When hooking up with fellow crew members or clients, there were two things you had to have. The first was the cash and the second was the paperwork. The cash was folded into a standard-sized envelope unless it was an extraordinarily large amount. We would walk side by side as we made the exchange. After it was transferred we would shake hands, then give each other a hug.
Juice loan amounts were entered into the books in code. A check mark would be $50, a circle, $10, and a slash, $5. Three check marks, a circle, and a slash would mean a payment of $165 in cash. If a client wanted money, how much? If a client was late, why? I would keep track of the information and pass it on to my father at weekly sit-downs.
Because it was preferable to work under the cover of darkness, most of my monetary exchanges were done at night. In the summer months, we would meet later, and in the winter months, earlier. A great deal of business was conducted walking outside. Another of my dad’s rules was never to stand in the same spot, in case somebody was nearby with a listening device. After meeting on a corner and taking a short walk, we would separate and go off in opposite directions. If a member of the crew was under surveillance, the FBI would have to decide who was to be followed, since agents commonly worked in pairs.
Another of his rules was that too much conversation with a customer was fatal. That is what brought feared hit man Frankie Schweihs down. He couldn’t help himself and was recorded bragging at length to porn operator William “Red” Wemette, whom he was extorting.
Collecting a street tax at the front counter in the presence of an establishment’s clientele was unacceptable. Payments were collected in a discreet spot with only the principal present. The hug was an important gesture. It would conclude the transaction or collection, and serve to confuse law enforcement by giving the appearance that the huggers were friends. It might tell the “hugger” whether his victim, the “huggee,” was wearing a wire or carrying a weapon. My father was concerned about wiretaps, one of the reasons he preferred to talk with the television blasting, or to walk outside where there was a great deal of ambient noise.
Like most of the bosses, my father forbade members of his crew to deal drugs, which he felt were a magnet for law enforcement. If a drug dealer was caught operating with money from a Calabrese juice loan, the crew could face serious conspiracy charges, which carried stiff prison sentences.
An associate of ours once brought in a bunch of new customers at two hundred to seven hundred dollars each per week. Thirty guys on the juice. But when Dad found out that they were dealing or doing drugs, rather than confronting them on the issue, our associate ate the money, wiped their debts clean, and sent them on their way with a message: Don’t come around again.
People on juice were either businessmen or blue-collar guys who gambled and had suffered a few bad weeks. But most of the clients were businessmen who made a decent living and needed quick financing. To avoid the difficulty of dealing with a bank and the loan application process, they would come to the Calabrese crew, which would charge twenty-five dollars per thousand per week, or 2.5 percent.
The crew might loan out ten thousand or even twenty thousand, knowing that repayment was more than likely. As a backup, we kept titles (and keys) to cars and houses. Customers signed promissory notes, which was more the standard. At the height of the juice loan business, the crew had upwards of a million dollars on the street. My dad was reported to be one of the biggest loan sharks in Chicago. And he was.
The Calabrese crew had a simple business model. My father was on the top with final word, followed by Ronnie Jarrett (when he wasn’t locked up). Uncle Nick and I gathered and organized the collections. Later, when the family “went away,” Ronnie Jarrett oversaw the crew’s street operations. Approximately fifteen guys—or agents—saw to loan, gambling, and extortion collections. During pro football season and during various playoffs and tournaments, the crew added more agents to collect more action. Bookmaking for college and pro football, long a staple in the gambling world, was highly profitable.
The Calabrese crew compensated the Outfit with a predetermined share and became partners with bookie networks and their subagents, laying claim to guys operating in certain territories in the Chicago area. The Calabrese crew would split the action fifty-fifty with the head of the bookmaking ring, or else the ring could pay a street tax or bankroll their bookmakers with Calabrese juice loans.
By lending money, my father built a network of influential acquaintances—politicians, celebrities, and businessmen—who were only a phone call away. Family members, cousins, aunts, and uncles might stash his money in an account for him under their name. While it was my dad’s money, they’d keep the interest. If he needed the principal back, it was there waiting because nobody would consider stealing from him.
If a businessman took out a juice loan of forty thousand to sixty thousand dollars every few weeks and paid it back, that raised a red flag. My father needed to know more about that person. Could he be a future target of opportunity? What amount of money was he making? What was his net worth? What was his Achilles’ heel? If he liked girls, ply him with hookers. If it was gambling, offer him a credit line. The idea was to corrupt the legitimate, and open the door to possible extortion.
In addition to juice loans, gambling, and the collection of street taxes, extortion was another of the Chinatown crew’s moneymakers. One example was how the crew extorted the Connie’s Pizza chain by adding Frank Calabrese, Sr., to the company payroll for many years as a “delivery consultant.” The owner of Connie’s Pizza, Jimmy Stolfe, was the brother-in-law of my father’s first partner, Larry Stubitsch.
Setting up a successful extortion racket was time-consuming and relied on a crew member’s psychological prowess and the ability to present it as a business proposition. I was instructed to hang out with the sons of debtors who owed my father money, so he could stay on top of their family situation. A typical extortion technique begins by planting fear in the mind of the victim. Unbeknownst to the victim, the crew member plays the dual role of predator and protector. Here’s a typical extortion scheme:
Let’s say you and I are hanging out together. I’m going to get close to you and take you out to a few places. I’ll introduce you to the guys who own the restaurants, people whom we might already have the “arm” on. By now I’ve already profiled you and I know that you have a lot of money or that your business is doing well. While we’re out drinking, you’ll confide in me, and I’ll give you some background on myself.
You’ll feel like you know me; then a couple of guys will come around to your business and say, “You have to pay us two hundred thousand dollars, or we’re going to shut you down.” Based on the way these guys dress and talk, you know who they are. You’re going to run to me: “I’ve got a problem.” I’ll ask you, “What have you been doing? Were you bragging? Have you done
anything wrong? Did you get somebody angry? Let me snoop around and see what I can find out. I’ll get back to you.” Most people are easy marks. Everybody has secrets and skeletons in his closet, things that are shady.
The entire time I’m working both sides of the scam.
The whole time it’s me. I’ll report back and say, “Look, I don’t know what you did, but somebody is pissed off. They want money, but because you’re a friend of mine, I can get it knocked down to a hundred thousand, and if you pay me two hundred a month, nobody will bother you again. These are rough guys. You make the call. I don’t care what you decide. You asked me to help you, so I’m just telling you.”
It wasn’t long before I picked up the tricks of the collecting trade from my father and uncle: raising your voice a notch or two for emphasis, or getting in somebody’s face. They felt that if you hurt your debtor, you damaged his ability to pay. They also believed that it wasn’t necessary to hurt someone unless you were ordered to do so by a boss. If you’re going to hurt a customer, how are you going to gain access to his money? The rule was: People deserve a chance as long as they’re trying to pay. Sometimes all it takes is an adjustment of the terms, in my dad’s favor, of course. For instance, pay only ten dollars a week and essentially make the loan two thousand dollars instead of one thousand. Make sure you don’t miss a week or else the principal is going to go up an extra thousand.
And that was my father’s genius, coming off as scary but reasonable. Today, the banks and the credit card companies have adopted a similar method. It’s called the “minimum payment.”
I remember the Sunday morning in the fall of 1983 when my father and Uncle Nick were going to get made. I was washing the car in the driveway and they were both standing there with suits on. I rarely saw them wear suits, but I do remember my dad saying, “We’re in now. We’re part of the group and we’re going for dinner. It’s like a ceremony.”
Street crews have made millions of dollars for the Outfit. They are the lifeblood of the syndicate. Although the dominant mob crews are named for key areas around Chicago, they do not necessarily operate by strict geographic boundaries. The key Outfit crews—Elmwood Park, Melrose Park, Rush Street, Chinatown/26th Street (the Calabrese domain), Cicero, Chicago Heights, and Grand Avenue—handled their rackets, which included juice loans, gambling, vice, protection, street tax, extortion, stolen goods, and chop shops.
There were many fearsome gangsters working alongside my father who were part of the 26th Street/Chinatown crew. They included South Side lieutenant Johnny “Apes” Monteleone, hit man disguised as union organizer John Fecarotta, Jimmy LaPietra (the Hook’s younger brother), street soldier Frank Santucci, and dreaded hit man and collector Ronnie Jarrett. When Chinatown capo Angelo LaPietra received an order from the bosses, Joseph “Joey Doves” Aiuppa and West Side underboss James “Turk” Torello, that somebody needed to be killed, he had an impressive array of talent to draw from.
After the murder of juice collector Michael “Hambone” Albergo, the Calabrese street crew went from loan sharking and extortion to murder incorporated. Starting in the 1970s, the Calabrese brothers became blood-in-blood-out members of LaPietra and Aiuppa’s elite hit squad fraternity. The other favorite hit team was Butchie Petrocelli’s Wild Bunch. With fastidious planning and stalking skills, and aided by loyal henchmen like Johnny “Apes” Monteleone, John “Big Stoop” Fecarotta, Ronnie Jarrett, Frankie Furio, and four-hundred-pound thug Frank “Gumba” Saladino, my father’s crew became Angelo’s favorite go-to guys. As far as Angelo was concerned, the more low-key a hitter was, the better, and the Hook relished that neither my dad nor my uncle dressed the part or talked trash like Fecarotta and Petrocelli did. While both Dad and Nick were ambitious and organized, they weren’t climbing over the backs of their underbosses for a rapid rise. Petrocelli was audacious and publicly claimed that one day he would lead the Outfit. He was marked for death because he had been skimming from collections and extorting victims without approval. Petrocelli also violated Outfit protocol by hosting hooker parties at the Ambassador East Hotel and becoming too visible.
In June 1976, Paul Haggerty, a twenty-seven-year-old thief, was suspected of robbing a Chicago suburban jewelry store that was tied to the Outfit. After Turk Torello and Angelo met with my father regarding the situation, a plan was put into motion. My dad warned Uncle Nick that the two of them would be busy for a while. They staked out the South Loop halfway house on Indiana Avenue where Haggerty lived after his stretch in the penitentiary. He and my uncle monitored Haggerty’s routine. They watched his habits, where he worked, what buses he took, and where he hung out. Then the Calabrese crew made their move. Gumba Saladino grabbed Haggerty outside his halfway house, threw a few punches, and stuffed him into the backseat of a Ford Mustang with Ronnie Jarrett at the wheel. They brought the stunned Haggerty to Jarrett’s mother-in-law’s garage in Bridgeport.
After a particularly rough session, Uncle Nick was assigned to keep watch on Haggerty while Jarrett and my father returned with Angelo and Turk, who asked Haggerty a few questions. When my father and Jarrett left again with Angelo and Turk, Uncle Nick was put back in charge of Haggerty, who was handcuffed, with his eyes and mouth taped. My uncle brought Haggerty water and helped him to the bathroom.
“I guess only Batman and Robin can save me now,” Haggerty told Nick.
By the time my dad and Jarrett returned with a car they had stolen from a nearby movie theater parking lot, Haggerty’s time had run out. As Nick and Ronnie held Haggerty down, my father slipped a rope around his neck and strangled him to death. As was Michael Albergo’s fate, he slit Haggerty’s throat, making certain he was gone. On June 24, 1976, a week after Haggerty’s disappearance, the stolen auto was discovered with the jewel thief’s body stuffed in the trunk. His murder would not be solved anytime soon.
Angelo LaPietra’s dark sense of humor (as well as his admiration for my father) surfaced during the 1977 hit on gangster Sam Annerino. Annerino was suspected of being an informant, and his demise was assigned to two hit teams, Butch Petrocelli’s Wild Bunch and a group that consisted of my father, my uncle, Ronnie Jarrett, and Gumba Saladino. Shorty LaMantia’s job was to lure Annerino to a predetermined spot, which happened to be an empty building that would later become the Old Neighborhood Italian American Club on 26th Street. When Shorty wasn’t able to get Sam to the site, he showed up with Angelo LaPietra. Once Shorty and Angelo walked through the door, one of the hit crew grabbed Shorty by the neck. Shorty turned milk white, thinking he was the one slated to be bumped off. But Angelo laughed, and assured him that everything was okay, they were just “practicing” on him.
But pointing to my father’s lineup, Angelo remarked to Shorty, “Take a look at these guys and remember; these are real men.”
After a few hours spent waiting for Sam to arrive, my dad’s crew gave up and retired to Ronnie’s mother-in-law’s house on South Lowe to await their next order. A short while later, my father received a message: Sam Annerino had been shotgunned by three masked gunmen, Butch’s boys, on the corner of 106th and Cicero Avenue, in front of Mirabelli’s Furniture in the suburb of Oak Lawn in broad daylight. The town motto of Oak Lawn was “Be Prudent, Be Safe.” Annerino was neither.
On the Saturday night before Christmas of 1977, a highly skilled crew of jewel thieves threw a tarpaulin over the alley side of Levinson’s Jewelers on North Clark Street. Using an acetylene torch, they cut through the bars on a second-floor bathroom window and broke open five vaults. The crew worked all day Sunday and into the early hours of Monday, leaving behind in the alley a foot of water used to cool the torches. They walked away with over a million-dollar haul of jewels, furs, and cash, but they neglected the largest safe, which held the coveted seventy-carat Idol’s Eye diamond.
After contacting the police, Levinson made a phone call to Tony “Big Tuna” Accardo. The following day, over lunch at Chez Paul with Accardo, Levinson asked for help. The Levinsons and the Accardos were close famil
y friends, so close that when the Levinsons’ son was born, Tony presented the child with a T-shirt emblazoned with the moniker “Little Tuna” on the front.
It was clear that the only guy who had the capability for a heist of this magnitude was John Mendell, an alarm expert and electronics whiz. The FBI and mob insiders knew that he had the expertise and chutzpah to pull off such a caper. Accardo, after checking with his underbosses and Tony “the Ant” Spilotro, came to the same conclusion. The Levinson heist had Johnny Mendell’s fingerprints all over it.
Accardo sent word that the Levinson job was not Outfit-sanctioned and wouldn’t be tolerated and that the score was to be returned to him personally. A panicked Mendell went on the lam to consider his next move, stashing the loot in the rafters of his business. When Mendell and his crew complied with Accardo’s demand by returning the merchandise, there was discontent among the group of burglars that they had nothing to show for their work. Deluding himself that he had “power in numbers,” Mendell and his gang planned a sequel far more daring than the original heist.
On a cold January morning in 1978, Michael Volpe opened the door to 1407 Ashland in River Forest. Volpe, Tony Accardo’s personal caretaker, would periodically check on the house to make certain everything was in order while the Accardos wintered in Palm Springs, California. With his first glimpse, Volpe knew that this was not the immaculate and fastidious Accardo residence he was used to. As Volpe gazed into the mirrored foyer, he could see something was amiss. Drawers were overturned. Furniture was askew. A pair of pants lay in the middle of the floor, with pockets turned inside out. As it turned out, Mendell and fellow burglar Steven Garcia had struck again. The other members of the gang were too frightened to take on “the Boss.”
Operation Family Secrets: How a Mobster's Son and the FBI Brought Down Chicago's Murderous Crime Family Page 5