by Philip Carlo
Now, on the ground again in Brooklyn, Hunt and Geisel were back to the raw basics. They wanted Pitera. They focused their energy on Pitera. Whatever they asked for, whatever they wanted, was quickly given to them. A task force of some thirteen agents would soon be trailing Pitera. Pitera sensed their presence. Once in a while he spotted a pair of the agents, but for the most part, they stayed out of sight. He had no idea from where they hailed, but he knew they were cops. He smelled the smoke, but he didn’t see the fire that was slowly surrounding him, slowly enveloping him.
By listening carefully to the jungle drums resonating through LCN, the DEA had come to believe that Pitera was not only selling large amounts of narcotics, but that he was killing people at random on a regular basis and chopping up their bodies for ready disposal.
Because of Pitera’s intimate involvement with LCN, the DEA decided to bring in the FBI. Normally, the DEA does not involve other agencies. They want to work cases the way they see them. They didn’t want to argue or debate or fight over jurisdictional issues and, most importantly, the most important, who got the limelight.
Likewise, Jim Hunt thought it would be a good idea to bring in the NYPD’s Organized Crime Unit. Perhaps more than any other governmental agency, they knew exactly what was going on in each family, who was who, what role everyone played. In that the task force now had two other agencies working hand in hand with the DEA, a virtual army was looking to nail Tommy Pitera to the cross. However, even with all this manpower, even with all the technical assistance, it was very hard to put together an airtight case against Pitera. Stymied, they watched Pitera meet with Frankie Lino, Anthony Spero, and other members of the upper echelon of the Bonanno family and go on walk-and-talks around Gravesend, speaking softly, Tommy most often covering his mouth as he spoke, making it impossible to record what he was saying. As one agent put it, “The fucking guy looks like he’s always playing a harmonica.”
The weak link—Jim kept wondering about the weak link. Judy Haimowitz, of course, would be helpful, but a good lawyer could minimize the impact she had on the case. They needed more. They wanted blood, bodies, large amounts of cocaine in Pitera’s hands.
Photographic Insert
Castellamare Del Golfo, Sicily, home base for the Bonanno crime family.
Author’s collection
Bonanno capo Tommy Pitera and Celeste Lipari.
Courtesy of the DEA
Tommy Pitera (third from left) during prison visit with LCN associate.
Courtesy of the DEA
The FBN federal agents responsible for the first French Connection bust. Photograph taken in October 1960. On the far left is Jim Hunt’s father, James Hunt; kneeling next to him is Frank Waters, his partner at the time; and seated on the desk is the boss of the New York FBN office, George Gaffney. Later, the FBN became known as the DEA.
Courtesy of the DEA
Pitera’s driver’s license.
Courtesy of the DEA
Jim Hunt shortly after graduation from the Drug Enforcement Administration’s Academy at Quantico, Virginia, just prior to entering the Administration’s elite, rough-and-ready Group 33. Winter 1983.
Courtesy of Jim Hunt
Tommy and Celeste during better days.
Courtesy of the DEA
Wrong Number cocktail lounge, after-hours club where Pitera and friends hung out.
Author’s collection
The Esplande Club on Bay Fiftieth, frequented by Frank Gangi and Pitera’s gang.
Author’s collection
Tommy Pitera (third from left), Manny Maya (second from left), and Pitera associates, Brooklyn street.
Courtesy of the DEA
Pitera (on extreme right) with mob associates, Gravesend street, Brooklyn.
Courtesy of the DEA
Stash house in Gravesend, Brooklyn, where Frank Gangi and Billy Bright kept weight of marijuana, and where Arthur Guvenaro was murdered.
Author’s collection
The house on a Brooklyn mean street where Frank Gangi was born.
Author’s collection
A night on the town, Barbara Lambrose and Tommy Pitera.
Courtesy of the DEA
Surveillance shot of Manny Maya (#1) and an unidentified male.
Courtesy of the DEA
Surveillance shot of Tommy Pitera (#2) and his associate Billy Bright (#1).
Courtesy of the DEA
Two of the most dangerous men the Mafia ever produced: Tommy Pitera (far left) and Eddie Lino (middle). Note that Pitera covers his mouth for fear of surveillance as he goes on a walk-and-talk.
Courtesy of the DEA
Bonanno boss and Mafia superstar Anthony Spero and Tommy Pitera doing a walk-and-talk on a Brooklyn street.
Courtesy of the DEA
Manny Maya and another Pitera associate in front of Pitera’s bar, the Just Us Lounge on Avenue S, Brooklyn.
Courtesy of the DEA
A casual Tommy Pitera with an attentive Billy Bright (left) on a Bensonhurst street.
Courtesy of the DEA
John Gotti confidant Willie Boy Johnson, shot dead and left on a Brooklyn street.
Courtesy of the DEA
The Mafia strikes again. Murdered Colombian drug dealers, left in a Bensonhurst garage.
Courtesy of the DEA
Sally “Dogs” Lombardi, Genovese captain who sold drugs and bought hot jewelry.
Courtesy of the DEA
Federal professional informant, Maria Polkowski.
Courtesy of the DEA
Insidious weapon, a pen gun, found in Pitera’s apartment on Emmons Avenue.
Courtesy of the DEA
A Rogue’s Gallery. Top row (from left to right): Lou Mena, Richard David, Angelo Favara. Middle row: Billy Bright, Tommy Pitera, Barbara Lambrose. Bottom row: Michael Harrigan, Manny Maya, Joseph Senatore.
Courtesy of the DEA
Aerial photograph of the William T. Davis Wildlife Refuge, Staten Island, where Tommy Pitera buried his victims. Note the isolation.
Courtesy of the DEA
Desolate road leading to the place where police found the bodies of Pitera’s victims.
Courtesy of the DEA
Various federal agents diligently searching for bodies at Pitera dig.
Courtesy of the DEA
Pitera dig. Agents wear white jumpsuits to prevent evidence contamination. Note grids made by tape.
Courtesy of the DEA
FBI agents, DEA agents, and NYPD detectives about to search Pitera dig. Note Jim Hunt (fifth from left).
Courtesy of the DEA
Agent and detectives pointing at a headless torso in a black plastic bag found at Pitera dig.
Courtesy of the DEA
Cadaver dog eagerly searching for bodies at the bird sanctuary.
Courtesy of the DEA
Working hard, a DEA agent digs for bodies.
Courtesy of the DEA
Agents gathered around the spot where a body was found.
Courtesy of the DEA
Black plastic bag containing body parts and a torso, located at Staten Island bird sanctuary.
Courtesy of the DEA
Femur bone recovered at the bird sanctuary.
Courtesy of the DEA
Author Philip Carlo (left) with Frank Gangi.
Author’s collection
DEA agents engrossed in the search for Pitera victims, bird sanctuary, Staten Island. Note the thick growth.
Courtesy of the DEA
Members of Group 33 that composed the Pitera task force.
Courtesy of the DEA
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
HE’S A REAL BAD DUDE
Shlomo Mendelsohn, also known as Sammy, was your basic lowlife, drug-dealing, hustling wannabe gangster. He was hooked up with the Israeli drug cartel that operated, for the most part, out of a slew of different lofts they owned in the West Thirties in Manhattan in the flower district. He was tall with high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a thick head of straig
ht, black hair. He was so good-looking that he could have readily been a model or a leading man. He had stupidly gotten busted selling several ounces of cocaine to an undercover DEA agent and was now stewing in jail, pacing, mad at the world. Jail wasn’t for him. He’d find a way to get out of this trouble. He’d be clever, not like all the other fools around him. Shlomo Mendelsohn would find a way to get out of this mess.
Shlomo was one of those people on the outside of the war on drugs, an on-again, off-again player who, apparently, never heard—if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.
WHAT, he racked his brain, could he give up? WHO could he give up to get out of jail? His mind kept going back to one person and one person only—the worst criminal he knew of. The Israelis he knew were drug dealers and weren’t even in the same category as the person he was thinking of. He paced his cell like a caged rat. He knew if he could get his freedom, he’d ultimately be able to leave the country, go back to Israel, and there he would be insulated and protected…he was a Jew. The Jews protected their own. In Israel, he would blend in, become one of many.
Having made up his mind that he would become an informer, he reached out to law enforcement. What Shlomo knew, what Shlomo had to say, was passed along and ended up on the desk of Jim Hunt. Hunt and federal prosecutor David Shapiro went to visit Shlomo in the Metropolitan Correction Center (MCC.) David Shapiro was a thin athletic man who stood about five nine, a magna cum laude graduate of the State University of New York at Buffalo. He was thorough, likable, and had a profound understanding of the law and all its intricate nuances and shadings. Shapiro was regarded by Hunt and Geisel and most other agents and prosecutors as the best trial attorney in the Eastern District of New York. Neither Jim nor David Shapiro was impressed with Shlomo. Often Jim came into contact with people who had gotten themselves into trouble and were now offering up information. Often, they were, in plain English, full of shit, so whenever Jim met a person in prison looking to give up something, he was wary, skeptical.
Doubtful, Jim Hunt listened to what Shlomo had to say: “I know a real important guy in the Mafia who kills people. He’s also a big drug dealer. I’ll tell you everything I know; I’ll testify in court…but I want to go home. I want to go back to Israel. If you do that for me, I’ll give you this guy.”
Jim stared at him and he stared back. Shlomo added conspiratorially, as though he knew where the Holy Grail was hidden, “He buries people. He kills them, cuts them up, and then buries them,” he said.
Alarms went off inside Jim’s head. Red lights began spinning.
“What’s his name?” Jim asked.
“You’ve got to first guarantee me—”
“Hold on a minute. Nobody can guarantee you anything. If what you say is true, if you help us from the beginning to the end, we can recommend that you’ll get a good deal. We can recommend that you be extradited to Israel. We don’t make guarantees.”
Shlomo thought this over. He stared at the two government men. Resolutely, Jim stared back. He was not playing poker. What he said was true.
“His name is Tommy Pitera,” Shlomo said, and Jim felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Jim knew cases were frequently broken by information coming from the most unlikely of places, suddenly falling from the sky. Just the fact that Shlomo knew Pitera’s name was very interesting. Jim already knew that people in Pitera’s crew, Pitera himself, were dealing with the Israeli Mafia, buying drugs from them. They, both the DEA and the U.S. Justice Department, were interested. They reached out to Shlomo’s attorneys and a tentative deal was struck.
Shlomo was allowed out of MCC, placed in the Federal Witness Protection Program. During debriefings, he told members of Group 33, Jim Hunt, and Tommy Geisel what he knew about Tommy Pitera. He said he had been in the home of Moussa Aliyan when drug transactions went down during which Pitera bought big amounts of cocaine from Aliyan. He said, more importantly, more shockingly, that he was there when Tommy Pitera killed Talal Siksik. Pitera not only killed him, he said, but he then “put the body in the bathtub, got undressed, stepped into the bathtub naked, and methodically cut the body into pieces. Sick fucking stuff. I never saw a thing like it,” he said, shaking his head in sincere dismay.
These words fit together like the last pieces of an intricate puzzle. Not only did Jim believe what Shlomo had just said, but it so fit the modus operandi of Pitera that Jim suddenly realized he was sitting with a man who had actually seen Pitera cut a body into six pieces. This was not only shocking and eye-opening, but it might very well be the weak link, the Achilles’ heel they’d been looking for. With his intelligent, icy blue-green eyes, Jim stared at Shlomo; he believed every word Shlomo said. Jim was an astute judge of character—especially characters coming from the street. He was so perceptive and adept at reading people, informers, that he could tell the truth from bullshit as readily as a lie detector. Jim had heard through the jungle grapevine that ran throughout all of Brooklyn that Pitera was, in fact, cutting up people he killed.
“So, you were there?” Jim asked.
“I was there,” Shlomo confessed. “Most horrible fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. And he did it with such…ease. It didn’t bother him at all. It was like he was just taking a…a shower.”
“Step-by-step, I want you to tell me everything you saw,” Jim said. And Shlomo ran down the whole evening he spent at Siksik’s house.
When Shlomo finished, Jim said, “This place you went to bury the body…where…was it?”
“Staten Island,” Shlomo said, fear of Pitera creasing his brow, tightening the mini-muscles on his handsome face as he went on to explain how they wrapped Talal Siksik in plastic and put him in suitcases and brought him out to some desolate place in Staten Island. “Like in a forest,” Shlomo said.
“Do you think you could bring us to this place?” Jim asked.
“I could sure try,” Shlomo said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
DAY TRIP
It was a hot day in late July. The humidity was 90 percent. There were no clouds to offer any reprieve from the searing July sun. Jim Hunt, Tommy Geisel, and Shlomo Mendelsohn were on a field trip of the most macabre, morbid kind. They were in search of a body farm, a Mafia burial ground. Under the best of circumstances, had Shlomo known Staten Island, been reasonably familiar with it, he still would have had a hard time finding the William T. Davis Wildlife Refuge. When he had been there previously, it was nighttime. When he had been there before, adrenaline had been filling his body and he wasn’t paying attention to exactly how they got there and where they went. He had disconcerting, horrible images seared into his brain, as though they had been branded, but they were a series of disjointed images that had neither rhyme nor reason.
That whole day, Jim and Tommy drove Shlomo all over Staten Island. They checked out most every forest, the places that would be good for burying a body. The more they looked, the more frustrated, anxious, and out of sorts Shlomo became. He had only seen Staten Island that one time. To him, it was a foreign and distant place. He had no point of reference, did not know east from west or south from north. Both Jim and Tommy were becoming restless, tired. Though they didn’t think Shlomo was lying, fabricating, looking to get himself out of trouble—they were disappointed by his lack of understanding of the area. At one point he said, “Maybe…maybe it was in New Jersey,” which really frustrated the two agents. It not only frustrated them but it pissed them off.
Be that as it may, all Shlomo did was lead them up one blind alley after another that whole day and night.
However, just because Shlomo couldn’t find this burial ground didn’t mean it wasn’t there, both Jim and Tommy believed. Hearing about the burial ground and seeing the fear that lived inside Shlomo motivated and drove the two agents on. They would not rest until Pitera was nailed to the wall with long, sharp spikes.
Luck…it seemed that Tommy Pitera of Gravesend, Brooklyn, had an inordinate amount of luck. He had been getting away with all kin
ds of crimes, murder, dismemberment. Jim Hunt and Tom Geisel were going to make sure that Pitera’s luck changed.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
THE ROCK OF GIBRALTAR
Joe “Dish” Senatore was a career criminal. He had spent over thirty years of his life in jail, was an original tough guy. As a young man, he had been the head of the Persico gang in South Brooklyn known as the “South Brooklyn Boys.” He was also Genovese capo Joe Jinx’s driver. He knew every mafioso in Brooklyn. People liked him. People respected him. He was old-school tough. Now Joe Dish was in the fall of life. He was graying, round-shouldered, not the energetic, tough dynamo he had once been, though Joe Dish still did what he was best at—impersonating a cop, a New York City detective. He had badges, he had guns, he had the walk, the talk. He began working with Pitera’s gang in 1988. Several times over the years, he had managed to get Pitera’s crew into the homes of drug dealers. He was so good that when they did one score, Pitera was so pleased that he gave him a gold Rolex watch, which had been stolen from the victim.