Confessions of a Second Story Man

by Allen M. Hornblum

  In mid-August, four months after Bobby Poulson and Vince Blaney had confessed —and a year after the Pottsville burglary—Vince went missing and Bobby was discovered staggering around the grounds of Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital in Camden by two nurses just coming off duty. In addition to being severely beaten, he had also been shot in the base of the head and stabbed numerous times. A priest gave him the last rites; no one expected him to live.

  A message was being sent. Informants could have a greatly curtailed life.

  “They thought they were dropping a dead body at Our Lady of Lourdes,” said Herbie Rhodes. “John Berkery did that little number. Berkery did that in the back seat of his car.”

  Rhodes was a key member of Ferguson’s squad and had a front-row seat for the lengthy Pottsville drama. “Poulson nearly died,” said Rhodes, who saw him in the hospital before and after surgery, “but he wouldn’t give a formal statement. He was afraid for his wife and kids.”

  Some believe the doers never expected Poulson even to make it to the hospital, much less recover. In fact, the perpetrators thought they had killed him and planned to bury his body in a ravine, but in typical Kensington fashion they had forgotten to bring a shovel. They dumped the body and went to get something to dig with, but when they returned the body was gone.

  After his astonishing recovery, Poulson regaled police with a ridiculous story about aborting a trip to Atlantic City, being dropped off by John Berkery at a Camden transit stop, and soon afterward being assaulted by a group of men who spilled out of a car. Despite this unlikely account, Ferguson picked Berkery up and charged him with the attack. Even though the police claimed to have found blood in the back seat of Berkery’s car, they couldn’t make the charges stick and were forced to release him. Poulson, for his part, informed authorities that he had turned over a new leaf. He would no longer be a witness for the prosecution.

  Just days later, on August 23, the crab-eaten remains of Vince Blaney were discovered by fishermen a mile off Margate, New Jersey. He had been shot in the back of the head. Trapped gasses caused the body to float to the surface despite the seven-foot chain and 37-pound industrial weight attached to it.

  Some six months later both Reis and Berkery were arrested for Blaney’s murder. The state’s key witness was one Robert Russell, who claimed to have seen Berkery plug Blaney several times at an Atlantic City boatyard while Lil stood by laughing her head off. Unfortunately for the prosecution, Russell was not the most stable of individuals. Soon he was doing the confessing. Russell’s account of the murder was pure fiction. The police were back to square one.

  In March 1961, the action shifted to a Pottsville courtroom. The trial was a big deal in the small mining town, and the players and accounts of the crime were not all that clear. “It’s a very puzzling case,” said a county prosecutor. “It’s the first case I can recall in which the thieves exaggerated the loot—in this case by more than one hundred times. It’s been my experience that the opposite is usually true. Ordinarily, it’s the victims who exaggerate.”

  Even though he had repudiated his confession, the jury found enough merit in Poulson’s original statement to convict him of burglary. In May, both Berkery and Staino were convicted, and Lillian was seen to shed a few tears for her boyfriend.

  With Vince Blaney dead and Bobby Poulson properly schooled in the harmful effects of cooperating with the authorities, Richie Blaney became the key witness for the prosecution. Though he hadn’t participated in the heist, he claimed to know intimate details of the caper and had dedicated himself to convicting his brother’s killers.

  Blaney had become inseparable from Ferguson and had even started wearing an upturned porkpie hat like the captain. He grew comfortable passing himself off as one of Ferguson’s officers, who were with him at all times for his own protection. As newspaper articles described it, detectives “were at his side when he drank a beer at the Coal Mine taproom in the Necho Allen Hotel... walking the streets of Pottsville... and with him until he went to bed.” They even “drove him back to Philadelphia in a squad car.” According to Joe Daughen, a long-time Philadelphia Daily News.eporter who covered the trial, Richie Blaney was being passed off as “Detective McCoy” by Ferguson’s squad up in Pottsville prior to his appearance on the witness stand. Few people actually knew who he was until he walked in the courtroom.

  In court, Blaney was a combination of Marlon Brando and Laurence Olivier. As the “Commonwealth’s crown jewel,” he is said to have put on a “dramatic show” that included “strutting to and from the witness stand” and spouting off a series of witty one-liners that both entertained the jury and frustrated the defense. For example, when the counsel for the defendants asked him if his wits kept him out of jail, Blaney replied, “No... my lawyers.” And how many lawyers do you have, he was asked. “Just one at a time,” he answered. During one lengthy cross-examination, Berkery’s lawyer, State Senator Benjamin Donolow, asked Richie if he was telling the truth. “If you were interested in the truth,” Blaney shot back, “you’d plead him [Berkery] guilty.” Donolow asked for a mistrial and complained that Blaney had been getting away with wisecracks throughout the trial. The stout second story man may have felt like the cock of the roost in court, but it would only be a matter of time before he got his.

  IT WAS A SUNNY, 86-degree July day. Star witness Richie Blaney, now preparing to testify against Lillian Reis, got out of bed at his recently purchased Oxford Circle row home, picked up a day-old newspaper, and had a breakfast of scrambled eggs. He lounged around for a few more hours, asked whether his Bermuda shorts had been pressed, and at 3:30 p.m. left the house. He got into his 1956 Oldsmobile, turned the key in the ignition, and, as the Daily News.escribed it, “was blown into eternity.”

  The explosion could be heard—and felt—throughout the quiet, middle-class community. Blaney’s body received a “searing burn” and was blown into the back seat of the blue and white sedan. Police said his body “was ripped apart but his face was hardly scratched.” Fenders, grillwork, and motor parts were left scattered along Alma Street. The engine hood was discovered on a nearby rooftop, and glass littered the street like “pulverized sugar.” One shoe remained in the front seat, and Richie’s black porkpie hat was found on the pavement some distance away.

  Most living room windows along the street were shattered, and venetian blinds and curtains were now hanging at odd angles. Within minutes “some 1,000 persons” began congregating on the narrow street to see what all the noise and excitement was about. They could clearly hear the screams of anguish coming from 6011 Alma Street.

  Joanne Blaney, Richie’s 24-year-old wife, watched her husband leave the house, “locked the door, took her three children to the second floor and prepared to watch television.” When she heard and felt the vibration of the blast, she said, “I knew what it was.”

  When Captain Ferguson learned of the successful assassination—it is said to have been “the city’s first car bombing”—he was described as “Philadelphia’s angriest man.” The old detective claimed not to be surprised by the murder. “I have predicted it,” said Ferguson. “I expected it. I am thankful that Blaney’s wife and his children did not get into that car with him.” His promises “to get these killers” were said to “flow like molten lava.”

  Ferguson wasn’t the only unhappy law enforcement officer. “Richie was a very likable guy,” said Detective Herbie Rhodes. “Personable but devious. I was one of the guys assigned by Captain Ferguson to keep an eye on him. Word on the street was that they were going to do him in. After what happened to his brother Vince and Poulson, we were assured of it. We had different guys on the detail and were stationed on Alma Street. Richard was afraid, but his wife called off the protection. Ferguson tried to talk her out of it, but they were tired of cops around all the time.

  “I was on vacation down at Avalon and was in a bar watching John Facenda give the news when he reported what happened. I can’t tell you how angry I was. They put enough dynamite
in that vehicle to blow up several cars. Fergy went bananas. The Blaneys were killed out of sheer revenge.”

  The police interrogated several dozen suspects, but the most likely candidates, said Ferguson, had alibis “so pat and airtight that they must have had some knowledge that the crime was to be committed.” While police searched for the killers, Lil and Junior Staino announced their plans to get married. First, however, she would have to stand trial in Pottsville and explain where she obtained the funds to purchase the Celebrity Room.

  Though Lil decided not to take the stand in her own defense, she remained the center of attention in the economically distressed mountain town. The jury, particularly the men, kept track of her every movement, gesture, and glance. Women—and reporters—took note of her big-city, cosmopolitan wardrobe. “Clad in a black skirt, red and black bolero jacket... her high heels clicking, bangles and pink lipstick gleaming in the street lights...,” wrote one reporter covering Lillian’s departure from the courtroom one day.

  In the courtroom, Lil’s attorneys portrayed her as a model of financial propriety, a consummate saver, a person who had hat boxes, cigar boxes, and valises filled with hard-earned dollars—all accumulated pre-Pottsville. Michael Corabi, her estranged husband, and Sidney Reiskin, her stepfather, a New York jeweler, testified to her thrifty habits. Though actually a prosecution witness, local boy Bing Miller provided her with unintentional support by cataloguing the gifts and cash stipends he had favored her with over the years: expensive appliances, vacations, jewelry, furs, mortgage payments, and a housemaid. All this allowed the defense to construct a viable explanation for Lil’s ability to buy a Philly nightclub.

  Calvin J. Friedberg, the Schuylkill County district attorney, was hamstrung by the murder or recalcitrance of key witnesses. He and John E. Lavelle, Lil’s defense counsel, battled over every aspect of the case, including John B. Rich’s peculiar claim that only $20,000 in jewelry and cash had been stolen.

  After a “bitterly fought” 20-day trial and two days of deliberations, the jury was ruled hopelessly deadlocked and a mistrial was declared. Nearly half the jury argued that the state had not proven Lillian’s connection to the burglary and voted for acquittal. They were all men.

  Lillian Reis’s next trial would not be for another three years. During the intervening years, Lil and her Pottsville crew were constantly in the news. For her part, “lissome Lillian” wasn’t always the provocateur.f these encounters with police and newsmen. In 1962, for example, she was arrested several times for doing the Twist. Apparently, voluptuous Lil’s version of the popular dance was too much for the town fathers of Ephrata and Conshohocken. Even sophisticated Atlantic City shut down the “Queen of the Twist” and brought charges.

  When Reis’s attorney pointed out that the Lennon Sisters, Lawrence Welk, and Sammy Davis, Jr., hadn’t been hit with the “transient worker registration law” Atlantic City had used against Lil, the town’s police chief was forced to admit that, after all the trouble she had caused, he just “didn’t care to have her in Atlantic City.”

  In fact, Lillian had not only become red meat for cops. The voracious carnivores in the Philly media market were equally exercised: she and Junior Staino couldn’t do a thing without drawing attention. Her club was burgled, hit with tax liens, and charged with hiring “B-girls” to solicit drinks with patrons. Simple traffic tickets turned into major conflagrations that resulted in trips to the hospital, salacious news stories, and more court appearances. The Saturday Evening Post.id a multi-page spread on her that resulted in a lawsuit, and a West Coast film crew came to town to do an “adult movie” about B-girls and vice rackets. Lillian, of course, had a starring role.

  There was no doubt that Lil was hot—in fact, downright radioactive. James Tate, Philly’s mayor, said that she and her club were “giving the city a black eye.” No shrinking violet, Lil shot back when they padlocked her club’s doors, “This is Philadelphia’s loss. This is the last decent place a man can take his family.”

  IN APRIL 1964 Lillian was brought back to Pottsville for her second trial. The cast of characters was pretty much the same, except that a young and feisty Bobby Simone now represented the Philly showgirl. Cal Friedberg was tenacious as ever as prosecutor and had some memorable exchanges with Lillian, who this time decided to take the stand in her own defense. This jury came back with a verdict of guilty. Lil was stunned and wept openly, while Captain Ferguson displayed a conspicuous smile.

  Simone appealed, and three years later the conviction was overturned, setting the stage for another combative round in court. Surprisingly, Berkery, Staino, and Miller faced a similar scenario. Their convictions were tossed when the Supreme Court ruled that “standing mute when being questioned about incriminating evidence” had been “made to seem a tacit admission of a crime.” By 1970 the Schuylkill County legal establishment had spent over a decade pursuing the Pottsville defendants, and they were physically, psychologically, and financially exhausted. They had had enough. They dropped all the charges against Reis, Miller, Staino, and Berkery. Everyone was declared innocent, and old man Ferguson, who was finally about to retire, boiled with resentment and outrage. He died at age 75 the following year.

  The saga of the Pottsville Heist was finally over, but no one who was around at the time will ever forget it. Or Lil or Berkery or Ferguson, for that matter. That goes double for those who played a role, however minor, in the drama. Al Ronconi was one of them.

  “I loved the Celebrity Room,” says Ronconi, who hung out at the club as a young man. “It was like going to New York City. I got to know people like Don Rickles. I remember Rickles used to ask, ‘Why does everybody carry heat in here?’ And when news of Lil’s role in Pottsville broke in the papers, Rickles would be yelling on stage, ‘Where’s that money? Who’s got that money?’ Lillian was going crazy. She couldn’t wait to get at him.”

  The Pottsville players left an indelible mark on Ronconi. “Lil was better looking than Liz Taylor and had a heart of gold. She was drop-dead gorgeous and had a great sense of humor, but she liked to walk on the wild side. Bing Miller used to come in and put two $100 bills on the bar, have breakfast, and just look at her. Berkery was real handsome and girl-crazy. He was a shrewd, tenacious guy and always dressed to kill. He wasn’t Italian, but he was a real charmer.”

  About Junior Staino, Ronconi is less generous. Ronconi unwittingly became part of a money-laundering operation when Staino asked him to change some money at the bank. “He asked if I would mind converting this money that was in a shirt box. It was a whole bunch of fives, tens, and twenties he wanted changed into $100 bills,” recalls Ronconi. “He offered to pay me, but I wouldn’t take it.”

  As it turned out, the bank was limited by law to a $10,000 transaction, but it was enough to put Ronconi under suspicion. “I wanted to strangle Junior for involving me. My father was Old World Italian, and he came down on me. He was fucking mad. I was fucking humiliated. How could anybody know that money was stolen?”

  Ronconi was dragged up to Pottsville four times to testify. “I finally took the stand,” he says, “on the fourth trip.” As bad as the court appearance was, it paled in comparison with news of the Blaney murders. “I was scared to death when people started to show up dead.” He stayed away from the Celebrity Room: “I wouldn’t get within 500 miles of there after that.”

  The Pottsville Heist was like an electrical storm that lights up the heavens. Young men in Kensington paid particularly close attention. As Billy Blew McClurg says, “Pottsville was a big thing. The guys involved were nobody until then. After that Berkery became well known and guys got to talking, ‘Let’s get into that.’”

  Many people were captivated with the larger-than-life characters and the bizarre twists and turns, but for some it was more than a fascinating story—it presented a new way to make a living. “The Pottsville case put the word out,” says Jim Moran. “There’s big money to be made out there. Pottsville really gave a push to the burglar wannabes.” />
  7. Natural Selection

  I had an advantage the other guys didn’t. I looked Jewish. I could definitely do things they couldn’t get away with. For example, I could be up in Hazleton, Scarsdale, or New Haven and be looking to make a few scores. I’d look up the location of a few synagogues in the telephone directory or just take a drive in one of the nicer sections of town and park near a synagogue. I’d then walk in and ask to see the Rabbi. The guy wouldn’t know me from Adam, but I’d be well dressed, introduce myself as a businessman relocating to the area, and request his help in finding a nice, upscale neighborhood to buy a home in.

  Invariably, the Rabbi would be helpful. Excited by the prospect of acquiring a new member for the congregation, the Rabbi would take the time to suggest a number of attractive, predominantly Jewish neighborhoods. Sometimes they’d even identify important and affluent members of their congregations and supply me with their addresses and their professions in an effort to impress me. Of course, I’d always express my appreciation to the Rabbi for his time and assistance. I’d then go directly over to the homes and neighborhoods he had just suggested to me and steal the hell out of them. I took whatever I could grab. I did it all the time; it was easy. The other guys from Kensington looked like hoods and thugs. They could have never pulled it off, but I could. I looked like I belonged. It was great.

  —CHARLES “CHICK” GOODROE

  We stop at a traffic light at an intersection in Spring Valley, New York. It’s a beautiful little town inhabited by Hasidic Jews, many of them dressed in black with yarmulkes and long strands of hair falling off the sides of their faces. A lot of them work in Manhattan’s jewelry trade. We had been beating the hell out of them for years. Different crews had been goin’ up there for a while, so they must have gotten fed up and been on the lookout for us.