Carmine the Snake

by Frank DiMatteo

  Blast in the meantime started talking to the Chin, turned Genovese, and our gang in Red Hook dispersed. The Colombos and Gallos had been at war off and on for a quarter of a century, and finally, with the break-up of the President Street crew, that conflict ended.

  * * *

  On October 15, 1976, Carlo Gambino died, and the effect on the New York mob scene was dramatic. Few new buttons had been given out during Gambino’s time in power, and now that he was gone new members were once again being inducted into his family. Gambino stopped recruitment of made men because Albert Anastasia had been selling buttons. Sure enough, it wasn’t long after Gambino’s death that the practice of selling buttons resumed.

  The initiation to get into the Colombo family included a watered-down version of making one’s bones, which now meant you either had to commit or participate in a murder. If you think the word “participate” smacks of a downgrade in balls, you’re not alone. That meant that the queasier guys could make their bones as innocuously as digging a grave that a body would later be dumped into. Not the same.

  * * *

  On the morning of December 11, 1978, as Carmine served the last few months in prison, almost $6 million was stolen in cash and jewelry from the Lufthansa Terminal, Building 261, at JFK Airport in Queens—the biggest cash robbery in U.S. history, and the subject of many books and movies.

  One of the guys that cops suspected of being involved in the heist was thirty-seven-year-old Angelo “Angie” Sepe, known as a Lucchese guy. He became a suspect when FBI informants overheard him talking about the heist, so they slapped a tail on him, and followed him as he distributed the alleged tribute money from the robbery. One stop was the social club of Carmine’s brother Alphonse, where Sepe gave Allie Boy an envelope containing an estimated $20,000. Sepe then drove upstate to Saugerties and presented a second envelope to Carmine’s wife.

  Agents bugged Sepe’s car but were foiled when Sepe always had conversations in his car with the radio blasting.

  Like many involved in the Lufthansa heist, Sepe didn’t have long to live. He and his eighteen-year-old girlfriend were found shot to death in his Bensonhurst apartment on July 18, 1984.

  CHAPTER NINE

  From Behind Bars

  All he ever wanted to do was have his own gang, and now he did. And what a gang: one of the five families, the mighty Colombos. But the joy was soon tainted by arrests and court hassles. Bombs couldn’t stop Carmine. Bullets couldn’t stop him. Only law enforcement had an effect. The government did what the Gallos couldn’t. They took Junior off the streets.

  THE GOVERNMENT DID NOT LET UP on Carmine. They believed him to be not just a mass murderer but a guy who remained leader of the gang despite being in prison a great deal. There was tape-recorded evidence to support this.

  The tapes were recorded in January and early February 1978. Carmine was the subject of a recorded conversation between his dear old friend, Hugh McIntosh, and a guy named Richard Annicharico, who was a tax agent “posing” as corrupt, willing to pull some strings that might help Carmine in exchange for information and cooperation. (This and other recordings discussed here were secret until 1985, when Carmine was a defendant in the so-called “Colombo case” and the tape recordings went public when they were played for the jury. See Chapter Ten.) Annicharico was on to Carmine Persico with this particular play because he’d previously learned of the Colombo family’s willingness to pay bribes. All he had to do was put it in the wind that Get Out of Jail Free cards could be purchased.

  The tapes were made at Junior’s Restaurant on Flatbush Avenue. Carmine at that time had been away for years but the conversation’s tone made it clear that Carmine remained, even behind bars, a very powerful figure—one who held true to his oaths. Bribes were being paid so that Carmine could be transferred from a prison in Atlanta to one in New York, where he could more easily operate his outside business.

  Two things McIntosh got across on that tape. One: his friend Carmine would rather remain behind bars for the rest of his life than be labeled an informer. Two: Mr. Persico did not engage in drug trafficking. Period.

  “Not now?”

  “Not never. He never had nothing to do with junk. You know his record. Anything else but junk. If you have a plan to get him out of prison early, do not mark him [as an informant].”

  “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

  “That’s very important, see? Because the guy will rather go to jail and do whatever time he’s got left to do.” It was, in fact, the crux of the man.

  Other subjects were discussed on the tape, a few tax evasion investigations needed quashing—Mush Russo wasn’t known for his accurate accounting—and on that subject the families stood as one, cut out the tax bullshit.

  But the great bulk of the conversation was strategizing to get Carmine’s transfer to the New York jail to be permanent and thinking of a way to gain Carmine’s freedom ahead of schedule, which currently had him eligible for parole in late 1979, still almost two years away.

  According to Annicharico, the offer was $200,000 to move up the parole date, as they put it, to “fix his release.” The “do not mark him” comment was in response to Annicharico’s suggestion that Carmine deal for his release by telling the feds what they wanted to hear. The plan was for Carmine to come forth and say that he had information regarding the killing of Vincent Papa in the Atlanta prison where he lived. That would prevent him from being sent back. Carmine nixed it without consideration. He didn’t give names to feds, true or not, and he didn’t want nothing to do with drug dealers.

  On a January 18, 1978, recording, Carmine was on furlough in a meeting with Annicharico and Joel Cohen, a prosecutor who knew of Annicharico’s undercover role. Carmine gave an example of his eloquence on this tape. He said he was tired of being Carmine Persico. Sure, he did some stuff when he was a kid, he was a tough guy, but that was a long time ago. Ancient history. It was all different now. He was a businessman, and it was hard when everyone assumed you were calling the shots all the time.

  Carmine explained that his reputation led to the government picking on him, that he was going to end up in prison for life whether or not he ever committed another crime, just because he was Carmine Persico, the Carmine Persico, and they wanted him caged.

  He’d had enough trouble since 1959 and that hijacking that went really really bad, enough for a lifetime. Carmine felt it was time he caught a break, and Joel Cohen said he was a “believer” in Persico’s cause.

  Annicharico later recalled that the meeting took place in Cohen’s office, and the purpose of the meeting was to come up with some excuse to keep Carmine out of his penitentiary home and in New York City for another month or so, which was what Carmine wanted. Annicharico said that he communicated to Carmine Persico through Victor Puglisi, a Long Island restaurateur and alleged conduit for Colombo family payoffs.

  Carmine said he knew nothing about the Papa killing in Atlanta. Maybe some rumor he’d heard around, he caught wind of things through the prison grapevine like any other inmate, but nothing you’d call evidence. Whatever Carmine might have known or not known about Papa would remain a mystery as he wasn’t about to give these guys—cops—that kind of information.

  On a tape recording made January 24, 1978, again at Junior’s Restaurant, there is a conversation between Annicharico, and Victor Puglisi. Puglisi showed Annicharico a bag filled with currency. The bag was on the floor. Puglisi said, “That’s $100,000—deposit on two-fifty.”

  “What a character,” Annicharico said to Puglisi. He looked in the bag. “I don’t want to count it. Take me three years to count.”

  The next tape was made the following day, again Annicharico and Puglisi at Junior’s.

  “I hope you have the money in a safe place,” Annicharico said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Puglisi replied. “I got it hidden at my cousin’s house. Have faith in me, brother.”

  On that same tape, Puglisi was heard acknowledging that he was passing $7,000 to Anni
charico, and in return expected a fix in Mush Russo’s pesky tax investigations.

  Annicharico would later claim he was only pretending to be corrupt on those tapes. He had decided “sort of on my own” to go undercover, and did not inform his supervisors regarding his deception. He had accepted many thousands of dollars from Puglisi. Annicharico said that, in return, he had arranged for Carmine to be temporarily transferred on two occasions from a penitentiary in Atlanta to one in New York where it was easier for him to meet with friends, relatives, and lawyers. Carmine was a busy guy, and the visits to New York greatly cut the cost of meetings.

  * * *

  In 1978, Michael Franzese, the legendary Sonny’s son, came up with a lucrative plan. Bootleg gasoline. He told Carmine Persico, “I will show you more money than you’ve ever seen.” Michael Franzese eventually left the life. While producing a movie in 1985, he met a beautiful dancer named Camille Garcia, fell in love, and changed his ways. Today he is a legit motivator who speaks to at-risk kids and church groups. He is, he says, the only high-ranking mob figure to walk away without a new identity and survive. Good for him.

  * * *

  In 1979, Carmine was granted parole and released from prison, having served almost eight of the fourteen years in his hijacking sentence. As Carmine resumed his life with his three sons and one daughter in their stately home in Hempstead, Long Island, he set up his business headquarters in a South Brooklyn social club called Nestor’s on Fifth Avenue at the base of Park Slope between President and Carroll Streets, within blocks of where he grew up.

  He also had the farm in Saugerties. The compound wasn’t just about quiet, coolness, and equine breeding, of course. Cops raided the horse farm and confiscated fifty rifles and forty bombs.

  * * *

  At the 1979 Commission meeting there was a discussion to decide what to do about Carmine Galante, who had his eye on becoming boss of the Bonannos. Carmine refused to sanction a hit on Galante. Carmine and Galante had once shared a cell in Atlanta, played cards, bonded. Carmine considered him a friend. To a confidant, Carmine later said, “Quite frankly, I voted against him getting hurt.”

  History tells us that Carmine was outvoted by the other commissioners, as Galante died with his cigar still in his mouth on July 12, 1979, just as he finished eating lunch on an open patio at Joe and Mary’s Restaurant in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn.

  * * *

  Carmine might’ve gotten out of prison but at no point was he out of trouble. In November 1980, he was indicted on twenty-six charges involving the attempted bribery of the IRS agent. He was held briefly and released on $250,000 bail.

  His troubles were compounded and his parole violated on May 6, 1981, when a meeting in a Brooklyn home went bad. The meeting was between Carmine and Gerry Lang and the leaders of New Jersey’s crime family, the DeCavalcantes, held to discuss ways for the Colombos and the DeCavalcantes to work together and divvy up turf in Florida.

  Carmine later said that the meeting involved a guy named Johnny Irish. Donnie Shacks was assigned to pick up the guy at the airport and bring him to the meeting.

  “Donnie, make sure you’re not followed,” Carmine said.

  “I got this, Junior,” Donnie Shacks replied.

  Trouble was, Johnny Irish rented his own car, and he wanted to drive it. So Donnie told him to follow him, and the two-car convoy went to the Brooklyn meeting. Donnie was greatly troubled by this. With Johnny Irish’s rental in his rear-view mirror, there was no way to tell if he’d picked up a tail. Donnie took the guy to the meeting and then split to attend his own birthday party at the Maniac Club.

  A few minutes later Gerry Lang arrived with dire news. “Junior, there’s a car parked outside with two guys in it. I think they might be feds.”

  Carmine replied, “Then why did you come in?”

  Lang practically stammered. “I was already in, practically in, so I decided to come in.”

  The guy who owned the house where the meeting was being held said he’d go outside and take a look. Upon return he said, “They don’t look like feds to me. I think they’re watching the house across the street.”

  And so the meeting went on.

  Minutes later, a team of FBI and U.S. Marshal’s Service agents raided the meeting. Carmine and Gerry were arrested while attempting to escape out the back and charged with a parole violation, associating with known criminals.

  Carmine blamed the owner of the house. “They don’t look like feds to me.” “Watching the house across the street.” Bullshit. About their host on May 6, Junior said, “After getting me violated like that, that guy deserves to get hurt.” Surprisingly, “that guy”—sniper Anthony “Tony Fats” Regina—lived another two years.

  * * *

  In July and August, Gerry Lang was called before a grand jury to talk about the meeting with the DeCavalcantes. He said he didn’t know anyone who belonged to the Colombo crime family, that he didn’t remember how he knew other hoods that attended the meeting. He said he hadn’t worked in a dozen years due to health problems.

  “Was Carmine Persico in the house at the time of the meeting?”

  “He was. But he stayed upstairs and didn’t attend the meeting.”

  Lang would later (September 1984) be charged with making false statements to a grand jury based on those responses.

  * * *

  On August 11, 1981, Carmine pleaded guilty in Brooklyn Federal Court to a conspiracy charge in the IRS bribery case. Carmine had admitted paying the bribe to a man he thought to be corrupt but who instead was wearing a wire. The money was to go to expedite his own release from prison and to shut down the tax investigations regarding Carmine’s friends.

  Carmine’s sentencing hearing on his criminal conspiracy case was held on November 9, 1981, Judge Eugene H. Nickerson presiding. In court, Carmine, now forty-eight years old, wore a three-piece black suit, white shirt, and patterned tie. The whole thing was over in a half-hour.

  Carmine had originally been charged with robbery, conspiracy, and obstruction of justice. All but the conspiracy charges were dropped however in exchange for Carmine’s guilty plea. He was sentenced to five years for the bribery, four for the parole violation of associating with known criminals, but those sentences were to run concurrently.

  The length of the sentence had been known to Carmine in advance, yet he was still rankled at the hearing, which he felt portrayed him incorrectly. He was referred to in a pre-sentencing report prepared by the U.S. Probation Department as the “head of the Colombo crime family.”

  Carmine and his attorney Barry I. Slotnick were up in arms over that characterization. Slotnick was a grad of NYU law and had started out as an appellate attorney, but was transitioning into a mouthpiece for high-profile clients, such as subway vigilante Bernie Goetz and Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega. He had previously defended Joe Colombo and won, so he was the family lawyer. By this time in his life, Carmine was loath to relinquish power under any circumstances but begrudgingly allowed Slotnick to do the talking for him.

  Slotnick, who understood the new conspiracy laws and the new strategies he would need to use to circumvent them, said, “Mr. Persico is not only not the head of a crime family, he is not in organized crime at all.”

  * * *

  The conspiracy laws were known as “Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act” (RICO), which said that long prison terms could be given to those convicted of committing acts as part of an ongoing criminal enterprise. They’d been around since 1970, but it was a decade before the government figured out just how devastating they could be when applied to organized crime. The law was drafted by Notre Dame Law School professor, JFK-assassination theorist (he says the mob did it), and advisor to the U.S. Senate Government Operations Committee, Robert Blakey. To the mob, the RICO laws, especially after Rudolph Giuliani started using them as a weapon, were like Kryptonite to Superman. The law was potentially mob-busting, but it was most certainly omerta-busting. Guys facing life in prison were
far more apt to disregard their vow of silence.

  The RICO laws were the beginning of the end for organized crime as it was defined and functioned in the twentieth century. RICO okayed guilt by association. It became a crime to be a member of a group that was known to commit crimes, even if you, the individual, could not be proven to have committed any crimes. It was a crime to be a made man. It was a crime to be a respected elder of a family. The laws—named after the lead character in the book Little Caesar by W.R. Burnett, later turned into a gangster picture starring Edward G. Robinson—only had to demonstrate that a racketeering crime had occurred, that a certain organization carried out that crime, and that the defendant belonged to that organization. Significantly, a figurehead boss was every bit as guilty as a boss who was pushing the buttons.

  Slotnick’s argument flew in the face of earlier statements made by the federal prosecutors, who told Judge Nickerson that they were “prepared to prove” that Carmine Persico was head of the Colombo crime family.

  If the sentencing had been anything other than a done deal, the fireworks at this hearing most certainly would have thrown a wrench in the works, but as it was, the arguments were moot. Carmine was going away for five years, and his status in organized crime wasn’t going to change that one way or the other.

  Slotnick’s complaints did not go completely unheeded. The U.S. Probation Department agreed to re-write their pre-sentencing report. Instead of referring to Carmine as head of the Colombos, the report now read that he was an “upper-echelon member” of the crime family.

  Slotnick wanted to make it clear that this in no way meant he was conceding Carmine’s membership in the crime family or in any facet of organized crime. They had agreed to this compromise in the report’s wording in order to avoid having Carmine go to prison with a report in existence that “tarnished” him as the head of a crime family.