by Joe Corso
Yip continued, “In 1959, Profaci ordered the Gallo’s to murder Frank Abbatemarco. Frank ran lucrative bookmaking and loan sharking operations. Abbatemarco owed Profaci fifty thousand dollars and either couldn’t pay it or didn’t want to pay it. On November 4, 1959, Abbatemarco was shot inside a tavern in the Carroll Gardens section of Brooklyn. While not happy about the murder, the Gallo’s understood that Abbatemarco had disobeyed Profaci. What really infuriated the brothers, however, was Profaci giving Abbatemarco's valuable rackets to his buddies instead of to the Gallo’s. They expected it would be theirs, they felt they deserved it. With the support of Genovese capo Anthony “Tony Bender” Strollo, the Gallo crew turned against Profaci. That’s when I was contacted by Crazy Joe. He, along with his brother Larry, are made men but the third brother, Albert “Kid Blast”, was never initiated. You know this - because they’re made, they can sit in on a commission meeting and have a voice. They still have some power but because they’re on the run, they have to watch their backs, can’t take chances on being seen in the streets, so their earnings have dropped. They’re havin’ payroll problems. The amazing thing is that their crew is still fiercely loyal to them and itchin’ for a fight. They don’t leave their sides. They’ve gone to the mattresses. The way they look at it, they’re broke and being hunted. Think about the bosses of the other families - all the money in the world and being hunted. The Gallo’s have nothin’ to lose and with all this shit going on, I’m between a rock and a hard place. The old man helped me out when I was in prison. Him and Tarzan looked after me, and Ernie treated me like a son, so I feel obligated. By helping him, I’m helping Joey and Larry, but at the same time I know I’m making enemies. When I became head of this family, Ernie acted as my consiglieri, always gave me profound, solid advice. He had tremendous insight, always had his finger on the pulse of what was happenin’ on the street. His advice helped me get where I am today. I’m neutral now and wanna stay that way. I’ve had no intentions of gettin’ us involved in this war, but I also understand that we might not be able to avoid it. Let’s look at it logically: we have a large family with a lot of soldiers and I don’t think the other families will want to take us on.”
Trenchie was listening to what Yip was saying. He knew that a Mafia family in NY is a gang ranging from 75 to 1,000 men, all of Italian descent and many related by blood. These men are all bound by a blood oath and organized into squads under the command of capos, who like good soldiers take their orders from the families Boss and underboss. “ I think they’d be crazy to try, but if they did, it would mean a lot of blood shed and a huge loss in revenue. I don’t think they can afford that. In the meantime, I’m allowing some of Joey’s men to stay in a few of my places. That includes this club and Red’s place. I may have to justify my decision with the heads of the other families at some point in the future, but I don’t care. I was always loyal to my friends and I intend to remain that way. So, Trenchie, it seems that you may have gotten out of prison at the wrong time. You might have just jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Well, enough of that. You just got out.”
Trenchie was unemotional as he looked at Yip. “Yip, talk to any guy in prison and he’ll tell you there’s never a bad time to get out of jail. As for you remaining loyal to your friends, I can relate to that. You have to do whatever you think is right and no matter what, I’m with you. As for me jumping from the frying pan into the fire, I’m standing in the fire right now. I have no feelings, no fear. Prison does that. It numbs you. Put a gun to my head with your finger on the trigger and I’ll laugh at ya but that aside, I’m with you no matter what happens. And by the way . . . you’re wrong. I got out at the right time because you’re gonna need me.”
“Trenchie, you just got your freedom and I don’t want you involved in this. When things get out of hand, we’ll handle it. Unlike the other families, we’re in better shape. We have a large cash reserve, not like ten years ago when things were tight. We’re practically legit now. We own restaurants, bowling alleys, car dealerships. We own Ford, Cadillac, Chrysler, Plymouth, Mercedes, Lincoln and Mercury. Red’s handling the questionable side of the business - numbers, loan sharking, horses and swag. We also have a ‘legitimate’ protection agency. We charge five bucks a month per store to guarantee they won’t be robbed. That’s just about every store in Queens and we do a good job for our customers. When thugs see our decal on a storefront, they usually don’t mess with us. Once in a while, we get a druggie or a dipshit who doesn’t have a clue. They might rob the place, but sooner or later we find ‘em and then they get a little educated about the rules around here. Recently, we had our church sacristy robbed. We found the guys not long after. We got the stuff back and returned it to the church but they wound up in pretty bad shape. Let’s just call it ‘death by rosary beads.’ Enough shop talk. If you need anything at all . . . wait a minute. Why didn’t I think of it before? You’re gonna need a car.” Yip began writing something. “When you find time, stop by one of our dealers and hand ‘em this card.”
The card read: “The bearer of this card is to be given any car of his choice. Call to confirm. Yip.”
“Yip you don’t have to do this. I’m not ready for a car. I don’t even know if I want one.”
“The offer is open. I owe you big time. You have my card. Take your time. Anytime you want the car, see Jerry. He’ll give you a list of our dealers.”
Chapter Three
When Trenchie arrived at The Starlight Club, the place was jumping. Four guys he didn’t recognize were sitting at the bar nursing a few drinks. They looked like mob guys. They had that arrogance exuded by those who liked to intimidate - those who were the proud purveyors of fear. They noticed Trenchie but didn’t move or speak. As Trenchie started walking towards Red’s office, he saw Red walking down the hall facing him.
“I have a Vericon surveillance system, cameras all over the place. Spotted you on my monitor and decided to meet you up front. It’s quieter here. We can sit and talk without being disturbed.
“What’s a surveillance system?”
“Something the army developed in 1943. I hear New York City will be installing them soon. It’s a system that let’s you see what’s happening in front of the camera. I have a contact who knew where to get them so I told him to buy them and install them in the club. Expensive but worth it. Now I can see what’s going on in the club without having to leave my office.”
“Come over here, I want you to meet some friends of ours. Trenchie meet Gibby. Gibby’s from the Bronx and heads the Irish Tigers, and Ralph - he’s from Sicily.”
Trenchie shook hands with each man. Red continued, “Those two sitting in the corner are Jackie and Tommy.”
Trenchie nodded in their direction. They acknowledged with a short wave.
“They’re all part of Crazy Joey Gallo’s mob. I guess Yip explained what’s going on.”
“Yeah. He told me about it. Sounds like a lot of shit might come down in a hurry.”
The moment Trenchie and Red were alone at the table, Red added, “Those two guys I introduced you to at the bar are the guys who wacked Albert Anastasia in the Waldorf barbershop. Gibby’s from the Bronx, but Ralph is a zit from Sicily, brought over here specifically for the barbershop job. The other two guys are part of the Gallo crew. The cigarette machine, the jukebox and the five game machines, they’re owned by the Gallo’s. Since we’re not in the vending machine business, I gave ‘em the okay to put ‘em in our place.”
Trenchie looked at the crowds gathering from the wedding party and asked, “Don’t you need a license to hold this many people?”
“Yeah, we do. Normally the room’s closed off. We don’t use it that much to warrant getting a license. We cordon off enough room for the dinner crowd which is what it’s mainly used for. As far as the license for the ballroom goes, it’s easier to go down to the precinct and hand the Captain an envelope. We use the place for the night and he looks the other way. It’s harmless. We don’t bother anybody an
d it’s not like we’re committing a crime. We’re just lettin’ a newly wedded couple celebrate their marriage at a price they couldn’t get anywhere else. Now what’s the harm in that?”
Red’s establishment was unique. The bar was separated by an ante-room which looked like a foyer. It was a room where Red held private conversations. Red’s office abutted it. The dining room had its own entrance separated within the large ballroom by a retractable wall. The food was primo - the best money could buy. Red catered to the average family, those who wanted good food, at a moderate price. The bar had become a problem, though, because of the Gallo men who camped out there nightly. Normally, his dinner guests would be seated at the bar and enjoy cocktails while waiting to be seated in the dining room. Red changed that. He had a nice clientele and didn’t want to mess it up by having his customers mingle with the type of men that now sat in the bar. Red called his contractor friend, Artie. He divided the rooms with a removable wall. It had a door that could be locked from the anteroom side of the wall. Done - the restaurant and two bars were all separate. The anteroom was now a traditional bar where his customers could sit and have a drink before dinner. In a way, it worked out better because the new bar was closer to the dining room. To complete the separation, he instructed the Gallo boys to stay in the original bar. Under no circumstances could they enter the restaurant unless he gave his approval. The Gallo men were under strict orders by Crazy Joe not to abuse Big Red’s hospitality and they understood the necessity of doing what they were told. They behaved themselves accordingly. The men never got out of line or caused problems but there was a marked difference between them and the other faithful patrons. The Starlight Club had a reputation for a nice ambience and good food at a fair price. It was a popular watering hole and Red liked it that way.
Red spent the next couple of hours bringing Trenchie up to date on all the changes that had taken place in the ten years he was gone. The neighborhood had changed. It was no longer all Italian. He had a working relationship with the blacks in the Northern Boulevard section of Queens. He liked the Orientals, who were taking over Flushing, because they didn’t interfere with his business. The Arabs were a tiny minority beginning to creep into the outer fringes of the neighborhood. Red described them as a plague and sometime in the future, he could sense that they would be troublesome. There was a growing Latino population. He had no problems with most of them. They watched out for each other and, much like the Italians, had very similar traditions with strong family values. The Latino mob, however, was another story. They’d been trying to get a foothold inside Queens for a while now but weren’t quite organized enough, yet. That could change at any moment and if it did, they could become a formidable adversary. Yip and Big Red were doing their best to prevent the erosion of the Italian neighborhood by buying old houses, renovating them, and re-selling them, only to Italians looking to remain in the neighborhood, or to other native Italian families looking to move to this part of Queens. It was all about preservation, but it was like shoveling shit against the tide. The disintegration of Italian culture and traditions was slowly, but surely, taking place and the Arabs, Orientals and Latinos were becoming a cultural landscape concern.
It was getting late. The wedding wound down and the guests were beginning to filter out through the side door. Some found their way out the front by way of the front bar. Red and Trenchie both stopped talking and watched with interest as a young Latino male entered the restaurant. It appeared that he had hit the sauce a little too much. Out of nowhere, he inserted himself right smack between Gibby and Ralph, interrupting their conversation, and out of nowhere, he began cursing about nothing in particular, spewing vitriol about nonsense, too out of it to realize that he was dealing with two stone killers. Little did he know that Gibby would just walk out to his car, open the trunk, take out a weapon and blow him away without so much as a second thought.
Ralph, to his credit, kept asking the young man to move over. “Relax, we know you’re tough,” Ralph said. “Calm down and have a drink on me.” The kid refused the drink.
“I don’t want no drink. I know what choo think. You think we just spicks. That’s what choo think of us. We just spicks.”
Ralph kept his calm. “Look, I don’t know what’s gotten into you. We don’t want any trouble. We understand you’re tough. We get it. You had a good time, now why spoil it? You don’t wanna fight us. We don’t wanna fight you so go home, relax and everything will be just fine. Go home now and get a goodnight’s sleep.”
But the kid kept yelling, “You think we spics and I’m tired of it. To you, we always be spicks.”
Gibby, growing impatient, glared icily into the man’s eyes. “You got that wrong, partner. We don’t think you a bunch of spicks, we think you a bunch of fucking niggers! What choo gonna do now, you chicken shit prick? You got a gun? Answer me, you got a gun? No? Well get your skinny brown ass the hell outta here and go get one, and then come back here because then I’m gonna kill you, you mother fucker, and I’m gonna’ bury your nigger ass right here in the street.”
The words stung the young Latino like a bad sunburn. He sped out the door straight to his car parked alongside the bar. Like a madman, he opened his trunk, all the while yelling to his friends exactly what Gibby had just said to him. Trenchie pulled the shade aside. He could see him taking out long knives and passing them out to his friends. Tarzan watched, too. Tarzan ambled toward the bar and grabbed his bat from underneath the counter. He took a chair from one of the tables and systematically ripped its legs off, as if they were feathers on a chicken and then handed a chair leg to each of the guys.
“This is gonna’ be easy,” Tarzan muttered flippantly. We don’t have to worry who they’re connected with. And afterwards, we don’t have to worry about a sit-down to explain why we did what we did. We just break their heads and throw ‘em the hell out of here.”
Jackie, quiet until now, ran to the kitchen, took out a large knife, and pressed his back against the wall nearest the front door. “The first one through the door gets it right in the heart,” he uttered.
Trenchie glanced his way and half mockingly said, “ Jackie, what the hell are you thinkin’ of? That knife’s way too thin. It won’t go in far enough. It’ll bend. What the hell kind of weapon is that?”
Jackie looked at the knife, then at Trenchie, then at the knife again, as if trying to decide what was the next best course of action. He raced back to the kitchen scouring for a larger blade. Satisfied, he once again assumed his position at the side of the front door, waiting for the first man to enter - the first man who would be dead before making it across the threshold.
“This one won’t bend,” he uttered coldly.
Trenchie was monitoring the action taking place by the car. An older man outside, seemingly with a cooler head, was motioning with his hands, gyrating in all directions, trying to convince the hot-tempered men, high on drink, to stand down. He calmed them enough to where they put the knives back into the trunk, got into their cars, and drove away, burning rubber all the while. He had just prevented these wise asses from getting themselves killed.
Jackie put the large knife back, Tarzan put the bat back under the bar, and Big Red and Trenchie resumed their conversation as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened. It was just business as usual.
Chapter Four
The commotion jarred Trenchie from his sleep. It sounded and felt as if the place were being bombed. He looked at his watch. Five thirty a.m. What the hell was going on down there? He put on his pants and socks, slipped into his shoes, and started walking. He stopped at the landing of the stairs.
It was the young Latino and his friends from last night. There they were, trashing everything in sight. What they couldn’t do last night, they were doing now. They were so hell bent on destruction that they didn’t see Trenchie watching them from the top of the stairs, scanning the place, assessing what he was up against. There were four of them ripping the place apart. There were broken bot
tles and chairs perched in a heap behind the bar, apparently purposely thrown into the club’s mirrors, coating the floor with thousands of shards of glass and silver. The tables were naked. At that moment, Trenchie noticed a blaze in the alleyway. Peering out the window at the top of stairs, it appeared to be a pile of something white - probably the linens. Trenchie wondered why they didn’t just light the place up instead of the damn tablecloths. Why didn’t they just burn it down? Too stupid, he guessed. The jukebox was knocked on its side, bashed in, with records spilling out. It was a miserable sight. The men were just about to attack the vending machine when Trenchie hollered.
“Hey! What the hell do you punks think you’re doing?”
The four men stopped dead in their tracks, surprised that anyone was here. This wasn’t in the plan.
“Where the fuck did this guy come from?” one of them asked.