by Joe Corso
Jimmy opened his jacket, sat back in the comfortable first class recliner, and ordered a gin and tonic. Jimmy the Hat was the hottest star in the world and he was on this aircraft right now with everyone on the plane wanting to get a look at him. Jimmy was getting a kick out of all this attention. During the flight, he called one of the stewardesses over and asked her if they would allow him a small courtesy - could they arrange for him to be sequestered somewhere in the airport and have his luggage brought to him? “If I go to the carousel and wait for my luggage, I’ll never get out of here.” The airline was only too happy to comply.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tarzan walked into The Starlight Club and headed straight to Red’s office. He knocked once, opened the door without waiting for a reply, and took a seat and waited until Red got off the phone. Red cut the conversation short, knowing Tarzan wouldn’t have barged in without a good reason. “What happened? What’s the problem?”
“Red, we have a serious problem and it changes everything. I just found out that Larry Gallo has terminal cancer. When he dies, we’re screwed because we won’t have anyone to represent us because we won’t have a made man in our organization. We’ll be dog meat and the Profaci’s will put contracts out on all of us. It’ll be like shooting ducks in a barrel. I’m a captain in this mob and I have to admit, I don’t have a clue what my next step should be. That’s what I want to talk to you about. You sit on the council and you know us. We could become part of your organization. The boys would go for that, I know they would.
Red thought a moment. “No, it won’t work. I have enough problems handling what I have without takin’ on somethin’ else. But maybe there’s another way this can work. Excuse me a minute.” Red walked to the front bar and looked around. He spotted Trenchie playing shuffleboard and told him he needed to talk to him.
Trenchie and Red sat alongside Tarzan in the office as the three men began to brainstorm. Red laid it out for Trenchie. “The Gallo’s have a problem,” and he went on to tell him about Larry dying of cancer.
Trenchie looked a little confused. “So what does any of this have to do with me?”
Red continued, “Joey and Larry were made guys but the youngest brother, Albert, isn’t, so they need someone to represent ‘em. This could be an opportunity for you. Look at it this way Trenchie - the Bronx is just openin’ up for them so money’ll be comin’ in from there. Then there’s Brooklyn that’ll begin to make money when this war ends. Joey secretly owned several nightclubs on Eighth Avenue and two sweatshops in the Manhattan garment district where he had forty or fifty women making fabric for dress suits. You’ll get a cut of this when you join their organization.” Trenchie turned to Tarzan.
“Let’s see. You need representation and I can give it to you, but if I understand this correctly, Albert will make the actual decisions and handle the day-to-day operations. Am I correct so far?”
“Yes, but that’s not all.”
Tarzan hesitated a moment. Trenchie had no idea where this conversation was going but he understood that it was important so it gave him a moment to think about what he wanted to say. Before Tarzan began to speak, Trenchie interrupted him.
“Before you continue, if I agree to do this, what’s in it for me?”
“We can’t operate without you. With Joey dead and Larry sick, we don’t have any made guys in our crew and we won’t make it on our own without one. This war has to end soon and when that happens, we’ll need someone to represent us. We’ll have to join one of the other families, either the Profaci’s or the Colombo’s or the Genovese family, and a made guy will have to sit down and negotiate that for us. Once this is settled, our territories will be absorbed by the family we go with, so you’ll have to negotiate your own deal to get Joey’s cut, which they’ll agree to. Then once we have an agreement, you can either go your way or join us. The choice will be yours.”
“Why do you say that they have to agree to my getting Joey’s cut?”
“Whoever we go with, all our income will be theirs, minus Larry’s share. So why would they object to giving you a share that was never theirs to begin with? Besides, they want this war to end just as much as we do and by them giving you a deal, it makes them look good. They’ll go for it, trust me.”
Trenchie, still processing all of this said, “I guess it makes sense when you put it that way.” He paused. “Okay, what’s next?”
“Look, I have to pass this by Albert. He’s the one running the show now and since you agree to represent us, I don’t think he’ll have any problem givin’ you Joey’s share. Put it this way . . . he has no choice but to agree.”
“OK. If Albert agrees, then we have a deal.”
Tarzan left the room a much happier man than when he first entered. Ten minutes after departing, the door burst open again without so much as a knock and Jimmy the Hat walked in smiling.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Profaci was feared and even hated by members of his crime family. He required each member to pay him a twenty-five dollars a month “tithe.” This was an old Sicilian gang custom. It was to his advantage to continue this tradition. The money, which amounted to about $50,000 a month, was meant to support the families of mobsters in prison, but Profaci kept most of it. Profaci was rigid with his policies and didn't tolerate dissention regarding them. Anyone who didn’t like the tithing policy or any other matters were dispensed with.
In 1960, Profaci received his first leadership challenge. It involved mobster “Crazy Joe” Gallo and his two brothers. The dispute was over the disposition of a profitable racket. In 1959, Profaci ordered the murder of Frank Abbatemarco, a Profaci family bookmaker in Brooklyn. The bookie had gotten behind on some money dealings with Profaci and refused to make the necessary $50,000 catch-up payment. Profaci assigned the job to the Gallo brothers. Shortly after Abbatemarco's death, Profaci split the dead man’s bookmaking business among himself, relatives and close associates. This was a sore spot with the Gallo Brothers, who had worked with Abbatemarco, and who carried out the hit. They expected to get the business.
Most of Profaci’s wealth was from traditional illegal enterprises such as protection rackets and extortion. To protect himself from tax evasion charges, Profaci still maintained his original olive oil business; thus, his nickname the "Olive Oil King.” Profaci owned twenty other businesses that employed hundreds of workers in New York. He lived a life of luxury - a large home in Bensonhurst, a 328-acre estate in New Jersey with its own private landing strip and a home in South Florida.
* * * * * * * * * *
A black Chrysler pulled up to the guard booth situated in front of the gates leading to the Profaci estate. The guard ambled over to the car and bent down to see its occupants. The window slowly lowered but a pole on the gate was blocking the sun, casting a shadow over the car, making it difficult to see the man behind the wheel. The driver leaned into the light to show his face. Recognizing him, the guard nodded to his partner who pushed a button allowing the grand, ornamental gates to open. The sedan rolled leisurely through the opening, cruising smoothly up the long blue stone driveway, following its curves around the sloping hills of the estate, until they reached a cul-de-sac. Profaci’s estate home sat majestically on the highest part of the grounds where any approaching car could easily be seen.
The car door opened and a nondescript average sized man stepped out. He was about forty-five and walked with a confident athletic gait as he ascended the chain of stairs leading to the home’s grand entrance. He rang the bell and waited patiently. He could hear footsteps getting closer. The door opened and he was welcomed inside. As a matter of procedure, the visitor was patted down, checking for anything that might pose a threat or concern. A muscular built bodyguard, disguised as kitchen help, escorted him to a room with floor to ceiling windows designed to display the majestic view of the rear grounds of the large estate.
“I see from the papers that everything went as planned. Who did you have with you on this job?”
> “Porky.”
“Porky? Why him? I don’t trust that guy.”
“I had no choice. If I did, I would have taken someone else, but Porky served in Korea and knows how to make and install a bomb, so I had to take him.”
“I see. Well, it went well and now it’s finished. Good job, Slats. Anthony, please bring me the manila envelope on my desk.”
For his public livelihood, the one for show, Slats drove an oil truck, but when he wasn’t delivering oil, he worked his real job. The professional hit man from Corona, Queens had two rules he lived by. One, he worked alone, and two, he took jobs out of town and tried not to mix the two. His neighbors knew him as a hard working guy who drove an oil truck. Slats hired out to anyone who could afford him, but his clients mostly included mob bosses from around the country. He had worked for Profaci previously. The latest call contained certain words, phrases, and veiled references that had meaning. Phones could be tapped, enemies could be listening and recordings could be made. But there was nothing unusual about two friends talking about old times and the need to get together soon.
“Why don’t you come over for espresso on Saturday morning, around ten and we can catch up on things? I’d love to see you.” The appointment was set.
Slats arrived on time. Profaci got right to the point, telling him he’d pay ten grand for the job - half now and the other half when the job was completed. He’d also spring for another five grand for a second man if needed. Slats agreed to do the job, but he knew he was breaking his self-imposed two rules. Slat’s success was largely because he planned his hits carefully, left nothing to chance. He’d been doing this for twenty years and had never been caught. He was thorough, careful, and he worked alone. He knew who he could trust - himself - and that was the only person he could trust one hundred percent, but for this job . . . he had to use Porky. He didn’t like it but that other man had to be Porky. Porky was okay sober, but Slats worried about his drinking and wondered whether there might be another way to do this. But no matter how much he tried, it all came back to Porky.
Slat’s rap sheet consisted mainly of petty crimes, mostly when he was younger. His first collar was for holding up a bank. He did two years for that one. When he got out, he was arrested again for running numbers. The business of killing was an accident. Slat had owed his bookie a substantial amount of money and just couldn’t seem to come up with the cash. The bookmaker, sensing that it was going to be an almost impossible task to get his money back presented him with a proposition to wipe the slate clean. Slats wanted nothing more than to be off the hook and jumped at the chance. The bookmaker explained that he needed to “eliminate” someone, his fierce competitor. Then, and only then, would the debt be forgiven. The competitor vanished and Slats discovered a way to make a lot of money. This job with Porky, though, was a bit uncomfortable. It was a local job and he would have someone with him. It would be a bit easier if the job was out of town. Slats was a superstitious man, so he began to wonder that perhaps by changing his routine, he just might change his luck from good to bad. But money is a great equalizer when there is doubt. Money messes with logic. Slats accepted the contract without asking details and Profaci purposely withheld them. Anthony handed Profaci the manila envelope who passed it to Slats. Done. The deal was sealed.
Slats knew Yip from the neighborhood. Profaci knew there was a chance he might refuse the job if he knew it was Yip, but once front money was accepted, he knew Slats couldn’t back out - just not the way things were done. Profaci was right. Slats discovered the name of his intended target and felt like he had sucker tattooed on his forehead . . . but a deal was a deal. He was locked in. He justified it: it was just business, friendship can’t get in the way of business, not with this kind of money.
Slats had brief misgivings about the other two men who were with Yip. Yip had been the primary target and it was unfortunate that the other guys were there. Slats thought philosophically about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“I may have more work for you in the next thirty days. Will you be available?”
“I have nothing on the books right now. If you need me, you know how to contact me.”
With their business completed, the two men shook hands and parted.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Two weeks earlier
Porky was jubilant having just made $5,000 for making and rigging a bomb to a car. He celebrated by making the rounds buying drinks for his pals. After a long night of heavy drinking, he passed out on one of the unoccupied tables at the Zebra club. Jake the owner of the club helped Porky to his feet and was about to send him on his way when Porky with difficulty took his car keys from his pocket with the intention of driving himself home. Jake looked at him like he was crazy and he almost lost it
“Porky you better sit back down, you’re in no condition to drive. Who do you want me to call to come and pick you up?”
Porky slurring his words said loudly and drunkenly. “Nobody, I don’t want anybody to take me anywhere just get me a cab I have plenty of money so don’t worry about anything just call a cab.” Porky pulled a wad of 100’s out of his pocket to show him he had money and some dropped on the floor as he drunkenly held his hand out to show him. “There you see, I have plenty of money so get me a cab.” With that his head fell heavily back onto the table as if it were too heavy to hold up.
Jake was curious and asked him after seeing the wad of bills he flashed. “Geez Porky, that’s a lot of money you have there. Where the hell did you get it?”
Porky as drunk as he was lifted his head and began talking about things he shouldn’t have.
“Sheet Jake, The old boy still got it, it brought back memories. Yep I can still build a hell of a bomb, yes sir I sure can.”
Jake stiffened when he heard him say that and he brought a bottle over from the bar and poured another drink for Porky … a large stiff one. Then he took his bartender on the side and told him to watch Porky and whatever you do don’t let him leave. Then he went to his office, picked up the phone, and called Big Red.
Porky woke up with a huge hangover and his eyes felt as if they were glued shut and he had the damnedest time opening them. His mouth tasted like dragons breath, like it was filled with cotton and he was sure his head had an anvil laying on it. He started to get up but for some reason he couldn’t move his body. Strange he thought, then he tried to stand and that didn’t work and neither did his arms when he tried to stretch them so with an effort he managed to open his eyes and he was surprised to find that he was in what had to be a cellar. He was tied to a chair, and in a moment of clarity he knew he was in trouble. He looked to his left at his surroundings and the place looked like it belonged in the last century. Pipes were hanging from clamps attached somehow to the ceiling and as he looked closer he noticed there were gas fixtures attached to the pipes now unused but active if someone decided to turn the valve and light the fixture. Then his gaze shifted to his right and he thought to himself wow this place is old. As he stared into the darkness trying to look through the dust which hovered in the cellar clinging to the air giving the area a misty look. Then he noticed an anomaly - something that shouldn’t be there. He found himself staring at a single lane bowling alley that ran alongside a wall with a door that he thought could lead to the surface, wherever that was. Then a familiar voice came from somewhere behind him and snapped him out of his reverie. “So you’re finally awake eh?” Then Red stepped out from the darkness behind him like a wraith and walked into his view and he stopped in front of him.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in the cellar of the Starlight Club Porky, That’s where you are.”
“Why am I tied to a chair Red? What do you want from me? Come on untie me you had your little joke so now untie me.”
“Porky you’ve been a bad boy. I’d like to know where you got all this money?”
“I earned it, it’s mine.”
“How did you earn it Porky? What did you have to do to g
et it?”
“That’s none of your business.
“That’s where you’re wrong Porky I want to know who you were with. I want to know his name and where I can find him because one guy couldn’t do this job alone. I did a little digging Porky and I’m told that you served in the army, seen some action in Korea and while you were there you had become something of an expert with bombs. This is not looking good for you Porky because you were real drunk last night and you talked a lot. You told a few people that you can still build a bomb so I know you were one of the guys who killed Yip. What I need to know is … Who is the other guy?”
Porky felt the noose tightening around his neck. He didn’t remember talking to anyone last night but he had lost count after the third or fourth bar and who knows what he might have said. He asked himself did I get that drunk where I talked to people and can’t remember what I said or to who I said it to? Probably, he thought. You’re a jerk, he said to himself, knowing that he was in a world of trouble. He quickly ran different scenarios through his head trying to figure a way out of this mess. There was no explanation he could offer Red that he would believe … except one and that just might get him off the hook and that was to come clean and tell Red everything that happened. That’s what he would do he’d tell him what he wanted to know and he’d put the blame squarely on Slats then maybe he’d let him go. Maybe there was a chance that he might live through this nightmare.