by Tony Bertot
Uncle George
July 8, 1964
George Santiago had been a police officer for fifteen years. He was streetwise and was quite capable of carrying his own. Other officers respected and loved him as he had proven himself time and time again. He didn’t take any crap from anyone, and those on his beat respected him. He never abused or used those people. He was honor bound to serve and protect. Accompanying him to the precinct were two fellow officers, Judy Goldstein and Jerry Mathews. They too were veterans of New York’s finest.
Congregating in the precinct’s conference room, the officers, all anxious to help a fellow officer, brought George up to date on what they knew. They all expressed their sympathy and promised to bring these punks to justice. As they waited for the paperwork, they collaborated on what each knew about the Black Aces. They had already had encounters with the gang, but fear on the streets provided silence and anonymity. They knew the gang hung between 110th and 123rd streets and that they were involved with drugs.
Several hours had passed as the officers prepared for the sting that would round up all of the members. Their only witness had been rushed to a nearby hospital and placed under protective custody.
“We’re heading out to the scene where we believe the gang has a hang out, and we want you to tag along,” stated one of the local officers to George. George looked up at them, his heart pounding with a strong desire to rush out with them. But he knew this was no good. That he couldn’t lead the charge with the hate that consumed him.
“No, no, I have to take care of my nephew. He needs me now,” George responded. “Would you allow my partners to go in my place?” George asked.
“Sure, sure, of course,” the senior officers replied.
“Let’s go then. Let’s go and clean up the garbage.”
Over twenty-two officers exited the precinct to nine awaiting cars. The sirens could be heard a mile down the road as they approached St. Nicholas from both ends. Three cars parked at 110th and St. Nicolas while the other cars came in at 127th street and St. Nicolas. They silenced the sirens and began combing the neighborhood as they made their way toward 118th street where it was believed the gang’s headquarters were.
Though it was 5:00 a.m., the sirens brought a few people onto the streets, hesitantly providing them with information as to where the gang hung out. The cars silently pulled up on both sides of the street just outside of the apartment building.
Quietly moving down the alleyway, the police made their way into the entryway. All had their guns drawn. Most of them wishing that just one of the gang bangers open fire so that they would have an excuse to take them out, once and for all. But that didn’t happen. As they went from apartment to apartment, they found nothing. No one was there. They found drugs, an arsenal of guns hidden in the walls, but no gang members could be located.
The search continued well into the next night and into the next morning without so much as a hint as to where they might have gone. Not wanting to return to the precinct, the small army of cops continued their search, expanding it over two miles into the surrounding area. Nothing, they had nothing to show for the long hours. This was not just a punk gang. They were organized with options, alternatives, and plans. They picked up and moved to another location with business as usual.
“We underestimated how well organized this young gang is,” said Judy Goldstein.
Finally, after twenty-seven hours, they called it quits and started back to the precinct. Tyler and his uncle George had already left for Queens by the time Judy and the officers returned to the precinct.
Several officers slumped into their chairs exhausted and feeling defeated. “It doesn’t make any sense,” commented Judy. “Where the hell did they go?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now because sooner or later they’re going to turn up, and we’ll be waiting for them,” said one of the detectives.
It was 6:00 a.m. when George called to get a status report. Judy spoke to him for over an hour as he drilled her for more details on their search for the Black Aces. When it was over, George walked over to his kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee while he pondered all of what Judy told him.
They must have gotten word that the cops were looking for them and have split. But where could they have gone? They’re a local gang, with no place to go. Where would they go? Where? They must have help from family, or they’re just connected. They may think they’re untouchable, but they just fucked with the wrong man. They changed my nephew’s life forever.
George thought back to Judy’s last words, “One more thing. The witness, who was taken to the hospital, is now a homicide.” George sat in silence as he listened to the details in disbelief. He knew the police did what they could. He also knew that they were taken away from another case involving a mob killing downtown; someone rubbed out Bolnaldo Costellino, head of the Costellino family. They were simply stretched too thin. Some day he’d find the truth. Just not today, George thought.
The Take Out
July 9, 1964 (1:00-5:00 a.m.)
Earlier Uncle Ted had been rushed to Mt. Sinai Hospital where his wounds were attended to. The doctors placed a cast on his left leg and stabilized his collarbone by encasing him in an upper body cast. Officers had accompanied the ambulance and waited outside the operating room and then accompanied the patient to his recovery room. They stationed themselves outside of the door. Their orders were simple: guard this witness until we get a positive identification.
Around 1:00 a.m. another officer arrived to relieve them. They filled him in on what was going on and advised him that they would be back in eight hours to resume their post. “No problem. Make sure you bring me some coffee” said the cop.
Five minutes later, the officer stepped into Uncle Ted’s recovery room and put a bullet in his head. Half an hour later, the same officer walked to a nearby police station, stole a police van, and headed uptown toward St. Nicholas. By 2:00 a.m. he was at the hideout of the Black Aces.
He picked the lock on the door and let himself in. Several members were awake as he approached. “Listen up! My name is Malco Lombardi,” he shouted. “I am here to warn you that the cops are on their way. You left a fuckin’ witness! I work for the Costellino family, and they ordered me to get you out.”
“What the hell!” Jose, one of the gang members, shouted.
“Who the fuck are you?” asked, Blackie, the gang leader.
“Like I said, I am just a messenger,” replied Malco. “If you want to settle it on your own, then good-bye,” Malco continued.
“Hold on, hold on. Why should we trust you?” Blackie inquired.
“You’re a fuckin’ cop,” Jose remarked.
“I am not a cop, just dressed like one, so that I could steal one of their vans,” the cop impersonator responded. “Hey, it doesn’t matter to me. I am just following orders, doing my job. I don’t need this, and I sure don’t want to be here when the cops arrive. You killed a cop’s sister, and you’re going down.”
“What you talking about, man, what cop broad?” asked Blackie.
“Hey, I don’t have time to explain, so either you come with me or settle it on your own. The family gave me five thousand for myself and twenty-five thousand for you,” the stranger continued.
“Whoa, where’s the dough?” asked Blackie.
“In the van, where else did you think it would be?”
Blackie was always quick in understanding a situation and realized this was bad. Killing a cop or a relative of a cop was bad, real bad. “Okay, okay, we go now,” he ordered.
They rushed out of their hangout and on to the street. The stranger got into the driver’s seat while the leader jumped into the passenger side. “Hey, man this is a fucking paddy wagon,” Blackie remarked.
“It’s the best I could muster in such a short time,” Malco responded.
The rest of the gang piled into the back, complaining that it was packed and crowded. “It’s a short trip,” Malco shouted back to them.
Next to Blackie was a bag and in it was the twenty-five thousand. “Hey, guys, we got the money up here,” Blackie shouted back to his gang. There was a cheer from the back of the van. “Where you taking us man?” asked Blackie.
“To a hideout in New Jersey, where you can lay low for a couple of days, and then it’s up to you where you go,” replied the stranger. Within minutes, they were on their way out of Manhattan, heading toward New Jersey.
They crossed over the George Washington Bridge and turned right toward Englewood Cliffs. After a mile, they headed toward the Englewood Cliff Park. They continued down to the picnic area of the park running alongside the Hudson River. They could see the George Washington Bridge in the near distance, looming above them. “Man, this is a cool place,” Blackie remarked.
Malco pulled the van a few feet from the end of the pier overlooking the river. He whipped out a silenced pistol and fired into Blackie’s head. The he pulled an automatic from under the seat and grabbed the bag of money, leaving a few loose bills on Blackie’s lap. Stepping out of the van, he placed a brick on the gas pedal and put the van in drive. He moved to the rear of the van as it slowly moved forward and he began emptying the automatic into the back of the van. He could hear shouts and screams as the van hit the water. He stood there for almost a minute as the van sank into the Hudson River. After he watched the van sink out of sight, he followed the thousand steps up toward the top of the cliffs and disappeared into the dead of night.
A Survivor
July 9, 1964 (5:30 a.m.)
Lefty tried to peer out the side-wired window of the van as they reached the bottom of Englewood Cliffs. It was dark when they stopped for a brief moment. Then the van started moving forward again. All of a sudden, bullets began to riddle the back of the van. Louis Sanchez caught one in the chest, Nelson was hit in the leg, and Russell caught one in the stomach. Everyone dropped to the floor. There were screams as bullets were flying around them. Suddenly they felt the van tilt forward, and they piled toward the front of the van.
The van plunged into the cold Hudson River. Water began to seep into the van as it slowly descended into the river. Screams could be heard from inside the van.
“What the fuck!” someone screamed.
“You fuckin’ bastard!” someone else screamed.
“You motherfucker,” screamed Loco as he took a shot to his neck.
The water continued to seep into the van as it descended into the Hudson River. Lefty, realizing the situation, quickly crawled toward the back of the van. Feeling his way in the dark, he moved as quickly as he could. Among the screams, the blood, and the water rushing in, he made his way to the backdoor. Lefty pushed as hard as he could while he watched the surface quickly disappearing as the water engulfed the van.
As the water filled in from the back, Kenny once more pushed as hard as he could, managing to open the backdoor enough to slip through. It appeared as if one of the bullets hit the lock and damaged it, allowing Kenny to get it open. As the water rushing past him help push the door open, Kenny swam out. He glanced behind him and saw the van’s door shut, sealing the fate of his comrades. Kenny then swam forward and upward, thinking back to when he was on the swimming team in high school; what seemed to be a lifetime ago. Holding his breath and swimming he felt as if his lungs were going to burst. He stayed below as long as he could until finally he could not hold it any longer. When he surfaced, there was no one to be seen. Also floating to the top were some bills adding up to a few hundred dollars, enough for Lefty to get out of town.
Good-bye, Bolnaldo Costellino
July 11, 1964
It was a rainy, hot Saturday morning as the long line of limousines took Don Bolnaldo to his final resting place. Tony Costellino, his brother Bolnaldo Junior, Clemente Marino, and Malco Lombardi eulogized Bolnaldo Costellino Senior at the church. Everyone praised them for their eloquent words.
After the funeral services, they all gathered at La Ristorante for breakfast. There were about 250 guests, most were members of the Costellino family.
“I will destroy what is left of the Giordano family,” Tony said, revenge coursing though his veins.
“Easy, my brother, we will deal with them shortly,” responded Junior.
“I heard they had a private funeral for their family at the estate. Also heard that it was Erin Romano who hit Twelfth Street,” Clemente said.
“Erin called me,” said Tony Costellino.“They’re scared shitless and want to show their sincerity by offering some of their locations, merging our enterprises. What do you think, Clemente?”
“You got to be kidding,” Clemente replied.
“Well, I decided to meet with them and, when the time is right, take them to an open field in New Jersey and bury them alive,” responded Tony.
“They are going to learn what it’s like to mess with us. Just like the Don said,” added Malco. Clemente raised his glass of wine and said, “To Don Bolnaldo Costellino. May his death be avenged. Salute!”
The Bitter Taste of Revenge
July 11, 1964 (07:00 a.m.)
Felicia Giordano, her brother, Fabio, Leo Russo, John De Luca, and Erin Romano sat at the Hampton estate having an early breakfast. Although Fazio was gone, the family was still intact, in spite of what Tony Costellino thought.
The funeral parlor had three caskets delivered, one contained Fazio Giordano, and the other two were empty. The news media outside the estate took pictures and speculated as to the contents of each casket. Their spirits were high with another great news story in the making. Blood was an expendable commodity within the families on the streets of New York.
.Felicia knew that in order to win this war once and for all, she, her brother, John De Luca, and Leo Russo had to remain out of sight. When she got the news that Bolnaldo had been taken out, she knew they now had a shot at taking them all out, especially since they thought the Giordano family had been eliminated.
Felicia ordered Erin to call the Bolnaldo family and to ask for a truce. The hit on their father was already in the works and could not have been stopped. An eye for an eye, thought Erin. They were sorry for their loss, and enough blood had been shed. Erin referred to Tony Costellino as the don, which pleased Tony significantly. No one would challenge the new don. But Tony did not know his intoxication with power would end with the ultimate hangover.
“We would like to make amends,” said Erin, “and maybe have a meet with Tony Costellino, the don of the family. We are prepared to turn over Giordano’s financial interest in exchange for our lives.”
Upon Bolnaldo Costellino’s death, Felicia ordered that the information dropped off for Nick had been picked up. She wasn’t too surprised when she found that the one in the library was not there. She had already deduced that it was Nick Costello who had dealt with the visitors that night. Additionally, she realized Nick had saved her and Fabiano’s lives. Lastly, she decided to pay Nick not only what he was contracted to do, but would provide an additional $100,000 for a job well done. It was unfortunate that he didn’t act sooner; it could have saved her father. But she was her father’s daughter; and this fortuitous incident, however sad, had propelled her into the most enviable of positions. Whether anyone else realized this twist of fate, she was now the “don” of the Giordano family. She also realized that Nick had proven to be invaluable.
Felicia and the rest of her guests retired to the living room and turned on the television to watch the news channel. They chatted about their future, and about how things were going to be once she took over all of the Costellino family’s enterprises.
Felicia watched in anticipation, wondering if her orders had been carried out by her two spies in the Costellino family. Approximately two hours later, her curiosity and anticipation were satisfied when a special news bulletin came over the airways and confirmed it. It appeared as if more than a hundred people had to be rushed to nearby hospitals because of food poisoning.
An hour later, there was an update to the news broadcast.
The special report now was saying that most of the people rushed to the hospital had died. Doctors were initially unable to determine the cause of their death. However, given the circumstances, that only adults were affected, it was believed that the wine may have been poisoned. Felicia stood up, smiling, and raised her glass.“Salute.”
“Salute,” they all responded.
Twenty Years Later
May 22, 1984 (New York)
Felicia Giordano announced her decision to step down as the head of the Giordano family and turn over the reins to her brother Fabio. Fabio and Felicia together had successfully managed the family, resulting in the creation of one of the biggest crime syndicates in the United States. Their solo act of 1964 not only eliminated the Costellino family as a threat, but in this single act, the heads of six Chicago crime families also faced extinction. Within a week of what is now known as the Last Breakfast at La Ristorante, Felicia mobilized her family and took on the most prosperous locations of the Costellino family. With the support and muscle from the Russo and Costa families of San Francisco, they also attacked and severely crippled most of the Chicago families. Almost every day the newspapers were either reporting a mob hit or a funeral.
Around mid-September of that year, two agents from the FBI were sent to visit Felicia Giordano. It was made clear to her that they had made it a priority to bring her and her whole organization down. Everyone had assumed the FBI and most government agencies had been too consumed with the ongoing investigation of the assassination of President Kennedy, which occurred in November of the previous year.
Felicia felt a lot of dirt could be swept under the rug without the FBI’s intervention at this time. However, though Felicia and Fabio knew that the FBI could not pin anything on the Giordano family, they decided to call for a truce with any remaining families. “Why push our luck?” Fabio stated, with which Felicia agreed.