The Quiet Don: The Untold Story of Mafia Kingpin Russell Bufalino

by Birkbeck, Matt

  Hoffa’s release had actually been years in the making, but it came with a caveat: Hoffa couldn’t “engage in the direct or indirect management of any labor organization” until March 1980. The terms weren’t part of the original deal, and Hoffa only learned about it after he was released. He was furious and blamed a host of “rats” who turned on the one man who had brought the Teamsters to national prominence. The Teamsters was Hoffa’s union, and in his mind, no one should or could run it while he was still alive.

  The biggest rodent in Hoffa’s eyes was Frank Fitzsimmons. Once a timid underling, Fitzsimmons grew strong during Hoffa’s absence. The union had more members than ever, more revenues, and even more money in its pension funds. Most important, Fitzsimmons had a friend in the White House. His relationship with Nixon had flourished in just a few short years, and Fitzsimmons was now among one of the president’s staunchest allies and supporters. Nixon had, during the 1971 Teamsters convention in Miami, made a surprise visit to support Fitzsimmons, who was seeking to officially replace Hoffa as Teamster president. With Nixon’s help, Fitzsimmons won, and he repaid the favor during the 1972 election by throwing the great weight of the Teamsters union fully behind Nixon’s reelection bid.

  Hoffa fumed. With time deducted for good behavior, he most likely would have been out of prison by 1974 and eligible to seek the Teamsters presidency in 1976. He sent word to Bufalino that he would exact his revenge against Fitzsimmons while regaining control of the union. Bufalino told Hoffa to take the $1.7 million he had just converted from his Teamster pension and spend the rest of his days teaching and playing with his grandchildren, which is what Hoffa told the parole board he’d do to earn his way out to freedom.

  Bufalino, like the rest of the mob bosses who sucked off the pension funds, didn’t need Hoffa. His time had passed. The truth of the matter was that everyone was content under Fitzsimmons and his friend in the White House. There was new construction in Las Vegas, of which Bufalino and every major mob boss in the country now had interests, and the Teamster pension fund was now more like a child’s piggy bank, where money could be withdrawn on a whim.

  Bufalino knew his old friend was angry, but he firmly believed Hoffa would see the light and simply fade into the sunset. Bufalino had already pulled his cousin William from Hoffa’s side several years earlier. The official story was that William Bufalino ended the relationship because he was tired of Hoffa’s incessant complaining. But the breakup, in September 1967, came a month after Hoffa and Tony Provenzano came to blows inside the Lewisburg prison. Provenzano wanted his million-dollar-plus Teamster pension, which had been revoked following his felony conviction, and he sought Hoffa’s help. Hoffa, after all, was still eligible to receive his pension despite his felony. But Provenzano’s crimes reached a higher threshold, and Hoffa said there was nothing he could do. Provenzano was irate, and he turned to Bufalino for help, and he in turn recommended that Provenzano quiet down. Unbeknownst to Hoffa, the wheels were already spinning toward Fitzsimmons. The Hoffa situation was about to get ugly, but Bufalino had other pressing matters, and they focused on his pending deportation.

  IS THIS JUSTICE?

  It is our belief that sympathy and reconsideration should be accorded on the plight of Russell Bufalino who is scheduled for deportation to Italy at the age of 69.

  He went to school here, registered for the draft, voted, filed income tax and married an American girl. Bufalino has no criminal record except for a few traffic violations, no income tax evasion counts against him. Bufalino did not burn draft headquarters or go around as an anti-war pacifist. He did not cause violent damage to this country as was done by many.

  He had been under surveillance by the Federal Bureau of Investigation for the years since the Apalachin meeting. The F.B.I. is reputedly the greatest investigating bureau in the world. Yet, the only thing that Russell Bufalino is being deported for is that they claimed he was 40 days old when he came to this country with his parents.

  Russell Bufalino has helped many charitable organizations and many people get into business. Hearsay statements connecting him to racketeering has not been listed in any documentary form. Therefore we feel this action against Mr. Bufalino is not justified.

  Mr. Bufalino has an ordinary life span. The few years he has left should be in the country he spent 69 years in.

  The Italian American Civil Rights League

  The advertisement that ran in the local Scranton newspapers was a desperate though feeble attempt to keep the U.S. government from finally deporting Russell Bufalino. His attorneys, led by Jack Wasserman, had argued his last and final appeal on November 27, 1972, before the U.S. Court of Appeals, Third Circuit, in Philadelphia. Wasserman had managed to delay the case fourteen years, coming up with different motions such as arguing back in 1967 that his client was the victim of an “illegal wiretapping” by the FBI, and that the entire deportation proceeding should be stayed if not entirely dismissed. Wasserman also had argued that if Bufalino was sent to Italy, his life would be endangered.

  The Board of Immigration Appeals had denied Bufalino’s request on June 5, 1967, and again on October 7, 1971.

  On January 30, 1973, the appeals court upheld the previous deportation rulings and ordered Bufalino to leave the country. The judges’ opinion did not take kindly to the length of time it took to get to this point, and they delivered a scathing commentary on Bufalino’s ability to tie up an immigration proceeding for so long.

  “His present attorney has been in charge of the tactics, which have held petitioner in this country despite the fact that he deliberately and falsely asserted United States citizenship,” said the judges.

  Out of appeals, and out of time, Bufalino did what he had done several times before. He met with the other heads of the New York crime families and discussed the oversight and division of his businesses. Decisions were made on who would take over his interests in gambling, the Vegas casinos and the garment industry.

  He had begun making preparations to fly to Italy when word came that the Italian government determined that Bufalino was not a person of good character and not welcome in the country of his birth. Helping them with their decision was a suitcase filled with $1 million. The cost was high, but worth it. Italy’s refusal meant Bufalino would stay in the United States.

  Bufalino had been a major underworld figure since the 1940s, but now, at age seventy, he was never more powerful. He wasn’t a member of the Commission and, to those who knew him best, being tagged as a supreme leader never captured his interest. He was content hiding under the camouflage of his Pennsylvania address knowing that no one, not even the FBI, would ever figure that someone who lived outside of Scranton could wield the kind of power and influence that he enjoyed.

  Bufalino was in charge of his growing family in Pennsylvania, which now had more than fifty members. There were old, aging mainstays, such as capo James Osticco, who was arrested at Apalachin with Bufalino; Cappy Giumento, one of his closest confidants and sometimes driver; Joseph Scalleat, who ran the city of Hazleton; and Steven LaTorre, the lone remaining original member who was nearing ninety and in retirement, though still available for consultation when needed. Jack Parisi still lived in Hazleton. The former triggerman with Albert Anastasia’s “Murder Incorporated,” who had fled New York police and lived secretly in that city for years under the protection of Joseph Scalleat, was nearing seventy-five but remained a frightening presence. Only five feet six inches, Parisi began his work as a contract killer in the 1920s in Brooklyn, and since 1926, he had been arrested for a variety of crimes, including extortion, grand larceny, possession of a gun and murder. Following his move to Hazleton, Parisi joined Anastasia in several garment businesses, including the Nuremberg Dress Company and the Madison Dress Company, but he became a member of the Bufalino family and took up where he left off in New York, becoming Bufalino’s most trusted triggerman long before some of those duties were transferred to Frank S
heeran, who also remained an important member of Bufalino’s entourage.

  There was also new blood led by William D’Elia, whom Bufalino had grown fond of and treated like a son. Bufalino had no children of his own, and the attentive D’Elia filled that void while serving as Bufalino’s bodyguard.

  In addition to his own family, Bufalino still maintained control over the Genovese family in New York, and he maintained a regular dialogue with the heads of New York’s four other crime families.

  Bufalino had, as he had for much of his life, avoided any major entanglements with law enforcement though he had one blip in 1974 when he was charged with fifteen other men with conspiring to extort two vending company officials in Binghamton, New York. Bufalino had a vending company, A&G Vending and Amusement, and he sought to erase the competition by bribing them out of business. On April 24, 1974, Bufalino was tried and acquitted of all charges. Three months later, in July 1974, his mentor, Stefano Magaddino, was felled by a heart attack at age eighty-two.

  The old don, like Bufalino, was among the last of the Sicilian-born Mafiosi. For more than fifty years, Magaddino ruled over his upstate New York crime family and also maintained his place on the Commission. The faux pas over Apalachin nearly cost him his life. Another slipup, when police found nearly $500,000 in his son’s home hidden in a suitcase in 1968, led to some discontent within his own family. Magaddino and a son, Peter, were already facing bookmaking charges when the money was found, and other family members believed Magaddino was holding out on them. The ensuing friction led to a split that was only resolved when Bufalino agreed to step in and take control over a portion of the family. With Magaddino dead, Bufalino moved quickly to consolidate the rest of his family in Buffalo and their interests elsewhere. By the end of 1974, Bufalino was now directly in charge of three crime families and personally controlled businesses in territories that stretched from New York City to Pennsylvania to upper New York State, Florida, parts of Ohio and Las Vegas.

  At seventy years old, Russell Bufalino was at the pinnacle of his career and wielded incredible power.

  But then came Hoffa, and Time magazine.

  FOURTEEN

  Since his release from prison, in 1971, Jimmy Hoffa had become a growing irritant. He had played ball during his first year of freedom, supporting Richard Nixon and saying all the right things about the president’s economic programs. Richard Nixon was good for the country, said Hoffa, and, more important, he was good for the Teamsters.

  But Hoffa had a constant pain in his stomach, and it could only be cured by exacting his revenge against Frank Fitzsimmons and the other Teamsters, including Tony Provenzano, who Hoffa believed had betrayed him.

  The secret condition attached to his pardon that prevented him from holding office until 1980 gnawed at him like a cancer, and after a year of public goodwill, Hoffa decided to fight the ban. He devised a strategy that would challenge the condition on constitutional grounds. How could the president of the United States insert such an onerous clause to a pardon when he didn’t have the authority? Hoffa argued that the condition was not part of his criminal sentence, and it also could very well have violated his First Amendment right to freedom of speech.

  Hoffa had told only a few of his staunchest supporters of his plan to retake the Teamsters, but more than a year after his release from prison, as word filtered about his plans, he made them public in April 1973 during a banquet in Washington, D.C. The news didn’t necessarily surprise Fitzsimmons and the rest of the Teamster leadership, who heard about Jimmy’s intentions from other Teamsters who earlier attended a testimonial dinner for Hoffa. It was Hoffa’s sixtieth birthday, and the dinner was at the famed Latin Casino in Cherry Hill, New Jersey.

  Russell Bufalino was there to celebrate with his old friend, but Fitzsimmons wasn’t, having cited a previous commitment. The news of Hoffa’s bid for a comeback was virtually ignored by the Nixon administration, which by now was consumed by the Watergate fiasco.

  In February 1974, Hoffa began his public campaign to unseat Fitzsimmons, saying he was unfit to lead the Teamsters. During the months prior, Hoffa had obtained an affidavit from John Mitchell, who was now running Nixon’s Committee to Reelect the President (CREEP), that stated that neither Mitchell nor anyone in the Justice Department “initiated or suggested the inclusion of restrictions in the Presidential commutation of James R. Hoffa.”

  The affidavit also said Nixon did not have any involvement in the restriction. The cost for the affidavit was a suitcase full of cash totaling nearly $300,000 that Hoffa gave to Frank Sheeran to personally deliver to Mitchell.

  Sheeran had risen through the ranks to become an important member of the Teamsters since his first introduction to Hoffa years ago. From a Teamster boss in Delaware to a Teamster delegate, Sheeran had also continued his side work for Hoffa, mopping up his enemies. Sheeran was indebted to Hoffa and grateful for the opportunities that Hoffa provided, and he later visited Hoffa in prison but was disturbed to see how the solitary life affected his once proud boss. Hoffa tried to maintain a daily routine that included a regimen of push-ups along with his regular work duties. But prison life was monotonous, with much of your time spent locked in your cell. With each passing year, Sheeran could see Hoffa’s slow, personal deterioration, and he knew his friend could never complete his sentence.

  Sheeran would report back to his other good friend, Russell Bufalino, about Hoffa’s progress. Bufalino never shared with Sheeran the reasons why Hoffa needed to remain behind bars. Fitzsimmons was a different and better fit compared to the autocratic Hoffa. He also didn’t have a bull’s-eye on his back that kept the attention of everyone, from the FBI to the media, glued to the Teamsters.

  Hoffa would eventually get out, said Bufalino, but it would take a little time. Sheeran understood, and the conversation ended. There were never any long explanations from Bufalino. He was easy to read, even when he wasn’t specific. When Bufalino wanted something done, he’d simply make a call, like the one he made to Sheeran during the summer of 1972.

  It was late in the evening when Sheeran picked up the phone, and Bufalino told him to get “his little brother” for an errand. The little brother was a .32 revolver. Sheeran also brought along a “big brother,” a .38. Sheeran wasn’t told the target at first. It never worked like that. But the following day, he learned it was “Crazy” Joe Gallo.

  Gallo was a New York–born gangster who had served eight years in prison during the 1960s on an extortion conviction and, following his release, became a bit of a celebrity. His outward personality endeared him to several actors, singers and film producers, and soon Gallo was spotted at local New York restaurants accompanied by one famous face after another. Gallo had supported Joe Colombo’s Italian American Civil Rights League, but the men were rivals, and it was Gallo who was suspected of planning Colombo’s shooting.

  Colombo lingered in a coma for months after he was gunned down during one of his Civil Rights League rallies in New York. The shooting didn’t sit well with certain members of the mob hierarchy, so when it was decided to dispose of Gallo, Bufalino handed the task to Sheeran, who simply walked into Umberto’s Restaurant in Little Italy, stood by the bar for a few minutes and then turned and shot Gallo, who had been celebrating his forty-third birthday with his wife and friends. Seriously wounded, a bloodied Gallo picked himself up amid the screaming and confusion and ran toward the front door. Sheeran coldly shot him two more times before Gallo slumped outside on the street corner. Witnesses initially identified two shooters, which was fine with Sheeran.

  Hoffa filed his lawsuit in March 1974, alleging he knew nothing about the restrictions on his pardon and, had he known, he would never had agreed to them. Hoffa also argued that since the conditions didn’t come from the president or the attorney general, they were invalid since no one else could legally impose such sanctions. In July 1974, a federal judge in Washington, D.C., ruled against Hoffa, saying that since Preside
nt Nixon signed the order, it was valid.

  Hoffa appealed. A month later, Nixon resigned the presidency.

  * * *

  IN THE FALL of 1974, Jimmy Hoffa let it be known that he was going to exact his revenge against Frank Fitzsimmons by calling in pension loans after he won the Teamsters presidency in 1976.

  The loans Hoffa was talking about were for casino construction projects in Las Vegas, projects in which members of certain families had majority interests. There were records, said Hoffa, and he was ready to turn them over to the proper authorities. Hoffa’s talk made people nervous, though friends like Sheeran knew it was more bluster on Hoffa’s part, and he made a point of telling that to Bufalino, who by now was growing concerned.

  Bufalino asked Sheeran to set up a meeting with Hoffa at a Philadelphia bar and restaurant called Broadway Eddie’s. When Hoffa arrived with Sheeran they were taken to the back, where Bufalino and Philadelphia boss Angelo Bruno were waiting for them. They dined over pasta, but during the meal, Bufalino raised the issue of Hoffa’s run for the Teamsters presidency and suggested that Hoffa didn’t have to run.

  Hoffa’s response was simple: he wanted to oust Frank Fitzsimmons.

  Bufalino’s way was to make his point, hear a response and then move on to another subject. Before turning to Bruno to signal the conversation was over, Bufalino stopped eating and looked Hoffa in the eyes before making his point, a second time.

  “It would be best for everyone concerned if you reconsidered your position,” said Bufalino.

  Hoffa wasn’t going to listen to reason, and before the men said their good-byes, Bufalino pulled Sheeran aside and told him to make Hoffa understand that he had no choice in the matter.

  The following night, Bufalino and Hoffa joined a few thousand other friends at the Latin Casino in New Jersey for “Frank Sheeran Appreciation Night.” Philadelphia mayor Frank Rizzo was there, and the pretty Golddigger dancers and Jerry Vale provided the entertainment. Sheeran sat at the dais with his wife and four children, while Bufalino had a front table next to the dais. Sitting with him were his wife, Carrie; his underboss, James Osticco; and Angelo Bruno.