I began daydreaming while driving and forgot all about the sedan. I hadn’t noticed that the black car behind me was getting closer. My traveling speed was about seventy mph, and the car was inching up on me. The music I was listening to distracted my attention from the other car. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw the sedan coming up fast. It swung over to the left lane, as if to pass me. By a mere coincidence, I happened to look in my sideview mirror and noticed two arms coming out of the front and rear right windows, with handguns. A rush of blood went to my head. I trounced on the accelerator and the Sunbird jolted and took off. (I’ll say one thing about that Pontiac—it sure picked up speed fast!)
I heard a few shots ring out, one of them hitting underneath the car. I was going 110 mph as I got away from the sedan in a hurry, but the car was starting to advance on me, as the occupants were rolling pretty fast now. I became panic-stricken and started to shake. My whole life was flashing before my eyes. I started to pray. Please, God! Save me from these terrible people, and I’ll go to church every Sunday. Two more shots! One of them hit something on a rear wheel. We started going down a slight grade and their car was almost at my level. I was leaning to my right, shaking like hell. Then I sat up and hit the brakes as hard and fast as I could, leaning over to the passenger’s side once again. The little Sunbird screeched sideways and swerved to the right on the embankment. I heard a barrage of shots as the sedan flew by me. Some of the bullets hit the car frame underneath me—I heard the clang twice.
When my car came to a halt, I was lying on the seat on the passenger’s side all crumbled up. I was trembling and I could feel pressure like someone was stepping on my chest, and my left arm was heavy with pain. I was having a hard time breathing as I tried to lift myself up to see if the black sedan was stopped or coming back, and I was still gasping for air when a man put a nitroglycerin tablet under my tongue.
When I sat up I was still trembling. I noticed there were five cars that had stopped and witnessed the whole incident—one lady said that the bullets had been ricocheting off the pavement. Ten minutes had gone by, and I was still in shock. I was trying to talk, but the words wouldn’t come out. Someone had put in a call to the police, who still hadn’t arrived, and I was thinking: Where are the cops when I need them? I decided to leave, so I mustered up my strength and thanked the people who’d shown concern for me and allowed that I would be all right. A couple of them said I should wait and report what happened to the police, so I said I’d head for the police station right away. I was in the car, with my eyes still filled with tears of fright.
I started the Pontiac up and took off. There was a bridge about a quarter of a mile down the interstate. I passed underneath it and turned right to go north. I headed north to Route 50 and got off the interstate. Taking care, I got back to my trailer two hours later.
I called Agent Dowd and told him of the botched attempt to kill me. Dowd offered to let me stay at his residence for safety, but I declined. I called Laura Ward the next morning at the Brooklyn Task Force and she made sure that the marshals picked me up pronto.
I met my first marshal in Daytona Beach, Florida, that morning, and he handed me $500 and said it was “walking-around money.” He put me on a plane to somewhere near the end of the world, and as I sat on the plane with tears in my eyes, I could remember the words of Tommy “T.A.” Agro: “Hey, Joey! Let me tell you something, my friend! If I don’t get you, my famiglia will! You better watch your back the rest of your f____ life, because I’ll bury you! I won’t miss you next time, and I’ll take this promise with me to the grave!”
It’s more than twelve years since Tommy Agro died. I’m still running and looking over my shoulder. He’s definitely keeping his word!
After bouncing around from state to state, city to city, one hotel to another for sixteen weeks, with the marshals, of course, I finally settled down in Memphis, Tennessee. When I got off the plane, the marshal who picked me up said, “Joe Dogs! It’s good to meet you! I hear you’re a very good cook! After you’re settled, how about cooking something up and we’ll chow down.”
Naturally, I complied.
After I got settled in an apartment with new furniture and all the other things I needed, and with the money the government gave me, the marshal came over and asked, “Well, Joe, what are you going to cook?”
“I think I’m going to make a nice new Italian dish,” I said. I recently got the recipe from a chef who just got off the boat from Italy. It’s called . . . Hey, wait a minute! Fuhgedaboudit! That’s another cookbook!”
Acknowledgments for “cooking on the Lam”
Marrone! Fuhgedaboudit! Another cookbook. I must be intelligent. Maybe even smart. Although without these wonderful people in mention, this project would not be completed.
My thanks go out to my two close friends, Tommy Ray and Charlie Howard, for their support literally, and for their encouragement for me to continue writing. Also to my good friend R. D. Walker, thank you for all your time and the use of your computer. More thanks and congratulations to Matt and his lovely wife, Felicia. I’d also like to thank Greg and his extremely sexy, beautiful wife Sara, whom I’ve had many dreams about. I’d like to express my gratitude to my cuz Lou and his lovely fiancée, Rhonda, for the use of their kitchen whenever I wanted to perfect one of my culinary delights. Also, thank you, Carolyn Beauchamp, my pretty actress friend, for your contribution. Also I send my best to a good friend, David Wright, and his darling sister Karen from Atlanta, Georgia. Many thank-yous go to some of the staff at Simon & Schuster—Carol Bowie, Nancy Inglis, Jonathon Brodman, and Jim Stoller—for their help on the editing and corrections.
Being away from my native town, New York City, I naturally had to make new friends, so I would like to make mention of a few lovelies that helped me suppress my loneliness. There’s the beautiful Sandra with her sensuous lips. Then there’s the very pretty “blond” Julie, who is the only lady that I know of that makes a chicken salad sandwich from a can of Chicken of the Sea. But what a doll she is. Then there’s also Norma, the cute chick with a tough little body. I must mention these two hot-looking chicks that have been exceptionally nice to me, Charla and Kelly. Thanks to Ginny and Bill for their patience with me when I needed something typed. Thanks a million for all your friendships.
I’d like to thank all the guys in town that know of me and accepted me as their friend: Wiley; Ron; Jonathan and his wife, Debbie; Bobbie; Moe; Tracy Woods (no relation to Tiger); Robert and his wife, Tracie; Glenn; David and his wife, Annie. Also to René and Al; remember the Alamo! Last but not least, thanks to Lance and his beautiful wife, Robin, who together look like they both stepped out of Vogue magazine. Thank you all for your friendship.
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Melanie, whom I cherish. Thank you, darling, for the treasured moments we spent together. I’ll never forget you, Dear Heart!
About the Author
JOSEPH “JOE DOGS” IANNUZZI was a mobster with the Gambino crime family before teaming up with a deep-cover FBI informant and appearing as a star witness at five major Mob trials. The author of Joe Dogs: The Life and Crimes of a Mobster, he entered the Witness Protection Program after testifying.
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Copyright © 1993 Joseph Iannuzzi
New illustrations © 2001 by Melanie Marder Parks
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
The stories in the book are based on real events. In some instan
ces, dates, names, places, and other details were changed to accommdate my recipes.–J.I.
SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Iannuzzi, Joseph.
The Mafia cookbook / Joseph “Joe Dogs” Iannuzzi.
p. cm.
1. Cookery, Italian. 2. Cookery, International. 3. Mafia—United States. I. Title.
TX723 .142 2001
641.5945—dc21 2001049582
ISBN: 0-7432-2627-5
ISBN: 978-0-7432-2935-7 (eBook)
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