Nothing But Money

by Smith, Greg

  It was ludicrous. There he sat, in all his foam-rubber splendor, mouth agape, stupefied and humiliated. The army of worker bees around him started yelling and casting blame as quickly as possible. Some idiot had forgotten to score the window. A linebacker couldn’t get through it, never mind a twenty-two-year-old Villanova dropout. They would have to shoot the scene again. The show must go on, etc.

  “By the time we reached that scene,” Warrington was telling his friends, “I was so sick and uncomfortable with the whole process that I really could have killed that girl.”

  The lights dimmed, the previews began. Finally it was time—Friday the 13th: Part 2. Warrington could barely contain himself when his name flashed on the screen during the opening credits.

  Scene after scene unfolded. This was merely the first sequel, so the filmmakers felt compelled to offer up enough backstory that the movie actually contained plot elements. Warrington was Jason Voorhees, who supposedly drowned as a teenager at a camp for bored suburban youth called Crystal Lake. Jason’s mother flipped out and hid in the woods, killing anyone who tried to reopen the camp. In the first movie, she killed eight camp counselors but was decapitated by one survivor. She did this, naturally, on Friday the thirteenth. Her partially decomposed son, Jason, showed up to avenge her death, again on—when else?—Friday the thirteenth. The counselor who killed Mom decided it would be a good idea to return to the camp two months later to face her fears about Crystal Lake. This was convenient for Jason, who burst in and stabbed her in the neck with an ice pick. Her body was never found.

  Friday the 13th: Part 2 didn’t end there, although the rest of the story was more or less a variation on that which had already been told. Five years later somebody else tried to reopen Camp Crystal Lake. Jason/Warrington returned and started killing people. As the movie rolled toward its inevitable bloody conclusion, yet another scantily clad counselor bimbo attacked Jason with a machete. Warrington/Jason somehow survived to escape into the woods, taking with him the promise of more sequels to come.

  The credits rolled. Warrington and his friends stayed to watch his name roll by once again. They were all cheering and clapping him on the back, and in some ways it felt good. There he was, up there on the big screen, looking down on thousands of people who were willing to pay good money to watch Jason do his thing. And Warrington knew they’d all been there just to see Jason. Fame and fortune were within reach. He could taste it. He imagined himself exiting a black stretch limo at the premiere of his first star vehicle, the paparazzi braying at him as he strutted up the red carpet with a model on each arm.

  Of course, his mother, father, sister, half brother and anyone else in his social circle could sit through the entire movie and not recognize Warrington up there, and in the entire film he’d uttered not a single word of English prose. The only acting involved running through woods and flailing about with a hatchet or a knife or an ice pick. An orangutan could do that. As he left the theater, he suddenly became depressed. Maybe acting wasn’t for him. Standing outside the theater, the theme song of Friday the 13th still ringing in his head, he began to think that maybe he wasn’t really cut out for the creative life. Maybe he needed to make a little cash.

  Right away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  January 2, 1990

  All the men left the restaurant and got into the Camaro. Dirty Danny agreed to drive, Louis Tuzzio got in the passenger seat. Robert Lino got in the backseat behind Tuzzio. Ambrosino and Frank got in a second car, which was to follow a ways behind. Frank’s pals went off in their own direction. As far as Louis Tuzzio was concerned, he was on his way to joining the brotherhood of thieves and murderers, a life goal realized at last. The two cars pulled away from curbside and headed out into the frigid Brooklyn night.

  Before this night, Robert from Avenue U had never actually pointed a gun at another man and pulled the trigger. True, he was a criminal. He had collected illegal protection payments, he’d run a sports book, he’d dug a hole for Gabe Infanti. He also had knowledge of many bad acts committed by his father and his father’s cousins and friends. But to be an actual shooter—that was a different matter. You could scheme, you could extort, you could even threaten. But to actually look a man in the eye and know you were going to take it all the way—that brought you to a different place.

  It was a powerful feeling, with a price. It was, like anything else, a choice. You could say you were just following orders, but in the end, you chose to follow the orders. You personally acquired the gun, inserted the clip, made sure the safety was off, sat in the backseat in the dark knowing what you were about to do. You knew that physically, all that was required was to squeeze a trigger. That was easy. But to actually point the gun at another man’s head and blow out his brains—that was new to Robert of Avenue U.

  What did he think about as he sat there in the darkened car, gun fully loaded, ready? Did he think of his father? His father had done things like this. He had shot his good friend, Sonny Black. Did he think of his own future? From now on he would be different from the average salary-earning dope who walked this earth. Did he think of Louis Tuzzio? Louis had a wife, a mother, maybe future kids. Did he think about what he had to gain? After, Robert would be able to say he was a capable guy. He could become a man of honor, a man of respect. He could get his button, and everybody who needed to know would know how he got it. Everybody would know that Robert of Avenue U was capable of taking another man’s life. How many people who prowl the malls and buy a newspaper from the guy on the corner have taken another man’s life? By the time he sat in that Camaro with Louis Tuzzio, Robert of Avenue U had known quite a few murderers. His father. His cousin Eddie. For all he knew, his cousin Frank. In a way, taking that final step, making that ultimate choice, wasn’t really that surprising for Robert. In fact, you could argue, it was expected.

  Dirty Danny, the driver, steered through the streets. At this time of night in this neighborhood, there was nobody around to notice two cars filled with men. Dirty Danny drove the Camaro a few blocks and then made a right instead of the left that Tuzzio had expected.

  They were next to a park, known as Legends Field, right around the corner from a graveyard. It was dark and cold. The apartment buildings near the park seemed a hundred miles away. Tuzzio sat in the passenger seat. Robert Lino sat in the back, where it was very dark. Tuzzio knew right away something was wrong.

  The car came to a jarring halt. A figure jumped out of the driver’s side and ran away from the car, leaving the door open. This was Dirty Danny, Louis Tuzzio’s childhood friend. Now the car itself was rocking back and forth, with screaming inside. A figure in the front seat was flailing madly, kicking at the windshield as if restrained from behind. Shots were fired and the car stopped its rocking. All was quiet. A few moments later, a second figure emerged, from the backseat, straightened himself up, brushed off his jacket. The two figures ran toward an approaching car and jumped in. Robert’s childhood pal, Ambrosino, was at the wheel. They sped away from the scene and disappeared into the streets of New York.

  A few hours later two beat cops on street patrol noticed a Camaro with the door open. There was a body sprawled across the front seat, with blood all over. The windshield had been kicked out from within. The body still had a wallet filled with bills, and the license had the name and face of one Louis Tuzzio. When the forensics team showed up, they estimated Tuzzio had five bullets inside his body, including one inside his cranium. Canvassing the neighborhood began. The shots were heard by no one. There were no suspects. The police theorized it was an organized crime hit because of the professional nature of the killing and the fact that no money was taken. And they mentioned that Tuzzio had certain associates who were known figures in the underworld. The cops loved to talk like this. They’d seen all the movies. They knew the lines. What they didn’t know was who killed Louis Tuzzio.

  Robert from Avenue U certainly did.

  Mafia induction ceremony etiquette is subject to interpretation. Not
everyone agrees on the correct way to swear allegiance to a secret society of murderers, extortionists, etc. There is no Emily Post of la cosa nostra to straighten things out. The rules are somewhat vague. The ceremony itself must take place away from the prying eyes of the government. It can’t be held at Red Lobster, for example, or Olive Garden. The location is supposed to be known only to a select few, and made known to the inductees only at the last minute. Usually all of corporate management shows up: the boss, the underboss, the consigliere and as many of the captains as they can fit in the basement of a split-level ranch with faux wood paneling and wet bar. Those who are incarcerated are excused. Inductees are brought in one by one by their respective sponsors. Almost everybody does the business with pricking the trigger finger that’s become quite popular on television shows and in movies that portray organized crime as a fun-loving group of miscreants similar to Long John Silver and his band of merry pirates. A made guy—sometimes it’s the sponsor, sometimes the consigliere—uses a pin to prick the index finger of the inductee to draw a little blood, which is then smeared on a small card depicting a saint. Sometimes it’s Saint Anthony. Never is it Saint Jude. The saint card with the blood is placed in the open palm of the inductee and lit. As it burns, the inductee must repeat something along the lines of “If I ever give up the secrets of this organization may I burn like this saint.” Most everybody has a gun and knife present on the table to symbolize the tools of the trade. Inductees are asked if they know why they’re there, and they’re supposed to say no, even though without exception they all know. A list of rules is read, and everybody locks up—a circle of men holding hands, symbolizing either unity or the eternal fear that the guy next to you will turn informant and the whole house of cards will come tumbling down.

  In early 1991, this was more or less what Robert Lino was expecting as he headed with his cousin, Frank, to the pigeon club owned by Anthony Spero on Bath Avenue in Gravesend. On the roof of this three-story Brooklyn apartment building were a number of pigeon coops. In the basement was a group of men, waiting for Robert Lino and another young man, who were about to participate in a ceremony they were supposed to know nothing about. For more than seventy years this ceremony had been going on in the basements and backrooms of Gravesend, Bay Ridge, Bensonhurst, Midwood, Red Hook and Elizabeth, New Jersey. In the Bonanno group, the ceremonies could be held just about anyplace. Robert’s father, Bobby Senior, had been inducted in an upstairs room of a company called J&S Cake that was really just a social club. Now it was Robert’s turn.

  At the pigeon club Frank Lino brought Robert into a waiting room on the first floor to sit and sweat with his fellow inductee, a guy everybody called Richie Shellac Head, a supervising pressman at the New York Post who was known as an earner, not a tough guy. Robert from Avenue U knew he was there under different circumstances. He was a capable guy. Everyone in the room downstairs knew he’d helped with the Tuzzio problem.

  This was a point of contention for some gangsters. John Gotti, for instance, favored capable guys. He didn’t want to induct anybody into the family unless they had been involved in a piece of work, just like him. He and a number of the old-timers preferred tough guys to earners. Earners were like Shellac Head. He operated a major-league bookie ring at the New York Post, so he kicked up plenty of money. This was why he was being inducted. Not Robert Lino. Although he was extremely helpful in supporting his cousin, Frank, who was now his sponsor, he was also known as a capable guy.

  Since the Tuzzio hit he’d been called upon to repeat his performance. This was the New Robert from Avenue U. From now on, he would be expected to do more than roll a guy up inside a rug. When a marijuana-dealing Bonanno associate complained that some mope had come into his home, tied him up and threatened to kill his family unless he came up with cash, Robert Lino was put on the case. The marijuana dealer paid Robert $25,000 to kill Fat Sally, the mope he believed had terrorized his family. Robert and a friend found Fat Sally at his body shop in Brooklyn, but Fat Sally saw them coming and—despite his girth—managed to hide behind a tree. Lino took some shots but failed to hit his intended target, although he definitely hit the tree. Then it turned out Fat Sally wasn’t involved in the home invasion after all, so now Robert had to go after another guy whose name he didn’t know but who was the new suspect in the home invasion. Robert from Avenue U tried to kill him, too, but this guy wore a bulletproof vest. So far Robert hadn’t experienced a lot of luck in the business of killing people, but he had made one thing quite clear—he was a capable guy.

  First Robert was called downstairs. He entered the basement and saw guys he’d known all his life. He was introduced by cousin Frank and was asked if he knew why he was there. He said no. They told him it was not a club, it was a secret society. They asked if he had any problem with any of the men in the room. He said no. They went through the burning saint and pricked trigger finger. Robert Lino was a guy who appreciated ceremony. He believed it elevated the mundane, added a certain resonance to the everyday. There was history here. Legacy. Certainly he must have been appreciative of the fact that he was there in this basement in Brooklyn participating in this ceremony to fulfill his father’s dream.

  The skippers went through the rules of la cosa nostra. Each one called out a different rule. Some made sense.

  Never touch another made man without permission from the boss. Never sleep with a made man’s wife or daughter. Always put your business on record with your captain. Soldiers can’t talk with the administration about business; usually the consigliere deals with the captains about issues. You can’t be introduced to another made man except by a made man. No stocks and bonds. That was an old rule, going back to the beginning. And so on. One rule in particular must have made Robert Lino cringe. The rule was “No drugs.”

  Everybody knew that Robert’s father had been a major-league drug dealer, and that hadn’t stopped the Bonanno crime family from welcoming him into its protective fold. Everybody knew Bobby Lino sold drugs that had nearly destroyed his own flesh and blood. He’d lost a son to drugs. His daughter was locked within the claustrophobic world of addiction. And here stood Robert Lino, nodding as a skipper said with a straight face, “No drugs,” and everybody else in the room nodded in agreement, especially the guys who’d built second homes and bought nice cars and boats based on the income from narcotics.

  In a world of criminals, how seriously could anyone take these rules? In this world, rules weren’t really rules. They were more like guidelines. Suggestions. If you found a good reason to chuck them in the dustbin, if it was good for business or even just good for you, so be it. But you had to have rules. If you didn’t, there was nothing but chaos and anarchy. You had to have rules and recite them so everybody knew what was what. When the reading of the rules was finished, all the men stood in a circle—the newly inducted Robert Lino and Richie Shellac Head—and they all held hands. They swore allegiance to this family—even over their blood family—and then the ceremony was over.

  As his father had dreamed, Robert Lino was now a soldier in the Bonanno organized crime family, one of the five remaining Mafia families in America. No one could touch him without permission from the bosses. No one could bother his family. He could invoke the power of the Bonanno family name and reap its benefits, both financial and otherwise. He could make a living without doing a legitimate day’s work. He was part of la famiglia, and his timing was perfect.

  As would soon be made clear, the 1990s would be very good for the Bonanno crime family. The government believed that the FBI agent pretending to be Donnie Brasco had delivered a knockout blow to the Bonanno family, so they focused their ample resources on the other four families. The plan was simple: the bosses of all the other families would soon go to prison. Most importantly, John Gotti had just been indicted again. And this time, there were all these tape recordings of the loudmouthed Gotti going on and on about killing this guy because he didn’t come in when he was called and severing this guy’s head just because and so o
n. Meanwhile the boss of the Genovese family, Vincent Gigante, was parading unshaven around Greenwich Village in a bathrobe, pretending to be a lunatic to avoid incarceration. This was hardly a way for a boss to behave. The Colombo family was shooting at each other in the streets, split down the middle by a disagreement over who should run the family while the boss, Carmine Persico, served a life term. And the Lucchese family was pretty much on its last legs, forced underground by its decision to try and kill the sister of an informant. Until the day they went after the sister, family members were off-limits. This constellation of events presented the Bonanno crime family with certain unique opportunities, and Robert Lino was in a perfect spot to benefit. The family had, in fact, survived the Brasco fiasco, and in truth, the FBI agent had not succeeded in bringing the family down. It was a temporary setback. With all the other families jammed up and the family boss, Joseph

  Massino, ready to step out of jail, the Bonanno family—once kicked off the Mafia’s commission for dealing drugs openly—was preparing for a big second act.

  January 1991

  When the decision comes down from corporate headquarters to clip somebody, it’s important that the victim stay dead. Ideally that means burying a body so that the authorities never again find even a scrap of the deceased. Bodies provide clues. Clues lead to prosecutions. Prosecutions lead to informants and then it all falls apart. Robert Lino knew that the ideal situation was to make sure the bodies stayed buried. Lately that had been a bit of a problem.