As Bettano started to lock the back door, a blue panel truck came roaring up the hospital driveway and screeched to a halt directly behind him. According to witnesses, three men dressed in black and wearing ski masks bolted from the blue truck and began to open fire. Two of the bandits were carrying submachine guns, while the third had a handgun. Fisher, hearing the screeching tires, turned quickly and reached for his .38-caliber revolver. He was immediately cut down by bullets fired by the man with the handgun. Bettano, seeing his partner wounded on the ground, tried to finish locking the armored truck’s back door. He didn’t succeed. The same gunman who shot Fisher wheeled and fired, hitting Bettano somewhere near his back. He fell to the ground.
Within a matter of seconds, the same robber was standing directly over Fisher, whose gun was lying a few feet to his right. Fisher tried to get up but collapsed. The masked gunman kicked Fisher’s gun about ten yards down the driveway, then reached down and took the three moneybags lying on the pavement. He said something to Fisher; then, walking backward and keeping the gun pointed directly at the guards, retreated only slightly.
The other two robbers, by that time, had put their submachine guns away, taken Bettano’s three moneybags, and opened the back door with Bettano’s keys. The smaller of the two moved the blue panel truck so that it was back-to-back with the armored truck, and remained at the wheel. The robber in the armored truck then began to throw the remaining bags of money into the back of the panel truck. The one who had shot the guards just stood there pointing his gun at both Fisher and Bettano.
Within a matter of seconds it was over. The man in the back of the armored truck jumped into the back of the blue panel truck and shut the doors. The driver beeped his horn once. The one standing over the wounded guards turned and jumped into the front seat, and they were gone. The blue panel truck sped along the overpass on South Huntington Avenue toward Brookline.
At the hospital, nobody moved for at least thirty seconds, until the shock of what had happened in front of their eyes wore off. Edward Sezinsky, who saw the robbery from a second-floor window, recalled, “Everything happened in seconds. There was one long burst that might have been from a machine gun, and then two shots, which sounded like they were from a handgun. I looked out the window and saw two guards lying on the ground. One was just in back of the armored truck and the other one was about fifteen yards from the hospital’s front door. There was a gun lying next to the guard who was near the front entrance. I saw one bandit go over to the guard and kick the gun away. I thought he was going to shoot him for sure. One of the other robbers was already in the truck and he kept throwing bags into the blue paneled vehicle. The third guy was sitting behind the wheel just looking around. He acted as if he’d just stopped for a red light. Those guys were very cool and very professional. After the last bag was thrown from the armored truck, the driver beeped his horn, which must have been a signal, and they were gone. Talk about professionals! Nobody had time to think, and by the time anyone came to their senses, the thieves were already over the bridge. Those guys, whoever they were, really knew what they were doing.”
The FBI didn’t agree with that assessment, however. The banner headline in the Boston Globe on July 27 read, ROBBERS LEFT “SUBSTANTIAL” CLUES. Boston Police crime laboratory technicians said they’d obtained a substantial amount of physical evidence from the paneled truck, which they found abandoned less than a mile from the crime scene. All evidence, according to the Globe, was immediately turned over to the FBI because the crime had been committed on government property. According to the Boston Police, the pattern of the VA Hospital robbery was exactly the same as that of a $147,000 armored car robbery that had occurred only four days before in Bedford. The only difference was that there were no shots fired in Bedford.
The FBI, in that same Globe story, said that in both robberies a stolen panel truck was used. In both thefts three men, all dressed in black and wearing ski masks and all very professional, waited until they saw one guard leave the truck before they approached it. Two had submachine guns and one had a handgun. The three men in Bedford matched the descriptions of the three VA Hospital robbers. In the Bedford case one of the witnesses heard one of the robbers call another “Lennie.” In the VA Hospital robbery, according to an eyewitness, the name “Red” was used.
Some witnesses told the FBI and the Boston Police that a white sedan followed the panel truck out of the VA Hospital parking lot and onto South Huntington. Another report, which was featured in the Boston Globe, said that shortly after the robbery two men were seen getting into a sports car on VFW Parkway in West Roxbury. Other witnesses told the FBI that a car carrying three other men was parked on South Huntington Avenue and followed the robbers as they pulled onto the bridge.
Police recovered twelve shells from the VA Hospital parking lot. The hospital director, Dr. Francis Carroll, stated, “I was in my office around twelve-thirty, when I first heard what sounded like gunfire. I looked out the window and saw two men lying on the sidewalk. Two bullets thudded into the wall above our switchboard. The bullets barely missed our receptionists. Three bullets ripped through hospital windows on the ground floor, but nobody inside was injured, thank God.”
In addition to the hospital personnel who witnessed the daylight robbery there were dozens of motorists who stopped to watch, as well as pedestrians and hospital visitors. Two boys from Worcester had just arrived at the hospital to visit a sick relative, and found themselves right in the middle of a shootout. One said they were no more than twenty feet from the armored truck. He told the FBI that the gunman who shot both guards did so without any warning and before either of the guards went for their guns. (He apparently didn’t see Fisher’s weapon on the ground.) He said he ran into the hospital to get to a telephone to call for help and was met by hospital workers. He told them not to go outside because two people had already been shot.
A woman who refused to give her name stated that she was visiting her husband on the ninth floor and looked out the window to see one guard lying facedown on the ground and the other lying on his back. At first she thought people were making a movie and the guys lying on the ground were just acting. But then she saw a blue truck move along the driveway with a machine gun sticking out the back window, and she knew it was not just a movie.
Fisher suffered a fractured leg and Bettano was treated for a single bullet wound to the hip. Neither guard had life-threatening injuries. Fisher, who was a World War II veteran, said he’d be back on the job as soon as his leg healed. Bettano, who had worked for the armored car company only three months before that July afternoon, wasn’t so sure he’d go back to that line of work.
Phil Cresta shot both Bernard Fisher and Donald Bettano. He remembered events differently from the witnesses. “They’re all full of shit,” Cresta said when he read the newspaper accounts. “I was the first one out the door, and I saw the guard turn and go for his gun. He had the drop on Angelo, who was heading for the armored truck, so I shot him in the leg. If I wanted to kill that guy, his wife would be a widow right now.” Cresta often said that he never had anything against the guys who were guarding the money. “They were just working stiffs, like us, trying to provide for their families. I understand that. They just had something I wanted, and I was determined to get it. Nothing personal. I hate it when guys try to be heroes. It’s not their money—I don’t understand all the heroics. I shot the second guard when he headed back to the armored truck. I thought he was going to lock himself in the back of the truck, so I took him out before he got there. I didn’t aim for his head or even his back. I shot him in the ass. Now how cold-blooded is that?” Phil asked.
His explanation went on, obviously important to him. “We’re stickup guys, not killers. We just wanted to get in, get the money, and get out. But sometimes things don’t go as planned, so you have to do what you have to do. That’s what we did at the VA Hospital. We’ve pulled hundreds of jobs and ninety percent of the time we never even had to pull a gun, but
if you’re going to be in this business, you’d better be willing to use it when it’s needed. Every score we did was clocked and mapped to the max. We knew everything about the VA job—we did think they were carrying more money, though. That was a surprise. But sixty-eight large for less than two minutes’ work isn’t bad. Tony tries to calculate how much we saved in taxes on each score, can you believe that? Like I give a flying fuck about how much we saved on taxes. The boy is stugatz [crazy],” said Cresta, laughing.
In Phil Cresta’s opinion, “Sometimes the more witnesses you have the better off you are. We had a white car … we had a red car … we had a blue car. We had a panel truck … we had a sports car. We had a car following us … we didn’t have a car following us. Give me a break! The more witnesses, the more pictures they paint, especially when they hear gunshots. Now, how many people do you know who are going to stand there, head straight, taking notes, when a guy in a ski mask is spraying lead all over the area? That was the reason Angelo let go with that round from the semi. Those bullets didn’t have anyone’s name on them. They were just meant to scare people. And it worked, by the look of all the different accounts of what happened in the papers.
“We called one guy ‘Red’? That never happened. But the feds go chasing down every cockamamy story those hicks swear by, which is fine with me. The feds spent two weeks chasing down every Red in the country, all the while announcing they had substantial leads and they’d soon arrest the parties responsible for the VA robbery. That day never came.
“Regardless of what the feds told the press, they didn’t have dick. They knew we pulled the score, but they had no evidence. They made those statements to the press just to save face.”
After the VA Hospital robbery, Phil decided to take another vacation—a long one, this time. “I really didn’t want to push our luck,” he emphasized. “We had made over three million dollars between the five highway robberies, a couple of big fur robberies, and a couple of armored car robberies in 1966. I knew, as we were riding out of the VA Hospital, that it was time to relax. We certainly didn’t need the money and I didn’t need the aggravation of everyone from Hoover to Angiulo chasing us down. Two things I always tried to guard against were complacency and greed. Those two qualities have put more people in jail or in their graves than any police force in the country. We’d just made over three million and nobody had any proof we were the perpetrators. That was the way I wanted to keep it,” Phil proudly said.
The Cresta crew went to the farm for a few days as the entire Boston police force and the FBI tried to prove who pulled the VA Hospital job. It was there Phil brought up the subject of taking a break, hoping Angelo and Tony would agree.
After counting the money from the hospital job, Phil nonchalantly said, “You know, guys, I was thinking of taking a sabbatical. What do you think?”
The silence was deafening. Finally Tony responded, “You’re the boss, Phil. If you want to hit this sabbatical company I’m with you, but I was hoping to take a little rest.”
Angelo and Phil both started to laugh, and Tony joined in, though he had no idea what they were all laughing at. After a few minutes, Phil said, “Tony, sabbatical is not the name of an armored car company. It means to take a break—take a vacation.”
“Why the fuck didn’t ya jest say that, for crissake, Phil? I don’t know these big words,” Tony said, a little annoyed.
They spent the next week at the farm. Phil relaxed by trying to open new safes and locks that had just been introduced to the market. Tony, still under 110 pounds, relaxed by eating. Angelo went downtown to take in a few double features. It would be a whole year before they resumed their profession.
15
Life Is What Happens When You’re Busy Making Other Plans
TO THOSE WHO LIVED IN BOSTON, 1967 was the year of the Impossible Dream and Yaz. It was especially hard not to be caught up in the dream of the Red Sox winning a World Series if you hung out only a hundred yards or so from Fenway Park. McGrail’s, located in the shadow of the baseball stadium, was the place to be that year.
Phil was not a big baseball fan, but he did like the game and the enthusiasm surrounding the Red Sox was contagious. On July 26, 1967, it didn’t dawn on Phil that it had been exactly one year since their last job. Tony and Angelo were with him at McGrail’s as always, but things were different during the summer of the Impossible Dream. There was no overriding need to plan scores or meet with moles or other informants: they were all driving fancy late-model cars and dressing expensively.
“It was like we were retired at forty years old,” Phil recalled. “We had some great connections in Fenway, with some guys who worked there and drank at McGrail’s. We were able to get tickets to any game, which was worth a big deal back then. Those tickets, especially in September, were almost impossible to come by for most people,” Phil said.
The Sox won the pennant only to lose to the St. Louis Cardinals in the Series, but it was a great run. During the games Phil and Angelo and Tony talked of going back into business. Their preliminary plans, though, were interrupted by Jerry Angiulo, who had been breeding resentment toward the obviously successful Phil Cresta.
A week after the Sox lost the World Series, Phil, still the same tough-looking and quiet man who had pulled so many successful heists, sauntered into Joe Tecce’s restaurant with a pretty blonde on his arm. She was a woman he’d been seeing lately, and was hoping to see more of. They sat at the bar until a table opened up. Most wise guys wouldn’t settle for waiting in restaurant, but Phil didn’t mind waiting. Making a scene was against his habit of staying as unnoticed as possible. And besides, there was another customer in the dining room whose attention he didn’t wish to arouse.
When a table became available he was seated—at a table directly across from Jerry Angiulo. Phil hadn’t been in the same room as Angiulo in three years. Phil waved to New England’s boss as he took his seat. Angiulo did not wave back. Phil shrugged and sat down.
Midway through their antipasto Phil’s date asked her boyfriend, “What’s that guy’s problem over there? He’s been staring at you since we sat down.”
“That guy,” Phil said quietly, “is Jerry Angiulo. And I think it won’t be long before I find out what his problem is.”
A few minutes later Angiulo got up to leave. He stopped by many nearby tables and received hearty good-byes from the diners there. He did not stop by Phil’s table, nor did Phil attempt to greet the man.
“I’m glad he’s gone,” the blonde said, “he gives me the willies.”
Phil changed the subject and finished his meal as though nothing were the matter.
At the door, he was met by one of Angiulo’s henchmen. Phil’s sharp eyes caught another piece of muscle a few yards away, and three more nearby. Wishing he hadn’t assumed eating lasagna was a safe thing to do, Phil quickly estimated the time it would take to get his gun in the trunk of his car …
Too long.
“Nice night for a stroll,” he said mildly to man who was already grabbing Phil’s arm.
“Yeah, Cresta, why don’t you just stroll right this way.” It was not a question.
“He just wants to talk,” Phil said to his date. “Wait here.” He was pretty sure this was true, as the area was too public a place for even Angiulo to whack him. If he was wrong, it didn’t matter. There was no way that, unarmed, he could take down five seasoned killers.
Phil and his escort crossed North Washington Street and walked into a parking lot often used by Celtics and Bruins fans when the teams were playing at home in the Garden. Tonight the lot was mostly empty, except for Angiulo, who was standing next to his Cadillac. Phil didn’t have to wonder long what this was all about.
“You no-good piece of shit! That is the last time you will disrespect me in public … ” Angiulo yelled at the approaching thief, and then continued in that vein for five minutes or so, barely stopping to take a breath between invectives.
The thought crossed Phil’s mind that Angiulo h
ad gone mad, but then he corrected himself. There must be something Angiulo had heard about, maybe about Phil’s heists of the previous year or two, despite his efforts at keeping things quiet.
When he got a chance Phil asked, “Is this about money?”
Angiulo, who had been winding down, went crazy again and launched into a new tirade. A car pulled in nearby and parked, and a couple got out, looked at men in the lot, and hurried across the street to the safety of Joe Tecce’s. By this time Phil was pretty sure he wasn’t going to die—at least not that night in that parking lot.
So at his next opportunity Phil said, disgusted, “So let me get this straight. You’re pissed because I waved at you instead of going over to your table in person?”
“You have no respect, Cresta, and that is gonna cost you. Your brother has respect.” Angiulo climbed into his car, done with his lecture.
But Phil couldn’t help it. He was not going to take this treatment without a fight. He shouted to the closed car, “Fuck you, you small-minded prick—”
Angiulo jumped back out of the car.
“—You leave my brother out of this, Angiulo! He’s got nothing to do with anything!”
“He does now,” Angiulo said quietly. Then he smiled, got back in his car, and took off.
“I knew I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but that little puke pushed me too far,” Phil said later. “I knew when I watched him drive away that I’d really fucked up.”
When he got back to the restaurant to where his girlfriend was waiting, Phil gave her hug. She was upset from what she’d seen and asked Phil not to leave her alone that night. Phil was thrilled at the invitation.
Since he was pretty sure Angiulo would send someone after him—the only questions were who and when—he stopped by his room at the Fenway Motor Inn to load up. After packing a small arsenal in his suitcase, he took the blonde to her apartment on Commonwealth Avenue. No one came for him that night, but it was the beginning of a continuing relationship for him and this woman who, nine months later, became the mother of his seventh child.
Final Confession Page 13