Blood Covenant

by Michael Franzese

  Our own people were caught on tape, talking about most everything-the business, the sit-downs, the killings. Nothing was sacred. The feds even came up with a recording of our ultrasecret induction ritual. So, as far as I was concerned, admitting to my membership in the mob was a given. That was no big revelation, certainly not one worthy of a major headline. Besides, I had a plan.

  I still had some cash left, even after the feds had taken their chunk, and the sunshine and beaches of the Golden State had become a lot more appealing to me than the coffee shops of Brooklyn. Plus, Cammy was there.

  But after fifteen years in the mob, I knew what it was all about. Like it or not, I had taken an oath, and I would stand by that oath-even if I had my doubts.

  So I would do my five years in the pen and then do five more on parole in L.A., a world away from the guys in Brooklyn. Everyone knew the feds were all over wise guy parolees. You associate with other "made" guys, and you're back in the joint. The judge had slapped another five years probation onto my own sentence with the same deal-no contact with the boys while under supervision.

  So maybe we sneak a few meetings here and there, and I send in some cash when I make a score, but that's it. So I figured I had maybe fifteen years during which I would have to lay low, away from the bosses. I had gotten an excused leave of absence courtesy of the feds. At the end of it all, maybe they'd forget about me. You know, out of sight, out of mind.

  The feds were slamming the bosses with huge indictments, and guys were turning informant left and right. Who would even be left at the end? I had a new life in L.A. and could live happily ever after with Cammy and the kids.

  Yeah, I had it all figured out. What a plan! Everything seemed right.

  But somehow it all felt wrong, and within days of the Life article, my well-thought-out "brilliant" plan began to unravel. Looking back now, I realize that nothing went according to my plan. That goes to show how smart I was. I could never have imagined the incredible turn of events that would shape the course of my life over the next fifteen years, events that would have nearly everyone in law enforcement who knew my story predicting that I would soon be another victim of a classic mob hit.

  And why not? It happened to us "made" guys all the time. It was a part of the life I had come to know, the life I had sworn never to betray. Many of my former associates had met with that fate. At least three of my "brothers," those who took the oath with me that Halloween night in 1975, are no longer with us. This is serious business. It's a matter of life and death.

  I'm not talking about the Sopranos here. There's no semi-dysfunctional mob boss calling the shots in this case. This is the real thing. When the boss says you're dead, you'd better be in hiding or in the Witness Protection Program, or you are dead. You violate the oath, you betray the family, and you're dead. That's all there is to it.

  I never underestimate the power or ability of my former associates. We didn't control the underworld in this country since the turn of the century for nothing. In the real mob world, Tony Soprano would have been found dead in the trunk of a car soon after he spilled his guts to that cagey therapist. We can't take anything away from these men. They know their business, and they're good at what they do. No one knows that better than I do.

  So why am I still alive? Why am I not in hiding?

  After all, I violated the oath. I no longer live within the confines of the secret organization we call La Cosa Nostra (which means "this thing of ours"). What happened? Did I buy the right to live by paying the family $10 million from the stolen gasolinetax money? Ed McDonald, the former strike force chief in Brooklyn, thinks so.

  And what about my father, the legendary John "Sonny" Franzese? He's lived the life for fifty years now. A stand-up guy, as tough as they come, he proposed my membership in the family. So I let him down, too. The oath comes before everything in the life. It's a blood covenant, stronger even then the blood that binds a father to his son. Why did my own father allow me to live? Did the mob slip up big time?

  Make no mistake. I'm alive by design, not by accident. Don't ever sell my former associates short. It could have been over for me a long time ago, a just reward for my past involvement in a life that was contrary to the laws of God and of man. And it might be over for me tomorrow. I take nothing for granted. But then again, it might be over for you tomorrow, too. Are we guaranteed even another breath?

  For me, it no longer matters. Why?

  The answer can be found in the pages of this book. My life has taken a dramatic turn. This turn has been described as "amazing," "unbelievable," "improbable," and "miraculous," but maybe it's none of these. Or maybe it's all of these. You decide. Whatever the case, it is my hope that by the time you reach the end of this book, your life will have changed, too. I searched for and found the truth, the truth that sets men free, and I found it in a blood covenant.

  Michael Franzese

  Los Angeles, California

  Book 1

  The Old Life

  1

  To understand me and the path I took in life, it is necessary to first understand my father, mob enforcer John Franzese, better known as Sonny. He, more than any other person, influenced the direction of my early life. Dad's friend Phil Steinberg tells a story of my dad's activities in 1964 New York that serves to introduce the flamboyant character who is my father.

  Steinberg was sitting in his luxurious Manhattan office at 1650 Broadway one day, feeling on top of the world. The rock and roll record company he had started with two Brooklyn buddies had taken off. The Shangri-Las, a hot teenage girl-group, had hit No. 5 with a song called "Remember (Walkin' in the Sand)." A second group, the Lovin' Spoonful, was a year away from becoming a monster rock band that would release seven top-ten songs in a row. The record company itself, Kama Sutra/Buddah Records, was destined to become a giant in the industry.

  Steinberg was only twenty-three years old at the time, and his partners, Artie Ripp and Hy Mizrahi, were just a few years older. Still, it appeared nothing could stop them. That is until Steinberg's secretary, an Ann Margret look-alike named Sandy, knocked on his office door one day.

  "Phil," she announced, "you have a visitor. Morris Levy."

  "Send him in," the boss said.

  He smiled as he greeted Levy, a tough-guy record producer who had founded Roulette Records and would one day own Strawberries, an eighty-store record chain. Levy didn't return the smile.

  "We have a problem, Phil," he said.

  "What's up?"

  "The Shangri-Las," he said. "Nice kids! Great group! Great song!"

  "Yeah, we got lucky," Steinberg said. "So what's the problem?"

  "They're mine."

  "No."

  "They're mine, and I want my cut."

  Steinberg felt the muscles in his neck tighten. A burly exfootball player, he suppressed an urge to toss Levy out of his office. That wouldn't have been a wise option. Steinberg knew the streets: Levy was an associate of Gaetano "Tommy the Big Guy" Vastola, a vicious soldier in the DeCavalcante Mafia family. He was also the childhood friend of Vincent "the Chin" Gigante, a menacing hood on his way to becoming the boss of the Genovese family. In short, Levy was big trouble.

  "I'll discuss this with my partners, and we'll get back to you," Steinberg said, forcing a smile. "I'm sure we can work this out to your satisfaction."

  "Make some calls. Check around," Levy advised. "I'm confident you'll do the right thing."

  After Levy left, Steinberg called a meeting of his partners and explained to them what had just happened, and together they sank into a collective despair. Aside from his connections, Levy had legendary moxie, a boldness that bordered on insanity. He had once trademarked the term "rock and roll" and forced record companies to pay him a royalty to use those magic words. In the end, the government had to step in and stop his hustle by declaring the term "rock and roll" to be generic. With that kind of audacity and that measure of Mafia weight behind him, Levy wasn't about to back off of his claim on the Shangri-Las an
d Kama Sutra/Buddah.

  The upstart record producers were in this state of depression when Dad passed by. His presence was not unusual, for he frequently dropped by.

  Dad enjoyed popping into the record company as he made his Manhattan rounds. A few times, he even took Mom and us kids with him and showed us around the bustling recording studios. He liked checking on the progress of Phil and his friends. They were street punks from Brooklyn, just like him, and he admired their spunk. They had no business trying to crash the record industry, but they'd pushed their way in and hit it big. So more power to them, he thought.

  "What's the matter with you guys?" Dad said that day. "You look like all your dogs died!"

  Steinberg tried to brush it off. He didn't want his friend to know. Sonny might take it as asking for a favor, and Steinberg knew better than to ask. You ask for something, and you keep paying it back the rest of your life.

  "Everything's okay. We're just a bit tired," was his reply.

  Dad laughed. "Tired? You guys should be dancin' in the streets. What's wrong?"

  Steinberg shrugged.

  Dad grew serious. "Hey Phil, what? Am I your friend?" he said, tapping his chest with both hands. "You can't tell me your problems?"

  Steinberg glanced up, and a smile cut through his rough but handsome features. This wasn't a "favor." It was a friend offering to help out a friend. And that was perfectly all right.

  "Sonny," he confided, "Moe Levy came by today. He said he owns a piece of the Shangri-Las, and he wants his cut."

  Dad raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Moe Levy said that? You must be kidding."

  "No joke, Sonny."

  Dad's deep brown eyes panned the room. He took in the worried faces of the three young men sitting at the table.

  "You boys worked too hard to have the likes of Moe Levy shake you down," he said to them. "Don't worry about it"

  And that was the end of the conversation.

  Steinberg didn't see Moe Levy again until a few weeks later, when they bumped into each other at a nearby recording studio. Levy was all handshakes and smiles, complimenting Steinberg on the Shangri-Las' smash follow-up hit, "Leader of the Pack," along with a third hit Kama Sutra had produced, "Come a Little Bit Closer" by Jay and the Americans. When Levy made no mention of his cut, Steinberg searched his eyes for the slightest sign of indignation, any hint that a message had been delivered, but he couldn't detect a thing.

  The Shangri-Las, Jay and the Americans, the Lovin' Spoonful, Sha Na Na, Gladys Knight and the Pips, and scores of other rock performers went on to bring tens of millions of dollars into Kama Sutra/Buddah's coffers. By the end of the 1970s, Buddah Records had become one of the largest independent record companies in the world. And no one ever came by demanding a cut again. Steinberg swore by this story, and it does seem typical of my father at work.

  2

  Those who knew Dad well in his heyday considered him to be something of a chameleon. He could change his colors so fast, over such a wide range of personalities, that he could have fooled any dozen psychiatrists into thinking he was certifiable. Actually, he was certifiable. His Army career was cut short in 1944 when the military shrinks made him for a "psychoneurotic with pronounced homicidal tendencies" and recommended that he be busted out of the service without delay.

  He was.

  The Army docs, however, had focused on a sliver of the Franzese psyche and failed to spot the seeds of the "other" Sonnys waiting to sprout. By limiting him to his baser instincts, they were the first to make the deadly mistake many of his victims would later repeat: they underestimated my father. Behind Dad's menacing eyes worked a shrewd mind honed to a razor's edge. His intellect, often purposely hidden, coupled with his cold-blooded fearlessness to give him an advantage over others.

  Dad's chameleon ways extended beyond his personality. He was a powerfully built man, about five-foot-nine in height with short black hair sprinkled with gray. Early mug shots reveal a gruesome, bull-necked man with dark, close-cropped hair, a widow's peak, a boxer's squashed nose, dark stubble, and squinting eyes that seemed almost to burn demonically. He was a burly 200 pounds and, some said, pit-bull ugly. He looked every bit the street thug he was.

  Other photos depict a man so different as to strain belief. Longer, styled hair speckled with dignified flecks of gray. Expensive, tailor-made suits draped over a leaner, 170-pound frame. Knock-'em-dead overcoats cut like a suit and fitting as snug as a blazer. Clean-shaven, meticulously groomed. Beaming smile. A crisp fedora with the brim cocked upward. And the Mafia prerequisites-a diamond pinkie ring and black pointed shoes.

  At times, Dad resembled former middleweight champion Rocky Graziano, but as he matured, his features smoothed out more. His boxer's nose seemed to narrow and no longer dominated his face. In a Life magazine photo reprinted in 1988, he looked like singer Eddie Fisher, ex-husband of Liz Taylor.

  Like the chameleon he was said to be, Dad's talent lay in adaptation. The higher he rose in the Colombo crime family, the more handsome and dignified his appearance became. Even his body movements changed over the years-from a plodding chunk of iron to an odd sort of grace, like a mountain lion who mesmerizes its victims with its athletic beauty before slashing them apart.

  And Dad grew with each transformation. He was like a corporate executive rising from the mailroom to chairman of the board and looking the part every step of the way. From the streets of the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn (where he grew up riding shotgun on his Italian immigrant father's bakery truck) to the suburbs of Long Island, Dad soaked up each new surrounding and changed himself to fit it. On the streets, he enveloped himself in the image of the beast within and could paralyze the most fearless hit man with a stare. When he mingled with the moneyed of Manhattan, he could suppress the dragon and appear harmless. Not only did he learn to fit in, but he also came to dominate and control any circumstance and setting. Whether among the Mafia hierarchy, the affluent, or the nothing-to-lose street killers, Dad adapted, absorbed, and quickly controlled.

  3

  Dad was born in Naples, Italy, on February 6, 1919, the last son and next-to-last child of Carmine and Maria Franzese (they had eighteen children). Contrary to popular myth, Dad's parents (my grandparents) had established a foothold in America long before his birth. Grandfather was a baker, and he and Grandma traveled frequently between America and Italy to vacation in the homeland. After sixteen children, it became a tradition for Grandma to make the long voyage in the late stages of her pregnancies so that she could deliver in the homeland. Dad's birth has long given Mafia biographers and feature writers the mistaken impressions that he came to America as an infant with a newly immigrated family. It wasn't true.

  What is true is that within the span of a decade, Dad rose from his father's bakery truck to become the underboss and heir apparent of the Colombo family, one of the five La Cosa Nostra crime families, established in 1931. These families were the Colombo, Gambino, Genovese, Bonanno, and Lucchese. The Colombo sect evolved from the Profaci-Magliocco family, though few today recognize the names of Joseph Profaci or Giuseppe Magliocco, the founding fathers.

  Dad was brought into the Mafia by old-time Colombo capo Sebastian "Buster" Aloi. Little else is known about his recruitment and induction beyond the fact that tough street kids were frequently taken under the wing of founding Mafiosi as the five families built their armies in the 1930s, '40s and, '50s.

  People's views on my father vary as widely as his personalities. Their feelings, then and now, are rooted in the circumstances of their acquaintance. Unfortunately, those who knew him at his most intense are not around to offer their insights. These would be the thirty-five or so individuals that, according to various law enforcement officials, he dispatched into another life, in assorted grisly ways, during his bloody rise up the Mafia ladder of success.

  There remain enough of those who escaped his vengeance, who were true friends or hung out in the same neighborhoods, to paint a fascinating portrait of one of the Mafi
a's most powerful, most vicious, and, for a time, least publicized figures.

  4

  In the late 1940s, Dad purchased a parcel of land at ThirtySeventh Avenue and Seventy-Sixth Street in Jackson Heights in Queens and constructed a personal playground he named the Orchid Room. The homey neighborhood tavern was a den of "made men" (men who had been formally initiated into the mob), and it doubled as the location of a thriving bookmaking operation. Dad's employees sold spirits and hope-and did well with each one of them.

  In the decade following World War II, Jackson Heights was in its heyday. The Queens neighborhood was bustling with nightclubs, restaurants, pizza parlors, and ritzy apartments. Aside from the Orchid Room, things cooked all night at such places as the Dinner Bell, Bud's Bar, and the Blue Haven and Flying Tigers nightclubs. When the young and hip got hungry, they could grab a pepperoni pizza at fight announcer Angelo Palange's Savoy pizzeria on Roosevelt Avenue.

  Despite the abundance of apartments and co-ops, Jackson Heights never was much of a family neighborhood, even at its best. As one longtime resident recalled, it was more of "the place everybody stashed their mistresses." Lots of things were "stashed" in Jackson Heights in the 1940s and '50s. Then, as now, the neighborhood was known for illegal activities. But the crimes of the 1940s sound almost romantic compared with those of today. Bookmaking (taking bets on horse races or other contests), shylocking (lending money at unlawful rates of interest), prostitution, shakedowns (extracting money by force), bar and restaurant skimming (illegally removing a portion of the sales), and tax cheating were the mainstays. The occasional "drop and drag" murder (killing someone in a bar or restaurant then dragging the body outside to avoid conflicts with the police) did little to keep the crowds away. And despite the unlawful activities, Jackson Heights was a safe area to take an evening stroll.