Blood Covenant

by Michael Franzese

  Handling my mother was a problem of another stripe. Although Dad provided her with a live-in maid, Mom was a fanatic about cleanliness and preferred doing most of the cooking, dishwashing, laundry, ironing, and vacuuming herself. Her frequent cleaning frenzies stirred tension in the household. For instance, we children were sometimes forbidden to use the showers and tubs for days after she had scrubbed them to a shine. I once became so exasperated with this practice that I took a bar of soap out to the backyard swimming pool and bathed there. We were also not allowed to enter our bedrooms after the rugs had been vacuumed and raked, and I had to wear my Catholic school uniform long into the evening so as not to soil a second set of clothing.

  As clean as the house was, the battles that went on there were anything but. My spirited mother's hands-on approach to disciplining her noisy brood included threatening us with wooden spoons, table legs, a guitar, the metal chimes from a grandfather clock-or anything else within her reach. She kicked, scratched, and, on at least one occasion, bit me. She was quick with her hands, I used to warn my friends, describing her as one might a good prizefighter.

  Mom was similarly spirited in her periodic spats with Dad, but her weapons of choice with him were psychological. She argued like she cleaned-furiously and repetitively. She could beat a dead horse into dust, resurrect it the next evening, and then beat it to dust again. No issue was ever settled, no argument was too redundant, and no matter what subject initially set off a new round of arguing, the verbal sparring almost always shifted to the two main issues of conflict-my stepbrothers and sisters, and money.

  I guess one can sympathize with Mom's feelings toward the extra children. She had been just a teenager herself when she met Dad, and her head was swimming at the time with the excitement of the Stork Club. She thought she was marrying a powerful figure with heavy ties to the entertainment business, but along with the thrilling nights on the town and the ringside tables at the big shows, she was suddenly swamped by four, five, six, then seven children.

  The money conflict resulted from their opposing attitudes about money. Mom was as loose with a buck as Dad was tight. He had grown up in the Depression, and like many who struggled through that dark period, he could never shake the thought that those bleak times might return-no matter how much money he later made. Mom harbored no such memories, and she loved to spend, particularly on clothing and home furnishings, both of which she was forever changing.

  I often wondered what kept my parents together. Once, when I was older, I went as far as suggesting to Dad that they divorce for his peace of mind (an unusual stance for someone to take against his own mother, but that shows where my loyalties were). But Dad wouldn't hear of it. From his perspective, Mom's few eccentricities were a small price to pay. She was gorgeous, a characteristic that, in his eyes at least, could cover a multitude of sins, and each new expensive outfit she bought only made her look more ravishing. It was comforting for him each evening to come home to a beautifully kept house filled with children who were expected to toe the line. What's more, to the outside world, Mom defended him and his children-all the children-with a ferocity that made all of the internal conflicts meaningless.

  16

  Although I struggled to maintain my focus on science (biology at the moment) and on fielding ground balls and eluding linebackers, Dad's notoriety kept intruding. I was only twelve when articles first began to appear on the inside pages of the local newspaper. The stories would announce that Sonny Franzese had been arrested for some minor crime. Invariably they went on to refer to him as a "Mafioso" or "organized crime chief." But Dad would show up at home a day or so later and act as if nothing had happened. No explanation was ever offered to us. Up until then, I had always thought he was just a successful businessman-which he was. He owned or had interests in many legitimate businesses, including a dry cleaner, numerous bars, nightclubs, restaurants and diners, a sportswear company, and a pastry shop. He even had a piece of a major record company and was involved with professional boxing.

  I didn't understand the stuff in the newspapers about organized crime. It was finally our English maid, Pauline, who sensed my dismay and confusion. She sat me down one afternoon and, without being judgmental, explained to me what the terms "Mafia," "La Cosa Nostra," and "organized crime" meant. I was grateful to Pauline, but I remained perplexed. As the stories increased, I wondered why Mom and Dad didn't just call a family meeting and explain to us what was going on. They never did. They ignored it, so I ignored it, too.

  I was fourteen, just getting started in high school and serious athletics when the stories leaped from the back pages to the front. On December 24, 1965, many of my neighbors and classmates discovered for the first time that I was the stepson of "The Hood in Our Neighborhood," as the article called Dad. Our family brushed off the long, damning story and proceeded to revel in a typical Christmas Eve, feasting on seafood and spaghetti at Mom's parents' house.

  Nothing seemed different that evening. At midnight, we sat in a circle around the tree and, one by one, opened a mountain of presents. Dad gave me a gold, ten-speed English Racer bicycle that year. The sight of that sleek bike made my blood rush. To my utter dismay, two days later it was stolen from in front of a Great Eastern Mills department store, where I had parked it so that I could go inside and explore.

  When I returned to school after the holiday break, there were stares and whispers about the newspaper story, but not as much as there could have been. I attended school under my birth name, Michael Grillo. Mom explained that it had been a condition of her divorce that I go by that name until I was eighteen. After that, I could decide for myself which last name I wanted. The Grillo name worked to shield me from those who didn't know my background. The ones who did were mostly friends, and they kept their feelings to themselves. I was a football star and a popular student and had my own identity.

  But there's always someone who has to make trouble. In this case, it was a fat Irish kid who took it upon himself to bring one of the articles to school and flash it around the hallways and the playground. He informed everyone within earshot that "The Hood in Our Neighborhood" was none other than my father. Encouraged by the attention he was getting, he decided to taunt me directly. "Hey, Michael, I hear your dad's a gangster," he said in the hall.

  I stayed cool at first, pretending to shrug off the embarrassing incident, but inside I was furious. It wasn't so much the personal insult that bothered me, but the way the fat kid and his snickering friends were portraying my father. I shadowed the guy for the rest of the afternoon, caught him on the playground after school, and beat him bloody.

  That quieted things down for a while. Unfortunately, both the press and the prosecutors stayed on my father's tail, and the stories continued. At baseball practice that spring, one of my teammates, jealous over being beaten out of the coveted shortstop position, christened my victory with a cutting jab: "So what? At least my father's not a hood," he said. I tore after him, but the ensuing fight was broken up by the other players and coaches before any serious damage could be done.

  17

  Around that same time, I was given a brief glimpse of Dad's darker side. One afternoon, I went with him to Manhattan to visit Kama Sutra Records, check in with Phil Steinberg, and see if I could catch a glimpse of the teenage sisters Mary and Betty Weiss, who made up half of the hot rock group the Shangri-Las. We were picked up by Johnny Irish Matera and Red Crabbe, two bruisers. On the way, Dad ordered Matera to pull down a side street where a stocky, balding man about six feet tall was waiting. Dad told Matera, Crabbe, and me to wait by the car as he went for a walk with the stranger. The two were about fifty feet away when I heard Dad yelling and cursing. I looked over and saw him grab the bigger man around the collar with both hands and literally lift him from the pavement. He held the man there for about thirty seconds, then dropped him to the ground. I had never seen him so furious, and I marveled at the almost superhuman strength he had displayed.

  I noticed that Crabbe and
Matera were extremely tense through all of this.

  "This ain't right," Matera kept saying. "This don't look right. We better stay close."

  The confrontation ended as abruptly as it had started. Dad returned, jumped in the car, and ordered Matera to hit the gas. "That dirty bum," he mumbled as we drove away. Nothing further was ever said of this incident.

  A second encounter occurred inside our home in Roslyn. A hapless neighborhood carpenter, a distant cousin with a reputation for laziness, picked the wrong house and the wrong woman to irritate. Mom was unnerved by his delays in her latest paneling and redecoration project and got on Dad about it. When the mammoth carpenter finally showed up to complete the job, Dad confronted him in the kitchen. The carpenter offered some excuses, and my father responded by firing a right cross to his eye, tumbling him to the linoleum. The carpenter got up and tried to slink away, but Dad wouldn't let him go.

  "Get back here," he shouted. "I haven't finished talking to you!"

  Despite the intensity of the incident, I had to stifle a giggle. I looked at Mom, and she too was fighting to keep from laughing. Dad had barked at the big carpenter the same command he so often used with us kids.

  After the carpenter had gone, Mom took Dad to task about his actions.

  "I can't believe you punched the guy right here in my kitchen!" she complained.

  "I did it for you," Dad explained. "Now stop nagging me about him!"

  "Dad, you treated him like one of the kids," I said.

  We all ended up laughing about it-everyone except the carpenter, of course.

  18

  By the early 1960s, law enforcement officials had placed Dad under constant surveillance. Detectives sat in unmarked cars at various locations near our home, disturbing neighbors and making a general nuisance of themselves.

  It was no picnic for the officers either. Their job was boring and mentally numbing, and they grew to hate the family who had put them in that position. During the hot summers, the detectives baked inside their cars and struggled to contain the anger this misery caused them.

  One neighbor, a woman known for her eccentric behavior, became so sick of the grumpy officers parked in front of her house that she decided to take action. She walked to their car, brandishing a garden hose.

  "You guys hot in there?" she asked. "Maybe you need to cool off."

  And with that she sent a blast of water inside the open car window, soaking the men and their detailed surveillance records. None of the surveillance vehicles ever parked in front of that house again.

  Other incidents were more serious. One evening, Dad decided to take us to dinner at the nearby Silver Moon Diner on Lakeville Road. A beefy Nassau County cop with a bad attitude decided to make a point with us, so he rode our bumper, flashing his headlights. He would back off for a little while, then speed up and ride the bumper again. This frightened the younger children and made them cry. Through all of this, Dad kept his cool, but I could tell he was furious that the officer was making a scene in front of the family.

  Once we had arrived at the diner, Dad calmed the younger children and seated everyone. Within minutes, the beefy detective walked in with his partner.

  "There's the tough guy and his worthless family," he said as he passed.

  Dad had heard enough.

  "You degenerate bum!" he said to the officer. "You bother my family, and I'll kill you!"

  The diner went deadly silent, and everyone inside it froze in place.

  Startled, the detective turned and started to go for his gun. This only enraged my father further.

  "Go ahead. Go for it! Go for your gun. I'll kill you before you get it out of the holster!" he shouted.

  Mom and I jumped up and held Dad back while the second detective grabbed his partner. Dad and the offending officer continued to trade insults over their shoulders before finally settling down.

  Dinner proceeded without further incident, and the next day, the loose-cannon detective was taken off the assignment and was never seen in the neighborhood again. His replacements were less overt, but the harassment continued.

  19

  Fighting boredom, the officers began hassling Mom and the rest of us. A confrontation on the lawn led to a detective calling Mom a dirty name. I charged the man but was held back by Mom and my brother Carmine. Infuriated, the next day I quietly got in Dad's Buick, sped out of the driveway, and took two teams of Nassau County detectives on a wild chase around the neighborhood. Once I had lost them, I returned to the house.

  The detectives circled back, spotted the car, and went right to the door and reported my behavior to my father, and he was not amused at all. He explained to me that as unnerving as the unwanted surveillance was, this was no game. The policemen were dangerous and were not to be trifled with. He was very serious, and I got the message.

  But the harassment of our family continued. Just as I arrived at the door of a high school date's home one evening, I found myself engulfed in a blinding spotlight from behind. When I turned, a voice bellowed from the beam: "We just wanted to see which scumbag it was, the little one or the big one."

  Before I could answer, my date came to the door. "What's going on, Michael?" she asked.

  "Nothing. Go back inside," I said, pushing her into the house. "I'll handle it."

  By the time I turned to confront the detectives, the light had been turned off, and they were leaving. I told my date that it had all been a mistake, that the officers had the wrong address.

  A short time later, another teenager from the neighborhood, a cute Jewish girl named Leslie Ross, tearfully informed me that her parents had forbidden her to date me. Rightly or wrongly, I blamed the police for this. Thus I grew up with a strong sense that they were the villains, not us. They were the bad guys. They were crude, nasty, and obnoxious, and they were always hassling and suffocating us. They were the enemy, and this concept was enforced by the fact that our whole neighborhood hated them. Many supposed that my parents taught me to hate or disrespect law enforcement officials, but that wasn't true. My thinking concerning them was a result of what I experienced.

  For instance, when our whole family went out somewhere, detectives and/or FBI agents sometimes broke into our house and snooped around, planting bugs, adjusting those that were already planted, or randomly searching for evidence of some criminal activity. They tried to accomplish this without leaving a trace, but Mom's relentless cleaning had this one benefit: she could spot the presence of a long-gone intruder the instant she walked in the door. On one occasion, the footprints across the freshly raked carpet were so obvious that even the youngest children could spot them. Mom was enraged, but not just because her privacy and civil rights had been violated. The law enforcement officers had committed a far greater crime: they had walked on her freshly raked carpet!

  20

  One afternoon when I was sixteen, I was blindsided by a confrontation of a different sort. I was working after school at a drive-in hamburger shop called the Big Bow Wow on Rockaway Boulevard near Kennedy Airport, when a thin man with saltand-pepper hair came in and asked for coffee. I stared at him, and he stared back at me. Our eyes locked, but neither of us said a word. He sat at a small table and slowly sipped his coffee. Then he quietly left.

  After work, I went to my maternal grandmother's house instead of going home.

  "I think I saw my real father today," I told my grandmother. "I'm not sure, but I think it was him."

  Seeing that the uncertainty of this was eating at me, Grandma made a few calls. She confirmed what I already knew: Louis Grillo had paid me a visit. He had wanted to see what his son was like as a teenager. For a long time after that, I wondered why my birth father hadn't said anything to me and also why I had been unable to speak to him, although I had sensed who he was. I came to realize that neither of us had anything to say to each other.

  When Dad learned of this brief encounter, he became very angry. I had long noticed that any mention of Grillo upset him, but I had never understood
why. In the days to come, I chose not to dwell on the strange meeting with my real father or on Dad's odd reaction to it. The memory of that ghost from the past was quickly pushed aside by the growing public pressure coming down upon the only man I knew or wanted as my father.

  Although Dad continued to beat arrest raps and maintain his freedom, the police and prosecutors were stepping up their harassment. This reached a climax one evening shortly before I graduated from high school. My parents had decided to throw a party in my honor and had set up a tent in the backyard and put out an impressive spread. Scores of classmates attended. That evening, I gave my first public speech, thanking my father for my success.

  Near the end of the celebration, Dad signaled me to come over near the side of the house where we could be alone. There he handed me a small package.

  "This is for you," he said. "I want you to have it. You deserve it.

  I opened the neatly wrapped box to find a $10,000, eighteencarat-gold Lucien Picard watch embedded with diamonds. My jaw dropped when I saw the extravagant gift. Dad smiled and opened his arms. His eyes glistened, and we embraced for nearly a minute.

  "You've been a good kid, Michael," he said. "I'm proud of you. I'm proud that you're my son."

  In that moment, I had to fight to hold back my tears.

  Within days of the graduation party, a shower of subpoenas rained down on my high school and neighborhood. All the cars driven to the celebration, from teenagers' hot rods to their fathers' Oldsmobiles, had been photographed and their license plate numbers recorded. The subpoenas, summoning the registered owners to a Nassau County grand jury, went out to high school students, their parents, and unknowing friends who had loaned out their cars for the afternoon. Our phone rang incessantly for several days with calls from frightened teenagers and anxious parents wanting to know what was happening and how they should respond.