On other occasions, Jo Jo's lounge was as dull as a graveyard. These would be the nights that FBI agent Bernie Welsh made an appearance. He would waltz in, set himself down in the center of the bar, begin to drink as only an Irishman can, and loudly greet and glad-hand any mobster who entered the place. As soon as any mobsters spotted him, they'd get out of there as quickly as possible.
"Welsh, you no-good bum, you're killin' my business!" Jo Jo would rant, bobbing up and down like a cork.
Welsh would laugh, order another drink, and settle in for a long night.
Whenever Welsh saw me at Jo Jo's, he would really become animated.
"Hey, it's my old buddy Michael Franzese! Put it here, man!" he'd shout, extending a meaty paw.
Once, when I refused to shake his hand and ducked into a nearby restaurant, the FBI agent tracked me down.
"Michael, I'm insulted," he said, hovering over the table like a storm cloud. "Why didn't you shake my hand?"
"In front of all those people? You jump in like you're my best friend? You must be kidding!"
"You can still shake my hand," Welsh said, standing firm.
"All right," I said, standing. "I'll shake your hand. Now go over to the bar and leave me alone."
"You sure you don't want me to eat with you guys?" he'd ask.
"We're sure, Bernie," I said. "Go to the bar. The first drink's on me.
52
Careful as I was, I made two mistakes during my training. The first occurred when I dropped off DiBella at Junior's Restaurant on Flatbush Avenue. Instead of waiting in front of the restaurant by the car, I became edgy and started pacing up and down the block. When DiBella came out, I was on the opposite corner. DiBella chewed me out. "If I tell you to wait out front, you wait out front! You wait there for three days if you have to. You don't walk. You don't go to the bathroom. You stand right there. How did you know I wouldn't come running out and need to leave immediately?"
The second mistake was arriving ten minutes late for an appointment on a cold winter morning. Because of it, I was left standing on Carroll Street for six hours. I asked the family members who passed by what to do, and they explained that I had to keep waiting. DiBella passed by twice but left me shivering on the corner. After that, I learned that a 3:00 P.M. meeting meant arriving at 2:30, a 4:00 P.M. meeting meant arriving at 3:30, and if you expected any difficulty arriving at a meeting the next day, you camped out on the spot the previous night. If your car broke down on the way to a meet, you abandoned it and jumped into a taxi or stole another car in order to make it on time.
Aside from the usurious rates on the nightclub loan, I did nothing illegal during my indoctrination. I was invited to go on various stickups and burglaries by soldiers and fellow recruits, but I always declined. That was accepted. The mob never chose a job for its members. A numbers runner who came in remained a numbers runner. An auto thief continued to steal cars. A loan shark continued to lend money and a bookie to take bets. The mob never tried to make a numbers runner into a loan shark or a bookie into an auto thief. Since I was a businessman, I wasn't expected to rob convenience stores. I was free to decline to participate in any activity that wasn't my specialty. However, when it came time for a recruit to do some "work," he usually had no such option.
Fortunately, my case was unique. I never received the order. From what I could guess, there were two reasons for the rare break with Cosa Nostra tradition. First, there was such a rush to induct new recruits, especially in the severely weakened Colombo family, that the initiation murder was waived and instead marked down as debt to be paid at a later date. Secondly, the number of recruits the mob wanted to train far exceeded the number of people the bosses could think of to kill. That made for gangs of eager recruits who were all dressed up with no one to "knock off." Whatever the reason, I was spared-thankfully.
53
The moment of my formal induction into the mob finally arrived. It was Halloween, 1975, and I was about to shed the mantle of the legitimate businessman and figuratively costume myself in the pinstripe suit and wide-brim fedora of the world's most notorious secret criminal organization-but I didn't know that yet.
Jo Jo called and told me to meet him at his bar on Metropolitan Avenue in Brooklyn and to wear a suit. I was given no indication about what was to transpire. We drove to a catering house in Bensonhurst. There I was escorted to a small office down the hall from the main ballroom where five other recruits were nervously waiting. I knew three of the five men, including Jimmy Angellino. As I sat and waited with them, I looked around the room. If the pattern was to mix two guys from each hit squad, and the initiation requirement hadn't been waived for the others, that meant three people had been murdered, maybe more, to uphold the tradition that brought the six of us there.
I was the third recruit called. Jo Jo came out, a big smile cutting through his tight, hard features, and he nodded for me to follow him into another room.
The lights in the room were dim, and the mood was as solemn as the darkness. In the center of the banquet hall, the hierarchy of the Colombo family sat on folding chairs spread out in the shape of a U. As I walked inside the U, I recognized the stern faces of the men sitting around me. The captains were on the edges, and the closer one sat to the center, the more powerful his position. I recognized John "Johnny Irish" Matera, one of my father's soldiers who had risen to be a captain himself. Matera gave me a nod.
In the exact middle of the U was Tom DiBella, the family boss. To DiBella's left was the family consigliere, Alphonse "Allie Boy" Persico, Carmine's brother. (Normally, the family underboss would have been to DiBella's right, but at that time there was no underboss.)
I stood in front of DiBella.
"Are you ready to take the oath of La Cosa Nostra?" the big man asked.
"Yes," I answered.
"Okay, cup your hands."
I did as I was told, and a small piece of paper materialized in DiBella's hand. DiBella lit it and dropped the flaming paper into the pocket formed by my hands.
"If you ever violate the oath of La Cosa Nostra, may you burn in hell like the fire burning in your hand," he warned.
I felt only a tinge of heat as the paper was quickly consumed. The act was purely symbolic, not, as some believe, a show of toughness or of the ability to withstand pain.
DiBella grabbed my right hand in his big, rough hand, held up my thumb, and pricked it with a pin. It stung. As the blood formed into a fat drop, DiBella squeezed my thumb. The drop of blood became too heavy and spilled to the floor. Looking down, I could see the splattered drops of blood from the two recruits who had come before me.
"This is a blood tie," he intoned. "Your allegiance to La Cosa Nostra is bound by blood. Should you ever violate this oath, your blood will be shed."
DiBella squeezed again, harder this time, and another fat drop of blood fell to the floor. The point was made. I could feel the breath of death in the room. Violate the oath, and my blood would spill in quarts, not drops. That's what it was all about-life or death. Humanity at its most instinctive level. Follow the rules or die.
The oath, we were told, included the following: keep the secrets and traditions you will hear and learn about. Do not violate another member's wife, sister, or daughter. Never raise your hand against another member. Carry out orders. La Cosa Nostra comes before anything and everything in your life.
"Michael Franzese, do you accept and understand the blood oath and blood tie of La Cosa Nostra?" DiBella asked.
"Yes," I answered solemnly.
"Good. Now you have been born again. You are amico nostro [a friend of ours]."
I shook DiBella's hand and kissed him once on each cheek. Then I repeated this procedure with Allie Boy, Johnny Irish, Andy Russo, and the rest of the captains. The congratulations were just as serious as the rest of the ceremony. The air remained thick and tense. Any one of the men I was shaking hands with and kissing might one day be called upon to kill me. Or I might one day be called upon to kill him. That
's what struck me the most about the entire ceremony. Instant capital punishment, often without trial or jury. It was the central theme of the evening-death, murder, and spilled blood.
Yet, as I was leaving the dimly lit room that night, I found that I was excited. This feeling grew until it became exhilaration. I was now part of an army of blood brothers. I was locked into a brotherhood few would ever experience or even understand. And more importantly, I had become one with my father. I had bonded. I could never be rejected now, never be banished from the house. That's all that really mattered. My father had accepted me as blood, blood spilled in drops on a wooden floor, but blood nonetheless. It was a joyous moment for me.
54
After the last recruit had been sworn in, we all, new family members and old alike, sat down at a large banquet table and shared a meal of pasta, veal, and chicken. In the course of the meal, the solemnity that had been felt so strongly in the air slowly lifted.
Later, outside in the foyer, Jo Jo appeared at my side.
"Now you can pick up your bag of money," he quipped.
My fellow inductees who overheard this raised their eyebrows, and Jo Jo and the men around him started to howl. It was mob humor, an old joke played on the recruits. I got the joke and would never forget the meaning behind it. There was no bag of money waiting for newly made men. There never had been, and there never would be.
We were not automatically given a salary or put on somebody's payroll. It was up to each man to make his own way. In fact, it was up to each man not only to carry his weight but also to kick a healthy share of his earnings back into the family kitty. Essentially, from a purely business standpoint, the mob was an elaborate criminal pyramid scheme.
As I drove home that night, the seriousness of what I had just done began to overwhelm me. Did I know what I was doing? I had given over my life-not for a few weeks or months or yearsbut forever. What if I didn't like this new life? What if I hated it? There was no easy way out. No excuse. I couldn't just say "take this job and shove it" when I felt like it. You couldn't quit the mob. If you quit, you died.
I wasn't like the others. It had not been my lifelong dream to be in La Cosa Nostra, and I didn't "get off" on the violence like some of the others did. I suddenly wondered if I had made a terrible mistake. Had I just signed my own death warrant?
No, I decided. It was the right move. I was now part of a powerful organization that stretched out across the world. Anywhere I went I would be welcomed and sheltered by my special brothers. Knowing that was a great feeling.
Besides, my father was part of this organization. It was his life, and it was what he wanted for me. So it couldn't be wrong.
When I arrived home that night, I kissed Maria and then sat down on the couch. A little later, the doorbell rang. I called for her to get it, but she had gone upstairs. So I went to the door myself.
The machine gun was the first thing I saw. Then the fedora and pinstriped suit.
"Gimme all da candy, or I'll blow ya away," a small voice said. It was just a kid-a straggler making a last few grabs at stuffing his trick-or-treat bag before calling it a night. Relieved beyond words, I looked around the room and spotted the bowl of candy Maria had provided for the stream of masqueraders.
"Hold on, tough guy," I said.
I grabbed two big handfuls of candy and dropped them into the kid's bulging shopping bag. His eyes became as big as silver dollars.
"Thanks, mister!"
"Were you really going to shoot me?" I asked.
The kid looked up, waved the toy machine gun, and affected his meanest snarl.
"Trick or treat. That's the rules, mister."
55
I went to work the next day as usual, and I didn't feel any different. Nothing had changed for me. Some of the other recruits changed drastically. They put on sleek suits, flashed diamondand-gold pinky rings, and began walking with a swagger. But that wasn't for me, and it also wasn't the way of the family. The rule was, you never tell anyone who you are. You don't wear you credentials on your sleeve. You don't hand out business cards saying "Michael Franzese, Cosa Nostra Soldier." The people who need to know will know, or they will be told.
The key was in the introductions. "This is Tony. He's a friend of ours." That meant that Tony was in.
"This is Joey. He's a friend of mine." This meant that Joey was not in. Joey was merely an associate.
But after a few months, even that much identification was no longer necessary. Everybody knew-somehow. I was suddenly treated with awe and respect. The mantle was there. I couldn't see it or feel it, but everyone around me felt its weight.
For several months my activities were limited to attending weddings and funerals, the two big mob social events. Among the funerals I attended was that of Joe Colombo. The former boss had vegetated for seven years after being gunned down in his most glorious moment. As they lowered Colombo's casket into the ground that day, I thought back to the day he had been shot. I had been only a few feet away from him, a college kid then, a future doctor, caught in the middle of a major mob hit.
So much of my life had been like that. Cops hanging around the house and harassing my family. Assassinations right in front of my eyes, the sound of the gunshots ringing in my ears. My father's frame-up and fifty-year "death sentence" jail term. My own grand jury indictments and trials, all based on false accusations and police harassment. The mob had shaped every part of my life. And most of it was bad. Would I end up like Joe Colombo?
My first payoff for joining the mob came when an associate introduced me to Gerard Nocera, a vice-president at Beneficial Leasing Corporation. I wanted to get the Mazda dealership out from under the strangling floor plan financing arrangement I had with Lloyd Capital. Nocera was the first example in a long line of what the prosecutors would later claim to be my greatest talent-finding legitimate businessmen who liked to play on the edge. The Beneficial man, who had relatives associated with the mob, came through with a $600,000 floor plan. And instead of having to pay Tom Scharf $75 to $150 a car, I only had to pay Nocera $25 to $50. With Nocera, however, there wasn't even a thin veil of "consulting" involved. His payments were all slid directly under the table.
My best friend, a high-living embalmer and mob associate named Larry "Champagne Larry" Carrozza, unearthed another nine-to-fiver looking to increase his profits. Louis Fenza had worked his way up to vice-president of Japan Lines, an international marine cargo company. I formed a shipping-container repair firm, and Louie Fenza began writing work orders for me. It started at five to one, meaning for every container my firm repaired, Fenza would bill Japan Lines for five. Eventually, the ratio grew to ten to one, fifteen to one, and finally twenty to one, as the scam went unnoticed. We were pocketing $2,000 a week for phantom work. I rolled the Japan Lines money in with my Mazda profits and put $100,000 on the streets, an investment that produced two to three shylock points ($2,000 to $3,000) every week.
56
As time passed, I developed a three-point strategy to guide my new life. Points two and three were to succeed in business and to be a good mob soldier. Point one was the same as always-to get Dad out of jail. My passion in that area became my weakness. Anyone wanting to get close to me, set me up, or shake me down used my love for Dad to his advantage.
In 1978, Dad had a critical parole hearing scheduled. He had served nine years, enough time to earn a legitimate parole. Still, he was Sonny Franzese, and his chances appeared slim. That's when a rival car dealer suddenly appeared claiming to have connections with the parole board. For $150,000, he said, he could ensure that my father would be freed. But he wanted the money up front.
He told me they had to work through a specific attorney, Harold Borg. I knew Borg from the "West Hempstead Seven" trial because he had represented one of the Chubby Brothers. I was willing to hire Borg, but I balked at paying the bribe money to the dealer. Instead, I offered to pay $75,000 when my father was granted parole and the second $75,000 when he walked free. This split wa
s necessary because the actual release of a prisoner can be as long as six months after a parole hearing. And that lag time can be filled with snags. To make my point, I filled a suitcase with $150,000 in shylock cash borrowed from the Colombo family, sat in the corner of my office, and invited the car dealer over to take a look.
In September 1978, although I hadn't paid out any bribe money, Dad's parole was granted. From my own intelligence gathering, I determined that Borg was totally legitimate and knew nothing of the hustle. The parole was gained by the attorney's efforts and my father's good behavior, not through any connections. In fact, when Borg later learned of the bribe agreement, he advised strongly against paying the money.
The car dealer and his secret partner, if there ever had been one, were apparently gambling on a good attorney and the timing of the hearing. If my father made it, they could claim credit, and if he didn't, they could claim "a last-minute foul-up."
The dealer was furious when I refused to pay and threatened, "You don't know what they'll do. These people can have you killed."
"I'll take the chance," I shot back.
"They'll have me killed," he protested.
"Well then, you'd better buy a bulletproof vest," I advised.
Dad came home five months later, in February 1979, and we threw another big welcome-home party to celebrate. The very next day, he and I resumed our 6:00 A.M. breakfast meetings from a decade earlier. I set my alarm for 5:00 A.M. so I could shower, shave, dress, and make the ten-minute drive from my home in Jericho to my parents' house in time to operate the drip coffee machine. Now, however, intermingled with conversations about sports and entertainment, we talked shop. It was then that Dad began educating me about the ways of La Cosa Nostra.
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