The Butcher (7 page)

T
hrough Bruno's friendship and affection for Tommy Pitera, Tommy met all the luminaries in the Bonanno crime family—Joe Massino, Anthony Spero, and all its capos. Spending time with these men and learning from their ways, Pitera began to fuse the samurai mentality that he had developed in Japan with the Mafia mind-set. The Mafia's amazingly violent, unique forms of machismo and the samurai's deadly precision created a highly lethal and dangerous combination, setting the stage well for a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.

As much as Pitera liked Bruno, he saw in him a potential for trouble on a monumental scale. Bruno's drug abuse had become legendary. Pitera, at all costs, would avoid the trappings that Bruno Indelicato had gotten himself into; he would never, he vowed, become a drug addict; he would never, he vowed, let a chemical steal him away from his goal: becoming a highly respected capo in the Bonanno family.

At this point, Pitera had come to believe that his future would be with the Bonannos, and he warmed to the idea. He viewed them as a lean, mean fighting machine. He was particularly fond of Bonanno bosses Joe Massino and Anthony Spero, thinking of them as omnipotent, protective, surrogate fathers. Unlike his own father, who was an
easygoing man who was willing to accept his lot in life, they were men who took life by the throat and made it what they wanted it to be. They were bold. They were forthright. They were a success. They were both feared and respected. In that Pitera had been born and raised in Gravesend—was a true neighborhood boy, he had been readily accepted, trusted by the Bonannos. He was one of them, coming from the same mind-set—gene pool.

Now, when people crossed the Bonannos, when murder was necessary, Pitera was dispatched and he made people disappear with incredible precision, acumen, and expertise. People died. Pitera embraced his role as assassin the way a great actor would embrace playing King Lear or Macbeth, even dressing the part when necessary. To fool his adversaries, to blend in, Pitera took to dressing as an Orthodox rabbi. Disguised like this, he was able to get near his marks and strike them dead before they knew it. When the guise of a rabbi wasn't appropriate, he would dress as a woman and kill men who were looking for romance, but instead got a bullet to the head, cut up, and buried in forgotten places.

Throughout the Mafia, Pitera was garnering a reputation as an assassin extraordinaire. Now when he entered a room, people looked and pointed and spoke in respectful, hushed whispers. In that the Bonannos were deeply immersed in the selling of drugs, it didn't take long for Pitera to become a sleek, swift, dangerous vessel for the distribution and sale of heroin and cocaine.

J
im Hunt's boss, Fred Sandler, asked him if he would go talk to a new entering class.

“Tell them what to expect; tell them what we're about. Don't pull any punches. Tell it like it is,” Sandler said.

As ordered, Jim went and spoke to the rookies. He explained how the agency's modus operandi was based on infiltration and surveillance.

“The best thing you can do is find people who want to cooperate. You bust Joe on Monday, he offers to help, the following Monday, you're arresting two other guys. You can compare it to a spider's web: it starts in the center and it goes around and around and around, and the wider it gets, the more people we bring down; the wider it gets, the more tentacles we have. The more tentacles we have, the more arrests. We are about major investigations and arrests. We are about bringing down the bad guys. We have one job and that's arresting drug dealers!” Jim said.

There were a few questions and the meeting was over. As Jim was about to leave, one of the men approached him, and glancing up at the large smile on his face, Jim instantly recognized him. It was Tommy Geisel, a bouncer Jim had worked with years ago at Dizzy Duncan's nightclub in New Jersey. Geisel was a large, strapping man,
fast moving and nimble on his feet, muscular and strong as a Brahma bull. Like Jim Hunt, Geisel wanted to be a federal agent, wanted to help in the war on drugs. Together they had fought with patrons who drank too much, who wouldn't listen to reason, who were intent upon being violent. When these patrons came up against Jim and Tom, they inevitably ended up being knocked out.

“Jim,” Tommy said, smiling. “Remember me?”

They shook hands and embraced. Jim wished Tom luck at the Academy, said that when he graduated, he'd recommend him to his group—Group 33—if he liked. Even Tommy, who wasn't yet an agent, knew what Group 33 was about, knew he wanted to be a part of what they were—the action, the real deal.

When, after the four-month-long Academy program, Tommy Geisel was ready to be assigned, he reached out to Jim Hunt, reminded him of their conversation. Jim immediately went to his boss and told him about Geisel, told him that he thought he'd make a “very good agent.”

“The guy's got it all,” Jim said. “Brains, balls, and brawn.”

“Trust him with your back?” Sandler asked.

“Absolutely.”

With that, Tommy Geisel was soon assigned to Group 33 and wound up as Jim Hunt's partner—and like this, the Perfect Storm was formed.

 

In preparation to work the streets, work cases, both Tommy and Jim Hunt radically altered their appearances. They were all about blending in, getting bad guys to trust them. Jim grew his hair long and sported a funky, rust-colored Fu Manchu mustache. He wore jeans and cowboy boots and could pretty much blend in anywhere. Tommy, likewise, grew his hair long, with a scruffy beard. Like this, Jim and Tom went out into the world, its streets and avenues, and made arrests. They were soon the most successful team in Group 33.

T
he esteemed, controversial head of the Bonanno crime family, Joe Bonanno, was in retirement. He had bought a particularly comfortable, spacious home in Arizona and lived there with his family, staying out of the daily hands-on running of the crime family. His old street capo, Carmine Galante, who had been arrested by Jim Hunt's father, was nearly finished with twelve years of his twenty-year sentence and was soon to be released. From prison, he had been insistently ranting and raving, threatening and demanding, saying that he was going to kill Carlo Gambino. Gambino had become the boss of bosses, a very powerful man. Galante had no fear of him. Galante sent word from prison, “I'm going to make him suck my dick in Times Square.”

Carmine Galante was an out-of-control, bona fide psychopath. He had no conscience, scruples, or reservations about blowing the brains out of either a real or an imagined foe. When his old nemesis, Frank Costello, died, Galante, from jail, ordered his mausoleum blown up. While in prison, Galante was examined by a psychiatrist, who diagnosed him with “psychopathic personality disorder”—an understatement.

The network of dedicated thugs that Galante had put together had no compunction about selling heroin and was still viable; the
foundation he laid, at the behest of Joe Bonanno and Lucky Luciano, was so strong and well put together that it was still up and running. These were men who, at another time, might have been strikebreakers, bootleggers, killers. Interestingly, it was not only they who were at Carmine Galante's beck and call, but it was their brothers, their cousins—relatives through marriage. In other words, in order to belong to this fraternity, you had to be a relative or go back many years.

From jail, with a vengeance that bordered on obsession, Galante planned his comeback, the engine of which was heroin. He planned his becoming the boss of bosses. He was going to sell heroin—openly, boldly, and without reservation. Fuck the other families. Fuck the DEA. He was willing, indeed he was happy, to go against the dictates of the full Mafia Commission. He didn't respect them. He thought they were soft. In time, he planned to kill them all. As he paced his cell in Lewisburg, as he finished his last days in prison, he plotted in his mind the deaths of all the Mafia bosses—Philip Rastelli, “Cockeyed” Philip Lombardo, Tony “Ducks” Corallo, and Carmine Persico. Fuck, he'd kill them all.

Like this, the stage was set for a monumental, bloody war that would rock the foundations of the Mafia from Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, to Castellammare del Golfo, Sicily. True to his word, when Carmine Galante was released from prison in 1974, he immediately went about putting together his plan. Within weeks, pure heroin was coming into the United States because of his connections in Sicily and Montreal and because of his fearless, audacious belief that he could do whatever the hell he wanted. Not only did he and his faction of the Bonanno family start openly selling drugs, but they openly defied the mandates of the Commission.

“Fuck 'em,” Galante told anyone who would listen, his words echoing throughout Brooklyn like some kind of religious mantra.

Additionally, Galante began having members of the Gambino family murdered. Leaving no clues as to who was committing the killings,
he brazenly brought down Gambino soldiers and captains. Meanwhile Carlo Gambino died of natural causes, in his sleep, disappointing Galante to no end.

“The cocksucker wouldn't even give me the pleasure of killing him,” Galante told confidants.

Galante's intention was to eliminate the competition. It was no secret in La Cosa Nostra that the Gambinos were selling drugs—Carlo's brother Paulo was suspected of running the operation—that the Gambinos were bringing high-grade Turkish heroin from Sicily. This was, of course, all off the record.

The acting head of the Bonanno crime family, Philip Rastelli, was not up to the task of fighting Carmine Galante. Galante was as tough as a junkyard dog. He had come up the hard way. Born in East Harlem in 1910, he had first worked for Vito Genovese as his chauffeur and private assassin. Eventually, Galante began driving around Joe Bonanno and ultimately was made a capo de facto of the Bonanno crime family—a street boss. He acquired the name Lilo because of his penchant for smoking Italian cigars known as “guinea stinkers.” People in the know said that Galante killed over fifty individuals. People in the know said that Galante even murdered a cop. He kept his hair short and wore glasses. He weighed 155 pounds.

Always on guard, always expecting trouble, he went about the business of building a large heroin enterprise while plotting and planning the deaths of his enemies. He murdered as though he had a state-issued permit to kill. Galante was so out of control, causing police and press scrutiny, that there was a sit-down of the Mafia Commission at which it was decided that he had to go. This would be the second time in the history of the American Mafia that the head of a family would be ordered killed; the first was Albert Anastasia.

People sent from the Mafia Commission approached Bonanno captain Alphonse “Sonny Red” Indelicato, and told him that he was either with them or he was dead. They informed him of the Commission's decision that Carmine Galante had to go; that Galante was causing
problems for them all; that if he, Sonny Red, didn't help, he would be taken out within twenty-four hours.

Sonny Red had been expecting this. The handwriting was on the wall. He was surprised it hadn't happened sooner. He knew which way the tide was moving. He did not have to be threatened or cajoled any further. He readily agreed to cooperate however he could with the killing of Carmine Galante. One of the men chosen to be a part of the lethal hit team put together to kill Galante was Anthony Bruno Indelicato—Sonny Red's son and Tommy Pitera's inspiration, mentor, and friend.

 

A seasoned killer himself, Carmine Galante was not an easy man to bring down. He knew the dance of death; he knew how to protect not only his back but how not to be put in a position where gunmen could readily reach him, hit him. He always traveled with several men who were armed and, he thought, loyal to him. As most megalomaniacs, Galante did not realize his bullying and threatening and killing was coming back to haunt him. Not only was the full Mafia Commission behind his murder, but all members of the Mafia in all places wanted him dead.

July 12, 1979, was a particularly warm day. There were no clouds above Bushwick, Brooklyn. Galante chose to have his lunch that day in a trusted cousin's restaurant, Joe and Mary's. This was a good example of how Galante insulated and protected himself from would-be assassins—he was always wary. Bushwick, Brooklyn, was an Italian enclave. Most of the stores catered to the Italian community. There were Italian bakeries, pork stores, pizza places, and restaurants all along Knickerbocker Avenue. The smell of fresh espresso, fresh baked bread, and pizza seductively wafted through the air. In the pork stores, huge wheels of cheese, provolone and parmiggiano, enticingly hung in the windows.

Galante arrived for lunch with two of his men in tow, Baldo Amato
and Cesare Bonventre. Bonventre was a traitor, a would-be assassin; he would make sure the hit went smoothly, on time. When Galante and his party entered the restaurant, waiters bowed and scraped and treated him reverently. This was a thing Galante had become used to and relished, the deference he received as an elite mafioso. The garden was in the back of the restaurant. It was some seventy feet through the long, narrow room. Though the garden was not air-conditioned, it was shaded by large umbrellas. As is the Italian custom, Galante would eat his meal in courses. Toward the end of the meal, Cesare got up to make a phone call. Galante lit up a cigar.

Word was soon passed to the hit team that Galante was in place. With the quick, lethal expediency of a military operation, they were on the move. Soon a light blue Mercury sedan, a stolen car, pulled up in front of the restaurant. There were three men in the car. They were Bruno Whack Whack Indelicato, Dominick “Sonny Black” Napolitano, and Russell Mauro, all large, broad-shouldered men.

Here is where Bruno Whack Whack Indelicato showed his true colors, showed his amazing balls and audacious moxie, for when he stepped from the automobile, pulling down a ski mask as he went, he was carrying a full-length, blue-black shotgun. It was a little after twelve noon. Shoppers crowded the sidewalk. Rubbery waves of heat rose from the ground. Cars and buses drove by. Bruno was the lead man. He acted as though he were invisible. Without reservation, he and the hit team moved to the restaurant, grabbed the front door's handle and arrogantly walked in. They knew Galante was sitting in the back. They walked straight toward him, moving swiftly, as one, as though a robotic killing machine. Nothing could stop them now. They were invincible. Bruno was able to quickly discern Galante sitting in the yard. Patrons saw Bruno and the hit team, the guns they carried, and desperately scrambled to get away.
*

Bruno was as tight as a coiled spring. This man was a professional killer. He did not feel nervous or frightened or scared. He knew this murder would resonate throughout Mafiadom; he knew, too, that this killing would bolster his reputation as a man of respect. He also knew he would be made a capo for what he was about to do.

Galante saw them coming. His eyes widened. Guns were drawn, raised, pointed. With a thunderous roar, Whack Whack Indelicato cut loose with the twelve-gauge shotgun. The other members of the hit team also fired shot after shot after shot. Whack Whack fired again. Carmine Galante went down in a heap of torn flesh and broken bones, never to rise again. Also killed was his cousin, Giuseppe Turano, and his zip bodyguard, Lenny Coppola. The attack was so sudden and violent Coppola never had a chance to draw his weapon. As Galante lay there, his glasses askew, he still had the cigar he was smoking clenched in his teeth—clenched in a death grip that would be memorialized in the most famous photograph of a Mafia hit ever taken.

Bruno and the hit team turned and, calmly, not running, made for the front door. Bruno carried his shotgun straight down. He let his right leg block it as he walked. It seemed a natural extension of his lithe body. They hit the sidewalk, took the seven steps to the street, and arrived back at the car. Bruno opened the door, put the shotgun inside, grabbed the roof of the car, and got in. Slowly, the car pulled away. Bruno and the hit team abandoned it in Gravesend, where it would later be found by police.

 

The jungle drums of the Mafia echoed loudly and insistently all that day and night. Word of Galante's murder spread far and wide with the speed of a bullet. Mob guys all over the United States, all over Italy, quickly learned what happened. Toasts and cheers were made. For La Cosa Nostra, this was a good day. A proverbial thorn in all their sides had been removed, irrevocably and irreversibly. Again, La Cosa Nostra
showed their killing prowess, showed that they kept a clean house, that they would even kill their own if need be.

Wide-eyed, though not surprised, Tommy Pitera heard about the murder, heard that his friend and mentor had been part of the hit team. Pitera was proud—proud to know Bruno, proud to be his friend.

Later that afternoon, Bruno Whack Whack Indelicato showed up at the Ravenite Social Club in Manhattan's Little Italy. He had obviously been sweating and looked disheveled, like he'd been through the mix. Boldly and with great audacity, he had been sent to kill, to wreak havoc, and kill he did. FBI agents watched surreptitiously from rooftops and vans as Bruno was greeted not only by fellow Bonanno crime family members but by half a dozen Gambino members. This was an oddity. This immediately proved to law enforcement that the hit on Galante was a collective effort—a cooperative killing. The bad guys all smiled. They openly kissed and hugged Bruno Indelicato. Even Aniello Dellacroce, the second in command (underboss) of the Gambino family, was there, and he hugged and kissed Bruno Whack Whack with obvious respect and admiration.

Whack Whack was the man of the hour. Whack Whack was a hero. Whack Whack had lived up to his name in a large way. His father could not have been more proud of him. All the mistakes Bruno had made with drugs and his erratic behavior were forgotten. With this one deed, the slate was wiped clean. He was the Mick Jagger of the Mafia. With good cheer, laughing, patting one another's backs, they all went inside, disappearing into the black hole that was then the Ravenite Social Club.

Salud!

Salud!

Salud!
could be heard over and over again as passersbys moved in front of the club.

 

The following morning, on the front page of every newspaper, was the shocking, black-and-white, amazingly graphic image of Carmine Galante lying dead with half a cigar clenched in his teeth and his glasses crooked.

The big badass Carmine Galante was no more—the wicked witch was dead.

Contrary to popular belief, mafiosi are open and candid about murder, bragging about who killed whom, when and where and why. They could be likened to old women talking over the backyard fence. They seem to take it for granted that if they talk among themselves, it will go no further.

Pitera marveled at the newspaper reportage of the very dead Galante. He marveled at the audacious aspects of the murder. This was so foreign, so unlike what he had been exposed to in the Far East, in Japan. There was nothing subtle or delicate or discreet about the murder of Galante. The murder brought home just how brutal, though effective, the way of La Cosa Nostra was. This murder, the secretive, violent underground society of La Cosa Nostra, drew Pitera further toward them, their culture, mind-set, walk and talk. More than ever, he wanted to be not only a part of it but an important part—a central part. He knew if he comported himself with pride and dignity, acted as though he were a man of respect, they would be drawn to him. You cannot go knock on the door of any given capo and say, “Let me in.” They must see you and like what they see; you have to prove yourself. It didn't take long for Pitera to get a chance to do just that.