Authors: Jimmy Breslin
Aside from funerals, the lone organized business in the Hole was Mike’s Gun Shop. Mike was in a wheelchair and lived over the shop. Nobody knew how he got up and down, but he was usually at work in back, making silencers that were popular all over New York. Particularly with the people in Midnight Rose’s candy store on Saratoga Avenue in Brownsville, a short ride away. The candy store’s back room was a hiring hall for Murder Inc. Mike also sold stolen guns and automatic weapons that caused the ranks of rival mobs to be sharply depleted.
Mike’s wife sold legal guns and ammunition in the front of the store.
One great champion of the Hole in Ozone Park was an Italian pit bull called U Couraga. He was brought over from Sicily by old Vincenzo from Crescent Street. He was an Italian pit bull, because he understood only commands in Italian. If you told him, “Sit,” he didn’t move. If you said, “Siediti!” he sat. The command “Attack!” required no translating. The dog knew that word in a thousand languages, and he got into such a wild frenzy that it would be cruel not to let him go and chew somebody up.
He had a match on this particular Sunday morning against a dog brought down to the Hole by people from the Bronx who believed that their beast could hold his own in a zoo. They knew nothing of U Couraga. Reputations of fighting dogs rarely got out of their neighborhoods. Dogfights were not reported in the newspapers, so there never was an account of U Couraga except rumors of greatness, and who
in the Bronx could believe anything about this crummy Ozone Park neighborhood in Queens where they claimed championships that nobody else knew anything about?
All during this Sunday match, people were going to back doors and buying homemade wine costing a dollar-fifty a gallon and made with real grapes in a barrel, strong enough to leave you senseless. At fight time at the Hole, the people took huge swallows of the red wine and the dogs snarled insanely and the crowd shouted for dog murder.
The main-event dogs were in cages facing each other in a dirt ring inside a chicken-wire fence. They were left to look at each other and raise hatred to an indescribable pitch.
Everybody in the Hole bet U Couraga to an eight-to-one favorite. This is not a random recitation; the dog always was eight to one. The Bronx people thought they were being given an opportunity to rob a big crowd without even pulling out a gun. “My dog could fight Germany,” one of the Bronx guys said.
With a shout, the cages were opened, and the two pit bulls were blurs of hate as they went for each other.
U Couraga’s teeth got there first. He got hold of the throat of the Bronx champion, and that took care of the Bronx champion.
“I won a hundred from the guy with the pieces of his dog in the dirt in front of him,” says Sal Reale. He was out of East New York and then Ozone Park. He can tell of hiding from cops with grand-jury subpoenas for days in the
basement of a bakery in East New York. Because his mother knew that he was living on lemon tarts, she brought sandwiches down. She stamped on the metal cellar doors, and, from underneath, her son Sal pushed the door open just enough to take the sandwiches and tell her he loved her, and then he pulled the door shut. The mother remained. Some days she stayed and spoke to a half dozen people going in and out of the bakery. Sal was sure it was going to be trouble, and it was. The next voices he heard were of cops standing right overhead. “She stood there a long time,” one voice said. “Sal must be right around here. We’ll get a warrant.” Deep in the night, Sal fled the bakery and drove to Col-chester, Vermont, where a kid gas-station attendant looked at Sal’s alligator-skin boots and said, “What’s your hurry? Are you in the May-fia?”
After the fight in the Hole, the Bronx dog was removed with a shovel and buried back in the same weeds and rocky earth that held those who were deemed candidates to break the most sacred oath,
omertà.
Law enforcement remained outside the Hole. “I am in a car at the corner of Miller and Sutter avenues,” Reale states authoritatively. “That was in the Seventy-fifth Precinct, where I had no legitimate business, because I was carrying a gun. The guy with me also had a gun. It was all right in the Hole, but not here. We had the lights off, but it was the dead of winter, and we kept the motor on to keep the car warm. A patrol car sees the exhaust coming out of a dark car, so they come over. They found the two of us with guns.
I said, ‘Officer, we didn’t mean to embarrass you.’ We were in the Hole, and nobody would bother us for this. They asked me, ‘Why do you have one?’ I said, ‘For our self-protection.’
“They took us to the Seventy-fifth Precinct. The lieutenant sent us up to the detectives’ room. Right away I knew what this would be. I told the detectives that I was from the Hole. They said, ‘Two thousand.’ I said, ‘Are you fellas sick?’ We started going back and forth, and then we settled for a thousand. The one detective got up and went over to the window and threw it open. Then he pretended to go right to work at his desk. We went out the window and onto the fire escape, and we were gone. Don’t we get a block when the same patrol car pulls up. I told them, ‘We never escaped.’ They threw us back into the precinct. We had to sit with the detectives again. They tried to act like they never seen us before. I wouldn’t give in. ‘A thousand, what are you crazy? Zero is the number.’ Finally it took two hundred to get the window open again. This time we run for the Hole and they don’t come in to get us again.”
Had you caught snatches of their shoptalk, you would have thought they were steamfitters discussing a job. Kaplan, Casso, and the two cops called their trade in murder “work,” or “a piece of work.” It was all done with the smoothness of an assembly line. Their kind of homicide gave organized crime its name. The other kind of crime, disorganized and angry, filled with missteps, left dead innocents all over the city, like the afternoon back in the thirties when Mad Dog Coll tried to kill one of Dutch Schultz’s thugs on a street in East Harlem. The site was a day nursery when he arrived with blazing weapons and a funeral parlor when he was done. The shootings in our story resulted in but one innocent death. Outside of that, all the other bodies they piled up belonged to people whose killings were Long Overdue. Which made the Casso-Kaplan-Cops group marvelously proficient at murder.