Wiseguy: Life in a Mafia Family (4 page)

“That was it. No more letters from truant officers. No more letters from the school. In fact, no more letters from anybody. Finally, after a couple of weeks, my mother had to go down to the post office and complain. ”

Henry rarely bothered to go back to school again. It was no longer required. It wasn’t even relevant. There was something ludicrous about sitting through lessons in nineteenth-century American democracy when he was living in a world of eighteenth-century Sicilian thievery.

“One night I was in the pizzeria and I heard a noise. I looked out the window and saw this guy running up Pitkin Avenue toward the store screaming at the top of his lungs, ‘I’ve been shot!’ He was the first person I ever saw who was shot. At first it looked like he was carrying a package of raw meat from the butcher’s all wrapped in white string, but when he got close I saw that it was his hand. He had put his hand up to stop the blast of a shotgun. Larry Bilello, the old guy who was the cook at the pizzeria and did twenty-five years for a cop killing, yelled at me to close the door. I did. I already knew that Paulie didn’t want anybody dying in the place. Instead of letting him in, I grabbed one of the chairs and took it out on the street so he could sit down and wait for the ambulance. I took off my apron and wrapped it around his hand to stop the blood. The guy was bleeding so bad that my apron was soaked with blood in a few seconds. I went inside and got some more aprons. By the time the ambulance came the guy was practically dead. When the excitement died down Larry Bilello was really pissed. He said I was a jerk. I was stupid. He said I wasted eight aprons on the guy and I remember feeling bad. I remember feeling that maybe he was right.

“About this time a guy from the South opened a cabstand around the corner, on Glenmore Avenue. He called it the Rebel Cab Company. The guy was a real hick. He was from Alabama or Tennessee. He had been in the army, and just because he’d married a local girl, he thought all he had to do was open his place and compete with Tuddy. He lowered his prices. He worked around the clock. He set up special discounts to take people from the last subway and bus stops on Liberty Avenue to the far reaches of Howard Beach and the Rockaways. He either didn’t know how things worked or he was dumb. Tuddy had sent people to talk to the guy. They said he was stubborn. Tuddy went to talk to him. Tuddy told him that there wasn’t enough business for two companies. There probably was, but by now Tuddy just didn’t want the guy around. Finally one day after Tuddy has been banging things around the cabstand all day long, he tells me to meet him at the cabstand after midnight. I couldn’t believe it. I was really excited. For the whole day I couldn’t think of anything else. I knew he had something planned for the Rebel cabstand, but I didn’t know what it was.

“When I got to the cabstand Tuddy was waiting for me. He had a five-gallon drum of gasoline in the back of his car. We drove around the neighborhood for a while until the lights were out in the offices of the Rebel Cab Company, on Glenmore Avenue. Then Tuddy gave me a hammer with a rag wrapped around its head. He nodded toward the curb. I walked up to the first of the Rebel cabs, squeezed my eyes, and swung. Glass flew all over me. I went to the next cab and did it again. Meanwhile Tuddy was wrinkling newspapers and pouring gasoline all over them. He’d soak the papers and shove them through the windows I had just smashed.

“As soon as he finished, Tuddy took the empty can and started hopping like mad up the block. You’d never know Tuddy lost a leg, except when he had to run. He said it was dumb for both of us to be standing in the middle of the street with an empty gasoline can when the fires began. He gave me a fistful of matches and told me to wait until he signaled from the corner. When he finally waved, I lit the first match. Then I set the whole matchbook on fire, just like I’d been taught. I quickly threw it through the broken cab window in case the gas fumes flashed back. I went to the second cab and lit another matchbook, and then I did the third and then the fourth. It was while I was next to the fourth cab that I felt the first explosion. I could feel the heat and one explosion after another, except by then I was running so fast I never had a chance to look back. At the corner I could see Tuddy. He was reflected in the orange flames. He was waving the empty gasoline can like a track coach, as though I needed anyone to tell me to hurry. ”

Henry was sixteen years old when he was arrested for the first time. He and Paul’s son Lenny, who was fifteen, had been given a Texaco credit card by Tuddy and told to go to the gas station on Pennsylvania Avenue and Linden Boulevard to buy a couple of snow tires for Tuddy’s wife’s car.

“Tuddy didn’t even check to see if the card was stolen. He just gave me the card and sent us to the gas station, where we were known. If I’d known it was a stolen card I still could have scored. If I’d known the card was hot I would have given it to the guy in the gas station and said, ‘Here, get yourself the fifty-dollar reward for returning it and give me half of it. ’ Even if it was bad I would have earned on the card, except Tuddy wouldn’t have had any tires.

“Instead, Lenny and I drive over to the place and buy the tires. The guy had to put them on the rims, so we paid for them on the card and drove around for about an hour. When we got back the cops were there. They were hiding around on the side. I walk in the place and two detectives jump out and say that I’m under arrest. Lenny took off. They cuffed me and took me to the Liberty Avenue station.

“In the precinct they shoved me in the pens, and I was playing the wiseguy. ‘I’ll be out in an hour,’ I’m telling the cops. ‘I didn’t do nothing. ’ Real George Raft. Tuddy and Lenny had always told me never to talk to the cops. Never tell them anything. At one point one of the cops said he wanted me to sign something. He had to be nuts. ‘I’m not signing anything,’ I tell him. Tuddy and Lenny said all I had to give them was my name, and at first they didn’t believe my name was Henry Hill. I took a smack from one of the cops just because he wouldn’t believe a kid running around with the people I was running with could have a name like Hill.

“In less than an hour Louis Delenhauser showed up at the precinct. ‘Cop-out Louie,’ the lawyer. Lenny had run back to the cabstand and said I had been pinched on the credit card. That’s when they sent Louie. They took care of everything. After the precinct the cops took me down for the arraignment, and when the judge set five hundred dollars bail, the money was put right up and I was free. When I turned around to walk out of the court I could see all of the Varios were standing in the back of the room. Paulie wasn’t there because he was serving thirty days on a contempt hearing. But everybody else was smiling and laughing and started hugging me and kissing me and banging me on the back. It was like a graduation. Tuddy kept yelling, ‘You broke your cherry! You broke your cherry!’ It was a big deal. After we left the court Lenny and Big Lenny and Tuddy took me to Vincent’s Clam Bar in Little Italy for
scungilli
and wine. They made it like a party. Then, when we got back to the cabstand, everybody was waiting for me and we partied some more.

“Two months later Cop-out Louie copped me out to an ‘attempted’ petty larceny and I got a six-month suspended sentence. Maybe I could have done better. Looking back, it sure was a dumb way to start a yellow sheet, but in those days it was no big thing having a suspended sentence on your record. And I felt so grateful they paid the lawyer, so that my mother and father didn’t ever have to find out.

“But by now I’m getting nervous. My father is getting worse and worse. I had found a gun in his basement and had taken it across the street to show Tuddy, and then I put it back. A couple of times Tuddy said he wanted to borrow the gun for some friends of his. I didn’t want to lend it, but I didn’t want to say no to Tuddy. In the end I started to lend Tuddy the gun and get it back after a day or two. Then I’d wrap the gun up just exactly how I found it and put it back on the top shelf behind the pipes in the cellar. One day I went to get the gun for Tuddy, and I saw that it was missing. I knew that my father knew what I was doing. He didn’t say anything, but I knew he knew. It was like waiting for the electric chair.

“I was almost seventeen. I went to the recruitment office and tried to sign up. I thought that was a good way of getting my father off my back and keeping Tuddy and Paul from thinking I was mad at them. The guys at the recruitment office said I had to wait until I was seventeen and then my parents or guardian could sign me up. I went home and told my father I wanted to enlist in the paratroopers. I told him he had to sign me in. He started to smile, and he called my mother and the whole family. My mother was nervous, but my father was really happy. That afternoon I went to the DeKalb Avenue recruitment office and signed up. The next day I went to the cabstand and told Tuddy what I’d done. He thought I was crazy. He said he was going to get Paul. Now Paulie shows up, very concerned. He sits me down alone. He looks me in the eye and asks me was there anything wrong, was there anything I wasn’t telling him. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘Yeah,’ I said. Then he got very quiet. We’re in the back room of the cabstand surrounded by wiseguys. He’s got two carloads of shooters on the street. The place is as safe as a tomb and he’s whispering. He says if I want to get out of it, he can fix it with the recruitment office. He can buy me back the papers

“‘No, thanks,’ I said. ‘1 might as well do the time. ’ “

Three

WHEN HENRY HILL WAS BORN on June II, 1943, Brownsville-East New York was a six-square-mile working-class area with some light industry and modest one- and two-family houses. It stretched from a row of parklike cemeteries in the north to the saltwater marshes and garbage landfills of Canarsie and Jamaica Bay in the south. In the early 1920s electric trolleys and the Liberty Avenue elevated line had turned the neighborhood into a haven for tens of thousands of Italian-American immigrants and Eastern European Jews who wanted to escape the tenement squalor of Mulberry Street and the Lower East Side in Manhattan. The low, flat, sun-filled streets offered only the smallest houses and tiniest backyards, but the first- and second-generation Italians and Jews who fiercely wanted to own those houses worked nights in the sweatshops and factories spotted throughout the area after they had finished their daytime jobs.

In addition to the thousands of hardworking new arrivals, the area also attracted Jewish hoods, Black Hand extortionists, Camorra kidnappers, and wily Mafiosi. In many ways Brownsville-East New York was a perfect place for the mob. There was even a historical ambience. At the turn of the century the New York
Tribune
described the section as a haven for highwaymen and cutthroats and said that it had always been a “nurturing ground for radical movements and rebels. ” With Prohibition, the area’s proximity to the overland liquor routes from Long Island and the countless coves for barge landings along Jamaica Bay made it a hijacker’s dream and a smuggler’s paradise. Here were assembled the nation’s first multiethnic alliances of mobsters that would later set the precedent for organized crime in America. The small nonunion garment factories that dotted the area became ripe for shakedowns and payoffs, and the activities at Belmont, Jamaica, and Aqueduct raceways nearby only added to the mob’s interest in the area. In the 1940s, when the 5,000-acre Idlewild Golf Course began its transformation into an airport employing 30,000 people, moving millions of passengers and billions of dollars’ worth of cargo, what is now Kennedy Airport became one of the single largest sources of revenue for the local hoods.

Brownsville-East New York was the kind of neighborhood that cheered successful mobsters the way West Point cheered victorious generals. It had been the birthplace of Murder Incorporated; Midnight Rose’s candy store on the comer of Livonia and Saratoga avenues, where Murder Inc. ’s hit men used to wait for their assignments, was considered a historic landmark during Henry’s youth. Johnny Torrio and Al Capone grew up there before going west and taking machine guns with them. The local heroes of Henry’s childhood were such men as Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, who joined forces with Meyer Lansky to create Las Vegas; Louis “Lepke” Buchalter, whose well-muscled cutters’ union controlled the garment industry; Frank Costello, a boss with so much political clout that judges called to thank him for their appointments; Otto “ Abbadabba” Berman, the mathematical genius and policy-game fixer, who devised a system for rigging the results of the parimutuel tote board at the track so that only the least-played numbers could win; Vito Genovese, the stylish racketeer who had two hundred limousines, including eighty filled with floral pieces, at his first wife’s funeral in 1931 and was identified in The
New York Times
story as “a wealthy young restaurant owner and importer”; Gaetano “Three Fingers Brown” Lucchese, who headed the mob family of which the Varios were a part; and of course the legendary members of Murder Incorporated: the ever dapper Harry “Pittsburgh Phil” Strauss, who was proudest of the way he could ice-pick his victims through the ear in movie houses without drawing any attention; Frank “Dasher” Abbandando, who only a year before Henry’s birth went to the chair with a Cagney sneer; and the 300-pound Vito “Socko” Gurino, a massive hit man with a neck the size of a water main, who for target practice used to shoot the heads off chickens running around his backyard.

It was understood on the street that Paul Vario ran one of the city’s toughest and most violent gangs. In Brownsville-East New York the body counts were always high, and in the 1960s and 1970s the Vario thugs did most of the strong-arm work for the rest of the Lucchese crime family. There were always ~e heads to bash on picket lines, businessmen to be squeezed into making their loan-shark payments, independents to be straightened out over territorial lines, potential witnesses to be murdered, and stool pigeons to be buried. And there were always young cabstand tough guys such as Bruno Facciolo, Frank Manzo, and Joey Russo who were ready to go out and break a few heads whenever Paul gave the order, and such young shooters as Jimmy Burke, Anthony Stabile, and Tommy DeSimone who were happy to take on the most violent assignments. But they did this work on the side; almost all of these wiseguys were employed, to some degree, in one kind of business or another. They were small-time entrepreneurs. They ran two-rig trucking firms. They owned restaurants. For example, Jimmy Burke was a hijacker, but he also had a partnership in several nonunion storefront clothing sweatshops in Queens. Bruno Facciolo owned Bruno’s, a ten-table Italian restaurant in the neighborhood, and prided himself on his meat sauce. Frank Manzo, who was called “Frankie the Wop,” owned the Villa Capra restaurant in Cedarhurst and had been active in the carpenter’s union until his first felony conviction. And Joey Russo, a solidly built youngster, was a cab driver and construction worker.