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| Tweet Topic Started: Mar 25 2012, 03:03 AM (86 Views) | |
| Tay | Mar 25 2012, 03:03 AM Post #1 |
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A License To Steal The Rise and Fall of Gerald "Junior" Boccardo. Labor Day Weekend, 1973 Looking back, I guess my earliest memory of the life was the once annually event of Labor Day weekend, in the neighbourhood where I spent my early childhood, Bella Vista, South Philadelphia. The holiday often regarded as the symbolic end of the summer, a day in conjunction with parties, festivals, and political speeches, but behind the façade it was just another reason for the Italians to stuff their faces with zeppoli's and sfogliatelle, the same as it was for the Irish to blow their Union wage slip on pints of the black ale. And growing up as Gerry Boccardo's son was no walk in the park, I'll tell you. Between my fathers long stays as guest to the government and the dozens of goomah's he had on the side; some he would go away with a week at a time, we didn't do much "father-son" bonding. And the times that he was around, he wouldn't think twice about giving me or my kid brother Francis a smack up the side of the head for good measure, that was the chief parenting tool in those days. With the festival in full-swing, the streets of Bella Vista were packed from pillar to post, thousands of people either; eating, drinking, or listening to the political electee's give their speeches on "holding the line" and "taking back the tide of organised crime in South Philly", each year to no avail. I was around ten years old at the time and I already had my own little crew. There was me, Joe Capodianco, Michael Rossi, Lorenzo Spaciatorre and my kid brother Francis, who never left my side -- buon anima. With my father away most of the time, I could flunk off school and hangout at my uncle Bobby's joint on 4th and Crestview, across the street from the statue of San Gennaro. With large neon green lettering standing in front of a sheet rock canvas, "ITALIANISSIMO" was where uncle Bobby and his usual crew of half-a-dozen goons would spend their days, when they weren't out working every angle they could possibly imagine to make a buck; And if that involved breaking some poor guys arms along the way then so be it. The large room was wrapped in darkness. Three men in black jackets and black sports shirts sat at a table by an open window, playing sette bello and smoking unfiltered cigarettes. Above them, a dim bulb dangled from a knotted cord. Behind them, a jukebox playing Italian love songs. None of the men spoke. At the far end of the room, a tall, thin man stood behind a half-moon bar, scanning the daily racing sheet with a pencil lodged behind his ear. A large white cup filled with espresso was on his left, a Kenmore alarm clock ticked away on his right. He was dressed in a black shirt, sweater, shoes and slacks, with a large oval-shaped ring on his pinky. His hair was slicked back and his face was clean shaven. He chewed a small piece of gum and had a thick, wooden toothpick in the corner of his mouth. I turned the knob on the old beach wood door that led into the room and swung it open, thin shafts of afternoon sunlight creeping in behind me. One of the men at the table looked up and greeted me with "Hey, kid", followed by a slow nod as I walked towards my uncle Bobby. I took a seat beside my pre-occupied uncle, watching him as he cashed in the receipts from Sunday's game. He looked up from one of the receipts at me with a wide smile on his face, cupping his hand on the back of my head, patting it three times in quick succession, greeting me with "Hey look, if it isn't my favourite nephew, little Junior", moments before I was about to reply one of Bobby's men came storming through the door, dragging Bernardo, the baker from Granville Avenue by his overalls into the middle of the room, the humble baker looked terrified. One of Bobby's goons started on how Bernardo was into his pocket for three grand, which was a lot of money in those days, and how the baker refused to pay the vigorish debt he owed. My uncle Bobby then approached the baker clutching an ashtray and callously proceeded in beating him with it, I can see it now, the guys face was out like a baloon. This took place right in front of my eyes, it changed my whole perspective of life, that when I grew up I would much rather be the guy giving the beating, not the guy taking it. This was the first time I saw my uncle Bobby beat down on a guy, and he surprised me. I always pictured him as this mellow guy with the old thick-framed glasses, ordering guys around, not really doing much leg-work himself. You see, uncle Bobby was more like a father to me, I spent most days round at his joint, picking up a few tricks along the way, but never had I seen him in such a rage, he was like a bull to a red rag, y'know, he was a vicious bastard. The Sixth Family. Not long after that shit with Bernardo the baker, my father died of septicaemia, and with the majority of my pa's friends either doing time or dead, my distant mother was finding it hard to cope, and decided it was time for a change of scenery. It was around that time that we moved to New Jersey. I had an uncle on my mothers side who ran a pizza joint in North Arlington, it was called PIZZALAND, famous for the best Neapolitan-style pie's from North Arlington to as far as Bayonne, according to my uncle Pat. Uncle Pat, he was always with the same old stupid jokes. I got myself a part time job down there, I didn't complain, the pay was good and me and the guy's got free pizza. But boy could I talk in my early days, I mean I could literally talk my way out of any situation. I had fire in my belly, which everybody says I got off my mother, god rest her soul. All those years growing up with wiseguys, it grows on you, a natural aptitude for banter and busting-balls, it came with the territory, it was part of the life. It was around this time that me and a few guys from the neighbourhood decided that the Pizza Parlour wasn't going to cut it forever, so we decided the time was right to start putting our expertise to work, I started with what I knew, sports. Me and Gene Castelle set-up shop above PIZZALAND, running our own sports book and petty-cash card games. We did other shit too, car jackings, moving pot, shake downs, we even taxed the ragheads in the market on Sunday's, micky-mouse scores really, nothing out of our depth. This was when I met Dominick “Nicky” Russo, unlike myself he was born and raised in New Jersey his whole life. He was the same age as me, and like myself, he was ambitious. A stout figure with black hair and dark eyes. At this time we were all in the same boat, just looking to make a quick-buck and hopefully get recognised by the right people. After our first couple of jobs together it was obvious that we were headed in the right direction. We were both on the same wavelength. We knew what each other were thinking before we had even opened our mouths, all it took was a glance, a look, and we knew exactly what-was-what. Two weeks later we got visited by a couple of the local wiseguys at Pizzaland, they had caught wind of our misdemeanours and were looking to either A) put us out of commission, or B) shake us down for points of our take, looking back it the latter made more sense from their angle. There was the Scura brothers -- Danny and Frankie, Lawrence “Larry” Orena, a ranking guy in the outfit with a sound reputation as being a cold-hearted bastard, the type of guy who would put the fear of god into you just by looking at you. Me and Gene were having a slice and watching the game when those guys paid us a visit. They made their demands, and I stood my ground, explaining how it would be better if we got into business together, my attempt to make a jump for the A-league. After that encounter, that was it -- me, Gene, Nicky and the guys were in business with the New Jersey branch of New York's Riccobene family, as long as we kicked our ten points each week, we were free agents, we could do whatever we wanted. We looked at it as a license to steal, I mean, who was gonna stop us? The doughnut squad? The police were a joke, we did what we liked. In the years that followed, Gene passed away after suffering from Meningitis, and me and Nicky were starting to be recognised as rising-stars in the family, increasing our earning potential month on month. We were now living the life. That's what we called it, "the life", it's the life we chose, and with that life came risks, and make no bones about it; we all knew the risks involved, and if you're going to accept those risks regardless, you've got to be able to accept the consiquences of fucking up. It wasn't long before me and Nicky committed our first murder together. It was definately my first, but I wasn't so sure it was Nicky's, I didn't ask him. There was a Puerto Rican guy from the neighbourhood, always bustin'-balls, talking to us like we were fucking goomba's, none of us liked the guy. One day he came into the pizza parlour, his usual brash self, even though the place was closed he followed us up the stairs, he must have been on something. When he was up there he was chatting all this shit, we couldn't even understand the guy. When the time was right, Nicky hit him on the head with a pan whilst I stabbed the guy in the eye with a Phillips screwdriver, it popped like a grape. It's a little cloudly, it was a long time ago, but I just remember the image of this guys face covered in a concoction of black liquid that came out of the eye, mixed with the blood, it's something you can never prepare yourself for, y'know? That's something they don't teach you at boy-scouts no matter how many fucking badges you earn. Once we finished the guy off with a tyre iron we drained him and chopped him up, there and then, ready to distribute him in different area codes. We used gutters, sewers, garbage dumps, you name it, anywhere that body parts have plenty of time to disappear. As for the head, you know those condominium's in Montclair? The new ones, with the terracotta roof tiling? We put the head in a cement block for the foundations of one of those fancy condo's. It's a cliché, you hear it in the movies, how hits become a habbit, but it's true. Say if somebody's a liability, you get rid of them the only way you know. Or if some guy knows too much and you don't quite trust him, it's much easier to just kill him instead of having that black cloud of worry over your head all of the time. By this time, me, Nicky, Jackie-G (Giacopazzi), Frankie Scars (Scura), Tony Whispers (Sindone), and John “The pawn store prince” Stafanza, we had a routine, we knew the ropes as good as anybody, even though most of us weren't made guys, we felt like the fucking sixth family or something, we were putting Jersey back on the map. We demanded respect from everybody. And slowly but surely we developed a reputation as being stand-ups, knock around guys. Whether it was through fear of reprisals or whatever it may be, no doubt about it, we got the respect. "May my soul burn in hell if I betray my friends and the family." The guys in this life, they have two families. They've got family, and there's the family, at the time when I was coming up I didn't have family. My mother passed away sometime ago and the only relative I had that wasn't behind bars was my aunt Marie who was housed in a retirement community somewhere Upstate, Buffalo. Right now this is the least of my worries, in the space of four years I saw three bosses come and go, each one going out like the last, in a body bag. It was a bad time, a period of unrest for guys in New York and for us here in Jersey, the situation changed like the weather, guys were getting taken outta' the picture every week, through lack of trust on the new bosses part, or simply because guys were taking advantage of the lack of leadership and settling old scores, it was a blood bath. But there was some good to come out of the scenario, I was recognised by the higher-ups as being a top earner now, and I was presented with the opportunity to do a real job, a one-time deal, if I fucked up then I should probably start looking for a new career, because you only get one chance on something like this, when you get that call, you had better answer and bring your A-game, you understand? The guy to make that particular call was one of Bruno “The Oddfather” Talotta's most trusted guys, Albert Scibelli. Me and Albert knew each other, we had a relationship which stood me in good stead when the guys in New York opened the books. During the call I was told a time and a place, where I could meet Albert to mull over the details. We set-up a lunch meet at a diner off the highway somewhere in Patterson Falls, Albert told me what needed to be done, and how, and that was that. I had done countless other contracts, but this one was different, fucking up wasn't an option. I told Albert to "consider it done", and I wasn't in the custom of saying something like that, fucking it up, and looking like Joe-jerkoff. The thing had to be done the very next day. It was a rat, at least that's what Albert told me, who really knows, but what mattered was that he had to go, no questions asked. I wasn't given a name, just a picture of the guy and where to find him, where his routines are, shit like that. It was during a crisp January morning in 1994, I parked my Lexus in a motel parking-lot across the street from his house in a New York suburb. I had the engine running with the heating on as high as it would go. Four fucking layers and I was still freezing my balls off in this car. After ten minutes of waiting for my gatzi's to drop off in this freeze I saw the guy come out of his house wearing a jogging suit. I let him jog for ten minutes until he was on a back road with no turn-offs for him to slip through my grasp. Then parking fifty meter's in front of where he was approaching I took a bottle of water, lifted the hood on my car and poured the whole thing on the engine, the result was a large cloud of steam -- Then I waited. Once he was close I grabbed the guys attention and tried to explain with sincerity what was wrong with my car -- "I think it's the carburettor, it's bust. You know anything about cars?", "A thing or two." he replied, "Well do you mind taking a quick look? Just so I can find out what's the matter and take it to the garage." he let out a long sigh, obviously annoyed by me stopping him in the middle of a jog. "Alright-alright, I'll take a quick look, then I've got to go." I cracked a re-assuring smile. It was then that he leaned into the engine to take a look, prodding the nooks and cranny's for any sign of leakage, feeling the time was right, I removed my latex gloved right hand from my jacket pocket, holding a SIG-SAUER P226, held the barrel of the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger once, he dropped to the side almost immediately. The exit wound was at the opposite side of his temple, saving me the trouble of cleaning blood and grey matter off the hood of my car. With that I fired two more rounds, both of which rattled his stiff, lifeless corpse on impact. Completing the ritual I knew all too well, I dropped the pistol on top of his torso, removed the latex gloves, throwing them on the floor and sped away from the scene. A week later I attended the ceremony, escorted there by Tony Whispers and Fat Angie D'Avenzio, two made guys. When I arrived at the ceremony I was greeted by a host of other ranking guys in the family, including the boss himself, Bruno Talotta. Then the light was dimmed, and the procession went ahead, after five minutes of acknowledging the oath's and doctrine of "this thing of ours", Bruno gave the nod, and I was officially a man of honour, an inducted member of the Mafia. The State of New Jersey, and all that comes with it. Shortly after getting straightened out, I was bumped up to the rank of captain, and rightly so. It's hard to concoct an estimate to the amount of dough I earned over the years, but we're talking a lot, most of it going into the pocket's of the greedy bastards at the top. Between the wide-scale gambling and Union infiltration, all my guys had their own little operations, it was the same when I was coming up, it's how it works, before you get a hand in the bigger operations, you've gotta' prove your worth, show what you're capable of before you're let loose on potentially multi-million dollar scams. In the early days Nicky told me stories about his uncle in Sicily who had some heavy connections in the world of cocaine. It wasn't until Nicky came back from a fortnight over there with family that he had sprung a new idea. With the leg-work already done, Nicky was going to ship the powder in through Port Newark, cut, wrap and pack the stuff into Tomato Purèe tins at his Purèe factory in the Bronx, and then distribute the powder to some friend's of ours in the city through their Pizzeria's, it was genius. That was one thing that always stood Nicky out from the rest of the guys, he was a true wiseguy, a true criminal, he was always on the hustle. Everything was for the taking with Nicky, everything was an opportunity waiting to be fucked over by Nicky Russo, criminal mastermind. That's just how he was, it was how he was programmed. With me, Nicky and the guys as tight as ever, things were running smooth. Although some of the old faces were gone; Usually jail, or worse, the guys that were still around were a force to be reckoned with. Any financial or otherwise opportunity that arose was snapped up. You didn't make a move in New Jersey without me knowing about it. It just didn't happen, we ran a tight-ship and that's what we did. We kept things tight, and any loose ends were disposed of. Apart from being astute businessmen, all my guys were murderers, every one of them. To the point where they were numb to it. When you've seen so much death, when you've seen that light behind people's eyes fade out, you just numb-out. I've murdered friends, relatives even, without a second thought, just because some fat-fucking-crook tells you it's got to be. Eventually, if you're in that world enough, you'll eventually reach a stage where it doesn't even faze you. I'm not some sick fuck, I don't take pleasure in it like some guys I know, but after a while it's not even a big deal, it's just like going through the motions. A couple of years later, there was another transition, with the rank of boss changing hands again. This time I was involved, unlike before, I didn't even exist to these bosses back then, but now I had a say in what goes down, and you never know in this business, one day you might just end up on the endangered species list. This whole mess started at a meeting with friends of ours in the city, and I'll tell you, what a fucking mess it was. The commission called a meeting on an October night in 2001. I accompanied the boss, and the second we walked in I knew something wasn't right. The security was a fucking disgrace. The meeting went ahead anyway, but the boss decided that it would be a good idea to leave. On our way out, a lone shooter appeared out of an alleyway and took down Talotta with a hail of rounds from a semi-automatic. Seeing that Talotta was already gone, I took cover to save my own skin. The next day we found out that the shooter was some kid who had beef with Talotta that went way-back, back to when his father was killed at a card game. But do you see what I mean when I say one minute you're in the clear, and the next you're laying on a paving slab surrounded by a pool of your own blood. It was a heavy blow, but we all stopped grieving after the funeral and focused on the fact that there was a breach at the top, and somebody had to step up. Now there was potential for bloodshed. You had Dominick “Nicky Rugs” Ruggiero, Talotta's underboss, Albert Scibelli, long time consigliere of Talotta, and conveniently, Richard “Malibu” Malgani was returning to New York after two years on the lam. And to add to the equation you had the two captains, myself and the Bronx skipper, Anthony Novelli -- all of us had a genuine stake in grabbing the big-seat, but after becoming amicable partners in all this, myself and Novelli agreed that neither of us wanted the position. Right from the word go I knew who I wanted in that seat, that was Albert. The guy's been waiting for his chance to shine for decades now, and to boot he carries the respect of the troops. In the weeks that followed I floated the idea of Albert stepping-up with himself, then Novelli, and eventually Ruggiero. All of the guys who I got word to seemed to agree, then I read the headlines the week later only to see Scibelli's car shot to pieces with him inside it, smoked. It was a message from Malibu to Ruggiero and the captains, and with the weight of the commission behind him, we decided it's best to let Malibu take what he wants so we can all get back to business, the sooner the better. A mere four days into his reign, and Ruggiero had the guy clipped in his restaurant in New York. Four days, that's got to be some kind of record. At the time, me and Novelli could only assume it was Nicky-Rugs that ordered the hit, but nobody really knows. Anyway, that was that, and Ruggiero was sitting at the top, happy-as-Larry. With the chaos adjourned, I was bumped-up a notch, becoming Ruggiero's underboss, whilst I still ran things in New Jersey, carrying the unofficial title of "Streetboss". I never heard of it before but apparently three other families had the same arrangement. It was during this time that I started having the bad dreams. Night after night for weeks, I couldn't get any sleep. All of the people I had ever offed were lined up, some with eyes missing, others with bullet holes in the head, you get the picture. The doctor prescribed me some medication that treats Insomnia, and it worked for a while, but there would be spells where it wouldn't work at all. One Sunday I was at Home Depot doing the usual DIY routine, some copper pipe fittings for my piece of shit heater that bust a gasket. I was walking through the parking-lot towards the store, when out of the corner of my eye I see my third, some kid from New Hampshire who had got way over his head in debt, a rich kid. I was walking and I know I can see this kid, but I don't want to look, I thought I was going crazy, he's been dead going on fifteen years, and now I'm seeing him in the parking-lot at Home Depot! Fuck that. I turn to take a good look at him, and there he is, stood next to an old couple loading their trunk, he looked just the way he did that night; It was a shotgun blast, took half the kids face off, I don't know what we were thinking. The rest of these guys, Freddy the Nose, Corky Carcaterra, Ronnie The Yarn, all of those guys, they had it coming, but not this kid. He liked to bet the sports, that's all. But on the contrary, if it wasn't us that did it, it was going to be somebody else, the kid had a big problem, a big gambling problem. But what the fuck, this is my bread-'n'-butter, this is how I make a living. It's lonely at the top. Four years after all of that shit with Malibu and them, and Ruggiero was still at the top, and to my surprise, things were running smoothly. At first us guys over in Jersey dispised him, even though I was the guys second in command, I didn't care who was at the top so long as they did a good job, made the right decisions, and treated the right people with the respect they deserve. But eventually, everybody warmed to the guy, he made some wrongs-right, he really surprised everybody. And with his connections in New York with the Union leaders, he was bringing in bundles, and sharing it out. Yeah, it was a profitable time, a time of stability. But there was one problem. Ruggiero had a trial coming up and things weren't exactly going his way. The feds had built a substantial case over the years, the guy had predicates up the ass, he was looking down the barrel at thirty years to life. Before his demise, Ruggiero insulated the family by bumping-up which guys at the time looked like reliable candidates for promotion. For starters, I went on the record for my best friend Nicky, who had been a top-earner for a long time now. So we got him straightened out, and rightly so. It was long over due if you asked me, but what the fuck. With that we bumped Nicky up to run that set over in the Bronx with the skipper of late, Vincent Mendano, being murdered after making a pigs-ear out of the fucking thing. As well as a new skipper in the Bronx, it was time that I passed the crew in Jersey over to somebody with a few fresh ideas, a little more entheusiasm. Christopher “Chrissy” Spatola, a guy who was rewarded with the rank of captain for his apparent tight-lips while he was guest to the government for all those years. Little did we know that it would bounce back to bite us in the ass some day. Law-and-behold, Ruggiero was found guilty at his trial in 2006, convicted of several RICO statutes of racketeering, which to my knowledge entailed money laundering, violation of the New York State gambling laws, commission of murder-for-hire and the embezzlement of Union funding. He would have had to do at least twenty five years before he saw the streets where he lived again. Four hours into his sentence and Ruggiero passed away in his cell due to a severe cardiac-arrest. When I read the headlines, it took ten minutes for the levity of the situation to dawn on me. I was at a huge cross-roads in my career, with nobody else staking out the rank of boss, I was the only guy in that outfit eligible of stepping-up and taking Ruggiero's place as boss of the family. Shortly after the mourning of the loss of Nicky-Rugs, I called a meeting with the captains, made guys and all those who held any sway in the families affairs. We discussed our options, and it all boiled down to one thing; Myself stepping up and taking the reigns. I had the unwavering support of the capo's, and all the made guys, it was time for Junior Boccardo to make his mark in this world. With the families numbers dwindling over the years, there was a brief struggle to get the wheels in motion, but once they were in motion the ship was really sailing. At first I didn't appoint an official administration to stand at my side, the way things were going I didn't want to disrupt the progress both of my capo's were making. A month, two months past, and all was quiet on the western-front. All of my guys had steady income streams, including my own projects that involved the the "revitalisation" of old properties, the Asbury Park Boardwalk project for one. Here's how it works; Before any work can go ahead, it's mandatory that you get the guys in the unions on your pay-roll, once you've got the union leaders, the government is like putty in your hands. What's the big deal about the unions you might ask; Well, these guys have got the power to call stop-work orders, strikes, whatever's in that union rule book, you can turn it to your advantage. So maybe the government cut back on the pensions one week? We turn the heat up a little, we call a strike, meaning that every week the government is losing money through the boosting and looting of materials on account of my guys who're working no-show down on the construction yard. In the end, they've got no choice but to distribute the pensions and union funds according, all of which ultimately ends up in my back pocket. It was beautiful. As well as money from construction, Port Newark was a huge part of my livelihood. Robbing the ports was easy money. Once you've got the harbour master and port security on the take, anything's fair game. Whether it be a container with a load on some new moisturising cream that the ladies are going crazy for, or a shipment of European mahogany furniture, it didn't matter. It was all profit at the end of the day. And with a couple'a guys running the powder side of things I had bales of cold, hard cash coming in each week. Don't get me wrong, we still had our bread-'n'-butter earners, but this was the 21st century, the times were changing, and we had to change with them, we had to think bigger, more corporate. Then on a grey October morning I got a call from Jimmy Venafro, a made guy who's love affair with powder earned him the nickname "Cocaine". In the past I was reluctant to trust Jimmy, but over the years he had proved himself time and time again, even if he was a fucking junkie, there was no denying the amount of cash he had earned over the years, so he was respected across the board. This call came through just as the New Jersey capo Chrissy Spatola had ran out of my joint throwing up, and Jimmy sounded distraut, something wasn't right. "Junior, it's Jimmy. I'm-urgh... I'm at Chrissy's place, it's not good." I reluctently replied, "Why, I mean. What's the matter? You alright?", Jimmy's voice was all choked up, "Who, me? Yeah, I'm fine. But it's Chrissy, he's gone, y'know? He's hanging from a fucking roof rafter Junior. And there's something else. I, I found a wire Junior. He was a fucking rat". I dropped the phone, my hands began to tremble, my head was going in eight different directions by now. I knew all along, I knew that putting Chrissy in there was a bum-move, and I paid dearly. There were indictments in the air, I could smell them. In the coming weeks all of the guys who knew or spoke to Spatola went on the lam. I couldn't find anybody, this was bad. Not only that, it signalled the beginning of the end. Because after that, I couldn't trust anybody. Even Nicky, my lifelong best friend wasn't free from suspision. Things with me and Nicky had gone sour, our friendship had hit the rocks big-time for the first time that I could remember. The guy was my number-two and we didn't speak for weeks at a time, I had so many things on my mind and nobody to vent with. That rat-bastard Spatola changed my life, paranoia had set in and the dreams were starting to come back. I could feel something, like it was coming to the end of the road, and I didn't know whether I should take a left or a right at the intersection, I just didn't know what lay ahead. For once, it was lonely at the top for Junior Boccardo. A year had passed, and things with me and Nicky hadn't got any better, they had escalated. With my natural allegiance to New Jersey, a beef that had been brewing for a long time was reaching boiling point. Guys getting clipped over none-issue's, just because a guy from New Jersey was spending too much time in the Bronx, the guy would never come back, and visa-versa. And the torching of clubs, restaurants, this went on for a year or so, each time a score was settled, another would arise, a never ending cycle of bullshit, neither side willing to lose face. I guess the final straw came when me, Nicky and Fat Angie met on the boardwalk to talk about the timely dissapearance of New Jersey's most recent skipper, Eddie Daidone. It was a cold night, accompanied by the harsh sea breeze. We got talking about this-'n'-that, how me and Nicky had grown apart over the years, and how maybe we needed to take the family in a different direction, change the pace. But I'd had a dozen of these meetings with Nicky, and everytime we both left after nearly coming to blows. This meeting was no different. The final straw was when Nicky had to find out 3rd hand about the Daidone hit, not from me, but from Fat Angie. This was a bum-move on my part, it was a huge sign of disrespect, the guy was my number-two and we could barely look each other in the eye anymore. It was after this meeting that I got a call from one of Nicky's key-guys, Jerry Brancato, who told me that Nicky had gone off the rails, how he was talking all kinds of things, treason and mutiny. I made the trip to the Bronx right away to settle this thing once and for all with Nicky. On the bridge I had that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach, a sinking feeling, with The Rolling Stones hit "Tell Me (You're Coming Back)" playing on the radio, just like what I used to listen to in my uncle Bobby's club when I was a kid -- At that moment, I had the feeling that I wouldn't leave the Bronx alive. I went alone, I arrived before Nicky, and Jerry was waiting for me outside the club smoking a cigarette, we greeted each other like friends, and entered the club. Inside were some of Nicky's guys, from what I can remember there was; Jerry, Jimmy Stergozi and Joe Epifano, Nicky arrived a couple of moments later. The kid Stergozi offered me a drink, I had a glass of my favourite, Johnny Black, neat. It was Nicky that started the conversation, at that moment I could see the reflection of Stergozi and Epifano in the scotch whiskey, they were brandishing semi-automatic pistols, I looked up from the scotch into Nicky's eyes, I could read him like a book, and I saw that same detatched expression that I had seen countless other times when we had done the bidding of the bosses before us, that expression that said to you "Time's up." |
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2:32 PM Jul 11