Chapter Five: And a Child Shall Lead Them
Isaiah 11:6
Gloria was named after Tommy M.’s wife. It was a new 42’ Bayliner that he had just bought in St. Lucia where he owned Transamer, Ltd., a shipping business. The business seemed an excellent way to explain why boats from the Caribbean and South America were continually moving in and out, and it offered a means by which some of his profits could be laundered. St. Lucia, once a British colony, achieved its independence in the 1960’s, and from then on virtually all public works stopped, and the divide between rich and poor grew more stark. The island had a few legitimate hotels, but for the most part it served as a haven for any businessmen who paid officials to operate unfettered by regulations of any sort.
The F.B.I. and the Coast Guard knew that the island was a way point for the importation of narcotics, but without St. Lucian government cooperation, the best they could do was run interceptions on a hit or miss basis. The Cuban government, despite its public stance against drug trafficking, was particularly friendly to boats registered in St. Lucia, and many chases ended in Cuban waters.
Tommy M. had been more careful than others in the Bonanno Family, and despite their best efforts, the F.B.I. could do little to stop him. It would be only a matter of time, they thought, but until then, the agents would make his life as miserable as they could. That was why on Father’s Day when Tommy M. took his family for a boat ride, they boarded Gloria for a “spot” check.
The boys were fifteen on that Father’s Day, and Tommy M. decided that he would for the first time take the boat out on his own. He had learned how to pilot the boat from a certified captain who accompanied him on the two-week voyage home from St. Lucia. Gloria was a twin diesel with bow thrusters which helped dramatically in docking, but the boat did have a rather high profile which made it difficult to control in the wind. Tommy M. decided he could get it in and out of port without too much trouble on that calm day in the June sun, and so Gloria, Joseph, and Argo got their first ride on the family yacht.
Everyone wore shorts and baseball caps, and Gloria insisted that they load up on sun block. The boys took swim trunks, in case, and Tommy M. wore a t-shirt proudly proclaiming his being the captain. Gloria wore her Gucci sunglasses and the usual pound of jewelry. The boys were responsible for the dock lines and fenders which they pulled in as soon as the boat inched from the dock.
Gloria was moored privately in Gravesend Neck, an out of the way Brooklyn inlet that had once served as a burial site for Revolutionary soldiers. From the neck it was not a long ride to Coney Island and then to the mile-wide Narrows over which the great Verrazano Bridge arches gracefully and below which all vessels must pass to reach the New York harbors. No one who has not sailed under the huge span could anticipate its grandeur or the unimaginable roar of the cars and trucks that continually race across its double-decker roadways. Even before they neared the bridge and despite the sound of their own engines and the wind whistling around their heads, the passengers on Gloria heard the voice of the Verrazano. The deep and guttural rumble might have been ominous had it not been for the profound beauty of the structure. In truth, its awesome roar seemed a fitting testament to its greatness. In the distance and from under the bridge on the right they back to see the Statue of Liberty, but it looked small compared with the colossus they were under. Their 42’ yacht was a toy, its twin engines silenced by the power above them.
Tommy M. sailed past the upper middle class Fort Hamilton section of Brooklyn which overlooked the Narrows and abutted Bensonhurst, and he called everyone to look at the steeple of Regina Pacis far inland. Just two miles north he anchored on the west side of Liberty Island where they ate lunch and listened to doo-wop classics and oldie mega-hits on his mega-watt audio system. The boys eased off the swim platform and swam in the shadow of Miss Liberty under the watchful eye of Gloria who insisted they stay close to the boat. Life, Tommy M. assured everyone, was good --- until they headed back to Gravesend Neck.
With Dion lamenting the fickle Runaround Sue blaring over the diesel engines, Tommy M. did not at first hear the Coast Guard’s short, single siren. But the second blast and the megaphone voice calling, “Power vessel Gloria, prepare for boarding,” got his attention.
“What!” screamed Tommy M. “What are they doing?”
“It’s the Coast Guard,” said Gloria.
“What do they want?” he said bringing his engines down to idle speed.
“Tell Joseph to dump the shotgun.”
“Where is it?” asked Gloria heading below where the boys were getting sodas.
“In one of the cabinets; I don’t know. Let him find it,” he said with panic in his voice. “And come back up here. Give them the paperwork.”
“Daddy wants you to dump the shotgun” called Gloria to her son. “Don’t let them see you. Do it on the other side. Argo, you come up with me.”
“Where is it?” called Joseph from the galley.
“In one of the closets. Find it and get rid of it. Hurry up!”
With both boats idling, a tall, uniformed Coast Guard inspector and a casually dressed agent with a large F.B.I. tag hanging from his neck easily stepped onto the boat’s stern and hurried up the steps to the bridge. The guardsman wore a sidearm.
“What’s wrong?” asked Tommy M.
The F.B.I. agent asked, “Is this your boat?”
“No; what’s wrong?”
“Whose boat is it?” asked the agent looking now at Gloria. She made a point of ignoring his glance.
“Gloria, give him the papers in there,” he said pointing to a locker in the console.
“So what’s wrong?” asked Tommy M. again.
The guardsman answered, “Nothing, Captain, we’re just making a spot check.”
“The first day I take the boat out and you’re making a spot check,” he said disgustedly. “On Father’s Day?”
“Yes, Captain,” said the guardsman. “Is that your son?” he asked pointing to Argo.
“Are there any weapons on board?” asked the F.B.I. agent as he scanned the papers Gloria had given him.
“No,” answered Tommy M. looking at the guardsman who asked about Argo.
“Who is he?” asked the guardsman.
“Are there any weapons aboard?” demanded the F.B.I. agent, louder this time.
“I’m Robert Duval,” said Argo, his eyes darting around the bridge as if to measure the odds against him. “I’m the consiglieri to the Godfather; it’s a very special position.”
“You know, son, that kind of sass will only delay our stay,” said the guardsman.
“His name is Argo Malle,” offered Gloria who pulled him close to her. “He’s a friend of the family.”
“And you are Thomas Machiarolla?” asked the agent looking at the name on the insurance certificate.
“Yeah, and you’re surprised.”
“And this is your wife?”
“Yes.”
“And are there weapons or illegal contraband on board?” asked the guardsman.
“If there were anything illegal on board,” asked Argo, “would it make sense to say so?” Gloria jerked him.
“No one is taking to you,” said the guardsman.
“No, there’s nothing illegal on board,” said Tommy M. as if the answer were obvious. “So can we finish our boat ride?”
“And who is that?” asked the agent when Joseph came up to join his parents.
“Our son, Joseph,” said Gloria.
“And where were you?” he asked Joseph.
“He was in the toilet,” answered Tommy M.
“You mean the head,” corrected the guardsman condescendingly.
“To you it’s a head,” said Tommy M. “To me it’s a crapper, but I can see where you might think the crapper is your head.”
“Check below, Brian,” said the agent to the guardsman.
“Mister Machiarolla,” said the agent, “the Coast Guard is just trying to make the area safe. That’s what they get paid to do.”
“And they get paid to hassle families on Father’s Day?”
“No one has hassled you,” insisted the agent.
“No, of course not. And they need the F.B.I. to help them?”
“I see this boat is owned by Transamer, Ltd. Is that your company?”
“I have an interest in it, yes,” answered Tommy M.
“And why is this boat here and not at its home port in St. Lucia?”
“It was a company decision.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it was a company decision.”
“I see. Well, that explains it. Thank you for your cooperation,” said the agent handing Gloria the papers she had given him.
“And thank you for your visit. Will you be leaving now?” asked Tommy M.
“As soon as we can, Mr. Machiarolla. As soon as we can.”
The search was perfunctory and Gloria was back underway in a few minutes, but the episode was enough to anger Tommy M. and ruin what would otherwise have been a perfect day. He prided himself in protecting his wife and son from the vicissitudes of his business, and on the occasions that it intruded on them he felt in some way that he had failed. It was times like this that his mother and father’s warning may have been correct: his business would have negative effects not only on him but on his family. The Machiarollas, they said, did not need fancy cars and yachts; they were simple, hard-working people who needed only the love of their family to be complete.
“So, Argo, what was that about?” asked Tommy M. as they made their way back to Gravesend Neck. “The Godfather? What do they need encouragement?”
“What did you say?” asked Joseph.
“He said he was a consiglieri --- I was the Godfather,” said Tommy M. turning from the wheel and looking angrily back at Argo.
Joseph laughed.
“It’s not funny. What were you thinking?” demanded Tommy M.
“I was thinking that I would give Joseph more time to dump the shotgun,” said Argo.
“But the Godfather?” said Tommy M., his face losing its anger.
“It’s all I could think of,” said Argo seriously though Joseph continued laughing.
“Well it did piss him off,” said Tommy M. beginning to get the humor.
“So what did he say?” Joseph asked Argo.
“That he showed disrespect --- that it would only keep them longer,” answered Tommy M beginning to laugh. “He told him his name was Robert Duval.”
Joseph threw his arm around Argo’s neck in a mock hammer lock saying, “You’re not Italian.”
“Neither is Robert Duval,” Argo answered, breaking away from the grip and pushing Joseph away. Argo walked to the bow because from there the engine noise was the lowest, and he enjoyed the wind off the Narrows blowing around him. He was a chrysalis in the cocoon of the wind, protected from the world, but waiting to spread his wings.
It was the first time that either of the boys had even hinted about anything related to La Cosa Nostra, and now that Argo brought it out in the open, and did so to protect them, everyone felt closer.
And Tommy M. felt better about things, especially when he was able to dock Gloria without too much banging against the dockside. He would have felt less happy about the fact that his 12-gauge Mossberg was dumped overboard for no reason. Federal law permits firearms on boats.
l
On one of Tommy M.’s Tuesday sessions at his Knights of Columbus office where he twice weekly heard complaints from and dispensed favors to Bensonhurst denizens, Mrs. Magliochetti knocked lightly on his door.
“Danny, let her in,” said Tommy M. to his driver. Danny always wore a black suit and white starched shirt even on hot days when his only concession was to loosen his tie. The suit was perfect for every occasion, from weddings and funerals to business meetings and courthouse appearances. It also helped conceal his 9mm Berretta. He was a bit under six feet tall and worked out daily, but unlike other body builders, Danny Nardello kept from being muscle-bound by stretching and keeping his muscles long and fluid. He was less intelligent than other of Tommy M.’s men, but he was strong, fast, and single-minded --- ideal for a bodyguard.
Danny opened the door, saw Mrs. Magliochetti, and turned to his boss in disbelief. “How did you know it was a woman?” She was heavyset, about forty, and had short salt and pepper hair. Tommy M. recognized her though they had never met.
“I’m psychic,” said Tommy M. sarcastically, getting up from his desk because a woman entered. “Women knock soft.”
Danny, in an obsequious display, held the door open as the woman walked toward the desk. But he was confused and, before walking out of the room, asked, “But what if a man knocked soft?”
“Then I would’ve been wrong. Close the door,” he said as he came around his desk to greet his visitor. Danny closed the door silently and with great deference. Tommy, as was the custom, did not offer his hand, and as she did not, he offered her a chair and returned to his desk.
Mrs. Magliochetti apologized for taking up his time but was forced to tell him that Father Sullivan had touched his son inappropriately. She had also heard, but would not say from whom, that he had done the same to other boys. Her son, twelve years old, refuses now to go to altar boy practice and wants to go to public school.
Tommy M. had heard a rumor a year or two before about Father Sullivan but not since.
“Maybe your son is just trying to get out of Catholic school. A lot of kids would rather have less homework,” suggested Tommy M. with a simple shrug.
“No, he always liked school; he’s a good boy.”
“Maybe his friends…”
“His friends all go to Regina Pacis,” said Mrs. Magliochetti. “No, this is a sin, what he does.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “Have you spoken to Monsignor?”
“No, I came to you.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to make trouble,” she said looking down. “What if they take it out on the boy? No, I want him in Catholic school.”
Tommy M. looked to catch her eyes. “And what would you have me do?”
She looked up at him, eyes fixed on his, and waiting a long moment before her answer. It was as if her words would be those of a jury, resolved and binding. “I want him removed.”
Tommy M. nodded his head knowingly.
Mrs. Magliochetti began to fidget uncomfortably as Tommy M. picked up the phone with one hand and with his other flipped his Rolodex for Monsignor Gioffi’s private line.
“Monsignor, Tommy Machiarolla, how are you? Good. Yes, I’m fine. It’s just that we have a problem that needs your help. Yes, just now. It’s about Father Sullivan. Yes, it’s a complaint from a parishioner. No, but she’s sitting in front of me now.”
After he hung up, Tommy M. told Mrs. Magliochetti that he would meet with the Monsignor on Thursday morning and assured her that something would be done.
However, getting something done would be difficult, especially since Monsignor Gioffi was loath to act on the word of an anonymous complaint that lacked any evidence.
“Surely you’ve had other complaints,” said Tommy M. to the head of the church. The meeting was much like the one two weeks before in which the monsignor visited Tommy in that same office to ask Tommy to use whatever means he had to recover the stolen pieces from the church. But this time Monsignor Gioffi sat behind the desk and Tommy M. was the visitor sitting in the straight chair making the appeal.
“No, there have been no complaints against Father Sullivan or any other priest in this parish,” he lied.
“That’s funny,” said Tommy M. “Just a year ago I heard rumors that he, you know, liked boys --- in the wrong way.”
“Do we act on rumor?” asked the priest, his finger tips of each hand touching.
It was understood, though not by Tommy M. or the laity in general, that it was acceptable for Church leaders to lie in order to protect the reputation of the Church. Scandal was serious and was steadfastly to be avoided lest weak Catholics lose their faith by seeing their priests as practitioners of evil. Naturally, the clergy knew of the weaknesses that all men have, even those chosen by God to lead His church. Those weaknesses were born of original sin, and it was thought that each priest would win the lifelong fight, with the help of God’s grace, against their particular demons. There was also the firm belief that through the sacrament of Penance, penitents would receive extra grace to overcome their failures. Thus, a priest who confesses to having committed sinful acts would, through divine assistance, overcome an evil penchant and sin no more. In the case of Father Sullivan, only his confessor knew for sure if one of his demons was sexual attraction to boys.
In any event, Monsignor Gioffi knew only of three complaints of child abuse in Father Sullivan’s tenure, and since he denied any guilt whatsoever, and since Gioffi was able to dissuade the complaining parents from taking legal action, there was no problem. Gioffi reasoned that even if Sullivan were guilty of some sexual impropriety, the complaints would serve as warnings, and that would help him resist any demonic urges.
“Sometimes,” replied Tommy M. “Where there’s smoke there’s fire.” He shrugged simply.
“Well you recall what President Kennedy said about that: where there’s smoke there’s a smoke making machine.” Gioffi smiled slyly and added. “Besides, Father Sullivan is an important part of our church. He spends so much time with the youth of our parish as well as being the leader of the Confraternity. He would be impossible to replace.”
Being a successful administrator of an organization requires many talents, not the least of which is a well-developed sense of the pragmatic. In this, Monsignor Gioffi was a past master. Successful deployment of one’s staff is crucial if the commander is to keep his army in fighting order, and often the niceties and nuances of ethics have to be ignored in order to keep the war machine well-oiled. Tommy M. had a different army to lead, but he understood well the practical considerations of his opposite number, and that made it more easy for him to achieve his objective that day.
“I’m sure,” said Tommy M., “that he will be hard to replace, but it will be far easier to replace him when the idea is yours.”
“Yes, but there is no need to replace him at all.”
“Not now, but we both know that these rumors,” said Tommy M. with special emphasis on the last word, “aren’t going away. And then there’s a law suit, maybe. Why put yourself in the position of having to defend yourself, your man, when you can get someone else? I mean, even if he’s, you know, all right, why put yourself in the position of having to defend him? And the scandal --- you don’t, the parish doesn’t need that aggravation.”
Gioffi thought and answered more to himself than to Tommy M., “Father Sullivan is good with the kids.”
“Not everyone thinks so. I mean that’s the bottom line: if you have parents who want him out because they don’t trust him --- I’m not saying they’re right or wrong --- if you got parents who don’t trust him, what good is it?”
“But you have only one parent…”
“And if you got one, there are others. It’s only a matter of time before the… before, you know, before it hits the fan. Then you have to make a move. This way, it’s on your terms, and no one gets hurt.”
“Except Fr. Sullivan, and the…”
“Look, he brought it on himself; let’s face it,” said Tommy M. with an open hand.
There was a long silence. Tommy M. pushed his chair back and rose.
“I’m sure, Monsignor, you will make the right decision. In the meantime, I can see if I can get her, the mother, to make a formal complaint, if you think that will help.”
“No,” said Gioffi also getting up. “That won’t be necessary. “I’ll speak to Fr. Sullivan, and we’ll take it from there.”
Tommy M. knew that “we’ll take it from there,” was as non-committal a statement as could be made, so he added, “Well I’m sure it’s a lot better if you talk to him, instead of me.”
“No, I don’t think that would be appropriate,” said Gioffi as both men walked to the door.
“No,” agreed Tommy M. “I’m only saying. I’ll talk to the mother and tell her that you’ll take care of it --- talk to him --- and I’ll try to convince her to have patience. We certainly don’t need any lawsuits. You know, the boy wants to leave Catholic school because of this. It’s no good which ever way you look.”
“Certainly not,” affirmed Gioffi holding out his hand. “And thank you, Tommy, for your help in this very serious matter.”
The men shook hands, and Tommy M. left with the feeling that he had gotten as much from Gioffi as he could have hoped for and with the sense that no further action on his part would be necessary.
Servants of the Paraclete is a mission based in St. Louis to help priests experiencing psychological, sexual, and spiritual problems. Open to any priest in good standing with his bishop, the ministry uses experts from medicine, psychology, and the Church to help those with special needs. Monsignor Gioffi had little difficulty convincing Father Sullivan that a stay at the facility was in his and the parish’s best interests. Within two months, Regina Pacis had a transfer replacement for their youth director though nothing was mentioned about Fr. Sullivan’s assignment to St. Louis. Fr. Bruno Martini from Rome was introduced as Sullivan’s “temporary” replacement through the Church’s exchange program. Martini was in fact in the exchange program, but the exchange was for a theology instructor from Niagara University. Father Bruno, as he wished to be called, was a bright, young Italian sent to New York largely to improve his English. He was a rising star in Rome and it was believed that his international experience would be of value to the Church as he matured. With a thick shock of dark hair and a chiseled face, Father Martini was attractive, and that along with his open nature prompted people to take an immediate shine to him. Unfortunately, he knew nothing about sports and only slightly more about running the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine in America. It was necessary to appoint a lay basketball coach to replace Father Sullivan, and Monsignor Gioffi prayed that Bruno Martini was a quick study for the education program of public school children.
l
Tommy M. had far less difficulty handling the problems of his neighbors than he did those of his business associates. A benevolent despot can be effective only when he is the most powerful. In the Bonanno family, the power was shared, and his was being eroded by factors beyond his control. With the death that year of the popular and strong Frank Tieri, head of Genovese Family, Paul Castellano became head of what remained of the Bonanno Family, and that was not good for Tommy M. Not terribly well-respected as a don, Paul Castellano decided that the family business should reduce its dependence on the lucrative drug trade and concentrate on more victimless pursuits like gambling, prostitution, and the rising pornography business. This was not acceptable to the Gambino Family, especially a branch of that group known as the Young Turks. John Gotti and Sammy Gravano, a classmate of Tommy M. at New Utrecht High School where Sammy was notorious for punching the Principal, believed that control both of the unions, which was theirs completely, and of drug traffic, which they shared with South American groups, was necessary to maintain power in the Northeast. Ceding the drug business to others and with it the loss of major revenue, it was thought, would lead to eventual loss of their controls of the docks, unions, and construction.
Tommy M., perhaps with the voice of his parents echoing in the background, decided to hook his wagon to the Castellano star, and began to cede increasing areas of his drug business to the Gambino Family, particularly to John Gotti. In exchange for the drug business, it was agreed that Tommy M. would be guaranteed unfettered access to the airports, gambling, and pornography.
It was in 1981 that topless bars became lucrative. First in New Jersey and then in New York, the bars had won a number of court cases based on First Amendment rights, and with the court victories, the dancers became increasingly more nude, more sexual, and more popular. It was easy money, and it was legal. The bars also served as venues for illegal activities. Even more money was to be made from prostitution, gambling, and lighter drugs, easily available at the bars. Tommy M. financed several bars in New Jersey and two in Manhattan, but no one operated a topless bar in either state without buying liquor from his approved vendors, using recordings from his list, and paying him a fee for the privilege of doing business.
One of Tommy M.’s bars, Teddy Bears in Asbury Park, New Jersey, was operated by 72-year-old Sal Barbieri, a brother-in-law of Paul Castellano. He was caught at his bar offering the services of one of his dancers to a wired undercover F.B.I. agent as partial payment for arranging access to an airport warehouse in Newark. Barbieri was held without bail awaiting a hearing at the Federal Courthouse in Trenton where his defense was that entrapment occurred when an agent failed to obtain a warrant in the prescribed fashion. If Barbieri were to win, the judge would have to find that a mistake in writing the time on the warrant made the document illegal and inadmissible as evidence of the plot. His lawyer held out at best a 50-50 hope the judge would rule in their favor.
For the elderly Barbieri, serving jail time was not an option, and he told Castellano that he would rather die than spend the rest of his life in prison. Why the prosecutor would want to put an old man in prison was beyond him, and any judge who couldn’t see that he was a victim of entrapment forfeited his right to live. Barbieri wanted to be given a gun in the courthouse, and if the judge found against him, he would kill him and in effect commit suicide by police.
The problem was that courthouses had begun using metal detectors, and getting a gun past one of them would be impossible. That was the gist of the conversation between Tommy M. and Paul Castellano on Gloria in the summer of 1981. Tommy M. was at the helm with his boss alongside him as they motored several miles past Sandy Hook in Lower New York Bay. Castellano was doing his best to find a courthouse guard to buy, someone who could easily pass the metal detector with an extra gun he could give to Barbieri. Given enough time, there would be little question that such a guard could be made an offer he couldn’t refuse, but the hearing was Tuesday and it was already Saturday afternoon. Tommy M. had no contacts in the Federal Court, and he assured his boss that the only possibility of getting guns into the courtroom was to blast in. It would be a blood bath.
With surveillance techniques improving all the time, boats served as safe environments from unwanted ears. However, even 40-footers, are small, and Joseph, who had been sitting in the shade on the steps to the bridge, overheard the conversation above him. The young man decided to help his father if he could since even at fifteen he knew the importance of satisfying his father’s boss. The person he knew who was best at solving problems was Argo Malle, but he certainly would not help if he knew what the help was for. Joseph would have to outsmart Argo in order to use Argo’s smarts.
Joseph and Argo took the train to Downtown Brooklyn early Saturday morning because Joseph said that he was writing a story for school. The story took place at the Brooklyn Court House, and Joseph wanted to make sure that he included an accurate description of how everything looked. Argo was there to keep him company and to make any suggestions his fertile brain was sure to generate.
“See that?” said Joseph pointing to the Court Street entrance to the courthouse. “Only one door opens and there are 12 steps up.”
“Really interesting,” mocked Argo as they walked up the steps.
Joseph opened the door, and Argo passed through. Directly ahead of them was the entrance to the main courtroom, but between the doors to the courtroom and the outer doors stood the metal detector flanked on each side by a row of heavy oak tables. One armed officer was stationed at the doors from the street and another on the left in front of the tables by the side wall. There was a guard who stood behind the table and searched attaché cases, and another guard who stood directly in front of the metal detector on the courtroom side who seemed to be in charge.
“I gotta mention the metal detector in my story, and the guards,” whispered Joseph as if they were in church. It was clear to the guards that boys had no business there, and they told them to leave.
“I’m writing a story,” said Joseph.
“Good, write it outside,” said the guard in charge.
Argo was embarrassed. What was Joseph doing there, he thought, and more importantly, why did Argo have to be with him?
Directly across from the courthouse was a park where on pleasant days people ate their lunch and fed the pigeons. Large English maples provided shade and welcome relief from the brick and cement that surrounded them. The boys walked down the courthouse steps and crossed the street to the park.
“I told you, Argo. I got to write a story. They want to shoot the judge,” said Joseph.
“You mean you have to write a crime story?”
“No, that was my idea,” said Joseph.
“Bad idea,” said Argo. “You think your father would want you writing about shooting a judge. What are you, an idiot?”
“I thought it would be different. She said she gives credit for different.”
“Yeah, well your father doesn’t give credit for dumb,” said Argo looking for a bench not covered with pigeon droppings.
“Look, are you going to help me or not? This is the story I want to write; what’s the big deal? So what if Tommy M.’s son writes a story for English?”
Argo looked at the courthouse across the park. It was gray, and old, and imposing, and while it had a frieze and statuary, it was cold and ugly. In addition to the electric wires hung on the eaves to keep the pigeons off, the building told everyone else to keep away also. Why, Aro asked himself, would people study the law for three years after college only to spend the rest of their lives in so horrible a place?
“So here’s the question,” said Joseph as the boys sat on a bench in the sun that Argo picked. “How do you get a weapon passed the metal detector?”
Argo looked at Joseph as Holmes did Watson. “Use a weapon that’s not metal, a slingshot.”
“But what if it has to be a gun?” asked Joseph.
“Why does it have to be a gun? What about a ceramic knife or a wooden baton?”
“Let’s just say it has to be a slingshot, I mean gun. It has to be a gun to shoot the judge from across the room.”
“Then I don’t know,” answered Argo. “It’s your story.”
“I know, but I can’t figure it out.”
“Neither can I. They don’t want you to,” said Argo. “Why don’t you just change the story?”
“Because that’s the story. They shoot the judge. He’s a bad judge, corrupt. He deserves it.”
“Well why not shoot him on the way in or out of the courthouse, then you don’t have to worry about the metal detector.”
“I guess I could do that,” said Joseph trying desperately to think of a reason not to.
“You could have a sniper across the street who shoots him before he gets into his car.”
“I think they have underground parking, see,” said Joseph pointing to the sign that read “Parking” and pointed to a ramped entry below the building.
“So he’s a sharpshooter who hits him while he’s driving. Or they shoot him in front of his house. This way you save money on the sharpshooter.” Argo tittered at his own callousness.
“How do we even know where he lives?” asked Joseph desperately. “Can’t we just shoot him in the courtroom? That’s the original story. Can’t we stick with the original story?”
Argo shrugged.
“Come on, Argo. Can’t you think of a way to get a gun passed those guys?”
“No, I can’t.”
“You haven’t even tried. All you want to do is find an easy way out. Help me think. If anyone can do it, it would be you.”
Argo looked at Joseph who was obviously serious. Then he looked at the building as if that was where the answer was to be found.
“The gun has to go over or around the metal detector since it can’t pass through it. That’s obvious,” said Argo.
Joseph nodded and sat motionless, waiting.
“The tables,” said Argo. “You could kick a gun under them. That wouldn’t ring the bell or anything, and it would be quiet along the floor.”
“But the guards would see it?”
“Not if you get their attention on something else?”
“What?”
“I don’t know! It’s your story!” said Argo impatiently.
“Okay,” said Joseph, “there’s some kind of diversion. How do they pass the gun, and who gets it?”
“Well, the shooter gets it. He already passed through. Maybe the other guy drops the gun down his pants leg and pushes it under the table with his foot.”
“That would work, for sure,” said Joseph.
“But the gun could be heard hitting the floor,” thought Argo aloud. “You’d have to tie a string around the gun to keep it from hitting the floor. The guy lets go of the string before kicking it across to the shooter. I don’t know; you’ll have to work on it. He has no pocket in his pants leg…something like that.”
The boys walked directly back to the train station even though Argo wanted to walk along the East Side Promenade to watch the tankers dock. Joseph seemed unusually anxious to get home and said little on the train.
“How come you, who barely passes anything, cares so much about writing a story for English?” asked Argo as the train rattled and rolled them home to the New Utrecht station.
“I don’t know,” Joseph lied. “I got it into my head to write this story; I want it to be good.”
“Did Mrs. Friedman say you were failing?”
“No, I’m passing,” Joseph answered.
“You mean you read Death Be Not Proud and My Friend Flicka?” asked Argo referring to the required 8th grade reading.
“Yes, part of them.”
“And now you make us spend a Saturday so you can do an extra fine job on a story.”
“So?”
“Nothing,” answered Argo staring vacantly out the window. “I hope she gives you an A.”
Of course, there was no story and Joseph did not get an A, but he did win his father’s respect for the clever way of getting a gun in the hands of Sal Barbieri.
The trace of displeasure that crept across Tommy M.’s face when Joseph told him that he had overheard his conversation with Paul Castellano changed to proud happiness when his son offered a solution to the problem. After hearing Joseph detail his plan, Tommy M. knew his son had the guile needed to be a leader. Even if the plan failed, the concern and effort his son demonstrated on his own was truly satisfying, and Tommy M. knew then that his son had become a man.
The main concern for Tommy M. was that he did not know if the set up in Trenton was the same as that in Brooklyn, but there was no time to lose. His first call was to Paul Castellano from a pay phone in Elizabeth, NJ. Castellano would provide the gun and the inside man who would deliver it to Barbieri; the diversion would be provided by Tommy M. Everything, of course, depended on what Tommy M. found in Trenton.
It was just before five o’clock when Tommy M. arrived at the courthouse and saw that it was set up much the same as the one in Brooklyn except that there was only one guard on the street side of the metal detector, and he called Castellano with the good news. They had until nine o’clock Tuesday morning to work out the method of delivery and the timing that would be necessary to pass the gun around the metal detector. Paul Castellano insisted they meet at midnight so he could personally approve of Tommy M.’s plan.
Tommy M. sped to “Cheetahs,” one of his topless New York bars, this one run by Jack “Ruby” Rubarosa. Ruby conducted Tommy M.’s Manhattan and Bronx bookmaking operation from the office above the First Avenue bar on the Lower East Side, and he was Tommy’s best earner and his brightest man. Ruby lived on the prestigious Todt Hill in Staten Island, and it was at his recently purchased house that part of The Godfather was filmed twelve years earlier.
Tommy M.’s plan was to use two of Ruby’s dancers to create the diversion at the Trenton courthouse.
“They have to be smart. I don’t want two bimbos,” said Tommy M. to Ruby. “Doll them up, you know. The guards will all have their eyes on them, and the pass will be easy. One of the girls faints at the table, and when they come to help, the other one slides the gun under the table to the inside guy who just happens to be walking out of the elevator. The hearing is on the second floor.”
“Maybe the stairs are better so there’s no trouble with the timing,” suggested Ruby.
“Whatever, he’ll be there at 9 on the dot. The girls have to be there at the same time. She faints only if she sees him at the table. She can’t be sliding the gun to no one. She’s got to see him.”
“Of course,” said Ruby. “Now I gotta find the right girls.”
“Good. Make them practice the fainting…and the slide so it can’t be seen.”
“You got a clean piece?” asked Ruby.
“Paul’s giving it to me tonight. I’ll have it for you at quarter to nine tomorrow.”
“It’s better if I get it from you tonight and give it to her here, this way we don’t pass it on the street.”
Tommy M. thought about it. “Okay, I’m meeting the big guy at 12. You can stop by my house after then…before one.”
At the meeting with Paul Castellano at the end of Gerritson Avenue, Tommy M. was given the gun and told that the inside man would be bald with glasses, wearing a business suit, and would be carrying a leather portfolio under his arm. However as Castellano reviewed the plan with him, Tommy M. grew uncomfortable. There were too many variables, too many ways to fail, and failure would be blamed on him. Offering a solution his boss asked for was one thing, success another. But it was too late for second guessing, and now he would have to bank on the plan of a fifteen-year-old, not his son as he thought, but the fifteen-year-old who cried when he shot a bird with a slingshot.
At one minute to nine, two painted dolls with little waists and big hair wiggled up the Federal Court steps in Trenton. Two people were passing through the metal detector, a female guard was looking at an open attaché case on the table in front of her, and no one was at the stairs on the left.
“Excuse me, officer,” breathed the blond. The brunette caught the eye of the guard at the detector and smiled. “Is hearing room 204 on the second floor?” she asked the door guard reading the number from a small slip of paper.
“Yes. Take the elevator up.”
“Where is it?” asked the blond, totally befuddled by being in a building with an elevator.
“Pass through and it’s right on your right, Miss.”
“Oh, I think I see it,” she said in a loud voice. Then she turned and fixed her eyes on the guard’s, “Thank you.”
The door to the stairway opened and a bald, well-dressed gentleman walked slowly out. He was carrying a portfolio under his arm and looked like any of twenty lawyers in the courthouse at that time.
The girls sashayed toward the tables. “It’s on the second floor,” screeched the blond in a nails-on-chalkboard voice, making sure everyone noticed her. The two people who had just been cleared to pass walked toward the elevator. “We have to pass through that contraption.” As soon as the two people ahead of them got on the elevator, the brunette went into action.
“Oh!” gasped the brunette falling to her knees in front of the table on the side opposite from the female guard. She grabbed onto the blonde and fell to the floor.
“Ronnie!” yelled the blonde bending over her. She raised her blouse, took the gun from her pants waist and slid it across toward the pair of shoes on the other side. “She passed out.” Her voice rang out loud around the hall
The guard at the door and the one at the detector moved toward the women, and the guard at the table moved to stand in front of the detector as if to block any further entrance to the court. When she did, the inside man picked up the gun at his feet and slipped it in his suit pocket.
“Is she all right?” he asked the guard at the detector. She looked at him distrustfully and did not answer.
“Are you okay, Ronnie?” asked the blonde.
Ronnie opened her eyes. “Yes.”
“I told you not to come today. This always happens when you get your period,” said the blonde helping her up. The door guard also helped as the other guard went back to his station.
“Oh!” gasped the brunette, losing her balance once again. The bald man moved silently to the stairs.
“You better not try to get up, Miss,” said the door guard. “Just sit here until the blood gets back to your head.” The bald man was gone before the female guard noticed. She had done her job; no one passed through despite the excitement.
With his heart racing and hand wrapped around the gun in his jacket pocket, 72-year-old Sal Barbieri knew that he was about to die. It would be a soldier’s death as he would take the lives of the judge and the prosecutor before he would be shot by the court police. If he were lucky, he would also take one or two of them with him.
The hearing as far as Barbieri was concerned was legal claptrap that made no sense. Both his lawyers and the prosecution seemed more concerned about past trials than the one in front of them, and the judge sometimes spent ten minutes at a time reading silently from his bench. At one point, the court seemed like a library with everyone reading something else, and Barbieri could not control a loud sigh of boredom.
“I hope, Mr. Barbieri, we are not keeping you from something important,” said the judge from over his glasses.
“Stay quiet,” whispered the lawyer closest to him.
“No, I’m not going anywhere,” Barbieri replied to the judge.
“That’s exactly, Mr. Barbieri, what I’m trying to determine.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
“Indeed,” said the judge going back to the brief.
“Can’t you just sit there?” his lawyer asked Barbieri in a disgusted whisper. “I think we’re winning here.”
“How would anyone know?” he answered in a normal voice heard by everyone. His lawyer looked up at the judge with a look that said he was sorry for his client’s lack of control. The judge closed his eyes in understanding and went on with his reading.
“All right,” said the judge after what seemed like more than the two minutes since the interruption. “Does anyone have anything else?”
Both sides said no.
“Okay, I have to disallow the evidence. It was improperly obtained even though there was no intent. CL 245c is clear on this, and taken with NJ 33.32 there is nothing I can do. I find for the defense.”
“Your honor, we request a dismissal.”
“Your honor,” objected the prosecutor. “We still have the option of trying this case on other evidence. He remains a flight risk.”
“That’s up to you, but without this, you have way too little. Bail is out. Let him go.”
As Barbieri was shaking hands with his lawyers, the bald man picked the gun from his pocket and walked to the men’s room. Within a minute everyone passed through the metal detector as silently as they had going in. There was no news coverage that day.
That night, Tommy M. took Joseph to the movies to see Arthur and then for ice cream at Junior’s. “Someday, if you play your cards right, you’ll have has much money as Arthur, and you’ll have the advantage of not being a drunk and pushed around by your grandma,” said the proud Tommy M. smiling to his son. “You’re a clever boy…it was smart what you did. You saw their weakness and you exploited it. And you came to me. That was smart.”
Joseph knew he was smart, but not in the way his father thought. His genius was in getting Argo to solve the problem, and Joseph would continue to be smart by not letting Argo or his father know exactly how smart he had been. He was also smart enough to know how fortunate he was that there had been no shooting that would have been covered for days by the media. What he did not know was what he would have told Argo.
"It's like if you don’t bring your umbrella,” said Tommy M. at celebratory dinner at Romano’s, Paul Castellano’s restaurant of choice in Little Italy. “When you bring it, it guarantees there won’t be any rain.”
“Well, you brought it and it didn’t rain,” said Castellano.
“Bullets,” said Tippy Randazzo finishing a sentence that did not need it. Tippy Randazzo was Castellano’s under boss from Manhattan and one of his closest confidants.
“You know Lucky always said you can’t do business at the end of a gun,” said Castellano referring to Lucky Luciano and ignoring Randazzo. “He never carried one.”
“No,” added Randazzo, “he got other people to carry them.”
“Damn right,” said Castellano. “And he’s still alive and everyone else is dead.”
“You’re right about that,” agreed Randazzo.
“Yes, I know,” answered Castellano condescendingly.
Tommy M. knew Big Paul to be a snob, more cultured than other bosses and far less likely to dirty his hands. Castellano believed he was smarter than the rest and refused ever to go against the odds, at least as far as he could determine them. Tommy M. was different; he believed that playing it safe was best, but there were times that doing so would be perceived as weakness, and of all the flaws a don could have, appearing weak was the worst. That was because a don had not only to concern himself with the police but with his business associates, and they were far more formidable and unforgiving.
The next day, Tommy M. decided to reward Joseph with a day at Yankee Stadium and told him he could invite Argo.
“I don’t think he likes baseball?” said Joseph.
“Invite him anyway; he’s always in the house; I never see him outside.”
“I think he’s helping Grandpa today.”
“So he can help him tomorrow,” said Tommy M. picking up the phone to call a contact at the stadium for tickets.
Joseph rode up front with his father and Argo sat in the back with a book he had on baseball strategy written by the then manager of the Baltimore Orioles, Earl Weaver.
“What are your reading that for?” asked Joseph from the front seat. He was wearing a Yankees cap and pounded the mitt he brought in case he got close enough to catch a foul ball. Argo had no mitt or hat.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I got it for Christmas.”
“So what did you learn so far?” asked Tommy M.
“About hit and run plays.”
“Yeah,” mocked Joseph. “They hit it and then they run.”
“No,” corrected Argo. “They run and then they hit it.”
“He’s right,” said Tommy M.
“Then why don’t they call it a run and hit play?” asked Joseph defensively.
“It doesn’t say,” answered Argo. “The problem is that if the batter doesn’t hit the ball, the runner is way off base.”
“And what do they call that, tough luck?” laughed Tommy M. along with Joseph.
Argo didn’t laugh. “Caught stealing, I think.”
“Yeah, it’s not good to get caught stealing,” snapped Tommy M. catching his son’s eye.
“If it’s a third strike, it’s called a “strike him out, throw him out” double play,” Argo added.
“How do you know so much about it and you never play?” asked Joseph looking over the seat at Argo.
“I don’t know; I read about it I guess,” answered Argo. “Sometimes I watch on TV, and the World Series. I like the strategy.”
“There’s not much strategy in baseball,” Tommy M. remarked looking back at Argo from the rear view mirror. “You know what Willie Mays said about baseball: ‘It’s a simple game. They throw it; I hit it. They hit it; I catch it.’” Argo closed the book.
They had just crossed the Brooklyn Bridge when Joseph noticed they turned the wrong way to Yankee Stadium.
“Where are we going?” he asked his father.
“I’ve got to make a stop before we get there. There’s plenty of time; they start at 7.”
The car pulled in behind Cheetah’s, Tommy M.’s First Avenue topless bar on the ever seedy Lower East Side. It was after six o’clock, and there were only a few cars parked on the dirt lot. The buildings surrounding the bar were ancient, and some were in such bad repair that they were unlivable. The few rooms which still had windows were used as shooting galleries for drug addicts, and others were used by street walkers and their johns.
“You guys wait here,” said Tommy M. as he got out of the car. “This won’t take long.” He pulled open the heavy steel door which had a big sign forbidding entry to minors, and the boys looked around at a world they had not before seen. Argo noticed alongside their car where someone had vomited and saw for the first time a condom wrapper which had been torn open.
“You know what that is?” asked Joseph.
“No.”
“It’s a rubber,” said Joseph. “You know, a condom.”
“The wrapper,” Argo corrected.
“They probably do it right here in their cars.”
A car pulled into the lot and the driver got out, locked his car, and with his head hurried to the steel door. He was young and dressed in a white shirt and a loosened tie. His sleeves were rolled up, and Argo thought he had just come from work.
“You want to go in?” asked Joseph with devilish eyes.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. He said stay here.”
“We can just take a look,” said Joseph opening the car door. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to see.”
Argo was silent.
“I’m going in,” said Joseph stepping out. Argo followed.
Even before they reached the steel door they could hear the music.
“They spelled ‘minors’ wrong,” said Argo as Joseph pulled on the heavy door. The smell of stale beer and ammonia attacked them immediately, and both boys for the first time saw a bare breasted woman, in fact, two of them. One was swinging around a brass pole on top of a bar around which a few men sat with beer mugs and dollar bills lying in front of them. The other was on her knees at the edge of the bar gyrating to the music. Her mouth was open, her eyes half closed, and her right arm was supporting her body. She used her left hand to tuck a dollar bill in her g-string.
“If my father sees us, tell him we had to use the toilet,” said Joseph as they walked closer to the bar. No one seemed to notice them, and if they did, no one seemed to care. In fact, it appeared to Argo that no one, not even the dancers, seemed to care about anything. It was as if the dancers and the men were going through a ritual, putting in time before it ran out.
Still, Argo was aroused by the scene. The music was thumping loudly, and the women were not at all ashamed to be seen by the men. The blatancy of their sexuality was new to him, and Argo did not know what to make of the stoic faces of the men who came to see uninhibited young women dance for them.
“I really have to go,” said Argo as he headed for the men’s room. There was only a urinal and a toilet with no seat. The washstand had only one tap, no soap, and a dirty linen towel track that was stuck. The smell was overpowering, and as Argo stood at the urinal he read the telephone numbers and outstanding physical attributes of certain named women. The drawings of genitalia were no better than those he had seen in school toilets.
Fortunately, Argo convinced Joseph that they had to go back to the car if only to keep his father from finding it up on milk crates.
They missed part of the first inning, Joseph spilled soda on Argo’s shirt, a fight broke out in the stands, and Boston beat the Yankees 8-0. It was the first and last time Argo went to Yankee Stadium, and it was the first time that he tried beer. Tommy M. let the boys drink from his cup, and Argo found it far too bitter. He also did not like the sign on the vendor’s tray which said that it was forbidden to sell beer to minors.
When Argo went to confession that Saturday, he told the priest that he had gone into the bar and that he had been sexually aroused.
“Did you suffer an erection?” asked the priest.
“Yes, Father,” admitted Argo.
“That shows you how wrong it is to be in a place like that. You must keep yourself from the occasion of sin. It is wrong to put yourself in a position of having to frustrate your natural desires. If your friends are doing something you know is wrong, you must be stronger. And with God’s grace, you will be.”
Why priests used the term “suffer” when describing an erection was not clear to Argo, but he understood that sex was appropriate only in marriage. Still, whenever he saw pictures of naked women or sometimes even when he saw a woman on the street, especially if she were pregnant, he would get sexually excited, and it did not seem too much like suffering.
Argo knew that he and Joseph were different and that the world of Tommy M. was not what he wanted. Still, they were like brother and father to him, and he felt even more comfortable with them than he did with Benny Musso, whom he was much more like. With Benny, Argo knew there would be no surprises like trips to a topless bar or run-ins with the F.B.I.
However there was one surprise from Benny. Just before school was to begin that fall, Benny told Argo that he was going to be a priest. Benny would attend a seminary in Latrobe, Pennsylvania the following year when he graduated from high school. Learning that his friend would become a priest made Argo’s doing so move from a vague notion to a concrete possibility. One need only say the words, as Benny had, and it would become a reality.
Argo had already graduated from New Utrecht that June, and he had been accepted to Columbia University on a tuition free scholarship, but he would have to pay for books, food, and lodging, and on his mother’s income, that would be impossible. That was why he had enrolled in Brooklyn College which was free and which would allow him to commute from home.
And that would have worked fine except on August 4, Irene Malle collapsed at work and died before reaching the hospital. Argo had expected her death, but being told by his surrogate grandmother, Carmela Machiarolla, that she died hollowed to nausea the pit of his stomach. He cried only when he saw his mother lying in her casket at Collangello’s Funeral Parlor, and it was the last time the boy become man did so.
Argo became even more uncommunicative, and Carmela Machiarolla was alarmed. In her family, people cried aloud or laughed, and they expressed themselves openly. She knew how to handle that, but she did not know how to cope with someone who refused to speak a complete sentence.
At sixteen, Argo would have to be in the care of an adult, and though Carmela and Cosmo offered to care for him, Argo felt he would be too much of a burden for them. Even when Tommy M. insisted that he live with him and adopt him as his own, Argo refused. He had decided that he would apply to the seminary that Benny was to attend the following year, and he would enlist the help of Sister Mary Esther.
It was the day before Mary Esther was to leave on vacation back home in Indiana to stay with her mother and father that Argo knocked on the door at the convent. The housekeeper had him wait in the tiny vestibule while she fetched Sister, who saw the concern on her protégé’s face. His large, dark eyes which usually lit his face were dull, and his lips were tight.
“Let’s go to my room,” she said leading Argo through the tight hallway in the back of the convent. He was still a half-head shorter than she, and that made him seem younger and more in need of nurturing than his fifteen years might ordinarily require. She had known him for half his life and felt especially close to him, and when she stood by him at his mother’s funeral, her arm wrapped around his shoulders, she wept for him. Before they got to her room, Argo told her of his intention to go to Latrobe.
But something about they way he said it gave her pause.
“I wanted to go to a public university for the exposure, but now it is probably best if I go to the seminary, if there’s room.”
“I’m sure there is. And even if there isn’t, there are other seminaries,” said Mary Esther.
Argo saw her suitcases standing in her open closet.
“The question is, are you sure you want to go to a seminary at your age? I mean, you don’t want to go because it’s expedient; you have to be sure.”
“Benny’s not sure,” said Argo.
“I would think not. Everyone has doubts. I certainly did when I made my decision. It’s just that it should come from you, not from conditions outside.”
Argo thought a moment. “But sometimes things happen that help you decide.” His pragmatism had already been formed, and given the option of living with the Machiarolla’s or being with Benny, the choice seemed clear.
“Well, Argo, there is no greater calling than to serve God. And there is nothing more fulfilling, if you have the calling.”
“I think I do,” said Argo, but then he added looking past her, “but how do I know?”
She would speak to Monsignor Gioffi before she left for the airport the next day, and that would give Argo another night to think and pray for guidance. She was certain the Monsignor would get so fine a candidate into any number of seminaries, if that was what Argo truly wanted.
The next day Argo got two phone calls. The first was from Monsignor Gioffi’s office with an appointment later that afternoon and the other from Keen Ginter of the law firm for which Argo’s mother had worked as a cleaning lady. Ginter had promised Irene Malle that if she were unable to care for her son, he would provide assistance through their office’s client, Kane Philanthropies, a charity providing scholarships to needy youth in the Greater Metropolitan Area. It had been eight days since Irene’s death, and Carolee Frederic, an executive for Kane, had already arranged through personal contacts for a fast track examination of Argo’s school records by the Scholarship Admissions Office at Rutgers. Ginter told Argo that he had to give permission to New Utrecht High School to release those records to Rutgers before they could consider him for a scholarship. Ginter also told him that legal residence would have to be established in New Jersey, and that Carolee Frederic herself, along with her husband, Donald, would agree to be his official guardians while he was at Rutgers and until he turned eighteen.
“If it’s something you might like to do,” said Keen Ginter on the phone, “I can meet you at New Utrecht and help you release your records. You’ll need an adult.”
“I’m not sure,” said Argo, his mind racing down corridors of possibilities.
“Well, it’s something your mother wanted for you, that is, seeing to your education in her absence. She was a fine woman, and all of us here are only too pleased to help. And as far as the Frederic’s go, you can’t have better sponsors. Don is a friend of mine; we’ve worked together for the past three or so years. We’re both retained by Kane Philanthropies; I do the New York work, and he does it in New Jersey.”
“Does the scholarship include housing?” asked Argo.
“Yes, you live on campus, and I think they have a work program where they give you a job in the library. But Carolee Frederic knows about Rutgers. She’s on some committee there.” There was a long pause. “It’s really a great opportunity. I mean, if you qualify. Rutgers is a good school --- and from what your mother has told us about your National Merit scholarship, you very probably will.”
By the time Argo hung up from the second call, the first one became irrelevant, and after he called Regina Pacis to cancel his appointment, he grew anxious but looked forward to meet the lawyer at New Utrecht and to start his adult life as a Jerseyite.
Isaiah 11:6
Gloria was named after Tommy M.’s wife. It was a new 42’ Bayliner that he had just bought in St. Lucia where he owned Transamer, Ltd., a shipping business. The business seemed an excellent way to explain why boats from the Caribbean and South America were continually moving in and out, and it offered a means by which some of his profits could be laundered. St. Lucia, once a British colony, achieved its independence in the 1960’s, and from then on virtually all public works stopped, and the divide between rich and poor grew more stark. The island had a few legitimate hotels, but for the most part it served as a haven for any businessmen who paid officials to operate unfettered by regulations of any sort.
The F.B.I. and the Coast Guard knew that the island was a way point for the importation of narcotics, but without St. Lucian government cooperation, the best they could do was run interceptions on a hit or miss basis. The Cuban government, despite its public stance against drug trafficking, was particularly friendly to boats registered in St. Lucia, and many chases ended in Cuban waters.
Tommy M. had been more careful than others in the Bonanno Family, and despite their best efforts, the F.B.I. could do little to stop him. It would be only a matter of time, they thought, but until then, the agents would make his life as miserable as they could. That was why on Father’s Day when Tommy M. took his family for a boat ride, they boarded Gloria for a “spot” check.
The boys were fifteen on that Father’s Day, and Tommy M. decided that he would for the first time take the boat out on his own. He had learned how to pilot the boat from a certified captain who accompanied him on the two-week voyage home from St. Lucia. Gloria was a twin diesel with bow thrusters which helped dramatically in docking, but the boat did have a rather high profile which made it difficult to control in the wind. Tommy M. decided he could get it in and out of port without too much trouble on that calm day in the June sun, and so Gloria, Joseph, and Argo got their first ride on the family yacht.
Everyone wore shorts and baseball caps, and Gloria insisted that they load up on sun block. The boys took swim trunks, in case, and Tommy M. wore a t-shirt proudly proclaiming his being the captain. Gloria wore her Gucci sunglasses and the usual pound of jewelry. The boys were responsible for the dock lines and fenders which they pulled in as soon as the boat inched from the dock.
Gloria was moored privately in Gravesend Neck, an out of the way Brooklyn inlet that had once served as a burial site for Revolutionary soldiers. From the neck it was not a long ride to Coney Island and then to the mile-wide Narrows over which the great Verrazano Bridge arches gracefully and below which all vessels must pass to reach the New York harbors. No one who has not sailed under the huge span could anticipate its grandeur or the unimaginable roar of the cars and trucks that continually race across its double-decker roadways. Even before they neared the bridge and despite the sound of their own engines and the wind whistling around their heads, the passengers on Gloria heard the voice of the Verrazano. The deep and guttural rumble might have been ominous had it not been for the profound beauty of the structure. In truth, its awesome roar seemed a fitting testament to its greatness. In the distance and from under the bridge on the right they back to see the Statue of Liberty, but it looked small compared with the colossus they were under. Their 42’ yacht was a toy, its twin engines silenced by the power above them.
Tommy M. sailed past the upper middle class Fort Hamilton section of Brooklyn which overlooked the Narrows and abutted Bensonhurst, and he called everyone to look at the steeple of Regina Pacis far inland. Just two miles north he anchored on the west side of Liberty Island where they ate lunch and listened to doo-wop classics and oldie mega-hits on his mega-watt audio system. The boys eased off the swim platform and swam in the shadow of Miss Liberty under the watchful eye of Gloria who insisted they stay close to the boat. Life, Tommy M. assured everyone, was good --- until they headed back to Gravesend Neck.
With Dion lamenting the fickle Runaround Sue blaring over the diesel engines, Tommy M. did not at first hear the Coast Guard’s short, single siren. But the second blast and the megaphone voice calling, “Power vessel Gloria, prepare for boarding,” got his attention.
“What!” screamed Tommy M. “What are they doing?”
“It’s the Coast Guard,” said Gloria.
“What do they want?” he said bringing his engines down to idle speed.
“Tell Joseph to dump the shotgun.”
“Where is it?” asked Gloria heading below where the boys were getting sodas.
“In one of the cabinets; I don’t know. Let him find it,” he said with panic in his voice. “And come back up here. Give them the paperwork.”
“Daddy wants you to dump the shotgun” called Gloria to her son. “Don’t let them see you. Do it on the other side. Argo, you come up with me.”
“Where is it?” called Joseph from the galley.
“In one of the closets. Find it and get rid of it. Hurry up!”
With both boats idling, a tall, uniformed Coast Guard inspector and a casually dressed agent with a large F.B.I. tag hanging from his neck easily stepped onto the boat’s stern and hurried up the steps to the bridge. The guardsman wore a sidearm.
“What’s wrong?” asked Tommy M.
The F.B.I. agent asked, “Is this your boat?”
“No; what’s wrong?”
“Whose boat is it?” asked the agent looking now at Gloria. She made a point of ignoring his glance.
“Gloria, give him the papers in there,” he said pointing to a locker in the console.
“So what’s wrong?” asked Tommy M. again.
The guardsman answered, “Nothing, Captain, we’re just making a spot check.”
“The first day I take the boat out and you’re making a spot check,” he said disgustedly. “On Father’s Day?”
“Yes, Captain,” said the guardsman. “Is that your son?” he asked pointing to Argo.
“Are there any weapons on board?” asked the F.B.I. agent as he scanned the papers Gloria had given him.
“No,” answered Tommy M. looking at the guardsman who asked about Argo.
“Who is he?” asked the guardsman.
“Are there any weapons aboard?” demanded the F.B.I. agent, louder this time.
“I’m Robert Duval,” said Argo, his eyes darting around the bridge as if to measure the odds against him. “I’m the consiglieri to the Godfather; it’s a very special position.”
“You know, son, that kind of sass will only delay our stay,” said the guardsman.
“His name is Argo Malle,” offered Gloria who pulled him close to her. “He’s a friend of the family.”
“And you are Thomas Machiarolla?” asked the agent looking at the name on the insurance certificate.
“Yeah, and you’re surprised.”
“And this is your wife?”
“Yes.”
“And are there weapons or illegal contraband on board?” asked the guardsman.
“If there were anything illegal on board,” asked Argo, “would it make sense to say so?” Gloria jerked him.
“No one is taking to you,” said the guardsman.
“No, there’s nothing illegal on board,” said Tommy M. as if the answer were obvious. “So can we finish our boat ride?”
“And who is that?” asked the agent when Joseph came up to join his parents.
“Our son, Joseph,” said Gloria.
“And where were you?” he asked Joseph.
“He was in the toilet,” answered Tommy M.
“You mean the head,” corrected the guardsman condescendingly.
“To you it’s a head,” said Tommy M. “To me it’s a crapper, but I can see where you might think the crapper is your head.”
“Check below, Brian,” said the agent to the guardsman.
“Mister Machiarolla,” said the agent, “the Coast Guard is just trying to make the area safe. That’s what they get paid to do.”
“And they get paid to hassle families on Father’s Day?”
“No one has hassled you,” insisted the agent.
“No, of course not. And they need the F.B.I. to help them?”
“I see this boat is owned by Transamer, Ltd. Is that your company?”
“I have an interest in it, yes,” answered Tommy M.
“And why is this boat here and not at its home port in St. Lucia?”
“It was a company decision.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it was a company decision.”
“I see. Well, that explains it. Thank you for your cooperation,” said the agent handing Gloria the papers she had given him.
“And thank you for your visit. Will you be leaving now?” asked Tommy M.
“As soon as we can, Mr. Machiarolla. As soon as we can.”
The search was perfunctory and Gloria was back underway in a few minutes, but the episode was enough to anger Tommy M. and ruin what would otherwise have been a perfect day. He prided himself in protecting his wife and son from the vicissitudes of his business, and on the occasions that it intruded on them he felt in some way that he had failed. It was times like this that his mother and father’s warning may have been correct: his business would have negative effects not only on him but on his family. The Machiarollas, they said, did not need fancy cars and yachts; they were simple, hard-working people who needed only the love of their family to be complete.
“So, Argo, what was that about?” asked Tommy M. as they made their way back to Gravesend Neck. “The Godfather? What do they need encouragement?”
“What did you say?” asked Joseph.
“He said he was a consiglieri --- I was the Godfather,” said Tommy M. turning from the wheel and looking angrily back at Argo.
Joseph laughed.
“It’s not funny. What were you thinking?” demanded Tommy M.
“I was thinking that I would give Joseph more time to dump the shotgun,” said Argo.
“But the Godfather?” said Tommy M., his face losing its anger.
“It’s all I could think of,” said Argo seriously though Joseph continued laughing.
“Well it did piss him off,” said Tommy M. beginning to get the humor.
“So what did he say?” Joseph asked Argo.
“That he showed disrespect --- that it would only keep them longer,” answered Tommy M beginning to laugh. “He told him his name was Robert Duval.”
Joseph threw his arm around Argo’s neck in a mock hammer lock saying, “You’re not Italian.”
“Neither is Robert Duval,” Argo answered, breaking away from the grip and pushing Joseph away. Argo walked to the bow because from there the engine noise was the lowest, and he enjoyed the wind off the Narrows blowing around him. He was a chrysalis in the cocoon of the wind, protected from the world, but waiting to spread his wings.
It was the first time that either of the boys had even hinted about anything related to La Cosa Nostra, and now that Argo brought it out in the open, and did so to protect them, everyone felt closer.
And Tommy M. felt better about things, especially when he was able to dock Gloria without too much banging against the dockside. He would have felt less happy about the fact that his 12-gauge Mossberg was dumped overboard for no reason. Federal law permits firearms on boats.
l
On one of Tommy M.’s Tuesday sessions at his Knights of Columbus office where he twice weekly heard complaints from and dispensed favors to Bensonhurst denizens, Mrs. Magliochetti knocked lightly on his door.
“Danny, let her in,” said Tommy M. to his driver. Danny always wore a black suit and white starched shirt even on hot days when his only concession was to loosen his tie. The suit was perfect for every occasion, from weddings and funerals to business meetings and courthouse appearances. It also helped conceal his 9mm Berretta. He was a bit under six feet tall and worked out daily, but unlike other body builders, Danny Nardello kept from being muscle-bound by stretching and keeping his muscles long and fluid. He was less intelligent than other of Tommy M.’s men, but he was strong, fast, and single-minded --- ideal for a bodyguard.
Danny opened the door, saw Mrs. Magliochetti, and turned to his boss in disbelief. “How did you know it was a woman?” She was heavyset, about forty, and had short salt and pepper hair. Tommy M. recognized her though they had never met.
“I’m psychic,” said Tommy M. sarcastically, getting up from his desk because a woman entered. “Women knock soft.”
Danny, in an obsequious display, held the door open as the woman walked toward the desk. But he was confused and, before walking out of the room, asked, “But what if a man knocked soft?”
“Then I would’ve been wrong. Close the door,” he said as he came around his desk to greet his visitor. Danny closed the door silently and with great deference. Tommy, as was the custom, did not offer his hand, and as she did not, he offered her a chair and returned to his desk.
Mrs. Magliochetti apologized for taking up his time but was forced to tell him that Father Sullivan had touched his son inappropriately. She had also heard, but would not say from whom, that he had done the same to other boys. Her son, twelve years old, refuses now to go to altar boy practice and wants to go to public school.
Tommy M. had heard a rumor a year or two before about Father Sullivan but not since.
“Maybe your son is just trying to get out of Catholic school. A lot of kids would rather have less homework,” suggested Tommy M. with a simple shrug.
“No, he always liked school; he’s a good boy.”
“Maybe his friends…”
“His friends all go to Regina Pacis,” said Mrs. Magliochetti. “No, this is a sin, what he does.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “Have you spoken to Monsignor?”
“No, I came to you.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to make trouble,” she said looking down. “What if they take it out on the boy? No, I want him in Catholic school.”
Tommy M. looked to catch her eyes. “And what would you have me do?”
She looked up at him, eyes fixed on his, and waiting a long moment before her answer. It was as if her words would be those of a jury, resolved and binding. “I want him removed.”
Tommy M. nodded his head knowingly.
Mrs. Magliochetti began to fidget uncomfortably as Tommy M. picked up the phone with one hand and with his other flipped his Rolodex for Monsignor Gioffi’s private line.
“Monsignor, Tommy Machiarolla, how are you? Good. Yes, I’m fine. It’s just that we have a problem that needs your help. Yes, just now. It’s about Father Sullivan. Yes, it’s a complaint from a parishioner. No, but she’s sitting in front of me now.”
After he hung up, Tommy M. told Mrs. Magliochetti that he would meet with the Monsignor on Thursday morning and assured her that something would be done.
However, getting something done would be difficult, especially since Monsignor Gioffi was loath to act on the word of an anonymous complaint that lacked any evidence.
“Surely you’ve had other complaints,” said Tommy M. to the head of the church. The meeting was much like the one two weeks before in which the monsignor visited Tommy in that same office to ask Tommy to use whatever means he had to recover the stolen pieces from the church. But this time Monsignor Gioffi sat behind the desk and Tommy M. was the visitor sitting in the straight chair making the appeal.
“No, there have been no complaints against Father Sullivan or any other priest in this parish,” he lied.
“That’s funny,” said Tommy M. “Just a year ago I heard rumors that he, you know, liked boys --- in the wrong way.”
“Do we act on rumor?” asked the priest, his finger tips of each hand touching.
It was understood, though not by Tommy M. or the laity in general, that it was acceptable for Church leaders to lie in order to protect the reputation of the Church. Scandal was serious and was steadfastly to be avoided lest weak Catholics lose their faith by seeing their priests as practitioners of evil. Naturally, the clergy knew of the weaknesses that all men have, even those chosen by God to lead His church. Those weaknesses were born of original sin, and it was thought that each priest would win the lifelong fight, with the help of God’s grace, against their particular demons. There was also the firm belief that through the sacrament of Penance, penitents would receive extra grace to overcome their failures. Thus, a priest who confesses to having committed sinful acts would, through divine assistance, overcome an evil penchant and sin no more. In the case of Father Sullivan, only his confessor knew for sure if one of his demons was sexual attraction to boys.
In any event, Monsignor Gioffi knew only of three complaints of child abuse in Father Sullivan’s tenure, and since he denied any guilt whatsoever, and since Gioffi was able to dissuade the complaining parents from taking legal action, there was no problem. Gioffi reasoned that even if Sullivan were guilty of some sexual impropriety, the complaints would serve as warnings, and that would help him resist any demonic urges.
“Sometimes,” replied Tommy M. “Where there’s smoke there’s fire.” He shrugged simply.
“Well you recall what President Kennedy said about that: where there’s smoke there’s a smoke making machine.” Gioffi smiled slyly and added. “Besides, Father Sullivan is an important part of our church. He spends so much time with the youth of our parish as well as being the leader of the Confraternity. He would be impossible to replace.”
Being a successful administrator of an organization requires many talents, not the least of which is a well-developed sense of the pragmatic. In this, Monsignor Gioffi was a past master. Successful deployment of one’s staff is crucial if the commander is to keep his army in fighting order, and often the niceties and nuances of ethics have to be ignored in order to keep the war machine well-oiled. Tommy M. had a different army to lead, but he understood well the practical considerations of his opposite number, and that made it more easy for him to achieve his objective that day.
“I’m sure,” said Tommy M., “that he will be hard to replace, but it will be far easier to replace him when the idea is yours.”
“Yes, but there is no need to replace him at all.”
“Not now, but we both know that these rumors,” said Tommy M. with special emphasis on the last word, “aren’t going away. And then there’s a law suit, maybe. Why put yourself in the position of having to defend yourself, your man, when you can get someone else? I mean, even if he’s, you know, all right, why put yourself in the position of having to defend him? And the scandal --- you don’t, the parish doesn’t need that aggravation.”
Gioffi thought and answered more to himself than to Tommy M., “Father Sullivan is good with the kids.”
“Not everyone thinks so. I mean that’s the bottom line: if you have parents who want him out because they don’t trust him --- I’m not saying they’re right or wrong --- if you got parents who don’t trust him, what good is it?”
“But you have only one parent…”
“And if you got one, there are others. It’s only a matter of time before the… before, you know, before it hits the fan. Then you have to make a move. This way, it’s on your terms, and no one gets hurt.”
“Except Fr. Sullivan, and the…”
“Look, he brought it on himself; let’s face it,” said Tommy M. with an open hand.
There was a long silence. Tommy M. pushed his chair back and rose.
“I’m sure, Monsignor, you will make the right decision. In the meantime, I can see if I can get her, the mother, to make a formal complaint, if you think that will help.”
“No,” said Gioffi also getting up. “That won’t be necessary. “I’ll speak to Fr. Sullivan, and we’ll take it from there.”
Tommy M. knew that “we’ll take it from there,” was as non-committal a statement as could be made, so he added, “Well I’m sure it’s a lot better if you talk to him, instead of me.”
“No, I don’t think that would be appropriate,” said Gioffi as both men walked to the door.
“No,” agreed Tommy M. “I’m only saying. I’ll talk to the mother and tell her that you’ll take care of it --- talk to him --- and I’ll try to convince her to have patience. We certainly don’t need any lawsuits. You know, the boy wants to leave Catholic school because of this. It’s no good which ever way you look.”
“Certainly not,” affirmed Gioffi holding out his hand. “And thank you, Tommy, for your help in this very serious matter.”
The men shook hands, and Tommy M. left with the feeling that he had gotten as much from Gioffi as he could have hoped for and with the sense that no further action on his part would be necessary.
Servants of the Paraclete is a mission based in St. Louis to help priests experiencing psychological, sexual, and spiritual problems. Open to any priest in good standing with his bishop, the ministry uses experts from medicine, psychology, and the Church to help those with special needs. Monsignor Gioffi had little difficulty convincing Father Sullivan that a stay at the facility was in his and the parish’s best interests. Within two months, Regina Pacis had a transfer replacement for their youth director though nothing was mentioned about Fr. Sullivan’s assignment to St. Louis. Fr. Bruno Martini from Rome was introduced as Sullivan’s “temporary” replacement through the Church’s exchange program. Martini was in fact in the exchange program, but the exchange was for a theology instructor from Niagara University. Father Bruno, as he wished to be called, was a bright, young Italian sent to New York largely to improve his English. He was a rising star in Rome and it was believed that his international experience would be of value to the Church as he matured. With a thick shock of dark hair and a chiseled face, Father Martini was attractive, and that along with his open nature prompted people to take an immediate shine to him. Unfortunately, he knew nothing about sports and only slightly more about running the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine in America. It was necessary to appoint a lay basketball coach to replace Father Sullivan, and Monsignor Gioffi prayed that Bruno Martini was a quick study for the education program of public school children.
l
Tommy M. had far less difficulty handling the problems of his neighbors than he did those of his business associates. A benevolent despot can be effective only when he is the most powerful. In the Bonanno family, the power was shared, and his was being eroded by factors beyond his control. With the death that year of the popular and strong Frank Tieri, head of Genovese Family, Paul Castellano became head of what remained of the Bonanno Family, and that was not good for Tommy M. Not terribly well-respected as a don, Paul Castellano decided that the family business should reduce its dependence on the lucrative drug trade and concentrate on more victimless pursuits like gambling, prostitution, and the rising pornography business. This was not acceptable to the Gambino Family, especially a branch of that group known as the Young Turks. John Gotti and Sammy Gravano, a classmate of Tommy M. at New Utrecht High School where Sammy was notorious for punching the Principal, believed that control both of the unions, which was theirs completely, and of drug traffic, which they shared with South American groups, was necessary to maintain power in the Northeast. Ceding the drug business to others and with it the loss of major revenue, it was thought, would lead to eventual loss of their controls of the docks, unions, and construction.
Tommy M., perhaps with the voice of his parents echoing in the background, decided to hook his wagon to the Castellano star, and began to cede increasing areas of his drug business to the Gambino Family, particularly to John Gotti. In exchange for the drug business, it was agreed that Tommy M. would be guaranteed unfettered access to the airports, gambling, and pornography.
It was in 1981 that topless bars became lucrative. First in New Jersey and then in New York, the bars had won a number of court cases based on First Amendment rights, and with the court victories, the dancers became increasingly more nude, more sexual, and more popular. It was easy money, and it was legal. The bars also served as venues for illegal activities. Even more money was to be made from prostitution, gambling, and lighter drugs, easily available at the bars. Tommy M. financed several bars in New Jersey and two in Manhattan, but no one operated a topless bar in either state without buying liquor from his approved vendors, using recordings from his list, and paying him a fee for the privilege of doing business.
One of Tommy M.’s bars, Teddy Bears in Asbury Park, New Jersey, was operated by 72-year-old Sal Barbieri, a brother-in-law of Paul Castellano. He was caught at his bar offering the services of one of his dancers to a wired undercover F.B.I. agent as partial payment for arranging access to an airport warehouse in Newark. Barbieri was held without bail awaiting a hearing at the Federal Courthouse in Trenton where his defense was that entrapment occurred when an agent failed to obtain a warrant in the prescribed fashion. If Barbieri were to win, the judge would have to find that a mistake in writing the time on the warrant made the document illegal and inadmissible as evidence of the plot. His lawyer held out at best a 50-50 hope the judge would rule in their favor.
For the elderly Barbieri, serving jail time was not an option, and he told Castellano that he would rather die than spend the rest of his life in prison. Why the prosecutor would want to put an old man in prison was beyond him, and any judge who couldn’t see that he was a victim of entrapment forfeited his right to live. Barbieri wanted to be given a gun in the courthouse, and if the judge found against him, he would kill him and in effect commit suicide by police.
The problem was that courthouses had begun using metal detectors, and getting a gun past one of them would be impossible. That was the gist of the conversation between Tommy M. and Paul Castellano on Gloria in the summer of 1981. Tommy M. was at the helm with his boss alongside him as they motored several miles past Sandy Hook in Lower New York Bay. Castellano was doing his best to find a courthouse guard to buy, someone who could easily pass the metal detector with an extra gun he could give to Barbieri. Given enough time, there would be little question that such a guard could be made an offer he couldn’t refuse, but the hearing was Tuesday and it was already Saturday afternoon. Tommy M. had no contacts in the Federal Court, and he assured his boss that the only possibility of getting guns into the courtroom was to blast in. It would be a blood bath.
With surveillance techniques improving all the time, boats served as safe environments from unwanted ears. However, even 40-footers, are small, and Joseph, who had been sitting in the shade on the steps to the bridge, overheard the conversation above him. The young man decided to help his father if he could since even at fifteen he knew the importance of satisfying his father’s boss. The person he knew who was best at solving problems was Argo Malle, but he certainly would not help if he knew what the help was for. Joseph would have to outsmart Argo in order to use Argo’s smarts.
Joseph and Argo took the train to Downtown Brooklyn early Saturday morning because Joseph said that he was writing a story for school. The story took place at the Brooklyn Court House, and Joseph wanted to make sure that he included an accurate description of how everything looked. Argo was there to keep him company and to make any suggestions his fertile brain was sure to generate.
“See that?” said Joseph pointing to the Court Street entrance to the courthouse. “Only one door opens and there are 12 steps up.”
“Really interesting,” mocked Argo as they walked up the steps.
Joseph opened the door, and Argo passed through. Directly ahead of them was the entrance to the main courtroom, but between the doors to the courtroom and the outer doors stood the metal detector flanked on each side by a row of heavy oak tables. One armed officer was stationed at the doors from the street and another on the left in front of the tables by the side wall. There was a guard who stood behind the table and searched attaché cases, and another guard who stood directly in front of the metal detector on the courtroom side who seemed to be in charge.
“I gotta mention the metal detector in my story, and the guards,” whispered Joseph as if they were in church. It was clear to the guards that boys had no business there, and they told them to leave.
“I’m writing a story,” said Joseph.
“Good, write it outside,” said the guard in charge.
Argo was embarrassed. What was Joseph doing there, he thought, and more importantly, why did Argo have to be with him?
Directly across from the courthouse was a park where on pleasant days people ate their lunch and fed the pigeons. Large English maples provided shade and welcome relief from the brick and cement that surrounded them. The boys walked down the courthouse steps and crossed the street to the park.
“I told you, Argo. I got to write a story. They want to shoot the judge,” said Joseph.
“You mean you have to write a crime story?”
“No, that was my idea,” said Joseph.
“Bad idea,” said Argo. “You think your father would want you writing about shooting a judge. What are you, an idiot?”
“I thought it would be different. She said she gives credit for different.”
“Yeah, well your father doesn’t give credit for dumb,” said Argo looking for a bench not covered with pigeon droppings.
“Look, are you going to help me or not? This is the story I want to write; what’s the big deal? So what if Tommy M.’s son writes a story for English?”
Argo looked at the courthouse across the park. It was gray, and old, and imposing, and while it had a frieze and statuary, it was cold and ugly. In addition to the electric wires hung on the eaves to keep the pigeons off, the building told everyone else to keep away also. Why, Aro asked himself, would people study the law for three years after college only to spend the rest of their lives in so horrible a place?
“So here’s the question,” said Joseph as the boys sat on a bench in the sun that Argo picked. “How do you get a weapon passed the metal detector?”
Argo looked at Joseph as Holmes did Watson. “Use a weapon that’s not metal, a slingshot.”
“But what if it has to be a gun?” asked Joseph.
“Why does it have to be a gun? What about a ceramic knife or a wooden baton?”
“Let’s just say it has to be a slingshot, I mean gun. It has to be a gun to shoot the judge from across the room.”
“Then I don’t know,” answered Argo. “It’s your story.”
“I know, but I can’t figure it out.”
“Neither can I. They don’t want you to,” said Argo. “Why don’t you just change the story?”
“Because that’s the story. They shoot the judge. He’s a bad judge, corrupt. He deserves it.”
“Well why not shoot him on the way in or out of the courthouse, then you don’t have to worry about the metal detector.”
“I guess I could do that,” said Joseph trying desperately to think of a reason not to.
“You could have a sniper across the street who shoots him before he gets into his car.”
“I think they have underground parking, see,” said Joseph pointing to the sign that read “Parking” and pointed to a ramped entry below the building.
“So he’s a sharpshooter who hits him while he’s driving. Or they shoot him in front of his house. This way you save money on the sharpshooter.” Argo tittered at his own callousness.
“How do we even know where he lives?” asked Joseph desperately. “Can’t we just shoot him in the courtroom? That’s the original story. Can’t we stick with the original story?”
Argo shrugged.
“Come on, Argo. Can’t you think of a way to get a gun passed those guys?”
“No, I can’t.”
“You haven’t even tried. All you want to do is find an easy way out. Help me think. If anyone can do it, it would be you.”
Argo looked at Joseph who was obviously serious. Then he looked at the building as if that was where the answer was to be found.
“The gun has to go over or around the metal detector since it can’t pass through it. That’s obvious,” said Argo.
Joseph nodded and sat motionless, waiting.
“The tables,” said Argo. “You could kick a gun under them. That wouldn’t ring the bell or anything, and it would be quiet along the floor.”
“But the guards would see it?”
“Not if you get their attention on something else?”
“What?”
“I don’t know! It’s your story!” said Argo impatiently.
“Okay,” said Joseph, “there’s some kind of diversion. How do they pass the gun, and who gets it?”
“Well, the shooter gets it. He already passed through. Maybe the other guy drops the gun down his pants leg and pushes it under the table with his foot.”
“That would work, for sure,” said Joseph.
“But the gun could be heard hitting the floor,” thought Argo aloud. “You’d have to tie a string around the gun to keep it from hitting the floor. The guy lets go of the string before kicking it across to the shooter. I don’t know; you’ll have to work on it. He has no pocket in his pants leg…something like that.”
The boys walked directly back to the train station even though Argo wanted to walk along the East Side Promenade to watch the tankers dock. Joseph seemed unusually anxious to get home and said little on the train.
“How come you, who barely passes anything, cares so much about writing a story for English?” asked Argo as the train rattled and rolled them home to the New Utrecht station.
“I don’t know,” Joseph lied. “I got it into my head to write this story; I want it to be good.”
“Did Mrs. Friedman say you were failing?”
“No, I’m passing,” Joseph answered.
“You mean you read Death Be Not Proud and My Friend Flicka?” asked Argo referring to the required 8th grade reading.
“Yes, part of them.”
“And now you make us spend a Saturday so you can do an extra fine job on a story.”
“So?”
“Nothing,” answered Argo staring vacantly out the window. “I hope she gives you an A.”
Of course, there was no story and Joseph did not get an A, but he did win his father’s respect for the clever way of getting a gun in the hands of Sal Barbieri.
The trace of displeasure that crept across Tommy M.’s face when Joseph told him that he had overheard his conversation with Paul Castellano changed to proud happiness when his son offered a solution to the problem. After hearing Joseph detail his plan, Tommy M. knew his son had the guile needed to be a leader. Even if the plan failed, the concern and effort his son demonstrated on his own was truly satisfying, and Tommy M. knew then that his son had become a man.
The main concern for Tommy M. was that he did not know if the set up in Trenton was the same as that in Brooklyn, but there was no time to lose. His first call was to Paul Castellano from a pay phone in Elizabeth, NJ. Castellano would provide the gun and the inside man who would deliver it to Barbieri; the diversion would be provided by Tommy M. Everything, of course, depended on what Tommy M. found in Trenton.
It was just before five o’clock when Tommy M. arrived at the courthouse and saw that it was set up much the same as the one in Brooklyn except that there was only one guard on the street side of the metal detector, and he called Castellano with the good news. They had until nine o’clock Tuesday morning to work out the method of delivery and the timing that would be necessary to pass the gun around the metal detector. Paul Castellano insisted they meet at midnight so he could personally approve of Tommy M.’s plan.
Tommy M. sped to “Cheetahs,” one of his topless New York bars, this one run by Jack “Ruby” Rubarosa. Ruby conducted Tommy M.’s Manhattan and Bronx bookmaking operation from the office above the First Avenue bar on the Lower East Side, and he was Tommy’s best earner and his brightest man. Ruby lived on the prestigious Todt Hill in Staten Island, and it was at his recently purchased house that part of The Godfather was filmed twelve years earlier.
Tommy M.’s plan was to use two of Ruby’s dancers to create the diversion at the Trenton courthouse.
“They have to be smart. I don’t want two bimbos,” said Tommy M. to Ruby. “Doll them up, you know. The guards will all have their eyes on them, and the pass will be easy. One of the girls faints at the table, and when they come to help, the other one slides the gun under the table to the inside guy who just happens to be walking out of the elevator. The hearing is on the second floor.”
“Maybe the stairs are better so there’s no trouble with the timing,” suggested Ruby.
“Whatever, he’ll be there at 9 on the dot. The girls have to be there at the same time. She faints only if she sees him at the table. She can’t be sliding the gun to no one. She’s got to see him.”
“Of course,” said Ruby. “Now I gotta find the right girls.”
“Good. Make them practice the fainting…and the slide so it can’t be seen.”
“You got a clean piece?” asked Ruby.
“Paul’s giving it to me tonight. I’ll have it for you at quarter to nine tomorrow.”
“It’s better if I get it from you tonight and give it to her here, this way we don’t pass it on the street.”
Tommy M. thought about it. “Okay, I’m meeting the big guy at 12. You can stop by my house after then…before one.”
At the meeting with Paul Castellano at the end of Gerritson Avenue, Tommy M. was given the gun and told that the inside man would be bald with glasses, wearing a business suit, and would be carrying a leather portfolio under his arm. However as Castellano reviewed the plan with him, Tommy M. grew uncomfortable. There were too many variables, too many ways to fail, and failure would be blamed on him. Offering a solution his boss asked for was one thing, success another. But it was too late for second guessing, and now he would have to bank on the plan of a fifteen-year-old, not his son as he thought, but the fifteen-year-old who cried when he shot a bird with a slingshot.
At one minute to nine, two painted dolls with little waists and big hair wiggled up the Federal Court steps in Trenton. Two people were passing through the metal detector, a female guard was looking at an open attaché case on the table in front of her, and no one was at the stairs on the left.
“Excuse me, officer,” breathed the blond. The brunette caught the eye of the guard at the detector and smiled. “Is hearing room 204 on the second floor?” she asked the door guard reading the number from a small slip of paper.
“Yes. Take the elevator up.”
“Where is it?” asked the blond, totally befuddled by being in a building with an elevator.
“Pass through and it’s right on your right, Miss.”
“Oh, I think I see it,” she said in a loud voice. Then she turned and fixed her eyes on the guard’s, “Thank you.”
The door to the stairway opened and a bald, well-dressed gentleman walked slowly out. He was carrying a portfolio under his arm and looked like any of twenty lawyers in the courthouse at that time.
The girls sashayed toward the tables. “It’s on the second floor,” screeched the blond in a nails-on-chalkboard voice, making sure everyone noticed her. The two people who had just been cleared to pass walked toward the elevator. “We have to pass through that contraption.” As soon as the two people ahead of them got on the elevator, the brunette went into action.
“Oh!” gasped the brunette falling to her knees in front of the table on the side opposite from the female guard. She grabbed onto the blonde and fell to the floor.
“Ronnie!” yelled the blonde bending over her. She raised her blouse, took the gun from her pants waist and slid it across toward the pair of shoes on the other side. “She passed out.” Her voice rang out loud around the hall
The guard at the door and the one at the detector moved toward the women, and the guard at the table moved to stand in front of the detector as if to block any further entrance to the court. When she did, the inside man picked up the gun at his feet and slipped it in his suit pocket.
“Is she all right?” he asked the guard at the detector. She looked at him distrustfully and did not answer.
“Are you okay, Ronnie?” asked the blonde.
Ronnie opened her eyes. “Yes.”
“I told you not to come today. This always happens when you get your period,” said the blonde helping her up. The door guard also helped as the other guard went back to his station.
“Oh!” gasped the brunette, losing her balance once again. The bald man moved silently to the stairs.
“You better not try to get up, Miss,” said the door guard. “Just sit here until the blood gets back to your head.” The bald man was gone before the female guard noticed. She had done her job; no one passed through despite the excitement.
With his heart racing and hand wrapped around the gun in his jacket pocket, 72-year-old Sal Barbieri knew that he was about to die. It would be a soldier’s death as he would take the lives of the judge and the prosecutor before he would be shot by the court police. If he were lucky, he would also take one or two of them with him.
The hearing as far as Barbieri was concerned was legal claptrap that made no sense. Both his lawyers and the prosecution seemed more concerned about past trials than the one in front of them, and the judge sometimes spent ten minutes at a time reading silently from his bench. At one point, the court seemed like a library with everyone reading something else, and Barbieri could not control a loud sigh of boredom.
“I hope, Mr. Barbieri, we are not keeping you from something important,” said the judge from over his glasses.
“Stay quiet,” whispered the lawyer closest to him.
“No, I’m not going anywhere,” Barbieri replied to the judge.
“That’s exactly, Mr. Barbieri, what I’m trying to determine.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
“Indeed,” said the judge going back to the brief.
“Can’t you just sit there?” his lawyer asked Barbieri in a disgusted whisper. “I think we’re winning here.”
“How would anyone know?” he answered in a normal voice heard by everyone. His lawyer looked up at the judge with a look that said he was sorry for his client’s lack of control. The judge closed his eyes in understanding and went on with his reading.
“All right,” said the judge after what seemed like more than the two minutes since the interruption. “Does anyone have anything else?”
Both sides said no.
“Okay, I have to disallow the evidence. It was improperly obtained even though there was no intent. CL 245c is clear on this, and taken with NJ 33.32 there is nothing I can do. I find for the defense.”
“Your honor, we request a dismissal.”
“Your honor,” objected the prosecutor. “We still have the option of trying this case on other evidence. He remains a flight risk.”
“That’s up to you, but without this, you have way too little. Bail is out. Let him go.”
As Barbieri was shaking hands with his lawyers, the bald man picked the gun from his pocket and walked to the men’s room. Within a minute everyone passed through the metal detector as silently as they had going in. There was no news coverage that day.
That night, Tommy M. took Joseph to the movies to see Arthur and then for ice cream at Junior’s. “Someday, if you play your cards right, you’ll have has much money as Arthur, and you’ll have the advantage of not being a drunk and pushed around by your grandma,” said the proud Tommy M. smiling to his son. “You’re a clever boy…it was smart what you did. You saw their weakness and you exploited it. And you came to me. That was smart.”
Joseph knew he was smart, but not in the way his father thought. His genius was in getting Argo to solve the problem, and Joseph would continue to be smart by not letting Argo or his father know exactly how smart he had been. He was also smart enough to know how fortunate he was that there had been no shooting that would have been covered for days by the media. What he did not know was what he would have told Argo.
"It's like if you don’t bring your umbrella,” said Tommy M. at celebratory dinner at Romano’s, Paul Castellano’s restaurant of choice in Little Italy. “When you bring it, it guarantees there won’t be any rain.”
“Well, you brought it and it didn’t rain,” said Castellano.
“Bullets,” said Tippy Randazzo finishing a sentence that did not need it. Tippy Randazzo was Castellano’s under boss from Manhattan and one of his closest confidants.
“You know Lucky always said you can’t do business at the end of a gun,” said Castellano referring to Lucky Luciano and ignoring Randazzo. “He never carried one.”
“No,” added Randazzo, “he got other people to carry them.”
“Damn right,” said Castellano. “And he’s still alive and everyone else is dead.”
“You’re right about that,” agreed Randazzo.
“Yes, I know,” answered Castellano condescendingly.
Tommy M. knew Big Paul to be a snob, more cultured than other bosses and far less likely to dirty his hands. Castellano believed he was smarter than the rest and refused ever to go against the odds, at least as far as he could determine them. Tommy M. was different; he believed that playing it safe was best, but there were times that doing so would be perceived as weakness, and of all the flaws a don could have, appearing weak was the worst. That was because a don had not only to concern himself with the police but with his business associates, and they were far more formidable and unforgiving.
The next day, Tommy M. decided to reward Joseph with a day at Yankee Stadium and told him he could invite Argo.
“I don’t think he likes baseball?” said Joseph.
“Invite him anyway; he’s always in the house; I never see him outside.”
“I think he’s helping Grandpa today.”
“So he can help him tomorrow,” said Tommy M. picking up the phone to call a contact at the stadium for tickets.
Joseph rode up front with his father and Argo sat in the back with a book he had on baseball strategy written by the then manager of the Baltimore Orioles, Earl Weaver.
“What are your reading that for?” asked Joseph from the front seat. He was wearing a Yankees cap and pounded the mitt he brought in case he got close enough to catch a foul ball. Argo had no mitt or hat.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I got it for Christmas.”
“So what did you learn so far?” asked Tommy M.
“About hit and run plays.”
“Yeah,” mocked Joseph. “They hit it and then they run.”
“No,” corrected Argo. “They run and then they hit it.”
“He’s right,” said Tommy M.
“Then why don’t they call it a run and hit play?” asked Joseph defensively.
“It doesn’t say,” answered Argo. “The problem is that if the batter doesn’t hit the ball, the runner is way off base.”
“And what do they call that, tough luck?” laughed Tommy M. along with Joseph.
Argo didn’t laugh. “Caught stealing, I think.”
“Yeah, it’s not good to get caught stealing,” snapped Tommy M. catching his son’s eye.
“If it’s a third strike, it’s called a “strike him out, throw him out” double play,” Argo added.
“How do you know so much about it and you never play?” asked Joseph looking over the seat at Argo.
“I don’t know; I read about it I guess,” answered Argo. “Sometimes I watch on TV, and the World Series. I like the strategy.”
“There’s not much strategy in baseball,” Tommy M. remarked looking back at Argo from the rear view mirror. “You know what Willie Mays said about baseball: ‘It’s a simple game. They throw it; I hit it. They hit it; I catch it.’” Argo closed the book.
They had just crossed the Brooklyn Bridge when Joseph noticed they turned the wrong way to Yankee Stadium.
“Where are we going?” he asked his father.
“I’ve got to make a stop before we get there. There’s plenty of time; they start at 7.”
The car pulled in behind Cheetah’s, Tommy M.’s First Avenue topless bar on the ever seedy Lower East Side. It was after six o’clock, and there were only a few cars parked on the dirt lot. The buildings surrounding the bar were ancient, and some were in such bad repair that they were unlivable. The few rooms which still had windows were used as shooting galleries for drug addicts, and others were used by street walkers and their johns.
“You guys wait here,” said Tommy M. as he got out of the car. “This won’t take long.” He pulled open the heavy steel door which had a big sign forbidding entry to minors, and the boys looked around at a world they had not before seen. Argo noticed alongside their car where someone had vomited and saw for the first time a condom wrapper which had been torn open.
“You know what that is?” asked Joseph.
“No.”
“It’s a rubber,” said Joseph. “You know, a condom.”
“The wrapper,” Argo corrected.
“They probably do it right here in their cars.”
A car pulled into the lot and the driver got out, locked his car, and with his head hurried to the steel door. He was young and dressed in a white shirt and a loosened tie. His sleeves were rolled up, and Argo thought he had just come from work.
“You want to go in?” asked Joseph with devilish eyes.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. He said stay here.”
“We can just take a look,” said Joseph opening the car door. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to see.”
Argo was silent.
“I’m going in,” said Joseph stepping out. Argo followed.
Even before they reached the steel door they could hear the music.
“They spelled ‘minors’ wrong,” said Argo as Joseph pulled on the heavy door. The smell of stale beer and ammonia attacked them immediately, and both boys for the first time saw a bare breasted woman, in fact, two of them. One was swinging around a brass pole on top of a bar around which a few men sat with beer mugs and dollar bills lying in front of them. The other was on her knees at the edge of the bar gyrating to the music. Her mouth was open, her eyes half closed, and her right arm was supporting her body. She used her left hand to tuck a dollar bill in her g-string.
“If my father sees us, tell him we had to use the toilet,” said Joseph as they walked closer to the bar. No one seemed to notice them, and if they did, no one seemed to care. In fact, it appeared to Argo that no one, not even the dancers, seemed to care about anything. It was as if the dancers and the men were going through a ritual, putting in time before it ran out.
Still, Argo was aroused by the scene. The music was thumping loudly, and the women were not at all ashamed to be seen by the men. The blatancy of their sexuality was new to him, and Argo did not know what to make of the stoic faces of the men who came to see uninhibited young women dance for them.
“I really have to go,” said Argo as he headed for the men’s room. There was only a urinal and a toilet with no seat. The washstand had only one tap, no soap, and a dirty linen towel track that was stuck. The smell was overpowering, and as Argo stood at the urinal he read the telephone numbers and outstanding physical attributes of certain named women. The drawings of genitalia were no better than those he had seen in school toilets.
Fortunately, Argo convinced Joseph that they had to go back to the car if only to keep his father from finding it up on milk crates.
They missed part of the first inning, Joseph spilled soda on Argo’s shirt, a fight broke out in the stands, and Boston beat the Yankees 8-0. It was the first and last time Argo went to Yankee Stadium, and it was the first time that he tried beer. Tommy M. let the boys drink from his cup, and Argo found it far too bitter. He also did not like the sign on the vendor’s tray which said that it was forbidden to sell beer to minors.
When Argo went to confession that Saturday, he told the priest that he had gone into the bar and that he had been sexually aroused.
“Did you suffer an erection?” asked the priest.
“Yes, Father,” admitted Argo.
“That shows you how wrong it is to be in a place like that. You must keep yourself from the occasion of sin. It is wrong to put yourself in a position of having to frustrate your natural desires. If your friends are doing something you know is wrong, you must be stronger. And with God’s grace, you will be.”
Why priests used the term “suffer” when describing an erection was not clear to Argo, but he understood that sex was appropriate only in marriage. Still, whenever he saw pictures of naked women or sometimes even when he saw a woman on the street, especially if she were pregnant, he would get sexually excited, and it did not seem too much like suffering.
Argo knew that he and Joseph were different and that the world of Tommy M. was not what he wanted. Still, they were like brother and father to him, and he felt even more comfortable with them than he did with Benny Musso, whom he was much more like. With Benny, Argo knew there would be no surprises like trips to a topless bar or run-ins with the F.B.I.
However there was one surprise from Benny. Just before school was to begin that fall, Benny told Argo that he was going to be a priest. Benny would attend a seminary in Latrobe, Pennsylvania the following year when he graduated from high school. Learning that his friend would become a priest made Argo’s doing so move from a vague notion to a concrete possibility. One need only say the words, as Benny had, and it would become a reality.
Argo had already graduated from New Utrecht that June, and he had been accepted to Columbia University on a tuition free scholarship, but he would have to pay for books, food, and lodging, and on his mother’s income, that would be impossible. That was why he had enrolled in Brooklyn College which was free and which would allow him to commute from home.
And that would have worked fine except on August 4, Irene Malle collapsed at work and died before reaching the hospital. Argo had expected her death, but being told by his surrogate grandmother, Carmela Machiarolla, that she died hollowed to nausea the pit of his stomach. He cried only when he saw his mother lying in her casket at Collangello’s Funeral Parlor, and it was the last time the boy become man did so.
Argo became even more uncommunicative, and Carmela Machiarolla was alarmed. In her family, people cried aloud or laughed, and they expressed themselves openly. She knew how to handle that, but she did not know how to cope with someone who refused to speak a complete sentence.
At sixteen, Argo would have to be in the care of an adult, and though Carmela and Cosmo offered to care for him, Argo felt he would be too much of a burden for them. Even when Tommy M. insisted that he live with him and adopt him as his own, Argo refused. He had decided that he would apply to the seminary that Benny was to attend the following year, and he would enlist the help of Sister Mary Esther.
It was the day before Mary Esther was to leave on vacation back home in Indiana to stay with her mother and father that Argo knocked on the door at the convent. The housekeeper had him wait in the tiny vestibule while she fetched Sister, who saw the concern on her protégé’s face. His large, dark eyes which usually lit his face were dull, and his lips were tight.
“Let’s go to my room,” she said leading Argo through the tight hallway in the back of the convent. He was still a half-head shorter than she, and that made him seem younger and more in need of nurturing than his fifteen years might ordinarily require. She had known him for half his life and felt especially close to him, and when she stood by him at his mother’s funeral, her arm wrapped around his shoulders, she wept for him. Before they got to her room, Argo told her of his intention to go to Latrobe.
But something about they way he said it gave her pause.
“I wanted to go to a public university for the exposure, but now it is probably best if I go to the seminary, if there’s room.”
“I’m sure there is. And even if there isn’t, there are other seminaries,” said Mary Esther.
Argo saw her suitcases standing in her open closet.
“The question is, are you sure you want to go to a seminary at your age? I mean, you don’t want to go because it’s expedient; you have to be sure.”
“Benny’s not sure,” said Argo.
“I would think not. Everyone has doubts. I certainly did when I made my decision. It’s just that it should come from you, not from conditions outside.”
Argo thought a moment. “But sometimes things happen that help you decide.” His pragmatism had already been formed, and given the option of living with the Machiarolla’s or being with Benny, the choice seemed clear.
“Well, Argo, there is no greater calling than to serve God. And there is nothing more fulfilling, if you have the calling.”
“I think I do,” said Argo, but then he added looking past her, “but how do I know?”
She would speak to Monsignor Gioffi before she left for the airport the next day, and that would give Argo another night to think and pray for guidance. She was certain the Monsignor would get so fine a candidate into any number of seminaries, if that was what Argo truly wanted.
The next day Argo got two phone calls. The first was from Monsignor Gioffi’s office with an appointment later that afternoon and the other from Keen Ginter of the law firm for which Argo’s mother had worked as a cleaning lady. Ginter had promised Irene Malle that if she were unable to care for her son, he would provide assistance through their office’s client, Kane Philanthropies, a charity providing scholarships to needy youth in the Greater Metropolitan Area. It had been eight days since Irene’s death, and Carolee Frederic, an executive for Kane, had already arranged through personal contacts for a fast track examination of Argo’s school records by the Scholarship Admissions Office at Rutgers. Ginter told Argo that he had to give permission to New Utrecht High School to release those records to Rutgers before they could consider him for a scholarship. Ginter also told him that legal residence would have to be established in New Jersey, and that Carolee Frederic herself, along with her husband, Donald, would agree to be his official guardians while he was at Rutgers and until he turned eighteen.
“If it’s something you might like to do,” said Keen Ginter on the phone, “I can meet you at New Utrecht and help you release your records. You’ll need an adult.”
“I’m not sure,” said Argo, his mind racing down corridors of possibilities.
“Well, it’s something your mother wanted for you, that is, seeing to your education in her absence. She was a fine woman, and all of us here are only too pleased to help. And as far as the Frederic’s go, you can’t have better sponsors. Don is a friend of mine; we’ve worked together for the past three or so years. We’re both retained by Kane Philanthropies; I do the New York work, and he does it in New Jersey.”
“Does the scholarship include housing?” asked Argo.
“Yes, you live on campus, and I think they have a work program where they give you a job in the library. But Carolee Frederic knows about Rutgers. She’s on some committee there.” There was a long pause. “It’s really a great opportunity. I mean, if you qualify. Rutgers is a good school --- and from what your mother has told us about your National Merit scholarship, you very probably will.”
By the time Argo hung up from the second call, the first one became irrelevant, and after he called Regina Pacis to cancel his appointment, he grew anxious but looked forward to meet the lawyer at New Utrecht and to start his adult life as a Jerseyite.
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