Chapter Two
In Rochester back in the mid-1960s, the Living Room was one of the regular stops on the Friday-night club circuit. Between the Blue Gardenia Restaurant, the Fountain Blue, and Ben’s Café Society, you’d see every familiar face that made up the sinister side of Rochester’s inhabitants. These places were the Mob’s hangouts on the city’s east side. The drinking age was eighteen at the time, but plenty of underage girls were admitted. The club owners were not bound by fear of being busted for breaking the law and losing their liquor licenses. The law had been bought off, a fact easily recognizable when you saw the plainclothes cops hanging out in these clubs, drinking after the legal closing hour.
By the age of fifteen, while my parents thought I was at a school dance or in the safety of a friend’s home on weekends, I was out with my older girlfriends dancing at the Living Room. Rochester was a small town. Not only did everyone know everyone else; most were related in some way. Since I was well-known as a model, everyone knew my name. If they didn’t know me personally, they acted as if they did, approaching me like long-lost friends and engaging in conversation as though I had known them all my life.
The bartenders knew me and my preference in alcohol. By the time I pushed through the crowd to the bar, a glass of Scotch sat waiting, with two or three shot glasses backing it up. These guys knew how to treat a girl. It didn’t matter that you could never consume all the drinks those shot glasses represented. All that mattered to the guys paying the tab was that they looked like big shots spending their dough. I was blind to this then. Being made to feel special was part of the lure of this world. In all those years, I don’t ever remember buying my own drink.
To a starry-eyed teenager, being at the Living Room was almost like throwing your own party and having all your friends over. The club was open to anyone who dared to walk in. It was well-known as gangsters’ territory, so not many outsiders made it their favorite drinking hole. Set in a run-down neighborhood on Norton Street, just a few blocks from an all-night diner called Skinny’s, the building itself was an unassuming, plain brick structure sitting next door to an abandoned gas station. Not very inviting from the outside, but the inside held a world I was eager to explore.
The interior had an appealing, comfortable atmosphere. On each side of the entrance was a huge picture window with heavy burgundy drapes, pulled back in soft folds with thick gold ties. Some overstuffed couches covered in a muted tapestry material sat near the picture window farthest from the bar. The majority of the lounge area had tables for two with solid red tablecloths. The cheap red candle containers on the tables gave off very little light, which worked for this crowd. Discretion was preferable. The Living Room was a cesspool of out-of-control egos, and a constant threat of violence lingered in the air.
Opposite the other large picture window, a long bar stretched down the back wall. All twenty stools were usually taken by smoking customers, and people stood three deep behind them in drunken conversation. Bartenders never stopped pouring, even after closing when the drapes were drawn and the music stopped playing. That was when it really got interesting.
From the bar, a small, cramped stage could be seen in the back room. Several more tables sitting on plush red carpet surrounded the thirty-square-foot gray-tiled dance floor. Other than the colored spotlights for the band, this room was also dimly lit, with a low, suspended ceiling, painted black. I’d seen this place a few times during the day with the lights on, and it looked pretty tacky.
People roamed back and forth all night between both rooms, stopping to chat and fighting to be heard over the band. All the guys were big spenders, each trying to outdo the next. And I have to admit, that impressed me. My parents struggled to put food on our table, and these guys were throwing around $100 bills like there was an endless supply. I guess there was.
I remember one night a call came in, relaying the message that someone was on their way down, gunning for Sammy G. They barricaded the place and no one could leave until an army (not from the right side of the law) showed up for backup. I was really scared, mainly because I saw the alarm they were displaying. Deep concern replaced their usually confident demeanors. With guns out in full view, they paced, peering out from behind the drapes and planning who would do what if the enemy arrived before the backup did. When the place was sufficiently surrounded with armed men, the good guys (or at least the guys who were inside the bar) escorted the women out safely.
Living through this scene would be enough to make most people jump on the first bus heading anywhere, but not me. This only served to heighten my attraction to the mysteries of their way of life.
When I first met Sammy G in 1963 he was twenty-three years old. His face had not yet been creased with the prominent signs of stress, but still, he seemed older. His medium-brown hair fell casually onto his forehead, and an innocent but confident expression graced his face.
I had just turned thirteen and was visiting my girlfriend Rosalie, who lived in the city. I knew her from Apple Street when she came there to see her aunt. As we usually did when I visited, we walked around the corner to Skinny’s diner for a Coke. Tucked away in a rough neighborhood on the east side of town, Skinny’s was a hangout for juvenile “tough guys”—a breeding ground for future hoodlums. It was a perfect place for dangerous adventure, and an intriguing lure for my endless appetite for excitement. I’d never been there at night, but I’d heard it was a favorite breakfast spot for an older version of the daytime crowd after all the bars had closed.
Rather than sit in one of the many imitation red leather booths, we shimmied up to the counter and plopped ourselves on the stools closest to the large glass windows. I looked far older than my years with white shorts that showed off my thin, tanned legs and a red paisley halter top tied under my prematurely developed breasts. Rosalie looked her age. Her short, curly, dark hair had no particular style, and her face was broken out with major pimples that she tried unsuccessfully to cover with makeup.
After ordering our Cokes we shifted our attention to the teenage boys hanging around outside, checking them out unnoticed through the big glass wall that separated us. They intrigued us, looking very Continental in their tight pants and pointy, Cuban-heeled shoes. Like most thirteen-year-old girls just beginning to discover boys, we thought they were way too cool with their slicked-back, shiny hair, puffing on cigarettes suspended from the sides of their mouths.
As we were drooling, two guys in their early twenties sat down beside us and began hitting on us crudely. We tried to ignore them, but they made it impossible.
“Hey, doll face, whatcha want ain’t out there; it’s right here,” said the dirty-looking one as he grabbed his crotch.
“You’re disgusting,” I retorted, and turned away from him.
His companion focused on Rosalie with a lecherous leer. She stiffened and her eyes got as big as saucers.
“C’mon, give us a little look at those luscious tits of yours,” he continued, spinning my stool back around.
Sammy, sitting in a booth close by, was watching this take place. Realizing we were just babies under the piled-on makeup, he came to our defense. A heated argument ensued and ended up out in the parking lot, where Sammy proceeded to take these two guys on all by himself. Rosalie and I pressed against the glass of the big window and watched in horror as he administered his idea of fatherly advice. I’d never seen this kind of violence before and winced at every kick. Their faces were a bloody mess by the time he was finished. They scampered down the street like wounded dogs, and Sammy headed back inside.
“Anybody ever treats you like that again, you just let me know. You’ll be able to find me; I’m always around here, ya hear?” he said with authority.
Sammy was a young wiseguy back then, maneuvering his way quickly up the ranks in a very dark world, a world that was invisible to me then, but one which I would become all too intimate with in time.
The very first time I walked into the Living Room, Sammy G was there. He strutt
ed over and greeted me warmly.
A little older now than when we’d first met, I was well aware men were attracted to me. I never had to go out of my way to get attention. It just always seemed to be there, as natural as brushing my teeth. I enjoyed the attention, but I was still unaware of my sexuality and how it affected men. I didn’t know yet how the minds of men operated. Sammy did. He was as much aware of the evil intentions of men as he was of my naïveté. For whatever reason, he chose to protect that innocence.
During this first visit to the Living Room, we’d almost had a repeat of the first time Sammy G and I had met. As we stood at the crowded bar, a man next to me began swaying slightly. He leaned against the bar to steady himself as liquid slopped over the edge of his glass. Running his tongue across his teeth, he studied me with a half-lidded stare.
“Those are pretty nice tits you got, young lady. Are they real?” he drawled.
Overhearing the remark, Sammy snapped around and silenced him with a deadly look. The man backed off, staggering out of sight, but Sammy remained agitated for several minutes. I felt a shiver of fear. After seeing him in action once before, I didn’t think this was going to be the end of it, but the moment passed.
I rarely saw that side of him. The Sam I knew was kind—at least to me. He had the proverbial big heart, but he was selective about who saw it. He had to be. He had an image to protect. He was a “goodfella” who walked both sides of the street.
No, Sammy was not the typical cigar-smoking, gang stertype character. He was in a class all his own, a very handsome man, always impeccably dressed. He wasn’t what you’d call tall, about five-nine, but his clothes were expensive and he wore them well. I don’t think I ever saw the same diamond tiepin with matching cuff links on him twice. The same goes for the $300 shoes and custom-made shirts. He hit the streets movie-star style, surrounded by an entourage. He walked with pride, his appearance commanding attention wherever he went, but it was who he was which commanded respect.
Known for his generosity, Sammy left $100 tips, paid for a girl’s rent if she was in a bind, and bought expensive gifts for friends for no reason. It was just his nature. For my sixteenth birthday, he organized a junket to the Bahamas. My sister, Sharon, and my girlfriend Vicky were invited along for the fun. With my married older sister along as a chaperone, my mother had allowed me to go.
My most vivid memory of that trip was horseback riding on the beach. In a group of ten, we saddled up for the ride—a hysterical scene on its own. Obviously out of their element, these city boys wore dress pants and expensive Italian shoes for the occasion. Climbing onto the horse, Sammy split his tight pants and he cursed the horse excessively, as if the poor animal had anything to do with it. As Joey Tiraborelli was laughing at him, he mounted up and did the same thing!
The boys wore their buffed-out shoes and hiked up their pants, displaying their designer socks and partially exposed hairy legs. We headed out on the sandy white beach. When the horses took off at full speed, the boys’ terrified expressions would have made a great Kodak moment, but no one had a camera.
One of the guys lost his diamond pinkie ring in the panic and bitched the remainder of the way. The funni est, though, was when Sammy decided to be a big shot and run his horse into the surf. The horse got its foot caught in the coral, and, in the struggle to free itself, threw Sammy headfirst into the water. We laughed like banshees when the horse finally released himself and ran away, leaving Sammy to walk all the way back to the stables, but I actually think he preferred that. When he finally arrived, looking disheveled, he snorted, “I’ll take a gun pointed at my head anytime compared to this shit!”
What I loved most about Sam was his sense of humor. When I think of him now, I think of all the times we laughed. Not that I was any great genius, but Sammy used to use words that made no sense. I’d always call him on it and he’d make some wisecrack that got us off on a laughing jag.
But a laugh a minute was not what most people saw. Sammy was a powerful force in Rochester. He was “the Man.” He knew how to turn on the charm with his easygoing manner, but underneath lurked a killer, a fact I could never bring myself to see. His strong presence was invigorating. I felt safe and untouchable when Sammy was near. The view from Sammy’s world was mysterious, exciting, and seductive.
As I gained a better understanding of Sammy’s lifestyle, we used to laugh about whose picture was in the paper more often, his or mine. But no matter what I read or heard, I still refused to see the reality of who he really was.
It was March 1968. Mom and Dad were preparing to leave for Myrtle Beach on their annual golf trip with members of their club. I had gone the year before. I really had a great time, but this year I had too many jobs scheduled. It was my senior year in high school and I was off for spring break. The photographers were taking full advantage of it with bookings for a solid week. Besides, my fiancé, Tom, was trying to get a leave the next weekend from boot camp at Fort Dix, New Jersey, and I wanted to be there to see him.
I met Tom on a humid August night in the summer of 1966 while “cruising the Main,” as we called it, with my girlfriend in her new Corvair convertible. Sunday nights were always reserved for cruising down Main Street in the city. Back and forth all night long between Ben’s Café Society and the White Tower hamburger stand. Both had large parking lots that we used to chat with anyone we thought looked deserving of our attention. Actually, it was Tom’s souped-up black Dodge Charger that first caught my eye. I detected the power under the hood as he peeled out from a light. We pulled up beside him in the lot and I found him to be as attractive as his car.
Tom was tall, with long, sweeping lashes and challenging brown eyes. Like most everyone else in Rochester, he was Italian. What made him unique was that he was the only Sicilian I’d met who was as innocent as his face. Tom was twenty-four and working for Kodak, while I was just about to enter my junior year in high school. We were engaged by Christmas of 1967.
The war in Vietnam was in full swing and Tom had been drafted into the army. He’d been gone only a few months, but usually got home on the weekends. Between school and work I really hadn’t had time to miss him all that much.
Before my parents had departed for Myrtle Beach, I’d promised my mother that I would sleep at Aunt Theresa’s house while they were away so she could leave with peace of mind. The Monday after my parents left was one of my busiest days. I started out at nine o’clock, shooting a national ad for Kodak. At one o’clock I dashed over to Klaus Fischel’s studio to shoot a cover for Sara Coventry jewelry. By six I was in the photo studio at Sibley’s department store doing a series of newspaper ads for the following Sunday’s paper. We wrapped by midnight and I headed home. It was one a.m. by the time I stopped home, got my wardrobe together for the following day’s shoot, and arrived at Aunt Theresa’s. Long day. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
The next day was even worse. Bathing suits on the beach for Champion sportswear. That doesn’t sound so bad, but Upstate New York is cold in March. If the temperature reached forty degrees I’d be lucky. But that’s the nature of the business: swimsuits in January and fur coats in July. I really crammed in the jobs. No school and all work. I even had a booking for Saturday. Friday brought a break, though—I was home by four o’clock.
Six o’clock. Tom hadn’t called yet. Was he coming home? I phoned Aunt Theresa from home to let her know I wouldn’t be at her place for dinner. I assured her that if Tom wasn’t coming I’d be there in an hour or two. If Tom got in, I’d be at her place by twelve thirty a.m. at the latest. I had an early call the next day for Kodak and needed my beauty sleep.
Aunt Theresa lived alone with her son, Keith, a cop with the Rochester Police Department. She was used to waiting up until he was safely home. The typical Italian mother. But I understood her fears. When my parents were away, I always called to let her know where I was and that no bogeyman had gotten me yet.
While making myself a sandwich I heard the doorbell. Dick, my sister�
��s husband, stood on the step. His preppy attire couldn’t hide his obvious depression. His lanky body was slouched against the doorjamb and his youthful face was drawn and haggard, aging him beyond his years.
The traditional jock type, Dick was very all-American-looking, with light eyes and sandy brown hair styled in a crew cut. At twenty-five, he still played baseball and basketball with his old high school buddies on a weekly basis. His athlete’s body, slender but strong, served as proof of his active sports life.
“Do you mind if I talk to you for a while?” he asked pathetically.
He looked as though he’d been crying and didn’t have a friend in the world. He and Sharon had been married for about three years and had a two-year-old daughter. They’d had a tumultuous marriage from the beginning. Dick was insanely jealous of my sister, and violent fights erupted often. When they did, Sharon would run home to Mom. In their three years of marriage she probably lived with us more than she did in her own home.
Recently broken up again, Sharon needed to get away and clear her head. She had taken the baby and left with my parents for Myrtle Beach. This time, I thought, she would really follow through and not reconcile again. Personally, I thought it was for the best.
“No, come on in. Do you want a sandwich?” I answered, opening the door and proceeding back to the kitchen counter.
I felt sorry for Dick. He did love my sister, but he didn’t know how to control his temper. This time his apologies didn’t seem to be working and he was devastated, thinking he might have lost her for good. He was always nice to me, but I wasn’t the one who had to live with him.
“Yeah, sure, I am kinda hungry.” He paused. “Have you heard from Sharon yet?” he asked, trying to disguise his desperation.
“Yes, they called yesterday. They’ll be back on Sunday.”
“Did Sharon say anything about me?” With raised eyebrows, his piercing blue eyes searched my face, anticipating my answer.
The Company She Keeps Page 4
