American Gangsters

by T. J. English

  Wait a minute, thought Jimmy, something’s definitely not right here. He popped the magazine out of the automatic Grillo had given him. The gun was empty. Not a single fucking bullet.

  “Motherfucker,” Jimmy whispered under his breath.

  He quickly left the garage, flagged down a cab and headed back to Manhattan.

  “You was right, my man,” he told Mickey when he got to the Sunbrite Bar. “Fuckin’ punk tried to set me up.”

  After that, Coonan, Featherstone, McElroy, and a few others made at least a half-dozen trips out to Brooklyn to blow Danny Grillo away. They discussed clearing it first with the Gambino family, like Castellano had said, but decided not to. No telling who was on Grillo’s side; if they were to consult with the Italians on this, it might tip their hand.

  The closest they came to getting the job done was one afternoon in October 1978 at the Gemini Lounge, a saloon in Canarsie that served as a base of operation for Roy Demeo’s crew. Coonan, Featherstone, and McElroy staked out the joint in Jimmy C’s latest vehicle, a dark-red van. Inside the van the boys sported an impressive collection of commando paraphernalia: army-issue ponchos, black ski masks, bulletproof vests, knives, numerous pistols, and an old-style Browning machine gun, commonly known as a “grease gun.”

  It was pouring down rain as they waited outside the Gemini Lounge for Danny Grillo. When Grillo finally came outside and headed for his car, Featherstone kicked open the back door of the van and got ready to blast away with the grease gun.

  “No!” shouted Jimmy. “Not here. We’ll be spotted.”

  They tried to follow Grillo as he drove away, but McElroy couldn’t get the van started and they lost him.

  Even after he’d been double-crossed by Grillo, Coonan still sucked up to the Italians. Danny, he kept telling Featherstone and the others, was just an isolated case. It was important that they maintain ties with Demeo, he said, even as they tried to eliminate his right-hand man.

  Just a few days after another unsuccessful attempt to kill Grillo, Jimmy and Mickey met with Roy Demeo at the Skyline Motor Inn on 10th Avenue. Roy didn’t know anything about Coonan’s problems with Danny, but apparently he’d been having problems of his own. He told Coonan he’d had to get rid of Danny Grillo for being “a punk and a lowlife.”

  Supposedly, Grillo withdrew $100,000 in cash from the Canarsie crew’s safe deposit box and gambled it away. “The kid was suicidal,” said Roy.

  After they killed Danny and disposed of his body, they drove his car to the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge and left it there, with the front door open on the driver’s side.

  “This way,” surmised Demeo, “they might think the guy got depressed and jumped off.”

  “See,” Jimmy said to Mickey. “I told you we shoulda let Roy know what was goin’ on.”

  “What’re you talkin’ about?” asked Demeo.

  Jimmy went on to tell Demeo all the problems he’d been having with Danny; how Danny had fallen way behind on his shylock payments and then tried to set him up.

  “Damn,” said Roy, the former butcher’s apprentice. “I wish youse woulda told me. I woulda chopped him up in pieces ’stead of just cuttin’ him in half.”

  A big grin spread across Jimmy’s face when Demeo said that, and from then on Coonan acted like the Irish Mob was more indebted to the Italians than ever before.

  * * *

  In late October ’78, when Tom McCabe, Richie Egan, and the other cops in the Intelligence Division’s Syndicated Crime Unit first started hearing that Coonan had hooked up with Paul Castellano, they were skeptical. They had been expecting an Italian connection, but not with the top man himself. La Cosa Nostra, as they knew it, had a strict caste system. At the top was the boss of the family, in this case Castellano. Immediately below were the underbosses and the consiglieri, or counsellors. Then came the caporegimes, or crew chiefs, like Roy Demeo. Finally, the lowest members of the family were the soldati, the soldiers who made up the various neighborhood crews.

  In theory, very little got done within this structure that wasn’t authorized by at least a capo or an underboss. Castellano was known to be one of the most cautious and judicious mob bosses in recent history. Although it was not unprecedented that he would associate himself with a crime group whose ethnic origins were different from his own, why would he hook up with a bunch of crazy Hell’s Kitchen Irishmen?

  If it was true—and the boys from Intell weren’t certain yet that it was—the only thing they could figure was that Castellano thought he might be able to neutralize Coonan’s crew by bringing them into the fold. At least this way he’d be able to impose some control over what happened on the West Side. And if anybody got killed there would definitely be some accountability.

  Partly, the Intelligence cops’ skepticism was based on the fact that for the time being, all they had to go on were unsubstantiated claims from various neighborhood sources. In the thousands of hours worth of surveillance they’d conducted on the West Side so far, they had yet to make visual contact with Castellano, Demeo, or any other member of the Gambino hierarchy. All they could do was keep on gathering intelligence and hope it might eventually lead to a telltale meeting or phone call, something that would establish a definitive link between Coonan’s crew and the boys from Brooklyn.

  Detective Sergeant Joe Coffey’s Homicide Task Force wasn’t so patient. When Coffey first heard through Intelligence sources that the Irish Mob was using Castellano’s name around the neighborhood, he decided there was only one way to find out if it was legit. He would check with Castellano himself.

  Although Coffey had listened to Castellano’s voice on wiretaps many times, he’d never met the man face to face. He did have a connection, however, through Funzi Tieri’s nephew Francois, who he’d once served with a subpoena. He knew that Tieri felt he’d been dealt with squarely and would probably give Coffey a good recommendation.

  Sure enough, once Coffey put out the word that he wanted to meet with Big Paulie, he got a call one morning in his office. “Joe Coffey the cop?” asked the voice on the line.

  “Yeah.”

  “Seven o’clock tonight. Tommaso’s.”

  Sergeant Coffey and his partner, Frank McDarby, arrived at Tommaso’s at exactly 7 P.M. They sat in the bar area near the huge brass coffee urn, right where Coonan and Featherstone had waited several months earlier.

  Three minutes after seven, in walked Castellano with an entourage of seven or eight wiseguys. An exceedingly polite man, Castellano introduced Coffey and McDarby to each of his bodyguards. Then Castellano and Coffey made their way to the back of the restaurant while McDarby waited in the bar area with the others.

  After those who were dining near Castellano’s table had been politely relocated to another part of the restaurant, Big Paulie and Coffey were seated.

  “I just want you to know,” said Castellano. “The only reason I’m meeting with you is because Francois says you’re okay.”

  Coffey thanked Castellano for taking the time, then got right to the point. “The reason I’m here is that there’s a couple Irish kids that are causing a lot of havoc; and they’re throwing your name around and it’s causing us many, many problems. I think it would kind of behoove you if you would tell them to cease and desist using your name. We have every intention of taking these kids out, and you might just get dragged into it.”

  Castellano listened carefully. When Coffey finished, he smiled. “Yes, I know these two kids. Two nice Irish kids.”

  He admitted having a meeting with Coonan and Featherstone, but when Coffey asked what the meeting was about he just smiled again. “What happens in this place is private, just like this meeting now is private.”

  They continued talking, with Coffey trying to lure information out of Castellano and Castellano deflecting all inquiries in a gentlemanly manner. Eventually, the conversation drifted to Castellano’s Staten Island home, the food at Tommaso’s, the weather. Coffey liked the aging Mafia don; he felt he was respectful and enga
ging. But he knew two minutes after he sat down that he wasn’t going to get anything of any value out of him.

  Meanwhile, in the bar area, Frank McDarby found himself surrounded by seven or eight wiseguys. They stood there for five minutes or so in an atmosphere that was less than congenial. Finally, McDarby figured he would try to break the ice. So he asked the Italians if they wanted to hear a joke.

  They looked at each other like they couldn’t believe this big dumb mick cop, but no one voiced any objections. So McDarby went right ahead with the joke. “There’s just one thing,” he said as a preface. “You got to let me finish this joke before you make a decision, okay? Don’t get upset before you hear the punchline.”

  They looked at McDarby suspiciously, then looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Okay,” began the detective enthusiastically, “it goes something like this: Paddy the Irish cop leaves the precinct to go out on his post. He’s just starting his tour. On the way out he comes to a street corner and he sees a little black kid sitting in the street playing with dogshit. So he says, ‘Eye now son, what in the name of Jaysus are you doin’ with that? What are ye doin’ playin’ with that stuff?’

  “So the little black kid looked up and said, ‘I’m making a policeman, sir.’

  “Paddy says, ‘Yer makin’ a policeman? Well what kinda policeman are ye makin’?’

  “The kid says, ‘I’m making an Italian policeman, sir.’”

  “‘Aw Jaysus,’ says Paddy. ‘Hold on a minute now, son. You stay right here. I’ll be right back. I’m goin’ up the road t’get Tony the Italian cop …’”

  By this time McDarby noticed a few of the wiseguys were starting to look troubled. They were glancing at each other—and at McDarby—in utter amazement.

  “Hold on now,” he said. “Relax. I told you, don’t pass judgment till I’m done with the joke.”

  He straightened his tie and continued.

  “So Paddy goes down to the adjoining post, and he says to Tony, ‘Hey, Tony, run down with me. I want t’show you somethin’ down at me post.’

  “‘Yeah,’ says Tony, ‘whaddya got?’

  “‘Aw Jaysus now, just come down to me post now and I’ll show ye.’

  “So he takes Tony the Italian cop down to his post and he says to the little black kid, ‘Son, tell this officer here what you were doin’.’

  “The kid’s still playing with the dogshit, and he says to Tony, ‘I’m making a policeman, sir.’

  “And Paddy says, ‘Tell him what kinda policeman it is yer makin’.’

  “‘I’m making an Italian policeman,’ says the kid.

  “So Tony the Italian cop gets all bent outta shape and he says, ‘Eh, Paddy, whatsa matter with you, what the hell is wrong with you, tellin’ a kid to say somethin’ like that?’

  “He turns to the kid. ‘Eh, son, why you talk like that? Why you say you makin’ an Italian policeman?’

  “‘Well,’ says the little black kid, ‘because I don’t have enough shit to make an Irish policeman.’”

  At this, Castellano’s henchmen broke out in raucous laughter, catching the attention of just about everyone in the restaurant. They were still laughing when Big Paulie and Sergeant Coffey reappeared from the back of the room.

  “Eh,” said one of the wiseguys, “Paulie, you gotta hear this joke, you gotta hear this joke.

  “Frankie, go ahead, tell Paulie the joke.”

  So McDarby went through the whole joke again. This time the wiseguys were squealing with delight at each line until McDarby arrived at the punchline and they, along with Castellano, cracked up laughing.

  On the way out to the car, Coffey and McDarby were still marveling at how easy it was to disarm Castellano’s so-called tough guys.

  “Yeah,” said McDarby to his partner, “but did we get anything off Big Paulie?”

  Coffey turned suddenly serious. “No, not really. You couldn’t pry that bastard open.”

  Coffey’s frustration continued, as did that of Egan, McCabe, and the other Intelligence cops. As the investigation proceeded into November 1978, they rummaged for more information, knowing that an alliance the likes of which they were hearing about could mean only one thing.

  It was going to be a rough Christmas in Hell’s Kitchen.

  10

  HAVING A DRINK ON WHITEY

  One thing about the Italian connection: It certainly clarified the standing of Coonan and his boys in the community. If in the fall of ’78 there were still people doing criminal business in Hell’s Kitchen who felt an allegiance to the memory of Mickey Spillane, the news of Jimmy’s alliance with the Gambino family put an end to it once and for all. Throughout the criminal underworld, Coonan and his people were more than just another gang on the streets; they were now the organized crime entity on the West Side of Manhattan.

  To most people, they were known simply as the Hell’s Kitchen Irish Mob or Coonan’s Crew. Some knew them as the Westies, a term first used by the cops in the Midtown North precinct, then picked up by Sergeant Joe Coffey and immortalized in the newspapers around the time of the railyard diggings. Whatever the name, Coonan, Featherstone, and their followers had attained a dubious legitimacy. And their presence in neighborhood saloons and restaurants began to engender new levels of respect and fear.

  Of course, some were slower to catch on than others. In early November, John Bowers, president of the ILA in Manhattan, put out the word that Local 1909 was no longer going to make its weekly extortion payments. Bowers was the son of the late Mickey Bowers, leader of the ILA’s notorious West Side “Pistol Local” in the 1950s. Apparently, the younger Bowers had retained little of his father’s underworld acumen. When he issued his edict, an irate Jimmy Coonan immediately called for a meeting. As a courtesy, John Potter, an ILA official, was dispatched to meet with Coonan and Featherstone at the Landmark Tavern, one of the neighborhood’s more upscale saloons, at 46th and 11th Avenue.

  “Bowers says the payments gotta stop,” Potter told Coonan.

  “Jesus,” replied Jimmy, “don’t this prick know nothin’? You go down there and you tell John Bowers if he thinks the checks is gonna stop, I’ll blow his fuckin’ brains out.”

  Potter gagged on his food.

  Bowers asked around.

  The checks continued.

  In the eight months since the sit-down at Tommaso’s, Coonan had become more and more brazen. He was still meeting every week with the Italians, sometimes in Brooklyn, sometimes at the Skyline Motor Inn. As folks in the neighborhood who were close to Jimmy realized, this was clearly more than just business. Jimmy actually liked spending time with the wiseguys. He even began to copy their ways: the fancy threads, the elaborate protocol and, most of all, the way they threatened and brutalized anyone who failed to show them the proper “respect.”

  At one point, Coonan had even tried to get Mickey, Jimmy McElroy, and a few others to socialize with Roy Demeo’s crew, with predictable results. After a night on the town together, Featherstone had gotten in a heated argument with one of Demeo’s underlings, which Roy eventually had to break up.

  Coonan backed off a little after that. Perhaps he realized he could only go so far when mixing business with pleasure—at least when it involved the rest of his crew. On a personal level, Jimmy was as solicitous of the Italians as ever, acting as if he himself were a made member of La Famiglia.

  The night that really brought it all home for Mickey came in mid-November of ’78. He and Jimmy had gone to see Spider Tassiello at Sonny’s Cafe on 47th and 9th Avenue. It was nearly ten months since they had killed Spider’s son, Rickey Tassiello. Throughout the summer and into the fall Spider’s other son, Arthur, had been telling people in the neighborhood he was going to get revenge by wiping out the entire Coonan family. Specifically, he had been saying he was going to drive by Coonan’s Tax Service and throw a hand grenade in the window.

  Jimmy had a bug up his ass about the Tassiello family long before Rickey’s murder. Years earlier, Angelo
Tassiello, Spider Tassiello’s brother, had had an affair with Coonan’s mother. Everyone in the neighborhood knew about it, and it had been a source of great humiliation for Coonan’s father. Within a few months of the affair, the elder Coonan died of natural causes. But Jimmy and his brother Jackie felt their old man had died of a broken heart, and they blamed the Tassiellos for it. When the murder of Rickey Tassiello went down, Mickey had a feeling it was for more than just the $1,250 Rickey owed Coonan. It was Jimmy Coonan settling an old score on behalf of his father.

  When Coonan and Featherstone arrived at Sonny’s Cafe, Spider Tassiello was behind the counter.

  “We got somethin’ to talk about,” Jimmy told Tassiello, motioning towards the back of the bar.

  As the two of them walked into the back room, Mickey stayed at the counter and sipped on a bottle of beer. From where he was seated he could only see Coonan’s back, but old man Tassiello was facing him. The TV was on, so Mickey had to strain to hear what was being said. He could see Jimmy motioning with his hands, and he got the distinct impression he was telling Spider Tassiello how they’d killed his son Rickey.

  Occasionally, Jimmy’s voice rose above the sound of the TV. “If I hear any more bullshit about your kid threatenin’ my family, we’re gonna come back here and take care of every one a youse. Do y’know what I’m pointin’ out?”

  Spider Tassiello was in tears, nodding his head in agreement.

  Featherstone found the whole scene pathetic. Wasn’t it enough to kill the guy’s son? Did they now have to berate and humiliate him on top of it?

  Mickey turned away to watch the television, hoping it would take his mind off things. To his amazement, there on the tube was The Godfather. He sat transfixed for a full minute watching these Hollywood mafiosi on the TV perched high above the bar counter; then his eyes would drift down to Coonan threatening Spider Tassiello. If there were such a thing as an epiphany, a supreme moment of awakening, for Mickey this was it. It was like a light bulb flicked on in his head …