The Butcher

by Philip Carlo

  Carmine Galante was an out-of-control, bona fide psychopath. He had no conscience, scruples, or reservations about blowing the brains out of either a real or an imagined foe. When his old nemesis, Frank Costello, died, Galante, from jail, ordered his mausoleum blown up. While in prison, Galante was examined by a psychiatrist, who diagnosed him with “psychopathic personality disorder”—an understatement.

  The network of dedicated thugs that Galante had put together had no compunction about selling heroin and was still viable; the foundation he laid, at the behest of Joe Bonanno and Lucky Luciano, was so strong and well put together that it was still up and running. These were men who, at another time, might have been strikebreakers, bootleggers, killers. Interestingly, it was not only they who were at Carmine Galante’s beck and call, but it was their brothers, their cousins—relatives through marriage. In other words, in order to belong to this fraternity, you had to be a relative or go back many years.

  From jail, with a vengeance that bordered on obsession, Galante planned his comeback, the engine of which was heroin. He planned his becoming the boss of bosses. He was going to sell heroin—openly, boldly, and without reservation. Fuck the other families. Fuck the DEA. He was willing, indeed he was happy, to go against the dictates of the full Mafia Commission. He didn’t respect them. He thought they were soft. In time, he planned to kill them all. As he paced his cell in Lewisburg, as he finished his last days in prison, he plotted in his mind the deaths of all the Mafia bosses—Philip Rastelli, “Cockeyed” Philip Lombardo, Tony “Ducks” Corallo, and Carmine Persico. Fuck, he’d kill them all.

  Like this, the stage was set for a monumental, bloody war that would rock the foundations of the Mafia from Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, to Castellammare del Golfo, Sicily. True to his word, when Carmine Galante was released from prison in 1974, he immediately went about putting together his plan. Within weeks, pure heroin was coming into the United States because of his connections in Sicily and Montreal and because of his fearless, audacious belief that he could do whatever the hell he wanted. Not only did he and his faction of the Bonanno family start openly selling drugs, but they openly defied the mandates of the Commission.

  “Fuck ’em,” Galante told anyone who would listen, his words echoing throughout Brooklyn like some kind of religious mantra.

  Additionally, Galante began having members of the Gambino family murdered. Leaving no clues as to who was committing the killings, he brazenly brought down Gambino soldiers and captains. Meanwhile Carlo Gambino died of natural causes, in his sleep, disappointing Galante to no end.

  “The cocksucker wouldn’t even give me the pleasure of killing him,” Galante told confidants.

  Galante’s intention was to eliminate the competition. It was no secret in La Cosa Nostra that the Gambinos were selling drugs—Carlo’s brother Paulo was suspected of running the operation—that the Gambinos were bringing high-grade Turkish heroin from Sicily. This was, of course, all off the record.

  The acting head of the Bonanno crime family, Philip Rastelli, was not up to the task of fighting Carmine Galante. Galante was as tough as a junkyard dog. He had come up the hard way. Born in East Harlem in 1910, he had first worked for Vito Genovese as his chauffeur and private assassin. Eventually, Galante began driving around Joe Bonanno and ultimately was made a capo de facto of the Bonanno crime family—a street boss. He acquired the name Lilo because of his penchant for smoking Italian cigars known as “guinea stinkers.” People in the know said that Galante killed over fifty individuals. People in the know said that Galante even murdered a cop. He kept his hair short and wore glasses. He weighed 155 pounds.

  Always on guard, always expecting trouble, he went about the business of building a large heroin enterprise while plotting and planning the deaths of his enemies. He murdered as though he had a state-issued permit to kill. Galante was so out of control, causing police and press scrutiny, that there was a sit-down of the Mafia Commission at which it was decided that he had to go. This would be the second time in the history of the American Mafia that the head of a family would be ordered killed; the first was Albert Anastasia.

  People sent from the Mafia Commission approached Bonanno captain Alphonse “Sonny Red” Indelicato, and told him that he was either with them or he was dead. They informed him of the Commission’s decision that Carmine Galante had to go; that Galante was causing problems for them all; that if he, Sonny Red, didn’t help, he would be taken out within twenty-four hours.

  Sonny Red had been expecting this. The handwriting was on the wall. He was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. He knew which way the tide was moving. He did not have to be threatened or cajoled any further. He readily agreed to cooperate however he could with the killing of Carmine Galante. One of the men chosen to be a part of the lethal hit team put together to kill Galante was Anthony Bruno Indelicato—Sonny Red’s son and Tommy Pitera’s inspiration, mentor, and friend.

  A seasoned killer himself, Carmine Galante was not an easy man to bring down. He knew the dance of death; he knew how to protect not only his back but how not to be put in a position where gunmen could readily reach him, hit him. He always traveled with several men who were armed and, he thought, loyal to him. As most megalomaniacs, Galante did not realize his bullying and threatening and killing was coming back to haunt him. Not only was the full Mafia Commission behind his murder, but all members of the Mafia in all places wanted him dead.

  July 12, 1979, was a particularly warm day. There were no clouds above Bushwick, Brooklyn. Galante chose to have his lunch that day in a trusted cousin’s restaurant, Joe and Mary’s. This was a good example of how Galante insulated and protected himself from would-be assassins—he was always wary. Bushwick, Brooklyn, was an Italian enclave. Most of the stores catered to the Italian community. There were Italian bakeries, pork stores, pizza places, and restaurants all along Knickerbocker Avenue. The smell of fresh espresso, fresh baked bread, and pizza seductively wafted through the air. In the pork stores, huge wheels of cheese, provolone and parmiggiano, enticingly hung in the windows.

  Galante arrived for lunch with two of his men in tow, Baldo Amato and Cesare Bonventre. Bonventre was a traitor, a would-be assassin; he would make sure the hit went smoothly, on time. When Galante and his party entered the restaurant, waiters bowed and scraped and treated him reverently. This was a thing Galante had become used to and relished, the deference he received as an elite mafioso. The garden was in the back of the restaurant. It was some seventy feet through the long, narrow room. Though the garden was not air-conditioned, it was shaded by large umbrellas. As is the Italian custom, Galante would eat his meal in courses. Toward the end of the meal, Cesare got up to make a phone call. Galante lit up a cigar.

  Word was soon passed to the hit team that Galante was in place. With the quick, lethal expediency of a military operation, they were on the move. Soon a light blue Mercury sedan, a stolen car, pulled up in front of the restaurant. There were three men in the car. They were Bruno Whack Whack Indelicato, Dominick “Sonny Black” Napolitano, and Russell Mauro, all large, broad-shouldered men.

  Here is where Bruno Whack Whack Indelicato showed his true colors, showed his amazing balls and audacious moxie, for when he stepped from the automobile, pulling down a ski mask as he went, he was carrying a full-length, blue-black shotgun. It was a little after twelve noon. Shoppers crowded the sidewalk. Rubbery waves of heat rose from the ground. Cars and buses drove by. Bruno was the lead man. He acted as though he were invisible. Without reservation, he and the hit team moved to the restaurant, grabbed the front door’s handle and arrogantly walked in. They knew Galante was sitting in the back. They walked straight toward him, moving swiftly, as one, as though a robotic killing machine. Nothing could stop them now. They were invincible. Bruno was able to quickly discern Galante sitting in the yard. Patrons saw Bruno and the hit team, the guns they carried, and desperately scrambled to get away.*

  Bruno was as tight as a coiled spring. This man was a profession
al killer. He did not feel nervous or frightened or scared. He knew this murder would resonate throughout Mafiadom; he knew, too, that this killing would bolster his reputation as a man of respect. He also knew he would be made a capo for what he was about to do.

  Galante saw them coming. His eyes widened. Guns were drawn, raised, pointed. With a thunderous roar, Whack Whack Indelicato cut loose with the twelve-gauge shotgun. The other members of the hit team also fired shot after shot after shot. Whack Whack fired again. Carmine Galante went down in a heap of torn flesh and broken bones, never to rise again. Also killed was his cousin, Giuseppe Turano, and his zip bodyguard, Lenny Coppola. The attack was so sudden and violent Coppola never had a chance to draw his weapon. As Galante lay there, his glasses askew, he still had the cigar he was smoking clenched in his teeth—clenched in a death grip that would be memorialized in the most famous photograph of a Mafia hit ever taken.

  Bruno and the hit team turned and, calmly, not running, made for the front door. Bruno carried his shotgun straight down. He let his right leg block it as he walked. It seemed a natural extension of his lithe body. They hit the sidewalk, took the seven steps to the street, and arrived back at the car. Bruno opened the door, put the shotgun inside, grabbed the roof of the car, and got in. Slowly, the car pulled away. Bruno and the hit team abandoned it in Gravesend, where it would later be found by police.

  The jungle drums of the Mafia echoed loudly and insistently all that day and night. Word of Galante’s murder spread far and wide with the speed of a bullet. Mob guys all over the United States, all over Italy, quickly learned what happened. Toasts and cheers were made. For La Cosa Nostra, this was a good day. A proverbial thorn in all their sides had been removed, irrevocably and irreversibly. Again, La Cosa Nostra showed their killing prowess, showed that they kept a clean house, that they would even kill their own if need be.

  Wide-eyed, though not surprised, Tommy Pitera heard about the murder, heard that his friend and mentor had been part of the hit team. Pitera was proud—proud to know Bruno, proud to be his friend.

  Later that afternoon, Bruno Whack Whack Indelicato showed up at the Ravenite Social Club in Manhattan’s Little Italy. He had obviously been sweating and looked disheveled, like he’d been through the mix. Boldly and with great audacity, he had been sent to kill, to wreak havoc, and kill he did. FBI agents watched surreptitiously from rooftops and vans as Bruno was greeted not only by fellow Bonanno crime family members but by half a dozen Gambino members. This was an oddity. This immediately proved to law enforcement that the hit on Galante was a collective effort—a cooperative killing. The bad guys all smiled. They openly kissed and hugged Bruno Indelicato. Even Aniello Dellacroce, the second in command (underboss) of the Gambino family, was there, and he hugged and kissed Bruno Whack Whack with obvious respect and admiration.

  Whack Whack was the man of the hour. Whack Whack was a hero. Whack Whack had lived up to his name in a large way. His father could not have been more proud of him. All the mistakes Bruno had made with drugs and his erratic behavior were forgotten. With this one deed, the slate was wiped clean. He was the Mick Jagger of the Mafia. With good cheer, laughing, patting one another’s backs, they all went inside, disappearing into the black hole that was then the Ravenite Social Club.

  Salud!

  Salud!

  Salud! could be heard over and over again as passersbys moved in front of the club.

  The following morning, on the front page of every newspaper, was the shocking, black-and-white, amazingly graphic image of Carmine Galante lying dead with half a cigar clenched in his teeth and his glasses crooked.

  The big badass Carmine Galante was no more—the wicked witch was dead.

  Contrary to popular belief, mafiosi are open and candid about murder, bragging about who killed whom, when and where and why. They could be likened to old women talking over the backyard fence. They seem to take it for granted that if they talk among themselves, it will go no further.

  Pitera marveled at the newspaper reportage of the very dead Galante. He marveled at the audacious aspects of the murder. This was so foreign, so unlike what he had been exposed to in the Far East, in Japan. There was nothing subtle or delicate or discreet about the murder of Galante. The murder brought home just how brutal, though effective, the way of La Cosa Nostra was. This murder, the secretive, violent underground society of La Cosa Nostra, drew Pitera further toward them, their culture, mind-set, walk and talk. More than ever, he wanted to be not only a part of it but an important part—a central part. He knew if he comported himself with pride and dignity, acted as though he were a man of respect, they would be drawn to him. You cannot go knock on the door of any given capo and say, “Let me in.” They must see you and like what they see; you have to prove yourself. It didn’t take long for Pitera to get a chance to do just that.

  Murder is the only way to become a made man. Murder is the one thing all mob guys have in common, a secret bond. There is no statute of limitations on murder, and at any given time, anyone who kills can be culpable in the eyes of the law no matter how long after the crime. Taking that into consideration, it was easy to understand why La Cosa Nostra demanded blood on the hands of anyone who took the oath of omertà. If they broke their oath, if they betrayed their colleagues, they were vulnerable and culpable, more than likely dead.

  When it had ultimately become time for Pitera to earn his bones, he was given a name, address, and photograph of the mark. Without reservation, he had shot to death a man on a residential Brooklyn street. He didn’t know who the man was. He didn’t care. He had been told to commit the murder and he did it, coldly and efficiently. He felt no remorse…no guilt. It was business. A way of life.

  After Pitera committed this murder, he was one of them. Until, however, he was sworn in, he was not officially a made man. He could now work with the Bonanno crime family, was an extended part of it, though was not an official member yet. He was an official associate. If there were disputes involving him, the family would back him. If there were sit-downs involving him, the family would back him. Pitera was no longer a lone alpha wolf trying to satiate himself. He was now part of a clan, part of a pack of wolves that would protect him, watch his flank, and watch his back. That is, if he behaved, if he towed the line.

  Bruno Whack Whack Indelicato would hasten Pitera’s career considerably. After Whack Whack had committed the Galante killing, he was given his own borgata, and made a capo. This was a reward for a job well done. Whack Whack was now, throughout La Cosa Nostra, a superstar. He had audaciously killed Carmine Galante in broad daylight.

  As stone-faced Brooklyn homicide detectives questioned all the patrons of Joe and Mary’s, questioned the people on the streets, bus drivers, shop owners, cabdrivers, they kept coming up with blank stares, as though all the people of Bushwick were deaf and dumb and blind. The people of Bushwick all knew who had been killed and the last thing any of them wanted was to be involved in this murder on any level. Many had seen who had gotten out of the Mercury sedan but none would say who it was. The killing of Galante seemed, at first, like the perfect hit. But its brazen attitude rubbed the men and women of the NYPD—in high and low positions—the wrong way. The murder had been committed with such hubris, was so in-your-face, that they felt personally affronted and offended.

  “How dare these guinea cocksuckers think they can do something like this and get away with it!” was the utterance heard throughout station houses in New York. With an unusual vigor, the NYPD went looking for Galante’s killers. They didn’t have to look far. They soon learned that Bruno Indelicato, Russell Mauro, Dominick Sonny Black Napolitano were part of the hit team, and Galante’s associates Cesare “CJ” Bonventre and Baldo Amato were in on the plan, but proving their involvement was another matter. Initially, the police believed that Sonny Red had paid to have Galante killed. This would turn out to be false.

  As the cops were trying to solve the murder, the rest of the Bonanno family was preparing for war. Galante was b
arely in the ground before people began vying to fill the void his murder had left in the organization. Sonny Red was part of one of the factions that would soon be at war for control of the Bonanno family. Philip Rastelli, temporary head of the family, was on the other side. Lines were drawn in the sand.

  Everyone had hoped the transition would be smooth, but Rastelli, then being kept in the federal house of detention, was intent upon keeping control of his position in the family and would not acquiesce to the Mafia Commission’s mandates.

  Born on January 31, 1918, Philip Rastelli was a stubborn man who refused to see the reasoning of not only the Mafia Commission, but most all of the Bonanno capos. Having said that, it wasn’t long before they were shooting at each other, killing one another loudly and openly, and in the middle of the street.

  The last thing anyone wanted now was a protracted, bloody war between different Bonanno factions. There were numerous sit-downs between Bonanno captains and other families all over Bensonhurst. Try as they might, the collective effort of La Cosa Nostra seemed to be failing and still more dark clouds filled with lightning and thunder gathered over Brooklyn, gathered over Gravesend, Bensonhurst, and Dyker Heights.

  One of the more powerful men in the Bonanno family, Joe Massino, more than anyone, some say, tried to avoid war, tried to work hard for peace. But each of the Bonanno captains was strong-willed and obstinate and refused to walk the path of diplomacy, refused to listen to reason, even though there was more than enough to go around.