The Butcher

by Philip Carlo

  Massino, with the help of the Gambinos—John Gotti’s crew—resorted to war, and hit teams brought in from Canada set up and murdered Alphonse Sonny Red Indelicato, Philip “Phil Lucky” Giaccone, and Dominick “Big Trin” Trinchera. They were buried, somewhat haphazardly, in empty lots in an undeveloped area of East New York near Queens. This was unprecedented in the history of La Cosa Nostra. Captains were akin to generals and three noted, talented generals all struck down at the same time was news—an event.

  What happened after the killings was an interesting anecdote showing just how cooperative Mafia families are with each other. When it was time to get rid of these three captains, a van was driven by Joe Massino and associates to Howard Beach. There they met Gambino members Gene Gotti—John’s brother—Fat Angelo Ruggerio, and John Carniglia. Carniglia was a gorilla of a man and no doubt was brought along for his digging talents. Soon inpromptu graves were dug in lots between Ozone Park and East New York and the three Bonanno captains were unceremoniously laid to rest. One of the bodies, that of Sonny Red Indelicato, was found a mere nineteen days later in a lot at 1 Ruby Street in South Ozone Park. He had on a five-thousand-dollar Cartier watch. The bodies of Dominick Trinchera and Philip Giaccone were not found until 2004.

  It didn’t take long for Bruno Whack Whack Indelicato to learn that his father had been taken out. Bruno had been very close with his dad. They were, in a sense, more like best friends than father and son. For Bruno, the loss—the methodical, treacherous murder—of his father was the most traumatic experience in his life. He was a pressure cooker about to explode, but even he, a stone-cold killer, knew he could do nothing to avenge his father’s death. If he so much as lifted a finger toward retribution, he’d be dead in a New York minute.

  The news of his father’s death brought home the hardcore, bloody reality that Bruno himself was in danger as well; he had no doubt that hit teams were actively searching for him as well. Bruno, along with his good friend Tommy Pitera, hightailed it out of Brooklyn and barricaded himself in a secluded house way out on the edge of Long Island. Pitera had brought with him an army duffel bag filled with guns. He was dedicated and he was loyal to Bruno and he would fight to the death on Bruno’s behalf. Meanwhile, word was sent out that if Bruno was willing to let go of what happened, he could continue running his borgata and do his business without trouble from the new regime. As a secretive, surreptitious dialogue went back and forth between Bruno and Joe Massino, Pitera methodically cleaned and oiled his guns over and over again. Ultimately, an agreement was worked out and Bruno and Pitera were welcomed back into the fold.

  Cocaine.

  Bruno Whack Whack Indelicato wound up finding solace and comfort in cocaine. It wrapped him in a warmth of numb indifference and took him to another place far removed from the mean streets of Gravesend and Bensonhurst. He traveled to Miami, and there, with different girlfriends, stayed holed up in his house for days on end, on long, protracted cocaine binges.

  While Tommy Pitera empathized and sympathized with his friend’s loss, he ultimately lost respect for Bruno because of his drug addiction. In the world of La Cosa Nostra, the excessive abuse of drugs and/or alcohol was tantamount to a cardinal sin, a potential death sentence. Though most all mafiosi in their thirties, forties, and early fifties dabbled in drugs, few, if any of them, were serious drug abusers. Once more, those around Bruno began to view his drug habit as a serious problem, a liability that was a one-way ticket to the grave. Theirs was a world where men had to be sharp, at the top of their games, lean and mean and ready to strike at the bat of an eye. Drugs, everyone knew, made you stupid and unreliable.

  With the changing of the guard and the new faction taking over the Bonanno family, Tommy Pitera rearranged his alliances. He came to the attention of powerful underboss Anthony Spero. Spero was a large man with dark hair, a dark complexion, good-looking in a rough way. He was respected by most everybody. It was hard not to like Spero. He was fair, smart, and exceedingly well versed in the ways of the street. Surprisingly, one of his more lucrative enterprises was fireworks. He had huge warehouses of fireworks and made four to five million dollars annually just from their sales. On Bath Avenue, every Fourth of July, Spero would put on amazing firework displays. He spent several hundred thousand dollars on fireworks to be blown up there in the streets. The cops looked the other way. Not only did he supply the fireworks for free, but he gladly provided enough food to feed all of Bensonhurst, and feed all of Bensonhurst he did. Later, John Gotti would try to co-op and copy what Spero had done, but his firework shows paled in comparison to Anthony Spero’s displays of generosity and patriotism.

  Not only was Anthony Spero liked by the people within the confines of the Bonanno clan, but all the captains of all the families knew him and liked him, respected him. He was particularly close to war capo Greg Scarpa, of the Colombo family. He was also close to Anthony “Gaspipe” Casso, superstar of the Lucchese family. Spero was about diplomacy, building bridges, though when murder was called for, he would readily and quickly push the button.

  With the death of Sonny Red Indelicato and the loss of Bruno into a storm of cocaine, Tommy Pitera became closer to Anthony Spero. It was ultimately Anthony Spero who would cause Tommy Pitera’s dream to come true. The thing that Pitera wanted more than anything in life was to be made, to get a button, to be a bona fide member of the Mafia. Everyone liked him, respected him. The murders he had been assigned were carried out quickly and efficiently, and he kept his mouth shut about them. He was exactly what La Cosa Nostra was looking for. With the blessing of Anthony Spero, the books were opened and Tommy Pitera was nominated to be inducted into the Bonanno family. Word was sent out to all the five families in the New York tristate area; word was sent out to mafiosi across the country.

  “Does anyone have any reason why Tommy Pitera shouldn’t be made?” was the question asked.

  No one objected. Pitera had created a good reputation for himself.

  The ceremony was held in a two-story red-brick house in Bensonhurst, off Bath Avenue. Anthony Spero decided that he would place Pitera in the borgata of Bonanno capo Frankie Lino. Frankie Lino had Mafia in his blood. His cousin, Eddie Lino, was one of the most feared men in all the Mafia, both in Sicily and in New York. He, too, was close to John Gotti, was in the Gambino family. It was said that Eddie Lino had personally killed more people than most ten mob guys put together.

  Frankie Lino was a pudgy individual with a high, broad forehead, his eyes, nose, and mouth too close to one another, as though they were rudely pushed together while he was still in his mother’s womb. His marriage had been arranged for him by his parents and Vito Genovese. He attended Lafayette High School in the heart of Gravesend, Brooklyn.

  By the day that Pitera was made, Frankie Lino had become all gray, his hair so naturally curly that his nickname was, appropriately enough, Curly. Consigliere Anthony Spero was there. Several men who were to be made were also present, all dressed to the nines. For them, this was being baptized, receiving Communion and confirmation. This is what they had all wanted all their lives and it was about to happen. The ceremony, created in Sicily and brought over by immigrants at the turn of the twentieth century, was simple and to the point. Tommy Pitera, repeating the Sicilian pledge of omertà, swore that the Bonanno crime family would come before his own family. He swore, too, that if he violated this oath, he’d burn in hell, as the portrait of a saint now burned in his cupped hands. Pitera stood ramrod straight, his chest puffed out, his head high. He knew when he left that room, no one would ever make fun of him again. No one would ever knock his high-pitched voice. Even now, standing there, reciting omertà, he was speaking in this distinct falsetto voice. If it weren’t so solemn and serious, it would have been outright comical to hear him talking like that—more Saturday Night Live than La Cosa Nostra.

  With the ceremony completed, they shook hands heartily and kissed on the cheek, embracing one another. Afterward, they all went out to dinner at a popular La Cosa No
stra hangout Tommaso’s on Eighty-sixth Street. There was no laughter, no patting on the back. It was a quiet, solemn dinner in which respectful toasts were made in hushed tones.

  “Salud.”

  “Chindon.”

  “Salud.”

  “Chindon.”

  Thus, the dragon was born.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  GRAVESEND: THE CEMETERY

  Inevitably, when dealing narcotics, some people don’t pay. They get caught up in the trials and tribulations of life and don’t realize that the nonpayment of drugs could very well lead to a death sentence. If, it was common knowledge, you fronted an amount of drugs that were not paid for, soon everyone would be doing it; soon the dealer would be out of business. To stay in that business, people had to keep their word, people had to own up to the agreements they made. No one believed this more than Tommy Pitera. He came to view the selling of drugs as though he was selling his own respect. For him it became a very personal enterprise. If he gave you drugs and you didn’t pay him back, you were stealing away his livelihood, you were stealing away the reputation he had worked hard and diligently to acquire. He took his place in the family very seriously. For him, his position in the family was something to be revered, not merely respected and spoken about in whispers.

  According to those in the know, Thomas Salerno had taken several ounces of cocaine on consignment from Pitera. He paid a little late, though he paid. Pitera gave him more cocaine and, again, he paid a little later, but still paid. Pitera warned him about paying on time. Apparently, what Pitera said fell on deaf ears, for the third amount of drugs Pitera fronted Salerno were not paid for. Pitera sent word for Salerno to come see him. He didn’t come. When Pitera finally met up with Salerno, he managed to convince him to go for a car ride, which ended up with Salerno being shot in the head.

  Pitera thought it would be funny to leave the dead Salerno in his car right next to Gravesend Cemetery. When the body was found by police, there was no connection to Pitera, but soon word spread on the street of exactly what had occurred and why, and people in La Cosa Nostra nodded knowingly as the police scratched their heads and wondered who committed the murder.

  Like this, Tommy Pitera began killing people who were not paying for drugs on time. He not only killed those he personally had fronted drugs to, but he murdered for associates of his in the Bonanno clan. He soon became the go-to guy for murder, not only within that family but other families as well. With each murder, Pitera’s reputation grew. Pitera became adept at murder, comfortable in that guise.

  Now, for the most part, Pitera wore all black. He shunned daylight, came out mostly at night, and his face grew pale and waxy. His light skin juxtaposed against his black clothing gave him a vampire-like appearance. He was quiet—sullen. This further fueled the fear people had for him. This further fueled the rumors that were being passed all over Brooklyn—that Pitera was a remorseless killer; that Pitera was dismembering his victims, neatly cutting them up into six pieces and disposing of them at various burial sites.

  It was said that he had cleverly discovered that land on bird sanctuaries could not be disturbed; that building and construction would not be allowed. It wouldn’t take long for him to put two and two together and realize that burying a body in such a place would just about guarantee the body would not be discovered. It was also said, people in the know recently confided, that Pitera had an autopsy table in the basement of a building he controlled.

  Pitera married a Brooklyn woman named Carol Boguski and had a male child with her. They named the boy Charles. This, however, was an ill-fated union and soon the couple separated. With the proceeds Pitera made from dealing drugs, he opened two bars: one in Cypress Gardens called Cypress Bar and Grill and another on Avenue S and West Eighth Street called the Just Us Bar. It was a residential street with few stores. More than being a moneymaking enterprise, it was a place for Pitera and his people to meet and arrange for drug sales; in reality, more a place to sell drugs than alcohol. That’s not to say they sold drugs over the bar or out of the bathroom. Deals were consummated here. Agreements and handshakes were made here. The physical passing of drugs happened elsewhere.

  Now, when Pitera walked into a Brooklyn restaurant frequented by mafiosi, conversation slowed. People stared and pointed. Tommy Pitera had become what he always had wanted to be: feared and respected, a man not to be taken lightly. Pitera still practiced martial arts but now it was more to keep in shape, to keep well coordinated. He was a vain man and did not want to develop a stomach or jowls. Pitera continued to read voraciously about killing human beings, war, and destruction. He acquired books on how to dismember bodies and diligently studied where to cut and slice, deepening his knowledge of how to neatly take apart a body.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BUY AND BUST

  The war on drugs had not only heated up but was now being fought at a feverish pitch. The Drug Enforcement Administration’s Group 33 had never been so busy. They were up against some of the most devious criminals of all time who hailed from Italy, Colombia, Mexico, Jamaica, Afghanistan, the Near and Far East, Turkey, and France. These were highly educated, highly motivated, particularly bright men who had ready, well-trained armies of cutthroats at their disposal. Modern business practices were perfected and scaled down to fit the drug lords’ needs. They had scores of boats and planes and even submarines. They were busy constructing tunnels that ran from Mexico for several miles into the United States.

  The men and women of the DEA fought a heroic battle with teeth and nails, hearts and souls, but no matter what efforts they made, how many sacrifices they were willing to make, it was never enough. Drug lords were like mushrooms after a heavy rain. They popped up everywhere—all shapes, sizes, and colors—and you could not stop them. They were so effective that they literally created new words for the English language. As an example, the term Colombian necktie referred to a killing method in which the throat was cut and the tongue pulled out through the slit. It was a horrible, unsettling sight and would last with whomever saw it for the rest of their lives. All the drug cartels, in their own ways, were particularly dangerous. However, the most dangerous were the Mexicans, the Colombians, and the Dominicans. For them, life was cheap. Most all these individuals, these drug lords, came up the hard way, were from the streets, were ruthless in the extreme, and they’d kill you as soon as say hello to you. Murder, for them, was arbitration, conciliation. Reasoning, for them, was a bullet to the head. Might was right. When the Colombians wanted to kill one man, they would not only kill him but murder his entire family—men and women and children—the very old as well as the very young.

  Because they were able to use phony passports and various forms of identification, these were particularly hard adversaries to bring to justice, for they were mobile, in and out of the country as readily as a turtle’s head was in and out of its shell. Once the blood was washed from their hands, they could casually go through customs.

  For Jim Hunt and Tommy Geisel, the war on drugs was a daily part of their lives, an intricate part of who they were. For them, it was not a newspaper article or a blurb on television. They, far more than the public or press, knew the true, heinous nature of the fire-breathing beast they were fighting. They saw the bodies, the crime-scene photos. They heard the stories in great detail about what occurred, how, and when.

  Several times a month, the DEA would make huge busts. One would think, considering the amount of drugs they confiscated, that they’d slow, put a dent in, the flow of narcotics. Just the opposite occurred. No matter how many busts they made, there seemed to be a never-ending supply, mountains of drugs in faraway places that were cleverly brought into the United States using unsettling amounts of imagination and creativity.

  Jim Hunt and Tommy Geisel worked so well together they could readily be likened to a bow and a fiddle in a maestro’s hands. They were not only fearless but they were, more importantly, street-smart. From studying how colleagues were shot and murdered, they had
learned well what not to do. Any bad guy who went up against Jim and Tommy was the one in danger. In Group 33 and all throughout the DEA, Jim and Tommy became…famous—respected.

  They were moving at two hundred miles an hour.

  “They were the best,” a former colleague by the name of Bruce Travers recently said.

  On a regular basis, they made busts, using professional informers and snitches, drug users and street people. Every night they were out on the street, looking to collar bad guys all over the tristate area, looking to win a battle in the war on drugs.

  Still, no matter how careful they were, with all the resources of the DEA behind them, people were hurt, killed. A good example of just how dangerous their job was, how they were truly putting their lives on the line, happened at 133rd Street and Amsterdam Avenue. This was an area known as a Dominican enclave. Of the three worst groups, the Colombians, Mexicans, and Dominicans, the most violent at the time, the most apt to pull the trigger of a gun, was surely the Dominicans. They were less about business and more about overt brutality as a matter of course. They were thought of by the DEA as the most dangerous of all the bad guys they chased. Jim recently explained that he had busted Colombians with kilos on them and no guns, but Dominicans with two ounces and three guns.

  Group 33 received word through a Colombian informer that some Dominicans he knew had kilos of cocaine to sell. This was a classic ploy the DEA used to catch drug dealers. It was called buy and bust. Through negotiations that often went back and forth for days or even weeks, a buy was set up in which the DEA would provide money and bust the dealer, most often through an intermediary, an informer.

  The Dominicans had rented a stash house in a tenement on 133rd Street. The drugs were supposed to be in the apartment. It was a little after midnight. The informer told Jim and his team, all told eight agents, that the cocaine was in the apartment.