Scarfo was taken directly to the Camden County Jail and placed in solitary confinement to await his hearing.
The next day I went to Philadelphia to see Bobby Simone and Bobby told me, “This is because of what happened down in Wildwood. There’s too much heat.”
I told Bobby, “You gotta get me in to see my uncle. I need to talk to him.”
Two days later Bobby arranged for me to visit my uncle inside the jail. It had been almost ten years since I had visited my uncle in jail, when he was in Yardville, and I found myself thinking of how much had happened over those 10 years. How many guys had been killed, all the stuff we had done, and how things seemed to be spiraling out of control. Then my uncle suddenly appeared on the other side of the glass and picked up the phone. I could tell right away he was agitated.
He started complaining right away. He said, “Tell Bobby to get me out of this place right away. This place is a fuckin’ toilet and I cannot stay here. Tell him I don’t give a fuck where they send me. They can send me to Russia, I don’t give a fuck, but I cannot stay here.”
I said, “Okay, I’ll go see him.”
My uncle takes his finger and points at me and says, “On this side, and the guy over the bridge on that side. Got it?” and I nodded my head, yes.
He was saying he wanted me to run everything on this side of the bridge, meaning New Jersey, while he was gone, and he wanted Chuckie to run everything on the other side of the bridge, meaning Philadelphia.
He then took his hand and held it out like he was trying to demonstrate someone’s height. He made the height very low, and I knew immediately that he was talking about Harry Riccobene.
He said, “Tell your friend over there that I said him and his friends need to start acting right and stop playing games.”
He’s looking at me through the glass and his eyes are really big as he is saying it, meaning for me to tell Salvie that him and his crew need to start killing the Riccobenes and to stop botching the hits.
My uncle always talked in circles, but I knew what he was saying because I knew what he was thinking.
Then he said, “Bobby says I’m lookin’ at a year and a half,” and he shrugged his shoulders like he didn’t give a fuck, but I know he did. My uncle hated jail. All he ever did was bitch and complain when he was locked up.
Now he’s going on about the food, the guards, the noise, the black kids with their boom boxes, the dust, and all I’m thinking is how great it is going to be to not have to deal with him for the next 18 months. I couldn’t wait for them to ship him the fuck out; I was hoping they’d send him to Alaska.
Two days later Nicodemo Scarfo’s bail was revoked and he was immediately driven to the Philadelphia International Airport, where he boarded a plane with two US Marshals and was flown directly to El Paso, Texas, and sent to the La Tuna Federal Correctional Center to serve his sentence.
Little Nicky was a long way from Atlantic City and would stay there for the rest of 1982, for all of 1983, and into 1984.
In his absence, the murder and mayhem would continue.
But for his nephew Philip Leonetti, life was about to change.
Taking a Break
The day after they shipped my uncle to Texas, I remember waking up and I couldn’t have been happier. I felt free for the first time in my life. I can’t even describe the feeling, it was as if I had beaten cancer and had a new lease on life. I remember going up to the boardwalk and walking all the way from Georgia Avenue down to the end of the boardwalk in Ventnor, as if I didn’t have a care in the world.
I was just walking and staring out at the ocean. At that moment I didn’t give a fuck about my uncle, Harry Riccobene, the mob, none of it. It was like I was living a different life.
That night I took my girl out for a nice dinner at the Knife and Fork, which was one of the best restaurants in Atlantic City. I was constantly running around, day and night with my uncle, 24-7. He never shut down, so I never shut down. And now here I was, relaxing, having a night out. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been out with her where I wasn’t worried about what time I had to get home or what time I had to meet someone for my uncle.
My girl told me that I was smiling the whole night.
Philip Leonetti’s girlfriend was accustomed to his daily routine, as she lived directly across the street from the Scarfo compound on Georgia Avenue.
She was also somewhat familiar with the life of a mobster, as she had once dated Vincent Falcone and was dating him when Philip killed him in December 1979.
She was the one who came by the office and asked if I knew where Vince was right after I killed him. Maria. Me and her started dating a few months after I killed Vince, and at the time she had no idea that I had killed him. We never talked about him; it was as if he had never existed.
In addition to having a steady girlfriend for more than a year, Philip Leonetti had something else in his personal life: an eight-year-old son.
Philip Jr. was born in March 1974, right before my 21st birthday. I wasn’t much of a father in the beginning, because I had put La Cosa Nostra first, which is what you are supposed to do when you take your oath.
This thing is supposed to come before everything, even your family and your own kids, and for me, it did. But now I was starting to have second thoughts about this life, mainly because I was so sick of being around my uncle and just the way that he was—all the killings, all of the treachery.
Maria and I started taking Little Philip places like the movies, the Ocean City Boardwalk, the Philadelphia Zoo—things I would never do when my uncle was around. He’d go crazy if he found out I took my kid to the zoo. He would have said, “What are you, a jerk off, goin’ there and lookin’ at animals?” But I was having the time of my life with Maria and Philip. I never felt so alive in all of my life.
Just as Philip Leonetti was starting to get accustomed to life without his uncle, a phone call from an angry and agitated Nicky Scarfo from a Texas prison would snap him back to reality.
I was in my grandmother’s apartment with my mother and Little Philip and the phone rings and my grandmother asked me to pick it up, and it says, “You have a collect call from Nick.” I almost got sick to my stomach hearing his voice.
I accepted the charges and before he was connected the operator said, “This call is from an inmate at a federal institution and it will be monitored and recorded,” and the next thing I hear is him screaming into the phone, “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been trying to get you for two fuckin’ weeks and you are nowhere to be found. Did you go to Philadelphia? Did you do what I asked? I’m sittin’ down here like a jerk off while you’re out gallivanting.” I cut him right off and said, “I’ve been busy with Scarf, Inc. I’ve got a couple new jobs.” And he says, “Fuck Scarf, Inc. and fuck those jobs.” He is still hollering into the phone, and I hand the phone to my grandmother and say, “Here, you talk to him,” and I left the house.
When I got outside, I knew my uncle was steaming. I had never talked to him like that or even talked back to him. But I was sick and tired of all of his ranting and raving.
Philip’s parents, Pasquale and Annunziata (Nancy), on their wedding day in 1952 with Philip’s uncle, Nick Scarfo.
Philip as a baby with his godmother and his Uncle Nick.
A nine-year-old Philip (front row, third from left) and members of the 1962 St. Mike’s basketball team.
The “gangster” Nicodemo “Little Nicky” Scarfo on the streets of South Philadelphia in the late 50’s.
The Scarfo compound located at 26-28 North Georgia Avenue in the Ducktown section of Atlantic City, as it appeared in the 80’s.
Philip with his mother, Nancy, and his grandfather, Philip Scarfo, in the early 70’s.
Nicky Scarfo with his mother Catherine inside their home on Georgia Avenue in the early 80’s.
Philip visiting mob enforcer Nicholas “Nick the Blade” Virgilio at New Jersey’s Bayside State Prison in Leesburg in the early 70’s.
Philip with his cousin Christopher Scarfo, his uncle’s oldest son, at a family wedding in 1986.
Philip and Nicky Jr. behind the wheel of The Usual Suspects as “Little Nicky” and “Nick the Blade” relax on the back of the boat off the coast of Atlantic City in 1986.
Nicky Scarfo, the jailed-for-life former boss of the Philadelphia/Atlantic City mob, behind bars at USP Marion in the early 90’s.
Philip “Crazy Phil” Leonetti, the former underboss of the Philadelphia / Atlantic City mob, behind bars at FCI Phoenix in the early 90’s.
Mob jester Anthony “Spike” DiGregorio and “Little Philip” inside the Scarf Inc. office on Georgia Avenue.
Philip Leonetti back on Georgia Avenue in December of 2011, visiting his former home for the first time since 1996.
While I’m standing outside the office, who comes walking up the street but the Blade. Now according to my uncle, I’m supposed to kill him. I say, “Hey, Nick, want to grab something to eat?” And he says, “Sure, Philip,” and we walk to Caesars. Me and him had been there a few times and we were there together on the night that Ange had gotten killed.
While we’re eating, the Blade says, “I know your uncle’s mad at me.” I say, “Nick, my uncle’s mad at everybody. He’s mad at me, too,” and we both started laughing.
And he said, “I know, Philip, it’s just hard for me sometimes.”
You see, the Blade had a young son who had drowned and died and the Blade used to carry a picture of him around and he would get fall-down drunk and talk about what had happened with his son, and then after awhile, he’d start trouble and get into a fight.
I understood why he was the way he was. It wasn’t his fault.
Philip Leonetti was no longer his uncle’s robot. He started thinking for himself and making his own decisions.
And killing Nick the Blade wasn’t going to happen.
A few days later Chuckie drives down from Philadelphia and me, him, and Lawrence go to Angeloni’s for dinner. He says, “Bobby Simone came to see me. He talked to your uncle and your uncle wants you and Bobby to go down to Texas to see him.”
I said to Chuckie, “Hey, Chuck, you wanna come down with us, we’ll have a good time,” and Chuckie said, “He didn’t ask for me, just you and Bobby,” and we both laughed.
If anyone knew my uncle besides me, it was Chuckie. He and Chuckie had been hanging since the ’50s. Chuckie knew my uncle like the back of his hand.
I think, like me, Chuckie was enjoying not having my uncle around.
So the next day, I’m in the office and the phone rings, and it’s my uncle. It’s the same routine with the collect call, only this time, when he gets on he’s not screaming. He says, “I’m glad I got you. How are things going? How is Scarf, Inc.?” Now I know he could care less about Scarf, Inc., but this is his way of breaking the ice a little bit. I say, “Scarf, Inc. is good; everything is good.” He says, “Good, I’m glad to hear it.”He says, “I want you and Bobby to come down and see me. You’ll like it down here. It’s right on the border of Mexico. The Rio Grande is right there.” I say, “Oh, yeah?” And he says, “Yeah.” I tell him, “We will set it up and get down there before Christmas,” and my uncle seemed happy with that.
I’m thinking to myself: now we’re making small talk. I think my uncle knew I was getting sick of all of the bullshit.
Then I told him I had dinner with Chuckie and Lawrence, and he asked how they were doing—again more small talk—and then I couldn’t help myself. I said, “Guess who else I had dinner with?” And he said, “Who?” And I said, “The Blade.” He said, “You had dinner with him?” I said, “Yeah, we went to Caesars. He apologized for all of that trouble and he’s trying to clean his act up.”
Now by saying this, I am telling my uncle that I am not going to kill the Blade. Surprisingly, my uncle says, “Good, good. Tell him I said hello and tell him I said to knock it off with the drinking and to start coming around more.”
While Nicky Scarfo seemed to be somewhat humbled by being away from his gang, Philip Leonetti knew that it, like his little break, wouldn’t last long.
I knew it was only a matter of time before he was screaming and yelling again, that’s just how he was. In the meantime, it was back to work for me.
Business as Usual
WITH NICKY SCARFO TUCKED AWAY IN A DUSTY FEDERAL PRISON OVER 2,000 MILES AWAY IN EL PASO, TEXAS, HIS LONGTIME FRIEND AND UNDERBOSS SALVATORE “CHUCKIE” MERLINO WAS CALLING THE SHOTS ON THE STREETS IN SOUTH PHILADELPHIA, WHILE HIS 29-YEAR-OLD NEPHEW, PHILIP LEONETTI, WAS OVERSEEING THE FAMILY’S NEW JERSEY OPERATION.
On most days I was in the office or I was taking meetings with guys in restaurants. I’d usually have either Lawrence or Saul Kane with me, and sometimes the Blade.
Blackie Napoli was coming down from Newark twice a month to bring my uncle’s money and the guys from Trenton were coming down once or twice a month.
I was meeting with the Taccetta brothers, who were with Tumac Accetturo and the North Jersey branch of the Lucchese crime family, and I was seeing a lot of “Sammy the Bull” Gravano who was with the Gambinos. Me and Sammy started getting real close. He’d always stop by the office if he came to Atlantic City, and me and him would go out to dinner.
When all of these guys would come down to Atlantic City, out of respect they would check in with my uncle. Now with him gone, they were checking in with me.
We’d go out to dinner, we’d talk about who was doing what, who was making moves. Most of the time I’d get an envelope with cash, usually a few thousand dollars, as tribute money for my uncle.
Even with Little Nicky behind bars, the Scarfo mob continued to earn—and earn big. Leonetti estimates that he collected almost $3 million in cash for his uncle during the 17 months that he was behind bars.
The street tax money coming down every month from Philadelphia could range from $50,000 to $100,000—it depended on what was going on.
Don’t forget, we still had our bookmaking and loan sharking operations and we were involved in a million other deals. Making money wasn’t a problem for us.
I’d always pick the money up directly from Chuckie and I’d bring it home and I would count it out with Nicky Jr.
Without fail, no matter what the amount was, it would always be light a few hundred dollars. I knew Chuckie wasn’t skimming three or four hundred dollars; he was making tens of thousands of dollars himself. I believed it was his son Joey who was robbing the money.
Joey Merlino was always a no-good kid. He was a punk even as a teenager, 18 or 19 years old. He was constantly starting trouble in Atlantic City, and my uncle would always make me straighten it out. He would bet with bookmakers who were with us and not pay them when he lost, then he would lie and say that it wasn’t him. On top of that, I believe he was robbing the money that was coming down from Philadelphia to Atlantic City for me and my uncle.
Around that time I wanted to kill him, but he was Chuckie’s son and I know there was no way my uncle would sanction it. At that time my uncle liked this kid very much because the two of them were very much alike, and Joey was always respectful around my uncle. Plus, Chuckie was my uncle’s best friend and he was the underboss, and Joey and Nicky Jr. were also the best of friends.
I thought he was no good and, if I could have, I would have killed him.
While Philip Leonetti was busy in Atlantic City, Salvie Testa and his Young Executioners crew were still on the front lines of the Scarfo mob’s war with the Riccobene faction.
A couple times a week my uncle would call and say things like, “Did Salvie clean that boat yet? Tell him to get the boat clean,” which was his way of saying tell Salvie and his guys to get the Riccobenes. He would say, “Tell him the whole boat, top to bottom, clean the whole thing,” which meant he wanted everyone dead—Harry and his whole crew.
In December 1982, Harry “the Hunchback” Riccobene
was jailed on a parole violation for possession of a handgun during a traffic stop. Already convicted on a slew of federal racketeering chargers, the Hunchback was out on an appeal bond when he violated.
Riccobene was immediately whisked away to jail and, like his arch nemesis Nicky Scarfo, the Hunchback was forced to command his assault effort from behind bars.
Right before Christmas, me and Bobby Simone flew down to Texas to see my uncle, like I had promised him. He seemed to be in good spirits because he knew we were making a lot of money, but he was still hell-bent on killing all of Harry’s guys, even with Harry in jail.
When we got down to Texas and went to the jail, they would only let Bobby in and told me I was prohibited from having any unsupervised contact with my uncle. I said, “No problem,” and I told Bobby to meet me back at the hotel when he was done. Truth be told, I was okay not seeing him, I actually preferred it. I was enjoying my time away from him, especially my time with Maria and Little Philip.
I decided to drive around a little bit and, boy, was I out of place. It was all cowboys and Mexicans down there. I felt like I was on another planet. I knew my uncle couldn’t have been happy in there and now I knew what he meant when he said that the other prisoners in La Tuna were “not our kind of people.”
My uncle had told me that the whole place was full of Mexican guys and black guys. He said, “There’s not two white guys in this whole fuckin’ place.” The Mexican Mafia was very big down there, and there were a lot of fights in that jail, a lot of stabbings.
My uncle kept to himself while he was in there, but he had two Mexican guys who were with him the whole time he was there. He called them his pistoleros, and they served as his bodyguards.
Mafia Prince: Inside America's Most Violent Crime Family Page 18
