Unlike Phil, his brother Billy “Bad” had accepted the invitation to become a made man. He had shed his blood on the picture of a saint and sworn allegiance to La Cosa Nostra, to Angiulo and his boss, Patriarca. But Billy “Bad” was also Phil’s younger brother. Phil had watched him grow up in their awful home, and six years earlier had watched this handsome, gregarious brother fall for a pretty Boston University theater arts student. She was the first—and only—girl Billy had ever fallen head over heels for. But she had refused his offer to “marry me and forget about Hollywood,” and Billy had gone off the deep end a little when she left Boston and made it big. He never watched any of her movies and would get furious if Phil reminded him that Billy was probably the only person who had ever told Faye Dunaway she should forget her dreams and settle down with a wise guy from Boston. She was about the only thing the brothers couldn’t talk about.
So the next day Phil called Billy to ask what last night had been all about. There was no answer.
Given Angiulo’s threat, Phil panicked and went right over to his brother’s apartment at the Sherry-Biltmore on Massachusetts Avenue, where the Berklee Performance Center is found today. No one answered his repeated knocks and rings. Now really upset, Cresta gave up and headed back to where he’d parked his car. As he started to pull out, he saw his brother turn the corner. Relieved beyond words, Phil jumped out of his car without even putting it in Park, then had to chase the car halfway down the block. After rescuing his car, he turned to his brother, laughed, and gave him a hug. But he stopped when he saw his brother’s stony face.
In an instant Phil understood that Billy had been away because he’d been talking to Angiulo, not because he’d been hiding.
“How bad?” Phil asked.
“As bad as it gets,” his little brother replied, avoiding Phil’s eyes.
“Who’s got the contract?” Phil asked, already knowing the answer.
Billy walked up the steps of the hotel without answering.
But Phil had to hear the words. “Bill,” he insisted, “who is he sending after me?”
“You know who,” his brother answered. “Me.”
Phil’s knees buckled. Somehow he’d thought that even Angiulo wouldn’t really go so far as to demand that one brother kill another.
Billy gestured for Phil to follow, and when they were in Billy’s apartment Billy said, “What the fuck did you do to him last night?”
Phil explained what had happened, and Billy shook his head in amazement. “He wants me to kill you because you didn’t kiss his ass in a restaurant? Come on, Phil, there’s got to be more to it than that.”
“I swear, Billy, that was it.”
“What a sick fuck! I should walk right in there and shoot him and all his asshole brothers—and see how he likes it!”
“If you do,” Phil said seriously, “it’ll be the last people you ever shoot.”
“Well, shit, Phil! What other options do I have? I’m not gonna kill you!”
Phil laughed, then told his brother to relax. They’d work something out. “Nobody’s gonna have to kill nobody,” he said. “How long do we have?”
“A few days,” his brother said. “I told them I’d have to think it over and I’d get back to them.”
“Tell me everything that happened,” Phil said.
TWO DAYS LATER Billy called Larry Baione, Angiulo’s underboss, who had been with Angiulo when the boss had ordered the hit. “Just me and you, Larry,” Billy said. “Come on, Billy. I like you and Phil. This isn’t my call. I have no bad blood here,” Baione said. They decided to meet in a small North End restaurant.
Billy arrived early and sat with his back to the wall, as Phil had instructed. Ten minutes later Baione walked in, by himself, and motioned Billy into an adjoining room. They had a drink and finally Baione said, “What are you gonna do?”
“One thing I’m not gonna do is kill my brother.”
There was a long pause before Baione said, “Good. I don’t think it’s a wise move, and I told Jerry that.”
Relieved, Billy asked, “What happens next?”
“Well, we try to talk some sense into Angiulo.” Baione smiled. “Tell Phil to relax. We’ll get this thing straightened out,” Baione said, and he extended his glass in a toast to Billy.
They both drank. Baione led Billy out of the room and into the bar section of the restaurant. The bartender was alone, as the restaurant had officially closed an hour earlier.
“Let’s have another one for the road,” Baione said. He sat down at the bar, and Billy joined him.
Feeling very good about the meeting, Billy was pouring his beer into a glass when he first felt the wire around his neck. It was not just a warning. Baione dug the sharp wire deep into the skin, trying to finish Billy off. In his struggle, Billy knocked over a few tables but could not get Baione to loosen his death grip. The wire tightened.
Billy knew he had only one last chance. Knowing that since he was younger and stronger, he had strength on his side for a few more moments, he reached around, grabbed Baione’s testicles with his left hand, and squeezed until Baione screamed in pain. Then Billy brought his right hand up and over Baione’s right hand, coming down hard on his would-be killer’s elbow.
Billy heard Baione’s wire hit the floor. He turned and hit the man a solid right hand to the jaw. Baione went down like a ton of bricks.
Billy picked him up and hit him again and again. The bartender was nowhere in sight.
Wanting to kill Baione now, Billy continued to beat his opponent. But at the last moment he decided to send him back to Angiulo in that condition, to tell the boss what had happened. So he left him there in a heap and drove back to the Fenway Motor Inn. Finding no one in room nine, he let himself in and called McGrail’s.
When Phil saw the blood he started cleaning Billy up, glad that he was comparatively unharmed.
“I’m going to Miami,” Billy said a little later. “Won’t you come with me?”
“No, I’m staying right here,” Phil replied. His anger and disdain were seething. “If he wants me, let him come and get me.”
“You know he doesn’t have the balls, Phil. He’ll just send his little errand boy to do his dirty work.”
“Looks like one little errand boy wasn’t able to get the job done this time.” Phil laughed.
“It’s not funny, Phil. You know how it works. They’re gonna keep on trying until they get you.”
“I can handle myself, Billy. I’ve been doing it all my life,” Phil said. “I’m sorry I put you in this situation. As long as I know you’re all right, I can handle Angiulo. And you already handled Baione.”
Phil drove Billy to his apartment at the Sherry-Biltmore, where they packed a suitcase. Then Phil drove his brother to the airport, where Billy boarded a flight to Miami.
Within two days, Phil’s contacts had calls made to Angiulo by Tony Accardo, from Chicago; and two of Billy’s friends also called: Carmine “The Snake” Persico, from the Columbo family in New York, and Johnny Irish, an extremely good-looking guy in Miami who worked for the Columbo family there (until he was later killed by them). Johnny Irish said to Angiulo, “Listen, Billy Cresta is coming back to Boston in two weeks and if anyone even looks at him the wrong way, I’m coming up there. You don’t want that.”
Angiulo swore to Irish that there was no contract out on any of the Crestas. He said there had been a slight misunderstanding, but now everything was squared. Indeed, Boston’s boss did back off the Cresta brothers.
Billy spent the next thirty years living mostly in Miami, visiting Boston annually for a few months. When in the Boston area, he stayed at his Medford home.
Phil never spoke to Jerry Angiulo, his former boss, again.
16
Suspended Sentences for a Fee
IT WASN’T LONG before Phil’s life was back to normal. A couple of days after Thanksgiving in 1967 Phil, Angelo, and Tony met at Angelo’s house in Braintree and talked about working again. “We were
all very much on the same page that night at Angelo’s house. We hadn’t pulled a score since the hospital robbery, which was sixteen months before. The novelty of doing nothing had long since worn off, and we were all itchy to get back in action. We still had a great deal of money stashed away, but this wasn’t about the money,” Phil recounted.
They put out the word that the Cresta crew was back in action, and within days the tips began to pour into McGrail’s.
“We pulled three small scores, just to get back in shape. We wanted to start small. By the time the new year rolled around, we’d made over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and we put the word out that we were looking for a big score.”
A few days into the new year an old friend named Edward McAleney came calling. Phil knew McAleney from Walpole. He remembered him as a stand-up guy who was trustworthy. McAleney proposed a score in Lynn.
The job seemed easy enough to Phil, but something about McAleney was bothering him. “McAleney was drinking way too much. He wasn’t the same guy I remembered. I didn’t like dealing with people who were into drugs or alcohol.” But Phil listened.
The idea McAleney offered called for Phil, Angelo, Tony, one of McAleney’s associates named Michael Reddy, and McAleney himself to enter the Kay Jewelers store in Lynn on an upcoming Sunday, when the store would be closed. Phil asked why McAleney needed so many bodies just to hit one store.
He needed Phil and Angelo to bypass the alarms and open the vault, McAleney explained. He needed Reddy to drive. It would be quicker if McAleney and Tony cleaned out the jewelry displays while Phil and Angelo were opening the walk-in vault, which contained the more valuable jewels.
Phil didn’t like the plan. “I knew I should’ve just walked away from McAleney, but Tony and Angelo were set on a big score, so against my better judgment I went along. I did ask McAleney why we needed Reddy, since I didn’t know him and there was no better getaway driver than Tony. What I really meant was, why did we need McAleney? We were used to being given the score, pulling it off ourselves, and giving our informant a split. I would’ve had no problem with the McAleney I knew in the can, but this was a different guy—a weaker guy. I never liked working with freelancers anyway, unless absolutely necessary, and that job and that guy McAleney weren’t necessary by a long shot,” Phil recalled.
The Kay Jewelers job was scheduled to coincide with the 1968 Super Bowl Game, which, that year, was held in midafternoon and was between the Green Bay Packers and the Oakland Raiders. McAleney felt, and rightly so, that the majority of Lynn residents would be sitting in front of a television set as Phil and Angelo stood in front of the walk-in vault in the basement of Kay Jewelers. At exactly 4:00 P.M. on Sunday, January 14, 1968, Phil Cresta, dressed in the uniform of an ADT alarm mechanic, headed down an alley that bordered the jewelry store. It took him only a few seconds to disarm the alarm and a few more to pick the back-door lock. Once inside, he and Angelo immediately headed down to the basement and to the vault. The other two persons outfitted as ADT alarm mechanics, Tony and Ed McAleney, headed to the jewelry displays on the first floor. Phil knew they had four to five minutes until the alarm malfunction was discovered by the police and the ADT alarm company. Phil took one look at the old vault and grinned. It would be a piece of cake. “I had opened hundreds of boxes like it. I told Angelo to place our equipment on the floor and check on the other two guys upstairs.”
As Angelo started upstairs, he heard a commotion above. “I was too focused on getting into the vault,” Phil remembered. “I didn’t know anything was going on until Angelo came back and said, ‘Phil, we’ve got problems.’ I looked at my watch. We’d been in the building only a minute or so. I knew it was impossible for anyone to respond to an alarm malfunction that soon.”
The noise upstairs got louder. Phil and Angelo both knew they had only a few seconds to do something before whoever it was who was up there came down. “I thought some wise guys were muscling in on our score and we’d have to fight our way out. I never for a second thought it was the cops.”
Phil and Angelo hid behind some boxes. Less than a minute later, the lights went on and a voice announced that Lynn Police wanted them to come upstairs. “In the dark, I couldn’t see Angelo, but I could hear him breathing. I knew he was thinking the same thing I was: if this was really the cops, let them show themselves. We weren’t volunteering.” When Phil heard Tony’s unmistakable voice, he felt better. If Tony was still alive, chances were it wasn’t wise guys muscling in.
A few minutes went by and the sound of police sirens and static-filled radio broadcasts proved that the guys upstairs were in fact police. “It was actually a relief in a way,” Phil said. “Shit, nobody likes to get busted, but the alternative was much worse. Wise guys shoot to kill.”
The cops had the upper floor; Cresta and Angelo were trapped in the basement. They again heard the order to come up. After another minute or so, Phil told Angelo, “Ready to take the pinch? Let’s go, I think we’ll be all right.”
Phil yelled out that they were coming upstairs and that they had no weapons. He led the way up.
What looked like the entire police department of Lynn was waiting. This was a big bust for them and they were all ready to take some credit, especially when the TV cameras arrived. Phil watched as Tony was put into a police car with McAleney, handcuffed and looking pretty depressed. “We got set up,” Phil whispered to Angelo. Angelo barked back, “No shit!”
They were transported to the Lynn police station, where they were fingerprinted and booked. The police had arrived so soon and in such numbers that they had even caught Reddy outside in his getaway car. Phil, Angelo, Tony, McAleney, and Reddy were all held overnight in the station lockup.
Phil was livid as he was fingerprinted and booked. The minute he was alone with McAleney and Reddy he exploded. “McAleney, what the fuck was that?” Phil yelled. “They knew where we were and what time we were coming in. They knew more about the job than we did. Who the fuck did you talk to?”
McAleney, who desperately needed a drink, just shook his head. “Phil, I don’t know how they knew. I didn’t tell anyone about the job, I swear,” he cried.
“Fuck you, McAleney, you told someone and that someone set us up. Now I want you to sit there and think. Don’t say another fucking word until you come up with a name. Do you understand?”
McAleney put his head in his hands and began to cry.
“Real tough guy we got there, Phil. What the fuck were we thinking?” Angelo asked.
“That’s just it, we weren’t,” Phil shot back.
For the next two hours they sat in their cells alone with their thoughts. Tony was the only one who slept that night. “Tony could sleep through an atomic bomb,” Phil noted later, laughing.
On Monday morning, January 15, 1968, the Boston Globe ran half a dozen stories on the Super Bowl and how Vince Lombardi’s Green Bay Packers slaughtered the Oakland Raiders 33 to 14. There was also a much smaller story detailing how five alleged burglars had been caught inside Kay Jewelers in Lynn.
That same morning they were transported to Lynn District Court, where they were arraigned. They were charged with breaking and entering in the daytime, robbery, and possession of burglarious tools. Then they were released on bail.
As soon as they hit the street, Phil turned to McAleney and said, “I want to see you tonight at McGrail’s at seven. You got that?” McAleney just nodded and jumped into a cab. Phil was intent on finding out who had set them up.
That night at McGrail’s, Cresta grilled McAleney. “Who knew about the job?” he asked. “Nobody,” McAleney replied. “That’s bullshit,” Phil said emphatically. “I’ve been in this business long enough to know when I’ve been set up.” Phil continued the grilling for another hour but he was getting nowhere. Then Phil noticed that the more McAleney drank, the more talkative he became. So Phil tried a different approach.
“Where do you drink?” he asked McAleney. By the time McAleney got through naming all the bars he
frequented, Phil said mockingly to Angelo, “I should’ve asked him to name the bars he doesn’t drink in.” Phil was watching Angelo out of the corner of his eye as McAleney rattled off the names of his watering holes. When he finished, Angelo asked Phil, “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Phil was more than happy to get away from McAleney.
Outside, Phil asked, “Whadda ya got?” Angelo showed him a napkin from the Brown Jug and said, “Phil, he told us about every bar in Boston except this one.” “So?” “I frisked his coat while he was talking, and found this in it.” “And?” “Phil, Tony and I have been there lots of times … with Ben Tilley. The Brown Jug’s Tilley’s hangout.” Phil snarled, “You gotta be shittin’ me!” and stormed back into McGrail’s.
McAleney was chasing his beer with a shot of Old Thompson. “Ed, do you know a guy named Ben Tilley?” Phil asked in an over-innocent tone. “Sure, everyone knows Tilley.” McAleney’s words were slurred now. “When was the last time you talked to him?” Phil asked, pushing for what he needed to know. McAleney thought for a minute and then said, “Two weeks ago at the Brown Jug.” “This is very important now,” Phil stressed. “Did you mention anything to Tilley about the Kay Jewelers job?” “Absolutely not,” McAleney answered indignantly. “Are you positive?” Phil asked again. “Absolutely,” McAleney was defiant now. “Okay, screw,” Phil commanded. “But stay by your phone in case I need to talk to you.” “Sure, Phil,” McAleney said, and he hurriedly left the Kilmarnock Street bar.
Phil waited until McAleney was out of sight and then quickly turned to Angelo and said, “Get Tony over here.” Angelo could tell by the tone of Phil’s voice that he had better not question why Tony was wanted. Angelo used the pay phone at the end of the bar and dialed Tony’s home number.
Phil and Angelo were sitting in their favorite booth, against the back wall facing the door, when Tony came charging in. “Relax, Tony, we’re not in a gang fight,” Phil said, laughing for the first time that night. “Whadda ya gut, whadda ya gut?” Tony asked. “We gutta take a little ride,” Phil said, imitating Tony’s diction. Tony was clearly puzzled. In wise-guy terminology, “being sent for” is a serious thing. It usually means there’s been trouble and someone’s going to get whacked.
Final Confession Page 14
