by Mike Stanton
In either event, when Doorley failed to step aside and run for Fogarty’s seat, “that started the battle,” said Devitt. Cicilline also called it a turning point, saying, “That was the beginning of the end of the relationship between Joe and Larry. That’s when you heard more talk that Joe was distant. . . . They started maneuvering against him.”
Quietly, McGarry complained that Doorley had stopped caring about the city. Privately, Doorley grumbled about McGarry’s disloyalty. The mayor had delegated the daily affairs of the machine to McGarry, in part because he considered lines of supplicants outside the mayor’s office unseemly. But, Doorley would later remind people, McGarry “made use of that power with very little credit given the mayor who gave him that power.”
Another break in the relationship involved Tony Bucci, a lawyer and power broker in the Fourth Ward, the Italian North End. Bucci was a key McGarry ally who had helped Doorley get elected in 1964, part of the Irish-Italian alliance that had been critical to the machine’s strength. Bucci had built a lucrative downtown law practice with the aid of his political connections. Hungry for deals and greedy for patronage, “T.B.,” as he was known, was always pressing Doorley for something—either a job for someone or a deal for a private business client that Cicilline considered shady. The Washington Post called Bucci “Mr. Asphalt,” after he represented a Providence liquid-asphalt importer in a case that went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. One of Bucci’s clients wanted to build controversial liquefied natural gas tanks near the waterfront; the project was opposed by Doorley and nearby residents, who feared an explosion. Doorley further aggravated Bucci and McGarry in 1973 when he attended a Democratic function in the Fourth Ward hosted by a rival faction to Bucci.
One hint that Doorley’s hold on the machine was weakening had come the previous year, when the mayor dressed down workers in one ward for a lackluster 1972 primary turnout, which he viewed as a tune-up for his own reelection campaign in 1974.
“We’ve got more city workers in that ward than voted in the primary,” he groused. Doorley was so shocked at discovering that nobody was getting out the vote on election day that the shot-and-beer mayor took drastic measures, banning booze and other extracurricular activities from his political headquarters. “I don’t want any bartender making book on the side in this headquarters.”
Meanwhile, even Doorley’s supporters worried about his drinking. The stories were multiplying around town about Doorley’s drinking himself into a stupor, falling off bar stools, and being dragged home by his police driver. His lifestyle began to put a strain on his marriage. After City Council meetings, Doorley would invite councilmen across the street to the Biltmore, where he had a private room upstairs with a view of the city and an open bar. Sometimes he drank until his words slurred. When the bar on the first floor of the Biltmore closed, a cousin of Doorley’s opened a taproom, the Plantations Room, with a Doorley pal, Jimmy Notorantonio, a car dealer who had the contract to sell and service police cars. Doorley, sources said, was a silent partner. (The lounge was not to be confused with Doorley’s Bar, run by a relative of the mayor in a strategic spot between City Hall and The Providence Journal, which extended the length of a city block and was known as the world’s longest bar.) The liquor was provided free, provided by various supporters and councilmen who worked in the liquor industry, according to assistant city solicitor Ronald Glantz. On Sunday mornings, Glantz said, Doorley would be in the bar, taking inventory and helping to drain the near-empty bottles.
As Doorley grew more remote, community activists tried tracking him down at the Biltmore bar. In March 1973 a St. Michael’s priest protesting conditions in South Providence suffered bruises when he was forcibly ejected from a City Council meeting. Two nights later, with the priest calling his mistreatment another example of the Providence political machine, some of the activists confronted the mayor as he sat on his bar stool at the Biltmore. A few months after that, residents of a public-housing project whom Doorley had refused to see also tried the mayor there, only to chase him out as one shouted, “The S.O.B. has bolted!”
On May 19, 1973, not a word was spoken of those underlying tensions as Joe Doorley served as toastmaster at Larry McGarry’s tribute. Smiling, Doorley stood in the Civic Center that he had built and praised McGarry’s kingmaking abilities and his enduring political roots. The two men grinned together for the cameras.
If Doorley thought that this testimonial would fix things, he was mistaken. And the following month, when Doorley promoted two potential rivals, including McGarry protégé Francis Brown to public-safety commissioner, McGarry remarked that “the politics of owning people is gone.” Around the same time, Doorley said publicly that his dispute with Tony Bucci would not dampen his relationship with McGarry; “I fully expect to be his friend for the rest of my life.”
One month after the testimonial, McGarry’s Democratic City Committee refused to endorse Doorley’s bid for reelection in 1974. Their divorce had become public. Party insiders had seen the split coming but never thought it would be that serious.
The time was approaching when the mayor would measure loyalty by a simple test: “He’s Doorley, or he’s McGarry.”
BY THE SUMMER of 1973, with the Doorley-McGarry feud out in the open, Buddy Cianci had two big decisions to make: Should he run for mayor? And should he get married?
He had started discussing the mayor’s race early in the year with his friend Herb DeSimone, the former attorney general. After four years as a prosecutor, and after working on DeSimone’s unsuccessful campaigns for governor in 1970 and 1972, Cianci felt that it was his turn. The question was what office to run for. Cianci was eager to get started, but he hadn’t paid his dues in any local party organizations. He considered running for office in Cranston or Providence, as a Republican or a Democrat—whatever it would take to win.
One of his closest advisers was his good friend Mickey Farina, a Cranston real estate salesman who dabbled in local Republican politics and was looking to get back in the game. Farina had been the Cranston coordinator of DeSimone’s statewide campaigns and had also managed the 1970 victory of Mayor James Taft, the heir apparent to a powerful Republican machine that was the equal of the Democratic machine in Providence. Farina had been rewarded with a job running TransVan, a federally funded agency that provided rides for Cranston senior citizens. But Taft later fired him for incompetence, saying that seniors were being stranded without rides. Others whispered that the problems were more serious, and that Taft mistrusted Farina.
Cianci and Farina met at a real estate closing around 1970 and began socializing and attending political functions together. Cianci found Farina, with his political experience, to be a good sounding board; he told Farina of his admiration for presidents like Teddy Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy, dashing, can-do politicians, and confided his ultimate dream—to one day be president.
In Cianci, Farina saw talent and promise. All they needed was an opportunity. Looking ahead to 1974, they thought about running for attorney general. But then the incumbent, Richard Israel, Cianci’s boss, announced that he would seek reelection. That left mayor of Providence. Realistically, they didn’t think they could win. It would be more like an audition, to show that Buddy Cianci belonged in politics. Doorley was vulnerable, and if Cianci made a strong showing, he could establish himself for some future office, said DeSimone.
Then there was the question of marriage.
After an awkward youth, when he didn’t date much, one thing seemed clear about Buddy—he was not the marrying kind. Despite his chubby physique and receding hairline, he had a way with women. Many found him funny, charming, and worldly. They were drawn to his boyishness and his sad-eyed vulnerability.
When Cianci attended Fairfield University, a high school classmate attending another Connecticut college would get rides to and from school with him. Often, Cianci would stop at the Connecticut College for Women and go into one of the dormitory lounges. All the girls seemed to know him, and th
ey crowded around to hear his stories.
During National Guard training weeks in Pennsylvania in the early 1970s, Cianci liked to frequent the strip clubs near the base, recalled another officer.
In Providence, Cianci dated a lot, which annoyed his steady girlfriend, Sheila Bentley. Buddy met Sheila in 1968 when he was out barhopping in his army uniform one night at the old Colonial Hilton in Cranston. She was with a woman Buddy knew, and caught his eye. She had the WASPy good looks that Cianci found appealing: trim, blond, elegant. Later Cianci would joke about some guy mistaking his uniform for that of a valet-parking attendant that night and tossing Cianci his car keys.
Buddy started calling Sheila, and they began dating. She had just divorced her first husband, with whom she had three young sons. The divorce, which left custody of the boys with the father, became official early in 1969, around the time that Cianci left the army and became a prosecutor.
Bentley was the daughter of a Cranston dentist who had died when she was young, leaving the family in difficult straits and forcing her mother to take a job as a telephone operator. She had gotten married before she was eighteen to Manny Gorriaran, Jr.
His father was a prominent wrestling promoter and the wealthy owner of a jewelry-manufacturing company. The year that Sheila met Buddy, her father-in-law coached the U.S. Olympic wrestling team in the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City, where he captured international headlines for punching out a Russian judge who robbed an American wrestler of the gold medal. (Upon further review, the decision was reversed and the American got the gold.)
Cianci’s mother was not crazy about the relationship, but Buddy and Sheila kept seeing each other. Vincent Vespia, Cianci’s state police friend, recalled nights of domestic tranquility, when he and Buddy would go over to Sheila’s apartment and work on a case while she cooked them a pot roast. Sheila, who worked as a secretary, would also help Buddy out on some of his cases, doing typing and clerical work.
But she had a wild side, and could keep up with Buddy. Once, at a birthday party for Cianci at her apartment, she invited a friend into the bedroom, according to another guest, Paul Giaccobe. The people in the living room assumed she was going to show the man Cianci’s present. Suddenly, shots rang out and the guests charged into the bedroom. The man was lying on the bed, looking pale and scared. Sheila stood holding a track starter’s pistol and laughing. Cianci just rolled his eyes, and the party went on.
Cianci bought her a St. Bernard, which wound up at his mother’s house. He joked that Bentley “helped me spend my money.” He enjoyed what they had together, but he didn’t seem in any hurry to settle down. He was having too much fun, carousing, taking flying lessons, running his law practice, trading political gossip.
One night Sheila worried when Buddy didn’t show up at her apartment for dinner, as planned. She called a friend and asked him to meet her at Buddy’s law office on Pocasset Avenue, where he had been working late. The man, who arrived with another man who also knew Cianci, walked in with Sheila and found Buddy in his private office having sex with his secretary. One man said that he left in a hurry when he saw that Cianci wasn’t dressed, not wanting to stick around to see what would happen next. The other man, who stayed, said that Sheila took an unloaded gun and stormed into Cianci’s office, surprising him. She pointed the gun at her naked boyfriend and made him dance around; he pleaded with her as his secretary threw her clothes on and dashed out into the night. Then Sheila started throwing and breaking things in the office, including a painting she had given Buddy, which she snatched off the wall and smashed over his head before storming out. Cianci later told Vespia that Sheila had gone for a gun that he kept in his desk for protection, but that he had prevented her from actually grabbing it.
In the spring of 1973 Bentley got pregnant.
Cianci agonized for months about what he should do. Bentley wanted to get married, but he wasn’t sure. He also worried about how his decision would affect his political ambitions. He sought Vespia’s advice. His friend listed the obvious choices: he could marry her, support the child, or “make other arrangements.” Farina said that she gave Cianci no choice; he could ill afford a scandal as he was preparing to run for office.
While Cianci was deliberating, Vespia said, Bentley put an engagement announcement in the newspaper—without telling Cianci. Cianci’s mother found out when Herb DeSimone saw the announcement and called to congratulate her—which, according to Vespia, forced Cianci to do some fast explaining to his mother.
Cianci finally decided to get married.
In August he paid $108,000 for an eighteen-room brick mansion on Blackstone Boulevard, a broad, tree-lined thoroughfare on the East Side. In September Buddy and Sheila were married. Vespia, whom Cianci had asked to make the arrangements, found a justice of the peace in Seekonk, an out-of-the-way town in nearby Massachusetts.
On the appointed day, Cianci picked up Vespia and Vespia’s future wife, Judy, in his Cadillac, then swung by the house on Blackstone Boulevard. Sheila waddled out, obviously pregnant, and got in the front seat with Cianci. The mood was jolly.
“You know, Sheila, I’m never gonna forgive you for this,” Cianci said drily.
“What a way to start a marriage,” cracked Vespia, and all four of them burst out laughing.
Vespia made another joke about slipping the justice of the peace a hundred bucks to say the wrong words.
The ceremony was simple. Buddy and Sheila were married under a tree behind the justice’s house in Seekonk. Vin was the best man, Judy the maid of honor. Cianci’s mother wasn’t there.
IN THE FALL of 1973 Cianci presented the case of Harold Copeland to the grand jury. On October 10, the executive director of Doorley’s Dream was indicted for soliciting a bribe.
Copeland’s lawyer immediately branded the indictment as “politically motivated.” The mayor issued a statement that said, “I’m particularly upset because of the fact that the Civic Center is the cornerstone of the plan to rebuild downtown Providence. I earnestly hope that the present situation will not cast a shadow over the success the Civic Center has enjoyed in its first year of operation.”
But the shadow continued to grow. Attorney General Dick Israel announced that an audit had discovered a forty-six-thousand-dollar discrepancy in box-office receipts. Later, questions were raised about missing tickets to a Frank Sinatra concert. Investigators went into the Civic Center with subpoenas and carted away financial records. Israel announced that the investigation was being handled by Assistant Attorney General Buddy Cianci.
Israel later said that he never would have allowed Cianci to handle the case had he known that he was thinking of running for mayor. But if Israel was unaware of Cianci’s political plans, it is clear that Cianci was seriously contemplating the race.
Still, Cianci wasn’t sure. Although he viewed Doorley as vulnerable, winning as a Republican would be a formidable challenge. If Cianci got swamped in his first political campaign, it might be hard, especially as a Republican, to run for office again. On the other hand, Cianci had an appealing résumé as a mob-fighting prosecutor; he had money; and he was Italian-American in a city with a large Italian-American population.
One night, after dinner with Vespia in the Old Canteen on Federal Hill, Cianci was in a whimsical mood. It was a favorite spot for both men, because their fathers had taken them to dinner there as boys. Joe Marzilli, the owner, came over and joined them for a late-night cup of coffee. Cianci debated the merits of running for mayor versus buying a boat. An inveterate doodler, he pulled out a Cross pen that Vespia had given him, engraved “Assistant Attorney General Buddy Cianci.” There was no paper handy, so Cianci began writing on the linen tablecloth.
In one column he jotted down the various costs involved in buying a boat as Marzilli, who owned a boat, offered advice. In typical Cianci style, this would not be a small boat. He factored in the cost of a captain, a crew, fuel, slip fees, et cetera. Then, in another column, he wrote down the costs of running for mayor: a cam
paign manager, an ad agency, advertising, et cetera. Then he added up the two columns of figures. It turned out it would be cheaper to run for mayor.
But it was a later visit to the Old Canteen that would help Cianci make up his mind.
Early in 1974, he and Farina went there for lunch. Across the main dining room, Joe Doorley was also eating. The mayor sat at a large table with eight or nine of his cronies, holding court.
Cianci’s ambitions were no secret. He and Farina politely nodded hello to Doorley.
“Come on over,” the mayor commanded them.
They went over. Doorley, who had been drinking, introduced Cianci to his men, then announced, “This is the man who wants to be mayor and take my job away from me.” The mayor’s men chuckled.
“Mayor, you never know,” Cianci replied politely. “There’s always that possibility.”
“He can beat me?” Doorley said to his men, who joined him in another laugh.
“Maybe I will,” Cianci said affably.
They exchanged some more jabs. Doorley was clearly belittling him, but Cianci kept his cool.
“When I make my decision,” Cianci said in parting, “you’ll be the first to know.”
Then Cianci walked away. As he moved out of earshot, he turned to Farina and said in a low, determined voice: “Let’s do it, Mickey. Let’s run.”
In March Cianci resigned from the attorney general’s office. In April he formally announced his candidacy for mayor at a rally at the Biltmore Hotel. He called himself the anticorruption candidate.
Nobody took the Republican challenger seriously. The focus was on what would happen in the Democratic party, where challengers were lining up against Doorley. From Silver Lake came Councilman Charles Pisaturo, the latest Italian-American contender hoping to become the first of his heritage to be mayor. From the South Side came a fresh-faced young lawyer, army veteran, and Catholic Youth Organization baseball coach, Francis Darigan, Jr. And from the Second Ward came Larry McGarry’s protégé, Francis Brown, Doorley’s public safety commissioner.
