Westies

by T. J. English

  Coonan picked up a large laundry bag that nineteen-year-old Ray Steen had brought over from his apartment next door. Inside was a staggering arsenal, the product of five years’ worth of steady accumulation. There were .25s, .32s, .38s, and .45s with silencers; there was a 9mm machine gun; there were hand grenades; there were two Japanese machetes; there were ski masks, handcuffs, holsters, bulletproof vests, walkie-talkies.

  Jimmy began to spread the contents of the bag out on a coffee table. He handed a .25 and a .38 to Mickey and took two of the same for himself. He explained exactly where Tommaso’s and Vets and Friends was located: straight through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel to the Gowanus Expressway, exit at 86th Street, and take a left. Just a few blocks down, at 1464 86th Street, was the restaurant. The social club was right next door.

  “Remember,” he added sternly. “Two goddamn hours.”

  Outside, walking towards Jimmy’s car, Coonan turned to Featherstone. “Mickey, you know, I’d perfectly understand if you don’t wanna make this trip. You been with me up till now and that’s somethin’ I appreciate. But you don’t gotta go. I mean, anybody’d understand that.”

  Mickey thought about it for a second. In a way, this whole Italian thing was Jimmy’s doing. The guineas were somebody Mickey had never really wanted to deal with. For one thing, they were always sneaky about the way they killed people, so you never really knew who was behind it. Mickey found it hard to respect anybody who didn’t have the balls to at least look a guy in the eye when they killed him. As far as he was concerned, that was the difference between them, the Italians, and us, the Irish.

  But he would never back down when Jimmy needed him. That was out of the question. “Nah,” he told Coonan. “I’m with you, man. I mean, if they’re gonna whack you it means they’re gonna whack me too, right? So what’s the fuckin’ difference?”

  Jimmy just smiled. He seemed to understand completely.

  It was a twenty-five-minute drive through the tunnel and along the expressway to Bay Ridge. As they made the journey, Jimmy and Mickey were mostly silent. For Coonan, it was a time of reflection. Ever since the May 13th death of Mickey Spillane, he had known that the Italians were going to have to do business with him one way or the other. He’d spent years positioning himself for this moment, trying to make it clear that he was not like Spillane, that he could be dealt with. Through his friendship with Roy Demeo he had established all the right contacts. If Castellano was the kind of person everybody said he was—a man of reason and understanding—Jimmy knew this meeting might just be the biggest moment of his life.

  Featherstone knew how much the meeting meant to Jimmy, which was why he was going along. But secretly he saw it as the latest in a series of events that stretched his allegiance to Jimmy about as far as it could go.

  Just one month earlier, on January 18, 1978, Mickey had been with Coonan when Rickey Tassiello, one of Jimmy’s loanshark customers, was lured up to Tony Lucich’s apartment on 10th Avenue. Featherstone knew that Coonan was having problems with Tassiello. Rickey was a sick gambler who was chronically late with his payments. He was making Jimmy look bad in the neighborhood. Since the amount Rickey owed at the time wasn’t exorbitant, it wouldn’t cost Jimmy much to use Tassiello as an example—which is exactly what happened.

  Mickey stood up and played his part, though Jimmy had promised him just hours before it went down that he wasn’t going to kill Rickey that night. When it happened, Mickey reacted on instinct. He grabbed Rickey Tassiello in the kitchen when the kid reached for a knife. That’s when Jimmy shot Rickey three times in the head.

  Later, Coonan and Lucich dragged Rickey’s body into the bathroom and dumped it in the tub. Then they cut it up. They stuck the body parts in plastic garbage bags, loaded them into cardboard moving boxes and took them out to Ward’s Island, or “Tony’s island,” as it was known to Coonan & Company.

  They arrived around six o’clock in the morning. “I got one for you,” Coonan told Tony, the foreman at the sewage treatment plant.

  Tony had this thing about having to see the face. Whenever Coonan brought a body out to be discarded, he would open one of the boxes, unfasten the plastic, and peer inside. This time he held the head aloft and said, “Gee, I know this guy. He’s only a kid.”

  Mickey had to laugh, it was so morbid. It reminded him of those goddamned vampire movies he used to watch all the time when he first came back from ’Nam.

  Sometimes Featherstone thought of all this violence as a kind of baptism, or maybe a test that Jimmy was giving him. God knows, there were enough times when Mickey had initiated violence on his own. Especially in those years when he came back from the war, he seemed unable to get through the day without an altercation. But in more recent times, most of the violence was initiated by Jimmy, and many times Mickey didn’t know it was going to go down until the moment it happened.

  Each time he and Coonan engaged in a violent act that disturbed him—like the beating of some neighborhood person he’d known all his life—Mickey felt Jimmy was watching and judging him. When he made it through yet another episode without bugging out, it brought them closer together. At times, it seemed like there was a concrete ratio at work: the more violent and dangerous the act, the tighter and more interdependent they became afterwards.

  Featherstone sometimes felt wired and angry after these episodes, which usually led to more violence. After the Tassiello murder, he’d come home and punched a hole in the wall of his apartment. But in the end, he never allowed himself to feel doubt or even remorse. He just put his trust in Jimmy.

  Trusting Jimmy was a big reason he was driving out to Brooklyn now to meet with a group of people he didn’t even like. Or trust.

  They arrived at Tommaso’s around 7 P.M. and parked on a side street. They went inside, sat at a small bar to the left of the entrance, ordered drinks, and waited.

  Tommaso’s was a sizable restaurant by Bay Ridge standards, with plenty of greenery, red-checked tablecloths, and a low-key neighborhood ambience. Its most noticeable feature was a huge brass coffee urn that adorned the bar area. Beyond that, it was your typical Italian-American bistro—clean and quiet, with a reputation for an exquisite linguini and clam sauce.

  After Coonan and Featherstone had been at the bar for four or five minutes, Roy Demeo approached from the rear of the restaurant dressed in a suit and tie.

  “You guys ready?” asked Demeo in his deep, gravelly voice.

  Jimmy and Mickey nodded.

  “Okay,” said Roy, moving in close and speaking in a near whisper. “Whatever youse do, don’t admit nothin’ about Ruby Stein. Okay? They gonna ask you about Ruby. You say, ‘I don’t know nothin’.’ They gonna ask you about Ruby’s black book. You say, ‘What black book?’ Alright?”

  Again they nodded.

  “Good. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”

  Demeo led Jimmy and Mickey through the restaurant. Near the back, to the right, there was a hallway leading past the restrooms to a door that was kept closed at all times. As they headed towards the door, Featherstone took a quick look around the restaurant. The last thing he saw before they disappeared down the hallway was Alberta and her companion, Dick Maher, seated at a table near the far wall.

  When they walked into the back room, Mickey and Jimmy could hardly believe their eyes. There was a huge horseshoe-shaped table arrangement that took up almost the entire room. A quick scan of the table revealed more than a dozen of the most powerful men in La Cosa Nostra circa 1978.

  There was seventy-year-old Carmine Lombardozzi, known as the financial wizard of the Gambino family. There was Joe N. Gallo, the family’s aging consigliere, or advisor, going back to the days of Carlo Gambino. There was Anniello Dellacroce, who, at the age of sixty-eight, was second in power only to Paul Castellano. There was Anthony “Nino” Gaggi, another aging Gambino underboss. There was seventy-eight-year-old Funzi Tieri, a representative of Fat Tony Salerno’s Genovese family.

  And finally, at the head of th
e table, wearing wirerimmed glasses, with thinning gray hair and a quiet, grandfatherly manner, was Paul Castellano, arguably the most powerful criminal in the United States of America.

  Jimmy Coonan, whose blond hair was a marked contrast to the dark Sicilian and Neapolitan Italians who filled the room, presented Castellano with a box of Cuban cigars as a gesture of goodwill. Castellano smiled and passed the box around the table for all to see. Then Coonan and Featherstone were formally introduced to each and every person at the table.

  Once the two Irish kids were seated, the meal commenced. From a door leading directly into the kitchen a steady stream of salads, pastas, and seafood appeared and disappeared. At first, there was only small talk. Nino Gaggi sat next to Featherstone. He wore black-tinted glasses and wanted to talk to Mickey about Vietnam. He had a nephew who’d been in the Green Berets, and he wanted to know how Mickey had gone about getting 100% disability pay. He was greatly impressed by that. After Mickey told him, he was convinced that Featherstone and his nephew should meet.

  Suddenly, without any sign or warning, Funzi Tieri, Fat Tony’s delegate, leaned over and whispered something in Paul Castellano’s ear. Then Castellano cleared his throat and the room became silent.

  “Jimmy,” began the Godfather, who then hesitated and asked, “You don’t mind if I call you Jimmy?”

  “Of course not.”

  Castellano smiled politely, then began to speak in a polished monotone that belied his Brooklyn roots. After a brief rundown on why the death of Ruby Stein was of such concern to all of them, he asked point-blank, “Jimmy, did you or any of your people have anything to do with this terrible thing, this murder of our good friend, Ruby Stein?”

  “No,” replied Coonan, without missing a beat. “We didn’t have nothin’ to do with that.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Castellano.

  “Yes, sir, without a doubt.”

  Castellano then asked if Jimmy knew anything about Ruby Stein’s black book.

  “I don’t even know what youse are talkin’ about,” was Jimmy’s reply.

  “Well,” continued Castellano, “that book has millions of dollars’ worth of loans in it, shylock loans. There are people here who need that book.”

  “Wish I could help you, Mr. Castellano. But I don’t know nothin’ about Ruby’s death or no black book.”

  Then Funzi Tieri spoke up in a heavy Italian accent. “But did not you and your people get denaro, molto denaro off this Ruby Stein?”

  “Money?” asked Jimmy. “Sure. But far as I know those loans were paid back in full, every one of ’em.”

  There were a few more questions from the table on the Ruby Stein matter. Jimmy held his ground, adding that he liked Ruby and used to work for him and had no idea who might have done “this terrible thing.” After everyone had their say, Castellano spoke again.

  “Alright Jimmy, this is our position. From now on, you boys are going to be with us. Which means you got to stop acting like cowboys, like wild men. If anybody is to be removed, you have to clear it with my people. Capisch? Everything goes through Nino or Roy. You’ll have our permission to use the family name in your business dealings on the West Side. But whatever moneys you make, you will cut us in ten percent. Except, of course, for the shylocking. That you’ll work out with Roy.”

  At this point, Jimmy spoke up. He told Castellano that lately they’d been taking a bath on the numbers business and would need time to build it back up.

  “That’s okay,” replied Big Paulie in his formal tones. “We won’t have any problems over money, of this I’m sure. But you and your boys have got to end this wild behavior. From now on, every killing must be authorized.”

  After that, everyone resumed eating and the mood lightened. “Mangia, figlio; eat up, eat up,” said seventysix-year-old Nino Gaggi when he saw that Featherstone still had food on his plate.

  March 22, 1966–Little Bobby Lagville after an early morning rendezvous with Jimmy Coonan

  Owney “The Killer” Madden (left) leaves Sing Sing prison circa 1931. (Daily News Photos)

  Vincent “Mad Dog” Coll, Madden nemesis, with his customary toothy grin. (Daily News Photos)

  Jimmy Coonan

  Mickey Featherstone

  The 596 Club, Jimmy Coonan’s saloon at 43rd Street and 10th Avenue.

  Ward’s Island in the East River where Jimmy Coonan first met Mafia capo Roy Demeo (insert), also site of numerous body disposals.

  Mickey Spillane circa 1974

  Eddie Cummiskey circa 1968

  Jimmy McElory circa 1986

  Billy Beattie circa 1968

  Jimmy Coonan (center) making the rounds in Hell’s Kitchen. To his right is Anton “Tony” Lucich.

  November 22, 1978–Harold “Whitey” Whitehead left to die in the basement of the Opera Hotel. Note the greeting card addressed to Bobby Huggard lying next to the body.

  THE COPS:

  Detective Frank McDarby (right) brings Mickey Featherstone into central booking in Queens following his arrest for the murder of Mickey Spillane. (Daily News Photos)

  Detective Richie Egan of the NYPD Intelligence Division.

  Detective Sergeant Joe Coffey, head of the Organized Crime Homicide Task Force.

  Edna Coonan

  Alberta Sachs

  Ray Steen

  One of two line-ups that Mickey Featherstone (second from left) was required to stand in following the murder of Michael Holly.

  “I already ate a plateful,” said Mickey, laughing. “What, you want I should wind up with a fat belly like youse guys?”

  Mickey felt Jimmy kick him under the table, but the Italians didn’t seem to mind the joke; they laughed good-naturedly.

  Meanwhile, outside in the main area of the restaurant, Alberta Sachs and Maher were dining among the normal everyday patrons. Ever since she had watched Mickey and Jimmy being led towards the back room, Alberta’s curiosity had been eating away at her. It took constant vigilance on the part of Maher to keep her from trying to sneak a peek.

  After they’d been sitting there for more than an hour, she couldn’t resist anymore. She told Dick she was going back to the ladies’ room, but she had every intention of trying to find out what was going on behind that closed door.

  Alberta walked down the short hallway past the restroom doors. After looking around to make sure no one was watching, she put her ear against the door. She could hear the muffled sounds of men talking and laughing but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Frustrated, she went into the ladies’ room to freshen up.

  When she stepped out of the bathroom, an elderly Italian gentleman was just coming out of the back room. Alberta didn’t see him at first and as she opened the door she accidentally bumped into the man, knocking his cigar out of his mouth. Flustered, Alberta bent down to pick it up, but the man bent down also.

  Thwack! went their heads.

  Alberta was embarrassed now. She tried to make it look like she was drunk and didn’t know what was going on. When the elderly gentleman just smiled politely and continued on into the men’s room, she finally got a good look at him. For a second, she thought she was going to pass out.

  The man she’d smacked heads with was none other than Paul Castellano, the Godfather himself.

  After everyone at the meeting had finished eating, Jimmy and Mickey were taken to the Vets and Friends social club, a nondescript storefront two doors down from the restaurant with the shades pulled shut and an American flag in the window. Inside, the club was populated with thirty or forty immaculately dressed mafiosi. There were a few card games underway and some people were watching a hockey game on TV, but mostly it was just gangsters drinking, laughing, and talking.

  Jimmy and Mickey were introduced as “the kids from Manhattan” to a number of people in the room, including Nino Gaggi’s nephew Dominick Montiglio, the former Green Beret who Mickey had heard about earlier.

  After a while, Castellano took Jimmy and Mickey aside and talked to them more about th
eir new alliance.

  “If ever you are called to come to Brooklyn,” said Big Paulie, “you must come—no questions asked. And you don’t bring weapons. No weapons allowed inside the club.”

  Mickey could feel the sweat begin to run down his back when Castellano said this, since he currently had a .25 stuffed in the crotch of his pants and a .38 in his belt at the small of his back. As far as he knew, Jimmy did too.

  “Another thing,” continued Castellano, “I do everything I can to keep my name out of the newspapers. You boys been attracting too much attention. Publicity is not good for us. I once had to buy a story from a reporter just to keep it from being published. I was happy to spend the money and the reporter was smart enough to accept.…

  “Because when I get a thorn in my side, it’s never a problem for me. I just pull it out and get rid of it.”

  After they were in the club about thirty minutes enjoying the Cuban cigars, fine whiskeys, and general hospitality of the Brooklyn Italians, Jimmy and Mickey realized it was well past nine o’clock. They had told the boys back in Hell’s Kitchen they were supposed to come in shooting if they didn’t hear from them in two hours, and the time had already elapsed.

  “Holy shit,” Mickey whispered to Jimmy. “We gotta get outta here and make a phone call.”

  “I know,” replied Coonan. “Least we gotta get outside. This way, they drive by they see us and know we’re okay.”

  Trying to stay cool, Jimmy and Mickey said their goodbyes and maneuvered Roy Demeo, Nino Gaggi, and a few of the others they were talking with out to the sidewalk, where they’d be easily spotted by any cruising car.

  It was a clear, pleasant evening. They stood in front of Vets and Friends for a while engaging in small talk, but Jimmy and Mickey were hardly paying attention. They were on the lookout for their own people, armed with machine guns and hand grenades, bent on revenge.