CASEY SHERMAN
ANIMAL
The Bloody Rise and Fall of the Mob’s Most Feared Assassin
NORTHEASTERN UNIVERSITY PRESS
BOSTON
Northeastern University Press
An imprint of University Press of New England
www.upne.com
© 2013 Northeastern University
All rights reserved
For permission to reproduce any of the material in this book, contact Permissions, University Press of New England, One Court Street, Suite 250, Lebanon NH 03766; or visit www.upne.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sherman, Casey, 1969–
Animal: the bloody rise and fall of the mob’s most feared assassin / Casey Sherman.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-1-55553-822-4 (hbk.: alk. paper)—ISBN 978-1-55553-821-7 (ebk.)
1. Barboza, Joseph, 1932–1976. 2. Assassins—United States— Biography. 3. Organized crime—United States—History. I. Title.
HV6248.b293s54 2013
364.152'4092—dc23
[B] 2012049987
For
Bella & Mia,
as always
CONTENTS
Casualties of the Boston Mob War, 1961–1967
Prologue
1 Thacher Island—September 1967
2 Deviltry, Dirt, and Degradation
3 That Pig on the Hill
4 Wild Thing
5 Top Echelon
6 Skullduggery
7 Uncaged
8 War
9 Ruthless Men
10 Deegan
11 Turning Up the Heat
12 The Mickey Mouse Club
13 The Hit Parade
14 Double Cross
15 Deal Makers
16 Deegan Part II
17 Baron’s Isle
18 Ka-Boom!
19 The Lying Game
20 WITSEC
21 A Murder in the Woods
22 California Dreaming
23 The Ghost of Joe Barboza
Where Are They Now?
Author’s Note
Notes
Photographs follow chapter 11
CASUALTIES OF THE BOSTON MOB WAR 1961–1967
BERNIE MCLAUGHLIN Charlestown, MA (October 31, 1961)
GEORGE JOINT Medford, MA (July 7, 1962)
WILLIAM SHERIDAN Roxbury, MA (March 15, 1964)
FRANCIS BENJAMIN South Boston, MA (May 4, 1964)
RUSSELL C. NICHOLSON Wilmington, MA (May 12, 1964)
PAUL COLLICI Quincy, MA (July 23, 1964)
VINCENT A. BISESI Quincy, MA (July 23, 1964)
WILFRED DELANEY Boston Harbor (August 20, 1964)
HAROLD R. HANSON Boston Harbor (August 20, 1964)
LEO J. LOWRY Pembroke, MA (September 3, 1964)
RONALD DERMODY Watertown, MA (September 4, 1964)
ROBERT CHARLBOIS Roxbury, MA (October 10, 1964)
ANTHONY SACRAMONE Everett, MA (October 17, 1964)
MRS. MARGARET SYLVESTER Boston, MA (November 10, 1964)
WILLIAM J. TREAMNIE Boston, MA (November 13, 1964)
EDWARD P. HUBER Hingham, MA (November 24, 1964)
GEORGE O’BRIEN South Boston, MA (December 16, 1964)
GEORGE E. ASH South Boston, MA (December 28, 1964)
JOHN F. MURRAY Dorchester, MA (January 10, 1965)
ROBERT J. RASMUSSEN Wilmington, MA (January 15, 1965)
HENRY F. REDDINGTON Weymouth, MA (January 23, 1965)
JOSEPH FRANCIONE Revere, MA (January 26, 1965)
JOHN BARBIERI Rehoboth, MA (March 2, 1965)
EDWARD “TEDDY” DEEGAN Chelsea, MA (March 12, 1965)*
PETER A. CASSETTA Maynard, MA (April 12, 1965)
WILLIAM FERGNANI Tyngsboro, MA (May 20, 1965)
JOSEPH ROMEO MARTIN Revere, MA (July 9, 1965)
EDWARD I. CROWELL Burlington, MA (July 10, 1965)
WADY DAVID Boston, MA (August 21, 1965)
EDWARD J. MCLAUGHLIN West Roxbury, MA (October 20, 1965)
JAMES J. “BUDDY” MCLEAN Somerville, MA (October 29, 1965)
RAYMOND DISTASIO Revere, MA (November 15, 1965)
JOHN O’NEIL Revere, MA (November 15, 1965)
ROBERT PALLADINO Boston, MA (November 15, 1965)
DAVID SID LAUSHES Quincy, MA (April 25, 1966)
ANTHONY VERANIS Milton, MA (April 26, 1966)
CORNELIUS HUGHES Revere, MA (May 25, 1966)
ROCCO DISEGLIO Topsfield, MA (June 16, 1966)
STEPHEN HUGHES Middleton, MA (September 23, 1966)
SAMUEL LINDENBAUM Middleton, MA (September 23, 1966)
JOHN W. JACKSON Boston, MA (September 28, 1966)
ARTHUR C. BRATSOS Boston, MA (November 15, 1966)
THOMAS DEPRISCO Boston, MA (November 15, 1966)
JOSEPH “CHICO” AMICO Revere, MA (December 17, 1966)
WILLIAM L. O’BRIEN Stoughton, MA (January 15, 1967)
ANDREW VON ETTER Medford, MA (February 2, 1967)
JOHN LOCKE Revere, MA (March 19, 1967)
JOSEPH LANSI Medford, MA (April 18, 1967)
RICHARD CAMMERATA Charlton, MA (June 26, 1967)
WILLIAM BENNETT Dorchester, MA (December 24, 1967)
J. RICHARD GRASSO Brookline, MA (December 31, 1967)
MISSING (PRESUMED DEAD)
EDWARD “WIMPY” BENNETT
WALTER BENNETT
THOMAS SASSO
RUBEN NEEDEL
* FBI Memo BS 92–563, filed by SA Dennis Condon in 1967.
PROLOGUE
Joseph Barboza is the most dangerous individual known
FBI DIRECTOR J. EDGAR HOOVER, 1965
If Joe Barboza felt out of place, he certainly didn’t show it. He was the lone Portuguese mobster swimming with a school of Sicilian sharks in the dark, dangerous water that was the Ebb Tide Lounge. It was their hangout after all—not his. Barboza’s dream was to become the first non-Italian inducted into La Cosa Nostra, but to the gathered Mafiosi, Barboza was not one of them and never would be. They called him “the nigger” behind his back, and to them he was nothing more than a blunt instrument used to erase their enemies.
Joe Barboza knew exactly what he was—the meanest, deadliest man in the New England mob. Tonight he’d prove it to these so-called men of respect. Fats Domino had just completed his second set of the night. A waitress was wiping the big man’s sweat off the piano as Fats was led upstairs for a rigged game of dice. Poor Fats—he was one hell of an entertainer but he was also a degenerate gambler. He played the Ebb Tide a few times a year, earning twelve grand a week. Most times though, Fats would hit the road owing the house more money than he had earned.
The lounge was relatively quiet now, just a few wiseguys huddled around the bar discussing past and future scores in hushed tones. Joe Barboza sat at a table, with his broad shoulders pressed against a wall and his eyes on the front door. The Ebb Tide was intentionally built with a narrow entrance to block armed men from bursting through the front door all at once. Still, Barboza had plenty of enemies, and the only way to stay alive in this game was to plan for the unexpected. He sipped at his glass of Crown Royale while regaling a buddy with stories from his brief but colorful career as a prize fighter. His deep, baritone voice rose above the other conversations around him, much to the annoyance of one respected Mafiosi.
“Hey, quiet down over there,” the gangster shouted in Joe’s direction.
Barboza paid little attention and kept talking, so the mobster repeated the order.
Joe raised his thick eyebrows and smiled at his buddy as he slipped out of his chair and made his way toward the man, who was leaning against the bar. Barboza moved through the club slowly, his muscled shoulde
rs carving through the crowd like a sharp blade. All eyes were on him now. He savored the attention. It was the same feeling he got each time he had entered the ring, only the spectators in this crowd were all like him—dangerous men. He approached the Mafiosi and offered a crooked smile followed by an open-handed slap across the face. The sheer sound of the impact—flesh on flesh—echoed through the bar. The Mafiosi staggered back and tried to brace himself for another blow. Barboza kept his own dark eyes on the gangster. “Your move,” he muttered.
The problem was—the gangster couldn’t move. His hands were trembling, but his arms remained at his sides as if he were paralyzed. Suddenly, a slightly built and bespectacled man made his way to the bar. Wearing a pair of black suspenders and white socks, Henry Tameleo had the meek look of an accountant. In reality, he was the underboss of the New England Mafia, or “The Office,” as it was called; he held sway over everything that happened inside the Ebb Tide Lounge. Tameleo was normally an even-tempered mobster. Associates called him the Referee, for his ability to settle disputes calmly. Tameleo’s trademark cool exterior was not on display tonight. The outrage over what he had just witnessed was boiling to the surface.
“I don’t want you to ever slap that man again!” Tameleo shouted angrily at Barboza. The underboss waved his bony finger around the Ebb Tide. “This is my place. I don’t want you to touch anyone here with your hands again. You hear me? Never lay your hands on anybody!”
Barboza did not say a word. Instead, he nodded and lunged toward his victim’s face once more—this time with his mouth. Barboza bit off a piece of the gangster’s cheek and spat it down on the surface of the bar. A stunned Henry Tameleo looked on in horror as the wounded Mafiosi crumbled to the floor.
Barboza smiled at the underboss as a small stream of blood trickled from his lips. He raised his beefy palms to Tameleo.
“See Henry, I didn’t use my hands!”
After this night, Barboza’s legend began to grow. He had struck fear in the heart of the Mafia. They no longer called him the nigger. Joe Barboza had a new nickname now—the Animal. This story has become part of New England mob lore, and no doubt it has been embellished over time. Oftentimes, the difference between mythology and reality is difficult to define in the underworld, whose inhabitants are all natural-born killers and liars.
The city of Boston has long been known as Ground Zero for corruption within the ranks of the FBI. The bureau’s cozy relationship with Irish mob boss James “Whitey” Bulger has made headlines around the globe. But the story did not begin there. Animal is the unbelievable but true tale of the FBI’S original deal with the Devil. In 1965, amid the backdrop of one of the deadliest mob wars in American history, two unscrupulous FBI agents forged a Faustian bargain with Joe “The Animal” Barboza. It was a pact that transformed the justice system in America. Here is their story.
1
Thacher Island—September 1967
Oh Sinnerman where you gonna run to?
NINA SIMONE
Joe Barboza found it hard to believe that his life might end here—in this place. New England Mafia boss Raymond L. S. Patriarca, known simply as the Man—a moniker that grew out of the respect he had built up among gangsters far and wide—was coming for him, and he would not give up the hunt until Barboza was dead. This Joe knew. Given the life he had led up to this point, Barboza had figured he’d take his last breath sooner or later on the streets of East Boston, seated at the bar at the cavernous Ebb Tide Lounge on nearby Revere Beach, or at any other number of places where mob killers like him plied their trade. But here, on this God-forsaken island? It was nearly impossible to imagine.
Barboza had been holed up for the past month on Thacher Island, an unforgiving fifty-acre pile of jagged rock covered by sea grass and poison ivy about a mile off the coast of Rockport, Massachusetts. The island, under twenty-four-hour protection by the U.S. Marshal Service, was crawling with rats and snakes that had been cultivated to help ward off intruders. The only intruders thus far had been the seagulls that made routine dive-bombing runs to pick off unsuspecting vermin as they scurried out of their island holes. The deep, hollow wail of a foghorn, sounding twice every sixty seconds, rang incessantly in Barboza’s head. His enemies had vowed to send Barboza to Hell, but he felt as if he were already there. Joe’s only solace came in the companionship of his wife and their young daughter; both had been forced into hiding with him, and the marshals had sworn to give up their own lives to protect them.
Would their protection be enough? It was a question Barboza asked himself again and again. He had never before had to depend on anyone else for his own safety. It was a foreign concept to him. He had always been the predator, an animal stalking its prey. But now he was the quarry—he was the kill. In the eyes of La Cosa Nostra, Joe Barboza had become the most wanted man in America. His secrets and, more important, his lies had the potential to destroy the New England Mafia and damage crime families from coast to coast. For this, Joe Barboza had to be killed. The U.S. government had taken extraordinary measures to keep him safe. But the one thing Barboza knew was that if the Mafia wanted you dead—you were dead. The key was to strike first. Joe Barboza had fought his own battles on the streets with pistols, rifles, knives, ice-picks, and bare hands. Not that a weapon would do him any good now. Still, a killing tool in his murderous hands might make him feel more at ease, help to take the edge off. The only thing Joe Barboza could do now was hide. He had never hidden from anything in his life.
Barboza’s secret location had been recently revealed in an article printed in a Boston newspaper under the headline “How to Hide a 250-lb Canary.” Barboza’s protector, U.S. marshal John Partington, had been notified that upon reading the piece, Raymond Patriarca had assembled an assassination squad to silence Joe once and for all. Patriarca had recently summoned mob associate Vincent Teresa to his headquarters inside the Coin-O-Matic Vending Company at 168 Atwell Avenue in the Italian section of Federal Hill in Providence, Rhode Island. The dingy mint-green building was hardly fit for a Mafia king like Patriarca—and that is exactly how he wanted it. Like most successful mob leaders, the Man worked to cultivate a low profile. The only hint of the power within was the fleet of polished Cadillacs parked curbside in front of the Coin-O-Matic’s dirty picture windows. When Teresa arrived he was led to a backroom, where the boss dictated his murder decree. “You take (Maurice) Pro Lerner up there and case the island,” Patriarca ordered. “See if you can get Barboza!”1
Teresa was an unlikely choice for such a mission. Known in mob circles as “Fat Vinnie,” Teresa was obese, weighing well over three hundred pounds, with beady eyes and black, slicked-back hair. Teresa was a swindler and a thief. He was a money man, not a button man. Teresa was given the assignment because he had recently purchased a forty-three-foot pleasure cruiser that he named The Living End. Built by craftsman at the prestigious Egg Harbor Yachts in southern New Jersey, the vessel had been designed with two large staterooms, a plush living area, and a large galley with a three-burner stove and stainless steel sink. The vessel even had chrome-plated anchors. Teresa had bought the boat to lure suckers with cash-stuffed wallets to crooked card games. Vinnie later claimed that the yacht had made him $150,000 in the first couple of months he owned it.
Now, for the first time, The Living End was being used to end a man’s life.
Maurice “Pro” Lerner was given the order simply because he lived up to his nickname. Whatever the job, Lerner handled it like a pro. Lerner was also an expert diver. He packed his wetsuit, in the hope of infiltrating the island James Bond style and getting the opportunity to take out Barboza up close and personal.
The assassins boarded The Living End armed with high-powered rifles, shotguns, binoculars, and a telescope. Soon the boat’s motors roared and the vessel began cutting its way through the rough waters and thick fog toward Thacher Island. The perilous seas surrounding the island are littered with the skeletons of ships that have gone down over the centuries. In fact, that is
how the island first got its name. In 1635 the land had been bestowed to Anthony Thacher, an Englishman whose four children were among the twenty-one passengers killed when the vessel Watch and Wait was torn apart in a hellacious storm during a sail from Ipswich to Marblehead, where Thacher’s cousin, Reverend Joseph Avery, was to be ordained as pastor of the fishing village. The passengers embarked from Ipswich on August 11, 1635, but the first sign of trouble did not appear until three days later, when gale-force winds shattered the evening calm and split the sails of their pinnace—a small vessel with two masts rigged like a schooner. Instead of hoisting new sails, the captain and his crew decided to drop anchor and wait until morning. This would prove to be a deadly mistake.
When dawn broke on August 15, 1635, the crew and their passengers were pummeled by driving rains, howling winds, and gigantic seas. Thacher would later describe it in his journal as “so mighty a storm, as the like was never known in New England since the English came, nor in the memory of any of the Indians.” Eventually a monster wave tossed the small vessel against a large rock; it was soon followed by an even greater wave that drowned the victims, including ten children. Somehow, Thacher and his wife survived and washed ashore onto the desolate island, half-naked, freezing, and near death. Stumbling along the rocks half-crazed, Thacher was fortunate to find a drowned goat, flint, and a powder horn. He also found a coat that had belonged to his dead son Peter, with which he and his wife kept themselves warm. The body of his cousin’s eldest daughter washed ashore, and Thacher and his wife buried the girl’s remains on the island’s promontory.
Thacher would long blame himself for the deaths of his children and relatives, and he believed that God had punished him and Elizabeth with their very survival. The General Court offered Thacher the island as compensation for his enormous loss. The shipwrecked Englishman named the island Thacher’s Woe. Although Anthony and his wife eventually moved to Cape Cod, the island would stay in the Thacher family for eighty years before it was bought back by the colonial government for the purpose of building a light station. Twin lighthouses, each forty-five feet high and made of stone, were constructed on the island in 1771, providing many European immigrants with their first glimpse of America as they sailed into Massachusetts Bay. The twin lighthouses, some three hundred yards apart, stood sentry over the rough waters off Cape Ann for the next hundred years, eventually earning the nickname “Ann’s Eyes.” In 1861 the lighthouses were replaced by even taller towers that scraped the sky at 124 feet.
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