For the Sins of My Father: A Mafia Killer, His Son, and the Legacy of a Mob Life

by Albert Demeo

  I bought my first car that spring, a black Corvette, after getting my first legal driver's license. My father and I had planned to pick the car out together. My family occupied most of my attention. I made it a point to be home as much as possible. Like a protective father, I brought home videos to keep my sisters occupied, took them and my mother out to dinner and to the movies. I even stopped by my mother's favorite diner now and then, to pick up a hamburger and fries for her as my father had once done. She patted me sadly, unable to eat what I'd brought her, but I knew she appreciated the gesture.

  I also tried to take responsibility for people who had depended on my father. I had watched my dad take care of people all his life. It was clear that Cousin Joe could not survive on his own; it was equally clear that he would never be able to stay out of trouble. I knew my father would want Joe to be cared for in his old age, so I told him to pack his things and get ready to leave New York permanently. Then I put a sizable bundle of cash in a paper bag and told Joe I was taking him to the airport for a final good-bye. I told him that I didn't want to know where he was going, but that I wished him well. I also told him that I never wanted to hear from him again. To my surprise, when I started to tell him good-bye at the airport, his eyes filled with tears, and he told me he wanted me to have something to remember him by. It was the only thing he had to give me in the way of a legacy, he said. Then he handed me a battered copy of an old journal, filled with notes and handwritten copies of his special recipes. He knew I liked his cooking and hoped that I would use the recipes and remember him. Along with the recipes were little anecdotes, funny stories and comments about the men he had cooked for. It was the last I ever saw of Cousin Joe.

  I also felt a sense of responsibility for Freddy, who was still inside. Freddy was devastated by my father's death. Unable to read and capable of writing only his name, Freddy was like a lost child in the wake of my father's murder. Things got even worse for Freddy when his brother Richie was murdered shortly after my father was killed. Richie had worked for my father on and off for several years as part of Dad's auto theft ring. Richie DiNome was an upscale version of Freddy—dark, handsome, smarter, younger. He was a talented thief who could steal twenty cars in a single night. The FBI was pushing Richie hard to turn informant, offering to make a deal for Freddy if Richie turned. One night Richie disappeared, his body turning up a week later with bullets through the back of his head. Someone in the Mob had gotten nervous. Richie knew too much.

  Several weeks after our father's funeral, Debra and I went to visit Freddy in jail to see how he was doing. It was a strange visit, for I knew immediately that something was wrong. In all the years I had known Freddy, I had never seen him behave so oddly. He kept asking me, as though he had memorized the questions, “So Albert, who do you think murdered your father? Do you think it might have been one of his associates?” Freddy never talked like that; it was clear he had been coached. It didn't take a genius to realize that Freddy had made some kind of deal to turn informant, but he wasn't bright enough to carry it off believably. Freddy would have gone to the grave for my father, but with Richie dead and his family in need, I knew it would be simple to turn Freddy if he thought he was helping to catch my father's killer. I told him I had no idea who had performed the hit and cut the visit short. Debra asked me why Freddy was acting so strange. I told her I didn't know. The change in Freddy made me very uncomfortable. If I couldn't trust him, whom could I trust?

  From the night I saw my father's blood on my hands, I became obsessed with finding his killer's identity. No ounce of common sense, no pang of conscience, no dying warning from my father's mouth had changed my resolution. I needed a cause, and avenging my father's death gave me one.

  Despite my unwillingness to discuss it with Freddy, I knew as well as he did that my father's murderer was probably one of his associates. Everything about the murder pointed to an inside job. The question was, who? In the weeks following my father's death, that question had haunted my every waking moment and often followed me into sleep. Paul Castellano was the obvious choice for sending the order, but who had carried it out? Experience told me someone in my father's crew had been involved, though I didn't want to believe it. The afternoon I went by the Gemini to pick up Cousin Joe for the ride to the airport, Anthony and Joey were sitting around the table with some of the minor players. Anthony was sitting in my father's chair, with Joey on his right in my old spot. I felt my stomach tighten, but the Twins just smiled lazily and said, “How ya doin', Albert?”

  While I debated which of my father's old crew, if any, I could trust, they made the first overtures and got in touch with me. They needed to tie up some loose ends, they told me, and they needed some of my father's things to do that. They wanted his “Shylock book,” a leather ledger where he kept the information on his loan-shark collections. They told me they were going to collect the additional money owed to my father for “us,” but they couldn't do that without the book. I knew they were lying. They had no intention of sharing anything they collected; their primary motive was lining their own pockets. Among them all, my father's crew owed him hundreds of thousands of dollars, which they certainly weren't going to pay my family. The crew always spent more than they made, borrowing against the next big score. And finally, they wanted my father's tagging tools, worth a potential fortune if they continued stealing cars. I knew that none of them had either the brains or the discipline to run the operation without my father, but they hadn't figured that out yet. I agreed to meet with them and discuss the details, hoping it would give me a chance to size them up in person.

  I suggested we meet at the diner where they used to meet my father. The diner was a nice, family-style restaurant on the main road through Massapequa. It seemed like a safe enough place for such a meeting. I had no idea where Freddy had kept the tagging tools. The ledger was hidden in the cabinet at home. I'd used it to make collections when Dad was in hiding, but I had no intention of turning it over to the crew.

  They were all waiting for me in the parking lot when I drove up that afternoon. The Gemini Twins were there, along with a couple of other guys I barely knew. When they motioned me into the car so we could drive while we talked, I climbed in between Joey and Anthony without a second thought. I assumed they were worried about eavesdroppers in the diner. It wasn't until we pulled out of the parking lot that I realized my mistake. As the driver merged onto the highway, Anthony and Joey pulled their coats back so I could see. Both of them had guns sticking out of their belts. I looked at the back of the driver's head and the man riding shotgun up front, and my heart stopped. I had walked into an ambush. “Holy shit,” I thought, “this is a hit, and I walked right into it.”

  As we drove through the fading Long Island afternoon, Joey and Anthony began questioning me about the tagging tools. I told them I didn't know where they were. They seemed to believe me. But when they asked about the loan shark book, I denied knowing anything about it. “I don't know anything about any book,” I insisted. “Dad kept all the accounts in his head as far as I know. He told me who to collect from when he needed me to do a pickup, but that's all I know. I don't know anything about a book.” They knew I was lying. I guess it was stupid, but I was trying to buy some time. And if they killed me anyway, I certainly wasn't going to hand over something worth that much money first.

  “We're trying to help you, Albert,” Anthony kept saying. He tried to look sad, but he couldn't quite pull it off.

  It was nearly an hour later when I realized, with an indescribable sense of relief, that they had decided to take me back to the diner. I'm still not certain why they did it. I think they were testing me, hoping I would come up with what they wanted if they played me right. They reminded me of the police with their good cop, bad cop tactics. As they pulled into the parking lot and stopped to let me out, Anthony looked me right in the eye and said, “Oh, Albert—our deep condolences on your father's tragic death. You need anything, you call us.” I felt a chill go through me. I kn
ew I was talking to my father's murderers.

  Stepping into the parking lot, I replied, “Sure, guys, take care of yourselves. I'll be in touch.”

  And with that I strode back to my car as my father had taught me to—confident, fearless, arrogant. It was only when I had pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the relative safety of home that I allowed the relief to wash over me. I knew how close I had just come to being killed.

  So began the cat-and-mouse game I played with my father's old crew for weeks to come. We each wanted something the other had: They wanted any money-making tools my father had left in my possession, and I wanted a clearer understanding of who had been involved in my father's murder and how. Trying to stay one step ahead of them, I agreed to continued meetings at the diner, but not in the car. I sometimes met them inside for a meal; usually, though, I stood in the parking lot to speak with them. Only yards away from where we stood, a steady stream of suburban traffic flowed by and women took their toddlers for walks in strollers, blissfully unaware of the negotiations taking place within their view.

  I had some extra insurance the next time. I knew that a public setting wasn't enough to guarantee my safety. I'd told my friend Nick what had happened, and he'd insisted on coming with me the next time. Nick was no wiseguy; he was just my friend, and he had been backing me up since junior high school, no questions asked. I didn't try to talk him out of it. I'd have done the same thing for him. I told him to arrive in the parking lot a few minutes before I did, where he could keep an eye on me from a distance. I also gave him a loaded rifle to keep trained on all of us—just in case. I was in completely over my head, but I hadn't realized it yet.

  The Mob wasn't the only game I was playing. I was also targeted in an FBI investigation. Someone—probably Freddy—had told them how close I'd been to my father. At this crucial point in their investigation of Paul Castellano and Nino Gaggi, they saw me as a potential gold mine of information about my father's criminal enterprises, someone who could put most of his associates behind bars. And they assumed that, because my father's associates were implicated in his murder, I would be willing to cooperate. They were wrong.

  It is difficult to explain to an outsider why I was so reluctant to turn informant. After all, I was infinitely more intent on identifying my father's killers than the government could ever be. But the reality was that my options were limited. To begin with, I did not have much of the information they believed I had. I knew quite a bit about the loan-shark operations, as well as bits and pieces of his auto theft and pornography enterprises. But, except for the murder of the college student and some uncomfortable intuitions that he might have been involved in hits on other mobsters, I knew nothing about the violence they hinted at. The most obvious drawback to cooperating with the authorities, though, was fear for my own safety. If I became involved in their investigation in any way, I knew that the Mafia would murder me long before any case went to trial, and my father's killers would go free.

  My refusal to cooperate with the authorities did not sit well with them. In the weeks following my father's murder, they did everything they could to force me to work with them. They couldn't subpoena me, since I was still under age. But they could call me in for “just a few more questions” about my father's death. When I left the house, they followed me, and when veiled threats didn't work, they tried sympathizing with me about my “poor murdered father.” They couldn't have cared less about my father. They loathed him. They were glad he was dead, and I knew it. So they continued to question, and I continued to deny knowing anything, always in the politest possible terms. Finally I called a lawyer who'd been on my father's payroll, and the harassment stopped. Until I turned eighteen, there was little else they could do.

  As the gray winter days melted away, the internal pressure gradually became intolerable. I continued going through the motions of living, but I couldn't hold anything in my mind but my father's dead face. I considered my options. I had a local mechanic build a hidden compartment into my new car where I could keep a gun and had him supercharge my car in case I had to make a fast escape. If I was going to act, I needed to do it soon, but the one-man army I had formed lacked the firepower to do the job. My entire stock of weaponry consisted of a sawed-off shotgun, a Browning 9mm., two .38s, and a pile of ammunition. It would not be enough, I reasoned, not nearly enough. I considered the vague plan I had formed a suicide mission. If I had asked Tommy and Nick, they would probably have helped me, but I was not willing to take my friends with me to certain death. My only hope of taking out my father's betrayers lay in greater firepower. I had heard my father refer to hidden arsenals that included not only stores of automatic weapons but also C-4 grenades and bulletproof vests. I needed access to those arsenals now, but I didn't know where he'd kept them. After weeks of agonizing, I decided to make a call to the one person I believed I could still trust: Nino Gaggi. Uncle Nino had been avoiding me for weeks, but I told myself that was for his own safety. After several attempts, I finally got through to him. I told him that I thought I knew who had killed my father, and I needed my dad's old weapon supply to take care of business. Did he know where it was? He told me he'd look into it and get back to me.

  Two days after I made the call, I went out on a date with my steady girlfriend. We had become more serious after my father's death, when I needed comfort. I knew it might be our last date, for I was planning to do the hit as soon as Nino got back to me. Somehow that knowledge gave me peace, for I believed I was doing the right thing at last. I had nothing more to lose. I savored every moment with my girl. She was so beautiful, so gentle. We had a wonderful evening: dinner in my favorite Long Island restaurant followed by a long walk on the beach, holding hands and sinking our bare toes into the sand. Moonlight shone on the water, and for the first time since my father's death, I felt like I could breathe. There was a glorious sense of seclusion as we walked together that night, her fingers twined in mine and the taste of salt on my tongue. Afterward I drove her home through the dark, silent streets and shared a lingering kiss on the front porch of her parents' home, breathing her into my heart. Driving down the deserted highway afterward, the lights of suburbia asleep for the night, I rolled down the car windows and let the warm wind blow through my hair. My whole body sighed in the relief of that moment.

  I never saw it coming. One minute I was cruising down the darkened highway listening to Frank Sinatra on the tape player; the next, four cars came out of nowhere, surrounding me and forcing me off the road. I saw only a blur of green as my Corvette careened off the highway and down an embankment, coming to rest with a loud splintering sound as it hit the trees. My head hit the windshield, shattering the glass, and in the chaos I instinctively popped the catch and grabbed my gun, rolling out of the car on the passenger side. Hitting the ground shoulder first, I managed to fire two shots blindly into the darkness, in the general direction of my pursuers. I couldn't see anything. Someone stepped on my wrist, pinning it against the ground, and I felt my gun pulled from my hand. Hands reached down to grab me from two different directions, and someone slammed me up against the side of my car. Dark figures were on either side of me, pinning my wrists back against the roof, my arms splayed in a mock crucifixion. Blood ran into my eyes, and I struggled to make out shapes in the darkness.

  I think there were four of them. All wore dark clothing and black ski masks pulled over their heads. I could barely make out their eyes, but I knew who they were. The Gemini Twins. A familiar voice said, “We're not going to kill you this time, Al, out of respect for your father. But you make any more threats, we'll do what we have to do.” He hit me with the butt of his gun, hard, in my left eye socket. I heard a splintering sound, then felt a blow from the other side. The last thing I remember is confusion and pain as I slipped into unconsciousness.

  Several hours later I gradually became aware of someone shouting my name. Hands shook my shoulder, gently but urgently. I tried to blink through the blood caking my eyes. “Dad?” I whispered.
I knew that voice. “Nick?” I murmured from a red cave of pain. There was something horribly wrong with my body. I was ice cold, and I couldn't seem to move.

  I could hear the panic in Nick's voice, and I knew he was crying. “Al? Al? Are you all right? Al?” Incredibly, Nick had spotted my smoking car on the side of the road on the way home from work, glimmering through the trees. Slowing down to look, he thought he could make out the shape of a familiar vehicle. Slamming on the brakes, he had leapt from his own car and slid down the shallow embankment toward the lights. It was there that he found me, motionless in a pool of blood. My body was stiff and cold from shock and from hours in the night air, and at first he thought I was dead. Dizzy with relief to hear me answer him, he gathered me in his arms and laid me gently in the back seat of his car.

  I only wanted to go home, but he insisted on taking me to the hospital. He went by my house to get my mother, and minutes later he carried me into the emergency room, my mother weeping a few feet behind. The last thing I remember is whispering urgently to him, “Don't tell her anything.” He had nothing to tell, for I was in no shape to give any information, but he nodded nonetheless. Then I slid into the blessed relief of unconsciousness.