When he got out of jail on a presidential pardon by Nixon in 1971, and he began fighting to reclaim the presidency of the Teamsters, Jimmy became very hard to talk to. Sometimes you see that with guys when they first get out. Jimmy became reckless with his tongue—on the radio, in the papers, on television. Every time he opened his mouth he said something about how he was going to expose the mob and get the mob out of the union. He even said he was going to keep the mob from using the pension fund. I can’t imagine certain people liked hearing that their golden goose would be killed if he got back in. All this coming from Jimmy was hypocritical to say the least, considering Jimmy was the one who brought the so-called mob into the union and the pension fund in the first place. Jimmy brought me into the union through Russell. With very good reason I was concerned for my friend more than a little bit.
I started getting concerned about nine months before this telephone call that Russell was letting me make. Jimmy had flown out to Philly to be the featured speaker at Frank Sheeran Appreciation Night at the Latin Casino. There were 3,000 of my good friends and family, including the mayor, the district attorney, guys I fought in the war with, the singer Jerry Vale and the Golddigger Dancers with legs that didn’t quit, and certain other guests the FBI would call La Cosa Nostra. Jimmy presented me with a gold watch encircled with diamonds. Jimmy looked at the guests on the dais and said, “I never realized you were that strong.” That was a special comment because Jimmy Hoffa was one of the two greatest men I ever met.
Before they brought the dinner of prime rib, and when we were getting our pictures taken, some little nobody that Jimmy was in jail with asked Jimmy for ten grand for a business venture. Jimmy reached in his pocket and gave him $2,500. That was Jimmy—a soft touch.
Naturally, Russell Bufalino was there. He was the other one of the two greatest men that I ever met. Jerry Vale sang Russ’s favorite song, “Spanish Eyes,” for him. Russell was boss of the Bufalino family of upstate Pennsylvania, and large parts of New York, New Jersey, and Florida. Being headquartered outside New York City, Russell wasn’t in the inner circle of New York’s five families, but all the families came to him for advice on everything. If there was any important matter that needed taking care of, they gave the job to Russell. He was respected throughout the country. When Albert Anastasia got shot in the barber’s chair in New York, they made Russell the acting head of that family until they could straighten everything out. There’s no way to get more respect than Russell got. He was very strong. The public never heard of him, but the families and the feds knew how strong he was.
Russell presented me with a gold ring that he had made up special for just three people—himself, his underboss, and me. It had a big three-dollar gold piece on top surrounded by diamonds. Russ was big in the jewelry-fencing and cat-burglar world. He was a silent partner in a number of jewelry stores on Jeweler’s Row in New York City.
The gold watch Jimmy gave me is still on my wrist, and the gold ring Russell gave me is still on my finger here at the assisted-living home. On my other hand I’ve got a ring with each of my daughters’ birthstones.
Jimmy and Russell were very much alike. They were solid muscle from head to toe. They were both short, even for those days. Russ was about 5'8". Jimmy was down around 5'5". In those days I used to be 6'4", and I had to bend down to them for private talks. They were very smart from head to toe. They had mental toughness and physical toughness. But in one important way they were different. Russ was very low-key and quiet, soft-spoken even when he got mad. Jimmy exploded every day just to keep his temper in shape, and he loved publicity.
The night before my testimonial dinner, Russ and I had a sit-down with Jimmy. We sat at a table at Broadway Eddie’s, and Russell Bufalino told Jimmy Hoffa flat-out he should stop running for union president. He told him certain people were very happy with Frank Fitzsimmons, who replaced Jimmy when he went to jail. Nobody at the table said so, but we all knew these certain people were very happy with the big and easy loans they could get out of the Teamsters Pension Fund under the weak-minded Fitz. They got loans under Jimmy when he was in, and Jimmy got his points under the table, but the loans were always on Jimmy’s terms. Fitz bent over for these certain people. All Fitz cared about was drinking and golfing. I don’t have to tell you how much juice comes out of a billion-dollar pension fund.
Russell said, “What are you running for? You don’t need the money.”
Jimmy said, “It’s not about the money. I’m not letting Fitz have the union.”
After the sit-down, when I was getting ready to take Jimmy back to the Warwick Hotel, Russ took me aside and said: “Talk to your friend. Tell him what it is.” In our way of speaking, even though it doesn’t sound like much, that was as good as a death threat.
At the Warwick Hotel I told Jimmy if he didn’t change his mind about taking back the union he had better keep some bodies around him for protection.
“I’m not going that route or they’ll go after my family.”
“Still in all, you don’t want to be out on the street by yourself.”
“Nobody scares Hoffa. I’m going after Fitz, and I’m going to win this election.”
“You know what this means,” I said. “Russ himself told me to tell you what it is.”
“They wouldn’t dare,” Jimmy Hoffa growled, his eyes glaring at mine.
All Jimmy did the rest of the night and at breakfast the next morning was talk a lot of distorted talk. Looking back it could have been nervous talk, but I never knew Jimmy to show fear. Although one of the items on the agenda that Russell had spoken to Jimmy about at the table at Broadway Eddie’s the night before my testimonial dinner was more than enough to make the bravest man show fear.
And there I was in my kitchen in Philadelphia nine months after Frank Sheeran Appreciation Night with the phone in my hand and Jimmy on the other end of the line at his cottage in Lake Orion, and me hoping this time Jimmy would reconsider taking back the union while he still had the time.
“My friend and I are driving out for the wedding,” I said.
“I figured you and your friend would attend the wedding,” Jimmy said.
Jimmy knew “my friend” was Russell and that you didn’t use his name over the phone. The wedding was Bill Bufalino’s daughter’s wedding in Detroit. Bill was no relation to Russell, but Russell gave him permission to say they were cousins. It helped Bill’s career. He was the Teamsters lawyer in Detroit.
Bill Bufalino had a mansion in Grosse Pointe that had a waterfall in the basement. There was a little bridge you walked over that separated one side of the basement from the other. The men had their own side so they could talk. The women stayed on their side of the waterfall. Evidently, these were not women who paid attention to the words when they heard Helen Reddy sing her popular song of the day, “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar.”
“I guess you’re not going to the wedding,” I said.
“Jo doesn’t want people staring,” he said. Jimmy didn’t have to explain. There was talk about an FBI wiretap that was coming out. Certain parties were on the tape talking about extramarital relations his wife, Josephine, allegedly had years ago with Tony Cimini, a soldier in the Detroit outfit.
“Ah, nobody believed that bull, Jimmy. I figured you wouldn’t go because of this other thing.”
“Fuck them. They think they can scare Hoffa.”
“There’s widespread concern that things are getting out of hand.”
“I got ways to protect myself. I got records put away.”
“Please, Jimmy, even my friend is concerned.”
“How’s your friend doing?” Jimmy laughed. “I’m glad he got that problem handled last week.”
Jimmy was referring to an extortion trial Russ had just beat in Buffalo. “Our friend’s doing real good,” I said. “He’s the one gave me the go-ahead to call you.”
These respected men were both my friends, and they were both good friends to each other. Russell introduced me to Jimmy in t
he first place back in the fifties. At the time I had three daughters to support.
I had lost my job driving a meat truck for Food Fair, when they caught me trying to be a partner in their business. I was stealing sides of beef and chickens and selling them to restaurants. So I started taking day jobs out of the Teamsters union hall, driving trucks for companies when their regular driver was out sick or something. I also taught ballroom dancing, and on Friday and Saturday nights I was a bouncer at the Nixon Ballroom, a black nightclub.
On the side I handled certain matters for Russ, never for money, but as a show of respect. I wasn’t a hitman for hire. Some cowboy. You ran a little errand. You did a favor. You got a little favor back if you ever needed it.
I had seen On The Waterfront in the movies, and I thought I was at least as bad as that Marlon Brando. I said to Russ that I wanted to get into union work. We were at a bar in South Philly. He had arranged for a call from Jimmy Hoffa in Detroit and put me on the line with him. The first words Jimmy ever spoke to me were, “I heard you paint houses.” The paint is the blood that supposedly gets on the wall or the floor when you shoot somebody. I told Jimmy, “I do my own carpentry work, too.” That refers to making coffins and means you get rid of the bodies yourself.
After that conversation Jimmy put me to work for the International, making more money than I had made on all those other jobs put together, including the stealing. I got extra money for expenses. On the side I handled certain matters for Jimmy the way I did for Russell.
“So, he gave you the go-ahead to call. You should call more often.” Jimmy was going to act nonchalant about it. He was going to make me get to the reason Russell granted me permission to call him. “You used to call all the time.”
“That’s the whole thing I’m trying to say. If I called you, then what am I supposed to do? I got to tell the old man—what? That you’re still not listening to him. He’s not used to people not listening to him.”
“The old man will live forever.”
“No doubt, he’ll dance on our graves,” I said. “The old man is very careful what he eats. He does the cooking. He won’t let me fry eggs and sausage because one time I tried to use butter instead of olive oil.”
“Butter? I wouldn’t let you fry eggs and sausage either.”
“And you know, Jimmy, the old man is very careful how much he eats. He always says you got to share the pie. You eat the whole pie you get the bellyache.”
“I got nothing but respect for your friend,” Jimmy said. “I would never hurt him. There are certain elements Hoffa will get for fucking me out of the union, but Hoffa will never hurt your friend.”
“I know that, Jimmy, and he respects you. Coming up from nothing, the way you did. All the good things you’ve done for the rank and file. He’s for the underdog, too. You know that.”
“You tell him for me. I want to make sure he never forgets. I’ve got nothing but respect for McGee.” Only a handful of people referred to Russell as McGee. His real name was Rosario, but everybody called him Russell. Those who knew him better called him Russ. Those who knew him best called him McGee.
“Like I say, Jimmy, the respect is mutual.”
“They say it’s going to be a big wedding,” Jimmy said. “Italians are coming from all over the country.”
“Yeah. That’s good for us. Jimmy, I had a talk with our friend about trying to work this thing out. The timing is good. Everybody being there for the wedding. He was being very encouraging about the matter.”
“Did the old man suggest working this out or did you?” Jimmy asked quickly.
“I put the subject on the agenda, but our friend was very receptive.”
“What’d he say about this?”
“Our friend was very receptive. He said let’s sit down with Jimmy at the lake after the wedding. Work this thing out.”
“He’s good people. That’s what McGee is. Come out to the lake, huh?” Jimmy’s tone of voice sounded as if he were on the verge of showing his famous temper but maybe in a good way. “Hoffa always wanted to work this fucking thing out, from day one.” More and more these days Jimmy was calling himself Hoffa.
“This is a perfect time to work it out with all the concerned parties in town for the wedding and all,” I said. “Settle the thing.”
“From day one Hoffa wanted to work this fucking thing out,” he hollered just in case everybody in Lake Orion didn’t hear him the first time.
“Jimmy, I know you know this matter’s got to be settled,” I said. “It can’t go on like this. I know you’re doing a lot of puffing about exposing this and exposing that. I know you’re not serious. Jimmy Hoffa’s no rat and he never will be a rat, but there is concern. People don’t know how you puff.”
“The hell Hoffa’s not serious. Wait till Hoffa gets back in and gets his hands on the union records, we’ll see if I’m puffing.”
From growing up around my old man and from union work, I think I know how to read the tone of people’s voices. Jimmy sounded like he was on the verge of showing his famous temper back the other way again. Like I was losing him by bringing up the puffing. Jimmy was a born union negotiator, and here he was coming from strength, talking about exposing records again.
“Look at that matter last month, Jimmy. That gentleman in Chicago. I’m quite certain everybody thought he was untouchable, including himself. Irresponsible talk that could have hurt certain important friends of ours was his problem.”
Jimmy knew “the gentleman” I was talking about was his good friend Sam “Momo” Giancana, the Chicago boss who just got killed. Many times I brought “notes”—verbal messages, nothing ever in writing—back and forth between Momo and Jimmy.
Before he got taken care of, Giancana had been very big in certain circles and very big in the media. Momo had spread out from Chicago and moved into Dallas. Jack Ruby was a part of Momo’s outfit. Momo had casinos in Havana. Momo opened a casino with Frank Sinatra in Lake Tahoe. He dated one of the singing McGuire sisters, the ones who sang on Arthur Godfrey. He shared a mistress with John F. Kennedy, Judith Campbell. This was while JFK was president and he and his brother Bobby were using the White House for their own motel room. Momo helped get JFK elected. Only Kennedy then stabbed Momo in the back. He paid him back by letting Bobby go after everybody.
The way it went with Giancana is that the week before he got hit, Time magazine brought out that Russell Bufalino and Sam “Momo” Giancana had worked on behalf of the CIA in 1961 in the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba and in 1962 in a plot to kill Castro. If there was one thing that drove Russell Bufalino nuts it was to see his name in print.
The U.S. Senate had subpoenaed Giancana to testify about the CIA hiring the mob to assassinate Castro. Four days before his appearance Giancana was taken care of in his kitchen in the back of the head and then under the chin six times, Sicilian style, to signify he was careless with his mouth. It looked like it was done by some old friend that was close enough to him to be frying sausages in olive oil with him. Russell often said to me: “When in doubt have no doubt.”
“Our Chicago friend could have hurt a lot of people, even you and me,” Jimmy yelled. I put the phone away from my ear and still could hear him. “He should have kept records. Castro. Dallas. The gentleman from Chicago never put anything in writing. They know Hoffa keeps records. Anything unnatural happens to me, the records come out.”
“I’m no ‘yes man,’ Jimmy. So please don’t tell me ‘They wouldn’t dare.’ After what happened to our friend in Chicago, you gotta know by now what it is.”
“You just be concerned for yourself, my Irish friend. You’re too close to me in some people’s eyes. You remember what I told you. Watch your own ass. Get some people around yourself.”
“Jimmy, you know it’s time to sit down. The old man is making the offer to help.”
“I agree with that part of it.” Jimmy was being the union negotiator, conceding just a little bit.
“Good,” I jumped on that little
bit. “We’ll drive out to the lake on Saturday around 12:30. Tell Jo not to fuss, we’ll leave the women at a diner.”
“I’ll be ready at 12:30,” Jimmy said. I knew he’d be ready at 12:30. Russ and Jimmy both went by time. You didn’t show time, you didn’t show respect. Jimmy would give you fifteen minutes. After that you lost your appointment. No matter how big you were or thought you were.
“I’ll have an Irish banquet waiting for you—a bottle of Guinness and a bologna sandwich. One more thing,” Jimmy said. “Just the two of you.” Jimmy wasn’t asking. He was telling. “Not the little guy.”
“I can relate to that part. You don’t want the little guy.”
Want the little guy? Last I knew Jimmy wanted the little guy dead. The little guy was Tony “Pro” Provenzano, a made man and a captain in the Genovese family in Brooklyn. Pro used to be a Hoffa man, but he became the leader of the Teamsters faction that was against Jimmy taking back the union.
The bad blood that Pro had with Jimmy began with a beef they had in prison where they almost came to blows in the dining hall. Jimmy refused to help Pro go around the federal law and get his $1.2 million pension when he went to jail, while Jimmy got his $1.7 million pension even though he went to jail, too.
A couple of years after they both got out they had a sit-down at a Teamsters Convention in Miami to try to square the beef. Only Tony Pro threatened to rip Jimmy’s guts out with his bare hands and kill his grandchildren. At the time, Jimmy told me he was going to ask Russell for permission for me to take care of the little guy. Since Pro was a made man, a captain even, you didn’t take care of Pro without getting approval from Russell. But then I never heard a peep. So I figured it was a fleeting thought during one of Jimmy’s tempers. If anybody was serious, I’d hear about it the day they wanted me to do it. That’s the way it’s done. You get about a day’s notice when they want you to take care of a matter.
Tony Pro ran a Teamsters Local in north Jersey where the Sopranos are on TV. I liked his brothers. Nunz and Sammy were good people. I never cared for Pro himself. He’d kill you for nothing. One time he had a guy kissed for getting more votes than him. They were on the same side of the ticket. Pro was at the head of the ticket, running for president of his local, and this poor guy was below him, running for some lesser office, I forget what. When Tony Pro saw how popular the guy was compared to him, Pro had Sally Bugs and an ex-boxer with the Jewish mob, K.O. Konigsberg, strangle him with a nylon rope. That was a bad hit. When they made deals with the devil trying to nail the handful of us Hoffa suspects on any charge they could get, they got a rat to testify against Pro. They wound up giving Pro life for that bad hit. Pro died in jail.
I Heard You Paint Houses : Frank The Irishman Sheeran & Closing the Case on Jimmy Hoffa Page 2
