A few days later when we reached Austin, a waitress at the hotel bar pulled me aside. By the sideways glare she was giving me, I already knew what was coming next.
“So, you said you’re Danny Seraphine?” she asked.
She explained she had gone out on a date with a guy claiming to be me a few months earlier. At the end of the night, he parked his car on a side street and started grabbing at her. Fortunately, she got out and ran away to safety. After hearing about all these crazy sightings, I couldn’t get out of Texas fast enough. It was like being trapped in a bad episode of The Twilight Zone.
On the Las Vegas stop of our Hot Streets tour, I met Tony Spilotro for dinner at one of the premier steakhouses on the Strip. We’d crossed paths on a few occasions over the years as Chicago had become successful. Tony was always hospitable and usually greeted me with outstretched arms.
“Look who we got here . . . Danny boy!” Tony said. “The kid drummer from the old neighborhood doing the big time!”
To say Tony was well connected in Vegas was quite an understatement. He practically ran the town. When I asked if he could help a friend of mine get a job as a blackjack dealer in one of the casinos, he immediately made a call for me. Pete always cautioned me about asking Tony for favors. He told me Tony would eventually want something back in return tenfold. But I didn’t see any harm in what I did. It wasn’t anything suspicious or illegal. Besides, Tony said it was no problem at all. I left our dinner completely at ease with my decision to reach out to him.
I didn’t give it much thought after that until a month later when a phone call came late one afternoon at my home in Westlake. An associate of Tony’s was on the other end of the line. He spoke in clipped sentences and said he wanted to meet me at a coffee shop near Los Angeles International Airport. Before I could ask any questions, he hung up.
I arrived at the diner to find the guy already seated at a booth up at the front window. It was right down to business. He explained that Tony was backing a gubernatorial candidate in Nevada and wanted Chicago to play a political fund-raiser at the Aladdin Casino in the coming month.
“We’re gonna put this guy in as governor,” he explained.
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Um, well, I would have to check with the other guys in the band and see what they think of the idea,” I told him.
He shifted his weight in the booth. “Tony wants you to know he’s really counting on you to get this done,” he told me.
His wording made me uneasy. It sounded like more of a command than a request. There was no way the rest of the guys in the band were going to agree to perform at Tony’s fund-raiser. Even though panic surged inside me, I assured Tony’s guy I would get back to him as soon as possible. Now all I had to do was find some way to get out of it.
When I told Pete about my meeting with Tony’s guy, he didn’t have time to say I told you so. There was something more important on his mind. He explained that a reporter from the Wall Street Journal had contacted him. Pete said the guy was asking questions about his relationship with Tony and Michael Spilotro and some other guys from back home in Chicago.
“I don’t know what the deal is, but he was on a fishing expedition. If he contacts you, I wouldn’t say nothing to him,” Pete told me. “He was trying to trap me on something. He’s looking for anything to write about.”
It was unsettling to hear that a reporter was out there asking questions. Pete’s call had me worried because I was familiar with how the press twisted the truth. Not only did I have Tony to deal with; now I had this reporter to worry about as well. What have I gotten myself into now? I thought. Who knew what kind of story the guy was working on?
15
Making Headlines
The butterflies had been churning in my stomach since Pete told me about the phone call he had with the reporter. The possibility that a news story might be coming along at some point didn’t lessen the sting. The oversized headline of the Wall Street Journal leapt at me from the newsstand as the band made our way through the Honolulu airport terminal in Hawaii. It was larger than life: “Are Mafia Mobsters Acquiring a Taste for the Sound of Rock? A Band Called Chicago Gets Proposition to Take Role in Night Clubs, Police Say.”
My heart began pounding in my chest. The band was already burnt out after a grueling world tour of Europe, Australia, and the Far East. We didn’t need any more stress and aggravation, but here it was. Without hesitating, I rushed over to the stack of Wall Street Journals on the floor and grabbed one. The rest of the guys weren’t far behind. Each of us flipped to the front-page story and stood in silence. Pete had been right on the money. The reporter had set out on a fishing expedition. And now I was face-to-face with what he had managed to reel in.
It began with random odds and ends, saying that major figures within organized crime, namely Tony Spilotro, had tried to parlay their relationship with Chicago into an ongoing business arrangement. It said there were “reports” I regularly met with mobsters.
It took all my strength just to swallow. The timing of the article couldn’t have been worse. In the year since Terry’s death, the band had fought so hard to regroup and now I had to deal with questions about being involved with the mob. I was embarrassed to have brought this on the rest of the band. Up until that point, our group was only known for our music. We didn’t fall into the wild rock-star stereotype onstage or offstage. Our band didn’t have publicized blowouts with each other or lead flamboyant lifestyles. So much for our “Mercedes of Rock” image. I kept hoping the article would end, but it continued for another column.
The next paragraph made note of how successful our band was: selling an average of two and a half million copies of each of the eleven records we had put out; playing sold-out venues all over the world and generating around ten million dollars a year in income. And then it touched on my relationship with Pete. It made our connection sound shady, saying it was “unclear” where we met each other. Pete and I were from the same neighborhood! The article detailed how he ran my nightclub for me. How we both had “underworld acquaintances.” It brought up Pete’s prior record with the cops back in Chicago. According to the story, police back home considered Pete a “close associate” of many crime bosses in the Outfit. They had taken notice of any interaction Pete had with his friends. Every meeting. Every dinner.
The story alluded to the fact that the Outfit had tried to go into business with me to open more B.Ginnings nightclubs and use them to launder money. It was ridiculous. The only reason I ever thought about putting together a chain of B.Ginnings was because I figured it would be good for the band. The article also mentioned the meeting I had at the diner near the airport with Tony’s guy. They must have been tailing him.
None of it sounded good.
As each of the guys in the band finished reading the article, they shuffled away to leave me standing alone at the newsstand. I folded my copy of the paper and let it fall down to the pile on the floor.
We sent for our attorney Ken Kleinberg and arranged a band meeting back at the restaurant in our hotel in Honolulu. Walt and Jimmy in particular were worried about the possible fallout from the article. Everyone knew we had an association with Pete, but seeing it in black and white served as a rude awakening. Chicago had always been a squeaky-clean rock band and this was the first blemish on our public record. The guys were worried and seeking assurance from our attorney. Everyone wanted questions answered: Is Pete really in the Mafia? Are we liable for anything? Could they press charges?
I was confident I had done nothing against the law. The article was trying to make me out to be guilty by association. Of course, I knew guys like Tony and Michael Spilotro and Joey Lombardo were connected with crime figures back home, but as far as I was concerned Pete wasn’t a member of the Outfit. My only interaction with the Spilotros was on a purely casual level. In truth, Tony had done one favor for me. Big deal. I certainly wasn’t in business with the guy. It wasn’t as if I was hiding my association. I had eaten
at Tony’s restaurant a few times back home in Chicago and he and I met for dinner whenever I was in Las Vegas. End of story. But it looked bad having my name in the papers alongside guys who were known to be in the Outfit.
It was unsettling for us all, but some handled it better than others. Throughout dinner with our attorney, Jimmy pounded mai tai cocktails one after another. In the middle of the discussion, he reached his threshold and suddenly puked all over the table and our attorney. Needless to say, that concluded the afternoon meeting.
As a result of the Wall Street Journal article, the IRS decided to audit my finances. I was now on their radar screen. They were looking for the smoking gun in order to link Pete and me together in some type of illegal activity. I stayed confident and saw the whole ordeal as only a shot in the dark to try to uncover something criminal. Even after all of their detective work, the only violation the IRS found in my records was an invalid deduction on one of my tax returns. They may not have found what they were looking for, but the entire process cost me a lot of money in penalties and fines. Still, at the end of the day, they found I had engaged in no criminal activity whatsoever.
I’ll be the first to admit I brought all of the heat on myself. My business associates were impressed with my supposed affiliation with the Outfit. Having a little bit of fear in people’s minds gets them to want to know you. You become mysterious. As far as the age-old question is concerned—Is it better to be feared or loved?—you need a little of both, especially in the music business. I had used the perception that I was connected for benefit and now it had come back to bite me in the ass.
The Wall Street Journal article had already cast Chicago in a negative light and linked the band with organized crime. The last thing we needed was to be further associated with Tony Spilotro. I still hadn’t gotten back to him about Chicago playing his benefit in Nevada. When I told Jeff Wald about Tony’s request, he was convinced he would be able to book a substitute act to perform in Chicago’s place. I called Tony in Las Vegas personally to give him an update, but he wasn’t interested in what I had to say. He interrupted me in midsentence.
“You shouldn’t be calling me right now, Danny,” Tony said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
There was a long pause on Tony’s end of the line and then he spoke carefully. “I can’t talk about it, but I think you know what I mean.”
And with that, Tony hung up and the line went dead. It was the last time I ever spoke to him. I hung up from our short phone conversation confused by his behavior. A few days later, however, everything became clear when the FBI contacted me.
“You’ve called in to a legal government wiretap on Anthony Spilotro’s phone line, Mr. Seraphine,” a voice said on the other end. “We’d like you to come down and have a conversation with us.”
There wasn’t anything to hide, so hiring an attorney never crossed my mind. I was determined to prove everything was on the up-and-up. When I got down to the Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard, however, I began to reconsider my decision not to bring counsel. The FBI guys ushered me into a room and grilled me hard. Agents crowded me on either side. It was like being interrogated in stereo.
“What’s your affiliation with Tony Spilotro?”
“How do you know Pete Schivarelli?”
“Are they business partners in B.Ginnings nightclub?”
“You say Tony Spilotro’s a friend of yours, huh? Do you know how he made a name for himself? Tony put a guy’s head in a vise until his eyes popped right out of their sockets.”
They also wanted information about the political benefit at the Aladdin Casino in Vegas.
“Why would your band play a benefit for this candidate?”
“Did you know they would possibly be using monies from the Teamsters union pension fund for this event?”
The whole scene at the interrogation was scary, but what worried me more was what Spilotro and his pals would think of my contact with the FBI if word got back to them. What if they thought I was spilling my guts and saying things I shouldn’t? Either way, I was in a tight spot.
As it turned out, the FBI’s involvement did help give me a perfect out with Tony. I got word to his associate that the FBI was all over me. Tony wasn’t going to continue to push for Chicago to play a benefit with the level of heat on everyone. The real trick was walking a fine line between not pissing off the FBI or anyone who might be associated with the Outfit. It wouldn’t be wise to give either side the impression I knew too much about anything. I had heard stories about guys who knew too much. It was no secret where they ended up.
Not that I had any valuable knowledge to begin with, but I basically clammed up. I couldn’t make any enemies by keeping my mouth shut. Anything I said was going to be twisted and used against me anyway. My strategy seemed to work with Tony Spilotro, but the FBI wasn’t as agreeable. They wanted me to know they were always watching and continued to pop up every now and then. Everywhere I went for the next few months, it seemed an FBI agent would appear from nowhere—on my doorstep, at a restaurant, or at a mall—and start asking questions. They couldn’t get over the fact that someone who knew Tony Spilotro had no hand in any of his illegal activities. But it was true.
I had dodged a real bullet. Maybe even a couple of them.
16
Out of the ’70s
Although there was still three years left on Chicago’s contract with Columbia, Jeff went to work trying to get us a better deal. If one thing was true about him, it was that Jeff was an aggressive negotiator—a professional ballbreaker. Even though our contract still had three years remaining on it, he started dropping hints to the label that he had spoken with Mo Ostin over at Warner Brothers and might be thinking about moving the band over there once our current arrangement was done. Jeff used the possibility of leaving as leverage to motivate Walter Yetnikoff into sweetening the deal for us at Columbia. Walter made it clear he wanted us to stay on his label for the rest of our career, especially now that we had brought his boy Donnie Dacus into the band. In his mind, Donnie was going to help lead us back to the Promised Land and Chicago would be more successful than ever.
In the end, Jeff renegotiated a whopping five-record, $28 million contract with Columbia Records. We were able to secure guaranteed advances for each upcoming album. Even Jeff was impressed with what he was able to pull off. Needless to say, it was the biggest payday I ever had.
With our new deal in place, the band again went to work with Phil Ramone and started on a new album, splitting time between recording studios in New York, Hollywood, and Montreal. The musical climate of the late 1970s had changed and Chicago’s signature sound of inventive jazz-fusion seemed out of place among the current trends. Disco music was all over the Billboard singles charts and popular radio. At the same time, punk and new wave also started to come out of the underground scene. It wasn’t really a conscious decision, but whether we liked it or not, Chicago’s sophisticated style changed with the times.
During the recording sessions for the new record, Chicago 13, I got a phone call one day at Le Studio in Montreal.
“Hey Danny, it’s Mary,” a woman said on the other end of the line. “I didn’t know you were going to be in town. You should have let me know.”
I thought I must have really been losing it. I didn’t have a clue who Mary was. Nothing she was saying made any sense.
“I have to be honest with you, Mary,” I told her. “I’m not remembering where we know each other from.”
“What?” she asked. “We partied together in Hawaii. How could you forget?”
Okay, Hawaii, I thought. I spend a lot of time there. Still nothing. I couldn’t put a face with the name. “I hate to be rude, Mary, but where did we meet?” I asked.
“In Honolulu, silly,” she told me. “We went out to a club.”
Honolulu was a dead giveaway, because I always avoided it. I flew straight to Kauai whenever I went to Hawaii. Something wasn’t right with her story, but I didn’t
want to get into it on the phone. I told Mary to come down for a visit at the recording studio.
When she arrived, I realized we had never met before. I wasn’t the only one who was surprised. Mary was mortified when she saw I was the real Danny Seraphine. My impostor had struck again. Would I ever shake this guy? I could see the pain in her eyes as Mary told me she had been hanging out with some unknown man and even slept with him. When she showed me a photograph of the guy, he was stocky and similar-looking only because we had the same Fu Manchu mustache. Oddly, the gals in Chicago and Austin had described him as thin and strung out, nothing at all like the guy in the photo.
I told Mary to bust him if he ever tried to get in touch with her again. It freaked me out to think there was some random lunatic running around the country passing himself off as me. Once again, I hoped it would be the last I heard of her or my impostor. But I wasn’t going to be that lucky. A few weeks later, Phil and I were mixing in New York when I received another call from her.
“The guy contacted me and I called him out on everything,” Mary said. “He told me some crazy story about how he was an FBI agent on assignment on a covert sting operation or something.”
The guy was saying he was an FBI agent? It was getting weirder and weirder. A few days later, police in Toronto contacted me. Again, my impostor had pulled his scam and robbed a home during a cocktail party. The cops said he made off with thousands of dollars in jewelry. They also mentioned that he managed to get out of Canada and fly into New York City. As soon as the plane touched down they put him in Bellevue Hospital, but later that night he escaped. At first I wondered if he might be coming after me. In a way I hoped he was, because I wanted to get my hands on him.
The cops eventually tracked him down and extradited him back to Toronto. Unfortunately, the guy’s court date was set at the same time Chicago was on tour in Australia and I wasn’t able to make it. That was the last time I heard about him. I would have liked to give him a beating for portraying me in such a bad light. To this day, it’s unclear whether it was one guy or a couple of different guys going around impersonating me. Chicago was known more for our band logo than our faces and names, so it was all too easy to pull off something like that. But thankfully, the whole ordeal was finally over.
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