New York Giants linebacker LaVar Arrington says the NFL players union is like organized crime. Union representatives disputed the description because, after all, they regularly make NFL owners some offers they can, and do, refuse.
Thanks to Reggie Hayes
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Sunday, December 10, 2006
The Battaglias: From Siciliy to the Chicago Mob to the NHL
It was during a conversation about restaurants, Italian food and his Sicilian roots that Bates Battaglia mentioned his grandfather.
He said the old man's name was Sam and that no, Sam was not in the food service industry like Bates' father, Richard.
The Toronto Maple Leafs forward was speaking softly and politely -- like he always seems to -- as he explained that Sam "took a different" path in life. He said if a reporter wanted to know what that path was, he could punch Sam Battaglia's name into the Internet and find out for himself.
Sam Battaglia embodied the American Dream. He was nobody when he started out, nothing more than a poor uneducated son of Italian immigrants scratching out a living on Chicago's rough-and-tumble west side.
By the time of his death in 1973, everybody in town knew the Battaglia name. Sam had made it. He went out on top. But his American Dream was lived out in a sinister and shadowy otherworld populated with two-bit hoods, killers for hire, politicians on the take, corrupt cops, compromised union bosses and a code of honour that was written in blood.
"Sam Battaglia was the Don of the Chicago mafia," says Jack Walsh, the special agent for the Internal Revenue Service who finally caught up with Battaglia in 1967 and sent him to jail for 15 years. "Battaglia's street name was Teets, and he ran the Chicago Outfit from his farm out west of the city."
Bates Battaglia never met his grandfather. He was born two years after the authorities released the old man from prison so he could die at home, quietly, a victim of cancer.
Bates' parents divorced when he was a little kid. He and his two brothers, Anthony and Sam, would spend the school year -- and hockey season -- in the Chicago area with their mom, Sandra. Once school was out, they headed to Florida where Richard had become a successful restaurateur.
Neither parent told the Battaglia boys much about their grandpa, beyond Richard telling them that his father had been "well-respected. And that he was one of the nicest men, and that that's the way a lot of people knew him." But the kids around Chicago knew otherwise. And they talked, as kids do. It was out on the street playing road hockey where Bates learned that the man he knew as Grandpa was a notorious mobster.
"This is my family," Bates says. "This is who I am, and this is where I came from. And I wouldn't change anything about it.
"I'm proud of who I am, and who my family are."
Sam Battaglia first drew notice in Chicago in 1930 when he committed a stop-the-presses-style crime. At the time, he was a member of the 42 Gang, a wild bunch of juvenile crooks who ran amuck in Al Capone's kingdom of sin, stealing cars, robbing cigar stands and holding up nightclubs in the hopes that the big boss was paying attention.
At the age of 22, Sam Battaglia pulled a gun on the wife of the mayor of Chicago, William Hale Thompson, and asked her to hand over her jewels. He left the scene with US$15,500 worth of shiny trinkets, plus the gun and badge of the woman's police escort. The authorities were unable to positively identify Battaglia as the culprit. But Capone and his cronies were indeed paying attention. In no time, the young gangster nicknamed Teets -- because he had had his front teeth knocked out -- was on his way up the organized-crime ladder.
Bates' father is Sam Battaglia's youngest son. Richard currently resides in Raleigh, N.C., the city to which he moved in 1999 after his boy made it with the Carolina Hurricanes.
Richard understood that young athletes tend to get rich before they get wise, so he encouraged Bates to put his money in to something he could touch, such as real estate. The hockey player, who turns 31 next week, now owns two condominiums, a beach house, a house, a bar and a building in Raleigh's restaurant district that he and his dad plan to transform into an upscale Italian eatery once he stops playing. "We want it to be a place where you're not coming in dressed like a bum," Bates says.
In the meantime, Richard tends to the bar -- Lucky B's -- and shops around for other potential investment opportunities in the Raleigh area. (When Bates is home for the summer, his father cooks dinner four times a week for he and his younger brother, Anthony, a winger with the Columbia (S.C.) Inferno of the East Coast Hockey League.)
Asked how the son of the one-time Don of the Chicago Outfit can be playing chef to his boys instead of running a crew of his own in Chicago and Richard, polite like Bates though more verbose, answers: "How do you know I wasn't? You are asking me something I can't talk about."
Richard will say that whatever he did is in "the past," that he is "not real proud of it," and that he has never been in jail. He is simply Bates' dad now, and happy to be that.
He was a star high school athlete in his own day. Football and baseball were his games. Much like his boys, he only learned of Sam's line of work when the kids in the neighbourhood started talking.
Richard remembers Steve Sullivan, an Irish brat with a big mouth who later became his best friend, making some crack about his father when they were playing baseball as 10 year olds. "I ran over to the dugout and started beating the s--- out of him," Richard says. "That was my dad he was talking about. Steve didn't know that hurt me. He was just a little kid and being a smart ass.
"What really hurt me was that I would see my dad on TV for certain things, and I didn't understand it."
To Richard, Sam was the father who came home every night to have dinner with his family. And on Friday nights, he was the dad who piled through the front door of his house with all his buddies in tow to partake in one of his mother's multi-course feasts. The men would sit around the big round basement table after dinner smoking cigars and talking.
Richard, Steve Sullivan, and the rest of the Oak Park Pony League baseball team made it to the 1960 World Series in Williamsport, Pa.
Richard remembers standing at home plate on a perfect sunny day, looking out to right field and seeing his father -- with a couple buddies in tow -- strolling along the fence line. "I got real excited -- and it kind of gets me now, just thinking about it," Richard says. "And don't you know it, I hit a home run right over their heads." The crime boss threw a big party for all the parents and the players after Oak Park won the championship game. There was lots of food and drinks. Sam paid for the whole thing.
Sam Battaglia had hit the big time, and was a millionaire several times over with a fortune built upon extortion, loan sharking, burglary and the Chicago Outfit's No. 1 moneymaker: gambling.
Battaglia's star in the Outfit's galaxy was approaching its zenith in the early 1960s. Sam (Momo) Giancana, Battaglia's old pal and a fellow graduate of the 42 Gang, was running the whole show. Giancana had brought La Cosa Nostra out of the back rooms of Little Italy and into the national spotlight. He was a friend of Frank Sinatra. He ran around with one of the singing McGuire sisters, and he allegedly held discussions with the CIA about putting a mob hit out on Cuban leader Fidel Castro.
Giancana was jailed in 1965 for refusing to testify before a federal grand jury. In his absence, Battaglia assumed control of the Outfit. By then, the Chicago mafia was a far-reaching and influential empire. "They could produce more money and votes for politicians than any other organization in Chicago or even Illinois," Walsh, the IRS special agent, says. "They had tremendous power. They had master control in Chicago."
Battaglia's command centre was an opulent racehorse farm he owned in Kane County. Every morning his driver, Jackie (the Lackey) Cerone, would pick Sam up at his home in Oak Park and take him out to the property.
Battaglia was an untouchable, and then he made a mistake.
The Outfit, with the help of some crooked people who held influential political offices, was extorting money from building contractors in Northlake, Ill. Rocco Pranno, a.k.a. Jim Martell, was running the operation with Battaglia's blessing. Construction would be halted midstream on a major project under the pretext that an engineering firm needed to review the contractor's plans. The builder was then charged a hefty fee to continue the work, leaving Pranno and his partners to divide the spoils.
It was not long after Battaglia replaced Giancana that the new boss replaced Pranno with Joe Amabile, a.k.a. Joe Shine. Pranno was not happy with the new arrangement. Neither were his associates. One of them started talking to Walsh. The mafia turncoat wound up being the government's star witness in a sensational 11-week trial that resulted in Battaglia's conviction on extortion and conspiracy charges. (The witness is still alive, and Walsh refuses to divulge his identity).
During the court case, the special agent's wife began receiving calls at home. The voice on the phone would describe in detail the clothing Walsh's children wore to school that day. Walsh approached his superiors about it, and a meeting was arranged with the defendant so prosecutors could inform Battaglia of what was happening on the outside. "The old mafia had a code," Walsh says. "This was the only time anyone heard Battaglia speak, except for me when he said he wouldn't talk to me. "But he told them: 'Tell the kid he doesn't have to worry any more. It won't happen again.' "And I never got another call."
Sam Battaglia was arrested 25 times in his life: for burglary, larceny, assault and attempted murder. He was also the prime suspect in seven unsolved homicides.
His grandson, Bates, is a winger of modest talent on a mediocre Toronto Maple Leafs team but a budding property baron/restaurant owner in Raleigh.
Bates' younger brother, Anthony, is still waiting for his NHL dream to come true.
His older brother, Sam, runs a successful chiropractic practice on Chicago's west side -- on the same street where his grandfather got his start. He has an 18-month-old son, also named Sam.
Bates says about the closest he and his brothers have come to a life of crime was a juvenile addiction to Martin Scorsese's mafia film, Goodfellas. "We were so in to that movie," he says. "You see that and the hype and what the [mobsters] get, and it looks like a cool lifestyle at points. "But any one who has actually been in that life, or around it, like my dad, will tell you that you have those guys who you think are your best friends and they will turn on you in a second."
Richard Battaglia likes to talk about the "circle of life," and about how amazing it is that a dirt-poor family from Sicily can come to Chicago to chase the American Dream and, within a few generations, produce two sons who are professional athletes and another who is dedicated to healing. "Listen," Richard says. "I am proud of my dad, and I love him more than anything, and I wish he was alive today to see this. "The old days are gone and past, and I'm gone and past, and this is the new era where the Battaglia boys are going to do a lot of good things. "And that's the way it is."
Thanks to Joe O'Connor
He said the old man's name was Sam and that no, Sam was not in the food service industry like Bates' father, Richard.
The Toronto Maple Leafs forward was speaking softly and politely -- like he always seems to -- as he explained that Sam "took a different" path in life. He said if a reporter wanted to know what that path was, he could punch Sam Battaglia's name into the Internet and find out for himself.
Sam Battaglia embodied the American Dream. He was nobody when he started out, nothing more than a poor uneducated son of Italian immigrants scratching out a living on Chicago's rough-and-tumble west side.
By the time of his death in 1973, everybody in town knew the Battaglia name. Sam had made it. He went out on top. But his American Dream was lived out in a sinister and shadowy otherworld populated with two-bit hoods, killers for hire, politicians on the take, corrupt cops, compromised union bosses and a code of honour that was written in blood.
"Sam Battaglia was the Don of the Chicago mafia," says Jack Walsh, the special agent for the Internal Revenue Service who finally caught up with Battaglia in 1967 and sent him to jail for 15 years. "Battaglia's street name was Teets, and he ran the Chicago Outfit from his farm out west of the city."
Bates Battaglia never met his grandfather. He was born two years after the authorities released the old man from prison so he could die at home, quietly, a victim of cancer.
Bates' parents divorced when he was a little kid. He and his two brothers, Anthony and Sam, would spend the school year -- and hockey season -- in the Chicago area with their mom, Sandra. Once school was out, they headed to Florida where Richard had become a successful restaurateur.
Neither parent told the Battaglia boys much about their grandpa, beyond Richard telling them that his father had been "well-respected. And that he was one of the nicest men, and that that's the way a lot of people knew him." But the kids around Chicago knew otherwise. And they talked, as kids do. It was out on the street playing road hockey where Bates learned that the man he knew as Grandpa was a notorious mobster.
"This is my family," Bates says. "This is who I am, and this is where I came from. And I wouldn't change anything about it.
"I'm proud of who I am, and who my family are."
Sam Battaglia first drew notice in Chicago in 1930 when he committed a stop-the-presses-style crime. At the time, he was a member of the 42 Gang, a wild bunch of juvenile crooks who ran amuck in Al Capone's kingdom of sin, stealing cars, robbing cigar stands and holding up nightclubs in the hopes that the big boss was paying attention.
At the age of 22, Sam Battaglia pulled a gun on the wife of the mayor of Chicago, William Hale Thompson, and asked her to hand over her jewels. He left the scene with US$15,500 worth of shiny trinkets, plus the gun and badge of the woman's police escort. The authorities were unable to positively identify Battaglia as the culprit. But Capone and his cronies were indeed paying attention. In no time, the young gangster nicknamed Teets -- because he had had his front teeth knocked out -- was on his way up the organized-crime ladder.
Bates' father is Sam Battaglia's youngest son. Richard currently resides in Raleigh, N.C., the city to which he moved in 1999 after his boy made it with the Carolina Hurricanes.
Richard understood that young athletes tend to get rich before they get wise, so he encouraged Bates to put his money in to something he could touch, such as real estate. The hockey player, who turns 31 next week, now owns two condominiums, a beach house, a house, a bar and a building in Raleigh's restaurant district that he and his dad plan to transform into an upscale Italian eatery once he stops playing. "We want it to be a place where you're not coming in dressed like a bum," Bates says.
In the meantime, Richard tends to the bar -- Lucky B's -- and shops around for other potential investment opportunities in the Raleigh area. (When Bates is home for the summer, his father cooks dinner four times a week for he and his younger brother, Anthony, a winger with the Columbia (S.C.) Inferno of the East Coast Hockey League.)
Asked how the son of the one-time Don of the Chicago Outfit can be playing chef to his boys instead of running a crew of his own in Chicago and Richard, polite like Bates though more verbose, answers: "How do you know I wasn't? You are asking me something I can't talk about."
Richard will say that whatever he did is in "the past," that he is "not real proud of it," and that he has never been in jail. He is simply Bates' dad now, and happy to be that.
He was a star high school athlete in his own day. Football and baseball were his games. Much like his boys, he only learned of Sam's line of work when the kids in the neighbourhood started talking.
Richard remembers Steve Sullivan, an Irish brat with a big mouth who later became his best friend, making some crack about his father when they were playing baseball as 10 year olds. "I ran over to the dugout and started beating the s--- out of him," Richard says. "That was my dad he was talking about. Steve didn't know that hurt me. He was just a little kid and being a smart ass.
"What really hurt me was that I would see my dad on TV for certain things, and I didn't understand it."
To Richard, Sam was the father who came home every night to have dinner with his family. And on Friday nights, he was the dad who piled through the front door of his house with all his buddies in tow to partake in one of his mother's multi-course feasts. The men would sit around the big round basement table after dinner smoking cigars and talking.
Richard, Steve Sullivan, and the rest of the Oak Park Pony League baseball team made it to the 1960 World Series in Williamsport, Pa.
Richard remembers standing at home plate on a perfect sunny day, looking out to right field and seeing his father -- with a couple buddies in tow -- strolling along the fence line. "I got real excited -- and it kind of gets me now, just thinking about it," Richard says. "And don't you know it, I hit a home run right over their heads." The crime boss threw a big party for all the parents and the players after Oak Park won the championship game. There was lots of food and drinks. Sam paid for the whole thing.
Sam Battaglia had hit the big time, and was a millionaire several times over with a fortune built upon extortion, loan sharking, burglary and the Chicago Outfit's No. 1 moneymaker: gambling.
Battaglia's star in the Outfit's galaxy was approaching its zenith in the early 1960s. Sam (Momo) Giancana, Battaglia's old pal and a fellow graduate of the 42 Gang, was running the whole show. Giancana had brought La Cosa Nostra out of the back rooms of Little Italy and into the national spotlight. He was a friend of Frank Sinatra. He ran around with one of the singing McGuire sisters, and he allegedly held discussions with the CIA about putting a mob hit out on Cuban leader Fidel Castro.
Giancana was jailed in 1965 for refusing to testify before a federal grand jury. In his absence, Battaglia assumed control of the Outfit. By then, the Chicago mafia was a far-reaching and influential empire. "They could produce more money and votes for politicians than any other organization in Chicago or even Illinois," Walsh, the IRS special agent, says. "They had tremendous power. They had master control in Chicago."
Battaglia's command centre was an opulent racehorse farm he owned in Kane County. Every morning his driver, Jackie (the Lackey) Cerone, would pick Sam up at his home in Oak Park and take him out to the property.
Battaglia was an untouchable, and then he made a mistake.
The Outfit, with the help of some crooked people who held influential political offices, was extorting money from building contractors in Northlake, Ill. Rocco Pranno, a.k.a. Jim Martell, was running the operation with Battaglia's blessing. Construction would be halted midstream on a major project under the pretext that an engineering firm needed to review the contractor's plans. The builder was then charged a hefty fee to continue the work, leaving Pranno and his partners to divide the spoils.
It was not long after Battaglia replaced Giancana that the new boss replaced Pranno with Joe Amabile, a.k.a. Joe Shine. Pranno was not happy with the new arrangement. Neither were his associates. One of them started talking to Walsh. The mafia turncoat wound up being the government's star witness in a sensational 11-week trial that resulted in Battaglia's conviction on extortion and conspiracy charges. (The witness is still alive, and Walsh refuses to divulge his identity).
During the court case, the special agent's wife began receiving calls at home. The voice on the phone would describe in detail the clothing Walsh's children wore to school that day. Walsh approached his superiors about it, and a meeting was arranged with the defendant so prosecutors could inform Battaglia of what was happening on the outside. "The old mafia had a code," Walsh says. "This was the only time anyone heard Battaglia speak, except for me when he said he wouldn't talk to me. "But he told them: 'Tell the kid he doesn't have to worry any more. It won't happen again.' "And I never got another call."
Sam Battaglia was arrested 25 times in his life: for burglary, larceny, assault and attempted murder. He was also the prime suspect in seven unsolved homicides.
His grandson, Bates, is a winger of modest talent on a mediocre Toronto Maple Leafs team but a budding property baron/restaurant owner in Raleigh.
Bates' younger brother, Anthony, is still waiting for his NHL dream to come true.
His older brother, Sam, runs a successful chiropractic practice on Chicago's west side -- on the same street where his grandfather got his start. He has an 18-month-old son, also named Sam.
Bates says about the closest he and his brothers have come to a life of crime was a juvenile addiction to Martin Scorsese's mafia film, Goodfellas. "We were so in to that movie," he says. "You see that and the hype and what the [mobsters] get, and it looks like a cool lifestyle at points. "But any one who has actually been in that life, or around it, like my dad, will tell you that you have those guys who you think are your best friends and they will turn on you in a second."
Richard Battaglia likes to talk about the "circle of life," and about how amazing it is that a dirt-poor family from Sicily can come to Chicago to chase the American Dream and, within a few generations, produce two sons who are professional athletes and another who is dedicated to healing. "Listen," Richard says. "I am proud of my dad, and I love him more than anything, and I wish he was alive today to see this. "The old days are gone and past, and I'm gone and past, and this is the new era where the Battaglia boys are going to do a lot of good things. "And that's the way it is."
Thanks to Joe O'Connor
Mob Still Thrives in New England Despite Lower Membership
Friends of ours: Carmen "The Big Chese" DiNunzio, Luigi "Baby Shanks" Manocchio, Francis "Cadillac Frank" Salemme, Peter J. Limone, Robert J. DeLuca
Forget about HBO's Tony Soprano. Today's mob leaders, at least in New England, are low-profile wiseguys with unglamorous jobs, and in Boston, membership is dwindling, according to the State Police.
The number of so-called made men who have taken a formal oath and pledged their souls to the Mafia is only about half of what it was in the Boston area in the early 1980s, according to Detective Lieutenant Stephen P. Johnson of the State Police.
The Boston faction has about 20 to 25 active soldiers who report to several capos, while another 10 inactive members are behind bars, said Johnson, who oversees organized crime investigations as head of the Special Service Section.
While waning membership reflects a mob weakened by several decades of federal prosecutions, the New England Mafia continues to thrive and uses a substantial number of associates to make money, officials said. "It is the only traditional organized crime group left in town, with the exception of Asian gangs who primarily stay within their neighborhoods," Johnson said. "What they've tried to do is keep a low profile while maintaining their traditional activities, which would include extortion, drug trafficking, bookmaking, loansharking, and even pornography."
State Police in Massachusetts and Rhode Island said illegal gambling, and sports-betting in particular, remain the life blood of the organization.
Alleged underboss Carmen "The Big Cheese" DiNunzio, 49, owner of Fresh Cheese shop in Boston's North End, drew little public attention until his arrest by State Police last week on charges of extortion and running an illegal sports-betting operation. He makes fabulous sandwiches, law enforcement officials said, but he captured their attention because he allegedly oversees all of the mob's activities in the Boston area.
His lawyer, Anthony Cardinale, said they have it wrong. "They are trying to create something that really isn't there," said Cardinale, who insisted that DiNunzio is no underboss, describing him as "a low-key, well-liked neighborhood guy who happens to be Italian." Though DiNunzio occasionally helps his sister by cooking at her East Boston restaurant, Carmen's Kitchen, he has no ownership interest in the business, Cardinale said.
The New England Mafia operates in Rhode Island and Eastern Massachusetts up to Worcester, while the western part of the state is allegedly controlled by New York families.
Leadership of the New England organization has shifted between Boston and Providence since the 1930s, reverting to Rhode Island in 1995, when the reputed current godfather, Luigi "Baby Shanks" Manocchio, took over. Manocchio, 79, has been described as a low-key boss who has pulled warring factions together after the bloody reign of Francis "Cadillac Frank" Salemme. Manocchio, who law enforcement officials say would rather make money than spend it, works out of Addie's laundromat on Federal Hill in Providence and lives in an apartment upstairs.
Rhode Island State Police have identified the mob's consigliere, who traditionally moderates internal disputes, as 72-year-old Peter J. Limone, who was exonerated of a 1965 gangland murder after spending 33 years in prison and is now suing the government for more than $100 million. His lawyer, Juliane Balliro, denied that Limone was a consigliere and added that with his civil trial underway in federal court in Boston, "we find the timing of these revelations very suspicious." But Major Steven O'Donnell, a longtime organized crime investigator who is in charge of field operations for the Rhode Island State Police , said informants and wiretap information indicate that Limone is consigliere to Manocchio.
O'Donnell also identified Robert J. DeLuca, who was paroled in March after serving 12 years in prison, as a capo in Rhode Island. DeLuca gained notoriety in 1989 after an FBI bug indicated he was among four new soldiers inducted into the Mafia in a blood-oath ceremony in Medford. Since his release from prison, DeLuca has been working at the upscale Sidebar & Grille restaurant in Providence, owned by his lawyer, Artin Coloian, who said DeLuca had a flawless record in prison and "there's no reason for anyone to doubt that his life would go the same way."
The number of mobsters in the Providence area, where there are about a dozen active members, has remained consistent over the years, O'Donnell said. But they generally are no longer raising their children in the old Federal Hill enclave and grooming them to follow in their footsteps, O'Donnell said.
It's the same in Boston, according to Johnson, who said there is no longer a so-called mob headquarters in the North End, though mobsters fraternize there at restaurants and social clubs. "The bad guys live in suburban towns now," said Johnson. As a result, he said, the mob's activities are more spread out, with members casting a wider net when it comes to shaking down bookmakers and drug dealers. "If you're a member and you live in Framingham and are aware of somebody who is a dope dealer in your area and you can extort them, you do." But even with dwindling ranks, it would be misguided for law enforcement to let up pressure on them, Johnson said.
"The key is to not let it grow, to keep pruning away at it, so it doesn't get a chance to take off again," he said.
Thanks to Shelley Murphy
Forget about HBO's Tony Soprano. Today's mob leaders, at least in New England, are low-profile wiseguys with unglamorous jobs, and in Boston, membership is dwindling, according to the State Police.
The number of so-called made men who have taken a formal oath and pledged their souls to the Mafia is only about half of what it was in the Boston area in the early 1980s, according to Detective Lieutenant Stephen P. Johnson of the State Police.
The Boston faction has about 20 to 25 active soldiers who report to several capos, while another 10 inactive members are behind bars, said Johnson, who oversees organized crime investigations as head of the Special Service Section.
While waning membership reflects a mob weakened by several decades of federal prosecutions, the New England Mafia continues to thrive and uses a substantial number of associates to make money, officials said. "It is the only traditional organized crime group left in town, with the exception of Asian gangs who primarily stay within their neighborhoods," Johnson said. "What they've tried to do is keep a low profile while maintaining their traditional activities, which would include extortion, drug trafficking, bookmaking, loansharking, and even pornography."
State Police in Massachusetts and Rhode Island said illegal gambling, and sports-betting in particular, remain the life blood of the organization.
Alleged underboss Carmen "The Big Cheese" DiNunzio, 49, owner of Fresh Cheese shop in Boston's North End, drew little public attention until his arrest by State Police last week on charges of extortion and running an illegal sports-betting operation. He makes fabulous sandwiches, law enforcement officials said, but he captured their attention because he allegedly oversees all of the mob's activities in the Boston area.
His lawyer, Anthony Cardinale, said they have it wrong. "They are trying to create something that really isn't there," said Cardinale, who insisted that DiNunzio is no underboss, describing him as "a low-key, well-liked neighborhood guy who happens to be Italian." Though DiNunzio occasionally helps his sister by cooking at her East Boston restaurant, Carmen's Kitchen, he has no ownership interest in the business, Cardinale said.
The New England Mafia operates in Rhode Island and Eastern Massachusetts up to Worcester, while the western part of the state is allegedly controlled by New York families.
Leadership of the New England organization has shifted between Boston and Providence since the 1930s, reverting to Rhode Island in 1995, when the reputed current godfather, Luigi "Baby Shanks" Manocchio, took over. Manocchio, 79, has been described as a low-key boss who has pulled warring factions together after the bloody reign of Francis "Cadillac Frank" Salemme. Manocchio, who law enforcement officials say would rather make money than spend it, works out of Addie's laundromat on Federal Hill in Providence and lives in an apartment upstairs.
Rhode Island State Police have identified the mob's consigliere, who traditionally moderates internal disputes, as 72-year-old Peter J. Limone, who was exonerated of a 1965 gangland murder after spending 33 years in prison and is now suing the government for more than $100 million. His lawyer, Juliane Balliro, denied that Limone was a consigliere and added that with his civil trial underway in federal court in Boston, "we find the timing of these revelations very suspicious." But Major Steven O'Donnell, a longtime organized crime investigator who is in charge of field operations for the Rhode Island State Police , said informants and wiretap information indicate that Limone is consigliere to Manocchio.
O'Donnell also identified Robert J. DeLuca, who was paroled in March after serving 12 years in prison, as a capo in Rhode Island. DeLuca gained notoriety in 1989 after an FBI bug indicated he was among four new soldiers inducted into the Mafia in a blood-oath ceremony in Medford. Since his release from prison, DeLuca has been working at the upscale Sidebar & Grille restaurant in Providence, owned by his lawyer, Artin Coloian, who said DeLuca had a flawless record in prison and "there's no reason for anyone to doubt that his life would go the same way."
The number of mobsters in the Providence area, where there are about a dozen active members, has remained consistent over the years, O'Donnell said. But they generally are no longer raising their children in the old Federal Hill enclave and grooming them to follow in their footsteps, O'Donnell said.
It's the same in Boston, according to Johnson, who said there is no longer a so-called mob headquarters in the North End, though mobsters fraternize there at restaurants and social clubs. "The bad guys live in suburban towns now," said Johnson. As a result, he said, the mob's activities are more spread out, with members casting a wider net when it comes to shaking down bookmakers and drug dealers. "If you're a member and you live in Framingham and are aware of somebody who is a dope dealer in your area and you can extort them, you do." But even with dwindling ranks, it would be misguided for law enforcement to let up pressure on them, Johnson said.
"The key is to not let it grow, to keep pruning away at it, so it doesn't get a chance to take off again," he said.
Thanks to Shelley Murphy
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Did the Mafia Influence Rich Rodriquez to Stay at West Virginia?
Instead of looking for gangsters in movies and television like "Goodfellas
" and "The Sopranos," Morgantown residents can see a mafia right here in town. Though they may not wear $5,000 suits and kill people for a living, the people who work at the local bars and clubs of the area are structured as Morgantown's mafia.
For West Virginia University students to understand the organization of Morgantown's mafia of bouncers, doormen, bartenders and bar owners, we must look at what they do and how they do it.
The Associates
One of the most important jobs doormen have is regulating the line waiting to get inside. Unless you are on the coveted VIP list, you are bound to wait in line and freeze. Doormen are an interesting breed of enforcers. Unlike most bouncers, doormen can be swayed with a variety of tactics. Like the mob, you can pay a "tribute" to the doormen to get in. I have personally seen doormen take money from wanna-be big shots who don't think they should wait in line.
Some doormen are insulted by an offering of money, but others are quite fond of the tactic used by desperate unattractive males who can't wait in line like the rest. In the hierarchy of the mafia/bar structure, doormen are the associates.
Since they are forced to wait out in the cold and regulate drunk people from getting into the club, we can assume they have the most unappealing job in the structure. The associates, though crucial to the structure, are more worried about making money and watching pretty women than advancing in the "family." The moral of the story is if you have a $20 bill or a pretty smile and D-cups, you can get past many Morgantown associates.
The Soldiers
Patrons who finally make it inside of the club or bar find themselves in the domain of the bouncers, or soldiers of Morgantown's mafia. Though I highly respect both doormen and bouncers for the stuff they have to put up with, sometimes their ability to wrangle drunk kids can be a bit excessive. For the most part, soldiers work their tails off to try and de-escalate situations, but some just like to fight. Soldiers are the blunt instrument used to both stop and start fighting in the club. Much like the real mafia, a bouncer's job is to intimidate people and protect the other members of the "family." If another bouncer is in a scrap, you can guarantee his fellow soldiers will be the first ones there to get the job done. Any thug who simply enjoys fighting doesn't have the ability to protect their patrons and fellow "family" members. On top of sometimes beating the crap out of people who smart-eye them, soldiers also confiscate illegal items like drugs, weapons and fake IDs. My question is: Where do all the dangerous confiscated drugs and weapons go? Are they reported to the cops? Thrown away? Or are they sold or kept for personal use? Questions like these should be answered. Due to their intimidation factor and enormous size, soldiers and associates are hardly questioned for fear of reprisal.
The Underboss
The bartenders of the nightclubs in Morgantown are the most crucial to the entire operation of Morgantown's mafia. "Knowing" a bartender can get frequent patrons hundreds of dollars of free drinks in a year. Not only are they in charge of the bar, they are also in charge of your buzz as well as the people directly under them. Underbosses have the ability to serve you quickly or not at all. Often, people who don't tip or don't tip to the satisfaction of the bartenders don't get served in a timely manner. Bartenders have at their disposal bouncers, bar-backs and doormen to regulate any patron they want. The bartenders wield a lot of power as the underbosses in the mafia. They are able to influence the rest of the members while only taking cues from the boss.
The Boss
The various club owners in Morgantown are the heads of their families. Their main responsibility is to make sure their competition isn't ganging on them, to make money and to lead their employees. The Boss doesn't have to get his hands dirty with the nightly business of the bar; they leave that up to the associates, soldiers and underbosses. Each position in the Morgantown club and bar scene is very similar to the jobs and responsibilities of the mafia. Some may disagree and say that they are just employees of a company but not in a hierarchy of beatings, intimation and bribes, but they are. Every bar or "family" has their own set of rules, and everybody knows that if those rules are broken, you can end up in the alley with hell of a beating. If that's not the mafia, what is?
Thanks to Christian Alexandersen
" and "The Sopranos," Morgantown residents can see a mafia right here in town. Though they may not wear $5,000 suits and kill people for a living, the people who work at the local bars and clubs of the area are structured as Morgantown's mafia.For West Virginia University students to understand the organization of Morgantown's mafia of bouncers, doormen, bartenders and bar owners, we must look at what they do and how they do it.
The Associates
One of the most important jobs doormen have is regulating the line waiting to get inside. Unless you are on the coveted VIP list, you are bound to wait in line and freeze. Doormen are an interesting breed of enforcers. Unlike most bouncers, doormen can be swayed with a variety of tactics. Like the mob, you can pay a "tribute" to the doormen to get in. I have personally seen doormen take money from wanna-be big shots who don't think they should wait in line.
Some doormen are insulted by an offering of money, but others are quite fond of the tactic used by desperate unattractive males who can't wait in line like the rest. In the hierarchy of the mafia/bar structure, doormen are the associates.
Since they are forced to wait out in the cold and regulate drunk people from getting into the club, we can assume they have the most unappealing job in the structure. The associates, though crucial to the structure, are more worried about making money and watching pretty women than advancing in the "family." The moral of the story is if you have a $20 bill or a pretty smile and D-cups, you can get past many Morgantown associates.The Soldiers
Patrons who finally make it inside of the club or bar find themselves in the domain of the bouncers, or soldiers of Morgantown's mafia. Though I highly respect both doormen and bouncers for the stuff they have to put up with, sometimes their ability to wrangle drunk kids can be a bit excessive. For the most part, soldiers work their tails off to try and de-escalate situations, but some just like to fight. Soldiers are the blunt instrument used to both stop and start fighting in the club. Much like the real mafia, a bouncer's job is to intimidate people and protect the other members of the "family." If another bouncer is in a scrap, you can guarantee his fellow soldiers will be the first ones there to get the job done. Any thug who simply enjoys fighting doesn't have the ability to protect their patrons and fellow "family" members. On top of sometimes beating the crap out of people who smart-eye them, soldiers also confiscate illegal items like drugs, weapons and fake IDs. My question is: Where do all the dangerous confiscated drugs and weapons go? Are they reported to the cops? Thrown away? Or are they sold or kept for personal use? Questions like these should be answered. Due to their intimidation factor and enormous size, soldiers and associates are hardly questioned for fear of reprisal.
The Underboss
The bartenders of the nightclubs in Morgantown are the most crucial to the entire operation of Morgantown's mafia. "Knowing" a bartender can get frequent patrons hundreds of dollars of free drinks in a year. Not only are they in charge of the bar, they are also in charge of your buzz as well as the people directly under them. Underbosses have the ability to serve you quickly or not at all. Often, people who don't tip or don't tip to the satisfaction of the bartenders don't get served in a timely manner. Bartenders have at their disposal bouncers, bar-backs and doormen to regulate any patron they want. The bartenders wield a lot of power as the underbosses in the mafia. They are able to influence the rest of the members while only taking cues from the boss.
The Boss
The various club owners in Morgantown are the heads of their families. Their main responsibility is to make sure their competition isn't ganging on them, to make money and to lead their employees. The Boss doesn't have to get his hands dirty with the nightly business of the bar; they leave that up to the associates, soldiers and underbosses. Each position in the Morgantown club and bar scene is very similar to the jobs and responsibilities of the mafia. Some may disagree and say that they are just employees of a company but not in a hierarchy of beatings, intimation and bribes, but they are. Every bar or "family" has their own set of rules, and everybody knows that if those rules are broken, you can end up in the alley with hell of a beating. If that's not the mafia, what is?
Thanks to Christian Alexandersen
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Calabrese Pleads with Judge for Better Conditions
A reputed leader of Chicago's organized crime family pleaded with a federal judge Tuesday for more space in jail while he awaits trial on charges of plotting 18 murders going back three decades.
''I'm taking 15 medications and my back is killing me,'' Frank Calabrese Sr., 69, told U.S. District Judge James B. Zagel. He said overcrowding on his floor at the Metropolitan Correctional Center is so bad that he can't concentrate on court papers and study the charges against him.
A chronic back problem only makes matters worse, he said. ''All I want to do is be in a two-man room so I can study my case,'' said the portly, bearded defendant, clad in the bright orange jumpsuit of a federal prisoner.
To underline Calabrese's woes, defense attorney Joseph Lopez asked permission from Zagel for his client to sit down during the hearing.
Calabrese is among 14 reputed mob figures charged in a racketeering indictment that alleges at least 18 murders going as far back as 1970.
Zagel was holding a hearing on complaints by a number of the defendants charged in the FBI's Operation Family Secrets that their health and related problems are not being met in the MCC -- a skyscraper federal jail a block from the Dirksen Federal Courthouse in downtown Chicago.
Calabrese was the only defendant to come to court. But other attorneys said their clients had urgent medical needs ranging from a new hearing aid to a fresh set of false teeth.
Calabrese said his hearing wasn't that good, either. ''I can't hear out of one ear and the other ear is partially working and partially not,'' he said. ''And anything I could get to help me I would appreciate.''
Zagel and federal prosecutors said that they would look into the matter but stopped short of promising any quick relief.
Zagel said that getting Calabrese into a different room might require putting him on a different floor, which in turn could bring him into contact with other defendants in the case -- something federal prosecutors have sought to avoid. ''I would be reluctant to interfere with the separation order,'' he said.
Thanks to Mike Robinson
''I'm taking 15 medications and my back is killing me,'' Frank Calabrese Sr., 69, told U.S. District Judge James B. Zagel. He said overcrowding on his floor at the Metropolitan Correctional Center is so bad that he can't concentrate on court papers and study the charges against him.
A chronic back problem only makes matters worse, he said. ''All I want to do is be in a two-man room so I can study my case,'' said the portly, bearded defendant, clad in the bright orange jumpsuit of a federal prisoner.
To underline Calabrese's woes, defense attorney Joseph Lopez asked permission from Zagel for his client to sit down during the hearing.
Calabrese is among 14 reputed mob figures charged in a racketeering indictment that alleges at least 18 murders going as far back as 1970.Zagel was holding a hearing on complaints by a number of the defendants charged in the FBI's Operation Family Secrets that their health and related problems are not being met in the MCC -- a skyscraper federal jail a block from the Dirksen Federal Courthouse in downtown Chicago.
Calabrese was the only defendant to come to court. But other attorneys said their clients had urgent medical needs ranging from a new hearing aid to a fresh set of false teeth.
Calabrese said his hearing wasn't that good, either. ''I can't hear out of one ear and the other ear is partially working and partially not,'' he said. ''And anything I could get to help me I would appreciate.''
Zagel and federal prosecutors said that they would look into the matter but stopped short of promising any quick relief.
Zagel said that getting Calabrese into a different room might require putting him on a different floor, which in turn could bring him into contact with other defendants in the case -- something federal prosecutors have sought to avoid. ''I would be reluctant to interfere with the separation order,'' he said.
Thanks to Mike Robinson
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