One way or another, his life as a free man is nearly over.
Reputed Gambino capo George DeCicco, 78, and his longtime girlfriend, Gail Lombardozzi, 52, yesterday got a marriage license - a year after feds indicted the high-powered capo, who had successfully ducked prosecution for decades.
A federal judge allowed the gray-haired mobster - who is under house arrest pending his racketeering and loan-sharking trial - to leave his home for a few hours yesterday so he and Lombardozzi could take a ride over to Staten Island Borough Hall to get the license.
DeCicco has a particular claim to fame as the last of the known capos for "Dapper Don" John Gotti not to be either put behind bars or planted under a tombstone.
A man of few words, DeCicco shrugged off a reporter who asked if he was happy about his pending nuptials.
"Come on, of course," he said. "I have a bad heart, and she's not doing too well. She takes care a me, I take care a her, we take care a each other," he said matter-of-factly.
DeCicco chose his words more carefully last year when he threatened a loan-shark victim who wasn't paying him, the feds say.
"I'll burn your eyes out, did you ever screw me? Do you want me to burn your eyes out?" he said, according to audiotapes made by the feds.
DeCicco's reputation on the street was so brutal that a simple repairman who botched some phone work for the elderly gangster was afraid to be seen on Bath Avenue in Brooklyn for fear of running into the mobster, said Assistant US Attorney Taryn Merkl at a bail hearing earlier this year.
"He's convinced that Mr. DeCicco is going to kill him when he does a shoddy job on the repair," Merkl said. But yesterday, the mobster played the good groom as his blushing bride-to-be smiled widely. "When you get through the bad times, you know you can get through anything," she bubbled. "We're thrilled."
Yesterday was a much-needed happy occasion for DeCicco, whose 56-year-old son was shot three times in the arm by a man in a ski mask during a botched rubout on Bath Avenue last June, and who watched his once-fearsome Bensonhurst crew crumble after an insider flipped and agreed to wear a wire - recording hundreds of conversations over a year.
DeCicco's nephew Frank was also a victim of mob violence when he was blown up in 1986 as retribution for helping Gotti assassinate Paul Castellano at Sparks Steakhouse a year earlier.
DeCicco is facing a slew of charges, including racketeering, loan-sharking, extortion and money-laundering. He's under house arrest after offering a $3 million bond.
Thanks to Lorena Mongelli and Stefanie Cohen
Friday, December 07, 2007
Lin DeVecchio to Return to Court?
Former G-man Lindley DeVecchio may return to court as a defense witness for Colombo crime boss Alphonse (Allie Boy) Persico, the Daily News has learned.
DeVecchio, 67, was cleared last month of orchestrating four gangland murders with informer Gregory Scarpa after a key witness was snared in a web of lies.
Defense lawyer Sarita Kedia wants to call the retired agent as an organized crime expert Monday to testify about the bloody Colombo war of the early 1990s. Scarpa was aligned with Colombo boss Carmine (The Snake) Persico - Allie Boy's father - against a rival faction.
Alphonse Persico is charged with ordering the 1999 murder of underboss William (Wild Bill) Cutolo as payback for backing the other faction.
In a letter to prosecutors, Kedia said she will question DeVecchio about "the identities, positions and affiliations of certain individuals involved in the war."
It's unclear if prosecutors will try to keep DeVecchio off the stand. "If he's subpoenaed and the government permits him to testify, he will testify truthfully," DeVecchio's lawyer Douglas Grover said.
Thanks to John Marzulli
DeVecchio, 67, was cleared last month of orchestrating four gangland murders with informer Gregory Scarpa after a key witness was snared in a web of lies.
Defense lawyer Sarita Kedia wants to call the retired agent as an organized crime expert Monday to testify about the bloody Colombo war of the early 1990s. Scarpa was aligned with Colombo boss Carmine (The Snake) Persico - Allie Boy's father - against a rival faction.
Alphonse Persico is charged with ordering the 1999 murder of underboss William (Wild Bill) Cutolo as payback for backing the other faction.
In a letter to prosecutors, Kedia said she will question DeVecchio about "the identities, positions and affiliations of certain individuals involved in the war."
It's unclear if prosecutors will try to keep DeVecchio off the stand. "If he's subpoenaed and the government permits him to testify, he will testify truthfully," DeVecchio's lawyer Douglas Grover said.
Thanks to John Marzulli
Gangster Bronx Tale On Broadway
"A BRONX TALE":
Chazz Palminteri stars in his 1993 one-man show of growing up in The Bronx when The Bronx was The Bronx, and having to choose between hoodlum gangster and bus-driver father.
Walter Kerr Theatre,
219 W. 48th St.
(212) 239-6200.
Closes Feb. 10.
Chazz Palminteri stars in his 1993 one-man show of growing up in The Bronx when The Bronx was The Bronx, and having to choose between hoodlum gangster and bus-driver father.
Walter Kerr Theatre,
219 W. 48th St.
(212) 239-6200.
Closes Feb. 10.
Vincent "Chin" Gigante Kept Up 'Crazy Act' Even in Prison
Alone in a North Carolina prison cell, the nation's most powerful Mafia don welcomed a steady parade of guests each evening.
Small children, and dancing inmates.
Men in suits with matching hats, and women in long dresses.
A big black cat, and the original Boss: God.
It was summer 1997, and Vincent (Chin) Gigante faced a lengthy prison stint for racketeering. For the first time in decades, the former mob hit man's inspired dodge of using a demented alter ego to avoid jail had flopped and the Chin was forced to swap his ratty bathrobe and slippers for a prison jumpsuit.
The Federal Correctional Institution in Butner, N.C., was a long way from the Greenwich Village streets where Gigante ruthlessly directed the fortunes of the Genovese crime family.
Within weeks of his July 26, 1997, arrival, it was obvious the mobster's change of address wouldn't mean a change in demeanor.
Federal prisoner No. 26071-037 never abandoned his off-kilter character through prison stops in Illinois, Minnesota, Texas and Missouri. For the next eight years, despite failed appeals and an April 2003 guilty plea in which he confessed to the scam, Gigante continued in crackpot mode until his demise behind bars nearly two years ago.
It was a show so breathtaking in scope that even those charged with evaluating his condition conceded they were in the presence of greatness. "Mr. Gigante's case is truly fascinating," raved one staff psychiatrist in 1999. "His ability to sustain his 'crazy act' over many years ... places Gigante in the ranks of the most cunning of criminals."
A four-star review for a guy who never took an acting class.
Gigante's dedication to his craft was revealed in hundreds of pages of prison records obtained through a Freedom of Information Act filing. The documents illustrate how Gigante's "mental state" led to increased paranoia - on the part of the government.
They offer glimpses of the Chin's previously unseen droll sense of humor. And they detail his cat-and-mouse game with prison officials. "I'm not crazy, doctor," Gigante said in August 1997, shortly after arriving at Butner. Maybe. Maybe not. But 12 days later, the Chin recounted how a group of children arrived one evening to perform a musical right outside his cell.
Gigante was unfamiliar with the Strasberg method of acting, but his performance after a 1997 racketeering and murder conspiracy conviction was fueled by tremendous personal motivation: The case was on appeal, with his lawyers arguing the Chin was mentally unfit. And so prison officials - intent on capturing the mob boss in an unguarded moment - kept close watch on Gigante's demeanor, monitoring his condition in his cell, recreation areas and psychiatric clinics.
Daily reports detailed his assorted nocturnal visitors, including a black cat he insisted made sleep impossible.
When Gigante arrived at the Springfield, Mo., prison medical center in December 1997, a nurse recorded their introductory conversation: "Reason for admission (in patient's own words): 'I don't know.'"
An April 1998 prison report noted Gigante "continues to hear God talking and that he talks to Him," and that he occasionally hears "bad people talking bad things."
In early 2002, at the Federal Medical Center in Rochester, Minn., Gigante sat for yet another psychiatric evaluation. "I've hurt no one in my life," he announced with a grin. "I've got nothing to fear from anyone."
Asked about his legal history, the Chin responded, "Whatever it was, I'm innocent." And later, in an extremely random observation, Gigante told a hospital staffer, "I was there once, but not any longer."
What did that mean?
"You know," the mob boss replied, a smile on his lips indicating some appreciation of the moment's absurdity. It wasn't the only time Gigante, once arrested in a bathtub while clutching an open umbrella, offered prison officials a look at the man behind the (shower) curtain.
After arriving in a Minnesota prison in March 1999, Gigante told a staff doctor there was no need for psychological testing. "No disrespect, I love you people dearly, but I don't want to talk to you," he said politely. "How will it help to do another evaluation? I still have to do my time."
Months later, when a nurse returned from a two-week vacation, the Chin greeted her warmly: "Hi, Marsha. How have you been?"
Such incidents were short intermissions in the ongoing production. By summer 1999, Gigante was refusing to shower or shave and accusing the prison staff of torture and abuse.
The Supreme Court rejected his appeal in January 2000, and a new indictment two years later charged him with running the crime family from a Texas prison cell.
Undaunted, the Chin maintained his bizarre behavior. In January 2003, he informed a prison psychiatrist he was having trouble sleeping because of nightly visits from Satan.
Three months later, Gigante stood before Brooklyn Federal Judge Leo Glasser and admitted lying to doctors about his mental health. Then Gigante went back to prison and his strange ways, now nothing more than an exercise in self-delusion.
Gigante's health deteriorated after his guilty plea; the don grew frail from an assortment of physical ailments.
Mentally, his condition was unchanged. Gigante insisted he was mentally adrift, signing prison documents with a shaky "X."
In October 2005, Gigante was shipped to a special unit in the Forth Worth, Tex., federal prison, where inmates received intensive nursing care.
The final curtain was about to fall.
His prison doctor paid a Halloween visit, where a smiling Gigante offered a handshake and shared a pleasant, coherent conversation. Gigante asked about the doctor's family; the doctor explained about Gigante's new digs before heading back to the rest of the prison population.
One day later, a staff psychologist came by for a consultation. He met with a Chin who turned the other cheek.
Gigante insisted he could not remember the doctor's name despite their previous sessions. The psychologist later grudgingly hailed Gigante for the "sophistication of his malingering attempt."
Old habits, it seemed, die hard. Vincent Gigante died seven weeks later, alone in a Texas prison cell, at 5:15 a.m.
He was 77.
Thanks to Larry McShane
Small children, and dancing inmates.
Men in suits with matching hats, and women in long dresses.
A big black cat, and the original Boss: God.
It was summer 1997, and Vincent (Chin) Gigante faced a lengthy prison stint for racketeering. For the first time in decades, the former mob hit man's inspired dodge of using a demented alter ego to avoid jail had flopped and the Chin was forced to swap his ratty bathrobe and slippers for a prison jumpsuit.
The Federal Correctional Institution in Butner, N.C., was a long way from the Greenwich Village streets where Gigante ruthlessly directed the fortunes of the Genovese crime family.
Within weeks of his July 26, 1997, arrival, it was obvious the mobster's change of address wouldn't mean a change in demeanor.
Federal prisoner No. 26071-037 never abandoned his off-kilter character through prison stops in Illinois, Minnesota, Texas and Missouri. For the next eight years, despite failed appeals and an April 2003 guilty plea in which he confessed to the scam, Gigante continued in crackpot mode until his demise behind bars nearly two years ago.
It was a show so breathtaking in scope that even those charged with evaluating his condition conceded they were in the presence of greatness. "Mr. Gigante's case is truly fascinating," raved one staff psychiatrist in 1999. "His ability to sustain his 'crazy act' over many years ... places Gigante in the ranks of the most cunning of criminals."
A four-star review for a guy who never took an acting class.
Gigante's dedication to his craft was revealed in hundreds of pages of prison records obtained through a Freedom of Information Act filing. The documents illustrate how Gigante's "mental state" led to increased paranoia - on the part of the government.
They offer glimpses of the Chin's previously unseen droll sense of humor. And they detail his cat-and-mouse game with prison officials. "I'm not crazy, doctor," Gigante said in August 1997, shortly after arriving at Butner. Maybe. Maybe not. But 12 days later, the Chin recounted how a group of children arrived one evening to perform a musical right outside his cell.
Gigante was unfamiliar with the Strasberg method of acting, but his performance after a 1997 racketeering and murder conspiracy conviction was fueled by tremendous personal motivation: The case was on appeal, with his lawyers arguing the Chin was mentally unfit. And so prison officials - intent on capturing the mob boss in an unguarded moment - kept close watch on Gigante's demeanor, monitoring his condition in his cell, recreation areas and psychiatric clinics.
Daily reports detailed his assorted nocturnal visitors, including a black cat he insisted made sleep impossible.
When Gigante arrived at the Springfield, Mo., prison medical center in December 1997, a nurse recorded their introductory conversation: "Reason for admission (in patient's own words): 'I don't know.'"
An April 1998 prison report noted Gigante "continues to hear God talking and that he talks to Him," and that he occasionally hears "bad people talking bad things."
In early 2002, at the Federal Medical Center in Rochester, Minn., Gigante sat for yet another psychiatric evaluation. "I've hurt no one in my life," he announced with a grin. "I've got nothing to fear from anyone."
Asked about his legal history, the Chin responded, "Whatever it was, I'm innocent." And later, in an extremely random observation, Gigante told a hospital staffer, "I was there once, but not any longer."
What did that mean?
"You know," the mob boss replied, a smile on his lips indicating some appreciation of the moment's absurdity. It wasn't the only time Gigante, once arrested in a bathtub while clutching an open umbrella, offered prison officials a look at the man behind the (shower) curtain.
After arriving in a Minnesota prison in March 1999, Gigante told a staff doctor there was no need for psychological testing. "No disrespect, I love you people dearly, but I don't want to talk to you," he said politely. "How will it help to do another evaluation? I still have to do my time."
Months later, when a nurse returned from a two-week vacation, the Chin greeted her warmly: "Hi, Marsha. How have you been?"
Such incidents were short intermissions in the ongoing production. By summer 1999, Gigante was refusing to shower or shave and accusing the prison staff of torture and abuse.
The Supreme Court rejected his appeal in January 2000, and a new indictment two years later charged him with running the crime family from a Texas prison cell.
Undaunted, the Chin maintained his bizarre behavior. In January 2003, he informed a prison psychiatrist he was having trouble sleeping because of nightly visits from Satan.
Three months later, Gigante stood before Brooklyn Federal Judge Leo Glasser and admitted lying to doctors about his mental health. Then Gigante went back to prison and his strange ways, now nothing more than an exercise in self-delusion.
Gigante's health deteriorated after his guilty plea; the don grew frail from an assortment of physical ailments.
Mentally, his condition was unchanged. Gigante insisted he was mentally adrift, signing prison documents with a shaky "X."
In October 2005, Gigante was shipped to a special unit in the Forth Worth, Tex., federal prison, where inmates received intensive nursing care.
The final curtain was about to fall.
His prison doctor paid a Halloween visit, where a smiling Gigante offered a handshake and shared a pleasant, coherent conversation. Gigante asked about the doctor's family; the doctor explained about Gigante's new digs before heading back to the rest of the prison population.
One day later, a staff psychologist came by for a consultation. He met with a Chin who turned the other cheek.
Gigante insisted he could not remember the doctor's name despite their previous sessions. The psychologist later grudgingly hailed Gigante for the "sophistication of his malingering attempt."
Old habits, it seemed, die hard. Vincent Gigante died seven weeks later, alone in a Texas prison cell, at 5:15 a.m.
He was 77.
Thanks to Larry McShane
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Sinatra to Get His Own Stamp
Ol' Blue Eyes will get his own postage stamp next spring.
The stamp commemorating Frank Sinatra was announced Wednesday by Postmaster General John Potter, who called the crooner "an extraordinary entertainer whose life and work left an indelible impression on American culture."
"His recordings, concert performances and film work place him among America's top artists, and his legendary gift for transforming popular song into art is a rare feat that few have been able to replicate," Potter said.
The stamp image will be unveiled next Wednesday — Sinatra's birthday — at a ceremony in Beverly Hills, Calif.
While the stamp will be for first-class mail, the rate has not been announced. Currently the letter rate is 41 cents but the postal governing board is thought likely to raise the price next year.
Under new rules a hike in the letter rate would be limited to the rate of inflation, probably to 42 cents if it does go up in the spring.
During his career Sinatra won an Oscar, several Grammy awards and was recognized at the Kennedy Center Honors in 1983. President Reagan awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1985.
He was born in Hoboken, N.J. in 1915 and died in 1998. The Hoboken Post Office was renamed in his honor in 2002.
The stamp commemorating Frank Sinatra was announced Wednesday by Postmaster General John Potter, who called the crooner "an extraordinary entertainer whose life and work left an indelible impression on American culture."
"His recordings, concert performances and film work place him among America's top artists, and his legendary gift for transforming popular song into art is a rare feat that few have been able to replicate," Potter said.
The stamp image will be unveiled next Wednesday — Sinatra's birthday — at a ceremony in Beverly Hills, Calif.
While the stamp will be for first-class mail, the rate has not been announced. Currently the letter rate is 41 cents but the postal governing board is thought likely to raise the price next year.
Under new rules a hike in the letter rate would be limited to the rate of inflation, probably to 42 cents if it does go up in the spring.
During his career Sinatra won an Oscar, several Grammy awards and was recognized at the Kennedy Center Honors in 1983. President Reagan awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1985.
He was born in Hoboken, N.J. in 1915 and died in 1998. The Hoboken Post Office was renamed in his honor in 2002.
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