Cigars and Gangsters

[Vito]

I found this awhile ago on Puff.com but stumbled across it again and being that the focal point is cigars, I figured I’d share it. Enjoy it. I did. 
 

Without Honor

 

A Mob Informer Says Gangsters Will Do Anything to Get a Good Cigar

by "Richie" The year was 1989 and the clock was slowly ticking away my federal sentence at the New York City Metropolitan Correctional Center . MCC was a warehouse for bad boys whose hands had been caught in the cookie jar. My "cookies" were counterfeit credit cards. I "handmade" thousands of them in my basement to fill orders placed by the Genovese, Bonanno and Gambino crime families, who ultimately distributed them through interstate commerce. At the time of my sentencing, Visa International reported a loss of $130 million for the year. There is little doubt that the loss was partially due to my generous impositions on Visa, American Express and MasterCard. I treated myself to the advantages of plastic credit credibility by indulging in fancy cars, racks of clothing, fine wine and dining, jewelry and the wooing of many women. Only the best! To toast my skill and success, I reflected upon my "good life" in the company of countless good cigars...naturally! Oh, those cigars! They were my subtle declaration of dominance and conquest, my advertisement of success evident only to the cognoscenti and attentive to the mystical parlance of rare smoke. The winds of change were soon to have their way with my schemes and trappings. When the indictments were handed up, my "good life" was blown away like so much smoke in the wind. For the time being, the wine, women and song would have to await my return. I toughed it out through the court proceedings and found myself in the unfamiliar surroundings of Terre Haute Federal Penitentiary in Indiana. Despite being severed from my world, I was still able to craftily obtain an occasional smoke, for you see, the cigar is a succor to humanity and an ambassador of good will that knows no bounds. Even the foreboding and seemingly impenetrable penitentiary walls are no match for the determined cigar veteran seeking his fulfillment. Understand that cigars and the Mob share one of the great unspoken pacts, which bind men to service for life. The cigar has conveyed both overt and subliminal statements of power and stature for many gangsters through the years, including the notorious Alphonse Capone. Cigars became regular company to those men of power as well as those seeking their approval and acceptance. The cigar has remained the standard emblem of Mob power and mystique, a silent smoldering remembrance of the glory days, an eternal flame. Through my transfers from facility to facility, I became acquainted with notorious Mob members whom I had previously known only through stories and street lore. Within that world of condemnation and incarceration, I had the great honor of enjoying a good smoke with many of the men I most revered. Eventually, I landed in New York City Metropolitan Correctional Center, where I was to work off the balance of my federal sentence on an honor work cadre. I was assigned to the enviable task of being barber to the inmates, among whom were many of the Mob's most powerful, dangerous members. MCC was the government's depository of choice for many of those Mob kingpins who had fallen prey to the federal Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act . The RICO Act provided a far-reaching tool with which the feds swept the streets of many mobsters. Despite their efforts, the feds were unsuccessful at getting charges to stick on John Gotti, one of the reputed kingpins of the East Coast's underworld. Jury-tampering was the mechanism that precipitated the prosecutorial failings, which earned him the name "the Teflon Don." At the time he had successfully avoided conviction on RICO charges, which made him the only Mob boss in New York to have walked out from the MCC. Eventually, the government's relentless pursuit brought Gotti to justice under a life sentence without possibility of parole. Gotti's prison bed in Marion, Illinois was feathered with RICO convictions on heading the Gambino crime family and ordering five Mob murders, one of which was that of Gambino Boss Paul "Big Paul" Castellano. Paul Castellano met his end in a carefully-planned shower of lead. He was gunned down in front of Sparks Steak House in Manhattan in December, 1985. This hit, ordered by Gotti, paved the way for Gotti to take control of the Gambino crime family. John Gotti's brother, Gene, was also taking a federal broom ride down the bumpy road. It took seven years of mistrials and hung juries to finally sweep Gene Gotti and his associate John Carneglia into the MCC dust bin for a 50-year countdown. Mob turncoat Salvatore "Sammy Bull" Gravano later disclosed that Gene Gotti and John Carneglia were the trigger-men for Castellano's undoing. Those bad boys had some mortal enemies at MCC, so each was separated to avoid escalating the ongoing Mob war between families. They were secured under a 23-hour-a-day lockdown in a special housing unit. Each was permitted one hour of "liberty" time per day and a bit of extra consideration on "haircut days." Needless to say, they had fast growing hair and required many haircuts. Of course, haircuts also meant cigars. During one barbering session, Gene was lost in a Punch Double Corona when a guard told him that an attorney had arrived to meet with him about his appeal. Gene barked, "Tell him to beat it! Can't you see I'm enjoying a cigar and having my hair cut? Tell him to come back later." I was impressed with Gene's priorities and the cool composure of a man condemned to 50 years in prison. MCC was opened in the mid-'70s and was bursting at the seams when I arrived in 1989. Organized crime was taking a beating at the hands of the feds. All those mobsters jailed at MCC made it a living museum of history. There, the whole cross section of the Mob was represented: bosses, capos, soldiers and a myriad of associates. At first I did not realize the responsibility and honor with which I would be entrusted by those men. A man's relationship with his barber is personal and requires a great measure of trust, since the quality and style of one's haircut is an outward statement of the man himself. Rest assured that I gave some fine haircuts and, in order to show respect and friendship, I handed out good cigars to the men who I knew would enjoy them. My original "seed stock" was a stash of Primo del Reys, which I carried with me from the Danbury, Connecticut, Correctional Facility. That "seed stock" quickly ran out, so I cultured a system of supply and payment amongst a carefully selected group of prison guards, assuring an uninterrupted supply of cigars. That underground railroad was a lifeline to the men who were clamoring for more and more cigars and specialties. Anthony "Fat Tony" Salerno was the first guy I supplied with cigars, and when the others heard about it, they wanted cigars, too. Some were driven by the love of a good smoke; others wanted cigars simply because of envy: another inmate had "one-up" on him, and it was a matter of honor to "keep up" with the other inmates. It was a matter of integrity and status in the prison's society of powerful men that each lay claim to as much of the limited booty as possible. The power of being the great giver of smoke and, in effect, the prison "cigar-store Indian," cultivated their reliance on me. No longer was I simply the barber. I was the link to outside supplies and communication. My duties permitted me to move about the facility and, because I was known as a Mob guy, I had a green light to go almost anywhere in the jail. The trust and freedom bestowed upon me made me a natural for message-carrying and smuggling of contraband. Countless bottles of "hair tonic" were actually transports of fine olive oil, vinegar and colognes. My little barber's tool box moved cookies, olives, Romano, provolone and mozzarella cheeses, Italian sausage and garlic--the lifeblood of my paisans. Most Mob guys are model prisoners who just want to do their time, eat good food and, occassionally, "escape" in the smoke of a good cigar. The demands on my little service broadened to include running bets and sports pools, handling cash transactions, messages and other commerce. The finesse required to keep the boys happy became a greater aspect of the job as the jealousies and backbiting increased amongst them. I had to walk a fine line of judicious favoritism amongst the tangled and conflicting powers. I was supplying both "Fat Tony" Salerno, the late boss of the Genovese crime family, and Matty "The Horse" Ianniello, a capo to Fat Tony. Fat Tony had countless achievements under his belt that included allegedly masterminding and ordering the death and disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa. Fat Tony was supposed to have had power and control over the mechanisms of crime in many major U.S. cities as well as the crime bosses who called those Salerno satellites their own. New York was organized crime's hub, and Fat Tony was the axle who always got the first grease. Fat Tony kept his trademark thick cigars on duty at all times: H. Upmanns and Partagas. Matty "The Horse" had a full plate set before him with New York and New Jersey under his thumb, allegedly controlling peep shows, the *****graphy industry, prostitution and bust-out joints . Matty was ultrapowerful and also controlled the unions and the loan sharks. His influence was apparently so widespread that, in the '70s, he was asked by the U.S. government to lend his help in obtaining information to help solve the famous Etan Patz kidnapping. Although Patz was not found, and his kidnappers have eluded detection and capture, Matty was still given a letter of commendation by the feds for his efforts in the investigation. That letter was later presented, as testimony to his character, for early parole on a RICO conviction. During my stay at MCC, I was reunited with many men whom I had known during my youth in the streets and homes of the Mob. I am a product of both the Mob and my own ambition. If a man wants the respect of the Mob, he first and foremost has to possess his own unique character and be valuable to the Mob. By an odd twist of fate, I found a place of honor in the Mob's penitentiary community and, therefore, in the Mob in general.

• When it was known on the streets that I was destined for MCC, I was asked by friends on the outside to "tell Tony that so-and-so sends regards," and "tell Fat Tony I said hello." Needless to say, armed with well wishes and some plump, fresh Primo del Reys, I made my way up to shake Fat Tony's big paw. His fearsome, captivating eyes and air of dominance melted into the joy of a kid in a candy store when he lit, and thoughtfully puffed, that fine, fat cigar. His ear-to-ear grin told me we now had a bond, and I had a new obligation to fulfill. The guards didn't dare stand between a mobster and his cigars. To excuse the failure of duty, the guards figured, "what the heck, it's not like a knife or a gun. What trouble can a couple of cigars cause?" What a question that was. If they had only known. The procurement of goods for the boys, and in particular, tending to personal preferences for cigars, often became quite a chore. One time I was approached by Fat Tony's driver, Carmine, who wanted me to get him some cologne. I placed the order to the outside right away; I didn't like to keep the guys waiting. When the cologne arrived and made its way to me, I paid for it out of my own pocket the way I did for much of the goods. Carmine happily took the delivery, and the next time I bumped into him, he asked for another bottle. I smelled a rat right through the French whore fragrance and said, "hey Carmine, what are you doing, taking a bath in that stuff?" Carmine got cocky and barked, "hey, a guy's gotta smell good for his visits, ya know? What's the big deal? Can ya get another bottle or what?" Carmine was disrespectful to me. I am a generous guy who won't be used, so Carmine's not smelling so sweet anymore. By now I had orders from Matty "The Horse" for some imported cheese, pepperoni, olive oil and vinegar. Fat Tony wanted some H. Upmanns; another wanted cologne, a radio for this one, scissors for that one and there was always a dozen or two messages to deliver. It was getting to be like a real full-time job. At times, elaborate schemes were required to get the goods from the outside to the inside, and even simple schemes can go awry. The problems magnify when wise guys on the street stick their big schnozzes in where they don't belong. I recall one time that Fat Tony wanted some boxer shorts and a special box of Davidoffs, which was "specially procured." I made the plans and told Carmine what to do. Carmine told his visiting friend how to get the cigars, which boxer shorts to buy and that he wanted a bottle of cologne to be put in for himself. As I had directed, the package was marked for football . The package was dropped as planned at the notorious Holiday Bar, a watering hole on Madison Street in Manhattan's Lower East Side, which has hosted a number of murders. The Holiday Bar was a favorite hangout of Mob guys, neighborhood guys, gangster wannabes and newspapermen. Because the Holiday was only three blocks from MCC, it was convenient to the guard who was to pick up the package and relay it to me. On the day that the package was expected, I was on my usual rounds when Carmine asked, "so, you got the package?" I replied, "No Moe, the guard said it wasn't there. What's going on?" Carmine was looking very red and agitated by now and he spit out, "look that box of cigars cost $250 and Tony's underwear and my cologne was supposed to be there, too!" The tension was rising, so I phoned the Holiday Bar. The barmaid answered and replied, "oh yeah, that package was dropped off for Football, but Jerry Chilli took it." Now my head was spinning. I phoned Football and asked him to check and find out if Jerry Chilli still had the goods. He said, "You gotta be crazy to ask for those cigars back." Understand about Jerry Chilli; he reputedly has his own family within the great Bonanno crime organization. They're known in law-enforcement circles as the Chili Crew. The Bonanno family controlled the Fulton Fish Market and were into all aspects of organized crime. They were the smallest of the five New York crime families and were considered, by the other four, to be outlaws and cowboys. Those labels were applied for good reason. You see, Philly "Rusty" Rastelli, a Bonanno capo and cigarette diehard who occasionally smoked a cigar, allegedly ordered a power-move hit on his own Don, the boss of the Bonanno family, Carmine "Lilo" Galante. The job was to be done by Anthony "Bruno" Indelicato, a faithful Avanti smoker, with the help of a few associates. Galante was enjoying a late lunch in the courtyard beyond Joe and Mary's restaurant in Brooklyn. He had just lit up what looked to be a Presidente, a big power-and-prestige smoke befitting of the man's stature, and that's when the hit came down. Right after his bodyguards excused themselves to "powder their noses," in stepped Bruno and company and the lead let loose. Carmine "Lilo" Galante was found slumped in his chair, faithfully and peacefully smoldering away. Carmine Galante had checked out in style--a quick finish with his smoke still intact. Through my dealings with a crooked New York City cop, associated with the famous "Prince of the City" case, which was prosecuted by the Knapp Commission, I had become a known associate of the Chili Crew. In 1983 I was introduced to Jerry Chilli. I walked into the restaurant where Jerry was holding court over an assembly of knockaround guys . The scene was absolutely "Hollywood"--a movielike atmosphere. Jerry was nursing a snifter of Remy Martin while he poked and prodded the air with his fat Te-Amo Churchill, conducting the events. After all, Jerry wrote the score, so it was only appropriate that he orchestrated it as well. Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea" played in the background, and the aroma of the Churchill wafted about while the volatile Jerry Chilli imposed a mandate, in gruff gangster fashion, through a veil of blue smoke. It was reminiscent of the "old days." Chilli held his audience within his power, and using his fuming cigar like a hypnotist's watch, he mesmerized them. As if conducting the Philharmonic, Jerry gave the cue to each man in turn that he might have his say. While the allowed one spoke, no other dared open his mouth. Jerry was ruthless and a businessman through and through: even his own son-in-law, Constable "Gus" Faracci, was reportedly disposed of when business required. Chilli's daughter was convicted of harboring Faracci, who was wanted for the murder of Everett Hatcher, a U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency undercover agent. The massive manhunt for Faracci put the heat on the Mob, so they had him executed Mob-style on the streets of Brooklyn. Joe Chilli, Jerry's son, also a Bonanno soldier, was gunned down in a Manhattan parking garage along with the stepson of "Lefty Guns" Ruggiero, another Bonanno family member. Lefty Guns' claim to fame was his making the mistake of introducing an undercover FBI agent named Joe Pistone, a.k.a. Donny Brascoe, into the Bonanno family. Lefty briefly joined the boys at MCC, regularly enjoying my haircuts and an occasional Don Diego. Donny Brascoe's seven-year infiltration of the Mob resulted in, among other indictments, the conviction of Lefty Guns for 20 years. It is said that Jerry Chilli once asked his son, Joe, what he wanted to do with his life. Joe's reply was, "I want to be just like you, with the power and the grand lifestyle." So that Joe might prove his convictions, the story goes, Jerry handed him a gun and had him kill a man on the spot. Jerry also never paid for anything and lived by the motto, "only suckers pay." This is what I was up against in recovering Fat Tony's package. How do I tell Carmine, Fat Tony's driver, that Jerry Chilli stole Tony's $250 box of cigars and was walking around smoking them, while wearing Tony's boxer shorts, and dousing himself with Carmine's cologne. Such behavior was typical of Chilli, an overt statement of indignation, a maniacal display of dominance, like a Bantam rooster in the Mob barnyard. I could do the easy thing and replace the goods, but that would be a sign of weakness. I had to be diplomatic, so I went to talk with Matty "The Horse". While I tactfully explained the situation, I also pointed out that Carmine, the hothead, was threatening to have Jerry killed over this. After relating the whole story to Matty, he quickly gave it consideration and doled out the advice, "Ya know, these young, hotheaded guys, they still don't get it. The pie was baked and eaten long ago; all that's left now is the crumbs. Forget about this life." At that point Matty threw his arms up and said, "See, kid, there's no honor among the Mob. Not even when it comes to a box of cigars."
• 
  credit to be given to:

  "Richie"  who has become part of the Federal Witness Protection Program. He has been a key federal-government witness against organized-crime figures.

   

  As I smoke another horrible Te Amo cigar, trying to get rid of this 5 pak I mistakenly thought would be a good idea to purchase. A little San Andres....fine and good but a whole cigar of it is too much. Waaaaaay too sweet and dry. I can’t throw cigars out. I at least have to smoke a third before I toss it.  Almost sacrelige to have it in the same picture as the FOH website. 

[rcarlson]

Great read.