Operation Family Secrets Part 1

Operation Family Secrets.

by Frank Calabrese.

I set myself up in the corner of the prison library at the Federal Correctional Inst.i.tution in Milan, Michigan, and banged out the letter to FBI Special Agent Thomas Bourgeois on a cranky old Smith-Corona manual typewriter. My mobster father, Frank Calabrese, Sr.-who was serving time with me in FCI Milan-had taught me to be decisive. So when I typed the letter, my mind was made up.

I didn't touch the paper directly. I used my winter gloves to handle the sheet and held the envelope with a Kleenex so as not to leave any fingerprints. The moment I mailed the letter on July 27, 1998, I knew I had crossed the line. Cooperating with the FBI meant not only that I would give up my father, but that I would have to implicate my uncle Nick for the murder of a Chicago Outfit mobster named John "Big Stoop" Fecarotta. Giving up my uncle was the hardest part.

When I reread the letter one last time, I asked myself, What kind of son puts his father away for life? The Federal Bureau of Prisons had dealt me a cruel blow by sticking me in the same prison as my dad. It had become increasingly clear that his vow to "step away" from the Outfit after we both served our time was an empty promise.

"I feel I have to help you keep this sick man locked up forever," I wrote in my letter.

Due to legal and safety concerns, it was five months before Agent Thomas Bourgeois arranged a visit to meet with me at FCI Milan. He came alone in the early winter of 1998. In 1997 the FBI and Chicago federal prosecutors had convicted the Calabrese crew, netting my father, Uncle Nick, my younger brother Kurt, and me on juice loans. Bourgeois seemed confused and wanted to know what I wanted.

I'm sure Bourgeois also wondered the same thing I had: What kind of son wants to put his father away for life? Maybe he thought I was lying. Perhaps I had gotten into an argument and, like most cons, was looking to get my sentence reduced. Yet in our ensuing conversation, I told Tom that I wasn't asking for much in return. I just didn't want to lose any of my time served, and I wanted a transfer out of FCI Milan once my mission was accomplished.

By imprisoning us on racketeering charges, the Feds thought that they had broken up the notorious Calabrese South Side crew. In reality they had barely scratched the surface. I alerted Bourgeois that I was not looking to break up the mob. I had one purpose: to help the FBI keep my father locked up forever so that he could get the psychological help he needed. The FBI didn't know the half of his issues or his other crimes. could get the psychological help he needed. The FBI didn't know the half of his issues or his other crimes.

When asked by Bourgeois if I would wear a wire out on the prison yard, I promptly replied no. I would work with the FBI, but I would only give them intelligence, useful information they could use, and with the understanding that n.o.body would know I was cooperating, and I would not testify in open court. Outfit guys like my dad called that "dry beefing." Frank Calabrese, Sr., was one of the Outfit's most cunning criminals and had been a successful crew chief and solid earner for the Chicago mob for thirty years. He could smell an FBI informant a mile away. If he hadn't talked about his criminal life in the past, why would he do so now?

I searched my soul to make sure I wasn't doing this out of spite or because Dad had reneged on taking care of me and Kurt financially in exchange for doing time. This couldn't couldn't be about money! be about money!

After Agent Bourgeois's first interview with me at Milan, he reported back to Mitch Mars, an a.s.sistant U.S. Attorney and Chief of the Chicago Organized Crime Section. Mars wanted to know if there was enough to present the case to a grand jury and gather a bigger, more inclusive case against "the Outfit," Chicago's mult.i.tentacled organized crime syndicate, which dated back to the days of "Big Jim" Colosimo and Al Capone.

As I lay in my cell bunk, I thought about my refusal to wear a wire. Suppose I gave the Feds information, but my father got lucky and walked? I'd be screwed, Uncle Nick would be stuck on death row, and after my dad's sentence ran out he would bounce right back out on the streets to continue his juice loan business and murderous ways.

What if what I was doing was wrong? How could I live with myself? I loved my dad dearly, and I love him to this day. But I was repulsed by the violence and his controlling ways. I had to decide between doing nothing and cooperating with the Feds, two choices I hated.

I knew that if I did nothing, my father and I would have to settle our differences out on the street. One of us would end up dead, while the other would rot in prison. I would be incriminating myself, and I didn't want an immunity deal. If I needed to do more time to keep my dad locked up forever, so be it. After I sent the letter, I was determined to finish what I started. I contacted Agent Bourgeois one more time to tell him I had changed my mind. I would wear the wire after all. All the deception my father had taught me I was now going to use on settle our differences out on the street. One of us would end up dead, while the other would rot in prison. I would be incriminating myself, and I didn't want an immunity deal. If I needed to do more time to keep my dad locked up forever, so be it. After I sent the letter, I was determined to finish what I started. I contacted Agent Bourgeois one more time to tell him I had changed my mind. I would wear the wire after all. All the deception my father had taught me I was now going to use on him him.

My father's own words would become his worst enemy.

My father, Frank Calabrese, Sr., the boss of the Calabrese (p.r.o.nounced Cala-BREESE) family and street crew, was born on the West Side of Chicago in a working-cla.s.s Italian area known as "the Patch." This legendary neighborhood is bordered by Grand, Western, and Chicago avenues and the Kennedy Expressway. The Patch at Grand Avenue and Ogden was home to other famous Outfit gangster bosses like Tony "Joe Batters" Accardo and Joe "the Clown" Lombardo. Tony and Michael Spilotro's parents, Pasquale and Antoinette, ran Patsy's Restaurant in the Patch, where Outfit bosses such as Salvatore "Sam" Giancana, Jackie "the Lackey" Cerone, Gus "Slim" Alex, and Frank "the Enforcer" Nitti often dined. Joe "the Clown" Lombardo. Tony and Michael Spilotro's parents, Pasquale and Antoinette, ran Patsy's Restaurant in the Patch, where Outfit bosses such as Salvatore "Sam" Giancana, Jackie "the Lackey" Cerone, Gus "Slim" Alex, and Frank "the Enforcer" Nitti often dined.

Another Italian neighborhood, Little Italy, ran along Taylor Street from Halsted Street to Ashland Avenue. Cicero, Melrose Park, and Elmwood Park became primary suburban fiefdoms of the Chicago Outfit. Taylor Street was in the First Ward, headed by former Alderman John D'Arco; his successor, Fred Roti; and First Ward "secretary" Pasquale "Pat" Marcy. Since the thirties, the First Ward had controlled a large bloc of city jobs and had a stranglehold on the Department of Streets and Sanitation.

Frank Calabrese, Sr., was born March 17, 1937, to James and Sophie Calabrese in the urban pocket of Grand and Ogden. Their family lineage was Barese and Sicilian, and both my grandfather's and my grandmother's parents immigrated to Chicago directly from the old country. James's family originally settled in the Taylor Street area (Little Italy), while Sophie barely left Grand and Ogden (the Patch).

Frank was the oldest of seven brothers and sisters. From oldest to youngest, his siblings were Marie, Nick, James junior (now deceased), Christine, Joe, and Roseanne. Although the family was raised Catholic, the Calabreses were not active in the church. With so many children, Grandma Sophie ran the family like a drill sergeant. If the kids didn't come home at the appointed time, they often slept in a doghouse outside, even in the dead of winter. For poor working-cla.s.s Italians, money was tight throughout the 1940s and 1950s. My dad claimed the family was so impoverished they would eat "poor man's oatmeal," or polenta, for dinner.

At the age of five my father was stricken with scarlet fever and sent to Children's Memorial Hospital. Despite his youth, through a combination of intimidation and charisma, he took over the entire children's ward and became the de facto leader. Because of his illness, he started Otis Elementary School late. Big and stocky for his age, he ruled the playground. He was known to detest bullies and stand up for the underdog. As he got older, he became fast with his hands and would fight at the slightest provocation. After he was kicked out of Otis Elementary, he hit the mean streets of Grand and Ogden. and stand up for the underdog. As he got older, he became fast with his hands and would fight at the slightest provocation. After he was kicked out of Otis Elementary, he hit the mean streets of Grand and Ogden.

At age thirteen, he ran a newspaper stand with his younger brother Nick on the busy corner of Grand and State. Although my grandparents worked hard, the Calabrese sons wore hand-me-downs, stuffing cardboard into their shoes once the soles of their feet felt the pavement. By age fifteen, he generated enough cash from his newsstand so that his parents relied on him to help support the entire Calabrese brood. No matter how slim their coffers got, Grandma and Grandpa could look to their eldest son to help pull the family through.

During the Christmas season of 1949, my grandparents found they had no money to buy holiday food or gifts. Still a youngster, Frank had set aside one hundred dollars from his thriving newspaper stand. He handed it over to his mother and father to spend on food and gifts for his brothers and sisters, but with one stipulation: they buy him a fishing pole. Come Christmas Day, there was no fishing pole. The slight bothered him deeply, and he hasn't forgotten the incident, often retelling the story to me and my brothers.

To this day, my dad is self-conscious about his lack of formal education and has difficulty writing a simple letter. Though he didn't believe in running with organized street gangs, he emerged as a tough guy. By age sixteen, he began acc.u.mulating arrests for thievery and a.s.sault. He was a hothead, unable to control his temper. Before embracing the Outfit, he built a reputation around Grand and Ogden for being his own man.

In 1953, Grandpa Calabrese decided that he could no longer control his sixteen-year-old son's unruly behavior, so he brought him down to the recruiting center and signed him up for a hitch in the United States Army. Grandpa lied, claiming that his son was of age and eligible to serve. Against my dad's wishes, he was sent off to basic training.

He didn't like the Army and went AWOL almost as soon as he was inducted. While the military police tried to locate him, he returned to the Patch and secretly lived inside the rooftop pigeon coop of his parents' four-flat apartment building. n.o.body found him for weeks, but once he was sent back to the Army, he got into a fight with one of his commanders in the mess hall and was locked up in the stockade. He went AWOL a second time. The authorities chased him through the fields of rural Illinois until a posse of farmers with bloodhounds tracked him down. After he was apprehended, the state police charged him with stealing a car. Rather than return to the military, he did his first stretch in federal prison, in Ashland in eastern Kentucky. Stocky and tough, he took up weight lifting in prison. Once he was released, he spent a short time in the ring as a semipro boxer and won a few weight-lifting trophies. he returned to the Patch and secretly lived inside the rooftop pigeon coop of his parents' four-flat apartment building. n.o.body found him for weeks, but once he was sent back to the Army, he got into a fight with one of his commanders in the mess hall and was locked up in the stockade. He went AWOL a second time. The authorities chased him through the fields of rural Illinois until a posse of farmers with bloodhounds tracked him down. After he was apprehended, the state police charged him with stealing a car. Rather than return to the military, he did his first stretch in federal prison, in Ashland in eastern Kentucky. Stocky and tough, he took up weight lifting in prison. Once he was released, he spent a short time in the ring as a semipro boxer and won a few weight-lifting trophies.

After serving his sentence, my dad worked at a series of grueling manual labor jobs. He and my grandpa shoveled coal out of the back of a truck and hoisted and unloaded blocks of ice into nearby boxcars for the Jefferson Ice Company. He was soon promoted to driving a truck for Jefferson Ice, which paid decent money. Yet his violent side simmered. He and a co-worker, a large black man, got into arguments on the job. The two men didn't like each other. He forged a phony truce with the guy, and after a night of drinking the man was never seen or heard from again. My dad didn't admit that he killed the guy, though he told me once that "after that night, n.o.body seen the guy again."

By the mid-1950s, Frank Calabrese, Sr., now in his late teens, was back roaming the streets, pulling off a string of gas station stickups, burglaries, and auto thefts. He decided to get into the "wedding business." He would scout out ceremonies and rob the guests as they left. At other times, he and a partner would stick up partygoers, lining everybody up and relieving them of their wallets, watches, and other valuables. Every Calabrese street heist was well planned, and he was careful to strike neighborhoods outside the Patch. As a calculating burglar, his number one rule was simple: Never steal from any of the Italian neighborhoods-especially where the bosses live.

In between robbing weddings and pulling stickups, at twenty-four he married my mother, Dolores Hanley, an Irish American girl. In 1960, with me on the way, Dad moved his budding family into a small two-bedroom apartment on Grand and Menard Avenues on Chicago's West Side. After my dad lost his day job driving a dairy truck, my grandpa on my mother's side came to the couple's rescue. He had ties to the notorious O'Donnell gang inside the Irish mob. Through his Irish connection at city hall, he got my dad a job. My dad also moonlighted with his new brother-in-law Edward Hanley at Hanley's, a bar in Chicago located on the corner of Laramie and Madison and owned by his father-in-law. At the time, Uncle Ed was an up-and-coming union officer. He later became one of the most powerful union bosses in the country as president of HEREUI (Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees Union International) with 350,000 members. he married my mother, Dolores Hanley, an Irish American girl. In 1960, with me on the way, Dad moved his budding family into a small two-bedroom apartment on Grand and Menard Avenues on Chicago's West Side. After my dad lost his day job driving a dairy truck, my grandpa on my mother's side came to the couple's rescue. He had ties to the notorious O'Donnell gang inside the Irish mob. Through his Irish connection at city hall, he got my dad a job. My dad also moonlighted with his new brother-in-law Edward Hanley at Hanley's, a bar in Chicago located on the corner of Laramie and Madison and owned by his father-in-law. At the time, Uncle Ed was an up-and-coming union officer. He later became one of the most powerful union bosses in the country as president of HEREUI (Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees Union International) with 350,000 members.

My dad scored his first "ghost payroll" job with the city of Chicago as a member of Local 150 of the Heavy Equipment Operators. He reported to work as an "operating engineer" for the Department of Sewers. He would arrive at work in dress pants and a shirt to pick up his paycheck. As a "no-show," he'd cash it and dutifully kick back a share to the union rep that got him the job.

Leaving the apartment on Grand and Menard, he moved my mother and me farther west to his recently deceased grandmother's house on West Grand near Natchez Avenue, where his grandfather converted the unfinished bas.e.m.e.nt into a den and the attic into two additional bedrooms. Throughout the early 1960s, my mother and father shared the house and the converted s.p.a.ce with my grandparents and the rest of the Calabrese siblings.

Between 1961 and 1964, my dad worked as a thief and burglar. After he acc.u.mulated more than ten thousand dollars, he invested it around Chinatown and the 26th Street area by providing juice loans to desperate customers who were charged usurious interest rates. By catering to customers who couldn't secure credit with their local banks and needed short-term money, no questions asked, he soon had a thriving business. My father's ready-made customer base included the neighborhood gamblers, many of whom were in over their head and desperate.

As an independent loan shark, the Calabrese juice loan business increased rapidly in the 26th Street Chinatown area. This was before America was flush with easy money from legitimate credit cards and banks. Before MasterCard and Visa, usury was exclusively a.s.sociated with organized crime. Today the banks have virtually taken over the usury business.

Juice loans work in the following manner: A "lender" like my dad will a.s.sign a percentage on top of the princ.i.p.al that a customer borrows. Depending on how much influence a gambler or a businessman has, the borrower might pay anywhere from 2.5 percent to 5 percent per week, also known as points. The juice loan business is a highly profitable enterprise. If somebody borrows $10,000 at three points, he is now on the hook to pay 3 percent, or $300 per week. This is called "the vig" (short for "vigorish" or Yiddish slang for "winnings") or, in my father's line of work, "the juice." In addition, the borrower still owes the princ.i.p.al amount of the original debt. For instance, if the borrower paid Calabrese $300 a week for the next twenty weeks, that would amount to $6,000 in juice. But the client would still owe the $10,000 princ.i.p.al. If the borrower was fortunate enough to pay his loan down by $5,000 (which would include the $300 juice payment for the original $10,000 that week), he would end up owing $5,000 on the princ.i.p.al, and the juice would be reduced to $150 per week.

Juice loans became big business for the Outfit, serving both white- and blue-collar borrowers. A clever and opportunistic street lender found that he could acc.u.mulate gradual wealth in the juice loan business, and my father's business flourished unimpeded by the Outfit. But that would soon change.

In early 1964, my dad caught the attention of the Outfit bosses when he was "whistled in" by Angelo "the Hook" LaPietra, an influential and feared underboss who had his own extensive juice loan operation in the Chinatown/Bridgeport area. LaPietra earned his nickname by his manner of murdering his victims. If someone couldn't pay or was a suspected rat, "Ang" would have his crew hang his victim on a meat hook, and torture him with a cattle prod or a blowtorch. When the coroner determined the cause of death, most often it was suffocation from screaming. In the early 1960s LaPietra and Jackie "the Lackey" Cerone were overheard by the FBI bragging how they had hung a three-hundred-fifty-pound enforcer, William "Action" Jackson, from a hook. LaPietra and his a.s.sistants tortured him for days, keeping him alive on drugs. most often it was suffocation from screaming. In the early 1960s LaPietra and Jackie "the Lackey" Cerone were overheard by the FBI bragging how they had hung a three-hundred-fifty-pound enforcer, William "Action" Jackson, from a hook. LaPietra and his a.s.sistants tortured him for days, keeping him alive on drugs.

My father, twenty-four years old at the time, was driven to a nightclub near Harlem Avenue by an Outfit soldier, Steve Annerino, to meet with the Hook. LaPietra told him that the only way he could continue his loan operation was under the guiding eye of the Outfit. As an incentive, he was given an additional $60,000 to lend. Later he was given another $80,000.

My dad had teamed up with a gangster hustler named Larry Stubitsch, who was raised in Chinatown and knew the neighborhood well. He and my dad worked long hours together, and soon spread $350,000 across a few dozen borrowers. Stubitsch was ambitious. He wanted to become an Outfit big shot, while Dad recommended that it would be wise to keep a low profile.

Once my father became an Outfit earner, he was under tremendous pressure to produce. Failure was not an option, and those who mishandled Outfit money or did not live up to the bosses' expectations would pay with their lives. He understood the advantages of blending into the streets, choosing to become a solid earner instead of a loud and ambitious wise guy.

Frank James Calabrese, Sr., portrait of a gangster.

He stands five feet nine inches, is stocky, with hazel green eyes and a friendly "warm-up-the-room" smile, and doesn't appear to be a threat. That's what he wants people to think. But the real Frank senior has the strength of an ox and an explosive temper. His dress code is basic and una.s.suming, favoring neutral colors, never flashy. During the frigid Chicago winters he prefers a baseball cap, sweatshirts, jeans, and ski jackets to more stylish attire. Wanting to "blend in," he rarely frequents Outfit hangouts or get-togethers.

His cheap plastic-framed gla.s.ses slide down his nose as he peers at you from over the top of the lenses. Removing his gla.s.ses is the cue that a heavy conversation is about to take place and your undivided attention is required. On the streets, Frank senior is concerned about surveillance and speaks in a monotone, a step above a mumble. His speech is clipped neighborhood Italian tough guy: "Dems are nice pants." "I'll kick the s.h.i.t outta the boat a ewes." is the cue that a heavy conversation is about to take place and your undivided attention is required. On the streets, Frank senior is concerned about surveillance and speaks in a monotone, a step above a mumble. His speech is clipped neighborhood Italian tough guy: "Dems are nice pants." "I'll kick the s.h.i.t outta the boat a ewes."

He may show no emotion; instead, he takes off his gla.s.ses and looks directly into your eyes. He'll speak in a low firm voice and await your response. Instead of yelling, he tightens up with rage as his right hand shakes and his eyes turn gla.s.sy. Then Then he'll start swinging and screaming. he'll start swinging and screaming.

Whenever "Senior" talks business he covers his mouth with his hand and speaks in code. Deceptive and unpredictable, he interjects into conversations an unexpected smile and a laugh to throw off anybody listening. Concerned about wiretaps, Senior's favorite place to talk is in the bathroom with the exhaust fan on and the water running. When it comes to certain incriminating words, he likes to make hand motions instead of actually saying them. He rarely uses words like "money," "guns," "knives," "killing."

Although my family lived in a cramped bas.e.m.e.nt, it was a carefree time. As the eldest son, Frank Calabrese, Jr., I was called Frankie or Junior, to differentiate me from my dad. I recall my earliest memories of living on Grand and Natchez. I had a full family life surrounded by my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and pets-all living in a single house. It was communal living, not unlike a dormitory, but more fun. I fondly remember spending time sitting under the stairs with my pet boxer, d.u.c.h.ess. The whole family would dress up for home movies. I have vivid memories of my dad performing silly skits for the camera. Every Fourth of July the entire family would crowd outside as Dad would bring home boxes and boxes of fireworks to set off in the street.

Of all of my uncles, my G.o.dfather, Uncle James, was the most easygoing. He and his girlfriend would often take me out driving until Uncle Junior, as he was called, died of cancer at twenty-one.

Dying so young, he became a patron saint for the Calabrese family. By 1965, the Calabrese family had its first new house in the suburbs, on the northwest side of Chicago in the village of Norridge, on Lawrence Avenue and c.u.mberland. We finally had a home of our own. Dying so young, he became a patron saint for the Calabrese family. By 1965, the Calabrese family had its first new house in the suburbs, on the northwest side of Chicago in the village of Norridge, on Lawrence Avenue and c.u.mberland. We finally had a home of our own.

In September 1966 my father's juice business ran into its first real snag. Stubitsch was a brawler who loved to pick fights, including an ongoing beef he had with former Chicago policeman and Outfit a.s.sociate d.i.c.kie DeAngelo.

d.i.c.kie DeAngelo was a friend of the much feared and soon to be boss "Milwaukee Phil" Alderisio. Plying his trade since the Al Capone days working for "Greasy Thumb" Jake Guzik, Alderisio was the consummate hit man, extortionist, juice loan operator, and schemer. Alderisio traveled extensively to Turkey, Greece, Lebanon, and Asia, brokering heroin deals.

Milwaukee Phil (who was actually from Yonkers and acquired the name because of his control of gambling, prost.i.tution, and narcotics in Milwaukee) had contempt for both Stubitsch and my father because of their expanding juice operations. Phil was known for his huge ego and could be seen strolling down Chicago's Rush Street nightclub district like he owned it.

Although my dad tried his best to keep his partner in check, Stubitsch confronted DeAngelo. Once the shooting started, Dad took cover behind a car and watched as his trusted partner was gunned down by d.i.c.kie outside the Bistro A-Go-Go, a nightclub on Higgins Road. Stubitsch took two slugs to the midsection and was p.r.o.nounced dead four hours later at Resurrection Hospital. DeAngelo told homicide investigators a curious story-the shooting occurred when four armed robbers approached him inside the club and the melee continued out on the sidewalk. The investigation stalled after no murder weapon was found, and the charges against d.i.c.kie were dropped. Another version of the story is that a fight occurred between my father and DeAngelo over a waitress. Dad put a beating on d.i.c.kie. DeAngelo grabbed a gun and started shooting at my father, but Stubitsch was the one who caught the rounds.

After the DeAngelo shooting, Angelo LaPietra took his young protege aside and ordered him not not to seek revenge for the murder of his partner. "These things happen, Frank. Sometimes we like it and sometimes we don't." My dad needed to let things go, or, as LaPietra went on to explain, "As long as you're with me, nuthin' is gonna happen." to seek revenge for the murder of his partner. "These things happen, Frank. Sometimes we like it and sometimes we don't." My dad needed to let things go, or, as LaPietra went on to explain, "As long as you're with me, nuthin' is gonna happen."

Since my father was not a "made guy," he needed "a rabbi" or someone with enough clout to fend off any future hits on him. His status as an earner allowed LaPietra to intervene on his behalf.

With his success, Dad sold his house in Norridge in 1970 and made plans to move the entire Calabrese clan to Elmwood Park, a Chicago suburb. Until recently, it was the tradition in Chicago to buy what were known as three-flats, three-story buildings with an apartment on each floor, enabling extended families to live together. Many three-flats had remodeled bas.e.m.e.nts, and their owners could add a half-story apartment upstairs or an additional room on top of the garage. In 1970, the Calabreses moved into their three-flat on 2515 North Seventy-fifth Court in Elmwood Park. Like others on their street, the property had a private alleyway next to the main road, enabling my dad to come and go at all hours. He and my family occupied the middle apartment, while my grandparents lived upstairs. Uncle Nick would later occupy the garden apartment.

The Calabrese three-flat was nicknamed "the Compound," with Dad acting as the family's patriarch. He took on a large responsibility by surrounding himself with family. He organized regular outings and holiday get-togethers, footing the bill. When his youngest brother, Joe Calabrese, married, and his wife gave birth to twins, it was agreed that Uncle Joe would move into the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Compound, the converted two-bedroom garden apartment where my uncle Nick would later live. Instead of paying rent, he would help out around the house. Joe idolized his brother Frank. Uncle Joe worked two jobs, during the day at a bank and during the evening at a gas station across the street. Like my late uncle James, Joe and Nick treated me like a younger brother. The three of us would play football together, with Joe and Nick showing up at my games at school. three of us would play football together, with Joe and Nick showing up at my games at school.

One day when my father suspected that Uncle Joe had been seeing one of the girls at the bank, he flew into a rage and left a note on his door ordering him to move out immediately. After reading the note, Joe stormed up the stairs. My brother Kurt and I could hear Uncle Joe banging loudly on the door, yelling, "FRANK! FRANK FRANK!"

Kurt and I ran into our bedroom expecting a huge row as my dad stomped to the door dressed only in his boxers. In a flash, he had Joe pinned up against the wall and was beating him with his fists and strangling him. Grandpa and Uncle Nick came rushing in to separate them. I had never seen two brothers fight so brutally. It was a traumatic altercation. The incident poisoned the relationship between dad and Uncle Joe for years. My grandfather became the only Calabrese who stood up to his oldest son. The two would have heated arguments and nearly come to blows. I would cringe as they would scream at each other. That's when I noticed a change in my father and that he was becoming more like Angelo.

As he spent more time with his mentor Angelo-or "Uncle Ang" as he was known around our house-he became increasingly short-tempered. Back when we lived in Norridge, the house was packed with family, friends, and relatives. After we moved into the Calabrese Compound, my father's disposition hardened. He became cautious of visitors, paranoid and moody. Worse, my mom noticed that Dad was explosive toward the children. The family chalked it up to Uncle Ang.

Angelo LaPietra was an irascible underboss who would yell to keep his crew on edge. Yet he was easier on my dad because he followed orders and did his job well. Angelo could rely on him to bring in more than his share of earnings every month. More important, he didn't cause problems by going "off the Outfit reservation." He was the kind of guy Angelo liked: a soldier and an earner who was low-key and content working his juice loans, gambling, and street tax operations. He wasn't looking to race up the Outfit ladder. If promoted, great. If not, he made it known to Angelo that he wasn't out to make waves. ladder. If promoted, great. If not, he made it known to Angelo that he wasn't out to make waves.

After the death of Larry Stubitsch, business was booming, enabling Frank senior to put more money out on the street. Although he felt restricted having to report to so many layers of bosses, his stance was simple: "As an earner, you have value. If you follow the rules and turn in the dollars, n.o.body's going to bother you."

As his fortunes grew, in 1970 he enlisted Uncle Nick, whom he could trust and control. After a hitch in the navy, Nick was adrift, feeling restless and disconnected.

Born on November 30, 1942, Nicholas W. Calabrese had spent a large part of the 1960s in the military. After Nick did a tour of duty in Vietnam and returned to civilian life, my father convinced Uncle Ed Hanley to find my uncle a well-paying job as a union organizer. He worked on a few building projects for the city under the auspices of the Ironworkers' Union, including the construction of the McCormick Place Convention Center and the hundred-story John Hanc.o.c.k Building.

Nick viewed his older brother as a success, a local tough guy who worked for himself and kept a large bankroll in his pocket. By 1970, he felt the allure of my father's respect and expressed an interest in joining his crew. My father started him off as a driver making a few collections, a typical entry-level position. With hard work, my uncle established himself as a loyal soldier who wouldn't question authority. My father liked that.

At any given time, there were a dozen Calabrese family members living at the Compound, the three-flat near Grand Avenue and North Seventy-fifth Court in Elmwood Park. It was a typical Italian post-immigrant communal living arrangement. My parents and the three sons-Frank junior (me, born in 1960), Kurt (sixteen months younger than I), and Nicky (born in 1971)-occupied the main center apartment sandwiched between my uncles, aunts, and grandparents.

An upstairs addition included my father's personal office, a spare kitchen, a dining area with a large table for ten, a fireplace, and a couch. Our family used the room regularly, but it was open to anyone in the Compound. No one locked his or her apartment door. If I wanted to drop in on Uncle Nick or watch TV with my grandparents, I could just walk in. Grandma and Grandpa, Nick, and Dad spoke Italian and English, occasionally mixing the languages.

When my father came home in a pleasant mood, the dinner table was a haven where the Calabrese family could sit and talk about what was going on in their lives. The entire family sat down and had dinner every day at five o'clock with the TV off. Family time was extremely important to my father. Later, as he worked longer hours on weeknights, and as his three sons grew older, the mandatory family dinner took place every Sunday at three o'clock. Like many Italian households, eating together was a celebration.

Dad loved home-cooked meals: Italian "stick-to-your-ribs" fare. Eating was a big part of his day. There wasn't a car ride or an outing where he didn't stop for a meal. My mom was an excellent cook and baker. One of my father's favorite meals is lemon chicken with Vesuvio potatoes, homemade ravioli, stuffed pizza, creme puffs, and fresh-baked cookies.

Dad didn't use linen or a paper napkin at the table. He wiped his face on a dish towel that mom would dutifully place by his plate. He demanded that his sons observe basic table manners: Never take the last piece of food off a serving plate unless you offered it to everyone at the table. Don't lean in or reach over somebody's plate. Don't talk with food in your mouth, and don't smack your lips while chewing. He was strict about us washing our hands before eating, and we didn't wear a hat at the table!

The Compound was situated on the north side of the railroad tracks of Elmwood Park. The bosses lived on the south side of Elmwood Park, where the beautiful homes were. Other Italian neighborhoods in the area included Grand and Harlem, Riis Park, Amundsen Park, and Galewood.

Elmwood Park was predominantly Italian when the Calabreses first settled. Its population of twenty thousand lived in a close-knit set of neighborhoods. The village had more than its share of delicatessens, bakeries, and Italian restaurants. Immigrant Sicilians opened their small cozy cafes. In addition to the Italians (and some Greeks) living in Elmwood Park, there were Poles, Irish, Germans, and people of mixed European descent. I was half Irish and half Italian.

Melrose Park was only a couple of miles southwest of Elmwood Park. Both communities had close ties. The Cook County Forest Preserve divided the two areas, and most of the gangsters' children went to Holy Cross High School in River Grove. Working-cla.s.s kids attended the public school at Elmwood Park High. The local newspapers would stoke crosstown rivalry between the Italians and the Irish whenever Holy Cross and Saint Pat's from Chicago's Belmont Avenue would play football under the Friday night lights.

Most of the residents knew who the gangsters were by reputation. To the residents of Elmwood Park, they were ordinary people. Everybody seemed to have connections. Despite its reputation, Elmwood Park was a safe and protected environment to grow up in. It was the kind of village where if help was needed, somebody would be there.

During the 1970s, the neighborhoods were overflowing with kids. There could be groups of two dozen or three dozen teenagers hanging out. They dressed in baggy pants, gym shoes, leather jackets, and dago T's and would congregate on the side of the street or by the city parks. There were fights among the boys as rival neighborhoods squared off. Other teens came from Berwyn, Cicero, Taylor Street, and my father's old stomping grounds, Grand and Ogden.

There were a number of Outfit bosses, underbosses, and capos that lived in the Chicago suburbs of Elmwood Park and Melrose Park. On the east side of Harlem Avenue was the Galewood/Montclare area; on the west side was River Forest. Some of the bosses who lived in River Forest included Tony "Joe Batters" Accardo, Paul "the Waiter" Ricca, and Joe "the Builder" Andriacchi. I grew up with the grandchildren of Mafia chief Sam Giancana, who lived in Oak Park, an upper-middle-cla.s.s community. I attended school with Joey Aiuppa's nephew and Louie "the Mooch" Eboli's son. If someone's old man was away in prison and the question "What happened to Joey's dad?" was asked, the answer was, "He's away at college." up with the grandchildren of Mafia chief Sam Giancana, who lived in Oak Park, an upper-middle-cla.s.s community. I attended school with Joey Aiuppa's nephew and Louie "the Mooch" Eboli's son. If someone's old man was away in prison and the question "What happened to Joey's dad?" was asked, the answer was, "He's away at college."

I was in grammar school when I first noticed FBI agents parked in their unmarked cars out in front of the Compound. I had a vague idea about what was going on with my father and the law. A lot of it was unspoken; I knew about mobsters. Once when I was very young, I approached my father. "They asked me today at school what you do for a living." was in grammar school when I first noticed FBI agents parked in their unmarked cars out in front of the Compound. I had a vague idea about what was going on with my father and the law. A lot of it was unspoken; I knew about mobsters. Once when I was very young, I approached my father. "They asked me today at school what you do for a living."

"Tell 'em I'm an engineer."

"Like a train engineer?"

"No, like a hoisting engineer." Dad showed me his union card. "I worked for the city as a crane operator. Local 150."

The Calabrese sons knew that Dad wasn't exactly a nine-to-five working stiff. Like a lot of other Italian guys, he was strict with his boys. If Kurt or I stepped out of line, we got the belt. We had our ch.o.r.es to do before and after dinner. We were taught about manners. Open the door for your elders. Don't talk back or swear around ladies.

One day I got into a sc.r.a.pe with a boy who lived a few doors down the street. I was playing in the alley with the other kids my age, and an older boy got into my face. He was a soph.o.m.ore in high school, and while I was only thirteen and in the seventh grade, the two of us mixed it up. When the older boy had his legs scissored around my neck and began punching me, I bit him hard in the leg and wouldn't let go.

As the opposing kid screamed in pain, I jumped up and punched him a few times. Then I ran home. A little while later, the older kid's mother rang the doorbell at the Calabrese Compound. She was extremely upset over what I had done to her son. My bite would leave an indelible scar. My father shrugged his shoulders and reached for his money roll and offered her compensation if she needed to take her son down to the hospital. and reached for his money roll and offered her compensation if she needed to take her son down to the hospital.

"Good job," he later told me as I was expecting the back of his hand instead of a rea.s.suring pat on the back. "Don't worry about it. At least you defended yourself."

After Uncle Junior died young, I was a tagalong with Uncle Nick and Uncle Joe and their madcap group of friends, up for a little bit of reckless fun. Once we went down to the amus.e.m.e.nt park in Melrose Park, Kiddie Land, and liberated the b.u.mper car ride. While everyone was instructed to drive in one direction, we circled back the other way, smashing into the other cars until the operator ran out screaming at Nick and Joe. "f.u.c.k you!" they yelled at the guy. In the summer they took me to Riis Park to go swimming in the munic.i.p.al pool. Grabbing me by the shorts, they'd throw me into the deep end, like older brothers would do. "Now swim!"

I was twelve years old in 1972 when I first saw The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather at the Mercury Theater on North Avenue and Harlem Avenue. It created quite a stir among me and my friends. Suddenly "organized crime" became popular culture fare among a community quietly versed in the ways of the Outfit. The popular fascination with the mob sparked controversy in Elmwood Park when an article on the Outfit appeared in the at the Mercury Theater on North Avenue and Harlem Avenue. It created quite a stir among me and my friends. Suddenly "organized crime" became popular culture fare among a community quietly versed in the ways of the Outfit. The popular fascination with the mob sparked controversy in Elmwood Park when an article on the Outfit appeared in the Chicago Daily News Chicago Daily News, mentioning Frank Calabrese, Sr., with a picture of the Compound plus a photo of him with his mentor, Angelo the Hook.

The legend of the Outfit was well known in Chicago. In April 1973 a good friend of mine was out with his father at Sears and Roebuck in Galewood when they heard on the in-store radio that the psychotic mobster "Mad Sam" DeStefano had been found murdered in his garage. My friend and his father knew that DeStefano lived only two blocks from the Sears store. They drove over to the "death house." It was like a celebrity sighting, with a small crowd milling around the sidewalk. Inside the garage was the b.l.o.o.d.y body of "Mad Sam" with two shotgun blasts in his chest and one in the torso that severed his left arm. The FBI and the Chicago Police Department homicide detectives determined that Tony Spilotro had visited Mad Sam. Police Department homicide detectives determined that Tony Spilotro had visited Mad Sam.

One day while Kurt and I were playing in the alley next to our three-flat, we looked over at the nearby parking lot and saw two plainclothes detectives sitting in an unmarked car. As we walked toward the car, the detectives, having been spotted, didn't know what to do next. Suddenly they slumped down and pretended to be asleep. The police were often staked out across the street next to the pay phone at the Kentucky Fried Chicken. During the winter months a car would be parked with the motor running. Inside, two plainclothes detectives trying to stay warm. The Compound phone would ring.

"Hey, little buddy, is your dad home?"

"Hold on and let me check."

I knew whether or not to say if he was home.

When my father got a call from one of his Outfit friends, it was the cla.s.sic ring-once-then-hang-up-then-start-ringing-again code. If this was someone he needed to speak to, then he would know. If the phone rang twice twice, stopped, then started ringing again, it was a different mob connection. Because of my dad's occupation, it was a matter of habit among the Calabrese family to let the phone ring many times before answering. It was a given that the line was tapped.

I reveled in both my Italian and my Irish roots. On long holidays it was one day of Italian celebration and the next day Irish. As I got older, I noticed that whenever the family went to an Italian event on my dad's side, it was organized and festive with a lot of food. There was a seating protocol according to "rank." When I went to the Irish affairs on my mother's side, they were much looser, with little food but a great deal of liquor. The atmosphere was loud and everyone had a great time.

For the Calabreses, the mix of Italian and Irish culture was a positive experience. On my father's side, I was the oldest of my cousins. Yet on my mother's side, Kurt and I were the youngest.

Dad had an overwhelming personality that appealed to both sides of the family. The Irish relatives especially liked him, and he was deft at winning over a room. Other than Uncle Ed, the Hanley Irish side of the family had little money. They were cops or city workers. Their kids attended Catholic schools and lived in modest houses. Whenever there was a funeral there would be a couple bottles of whiskey on the table and a case of beer in the fridge. My father would then go to the store and come back with boxes of liquor, cases of beer, and a large spread of food. He'd throw it out on the table with a huge smile. To his Irish relatives, Frank Calabrese, Sr., was a kind and considerate gentleman who treated everyone with the utmost respect and equality. He appeared to have no motive other than providing for my mother's family. was deft at winning over a room. Other than Uncle Ed, the Hanley Irish side of the family had little money. They were cops or city workers. Their kids attended Catholic schools and lived in modest houses. Whenever there was a funeral there would be a couple bottles of whiskey on the table and a case of beer in the fridge. My father would then go to the store and come back with boxes of liquor, cases of beer, and a large spread of food. He'd throw it out on the table with a huge smile. To his Irish relatives, Frank Calabrese, Sr., was a kind and considerate gentleman who treated everyone with the utmost respect and equality. He appeared to have no motive other than providing for my mother's family.