Operation Family Secrets Part 6

Next, Matt told my father that he was in danger of losing his house. He was three months behind on the mortgage payments and the bank was ready to foreclose. Matt was in tears telling him that he didn't know what his wife and three kids were going to do. My father responded by buying the house and putting it in Kurt's and my names. He directed Matt to sign a promissory note saying he would pay my father rent every month. In the meantime, Russo could buy back the house for the same price he sold it for-or less if its value went down.

I was put in charge of collecting Matt's monthly house payment. One Sat.u.r.day night Matt told me that he didn't have the money and had no idea when he could pay. It was likely a ploy orchestrated by the FBI to see whether or not my father or I would physically threaten Matt. Instead, I quietly offered to advance the payment until Matt could make good. When my father found out that I fronted the payment, he arranged a sit-down with Matt and me.

"Matt," my father said in an even tone, "if you're having a problem paying me, come right out and tell me. We can work it out. I can't have my son going out of pocket. That ain't right."

Then my father turned to me and angrily shook his finger. "And you, I oughta break your legs for youse bein' so f.u.c.kin' nice."

To the chagrin of the FBI, the wrong guy, me, was threatened on the wire.

My father had been magnanimous toward Russo for a share of the business, but Dad's predatory instinct soon took over. He demanded 10 percent of what Matt and I generated in the detail shop. On the back of each invoice would be a code: a circle on the back meant ten dollars; a check mark meant twenty-five bucks; a line denoted five dollars.

My father told Matt and me that there would be three ends that would profit from the M&R deal. The first would be for him and me. The second would go to Matt. And the third would go "somewheres else." "Somewheres else" meant the Outfit.

Matt and I were essentially paying my father extortion, and in true Outfit style, my dad wanted payment in cash!

I was gutted that my latest business venture had just been co-opted by my father. I knew at that point that I needed to get out from under the new business. The FBI was anxious to move in on its target. One more development could reel in the Calabrese family on racketeering charges.

One day I received a call from a friend at the Chevy dealership. Management had noticed that some of the automotive repairs on the cars sent to M&R weren't completed as promised. The bills were padded with fake charges. When I confronted Russo about it, he denied any wrongdoing.

I felt the walls closing in. My father was extorting me, and my business partner was defrauding our biggest customer. In frustration, I put Johnny Marino in charge of the detailing operations and exited the business. I went to work for the Chevy dealer as a car salesman. I didn't mind the long hours. In the end it was better to work long hours selling cars than being my father's stooge at M&R.

But it was too late to walk. I was already set up for a fall.

The last straw came when the manager at the dealership told me that a car that was supposedly serviced by Russo had been sold to a newspaper columnist from the Chicago Tribune Chicago Tribune. When the reporter realized that all of the work had not been done on his car, he threatened to expose the dealer in the newspaper. I phoned Matt.

"What the f.u.c.k is going on? Why aren't you doing the work on the cars?"

"I did the work."

"Matt, I just inspected the car myself. You didn't didn't do the work." do the work."

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Matt, meet me at the Chevy dealership at seven thirty," I said.

Meanwhile, my father stopped by the shop to see Matt. Marino was there. It was dark outside.

"Let's go," my dad told Russo. "We're going for a ride. Follow me and you ride with Johnny." My father wanted Matt to look at a car, so he enlisted Matt and Johnny to help him drive it back to the shop. Marino was behind the wheel with Matt in the front seat. When my father pulled his car over by a bridge over a river, he waved to Johnny and Matt to pull over, too. As my father walked over to Johnny's car to get the directions straight, Matt became hysterical. "What is he doing?" "What is he doing?"

"Just relax," Marino said. "Let's see what he wants."

Matt was convinced my dad was going to kill him and throw him in the river. But nothing happened. After the incident, Matt sat motionless in his car in front of the shop for several minutes.

Russo didn't show up at the dealership that night to meet with me. He didn't show up for work the next day, either. A couple days later, when I stopped by his house, I found the place empty. Russo and his wife and kids were gone. He had turned himself in to the FBI and joined the Witness Security Program.

With both Russo and Tolomeo in the hands of the Feds, all h.e.l.l was about to break loose inside the Calabrese camp.

A predicate act is an offense or a cla.s.s of offenses that prosecutors must prove in order to achieve a conviction under the federal racketeering statutes. A predicate act is an offense or a cla.s.s of offenses that prosecutors must prove in order to achieve a conviction under the federal racketeering statutes.

After Matt Russo went missing, my father and I concluded that he was cooperating with the FBI. Now Uncle Nick's question-Why was there a mirrored one-way gla.s.s window facing M&R Auto from the house across the street?-was answered. If Matt was a beefer, it was only a matter of time before indictments dropped. My father was feeling the heat, so he arranged a visit to his ex-brother-in-law, Uncle Ed, for a consultation.

I knew that if my father went to see my uncle Ed, Hanley might not be eager to help. A few years back, Uncle Ed came to my father when a bookie and a few of his South Side friends beat up his son Tommy at a local nightclub, hitting him across the head with a beer bottle and putting him in the hospital. When Uncle Ed asked Dad to take care of the guys, Dad put him off. Business was booming at the time of the incident, and while my dad knew the culprits, he said "he was working on it." came to my father when a bookie and a few of his South Side friends beat up his son Tommy at a local nightclub, hitting him across the head with a beer bottle and putting him in the hospital. When Uncle Ed asked Dad to take care of the guys, Dad put him off. Business was booming at the time of the incident, and while my dad knew the culprits, he said "he was working on it."

Uncle Ed was still the president of HEREUI, the hotel and restaurant employees union. At one time the Justice Department considered HEREUI to be one of the most corrupt unions in America, although Uncle Ed had not been convicted of a crime. His powerful union gave him the ear of politicians and judges, including guys like then congressman and chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee Dan Rostenkowski, activist Jesse Jackson, Mayor Richard M. Daley, and President Bill Clinton.

Nervous about Russo rolling over, my father approached Ed on the premise that he was still working on finding his son's a.s.sailants. He broached the subject of his own problem: What should he do if the Feds launched a RICO case against him?

Uncle Ed's response wasn't exactly what my father wanted to hear. Since there were no murders involved, his best bet was to take off and go into hiding for seven years until the statute of limitations expired. If my dad had been more receptive about Ed's troubles with his son, he might have been more helpful.

The crew explored ideas of making my father disappear, including staging a fake a.s.sa.s.sination. Uncle Nick would shoot dozens of bullet holes into one of his cars and afterward, torch it. My father would drive south and set up base camp down in Florida, where he already owned a warehouse and a winter home. Inside the warehouse were modest living quarters with a shower, a cot, and some clothing. He already had enough cash stashed to live comfortably in Florida for seven years.

Rather than elaborately stage his death, he decided he would secretly escape. The timing couldn't have been worse for me. Lisa was due to give birth any day. Now my dad, whom I had been avoiding for weeks since I walked away from the M&R debacle, was demanding that I I drive him down to Florida to help him get drive him down to Florida to help him get settled. We would drive up the Florida coast, where I would grab a plane back to Chicago, but probably not in time for the baby's birth. At first I protested. settled. We would drive up the Florida coast, where I would grab a plane back to Chicago, but probably not in time for the baby's birth. At first I protested.

"Lisa is going to have our baby any day now-"

"You mean you're not going to do this for your father father?" my father asked incredulously. "You have have to do this for me! What's more important than your dad?" to do this for me! What's more important than your dad?"

Adhering to my father's wishes put me between a rock and a hard place. I feared that telling Lisa or my mom where I was going and what I was doing could brand them as accessories. Lisa wasn't pleased when she heard the news. I winced as I lied to my mother when she asked about my plans for the baby's arrival.

My father and I spent an entire day packing up the van, lining the inside wall panels with six hundred thousand dollars in cash. As we were ready to begin the long drive to Florida, the reality of my dad being a fugitive sank in-I wasn't going to see my father for at least seven years. Part of me was sad, but as I thought more about it, I became ecstatic ecstatic! Getting rid of him for seven years would solve my problems and would be well worth the grief and aggravation I would take for missing the birth of my child.

As we drove the van south across state lines, I was dressed casually in my bright blue, green, and yellow workout pants. I had donned a red sweatshirt with the arms cut off. My shoes were the pink, green, and yellow Zodiac loafers that my friends teased me about.

On the road, my father enjoyed eating at truck stops and staying at Super 8 motels. When we rolled into one truck stop over the Kentucky border to eat, the whole restaurant stopped what they were doing and gazed at the sight of two Chicago gangsters. What a sight we were: me, muscular, wearing loud leisure sweats, Technicolor shoes, and sungla.s.ses, standing a full head taller than my mobster father. My dad, stocky and buff, was also wearing sungla.s.ses. Then he looked up at me and hissed in a whisper, "You stoopid motherf.u.c.ker!"

"Whaaaa?"

"I told you to blend in. Look at you! The whole f.u.c.kin' place is staring at that outfit!"

When we made it to Florida, my father was set. He and I unloaded the money and his collection of aliases and phony ID cards. My father was prepared for his brand-new life underground and on the run. Plus he had a winter home in nearby Port St. Lucie. He was already familiar with the area.

The next morning we both drove up the Florida coast so that I could fly out of a different city. I had mixed emotions at the airport. I was sad to say farewell to my dad. Yet I could hardly believe I was breaking away. It was bittersweet.

As we hugged and kissed at the airport gate, my father had tears in his eyes. He couldn't let me go. It was the same scenario all over again. The Good Father, the loving father, stood before his eldest son. And it felt good. On the flight home, I thought over the prospect that things were going to change for the better. My father could come back in seven years having missed me terribly. We would have another shot at a normal father-son relationship.

One week later, as I sat at the breakfast table at my mother's house, I heard someone open the back door. I jumped up to find it was my dad, back from Florida. Having no control over his crew, his family, and me was too much for him to handle.

"I'm a man and I ain't runnin' from f.u.c.kin' n.o.body," he muttered.

My jaw dropped to the floor in disbelief. I was crushed with disappointment. The planning, traveling, and high drama had dissipated into thin air.

My father was back to stay.

By the winter of 1991, I was hiding and avoiding any contact with my father. We hadn't spoken in months when I drove to Grandma Sophie's place at 3645 North Pacific Avenue in Chicago, north of Elmwood Park. Sophie was living in one half of the duplex owned by my father, while my mother lived in the remaining half, 3643, with Kurt and Nicky.

I took the stairs down to my grandmother's bas.e.m.e.nt, where in the past my father, my uncle, and I had set up shop, meticulously keeping the crew's books. I walked over to a special wall unit we had built. Instead of ordinary drywall, there was a panel of Peg-Board over plywood, set in place by drywall screws instead of nails. shop, meticulously keeping the crew's books. I walked over to a special wall unit we had built. Instead of ordinary drywall, there was a panel of Peg-Board over plywood, set in place by drywall screws instead of nails.

I unfastened the drywall screws and removed the Peg-Board-and-plywood panel, revealing a secret storage s.p.a.ce. I was careful not to touch the guns that were hanging inside. I reached for a light blue duffel bag that was hanging next to them. The duffel bag was filled with bundles of currency, wrapped tightly in increments of ten thousand dollars, nine thousand in hundred-dollar bills, the remaining thousand in fifties. At the top of each bundle, on each outer fifty-dollar bill, was a symbol scrawled by my father in red pen, a code he used to keep track of the money and denominations he had stashed inside his many hiding places all over town. My original plan was to save the outer fifties with the red writing so that when I returned the money, I could replace the identical marked fifty-dollar bill back on top. My father would be none the wiser.

I was taking the money to open a restaurant. My plan was to become a success on my own. I figured that if I could earn enough money to replace what I took, and once I had a couple of successful businesses under my belt, maybe my father would respect me or at least leave me alone. I didn't want to resort to Plan B, which was simply to take the money, grab my family, and run like h.e.l.l.

I estimate that I took between six hundred thousand and eight hundred thousand dollars. I didn't bother to count it. I wasn't stealing from my father or the Outfit. This was money I felt ent.i.tled to after years of counting quarters, doing the books, making collections, strong-arming late clients, backing up my uncle, and, especially, taking punches and putting up with years of physical and verbal abuse from my father. I knew that my dad owed me a sizable chunk of money from the ventures we were partners in, like the rehabbing and reselling of houses. I knew I would never receive my cut, and that I was going to get stiffed the same way my father cheated Uncle Nick and Ronnie Jarrett when they co-owned the hot-dog stand.

Although we hadn't communicated in months, my father had no reason to suspect that I would steal from him. (Had he known, he would have come after me and killed me.) As the weeks and months pa.s.sed after I took the money, my dad didn't come around looking for his cash. Over the next eighteen months, I spread the money around town. First I invested in a couple of restaurants. I helped start La Luce on West Lake at Ogden and became a partner in Bella Luna, a popular pizza-pasta place on North Dearborn, owned and run by my childhood friend Danny Alberga.

I also spread my father's wealth among the family. I gave fifty thousand dollars to my youngest brother, Nicky, who wanted to attend college in Boca Raton. Next, I gave my mother thirty thousand dollars. Then I put money down on a house for my family. The rest I put aside, blowing it on trips to Vegas with my friends, snorting cocaine (a habit I'd picked up), and financing a small c.o.ke-dealing operation around town. Soon I was running my own tiny crew, starting out small and running the operation with the same spirit my father ran his with, carefully and discreetly.

Although law enforcement had me under surveillance at both restaurants, I stayed one step ahead, careful not to get caught dealing or holding. There were numerous traps set up by the DEA using informants to try to smoke me out and make me incriminate myself. But I didn't take the bait. My father had groomed me to be cautious and smart, and I based my drug business practices on what my father would have done lending money. Be secretive. Be careful not to become overextended. Deal only with people you trust, and move the merchandise quickly.

One guy who I suspected was cooperating with law enforcement wanted to meet in person. I sent a message back: "If I want to meet people, I'll join a social club." Later I found out he was was cooperating with law enforcement, which reinforced my rule of selling only to people I knew. But with my caution, I still made two mistakes: (1) throwing my money around like a cooperating with law enforcement, which reinforced my rule of selling only to people I knew. But with my caution, I still made two mistakes: (1) throwing my money around like a s.p.a.ccone s.p.a.ccone, behavior that was contrary to what I had been taught by my dad, and (2) getting high on my own supply. As the drug sales mounted and the restaurants began doing well, my plans to replace my father's money evaporated. The drugs had given me the courage to decide the restaurants began doing well, my plans to replace my father's money evaporated. The drugs had given me the courage to decide not not to return the money. to return the money.

My father watched from afar the success I was enjoying.

I heard he was impressed with how well both restaurants were doing. My father had no idea how much money it took to get a restaurant started, or how much I kicked in to become a partner at Bella Luna. Soon he began coming around, asking questions, and we started talking again. I could tell he was trying to figure out how he he could get involved. I lied to him about how much money it took to get La Luce off the ground. I put him on the payroll for a few hundred bucks a week to stave him off. could get involved. I lied to him about how much money it took to get La Luce off the ground. I put him on the payroll for a few hundred bucks a week to stave him off.

Back then I was rolling in money. Danny Alberga, the owner of Bella Luna, and I were driving around one time looking at restaurant equipment because we were remodeling the place. We were out on Madison Avenue, where there were a lot of homeless people. I had a brand-new white Jeep with the top off because it was the summer. We were coming out of one of the restaurant supply stores and I told Danny, "Check under the seat. I got some money I forgot about."

Danny reached under the seat and there was a brown paper bag with twenty thousand dollars inside, two bundles of ten thousand apiece.

"Are you f.u.c.king nuts?" Danny screamed. "There's twenty dimes in here!"

At this stage, Lisa knew better than to ask me about money.

There were a lot of things she didn't ask about. To her, less information was more. It's not that she wanted to be lied to; it was just that she didn't want to hear it. Yet had she known I was using cocaine or that I'd stolen from my dad, she would have left me.

Lisa was barely a drinker and staunchly opposed partying with drugs. One time we went to Boston. At the hotel, I went out on the balcony and smoked a joint with my friends. The husbands and wives all smoked, but not Lisa. She was so angry that we got into a big fight on the plane ride home.

Soon the pieces added up: clues like finding a rolled-up twenty-dollar bill and folded slips of paper in the drawer. When Lisa confronted me, I denied using, claiming the items belonged to one of my friends.

Danny Alberga didn't approve of my drug use either. But I was making money selling, and was d.a.m.ned lucky I didn't get caught. Had my father known what I was up to with his money, the old man would have killed me.

At first my drug use was a weekend-warrior thing. I'd do only a line or two on Friday nights. I was having problems with my father and got more into it. I blame myself. When I began selling, my use spiraled.

I would often come home pasty white and clammy, with my heart racing. Lisa would find my stash. One time she taped a Twelve Steps to Sobriety Twelve Steps to Sobriety pamphlet to the spot where she had found drugs. A couple of times she flushed thousands of dollars' worth of cocaine down the toilet. pamphlet to the spot where she had found drugs. A couple of times she flushed thousands of dollars' worth of cocaine down the toilet.

My cocaine use put a strain on my family life. Around the time our second child, Anthony, was born prematurely and was confined to the neonatal unit, I was buying small quant.i.ties, converting them into ounces, and selling to my select group of people. With my father's juice loan and gambling operation, I needed to keep my my drug business very low profile so that the two of us never crossed paths. drug business very low profile so that the two of us never crossed paths.

Alarmed at my increased use, Lisa tried to enlist the help of family members.

She called Kurt, who met her at the Chicago Board of Trade, where she was working. In a restaurant across the street, she told Kurt that I was hurting a lot. Kurt had his funge funge face on and never got back to her. He was having his own problems with my father. Then Lisa cried to my mother, but she would not get involved. Of course, she couldn't go to my father or Uncle Nick. face on and never got back to her. He was having his own problems with my father. Then Lisa cried to my mother, but she would not get involved. Of course, she couldn't go to my father or Uncle Nick.

Kurt did confront me about my drug habit.

Like Lisa, he didn't do drugs. We had a conversation. But he didn't know how to talk to me about it. He never told me that Lisa had spoken to him. I found out later. They had an intervention of sorts, but that didn't work out too well. When I was selling drugs, we were moving around from house to house. My life was chaos. sorts, but that didn't work out too well. When I was selling drugs, we were moving around from house to house. My life was chaos.

Cocaine made me feel I could think clearly. Then I learned there are two kinds of users. There's the addict and the abuser. Had I been an out-of-control rent-snorting addict, Lisa would have left me immediately. But I was the abuser and would continue to use until I dealt with the issues concerning my father. That's probably why Lisa cut me some slack.

After I stole the money and started the restaurants, my relationship with my father thawed again. Dad was visiting the restaurants to hang out. He would sit in the back and drink a little wine.

I saw that my father was enjoying our revived relationship. Now that I was no longer involved in his crew, we could make a go at it. The only problem was how to return the money before he noticed it missing. If I could get the money back to him, I'd be home free.

I loved seeing my father play the proud papa, fielding compliments from friends and a.s.sociates about how well I was doing with the restaurants.

One winter night in 1992, after he'd had too many gla.s.ses of wine, I elected to drive my father home. Father apologized profusely. "Thanks for driving me home. You know I don't mean to be such a pain in the a.s.s."

"No, Dad, I don't mind. I'm enjoying this."

Getting out of the car, we stood outside my dad's home. He cried, kissing me and telling me how much he loved me. Father and son enjoyed a long embrace.

"I love you too, Dad," I said. "This was a nice night."

"Yeah, but you know," my father said, breaking away from the embrace and grabbing me by the shirt, violently shaking me. "You gotta quit bein' so f.u.c.kin' nice. You gotta quit bein' so f.u.c.kin' nice! You gotta quit bein' so f.u.c.kin' nice!"

Spring 1995. It was eleven o'clock in the morning on a summer weekend. I was living in Elmwood Park when my father and Kurt appeared outside my locked screen door. When the two of them arrived, I could see the swollen cheeks and redness in Kurt's eyes. I knew right away it was about the money.

Uncle Nick, Kurt, and I were the only people who knew the hiding places for my father's money. Once my father noticed it was missing, he immediately accused Kurt and slapped him around.

He knew that Kurt was more fearful of him than I was. After grilling Kurt, he found out what he suspected: it was I who had taken his money. For months afterward, he would continue to blame Kurt, convinced he had played a part in the scheme, which wasn't true. He threatened Kurt that whatever money I didn't repay, he would be on the hook for it. him than I was. After grilling Kurt, he found out what he suspected: it was I who had taken his money. For months afterward, he would continue to blame Kurt, convinced he had played a part in the scheme, which wasn't true. He threatened Kurt that whatever money I didn't repay, he would be on the hook for it.

I gazed at Kurt standing on the porch, then at my father. I saw the cold, gla.s.sy look in my father's eyes. It was as if he was transfixed by something far in the distance. The Thousand-Yard Stare. My father was in Outfit throat-slashing mode. I knew this because my father had taught me to look into the eyes of my opponent. The eyes were the window to the soul, except what I saw in my father's eyes wasn't a soul but icy rage. He knew who had taken his money.

My two children, Kelly and Anthony, were standing in the hallway with Lisa. They had no idea what was going on, and my father wouldn't come into the house, which was a very bad sign.

He wanted me to come outside. I'm thinking, Do I run upstairs and get my gun, then go outside? Maybe I should shoot him through the door. Or should I just go outside and talk to him? With Lisa and the kids in a possible crossfire, I stepped outside unarmed.

Word was already on the street that my father and I had b.u.t.ted heads, but were back on speaking terms. My father was unaware that I had partied with and sold cocaine. Had he known that, he would have killed me instantly.

As soon as I stepped outside, he grabbed me by the arm and began pulling me down the street. A full head taller than my father, I did not resist or raise a hand against him.

He gave me a few openhanded cracks to the face.

"You took my f.u.c.king money."

At first I denied it.