Manhattan Mafia Guide (17 page)

The case came to an end after four weeks, on June 6, 1936, and it took the jury only six hours to deliberate Luciano’s fate. He was found guilty on sixty-two out of ninety counts against him and sentenced to thirty to fifty years in prison on June 18.

A scathing probation report accompanied the conviction, citing Luciano as “a shallow and parasitic individual” with “average intelligence,” whose “social outlook is essentially childish.” It went on to explain that his only real leadership quality was essentially bravado and that he “manifests a peasant-like faith in chance and has developed an attitude of nonchalance. His behavior patterns are essentially instinctive and primitive, his manner easy, copious and ingratiating.”
⁹⁶

Luciano’s fabled influence from behind bars during World War II has been debated over the years. The mob’s relationship with naval intelligence is well documented but to what extent is left to speculation. As gangland legend maintains, the U.S. government recruited the incarcerated gangster for his support in the war effort; and in exchange for special treatment, Luciano and the mob helped secure the waterfront and used their connections in Sicily to ensure a smooth Allied invasion. However, Luciano would later play down his role as minimal and a “sham.”

Another theory purports that the underworld actually manufactured a homeland security threat by setting ablaze the captured SS
Normandie
docked in New York Harbor on February 9, 1942, and then bamboozled the government into recruiting its services.

Regardless of circumstances, after almost a decade behind bars, Luciano’s sentence was commuted on January 3, 1946—because of his assistance during the war campaign—with the stipulation that he be deported to Italy and never return to America. On February 2, 1946, the exiled mobster was transferred to Ellis Island, where he waited five weeks while deportation arrangements were made. During that time, Luciano was visited by Albert Anastaia, Meyer Lansky and Frank Costello, who passed Luciano $2,500 in traveler’s checks and a suitcase full of clothing and gifts.

Luciano was moved to Pier 7 in Brooklyn on February 8 and placed in a five- by eight-foot cabin aboard the SS
Laura Keene
, the seven-thousand-ton cargo freighter that would return him to his homeland. Despite being under twenty-four-hour guard by six Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) agents, the FBI believed that an unauthorized going-away party was held for Luciano on the ship in the hours before his departure on February 10. On February 28, 1946, after a seventeen-day voyage, Charlie Lucky stepped foot on Italian soil in Naples, where he was briefly interrogated by local carabinieri and sent straight to Palermo.

According to biographers, Luciano was not content in Sicily and returned to the Italian mainland soon after arriving, spending time in luxurious hotels throughout Naples and Rome before making trips out of the country to Mexico and the Caribbean.

Charlie Lucky and childhood friend Meyer Lansky were said to have called a historic underworld meeting in Havana, Cuba, in December 1946. Luciano secured his visa through a corrupt Cuban official who held interest in a mob-funded racetrack and casino on the island. In attendance at what would become known as the Havana Conference were dozens of upper-echelon mobsters from several North American cities. Rumored to have been discussed during the weeklong convention was, among other things, the establishment of a large-scale narcotics trade between the North American Mafia and Italian Cosa Nostra organizations.

When United States officials became aware of Luciano’s presence in the Caribbean, they put the squeeze on Cuba to deport him, eventually recruiting the help of President Truman, who threatened to halt all medical aid to the tiny island unless it complied. On February 22, 1947, Luciano was arrested and held until he was deported back to Italy on March 20, 1947.

The exiled vice king lived his final years in the lap of luxury—vacationing in the poshest resorts and giving interviews, signing autographs and working on a biopic of his life with Hollywood producer Martin Gosch. Luciano began making some startling confessions, like the allegation that his release from U. S. prison in 1946 had nothing to do with him assisting the government, claiming instead that he had sensitive information about a prominent official and threatened to go public with it if not released.

While meeting Gosch at Naples International Airport on January 26, 1962, Luciano collapsed and died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-four. The underworld did not seem too pleased that plans for the Luciano movie were moving forward, as several people associated with the project received death threats, including Cameron Mitchell, who was set to portray Lucky in the leading role. In February 1962, the actor claimed that he had received three threatening letters written in “very bad English.”
⁹⁷
The movie was never made; however, Gosch told Charlie Lucky’s story in the 1974 book
The Last Testament of Lucky Luciano
.

In a surprising twist, on February 5, 1962, the Roman newspaper
Telesera
ran an article entitled, “Lucky Luciano lavorava per l’FBI.” (“Lucky Luciano Was Working for the FBI”). This startling claim was made by former Luciano bodyguard Bill Mancuso, who also alleged that Martin Gosch was a federal agent taking on the guise of a movie producer. To throw another wrench into the story, Gosch was quoted in a February 23, 1962 Madrid daily,
ABC
, as believing that Luciano had been poisoned. He stated, “He appeared as though he were drugged.”

Oddly, the first two pages of a February 1962 FBI internal report on the relationship between Luciano and Gosch, made available to the public through the Freedom of Information Act, are almost completely redacted. On the third page, the feds offer their version of Luciano’s death, disputing the growing speculation that he was assassinated. According to the memo, Luciano collapsed just minutes after meeting Gosch at the Naples airport. Gosch happened to know that the gangster carried medication for a heart condition and “frantically searched” Luciano’s pockets, where he found a pillbox, and then “removed one of the pills and placed it in Luciano’s mouth.” They purported that those who witnessed the incident sparked the poisoning conspiracy.

An October 2, 1974 FBI memo trashed
The Last Testament of Lucky Luciano
, citing several historical inaccuracies and raising doubts about the author’s integrity. The chief of the U.S. Narcotics Bureau in Rome called Gosch “a liar,” “untrustworthy” and “an opportunist.” Beyond the alleged discrepancies, authorities bluntly argued the fact that if Gosch really did have in his possession the “secret memoirs” of Lucky Luciano, “it is inconceivable” that he “would still be alive today.”

To sum up what the federal authorities believe about the book that has influenced thousands of authors, journalists and movie and television producers over the last four decades: “It is not believed that this book has any value to the FBI, or to anyone for that matter.”

Salvatore Lucania’s body was entombed at St. John’s Cemetery in Queens, New York.

M
ARI
, F
RANK

373 Broome Street, 1942; 124 Forsyth Street, 1957; 20 Monroe Street, 1962; 68 Forsyth Street

Alias: Frankie T, T, Frank Russo

Born: July 27, 1926, Reggio di Calabria, Italy
⁹⁸
(b. Mari, Francesco)

Died: April 1981, Brooklyn, New York

Association: Bonanno crime family underboss

Very little has been written about Mari, a very influential yet notoriously reclusive Mafioso who stayed out of the spotlight for most of his criminal career. Despite being a suspect in two murders, a federal narcotics indictment that sent thirteen of his associates up the river and several arrests dating back to 1945, Mari only spent three months of his life behind bars—on a gun charge in 1968.

373 Broome Street today.
Courtesy of Sachiko Akama
.

He was said to be a quiet, reserved and utterly unassuming mobster who preferred quiet evenings at home collecting coins or spending time with his family and dog to partying with the boys at noisy nightclubs and unfamiliar restaurants. According to Nicolas Pileggi’s excellent
New York Times
magazine article entitled “The Story of T” (March 29, 1970), Mari was the kind of guy who did not flex his Mafia muscle in his private life; he stood in line at the movies and took verbal abuse from retail clerks like everyone else. Only on occasion did Mari take advantage of his position at home, like the time he had a non-mob drug pusher “mercilessly” beaten at the request of a friend for selling drugs too close to a neighborhood school.

Eight-year-old Franceso Mari arrived in New York City from Naples with his older sisters, Domenica (twenty-five years old), Antonia (sixteen) and Adelina (fifteen), aboard the SS
Conte Di Savoia
on January 17, 1935. Father Matteo and mother Concetta De Franco had been in New York City for several years before their children joined them, making at least three trips back to Italy during the interim.

Mari grew up on Broome Street in the heart of Little Italy, where his father is recorded as working at Macy’s department store on Thirty-fourth Street. After only two years of high school, Mari, now living in Knickerbocker Village, teamed up with neighborhood pal Carli Di Pietro to organize a variety of neighborhood hustles, eventually basing operations out of a sandwich shop on Rutgers and Cherry Streets.

Mari understood the code of the streets at a young age. Even as a teenager, he knew he would get nowhere without the backing of the local mob, so he was sure to get its blessing before any endeavor and always kicked back a tribute. This show of respect impressed local Mafioso like Carmine Galante, who virtually took Mari under his wing and bred him for a life in the Mafia.

At twenty-one, Mari married Di Pietro’s sister, Mildred. By that time, with the help of Galante and others, Mari allegedly branched out into loan-sharking, narcotics sales, gambling and murder-for-hire. Since he was from a “civilian” family—that is, he had no previous Mafia connections—Mari felt he had to work harder to gain a position in a mob family. It is said that he never turned down a job and showed a great deal of respect to his handlers, showing up at every funeral or ceremony and keeping out of petty disputes. Before long, Mari was overseeing a number of diverse operations, contracting out assignments to crews of hit men, jewelry thieves, racketeers and burglars. He also expanded his horizons and acquired interest in several legitimate businesses, including a handful of discount appliance stores.

Frank Mari and Carli Di Pietro were made in 1956 at a ceremony presided over by Thomas Lucchese and Albert Anastasia, held in a basement of an Elizabeth, New Jersey home. It is said that the Luccheses also wanted to recruit Mari, but his sponsor, Carmine Galante, had the right to first pick. (His partner and childhood friend, Carli Di Pietro, was initiated into the Genovese family.)

In August 1957, Mari was arrested with three others for the petty crime of robbing $300 worth of costume jewelry from an automobile, though they were never sentenced. In June 1962, Mari was the only mobster out of fourteen to be acquitted in a federal narcotics violation trial that sent Galante and Di Pietro to prison for several years.

Mari turned out to be one of the best earners the mob had, with an ever-expanding influence in a wide variety of operations: construction sites, beauty parlors, barber supply manufacturers, bowling alleys, pizza stands, craps games—you name it. By the 1960s, Mari was one of the Bonannos’ most trusted and respected members. His even temper and fair judgment made him a trusted adviser to many, and he was called in several times to settle conflicts. It is said that he was ultimately made responsible for overseeing certain important family operations, like police payoffs and bail arraignments.

With all his success, Mari moved his family to a quiet suburb in Nassau County, Long Island, and attempted to live a normal middle-class life, even putting his son through medical school. At the height of his criminal career, Mari must have thought his life was set. However, his world came crashing down in 1964 after a conversation with Joe Bonanno. The boss asked Mari to support him in his war against the Mafia Commission—a frightening proposition for even the most steely killer—and Mari was backed into a corner. He knew too much about Bonanno and rightly suspected that he would become a primary target no matter which path he chose.

Mari chose to side with the commission. The Bonannos split into a camp that supported Bonanno and a camp that supported the newly commission-appointed boss, Gaspar Di Gregorio, who directed Mari to make a preemptive strike on the Bonanno loyalist movement.

In the spring of 1964, Mari allegedly organized a failed hit on Bonanno’s son, Salvatore “Bill.” In retaliation, Mari was shot and wounded in a Brooklyn ambush in July of that year. In November 1967, three of Mari’s men were gunned down by machine gun in a Queens restaurant. In the spring of 1968, Bonanno associate Sam Perrone was killed by two men police believed to be Mari and his bodyguard, James Episcopia. Charges in the murder were never filed, but Mari was caught with a gun a few days later and sent to prison for three months. (Authorities believed Mari was staking out another target when they picked him up.)