The Valachi Papers (20 page)

knew of some potential customers in the Bronx for illegal alcohol, and he hoped to earn a commission by bringing them and Robilotto together. "I thought it would be a good deal for Johnny," he said, "as these people will take all his output, and he don't have to run around selling it here and there." Robilotto, however, told him that he had as much business as he could handle. Valachi accepted this at face value and let the matter drop. A few days later he was outraged by a visit from Bobby Doyle. "I hear you got some people for Johnny's alcohol," Doyle said. "I spoke to Tony about it, and it's all set."

For Valachi it was another example of Doyle's venal ways. "See what a dog he was!" he says. "He's got to have his hand in everything I'm doing. Well, that means I got to split the commission— which is about $500 a week—with Bobby." Valachi found Robilotto apologetic about the whole thing. "I couldn't make a deal with you," he said, "without Tony's okay."

"Johnny," Valachi said. "I understand. It ain't your fault."

The two men subsequently became friendly. Then one night Valachi was in the Hollywood when a shylock customer asked for a loan of $2,000. Valachi was unable to oblige him. "All my money," he explains, "was out on the streets." Robilotto, however, overheard the conversation and advanced the money to Valachi. After he had paid it back, Robilotto became increasingly interested in learning how Valachi operated. Finally he said, "I like your style of doing things. Maybe I'll go partners with you."

Shortly afterward, Robilotto gave him $20,000:

He tells me to take the money and put it out, and we will share the income. 'Tie it up," he says, "so I can't get at it." Believe me, he's telling the truth. He is a wild man with money. I remember meeting him at this crap game on the East Side somewhere, I think on 14th Street, and I never saw anybody lose so fast. Before I can turn around, he's out $15,000. I lend him a couple thousand, all I got in my pocket, and that goes too. He borrows $5,000 from the house, as he is known, and now he is down to his last $600 when this kid Joey, who works for me in the numbers and the shylocking, comes in looking for me as I had left word where I was. This Joe is lucky, he gets hot and he can make ten straight numbers, so I say to Johnny, "Let him shoot for you."

It's like a miracle. Joey's first point is four, and that's a rough number. He makes it the first time out. Then he has two sevens in a row and wins again. Joey's next point is five, and Johnny goes the opposite way, meaning he bets on nine all around the table, and Joey throws two or three, I forget how many, nines, and now Johnny goes to five, and Joey throws a five, and the place is a madhouse. It keeps up that way, except we got to sweat a little as Joey's point is ten and Johnny has got it all on ten, and Joey shoots maybe six or seven times before he makes it. To make it short, Johnny gets ahead a few thousand, I got my money back, and I pull him from the table, and he gives a thousand to the kid. Then I hear that the game is sore at me because I made Johnny quit, and they are thinking of barring me. Who the hell cared? I didn't like to shoot crap that much anyway.

Well, with the money from Johnny Roberts, the shylocking is doing pretty good. I'd say we had around $60,000 out in the street, and naturally Tony Bender knows about it. Tony is losing heavy at the track, and Johnny gives me a hint one day, saying Tony was asking all kinds of questions about our shylocking together, meaning Tony wants a piece. Being it's Tony, I can figure that the piece he wants is a third of the action. Johnny is under Tony's thumb at the time, and he can't do nothing, but I decide I ain't going to stand for it. I already was shaken
down once by Bobby Doyle with Johnny's alcohol output, and that is the last time it's going to happen. Pretty soon the word will get around that if you want to shake somebody down, shake down Joe Cago, he ain't so tough. So I tell Johnny, "Look, if Tony is asking you questions and you are thinking of giving him an interest in the business, you talk for yourself, because I won't give up any of my share."

The next thing I know is that Tony Bender sends for me, and we meet at Duke's restaurant in Jersey. It is in Fort Lee or Cliffside, I forget which, as those towns run together and you never know where you are. Anyway, all the boys living over there hang out at Duke's.

Tony tells me that the partnership between Johnny Roberts and me was going to be broken up and to collect all the money. He says he is sorry, but he needs cash fast on account of the horses. I tell Tony that the money is all out, everyone is keeping up their payments, and I ain't going to push them. After all, I got the business to think about. I say I will figure out Johnny's share and borrow it but I will deduct the interest, which is 10 percent.

"That will eat up all what he has earned,'' Tony says.

"Listen," I say, "none of this was my idea. You want the money, that's the way it must be. He says,

"Okay."

So this is how I broke up the partnership. Maybe I was wrong. But in plain English I would rather break it up than give Tony Bender any money or let him in the business, and when all is said and done, I still got around $30000 of my own circulating now, and I am satisfied.

Valachi's loansharking methods inadvertently led him into an area which today is all the rage in Cosa Nostra—the penetration of legitimate enterprises. Instead of trying to squeeze money out of a client who had defaulted on a loan after suffering substantial gambling losses, Valachi accepted his invitation to take over a half interest in a restaurant in upper Manhattan called the Paradise. As usual, he did not make the move precipitously. "I told him I would think about it," he notes. "This guy—his name was Eddie—was no dummy, and I wanted to make sure there wasn't a catch to it." First he observed how much business the restaurant was doing over a period of days and then spent some time quizzing one of the bartenders. After some haggling over the worth of the partnership Valachi finally agreed to $9,000, deducted the $3,500 owed him, and gave Eddie the rest in cash. "So now I got my own joint, or half of it anyway," he told me, "and I make it my hangout. I do my shylocking there and I bring in a new chef, so all the boys will drop in.
I'd
say my end was about $800 a month."

Valachi's participation in the restaurant could not be officially noted since his police record made him ineligible for a state liquor license. To protect himself, he had a private agreement drawn up with his partner's wife as a witness. He was now anxious, however, • to have a tax cover to explain his livelihood. The problem was solved when a similar set of circumstances landed him in dress manufacturing:

There was this Matty who had a dress factory in the Bronx at 595 Prospect Avenue—that's why it was called the Prospect Dress and Negligee Company—and he was one of my best customers. With reloans and whatnot he was into me for quite a few thousand but was paying up regularly every Friday. All of a sudden he asked if I could let him pass for a couple of weeks. Well, when these two weeks are up, he asks me to let him ride for another week. Now I go up to see him and I ask, "Matty, what's the matter?" and he explains that he is having a hard time getting business from the jobbers because his machines—the kind that make buttonholes and everything—are wearing out. I look over the factory, and it looks pretty good to me. Matty is no fool, and he can see what's on my mind, and he says why don't I go in with him. So I talk to his main jobber, and he tells me that if Matty gets in better equipment, he will give him all the work Matty can handle. He says he will give him business where the styles don't change every time you turn around.

Now the next thing I got to worry about is the union, so I go downtown to the garment district to see Jimmy Doyle, right name Plumeri, or one of the Dio [Dioguardi] brothers, Johnny or Tommy. I forget who, I think it was Jimmy, but it don't make no difference as the Dios are his nephews, and when you talk to one, you are talking to all of them. They are in Tommy Brown's Family, and they are supposed to straighten out any trouble with the union, I think it was Local 25. I tell Jimmy Doyle what's what and how I'm figuring to go into the dress business, but I don't want no unions around, especially because the jobber I'm depending on don't handle union work. Jimmy says to me, "Don't worry. As long as you are in the Bronx, it's okay. It's no sweat. We can handle it. But stay out of Manhattan."

Well, that's all there was to it. I go back and tell the jobber that I'm going to be Matty's partner and the union business is all taken care of. He says, "What did you do?" I just mentioned to him the names of the people I had been talking to downtown, and I must say he was impressed. I'd say I was in the dress business for about twelve years, and we only had a couple of complaints. If any union organizer came around, all I had to do was call up John Dio or Tommy Dio and all my
troubles were over. One day I go into the shop right after a union guy had come in and pulled what you call the switch. In other words, he shut the place down. I said to Matty, "Stupid, don't let anybody do that. Didn't I tell you I got everything fixed?" I would have run the guy right out, but Matty was a legitimate man. He got scared to death and folded up. This union guy told Matty that he was going to report us, so I got on the phone and called Johnny Dio, and that was the end of it.

A long time after that two union organizers show up again, and this time I am there in the place. They want to know if our girls are in the union. Most of the girls are Puerto Rican, and I say to these guys, "Are you crazy? They don't even know how to speak English." Now I just don't like unions. To me a union guy is a pimp. I am sorry, but that is my attitude. They want to know how much we are paying the girls, and I find out it's more than union scale anyway, so I'm twice as sure not to let them force me into the union. They tell me they're going to have to make a complaint, and I get tired of all this talk. Matty has a permit for a pistol, and I go over and get it out of the drawer. You should've seen those guys run. Johnny Dio calls me in about an hour, and he is laughing as he has heard what happened. "That's the way to handle them," he says. "They said there was a wild man up there and they were lucky to get out alive. Don't worry, they won't be back."

Well, counting what Matty owed me when I went in with him, I'd say I laid out around $15,000 to go into the business. We had to buy all kinds of special machines for things I never heard of, like for bottom stitching. These specials cost money. Matty, being a good machineman, bought a lot of secondhand stuff and put them in good working order. Out of my investment I was getting back maybe a couple of hundred a week, which is okay because Matty is running the place and I got something for the tax people if they start nosing around.

I don't butt in
_r
except once when I noticed there was something wrong with the profits as all of a sudden my share dropped to $100 a week. I asked the accountant what was going on, but I guess Matty had warned him not to tell me the truth—that he, Matty, was losing heavy on the numbers. I find out when Matty comes to me and says he has hit a number for $2,400 and they won't pay off. Naturally, I went to the bank, and believe me, I collected the money for Matty. The numbers guy tells me that Matty has been playing all this time, and that's where the money was going. I take out what's owed me and give the rest to Matty. Then I give him a slap in the face that knocks him back about ten feet. "So that's what you're doing with the money," I say. "You're playing like a sucker, and when you finally win, you don't even get paid." I tell him I'm in the numbers and to make sure he don't play anymore. I say that he was lucky to win once, as most of the time the numbers are fixed. That stopped him, and later his wife—she was a fine lady—comes and thanks me because she said she was going out of her mind with Matty's gambling.

Well, I got the restaurant and the factory. I'm still in the numbers with that dog Bobby Doyle, and I got all my shylocking. So I make up my mind to take it easy for a while and to stay away from racket guys. In the old days I was taught if I got to belong to a mob, I got to be a man and not a lob [flunky]. Now I got Tony Bender over my head. I'm getting nothing from him, and if he thinks he's going to get anything from me, it will be over my dead body. I'd rather go to work if I got to be a lob for him. In other words, I am starting to be a boss hater. Who can blame me?

By now we got the kid—his name is Donald—and naturally Mildred wants to stay home at night with him. But I can't do it. Thinking about all these things is driving me nuts, and I got to move around. So I start going out with some girls just to relax, going here and there, as sitting

at home every night is too hard on me. There were six of these girls all living together in East Harlem. I met the first one, Jeannie, through one of the boys. There was also Laura, Rose, Helen, Louise, and I forget the last one, but I liked Laura the best, and as time went by, I set her up in her own place. They were around nineteen, and I would give them about $40 to $50 to buy a dress when I went out with them because I would be ashamed to be with them if they don't look good. I forgot to say that first I sent them to this doctor for an examination. It was a good thing. Two of them had to be taken care of. "I can't let them go on the street like that," the doctor said. He charged me $80.

The late 1930s
were a generally unsettling period for organized crime. Luciano and Genovese were not the only ones either to fall or flee as a result of the Dewey crusade against racketeering. Next on the list was the most feared Jewish mobster of the day, Louis (Lepke) Buchalter. His ultimate fate—the electric chair—is especially noteworthy since no Cosa Nostra chieftain of similar status has ever been legally executed. Indeed, once in power, they rarely saw the inside of a cell.

Buchalter got his nickname from a doting mother who delighted in calling him Lcpkcla, or Little Louis. Slender, reticent, and sad-eyed, he looked more like a shoe clerk dian the mastermind of a huge narcotics ring, as well as the absolute ruler of labor and management extortion in trucking, in restaurants, in movie theaters, and in the baking, garment, and fur industries.