The Westies: Inside New York's Irish Mob (3 page)

“Me and Tony.”

The plastic bags were then loaded into a number of cardboard boxes about three feet high and two feet wide. While they were doing that, Jimmy said to Lucich, “Hey, you got any sandwich bags—you know, Baggies?”

“Yeah,” said Lucich.

“Go get some. I want you to put Rickey’s hands in the Baggies and stick ’em in the freezer.”

“What!?”

“You heard me, I wanna stick the kid’s hands in the freezer.”

Coonan explained that he had an upcoming murder in mind, and he wanted to plant Rickey’s fingerprints on the gun. Lucich got the bags.

“Mr. Featherstone,” asked prosecutor Warren, her voice steady and reassuring, “do you have any idea how much money Rickey Tassiello owed James Coonan at the time of his death?”

The answer was $1,250.

A gasp came from some members of the jury. Featherstone wasn’t surprised. He knew the viciousness of the killing would seem entirely out of proportion to the debt. He knew this, and he had to agree. Of all the beatings, stabbings, murders, and dismemberments, this was the one that bothered him the most.

*    *    *

That evening, in the Witness Protection Unit of the MCC, Featherstone stood under a steaming hot shower pondering his day on the witness stand. The Tassiello murder was something he’d never talked about to anyone until he began cooperating with the government. To relive it now in public was gut-wrenching. And yet, he knew what had to be done—for his own survival. Over the days that followed there would be more horrendous acts to describe, acts he often found hard to admit even to himself. If he hoped to get through it all, he knew he’d have to be willing to look out over that courtroom and say the words: “Yes, I was a scumbag. I was a vicious killer.”

What really bothered him, though, were the reactions of those he knew in the gallery, many of them friends and relatives of the defendants. He’d seen them snicker and shake their heads in disbelief as he told his tales. It reminded him of the time, many months ago, when he had appeared publicly for the first time since it became known he’d flipped. It was at a pre-trial hearing and many of these same spectators were there. They’d snickered then, too, and made derisive comments. As he was led from the courtroom that day, his sister,
his own sister
, had shouted out, “He should slit his fuckin’ wrists!”

But these people—the neighborhood onlookers and some members of his own family—they didn’t know the full story, he was certain of that. They didn’t know of the deceit and betrayal that had led them all to this moment.

Well, before he was done, if he accomplished anything, the record would be set straight.

Then we’d see who was calling who a traitor.

That night Featherstone lay in his cell and stared at the wall. The events of his life played in his head like some weird, disjointed movie with all the reels shown out of sequence. He knew that in less than twelve hours the trial would resume, and once again he’d be asked to reveal his most shameful memories before a packed courtroom. After that, the eight defense attorneys would all have their shot. No doubt they would dwell gleefully on the seamiest aspects of his undeniably seamy life—the troubled psychiatric history, drug addictions, sexual “perversions,” and hopeless, sadistic propensity for violence.

He told himself the same thing he always did when he was having doubts. That this was not the end. This was the beginning … a new beginning.

He repeated it over and over like a mantra, then laid his head on the pillow, closed his eyes, and tried to dream he was somewhere far, far away from New York City.

PART I

1

THE GHOSTS OF HELL’S KITCHEN

T
he victim never really had a chance. It was a moonless night and the sound of gunfire came so fast he could hardly believe what he was hearing.

The guy next to him got it first. Three quick shots and down he went. There was a strange sound coming from the guy’s mouth as he struggled to say something.

Fuck this, thought the victim, time to split. He tried to run but only got a few steps before he heard another shot. The bullet hit him somewhere in the body—he knew that because he could feel the impact. But he couldn’t tell where. So he just kept running. Then there was another shot. He knew
exactly
where that one hit him—in the left shoulder. The pain was immediate. Then a third shot. He wasn’t sure where this one hit him, but he could feel his legs begin to give out. He fell on his back with a thud and for a minute he thought his arm had been blown clean off.

He heard the person who fired the shots walking across the gravel. He tried to focus, to raise himself up to see what was happening, but he had no strength at all. There was blood, lots of blood, coming from his upper body, and he felt the pain in his arm reverberate through his torso until he was sure his head was going to explode. The last thing he saw, through squinted eyes, was the gunman passing in front of the car’s headlights. Then he heard laughter from the four people inside the car; laughter unlike anything he’d ever heard before. It was more like a cackle, really, and it was so loud it seemed to echo right inside his ears.

That was it. Darkness came next. For what seemed like an eternity there was complete silence. He thought he was dead. Then he heard someone talking. He thought maybe the gunmen had come back, but there were lights flashing now. An ambulance. Police cars.

“Hey,” he heard a voice ask. “Can you hear me?”

He tried to move his lips.

“Listen,” the voice said. “I’m a police officer. Your friend here is dead and you look pretty bad. You better tell us all you know.”

“Where’s my left arm?” he asked in a whisper.

“Your arm’s still there. Can you tell us what happened?”

Surprisingly, he was able to remember a lot. As he spoke, Patrolman Edward Gordon of the 108th Precinct in Queens jotted down what he could in a notepad and then followed the ambulance to the hospital. Once there, as the victim lay on a gurney in the emergency room, Gordon got the rest of the story.…

Eight hours earlier, on the evening of April 3, 1966, twenty-six-year-old Charles Canelstein met a guy named Jerry Morales at the Luxor Baths, a steam room on East 46th Street in Manhattan. Canelstein and Morales had never met before, but they seemed to hit it off. After a while, Morales suggested they go for a bite to eat, then see if they couldn’t pick up some women at the Pussycat Lounge. That sounded like a good idea to Canelstein. So they had dinner together at an East Side restaurant, a quick drink at a bar called the Living Room, and arrived at the Pussycat Lounge on 49th Street between 1st and 2nd avenues around 8:30
P.M.

Right away Canelstein started schmoozing with a girl named Karen who was sitting at the bar. He lost track of Morales, but that didn’t really bother him. Since dinner, he’d begun to realize he didn’t like the guy anyway—he was too loud and obnoxious. But Karen he liked. She was single, Jewish, and just in town from Los Angeles. What more could a guy ask for?

Things were going great with Karen until a brawny, brown-haired guy, later identified as thirty-six-year-old Eddie Sullivan, approached. “See that stool you’re sitting on?” Sullivan said to Canelstein. “That’s my stool. See that girl you’re talking to? That’s my girl.”

Canelstein didn’t know what to make of all this, so he asked Karen if she knew the guy. When she shrugged and shook her head, Canelstein told Sullivan he must be mistaken. Sullivan had a few nasty words to say and Canelstein responded in kind. Then Sullivan left.

About twenty minutes later Sullivan returned with a police badge and a gun. Canelstein didn’t know much about guns, but he could see this was a big one, with a barrel that looked to be about six inches long. It was pointed directly at his head.

“Alright,” said Sullivan, “police business. You’re comin’ with me.”

“What’s the charge?” asked Canelstein.

Sullivan grabbed him by the arm and started moving towards the door. “Just get your ass outside.”

As soon as they stepped outside, Canelstein saw that another person already had Morales up against the wall. This guy was much younger than Sullivan. In fact, Canelstein was struck by how young the kid looked. He was short and stocky, with blond hair, and he looked to Canelstein to be about nineteen years old. Later, the kid would be identified as James Coonan.

Canelstein and Morales were hustled to a small compact car and forced into the backseat. Things were moving fast now, like a dream, hazy and fragmented. Canelstein could see there were two more guys in the car. The driver was young, but not as young as Coonan. And the kid in the back, he was young too, with blond hair just like Coonan’s. Canelstein and Morales were wedged in the backseat, with Coonan on the right side and the other blondhaired kid on the left.

Sullivan sat in the front seat and kept his weapon pointed at them at all times. As the car headed north on 3rd Avenue, he smiled. “You know, if you guys had $2,000 on you we could settle this thing right now.”

Canelstein let the words sink in slowly. At least now he knew what was up; it was a scam, a shakedown. Maybe he and Morales could scrape together enough to satisfy these guys. He told Sullivan they didn’t have anywhere near $2,000, but if they were willing to drive by the Luxor Baths he might be able to get $40 or $50 out of his locker.

That didn’t seem to cut any ice with Sullivan.

There was a long period of silence as Canelstein and his kidnappers drove across the 59th Street bridge to Queens. The driver maneuvered his way through traffic along Queens Boulevard, past the Sunnyside railyard, past Long Island City, past Hunters Point Avenue. From the back seat, Canelstein could see the familiar sight of Calvary Cemetery, with its rolling hills of tombstones. That was the last thing he recognized.

“Are you sure you don’t have any money?” It was the driver, speaking for the first time. He turned completely around to ask his question, taking his eyes off the road.

Canelstein just shook his head. He couldn’t think of anything more to say.

A few minutes later the car pulled into a dark lot across the street from the Calvary Cemetery. It was after midnight now, and as Canelstein and Morales were taken from the car, the only illumination was from the headlights aimed at a brick warehouse wall. They were led across the debris-littered lot, stood up against the wall and searched one last time.

Suddenly, Morales turned around, pointed at his chest and started to shout, “Go ahead, motherfuckers. Right here! Shoot me right here!”

That’s when three gunshots rang out, with two of the bullets striking Morales in the face.

Canelstein started to run. There were three more gunshots, two of the bullets passing right through his abdomen and the third lodging in some bone marrow near his left armpit.

By the time the cops got to Canelstein they were lucky to get anything out of him. Not only had he been shot three times, but he was nearly in a state of shock. All he’d wanted was a drink and a night out, he told the cops. He didn’t cheat anybody or do anything bad. A pickup, that’s all he wanted, a nice single girl to bring home for the night.

What Canelstein did not know—what he could not have known—was that he had walked right into the middle of an old-fashioned gang war with roots on the West Side of Manhattan, in a neighborhood known as Hell’s Kitchen.

From the descriptions Canelstein gave them, the cops were able to ID Coonan and Sullivan. Just twelve days earlier, in March, there had been another killing in the same precinct, no more than a few minutes drive from where the Canelstein/Morales shooting had taken place. The victim’s name was Bobby Lagville—and Coonan and Sullivan were the prime suspects in that one too.

On the morning of April 5, 1966, the day after the Canelstein/Morales shooting, four detectives from the 108th Precinct in Queens were dispatched to the home of William “Billy” Murtha, a suspected crime partner of Coonan’s who lived at 412 East 50th Street in Manhattan. What the cops didn’t know was that Murtha had been the driver on the night Canelstein and Morales were shot. When they arrived at Murtha’s small studio apartment, he was still in his underwear. They told him to wake up and get dressed. They wanted to talk to him about a shooting.

As Murtha began to put on his clothes, Detective Martin Logan noticed there was a shoe on the floor that was about four sizes bigger than the ones Murtha was wearing. He looked around the apartment and heard a dog barking on the other side of a closed bathroom door. He took his gun out and told Murtha to open the door.

When Logan peeked inside he saw the silhouette of a man standing behind the shower curtain.

“Come out of there with your hands away from your body,” he commanded.

The curtain was pulled part way back and six-foot-two-inch Eddie Sullivan stepped out. Like Murtha, he was dressed only in his underwear.

Logan’s partner slapped a set of handcuffs on Sullivan and led him out of the bathroom. Logan stepped towards the shower, his gun still poised, and pulled the shower curtain all the way back. In the shower, hunched all the way down and also in his underwear, was nineteen-year-old Jimmy Coonan.

At the 108th Precinct young Coonan was polite but firm. He swore he knew nothing about the Canelstein/Morales shooting. Even when the cops informed him that Charles Canelstein had lived and would probably be able to identify his assailants, Coonan didn’t budge—not yet, anyway.

To the cops in Queens it was no big deal. As far as they knew, Jimmy Coonan was just a petty crook from Manhattan, and they wouldn’t have been surprised if his victim was too. There had been over 150 homicides in Queens already that year. To them, this was just one more—and a seemingly insignificant one at that.

As of yet, they had no idea that the Canelstein/Morales shooting was the latest salvo in the Hell’s Kitchen gang wars, a long tradition that, over some sixty-five years, had done more for the undertaking business in Manhattan than any criminal event in twentieth-century history.

Although most of the gangster element on the West Side knew young Jimmy Coonan was having a war with Michael “Mickey” Spillane, leader of the Hell’s Kitchen rackets in 1966, not many had known just how serious it was until the Canelstein/Morales incident. While Coonan, Sullivan, Murtha, and the man identified as the fourth person in the car, Jimmy Gallagher, were being held in custody, a story spread through the neighborhood. It went something like this: Spillane had called in two hit men from Texas to eliminate Coonan and his sidekick, Sullivan. The boys had found out about it, hunted the hit men down, and taken them out to Queens, where they were given a gangland-style farewell.