This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (9 page)

“It was as if we’d won the lottery,” Mom recalled. “I became addicted to it after only one week.”

As with any addiction, though, there was always the potential for withdrawal.

Alas, the cops apparently had gotten wind of the heist and were well on their way to cracking the case by the time Mom got through the first episode of
I Love Lucy
. Dad, whose intuition and connections led him to believe that law enforcement officials might soon be knocking on their door, insisted Mom get rid of the new toy.

“I cried for days, as if the world was going to end,” Mom said.
“It wasn’t so much that I was home alone and pregnant; but, having gotten the new color TV, I gave the old one to the landlady downstairs!”

Mom had traded the old black-and-white television for a nearly new radio. When Dad took back the color television, Mom came to rely on the small radio as a means of entertainment while home alone. Three days after Dad took away the TV, the radio broke. Apparently it was used, a rebuilt radio. The landlady pulled a scam on Mom. When Mom showed up on her doorstep, the landlady wouldn’t open the door. In fact, she turned up the volume on the television to drown out Mom’s voice. Mom left the radio in front of the landlady’s apartment door with a note taped to it that said, “Here is the piece of junk you used to con me out of my television. Either give me back my TV or I’ll send my husband down to speak to your husband.”

The two women got into a heated argument. The landlady refused to give the television back. Now she had the broken radio and the black-and-white television—and Mom was furious! The women yelled until the landlady’s husband came home from work. He was not a stupid man. He heard all about John Gotti and didn’t want any trouble. So he insisted his wife give the TV back to Mom. The landlord’s wife did so reluctantly. But, to be spiteful, she left the television on the ledge of the second-floor landing—knowing full well, Mom, being very pregnant at the time, couldn’t carry it up two stories. Mom tried—when she got to the top of the third floor, huffing and puffing and utterly exhausted, she finally realized that she couldn’t carry it up another floor. But rather than let the landlady win, Mom kicked the old TV with all her might and watched it bounce down the ten or eleven steps. She left it at the foot of the second landing and yelled down to the landlady, “Try and watch the TV now!” When Dad came home later that night, he found the broken television wedged between the second and third floor of the
apartment building. It took him five minutes to climb around it in order to get to our apartment on the sixth floor.

Since few things upset my father more than seeing my mom distraught, Dad decided to go out and find her a color television the old-fashioned way: by paying for it.

Well, sort of.

He entered an all-night poker game, hoping his luck would change and he’d make some money. He did—nearly five hundred dollars. But instead of using it to buy fancy suits, or as a down payment on a new car, or even a security deposit for a nicer apartment to rent, he went out and bought Mom the biggest, most expensive color television he could find.

Dellacroce, who’d been at the poker match, had been duly impressed with Dad’s success, which seemed fueled by equal parts luck and guts. Thus, Dellacroce often made unannounced visits to the Fulton Street Social Club. He wasn’t thrilled with the location or the way it was so run-down. After a few of these visits, the club’s headquarters was moved to a more discreet area in Ozone Park, Queens. The new club was a two-story building with a first-floor storefront; it was called the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club, and was located near Kennedy Airport, in a small, close-knit neighborhood of Italian immigrants. The locals paid frequent visits to the social club; some were merely being cordial, while others understood the benefit of offering their respect to the new sheriff in town. If one had a gripe about something going on in the neighborhood, results were much more likely to be achieved by working through the social club than by going to the cops.

It wasn’t long before the generous and eager-to-please John Gotti assumed the role of a modern-day Robin Hood in Ozone Park. When the law failed them, the locals often turned to Johnny Boy; if traditional justice was not forthcoming, then street justice would suffice. Ironically, the NYPD’s 106th Precinct headquarters
was just a few blocks away, but was of little assistance to the Italian immigrants, who were near the bottom rung of the social ladder, and absorbed nearly as much racism and hostility as the few African Americans who resided in the overwhelmingly white community.

My father became a staunch advocate for the folks who lived near the new social club. If a man had a meddlesome neighbor, Dad stepped in and brokered the peace. If a few neighborhood punks had graffitied a storefront, Dad forced them to scrub it clean. And if a house was robbed or vandalized, Dad hunted down whoever was responsible and forced them to make restitution. Dad was no fool, and understood early on the importance of currying favor with the community. Just as he needed respect from the elders in his world to achieve his goals, he also needed support from the rank-and-file—the men and women who would do business in his neighborhood.

Word of the new social club quickly spread. People came from up to ten miles away to meet their newly anointed street boss. Most of the people who dropped in were hoping for an audience with my father; if so inclined, he might be able to help them with some problem in their lives, whether personal or financial. No dispute was too small or too large; the boss had free reign to intervene. Often, as a sign of his gratitude, Dad also bought cases of groceries and expensive cuts of meats and distributed these goods to all the neighbors in Ozone Park. Aside from being generous and considerate, Dad also did his fair share of campaigning, which would help him later on as he rose up even higher in the life.

There were perks to the position, of course. At holiday time, men from the neighborhood would express their gratitude to my father by dropping by with homemade pies and other delicacies that their wives, girlfriends, or mothers had baked. In exchange for their support, my father would throw a party every July 4, with enough
free food, amusement park rides, soda, cotton candy, and entertainment for thousands of people; neighbors would invite family and friends from as far away as Staten Island and Manhattan. This event grew larger with each passing year, and featured one of the most impressive displays of fireworks in the metropolitan area, no small accomplishment given the challenge of securing the proper permits. Somehow, though, this never presented a problem for my father, perhaps because so many of the local cops chose to look the other way. As a general rule, they were more than willing to turn a blind eye to activities at the social club, especially where my father was concerned.

The July 4 bash was the talk of the town, from Brooklyn to the Bronx, and from Staten Island to Central Park. The turnout of revelers and spectators, whose numbers often included FBI agents in unmarked cars, taking notes and snapping photos, was astounding.

At one such celebration in the late 1970s, the fireworks display went awry. A man stationed on a nearby rooftop had accidentally dropped a lit cigarette into a box of explosives, setting the roof on fire. Flames spread quickly to a neighboring building.

Thankfully, the fire department responded swiftly and doused the fire in short order. The show ended prematurely with ambulances and cop cars flooding the area. After the fire department deemed the rooftop safe again, the police ordered the crowd of party revelers to vacate the premises. Many of the local residents grew angry and began yelling at the cops. There were no serious injuries, but my father was enraged. He ordered all his men from the social club to clear the streets and get all the people out of harm’s way. The neighbors were understandably disappointed that their spectacular block party was brought to a premature end. Something had to be done with all the leftover food, so hundreds of families went home that night with fresh meats, salads, and supplies to fill up their cupboards.

The people of Ozone Park lined the streets that night and cheered my father as a hero. It was a watershed event for John Gotti, in many ways the beginning of his rise to prominence in popular culture, and the first indication that he was destined to become a formidable figure in the brutal, often unforgiving world of the Mafia.

I
t was the unpredictable and inciteful 1960s, and protest demonstrations cropped up everywhere. President John F. Kennedy had the unenviable task of leading the United States out of the Cuban Missile Crisis and would soon become embroiled in the abomination known as the Vietnam War. Elvis Presley still owned the pop charts. Meanwhile, on the lips of every neighborhood guy from Flatbush Avenue to Dean Street was the name of my father, John Gotti, who had just pulled off the biggest heist of his life. And it didn’t take place in any bank, airport, or betting parlor, either. According to my father, the biggest “score” he ever made took place inside a hospital.

Inside, the corridors were empty and dark, and for a city hospital, they were surprisingly quiet. As Dad made his way down
the hall, he spotted the nurses station up ahead and came to an abrupt halt. He waited in the shadows until the nurses were busy and distracted. When the coast was clear he made a beeline for the elevator doors.

My father was headed back to the maternity ward. He’d been there just hours before, basking in the glory common to new fathers. But when the hospital’s bursar dropped by Mom’s room with the bill, the glory had subsided and Dad broke out in a cold sweat. He was just twenty-two years old, and far too proud to admit he had no money or means to pay the tab. The memory of that tragic day when his own mother had given birth to a stillborn Gotti boy haunted his dreams; there was no way he would allow his wife to give birth at home—or anywhere other than a proper hospital. Whether he could pay the bill was beside the point; some things were not negotiable. So when Mom asked if the bill could be paid in installments and was told “no,” my father had to come up with a plan.

D
AD MADE HIS
way to Mom’s bed, and stood there for a moment, watching her as she slept peacefully. Mom was surely exhausted. Years later, when told the story of this night and of my birth, Mom said she was so “out of it” that when hospital officials came around with my birth certificate, asking my name, Mom thought they needed her name and answered, “Victoria.” My name was supposed to be Kimberly. Instead, I was named after my mother completely by accident.

Dad did not want to disturb her slumber, but time was of the essence. He had to move quickly—and quietly. He pulled the blankets off Mom’s feet and tickled her big toe. She was startled at first, and tried to speak. Dad put a finger to his lips. He whispered for her to get dressed and then made his way to the nursery.

I was born at the perpetually understaffed Methodist Hospital in Brooklyn. Dad waltzed into the unguarded nursery, scooped me up like a football, and took off down the corridor. He made his way back to Mom’s room and handed her their new daughter in a tightly wrapped bundle. Then he took her arm and gently led her out of the room and out the front door of the hospital.

Outside, an early winter storm was raging; blasts of arctic air cut through my mother’s robe, chilling her to the bone. Uncle Angelo stood at the ready and helped my mother down the front steps. Dad, clutching me in his arms, followed closely behind. It would be a long and difficult trek home that night—thirteen blocks through slush and snow and freezing rain.

Mom and Dad were kids themselves when they were married. They were in their late teens when my sister, Angel, was born. I don’t think it made much difference she was a girl, as the first child is always exciting. When I came along, baby number two, I’m sure Dad was disappointed. All he ever wanted was a son, an heir. This was common among Italian families—daughters were loved; sons were coveted. Moreover, male heirs signified greater virility and strength in the father. So, the more a man was prone to machismo, the more likely it was that he would wish for male progeny to pass along the family name and solidify his own legacy.

I suppose Dad was less than ecstatic when the doctor came into the labor and delivery waiting room and announced that his wife had delivered a baby girl—again! But his mood quickly lightened. He began telling me the story of my birth (and subsequent “kidnapping”) when I was old enough to speak, never leaving one detail out. The story never veered; it was always the same: “When the doctor came out and announced I had another daughter, a part of me was disappointed—I will admit. But the moment I laid eyes on you, I fell instantly in love! You had the thickest patch of jet-black hair, the biggest hazel-green eyes, the cutest button nose,
and the deepest cleft chin—my chin! You were a miniature Elizabeth Taylor. I couldn’t wait to prance you up and down Prospect Park.”

As he would tell this tale, Mom would nod in affirmation, adding that I was the spitting image of Dad. Not just in appearance, but in personality as well.

When we arrived at the railroad flat on Eighth Street, Dad placed me in a lopsided cradle and stood, staring and smiling, for the better part of a half hour. Years later, he would insist that we bonded instantly and forever during that walk through the snow.

“It was,” he would say, “the most lucrative and memorable heist of my life.”

T
wo years later, my father’s wish came true: my mother gave birth again, this time a boy. To the surprise of absolutely no one, the heir apparent was named after his father. John Angelo Gotti was born on February 14, 1964, a date with no small amount of symbolism. My mother and father, of course, would stress the romantic notion that Junior’s birth on Valentine’s Day reflected their undying love. Others—historians and humorists (or humorous historians)—might point to the irony of John Gotti Jr., son of the most influential mobster in modern times, being born on February 14. It was the date of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre—when mobster Al Capone sanctioned the execution-style murders of several rival mobsters in a warehouse in Chicago.