uncivilized his neighborhood became.
By the time he passed under the Gowanus Expressway, Joe Pitts had crossed over into another world. Gone were the orderly brownstones with flower boxes and kids on bikes. Now there was razor-wire fences and pocked streets and dangerous alleyways. Here, packs of dogs ran leashless through empty lots. Marty Lewis told Pitts to pull up to the curb on Lorraine Street past the highway overpass. This was where the guy with the money was supposed to be. Joe Pitts could not see the guy with the money anywhere in the rain and the dark, but he pulled over anyway.
Marty Lewis took off one glove as he opened the passenger door and stepped out of the car. Rain thrummed on the windshield.
Marty stood up outside the car, turned around, and leaned back in the Caddy. He had a revolver in his hand pointed at Joe’s head and he squeezed off six shots. Five entered Joe Pitts. Bullets entered Joe Pitts’s face, his right arm, his torso, and his right lung.
“I can’t believe it was you,” Joe Pitts grunted. “Motherfucker.”
Lewis stepped back, perhaps surprised by the fact that Joe Pitts was still talking. But Joe Pitts wasn’t just talking— he was driving. He put the car in drive and drove slowly away from the curb. The door shut as he accelerated, and when he got to the corner, Joe Pitts, nearly seventy years old, with five bullets in his body, clicked on his turn signal.
Marty Lewis stood on the corner with the rain pounding down, watching the red light of that turn signal click on and off in the darkness. On and off, on and off. Marty Lewis almost had a heart attack on the spot as Joe Pitts drove away.
Carrying five bullets, Joe Pitts not only managed to obey all traffic laws, but he somehow was able to navigate his huge automobile back to his social club on Court Street, bleeding all over the upholstery. Somehow he managed to get one of his cohorts, a big three-hundred-pound DeCavalcante associate, who lived in an apartment above the club, to come down to the car.
The three-hundred-pound associate drove Pitts the seven blocks under the IND subway el tracks, over the foul waters of the Gowanus Canal, and right up to the emergency entrance of Methodist Hospital in Park Slope. They arrived at 6:17 P . M ., and Pitts was placed on a gurney, where he remained for the next four hours, waiting for surgery.
Because he had been shot, the police from the Seventyeighth Precinct were summoned. A detective asked Joe Pitts what happened. He said a black man from the Red Hook housing projects shot him. Clearly it was his intention to distract law enforcement while he took care of business himself. Clearly he believed he would survive to take care of business.
At 10:22 P . M ., Joe Pitts was still waiting when he had a heart attack and died. VINNY OCEAN
At the hour of Joe Pitts’s death, Vinny Ocean was just arriving in San Diego in anticipation of Sunday’s big Super Bowl extravaganza. His mind was most likely on having a good time, on whether Green Bay would be as dominant as everyone was saying, on how much money he’d make if he guessed right on the spread. This was the good life—he was far away from the cold January streets of New York in sunny California with his first son, a stockbroker named Michael, and several of his closest friends. He could afford Super Bowl tickets. He could afford to be in San Diego. He was doing well, and was about to do even better.
Vinny knew all about Joe Pitts. Mike of T&M had come to him and asked him for help after another DeCavalcante captain named Rudy Ferrone had died. Rudy had been put in charge of Joe Pitts and had essentially let him do whatever he wanted. Now that Rudy was dead, Mike went to Vinny Ocean and asked if it was okay to kill Joe Pitts. Joe Pitts was no longer a made guy, but he did have friends,
and Mike didn’t want any trouble. Vinny Ocean had looked Mike in the eye and said, “What’s the matter with you? I don’t want to hear anything about
By the time he passed under the Gowanus Expressway, Joe Pitts had crossed over into another world. Gone were the orderly brownstones with flower boxes and kids on bikes. Now there was razor-wire fences and pocked streets and dangerous alleyways. Here, packs of dogs ran leashless through empty lots. Marty Lewis told Pitts to pull up to the curb on Lorraine Street past the highway overpass. This was where the guy with the money was supposed to be. Joe Pitts could not see the guy with the money anywhere in the rain and the dark, but he pulled over anyway.
Marty Lewis took off one glove as he opened the passenger door and stepped out of the car. Rain thrummed on the windshield.
Marty stood up outside the car, turned around, and leaned back in the Caddy. He had a revolver in his hand pointed at Joe’s head and he squeezed off six shots. Five entered Joe Pitts. Bullets entered Joe Pitts’s face, his right arm, his torso, and his right lung.
“I can’t believe it was you,” Joe Pitts grunted. “Motherfucker.”
Lewis stepped back, perhaps surprised by the fact that Joe Pitts was still talking. But Joe Pitts wasn’t just talking— he was driving. He put the car in drive and drove slowly away from the curb. The door shut as he accelerated, and when he got to the corner, Joe Pitts, nearly seventy years old, with five bullets in his body, clicked on his turn signal.
Marty Lewis stood on the corner with the rain pounding down, watching the red light of that turn signal click on and off in the darkness. On and off, on and off. Marty Lewis almost had a heart attack on the spot as Joe Pitts drove away.
Carrying five bullets, Joe Pitts not only managed to obey all traffic laws, but he somehow was able to navigate his huge automobile back to his social club on Court Street, bleeding all over the upholstery. Somehow he managed to get one of his cohorts, a big three-hundred-pound DeCavalcante associate, who lived in an apartment above the club, to come down to the car.
The three-hundred-pound associate drove Pitts the seven blocks under the IND subway el tracks, over the foul waters of the Gowanus Canal, and right up to the emergency entrance of Methodist Hospital in Park Slope. They arrived at 6:17 P . M ., and Pitts was placed on a gurney, where he remained for the next four hours, waiting for surgery.
Because he had been shot, the police from the Seventyeighth Precinct were summoned. A detective asked Joe Pitts what happened. He said a black man from the Red Hook housing projects shot him. Clearly it was his intention to distract law enforcement while he took care of business himself. Clearly he believed he would survive to take care of business.
At 10:22 P . M ., Joe Pitts was still waiting when he had a heart attack and died. VINNY OCEAN
At the hour of Joe Pitts’s death, Vinny Ocean was just arriving in San Diego in anticipation of Sunday’s big Super Bowl extravaganza. His mind was most likely on having a good time, on whether Green Bay would be as dominant as everyone was saying, on how much money he’d make if he guessed right on the spread. This was the good life—he was far away from the cold January streets of New York in sunny California with his first son, a stockbroker named Michael, and several of his closest friends. He could afford Super Bowl tickets. He could afford to be in San Diego. He was doing well, and was about to do even better.
Vinny knew all about Joe Pitts. Mike of T&M had come to him and asked him for help after another DeCavalcante captain named Rudy Ferrone had died. Rudy had been put in charge of Joe Pitts and had essentially let him do whatever he wanted. Now that Rudy was dead, Mike went to Vinny Ocean and asked if it was okay to kill Joe Pitts. Joe Pitts was no longer a made guy, but he did have friends,
and Mike didn’t want any trouble. Vinny Ocean had looked Mike in the eye and said, “What’s the matter with you? I don’t want to hear anything about
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