seeking venture capital for an album by a new artist. The introductions were made by a longtime captain, Joseph Armone.
Someone tipped off the police as well as a network television crew working on an industry payola story; they arrived as Gotti and the others stepped off an elevator into the lobby. The ambushed mobsters declined interviews, but sinister footage of a handsome, well-dressed man described as an unknown gangster with record-industry contacts was telecast nationwide.
A few days later, back at the Bergin annex, after someone brought a copy of the singer’s sample tape, Gotti was uncertain about the idea. It was risky to invest in a new singer—and the recording industry was too dishonest.
“They change two or three sounds and they make their own [record] and you get fucked.”
The duties of a boss were many, and one was punishing miscreant subordinates. He grumbled about one offender this way: “This kid is as high as he’s ever gonna get in life. This kid, I’m just trying to think of the way to punish him now. Enough to know how I didn’t like that. Teach him what bitterness is. Give him something fuckin’ [to] really feel sorry about. This ain’t a ball game here. This ain’t no ball game. This ain’t no game.”
Gotti was amazed after his ascension that at least one captain—Anthony Gaggi, uncle of the car-case witness against Castellano—had not adapted to the new game. He learned this during a telephone call from a soldier reporting about a dispute involving a Brooklyn restaurant. Family members had just bought into it and the landlord wanted to check them out.
The soldier said Gaggi had told him to “bring” Gotti to a sitdown with the landlord and the new partners.
“He’s under me!” Gotti shouted. “You tell him, [to] get his ass up here to see me!”
In the meantime, concerning the inquisitive landlord, Gotti told the soldier to tell Gaggi and the others not to engage in any more “warning shit” until a sitdown. After all, people could be reasoned with.
“People ain’t stupid, they know what we are,” Gotti said. “So what are we gonna do? What, are we gonna worry about cops now?
Three days after these comments, Angelo complained of having to visit someone about the same problem, which was “still up in the air.” Forty-eight hours passed, and then a fire damaged the restaurant; authorities proclaimed it arson.
As this restaurant problem was being solved, another was beginning. Some men, believed to be members of a carpenters’ local union, were vandalizing Manhattan construction sites using non-union labor. More than $30,000 damage was inflicted on the Bankers and Brokers Restaurant near Wall Street. It was owned by a Gambino soldier and previously owned by Castellano’s four children.
The business agent of the carpenters’ local, the largest in the country, was John F. O’Connor, 51. Gotti instructed two men to find out who O’Connor was “with”—not whether he was connected to a Family, but which one. In the Crime Capital, when it came to the construction industry, Gotti’s assumption was historically justified.
At the time, O’Connor was the target of an investigation into whether he accepted bribes from the contractors to allow them to use non-union carpenters. When Gotti learned that O’Connor might have ordered the restaurant sacked, he said the union official was “becoming overconfident” and wondered whether he ought to “bust him up.”
Over the next few weeks, inquiries went out to members of the Genovese Family, who reported that they had only partial control of the carpenters’ union and were “embarrassed” because a Gambino Family place had been trashed by a renegade element.
Weeks later, O’Connor was shot several times in the lobby of his union’s office building; the gunman, who fired four times, escaped. The victim crawled into an elevator, called for help, and survived. A few months later, O’Connor was indicted for
Someone tipped off the police as well as a network television crew working on an industry payola story; they arrived as Gotti and the others stepped off an elevator into the lobby. The ambushed mobsters declined interviews, but sinister footage of a handsome, well-dressed man described as an unknown gangster with record-industry contacts was telecast nationwide.
A few days later, back at the Bergin annex, after someone brought a copy of the singer’s sample tape, Gotti was uncertain about the idea. It was risky to invest in a new singer—and the recording industry was too dishonest.
“They change two or three sounds and they make their own [record] and you get fucked.”
The duties of a boss were many, and one was punishing miscreant subordinates. He grumbled about one offender this way: “This kid is as high as he’s ever gonna get in life. This kid, I’m just trying to think of the way to punish him now. Enough to know how I didn’t like that. Teach him what bitterness is. Give him something fuckin’ [to] really feel sorry about. This ain’t a ball game here. This ain’t no ball game. This ain’t no game.”
Gotti was amazed after his ascension that at least one captain—Anthony Gaggi, uncle of the car-case witness against Castellano—had not adapted to the new game. He learned this during a telephone call from a soldier reporting about a dispute involving a Brooklyn restaurant. Family members had just bought into it and the landlord wanted to check them out.
The soldier said Gaggi had told him to “bring” Gotti to a sitdown with the landlord and the new partners.
“He’s under me!” Gotti shouted. “You tell him, [to] get his ass up here to see me!”
In the meantime, concerning the inquisitive landlord, Gotti told the soldier to tell Gaggi and the others not to engage in any more “warning shit” until a sitdown. After all, people could be reasoned with.
“People ain’t stupid, they know what we are,” Gotti said. “So what are we gonna do? What, are we gonna worry about cops now?
Three days after these comments, Angelo complained of having to visit someone about the same problem, which was “still up in the air.” Forty-eight hours passed, and then a fire damaged the restaurant; authorities proclaimed it arson.
As this restaurant problem was being solved, another was beginning. Some men, believed to be members of a carpenters’ local union, were vandalizing Manhattan construction sites using non-union labor. More than $30,000 damage was inflicted on the Bankers and Brokers Restaurant near Wall Street. It was owned by a Gambino soldier and previously owned by Castellano’s four children.
The business agent of the carpenters’ local, the largest in the country, was John F. O’Connor, 51. Gotti instructed two men to find out who O’Connor was “with”—not whether he was connected to a Family, but which one. In the Crime Capital, when it came to the construction industry, Gotti’s assumption was historically justified.
At the time, O’Connor was the target of an investigation into whether he accepted bribes from the contractors to allow them to use non-union carpenters. When Gotti learned that O’Connor might have ordered the restaurant sacked, he said the union official was “becoming overconfident” and wondered whether he ought to “bust him up.”
Over the next few weeks, inquiries went out to members of the Genovese Family, who reported that they had only partial control of the carpenters’ union and were “embarrassed” because a Gambino Family place had been trashed by a renegade element.
Weeks later, O’Connor was shot several times in the lobby of his union’s office building; the gunman, who fired four times, escaped. The victim crawled into an elevator, called for help, and survived. A few months later, O’Connor was indicted for
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