The Mob Rule

FOR ALL THE BIG mob news over the past several months—the busts, the conviction, the murders, the girlfriend "suicides"—I can't say it held my attention. I was never much of a mafia buff. I've certainly seen the first two Godfather movies any number of times (but ignored the third), and I've seen all those Scorsese mob pictures plenty of times. But I've never watched The Sopranos and have no real interest in it.

I know more than my share of serious mob fanatics, both here and in Philly (the Philly mob was always much funnier). They know all the players, the interconnections, the tangled histories. When a name comes up—say another aging wiseguy gets indicted—they'd fill me in on his complete background, should I care to listen.

Yet for my lack of interest, over the years I've still had several brushes with gangsters, both low- and high-level.

Not long after moving to Brooklyn, my then-wife and I went to eat at a seafood restaurant in Sheepshead Bay. We arrived early and were seated at a small table next to an enormous picture window. We were the only people in the dining room, until the door opened and in walked a small, immaculately dressed man in his early 60s.

There are a lot of folks out there who try awfully hard to look connected; they dress and act the part, they talk real big. But when the real thing shows up, you can tell. They don't have to impress anybody. Of course in this case, the four gigantic bodyguards who flanked the table were kind of a giveaway.

This was not a big deal. We ordered our dinner and drank our wine. At one point, my then-wife felt chilly and slipped a jacket over her shoulders.

"Excuse me, miss?" the gentleman at the next table asked. "Are you cold?"

"A little, yes," she said.

The man did almost nothing—perhaps he raised a finger or an eyebrow, but suddenly the maître d' was at his table.

"Turn up the heat," he said. "It's cold."

Moments later, the heat came up. We thanked him, and before he left, he paused by our table to wish us well. I never found out who he was.

In the early 90s, I often spent long, quiet afternoons sitting in the Spring Lounge. A regular crew of five or six middle-aged women in loud pantsuits would commandeer the same corner table every day. They'd sit and drink and gossip for hours—but it soon became apparent that something else was going on. Once every hour or so, one of them would jump up and run to an outside pay phone. A minute later she'd return without saying a word.

This made me curious, so I decided to watch closely. Mostly, they just talked and drank, but there was a fairly steady stream of young men—one every five or 10 minutes—who would stroll into the bar and over to their table. He'd whisper something, and one of the women would jot something down in a notebook. The young man would vanish without buying a drink.

It didn't take long to figure it out. The men were laying their bets, and just before post-time, one of the women would step outside to call them in. It was all very charming, and not something I expected to see anymore.

Back in March of 2000, a friend called to point out a weird story in the latest New York Law Journal. It seems the Mayor's Office of Contracts had rejected a request on the part of Umberto's—the landmark Little Italy clam joint—to put six tables on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. The rejection had nothing to do with how those tables would affect foot traffic. According to the MOC's report, the request was denied because the owner of Umberto's had known ties to the Genovese family. In short, it was a certified mob joint.

I wrote a little story about this, suggesting that if Umberto's couldn't have sidewalk tables, the city should at least provide them with an "Official Mob Joint" plaque. I thought it would be great for business.

A few months after the story ran, I received a small envelope from Umberto's. Inside was an invitation to the restaurant's grand re-opening. The invitation was shaped like a clam. I showed it to my editor, John Strausbaugh.

"Oh, man," he said, remembering that there had been some concern that Umberto's might not appreciate my plaque joke. "You know where you find clams, don't you? At the bottom of the ocean!"

I was tempted to ignore the invitation, but two days after it arrived, I received a phone call from an Umberto's representative, insisting that I attend. He then told me that I would be on the "A-list," which I took to mean "assassination list."

Still, after a few beers, Morgan and I headed over there the night of the shindig. Shortly after finding our way to the bar, the man next to me spoke: "I don't think I know you."

It turned out to be the owner, Mr. Ianniello, a suave, well-dressed gentleman (who had recently been named president of the Little Italy Merchants Association).

I introduced myself, and we shook hands. "Yeah," he said, "I read that story you wrote."

I'm so doomed, I thought.

"Yeah, it was real cute," he continued. "I'm thinking of getting myself one of those plaques." He smiled and gave me a light pat on the cheek.

My God, I thought. It's the Pat of Death!

He sent a couple plates of clams over to us, and I made it through the rest of the evening alive.

Another night, we had dinner at Sparks Steak House, which is coincidentally the site of one of the most famous mob hits in New York history.

Before we left, I was stopped outside the bathroom by a burly, well-dressed man in his 40s. Again, as in that earlier case in Sheepshead Bay, sometimes you can just tell.

"Your shoe's untied," he said. "Let me show you something."

"Okay…?"

He dropped to his knees, and I prepared to bolt.

"You should double-knot these," he said, as he retied my loose and flopping shoelaces. "That way they won't come undone."

He stood back up and slapped his hands clean. "See?"

I'm not sure why the few mobsters I've encountered over the years have been so nice to me. Maybe because I wasn't fawning over them; maybe it was clear I didn't really care what they did for a living. I neither worshipped nor disdained them. Or maybe it was because I showed no fear (except possibly in the case of Umberto's).

Or maybe they're like the Boy Scouts of America—they only kill each other, but as a rule are real nice to the rest of us.

Whatever the case, they were always very considerate and polite. Thinking about it now, I guess it's kind of sad to see that the feds are snuffing out the mob, one player at a time. They're one of the very few groups of people I can always count on.