Killer

"Organized Crime cannot exist without the help of your so-called honest citizen. All we are is a service organization." "Joey" was sitting two feet across from me, busily attacking a late-night snack of two eggs over easy, bacon crisp! and coffee with milk, not cream. He had spent a good portion of the evening attempting to convince me that organized crime in America was, in reality, an unusual combination of the Sisters of Mercy and Murder, Inc. At times he was totally convincing.

Joey is a complex experience. He is egocentric, outgoing, affable, gregarious, witty, sentimental, brave, generous, at times overbearing and often a bit loud. He is easy to like, hard to know, impossible to understand. He is built along the lines of the Great Wall of China, massive and low slung, impenetrable and threatening, and when he walks, when he moves, there is no doubt that he is indeed capable of following through on everything he promises. He doesn't stride so much as he ambles, much like the cliché-born Southern sheriff: His left leg pushes forward, pulling with it the left side of his body; his right leg, seemingly independent, catches up. His body language is clear: He is not daring, "Try me": rather, he is threatening, "Fear me." Dealing (continued on page 110)Killer(continued from page 106) with him is both the hardest and the easiest thing I have ever had to do.

Joey kills people. He also smuggles narcotics and cigarettes, hijacks trucks, bootlegs expensive perfumes, runs card games, collects numbers, does a little muscle work, books bets, makes pornographic movies, Shylocks now and then, occasionally fences stolen goods and, once in a while, scalps some tickets. But killing is his specialty. "I am one of the most feared killers in this country," he says matter-of-factly, if not pridefully, and two recognized experts on organized crime have verified that fact.

"So the word got around that Carmine DiBiase was threatening to make me a bad memory." His conversation, like his life, skips around helter-skelter. He says, and does, what he deems appropriate for the moment. It is, fittingly, a shotgun approach to life, "So I went down to the club where he hangs out and I walked in. I took out a .357 magnum and put it right to his forehead. 'Listen,' I said, 'I understand you don't like me.'

" 'Like you?' " Joey paused here for effect. Then he boomed, " 'I love you!'

" 'Well, then,' " he drawled in a manner that would have brought tears to Damon Runyon's eyes, " 'make ... sure ... the ... romance ... lasts!'" His laughter filled most of the restaurant and most of his face. As he will point out, accurately, his eyes never laugh---they remain two hard, pillbox slits, always observing.

Finally I asked him the question that had been bothering me since the day I met him, since the moment he ambled into a publisher's office dressed in a black-leather and wool jacket and a white T-shirt. "Why do you really want to write a book?"

For the first time, he was absolutely quiet. "We're not such bad people. We just give people what they want. I want people to understand that." He paused again, went to his coffee with milk, not cream, and came closer to his real reason. "I think maybe I've had enough. I think I'd like to get out. Go somewhere, maybe open a business." Reluctantly but firmly and, as always, convincingly, he finished his answer. "And I think I can make a lot of money from it."

Money, finally, almost inevitably, is the answer. In his 25 years as a member of organized crime, Joey estimates he has made close to $4,000,000. Most of it has long since been spent on necessities, some luxuries, his wife and a lot of bookies. Joey is a heavy gambler and it has cost him. And now, "his book," as he calls it, is going to put money in his pocket. The strongest motivation of all.

Joey's book was never planned as a startling exposé that would name names and tell where the bodies were buried. It is the story of how organized crime works, how to place a bet, pick a number, hijack a truck, kill a man. "A Consumer's Guide to Organized Crime," we joked.

Doing the book, of which the following piece is a preview, Joey and I got to be close friends. We went away together and spent hour after hour, day after day, talking about organized crime. We went through his two and a half decades as a member of it year by year, crime by crime. Although he has committed a large share of all conceivable crimes, he has essentially always worked as a free-lancer, a hired gun.

Sometimes I tended to forget that. When I watched him kid waitresses, or play with children, or go about his day diligently trying to raise a smile on every face, it was easy to forget. I began to believe, in fact, that the book was to be his penitence. He saw it differently.

In the months we spent together, he told me his story, sometimes humorously, sometimes eloquently, sometimes with great sadness---but always in a straightforward and totally honest way. In that time, I never learned his real name or where he lives or what his second wife's name is. I suppose I should have been appalled by his life. But I wasn't. I was, like most Americans, entranced, titillated. And I enjoyed every moment I was in his company.

The waiter walked over with our check. Joey picked it up. "Aren't you afraid they'll kill you if they find out who you are?" I asked.

He laughed. "If we do this right, they'll never find out," he said. Then he added, "And I couldn't care less if I live or die. That's what makes me so dangerous."

And so fascinating.

Every member of organized crime is capable of doing many different things, but each is an expert in at least one area. Some guys are great gamblers. Others are super hijackers. Me? I kill people.

My official title is "hit man," but I guess you could think of me as a policeman. The Mob has its own social structure and we have to deal with our own internal problems. Let's face it, we don't have anyplace where we can sue somebody. I don't even call it murder. To me, it's just a job.

Actually, you might say crime is the family business. I grew up watching my father shuttle in and out of prison. That was when I learned that crime pays, no matter what anybody tells you. When my father was home, he made good money and we lived very well; when he was in jail, we barely survived. A lot of people today, they blame a person's background for everything he does wrong. That's bullshit. My cousin grew up in exactly the same environment I did and today he's a cop. We both knew exactly what we were doing. He picked one way, I picked the other. But when I made the choice, I knew exactly what I was getting into, and I knew what I was getting out of.

My total is 38; 35 for money and three for revenge. I can remember each man that I hit. I can give you the order. The details. Even the weather on that day. And I would not make a mistake. Number 18, for example, was a gambler who was discovered informing on the Mob. He had quietly been arrested and made a deal in order to keep himself out of a jackpot---which is our word for a jam. Certain things began to kick back and some people checked and found out my man was the source, so he had to go. I caught him in a small bar and I just walked in and blasted him with a .38. It was dark and I was wearing very nondescript clothing and that was it. I remember him. I remember them all. You never really forget.

But it doesn't bother me, not one bit. This is my job. It is my business. I shoot people and that's it. I never think of it in terms of morality, although that may be hard for a lot of people to believe. I know the difference between right and wrong. And I know by most standards of morality that what I do would be considered wrong. But this doesn't bother me. I also know the difference between eating and starving. Between having a pair of new shoes and a pair you have to stuff newspaper in just to keep from freezing. Believe me, I know.

So I don't worry about it. Because I have the ability to pull the trigger, I can do what I like to do, go where I want to go, be what I want to be. I have no second thoughts. No recriminations. I don't even think about it, because, if I did and I was an emotional person, I could not live with it. It would destroy me. So I do my job like a guy lays brick, a guy tends bar, a guy cuts hair.

At home, I'm really not that much different than your average bricklayer, bartender or barber. I take out the garbage four nights a week, worry about my wife when she's out alone at night, cut the grass about twice a month and complain about those ridiculous telephone bills. Believe it or not, I'm a human being. I laugh at funny jokes, I love having children around the house and I can spend hours playing with my mutt. Only one thing, I never cry during sad movies. I've only cried for one person in my whole life, my first wife. The day I found out she had been killed, I cried. And then I changed. So my eyes weren't the slightest bit wet at the end of Love Story.

There are three things you need to (continued on page 206)Killer(continued from page 110) use a gun: the gun, the bullets and the balls. A lot of people will point a gun at you, but they haven't got the courage to pull the trigger. It's as simple as that. I would give you odds on almost anybody you name that, if I put a gun in their hand, they would not pull the trigger. I mean, some people will go ape for a minute and shoot, but there are few people who will think about it, plan it, and then do it. To carry out an execution with the cold knowledge of what you're doing, you have to believe in nothing but yourself. I believe in myself. Most people have the fear of reprisal; I do not. Because life and death doesn't mean anything to me. I don't care if I live or die, and I don't care if anybody else lives or dies. I have no emotion. None. It's all long gone.

I killed my first man when I was 16 years old. I started getting into the business when I was 11 years old. The first thing I did was take numbers. I got into numbers through a guy named Joe Bagels, who brought me in because he felt sorry for me. We weren't just poor, we were destitute. So I did what he told me, I showed up bright and early one morning and I set up a little table and chair with a pad on the corner of Jennings Street and Wilkens Avenue in the Bronx. And I took my very first number. Then I began working the OPA office on 57th Street in Manhattan with a bunch of guys. I was small then and I would slide in over the transom and grab ration stamps that were sitting there waiting to be destroyed. We got tons of them: sugar stamps, gasoline stamps, canned-goods stamps, everything. A little later I got into muscle work---I always had a nice level swing with a Louisville slugger---and, by the time I was 15, I was a controller in a numbers organization.

The hit was offered to me by a Mob guy who protected the numbers organization I worked for. The thought of killing a man had never occurred to me before. I had been a violent person and I had laid guys out, but hitting a man just hadn't entered my mind. I was sitting on a stoop one day and he walked over and sat down next to me. Very casually, without even looking at me, he asked if I was interested in making a hit.

I looked at him and said, "You got to be kidding." He said he was serious. I said, "You must have fifty guys that can do the same job."

He nodded. "We understand that. Just let me know tonight.

At some point you either have to become a man or fade. For me, this was the point. I had to make the decision whether I wanted to be a piece of dirt or accomplish something. I was very young, but I decided I wasn't going to be a piece of shit, I wasn't going to let people walk all over me. I was going to be a man.

So I told him OK. I had no idea what the guy I hit had done. I was given a gun and this guy was pointed out to me. I just walked up behind him right on the street, in broad daylight, and blew the top of his head off. He was dead before he hit the sidewalk. Then I turned and walked away.

I knew I had to get rid of the gun, but I didn't know exactly how. The first thing I did was go back to my apartment and get a little saw and I sawed the gun barrel into four quarters. Then I took the gun and the shells and got on the subway. I rode it all the way down into Lower Manhattan, the Wall Street area, and I started throwing the shells down the sewers. I wasn't taking any chances, one shell to one sewer. Then I went over to the river and heaved the gun as far as I could. And then I went home and went to bed.

I never really got to sleep. I just tossed and turned for a few hours, going over the whole thing in my mind about a hundred times, making sure I didn't make any mistakes. I held my breath for about two days until I was positive there were no witnesses. Then the realization came to me that I was a made individual. I was a force to be reckoned with. I knew that a lot of people who had looked at me as being a snot-nosed wise-ass kid would now be speaking to me in different tones.

The job paid $5000. Five thousand dollars! It seemed like a billion dollars. My older brother was working ten hours a day in a warehouse and bringing home $24 a week. It wasn't a matter of killing someone, but rather saving myself. Five thousand dollars. That's how it started.

Contrary to legend, there is no great celebration after you make your first hit. I mean, nobody throws a party for you or anything. But you are made. The word is out very quickly that you are a capable individual. That you are a gunsel, a gun, a cannon, a hit man, a boy that will do the job. In The God-father, they said, "Make your bones." Now, I never heard that before, but it has the same meaning.

That was the beginning of my real career. But soon after, it almost ended. I was picked up for breaking up three people with a baseball bat and given a choice by the judge: the Army or a home for juvenile offenders. I like to say I consider the Army a very exclusive club: It took the recommendation of a judge and 12 jurors to get me in.

Actually, the Army was good to me. It sent me to Korea as an infantryman and taught me how to use a gun correctly. So I guess you could say the Army did indeed teach me a career. It also taught me something about loyalty. I had one of my closest friends killed there. We had literally been through hell together and, after some gook shot him, me and this other guy carried his body back 70, that's seven-oh, miles. I could leave anybody in the world out there, but I just couldn't leave him. I guess I'm a paradox, but the three of us had been through so much. He was from Boston and he had been a thief all his life. The third guy was a tough, quiet kid from Ohio. That was our trio. We hung together all the time, we fought the whole world together and we took care of one another pretty good. He was killed on the very last job we did. As I said, I could have left anybody out there, it wouldn't have bothered me at all. I left a hell of a lot of people out there, but I felt I had no right leaving him. I had to bring him home. So we took turns carrying his body and we were ten days behind everyone else getting back. But it was just something that I had to do. It's not that I value life, he was dead. But I just couldn't leave his body out there for the buzzards.

I put my Army training to use as soon as I was separated. I was working out in California for a man named Jack Dragna. I learned to love that man, because of the way he treated me. He gave me respect and he let me earn a great deal of money. He taught me the difference between right and wrong---and how to do wrong better.

Before he died, Jack controlled Southern California. I mean, you couldn't take a shit between Los Angeles and the Mexican border or the Pacific and Nevada unless Jack had a piece of the toilet paper. He knew that I was a wild man, but he didn't know how wild. He wanted to test me and offered me a hit.

"Sure," I told him. "why not?" I never did find out what number two had done either. Jack just showed me his picture and gave me a gun. I stood in a public parking lot for an entire afternoon waiting for this guy. Finally he showed up and started walking toward his car. He never made it.

There is a multitude of reasons a man is killed: He may be a stool pigeon, he may be too greedy---the man he is working for might suspect he is taking too much, the man he is working for might think he is too ambitious, he might be blown away because he has not lived up to the obligations he is supposed to live up to, the job might be planned by an underling trying to take over from a boss, the target could be a Mob member who has become a junkie and is therefore unreliable or it could even be payment for an attempted double cross. There is always a good reason for it and it always involves doing something you shouldn't be doing as a member of organized crime.

Innocent people, civilians, are very, very rarely hit. You recently saw the reason for that in New York City. You had half a battalion of Mob guys killed and nobody said a word. But two meat salesmen were killed accidentally and they almost declared martial law.

We leave civilians alone. We don't hurt them and we don't work for them. As a matter of fact, if a civilian wanted to buy a hit, he might be able to get someone who has done a few, but he couldn't get anyone connected with the Mob. And chances are he would just be taken for his money, which happens quite often. A guy will pay someone to make a hit and then the hit will never be made. What's he gonna do about it? Who's he gonna complain to?

Mob guys very rarely take outside work, because they can't trust civilians. The police lean on them and they fold. They've never been battered by questions, they've never been mentally assaulted, so they're gonna quit on you. The police are experts, they can turn you up one side and down the other with their questions. And who needs to depend on an outsider?

Not me. And not any professional hit man that I know. I just don't want to mess with your so-called honest citizens. As a rule, you just can't trust them.

I did come close once. Tony Bender asked me to see a civilian about doing a job for him and Tony had been very good to me, so I said OK. My meet was a very, very wealthy New York City socialite, a real blue blood. I figured maybe somebody was leaning on him businesswise. Generally, civilians want other civilians hit to settle personal scores and I don't want to get involved in that. This guy wanted a broad hit in the head. I found it very unusual for a guy to want to hit a broad. so I asked him about it. He said he had been shacking up with her and things were getting complicated.

Before giving him an answer, I started doing a little investigating on my own, and I found out the reason he wanted her hit in the head was that she had the nerve to get pregnant. I figured maybe she wanted a lot of money, but I was wrong. All she wanted was to make sure the kid was properly cared for. She didn't want no big amount of money, she wasn't looking to shake him down and she didn't want to get involved with the social register. All she wanted was something like $250 a month for the kid. My blue-blooded friend was terrified that someone would find out about the baby and it would embarrass his family. This was just an innocent little girl, just a kid herself, and this guy wanted me to kill her. For what? To protect his reputation?

I went back and I told the guy, "I am going to give you some very bad news. One, you're gonna give this kid $100,000 and then you're gonna give her $250 a month until that kid is old enough to take care of itself. If you don't, motherfucker, I'm gonna put a bullet in your head and I'm gonna let the whole world know why you got killed." He went running to see Tony. Tony told him he couldn't interfere with me. Actually he could've, but he didn't want to.

The guy finally gave her the money. I still hear from this girl every once in a while. She's married and lives out in the Midwest. She sends me pictures of her daughter, but I'm a part of her past she would rather forget. But you see the problems you get into when you deal with civilians. I like to stick to my own. It's easier.

Every hit begins with a contract. If you're working independently, as I usually do the people who need your services get in touch with you. A meeting is set up and details are discussed. I'm told what the job entails, how much it pays and occasionally what the beef is. These details will probably tip me off to who the party is, but I'll rarely ask his name until I decide to go ahead and make the hit. Once I know the area, I can pin it down to four or five guys. If I figure I know a couple of them, I'll say "Pass." If it's OK. I'll lean forward and agree to do business.

There is no set price for a hit. It depends on who the man is, how difficult the job will be and what the results (who'll gain what) will be. It usually averages between $10,000 and $25,000 and could go higher. The largest contract I've ever heard of was an open offer of $250,000 payable to anyone that could get to Joe Valachi. But nobody would take the job. If the Mob could have gotten to him, nobody would ever talk to the police again, because it would have completely destroyed the confidence of anybody who thought about becoming an informer. (There's a story that Valachi was causing problems in prison and word was sent to Bobby Kennedy. "Tell him to stop it." Kennedy supposedly said, "or we'll let him go.") The most I've ever been offered was $50,000 and I've been offered that a few times. The last was for Joey Gallo. I turned it down because Joey and I were friends, we had grown up within the organization together.

I remember one time, when I was just starting out, Joey and I went out on a muscle job together. I was driving and all of a sudden I look over and he was staring into the rearview mirror making terrible faces. "Hey," I said, "what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

He just kept on doing it and stopped long enough to say, "I'm just practicing looking mean." I just couldn't do Joey.

A contract is always a verbal agreement, but these contracts are as strong as any written document in the world. You don't have to sign it, you guarantee any contract you agree to with your life.

The money is paid in advance. The full amount. After the contract is out, the man who started the whole thing can rescind it, but no money is returned. Once I take your money, I'm going to make the hit---unless you tell me you've changed your mind. That's fine, but you're going to have to pay the full amount for that privilege.

There is a guarantee in the contract covering the unlikely situation that I'm caught. I will not talk. Not a word. Not a sound. Not a peep. Nothing. In order to ensure that, the party with whom I've made my deal must pay all my legal fees, support my family the entire time I'm in jail and have something waiting for me the day I get out. I once sat in jail for ten months waiting to come to trial and, when I was released, I was given $50,000 for keeping my mouth shut.

That may sound like a lot of money, but it's worth it to the Mob. Knowing my family is being supported and I'm earning while I'm sitting, there's no reason for me to talk. The only other alternative the Mob has is to try and kill me and that's stupid, because if they did no professional would ever work for them again. Amateurs, like this guy Johnson who shot Joe Colombo, they don't get this sort of deal, because there is no doubt that, when caught, they would reveal everything. The moment Johnson shot Colombo, he signed his own death warrant.

If you happen to be a full-time employee of a particular organization, the contract procedure is a little different. If you're on salary and they tell you somebody has got to go, he goes. Makes no difference who he is and how close the two of you might be. He's gone. A new soldier for that big organization in the sky.

Under any circumstances, if I take your money, the job is going to be done. Once I take a penny. I've guaranteed that contract with my life. And so I want to make sure it gets done quickly and correctly. That's where experience comes in.

Planning a hit is not difficult. There are only a few simple rules you have to be aware of: You do not kill a man in his own home; you do not kill a man in front of his own family (Gallo went down in front of his wife and daughter because Colombo was shot in front of his sons); you do not harm his family; you do not hit him in a church or near a place of worship; you do not torture a man (we're not his judges, just his executioners); and you do not rob him. Other than that, he's all yours.

There are three basic ways to plan a hit. The hit man will be given the party's routine, or he'll study the man and pick up his routine himself, or the party will be brought to him at a preselected spot. I like to do as much as possible myself. I like being in total control and I'll spend as much time as necessary to make sure everything is exactly the way I want it. I once clocked a man for ten days before I hit him. This guy was a numbers controller who was fingering other controllers to be robbed. He used to park his car in a gas station overnight and I decided that would be the place. He didn't realize what was about to happen until I pulled the cannon. Then he realized---I'm gonna die. He started to beg, but I didn't give him a chance to get five words out of his mouth. He knew why, and it wasn't my job to give him a lecture. But that gas station was the perfect spot, closed, quiet and dark.

The safest way is to have the party brought to you. If I'm told the hit is being set up this way, I get to the location early and check it out carefully. If I'm not completely satisfied with it, I may not do the job. After all, it's my head in the noose. I got sent to St. Louis once on a loan. They had the thing all lined up and needed an outside gun. When I got there, I said, "Look, you guys don't mind if I take a couple of days and see if I go along with the plan, do you?" I wouldn't care if the FBI had checked it out in advance, I wanted to check it myself. They agreed and I found their schedule was perfect and the spot they picked was perfect. Only then did I pull the trigger.

When you're just starting out in this business, a backup man is normally sent along to make sure everything goes correctly, but most of the time you go out by yourself or, at worst, with a single driver. The only exception is when you're hitting someone in a crowded area and you think there is a chance you might be chased. Then you use a getaway car and a crash car. The crash car is set up to block traffic after the job is done and, if somebody tries to follow you, to "accidentally" crash into them. Under any circumstances, you're only going to use the getaway car to go a few blocks. Then, depending on where you are, you're going to get out of your vehicle and lose yourself as quickly as you can in a crowd, or take some public transportation, or ride a cab, or even take another car that you have waiting.

The most important thing is to try to isolate your victim. I may be sitting in his car waiting for him and, as soon as he gets in. I'll blast him, or I may have made arrangements for him to be picked up by someone he trusts and brought to a destination where I'll be waiting. If possible, it's great to catch him late at night. But catching him alone is really the important thing, because, if you don't, innocent people might get hurt and you don't want that, no way.

I've never had a problem with innocent people, because I've always been very careful about picking my spots. But if I was on a job and an innocent person got in the way, they would have to go. I know I wouldn't feel good about doing it, but I know I'd kill them anyway. It's part of being a real professional. Other people don't take as much care as I do. Little Augie Pisano, for example, was with a girl when he received a phone call and was told to come to a meeting. The jerk brought the girl with him. Now, it is a clear violation of the rules to bring a civilian with you to any business meeting. So, when he showed up, his killers were waiting for him. They had no choice---the girl had to go, too. And she did.

If you get a guy alone, he's gone. I've only heard of one miss. The Persico people tried to kill Larry Gallo by strangling him and right in the middle of the thing a cop walked in. I don't know why they went through all that trouble. To me it's a waste of time to put a rope around a guy's neck. What's it gonna prove---that he lived a few seconds longer? If they had any smarts, they would have put a silencer on a gun and pumped a bullet in his head. So if some cop walked in two minutes later, what's the big deal? Do you realize how far away you can be in two minutes?

Sometimes, though, it's impossible to get a guy alone. Maybe he has too many bodyguards, or maybe he's very careful. Then you have to hit him in public. On a job like this, the important thing is to be cool. If you're careful, there is actually very little to worry about. Now, I've walked into restaurants in which my man was sitting and I've calmly walked over and calmly pulled the trigger and then I turned around and calmly walked out. I didn't run. I just make sure, in a situation like this, that I use something that's going to make a lot of noise, because I want everybody in that place diving under tables. I was fortunate enough to see the police report on number 14, which I did in a restaurant. I was described by 11 different people in 11 different ways ... and not one of them was totally accurate.

Like every professional hit man I've ever known, I've always used a gun. Always. All 38 times. I am a good shot and I know where I'm going to hit you and you are going to die. No one has lived yet. I have steady hands, a sharp eye---I still don't wear glasses---and a great amount of confidence.

I prefer to use a 38 revolver whenever possible, because it's not too big and I know it will always fire unless I have a bad cartridge in there or the hammer's busted, and I always check to make sure this is not the case. Normally, I use a silencer. That way, the gun doesn't make any loud noises, just a small pffft. You try to catch a guy in the head with your first shot, because that ends the argument quickly.

A magnum, which is a very big gun, is nice to have around, but you're not going to use it, because it's too heavy and you need fluidity when you're doing a job. It's also not that accurate a weapon, because when you pull the trigger you get a severe recoil. If you were holding it at hip level when you fired, by the time you got through you'd be pointing at the sky.

At one point, drowning was popular, but no more. Why go through the trouble of taking somebody and dragging them to a spot where there is water and then drowning him? Because you want it to look like an accident! Bullshit! You don't want it to look like an accident! You want people to know why a guy was hit. It serves as a warning to others.

The weapon I carry every day was especially made for me by a friend who is an excellent mechanic. It's a gun about two and one half inches in length and about an inch wide. It's about half an inch thick and, in general, looks just like a cigarette lighter. It is actually a trigger mechanism. I have buckshot cartridges that have been designed for this weapon. I simply screw the cartridges in and pull the trigger and, at 30 feet or less, I can make a crowd out of you. As far as I know, there are only about five weapons like this in existence, and I love it because there's no recoil and no markings are left on the bullet.

I've heard of people who have used knives, hatchets and ice picks, who'll strangle you and garrote you, and every once in a while someone'll use something exotic like a blowtorch. Lately I've been hearing about a new weapon. It's a certain type of gas that you spray in someone's face. Not only does it kill him immediately, it leaves the exact same aftereffects as a heart attack. I'm quite certain that the two men who were involved in the trial of Newark Mayor Hugh Addonizio were killed this way. It's very strange that two important witnesses should die of heart attacks behind the wheels of their cars. But real professionals use guns. I would never use anything else, because I don't like to get too close to my man. I'm not looking to be sophisticated. I'm looking to do a job and not get caught, and so I never get closer than four or five feet. I've got no compunction about it, I just figure it's easier. If I'm that close, he's not going anywhere.

Hell, if I'm within four or five feet of him, he's dead. It's important to set it up so the guy never really has a chance to move or protect himself or run away. The farthest I've had to chase a guy was about 30 yards, and that was someone else's fault. This guy was brought out to a field in the middle of nowhere. He thought he was going to a business meeting. But the driver let him get out of the car before I was ready, he saw me and took off, I chased him on foot and, when I got close enough, I pumped four bullets into him. End of story.

He was one of the few that had that much time. Very few of the 38 ever knew what was about to hit them. I was the last thing they ever saw. I've rarely said a word to any of them. What am I going to say? There's nothing to be said. A lot of times you'll get ready to hit a man and he'll realize briefly what's happening and make the sign of the cross, or he'll start screaming, "No!" But before he can get anything out, it's usually all over.

Let me give you an example of a perfect hit. Number 27. I was working for a particular organization and it was decided that a man was going to die because he had become too ambitious. He was trying to move up too quickly. I was contacted and told there was a contract I was to fulfill. The price, I was told over a soggy pizza (if there is our thing I am a true expert about, it is pizza making ... and eating), was $20,000.

"Do I set up my own deal or do you set it up for me?" I asked. He told me I was on my own and I began studying my man. I took about a week, and by the end of the week, I knew what time he left his house, where he went, who he saw, what business he conducted on what days and, finally, who he was sleep ing with. I noticed that this man continually drove through an isolated area and I studied this area carefully, trying to find a good quiet spot I could pick him off in. I couldn't find exactly what I wanted, so I looked for another place.

I discovered he had a girlfriend that he visited on the nights he made his gambling collections and I picked one of those nights. I used a driver, but I made sure he parked about a block away so he couldn't actually see what I was doing. That way he couldn't testify to a single thing. He wasn't about to hear the shots, because I worked with a silencer. I'm not looking to attract attention. As I said, the only time I won't use a silencer is when I'm working in a public place, because then I want people panicking, screaming, going for the floor.

When this guy came out of his girlfriend's house about six in the morning, I was standing there leaning against a light post. I hit him as he walked to his car. Three shots and he went down. I walked over and put another one in the back of his head. My driver dropped me off at my own car and I got in and drove home. The first thing I did that morning was get rid of the gun.

Most professional hits are similar to that one. The only time it's really different is when a boss is involved. First of all, a boss is never killed unless it has been agreed upon by other bosses. And then it's usually an inside job. Killing a boss is a very intricate and expensive operation. I understand that for the Albert Anastasia hit, Joey Gallo got $50,000, plus control of certain territories in south Brooklyn.

There are two ways to kill a boss. The easiest way is to get to the bodyguard or a top man in the organization and make a deal with him. In most cases you can; there are few bodyguards that are really loyal to their bosses. Take Anastasia. Gallo got to his bodyguard, Trigger Mike Coppola. When Anastasia was having his regular morning shave, Trigger Mike just stepped aside and let the take him. Simple. Quick. Efficient. Easy.

Now the tougher way. If the bodyguard does not agree to the hit, he has to go, too. I was working for Meyer Lansky at one point and some representatives of Vito Genovese invited me to a meeting. They had decided that Meyer was to be hit. An offer was made and I said no thank you. Maybe some people don't, but I really believe in being loyal to an individual who helps you earn. But by saying no, I had made myself a target.

The only reason I wasn't killed right on the spot, after I turned them down, was because I had a gun in my hand. Whenever I go to meet somebody on business, I always wear a pair of pants in which the pocket has been cut out so I can reach through to a gun I have strapped to the inside of my leg. In this particular instance, we were sitting in a restaurant, me with my back to the wall. After I said no, the guy said, "I'm sorry to hear that."

I pulled my cannon out and laid it on the table. "Now, why is that?" I said.

He said, "We'll be seeing you," and got up and left. I made one mistake after that---I didn't tell Meyer. It almost cost me my life, but I thought I could handle it.

I couldn't. I was coming out of a bank in Miami Beach and three guys opened up on me. It's a very strange thing to be hit by a bullet. For a second there is a tremendous burning sensation, then shock takes over. Then you go into what I would call limbo---everything moves in sort of slow motion. You can feel the impact, but not the pain, when you're hit again, but you're not sure exactly what you're doing. That's when your reflexes take complete control. The next thing I remember, I had a gun in my hand and I was using it. I remember hitting one guy and seeing his head explode. I remember shooting the second guy. I never saw the third guy. (A few years later, I was sitting in an Italian restaurant and this guy walks over and said, "You don't know me, but I was almost your executioner." We talked about it. I wasn't angry. I understood. Business is business.)

The lawyer I had gone to the bank with managed to get me into a cab. The next thing I knew, I was lying on a slab in an empty warehouse and a doctor was cutting bullets out of me. One week later I was on a boat to Brazil, where I stayed, well supported, for a year.

So they didn't get through me and they didn't get Meyer. More recently, they did get to Colombo's bodyguard, Gennaro Ciprio. Now, he stayed with the Colombo organization after the shooting, because he figured the Mob would be swallowed up and he would get a better position. It was good figuring. Unfortunately for the late Mr. Ciprio, it was also wrong. When the shooting started between the Gallo-Colombo people, he was one of the first to go. His own people shot him for setting up Colombo. You might call it a penalty shot, I guess.

In any case, boss or soldier, the first thing you do after making a hit is dispose of the weapon. Once the weapon is out of your hands, and can't be traced back to you, it's almost impossible to get pinned with a crime. No weapon, no murder rap. I break up every gun I use that I don't leave on the spot. I have a friend who has a little machine shop and he takes the gun and melts it down. Or I'll bring it to a junk yard and flip it into one of the compressors. Goodbye, gun. As soon as the barrel is destroyed, you're safe. Once that's gone, there is no way of matching the bullet to the gun.

As I said, sometimes I leave it right on the spot. I'll do this if it's a stolen weapon and it's completely clean. There's really nothing to worry about. The handle of the gun has ridges and won't pick up fingerprints (unless you're stupid enough to use something like a pearl-handled revolver, and if you do, you deserve to get caught). The hammer has ridges, too, and there is always a line right down the middle of the trigger. Sometimes I'll wipe the gun, anyway, just to be certain, because fingerprints can kill you. One guy blasted a target with a shotgun and left the shotgun there. Fine, except he also left his finger-prints on it. So he had to go, too.

After I make a hit, and get rid of the gun, I follow my regular schedule. I remember hitting a guy and going directly from the hit to a wedding reception. And then I forget about it.

One thing I never, ever do is plan an alibi in advance. To me that is really stupid, because, by planning, you've got to get other people involved. If you ask them to front for you, they know you're going to do something. But if I do the job right, who's gonna know I'm there? If I have to, I can always set up an alibi. I can get 18 guys to swear they were playing cards with me. Or I can get the owner of some restaurant or movie theater who owes me a favor to swear I was there. No problems.

The police usually don't bother you too much, either. Number one, the cops are not going to knock their brains out on a Mob hit, because history shows they are not going to be able to get corroborating testimony, even if they know who did the job, which they do in a lot of so-far "unsolved" cases. Don't underestimate the police. They do a really good job. But when a Mob guy is hit by another Mob guy ... well, let's say they're not overly disappointed and don't work as hard as they might under other circumstances.

You can almost forget about witnesses. There have been very few people willing to testify against Mob people. Not so much because they tend to disappear but because your average individual is a family person and he is terrified someone in his family will get hurt if he gets involved. And, second, they're just not that socially conscious. They think just like the cops, what the hell, he only killed another gangster, what's the difference? Let 'em all kill one another.

Who can blame them? The newspapers, television, movies, magazines and books have done our job for us. They've scared the hell out of your so-called honest citizen. Let me ask you a question: After seeing The Godfather, would you testify against Don Corleone? Shit, after seeing The Godfather, would you even testify against Marlon Brando?

Every once in a while, though, you do get a rare soul who is willing to testify. Although I have never been convicted, I have been questioned in 17 murder cases. For the record, I was guilty three times. I have been brought before a grand jury a total of seven times; four times I was released and three times I was held for trial. I have spent time in jails all across the country, always waiting trial, never convicted. The district attorney in New York thought he had me once, but by the time we got to trial, the state's witnesses were no longer available to them. They had gone on an extended vacation; I never did find out exactly why they chose that time. The D. A. wanted to continue my trial until they returned, whenever that might be, but my lawyer started screaming. "Your Honor, this is ridiculous!" he yelled. "My client has spent almost a year sitting in jail and we are ready to go to trial." The judge gave the D. A. 24 hours to produce the witnesses.

That D. A. was upset. He was mad. The next day he told the judge, "Your Honor, we cannot locate the witnesses, but we think the defendant had something to do with their disappearance."

My lawyer laughed. "How could that happen?" he asked. "He's been in jail since last year." Case dismissed. I'm told those witnesses didn't return for almost a full year. They sure must have liked wherever they were.

About the only thing you have to think about, after the gun, the witnesses and the police, is the body. Most of the time it's best to leave them where they fall, but sometimes certain people prefer to have them simply disappear off the face of the earth. What the hell, they're paying for it. One organization brings their leftovers to a junk yard that has a compressor and makes them part of next year's Lincoln. Another uses a furnace. And there are still some undiscovered farms with lots of shallow graves fertilizing the plants. I suppose the most popular places are construction sites. The organization finds an area where concrete is about to be poured and they put the body in there. Some guy comes to work the next morning and, what does he know, he pours the concrete. Here's a helpful hint, though: Always pour lime over the body or, when it starts decomposing, it's going to smell just terrible.

I've only broken one rule in my career. I have killed three men for revenge---and I made them suffer when I did it. Normally, you're supposed to get permission, but I didn't bother. It seems like a bad movie when I think about it. I remember in Nevada Smith, Steve McQueen tracked down the three guys who killed his parents and, when he found the third one, he just couldn't kill him. That's the difference between real life and the pictures. There wasn't a man on the face of this earth that was going to stop me.

It was 1958 and I had made a deal to bring narcotics into the country from Mexico. My cut was supposed to be $40,000, but, instead of paying me, the party thought it would be a great deal cheaper to kill me. Unfortunately, when he sent his goons to my house, I wasn't there. My wife, who was, was four months pregnant at the time. They came into the house looking for me and when they realized I wasn't home, they got abusive. One of them kicked her in the stomach and left her lying on the kitchen floor. She started hemorrhaging. She was dead by the time some neighbors got her to the hospital.

They caught up to me in Reno, Nevada. I had just come out of one of the casinos---I didn't know what had happened to my wife---and I started to cut through this alley over by some railroad tracks. The lights blanked out. I was smashed over the head with a blunt instrument.

Ten days later I came to, paralyzed from the neck down, in the Washoe Medical Center. The doctor manipulated my vertebrae and managed to restore some feeling in my body. The next day some friends came and they told me what had happened to my wife.

That was the day I stopped caring whether I lived or died. That was the day I lost all fear of death. All I had within me was hatred. I would not have gone after the three men for what they did to me---business was business---and I would have settled with the head man. But they were dead the moment they kicked my wife.

We had only been married a few months. When we got married, I didn't know if I was going to stay in this business or not. I certainly never would've stayed in as a hit man if she had lived; I even like to think I would have quit. You talk about your life changing around because of a woman ... mine did. She was a real clean kid. And she was mine. For the first time in my life, I had found someone who made me completely happy. I could say that, until that point, I didn't know what happiness was. All my life I had been a taker, everything I owned I had had to grab. But for the first time in my life, I had found someone who was willing to give simply because she liked me. There were never any threats, any wild shows, she liked me just because I was me.

And then my whole world exploded. It just came apart. It changed me quite a bit. Before this, I was wild and crazy, but I just wasn't mean. This made me mean. As soon as I could move, I got on the telephone and called the guy who had set the whole thing up. He picked up the phone. All I said was, "You made a mistake, fuck. I'm still alive."

I laid in the hospital for eight months and one day the doctor walked in and said I could either lie there like a vegetable for the rest of my life or risk an operation. I asked him what my chances were.

"Even," he said. "You'll either walk out or be carried out by eight of your best friends." I didn't give a damn either way, so I told him to start cutting. Seven months later, I walked out of that hospital. And went after the three men who had killed my wife.

I started to hunt them down. I carried .22 long-range flat-nosed bullets, because I wanted them to suffer. At short range they won't kill you, but they will smash your bones and make you bleed. The first one I found in California. I killed him very slowly. I had trapped him in a garbage-filled alley and he started swearing he had nothing to do with it. There was no way I was going to listen. I just started to pump bullets into him methodically. First into his legs, so he couldn't move. Then into his rib cage, so he would bleed. Then into his shoulders, and then I shot his ears off. I just kept reloading the gun, I was having a good time. Then I left him there to die.

I found the second one in Mexico and killed him the same way. I had never known anything as sweet as these killings. They were wonderful sights. I could smell the fear. If you've ever wondered why an animal attacks someone who's afraid of him, it's because the fear just pours out of him and creates an odor. I saw it. I smelled it. I loved it.

I had to chase the third one completely across the country. He knew I was after him and he tried to hide. It took me almost a year to find him, but I did, in New York City. He went down just like the first two. Then I got on the phone to the boss. I said two words, "You're next," and then I hung up. But before I could get him, he was arrested on a narcotics charge. That bust saved his life. I guarantee it. He is doing 25 years and I pray he's doing hard time every one of those days. And, if he lives through it, the day he walks out, I will be standing there waiting for him. I swear it.

• • •

Why do I do it? Why do I kill people? There are a number of reasons. Obviously, the money. I like money. I like what money can buy, what it can bring you. I remember when I didn't have it, when I ate meat maybe once every month. I never missed a meal when I was a kid, I just postponed a few. I remember that.

And I like the status it brings. I'm somebody. An awful lot of people are terrified of me. And fascinated. Women, especially. Believe it or not, there are certain "hit-men groupies," women who just have to get close to a man who has killed people. I like women being attracted to me. I didn't have what you would call a normal social life; I didn't do much dating when I was growing up. And I know I'm not the best-looking guy in the world, either, so if it's being the tough killer that turns women on, I'll play that part, I'll be as tough as they want. Usually, though, after they know you, they get sick. They feel they've corrupted themselves.

I also see killing as a test of loyalty and courage.

In business terms, the ability to pull the trigger is vitally important. If you expect to progress in any organization, you have to be able to do it. I would say almost every man who has ever become a boss has pulled it somewhere along the line.

And, finally, I guess I do it because I enjoy it. I like having the power of knowing that I am it, that I can make the final decision of whether someone lives or dies. It is an awesome power.

I would say, overall, that I've been very successful in my chosen profession. My wife and I live well, we have friends, we get respect. Most of the people in my family know what I do, but they don't ever really ask questions. Every once in a while my cousin, the cop, and me will talk about our different businesses. All he's ever said to me is, "Be careful, kid, be careful."

Some of our neighbors have a pretty good idea I'm in the business. One woman once said something to my wife about me being a hood. My wife really started screaming, "How do you know that? Have you ever seen him do anything? Until you have some proof, you keep your big mouth shut."

Don't try to analyze me, or any other hit man, either. I would guess there are maybe 1000 still working at it throughout the country. But, except in New York, there hasn't been that much work lately, so I guess you might accurately call us a dying breed. The thing about us that's so unusual is that we're so usual. A man who's sadistic, who's crazy-wild, who's a troublemaker, who has strange habits or stands out in a crowd, he can't make it. He'll be disposed of.

Hit men differ in a thousand ways. Some are friendly, some moody, some tall, some short, some bald and, lately, even some with long hair. You'd never be able to pick one out in a crowd, but then again, you won't have to. A good hit man is known only to those people who have to know who he is.

What makes a good hit man? Pride and confidence. A good hit man goes out, does his job, comes home to his family and can sit down and eat his dinner without any problems. After all, no one likes to bring his work home with him.