Cullotta: The Life of a Chicago Criminal, Las Vegas Mobster and Government Witness (4 page)

Anticipating large amounts of cash in his pockets, 16-year-old Frank Cullotta was ready for his first foray into major crime: He was about to become an armed robber. However, along with the potential rewards, there were also great risks. In the Chicago of that day, it wasn’t unusual to encounter a pedestrian, tavern patron, homeowner, or store cashier who was armed and wouldn’t surrender his money without a fight. And if caught by the police, the criminal penalties for a robber were much more severe than pilfering from the paperboy’s moneybag.

Those concerns didn’t deter Frank, though. He contacted Crazy Bob Sprodak about a week after giving up his newspaper-stand job and told him he was ready for action. The two decided they would stick up a saloon that same night. But as the score went down, Frank was haunted by an old nemesis.

Sprodak assured Frank that all they needed for the job were gloves to avoid leaving any prints, a hot car, and guns. Getting the gloves and car were no problem and Bob said he’d supply the guns. Neither man had his picture on file anywhere. Bob was clean and Frank’s priors were all juvenile, so they wouldn’t cause him any grief. He was feeling pretty good about things until he thought about his glasses. His mother always told him that he should be a good boy, because wearing glasses made him stand out in a crowd and people would remember him if he acted up. With that warning in mind, when Frank went to rob the tavern that night, he didn’t wear his specs. He never considered that the bar might not be adequately lit.

Frank and Crazy Bob charged into the tavern. Bob yelled, “Everybody put your hands up and behave!” For emphasis, he let loose with a blast from his sawed-off shotgun. The pellets shattered several of the whiskey bottles behind the bar, creating a shower of broken glass and booze. Having everyone’s attention, Bob ordered them to the floor.

Frank was positioned by the door to prevent anyone from running out. He watched as the bartender and patrons obeyed Bob’s instruction and went to the floor, but one obstinate man just stood there. Frank yelled for him to get down, but he didn’t budge.

Frank started toward the stubborn patron as he answered. “This bastard won’t do what he’s told. But he’s going down now, one way or another.”

A few steps closer now, Frank realized the guy who wouldn’t follow his orders wasn’t a person at all; it was actually a coat rack. With hats and coats on it through his bad eyes, it had looked like a person. Embarrassed, he hit the coat rack and knocked it over. As the robbers ran out of the building with their loot, the sound of Crazy Bob’s laughter was ringing in Frank’s ears.

Although Frank’s first armed robbery had been successful, he was concerned that if word got out about the coat rack, he’d never live it down. “You’ve gotta promise you’ll never tell anybody about that goddamn coat rack,” Frank insisted, as they drove away from the scene of the crime. “Promise?”

Crazy Bob chuckled, then turned serious. “Sure, Frankie. Your secret’s safe with me.” Then he laughed again. “Just make sure that if you ever decide to do any shooting on one of these jobs, you know where in the hell I am before you pull the trigger.”

Frank continued to shun wearing his glasses on scores. But from then on he didn’t go inside on tavern robberies unless he was sure the place was well-lit.

Chicago had a lot of bars and the pair started robbing two or three joints a night. It was exciting and they were making money, but Frank knew it was a dangerous occupation. He was sure it was just a matter of time until they ran into an armed bartender or customer. On top of that, Bob was getting more trigger happy, shooting up the places. He figured he’d better get away from Crazy Bob before something really bad happened.

After Frank quit doing armed robberies with Sprodak, he started pulling tavern jobs with another friend. It wasn’t long before he’d put together a four-man crew. Following in his father’s footsteps, Frank became the wheel man on these robberies. He did all the driving, while the rest of his gang ran into the saloons hollering like a bunch of cowboys. Even so, they were becoming more professional about it, wearing gloves and masks to protect their identities.

Frank’s concern about armed patrons turned out to be wellfounded during a tavern robbery in Cicero. This was one of several Chicago suburbs that were heavily mob connected. Independent thieves had to be careful pulling jobs in such areas, because Outfit guys might be running or hanging out in the targeted establishment. Robbing connected businesses or individuals could be dangerous on the spot or have repercussions later on. Or both.

On that night Frank manned the work car while his crew entered the tavern to pull the job. They were only inside a few seconds when the sound of gunfire shattered the night. The door to the bar flew open and the robbers came running out to the getaway car. Two men from the bar were chasing them; both had guns and were shooting. As Frank pulled away from the curb, the windows in the car were shattered by the gunfire.

“Jesus Christ!” one of the crew hollered as a bullet creased his hair, then went right out the windshield. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” another shouted, returning fire.

“We’re not out of the woods yet!” Frank yelled, as the car gained speed. “We’ve still got to get out of Cicero and make it home. Keep an eye out for the cops and other cars,” he added, calming down.

“It’s going to be a long half-hour ride back to the neighborhood,” someone else said.

“I think we’re in the clear.” Frank breathed a sigh of relief, after putting the tavern some distance behind. “I’m going to pull over and switch plates. Keep your guns drawn.”

Things went smooth until they got near their area; then an unmarked police car pulled behind them and turned on the lights and siren. Frank pushed the accelerator to the floor and the pursuit was on. He turned a corner and found a car stopped in the middle of the street. It happened that Tony Spilotro and a couple of other guys were in the car that was blocking Frank’s route. He yelled at them and Tony got the car out of the way, but the cops were gaining. Frank told his men to back them off. For the second time that night bullets whistled through the air. After a few shots the police car went out of control and hit a utility pole; the officers were uninjured, but stopped. Completing their escape, the thieves dumped the hot car and went home.

As for the robber whose hair had been creased by a bullet, it had been too close a call for him. That was his last robbery.

In spite of all the excitement, the take from the robbery wasn’t that great, only about $500. The newspaper reports of the incident said that a couple of armed patrons had driven the robbers off. Frank never found out if the shooters were connected to the Outfit.

The next day, Frank and his boys were in their hangout, an Italian restaurant called the Pizza Palace, when Tony came in. They talked about what happened the previous night, the police chase and the cop car being wrecked.

“I think you fuckin’ guys are crazy, but you’ve got balls,” Tony said. “How’d you like to come in on a deal I’ve got working?”

At that time Tony was working his way up the Outfit ladder, pursuing his goal of becoming a main man. He was then part of a crew run by Outfit guy James “Turk” Torello. Unlike his buddy, however, Frank preferred to stay independent and call his own shots. In that respect he was a renegade. But even though he was leery of getting involved with Tony because it might mean hooking up with and being controlled by the mobsters, he was intrigued and wanted to hear more. “What kind of deal are you talking about?”

“Turk’s got a thing going that’s safer and pays better than the robberies you’re doing. We call it the bank route.”

“You mean sticking up banks?”

“No. All we do is lay on [watch] the banks, looking for messengers coming in to get money for businesses. These guys follow a routine. If you get behind them in line at the bank, you can tell how much cash they’ll be carrying by the color of the bands holding the stacks of money they take out. Once you identify a messenger and know how big a score to expect, you can rob him a week or two later after he leaves the bank.”

Frank liked what he was hearing, but was concerned about getting involved with Torello. “You’re already with a crew. How do we fit in?”

Tony smiled. “I can work with Turk and you guys, too. There are a lot of banks around and I’m an ambitious guy.”

Frank knew that if they threw in with him, Tony would make sure some of the money from their scores was kicked back to the Outfit. They wouldn’t allow him to moonlight otherwise. Frank wasn’t thrilled about having to pay the mob a tribute. In fact, the idea galled him. Still, it sounded like easy work with good earning potential. He glanced at his crew and got their nods of approval. “Okay, we’re in,” he said.

A few days later, Tony, Frank, and one of his crew drove to Kenosha, Wisconsin, where they did their first bank-messenger robbery. It was a $20,000 score. The only drawback was the travel; the distance back to Chicago increased their chances of getting caught. They decided to do future jobs closer to home.

For nearly a year Frank’s gang, along with Tony, pulled a number of successful bank-messenger robberies in and around Chicago. As it turned out, though, an unplanned caper led to the end of the bank-route heists.

One of Frank’s crew was having a problem tailing a messenger and asked Frank for help. “I’ve been watching a guy at a bank in Oak Park. Every time he leaves the bank he walks through a tunnel and then I lose him. How about coming with me and help me follow him?”

“Sure. We’ll use that big Lincoln of yours to scout it out. We’ll figure out his route and take him later.”

After parking the car in an alley nearby, they watched the tunnel at the time the messenger always made his run. True to form, he came along right on schedule. The appearance of the two thieves must have scared the messenger, though. As soon as he spotted them, he screamed, “Don’t hurt me! Here! Take it!” Then he threw the moneybag at Frank. As the messenger disappeared back into the tunnel, the two thieves looked at each other in disbelief and broke into laughter. Then they grabbed the money and took off.

As they started to drive away, Frank noticed some guys in a car stopped at the end of the alley. Not sure who they were, the thieves decided to get out of the area quick. The Lincoln went by the other car fast, but not fast enough.

What had been one of the easiest scores of Frank’s early career turned out to be costly in the end. One of the occupants of the other car noted the Lincoln’s plate number.

At the time of the Oak Park incident, the Chicago Police Department’s robbery detail was under the command of Frank Pape. This legendary cop is credited with killing nine alleged criminals in the line of duty and was responsible for sending 300 more to prison. He survived a 39-year law-enforcement career and passed away in March 2000 at the age of 91.

One of Pape’s detectives was Tom Durso, who was also an extremely tough guy. Durso and an associate, a reputed Outfit enforcer named Mike Gargano, used to shake down the thieves, demanding a cut of their scores. The word on the street was that if you failed to pay, you could end up dead. If you were a crook, these were good men to stay away from—for more than one reason.

As a result of the Oak Park bank-messenger job, Frank Cullotta had the misfortune of having encounters with all three of them. It was his first adult interrogation by the Chicago cops, one of the worst of many to come.

Things began to unravel for Frank when witnesses passed the license-plate number of his friend’s Lincoln to the police. The cops traced the registration to Frank’s partner, who was known to them. Durso and Gargano went on the prowl and picked up Frank and his buddy on the street. First they handcuffed and beat Frank’s pal. He denied being involved in the Oak Park situation and stuck to his story. Eventually, he was released.

Next it was Frank’s turn. Durso and Gargano put him in their car, then Durso stuck a gun in his face. “Where’s the fuckin’ money?”

Frank acted confused. “What money?”

“Cut the shit. You know goddamn well what I’m talking about.

Where is it?”

“I don’t know nothin’ about any money. You must have me mixed up with somebody else.”

“Listen, you prick, we could whack you right now and dump you out on the street. Nobody’d know any better and they wouldn’t miss you, because you’re just a scumbag crook.”

Frank hung tough. “I tell you I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

Frank’s denials enraged Durso and Gargano, who worked him over pretty good. Further demands that he admit to the robbery and divulge the location of the messenger’s money were unsuccessful. Frank was then transported to the station and up to the detective’s office on the eleventh floor, where he was handcuffed to the back of a chair. A few minutes later, Frank Pape walked in.

He said, “How ya doin?”

Assuming the question had been directed at him, Frank answered. “I’m doin’ pretty good.”

Pape had apparently been talking to Durso. He grabbed a phone book from a desk and hit Frank in the head with it. “Who’s talkin’ to you, you no-good cocksucker? When I tell you to talk, you talk. Otherwise, shut the fuck up. Understand?”

This time, Frank’s
failure
to answer resulted in another crack in the head with the phone book. That was followed by a punch in the chest, knocking both him and the chair over backwards. Looking up at Pape, Frank said, “I haven’t done anything wrong and don’t even know why I’m here.”

Pape said to Durso, “Get the cattle prods in here. I’m going to make this son of a bitch talk.”

A few minutes later, the cattle prods were applied near Frank’s testicles. The same questions were asked over and over: Tell us about the robbery. Who was with you? Where’s the money? Each time, the prisoner answered that he didn’t know what his interrogators were talking about. Every denial was followed by a zap with the cattle prods. Screaming in agony, Frank told the cops what he thought of them, generating additional pain. But through it all he didn’t talk. He didn’t admit to anything.