Final Confession (10 page)

“So much for taste,” Phil said finally. The starlet leaned over and whispered, “Now, who would
you
have chosen, me or her?” “Listen, I gotta go,” Phil said, fearing that if he didn't leave then, he wouldn't be able to tear himself away. “Am I done, then?” she asked. “Check's in the mail—and I really wish I
could
stay.” Phil frowned. “Yeah, me too,” she agreed. “Now I got a whole night to kill—in Kansas City, of all places.” Then she smiled and asked, “Will you call me again? This is the best job, I've ever had.” “I sure hope so,” Phil answered. He meant every word.

Tony and Angelo greeted him when he got out to the van. They drove through the night and arrived in Chicago the next morning. Through the whole trip, Phil found himself wishing he'd been able to stay in Kansas City.

Augie took the furs and told the Cresta team they could stay at his apartment until the furs were sold. “Was the girl all right?” Augie asked. When Tony described her, Augie said, “And nobody got
nothing
from her?” Tony smiled and said, “I have something to dream about for the rest of my life, and that's enough.” “That fur guy never even
looked
at her?” Augie asked in disbelief. “Not even a look-see,” Tony answered. “What about you, Phil? You're a ladies' man. Did you take a shot at her?” Augie smiled. “She was out of my league, Augie, strictly out of my league.”

Augie sold the furs within a day and gave Phil $150,000 in cash, which Phil split with Angelo and Tony. “Do we pay the broad?” Augie asked. “Give her five thousand,” Phil responded. “Five large!” Augie spit out the sum in dismay. “For crissake, Phil, she didn't
do
nothing.” Phil reiterated, “Five large, Augie, and it's not negotiable. She did exactly what we asked her to do.
It's not her fault the guy likes fat broads.” “I suppose it comes from my end?” Augie said, sulking. “Naw. Tell the Civellas to pay it. For expenses incurred,” Phil said, laughing.

The starlet got her money. The next time Phil saw her she was in a movie at the Music Hall in Boston. She looked as great on the big screen as she had in the Kansas City hotel lounge. Because he was fond of her, Cresta asked that her name not be included when this story was told.

T
HANKS TO AUGIE
, Phil was now getting leads on jobs all over the country. He liked the freedom of working outside Boston. When they went to St. Louis or Kansas City, they didn't have to keep looking over their shoulders for the cops because nobody knew them there. He also liked it that neither Angiulo nor Tilley had any pull on them outside their territory. Some of these faraway jobs were more successful than others, but the Cresta team never got caught. Tony and Angelo, however, grew tired of being away from home. By the Christmas season of 1965 they were in New York. Beautiful as Manhattan was at that time of year, it wasn't Boston.

“We were making good money, but I could tell Tony was growing restless,” Phil recalled. “He'd lost his edge, and that worried me. But when Tony stopped eating, I knew things were really bad.” While casing a job in Manhattan, Phil told Angelo that Tony didn't seem to want to be there. Angelo's response was, “Neither do I. I miss my family.” That was when Phil knew it was time to take his team home. He had broken off his own marriage two years before, and had practically no contact with
his ex-wife and six children. But Angelo and Tony were close to their wives and kids. So Phil suggested they complete this last planned job, then return to Boston.

“Honest to God?” Angelo asked, stealing one of Tony's lines. “Mother's honor,” Phil said, and they both chuckled. They went out to dinner that night and painted the town to celebrate. Afterward, Tony and Angelo were smiling from ear to ear when the taxi pulled up to their hotel. Phil looked at Tony and said, “Tomorrow, Tony, it's bada-bing bada-bang, and we're home.” Tony laughed and said, “You gut it, Phil.”

The next day they did some sightseeing and Christmas shopping. That night they were ready for business. Augie had given them a lead on a big-time New York jewelry salesmen. The guy lived in Connecticut but had an apartment in New York City provided by the Gambino family. Once or twice a week he would drive from Connecticut to the Big Apple, pick up a shipment of uncut diamonds, and deliver them to New Jersey. The diamond salesman paid the Gambino family protection money, so nobody from New York would touch the guy. But as Phil noted, the Cresta team wasn't from New York.

Phil, Angelo, and Tony waited outside the New York address they'd been given by Augie. At eleven
P.M
. the jewelry salesman climbed into his Cadillac and headed for New Jersey. “He was a Don Knotts look-alike,” Phil recalled. “He weighed about a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. I knew we wouldn't have any problem with him, once he picked up the diamonds.” Phil was right; it wasn't the jewelry salesman they had problems with.

They had followed him for about thirty miles, through a few darkened towns, when Phil felt the car begin to vibrate. The vibration became worse every time Tony pushed the accelerator to over seventy miles per hour. They were beginning to lose the guy, and once that happened, the caper would be over.

Phil, already into his pre-job hyper mood, was livid. “Where did you guys get this car?” he asked. “La Guardia,” Tony answered. “Did you check it out?” Phil inquired. “Yeah, Phil, we
did what we always do,” Angelo shot back. “But we didn't get a friggin tune-up, if that's what you're asking.” “Sorry, Ange,” Phil said. “But with this piece of shit, we're going to lose the guy
and
a big payday.” Nobody said anything. They didn't have to.

A few miles later the car sputtered and died, and so did their chances for the big score. “
Now
what do we do?” Phil asked as the car slowed to a halt. “Let's find a gas station,” Tony said. “Yeah, like there's gonna be an all-night gas station right around the corner,” Phil said sarcastically.

Phil told Tony to stay with the car and he would scout around. He began walking, and as he rounded the bend, he started to laugh. There was a gas station. He ran back to the car and told Tony and Angelo. They laughed together. “See, Phil? I know what I'm talking about,” Tony said. Angelo added, “If there's a half-eaten Italian spuckie in there, I'll
know
we're in the Twilight Zone.”

As they got closer they could see that the gas station was closed. Phil got out of the car and told Tony and Angelo to push it the last 150 yards, by which time he'd be inside the station waiting for them. Phil picked the ancient lock and was rummaging around when he heard Tony and Angelo arrive. He opened the bay doors, and they pushed the dead car into one of the bays. “We were really in the boonies, so we weren't too worried about getting caught,” Phil commented.

Phil, who was a good mechanic, borrowed a few tools and found the problem almost immediately, then searched the garage for parts to repair it. Tony and Angelo decided to take a look around, to kill time.

As Phil was finishing the repair, Tony came running up behind him.
“Phil, Phil, you gutta see this!”
he yelled. “Why don't you yell a little louder? There's still a few people all the way to New York who didn't hear you,” Phil said. The rebuke didn't bother Tony a bit. “Look at these, Phil,” he said, shoving a handful of pens into Phil's greasy hand. Phil was duly unimpressed. “Great, Tony, you found a couple of nice pens. Meanwhile we
just blew a hundred thousand dollars.” “Not a
couple
, Phil.” Tony smiled. “Thousands.”

When Phil finished with the car he went to the back storage room with his pals. It was filled with boxes of pens.

Phil opened one of the boxes, which had the name
OMAS
written on the front. Phil, like Tony, had never heard of the brand before. Nonetheless, they piled box upon box into their car and headed for Boston. “We barely had enough room to breathe,” Phil recalled, chuckling. “Tony, of course, complained the entire trip.”

Once there, they went straight to a safe-storage area that Phil had rented on West First Street in South Boston, and unloaded the pens. The next day they met at McGrail's and Phil called Louie Diamonds.

“Phil, where have you been? Everyone's been asking about you,” Louie said. “I'm sure,” Phil replied, knowing only too well that “everyone” was Jerry Angiulo. “What kind of precious jewels do you have for me?” Louie asked. “No glass, Louie, but I do have something I thought you could help me unload.” Phil didn't go into detail about how he'd stolen the pens, he just told Louie what kind they were and how many he had. Louie was disappointed, but promised Phil he'd get back to him within a day or two.

Phil's phone rang at eight the next morning. An excited Louie Diamonds asked, “Phil, you say the name of the pens is omas, right?” “Yeah, that's the name. Can we get anything for them?” “Twenty bucks,” Louie said. “Twenty bucks for what, for the whole lot?” Phil asked. “No. Twenty bucks
apiece
,” Louie said, laughing. It took Phil a few seconds to get over his initial dismay, and then it took him a few more seconds to compute the value of the pens. “The whole shipment?” he asked Louie. “Kit and caboodle, that's two hundred thousand dollars.”

“I know, I know! And my cut is ten percent,” Louie quickly added. He told Phil to drop off the pens at an address on Bromfield Street, in downtown Boston. “What about the money?” Phil inquired. “I'll have half of it for you upon delivery,”
Louie said, then he hung up the phone. Phil called Angelo and Tony and instructed them to meet him in Southie at the storage place.

They were waiting when Phil parked his newly rented Ryder truck on West First Street. “Whadda ya gut, Phil, ya gut a buyer?” Tony anxiously asked. “Yeah, he's on Bromfield Street,” Phil answered with a straight face. “What's the price?” Angelo asked. “Twenty bucks,” Phil said. “Twenty bucks! Screw Bromfield Street, I'm not lugging all these boxes all the way over there. Let's donate 'em to St. Augustine's on E Street. Maybe we can buy our way into heaven,” Angelo said in jest. Hardly able to contain himself, Phil finally commented, “I don't know, guys, maybe a hundred and eighty large won't get us into heaven, but it sure is going to make our life on earth a lot more enjoyable.”

They didn't get it, and continued to mumble and bitch about the stupid pens. Finally Angelo looked over at Phil, who had a big grin on his face.
“A hundred eighty large!”
he yelled. “Phil, you've gutta be shittin' me. Someone's gonna give us a hundred and eighty large for these friggin pens?” Phil just nodded as he and Angelo looked over at Tony, who was busy stacking the boxes of pens. “Tony, can you imagine how many Italian spuckies sixty thousand dollars will buy?” Phil said. Tony spun around and said, “Nobody in their right mind would pay that much for friggin pens.”

Phil pointed out that if someone was willing to pay them twenty dollars apiece, then someone else must be willing to pay forty or fifty bucks or more. (Italian-made
OMAS
pens today sell for hundreds of dollars apiece.) It was way too much for Tony to take in. “Rich people, I don't get 'em.” Tony shrugged. “Whadda ya mean you don't get 'em, Tony?” Angelo asked, laughing. “You're
one
of 'em.” “Let's go eat,” was Tony's response. “You buying, rich man?” Phil asked. “Not till I see the money. I still think you're full of shit,” Tony replied.

As it turned out, Phil was right on the mark. They delivered the pens to the back door of the place on Bromfield Street. Then they met Louie Diamonds in his office that night. Louie
counted out a hundred crisp thousand-dollar bills and gave them to Phil. Tony, seeing the money, still couldn't believe what was happening. A couple of days later they met in Louie Cohen's office again; this time he counted out another eighty crisp thousand-dollar bills.

Phil received a call from Augie in Chicago. “What happened?” he asked. “My guy in New York tells me the pigeon never got hit.” “He's right, Augie, it never went down.” “Did ya get a bum steer?” Augie was probing for details. “No, no, the setup was perfect. We just didn't want to take down one of Gambino's guys—too risky. We backed off at the last minute,” Phil lied. “Yeah, maybe you're right.” Augie laughed. “It hasn't been a very good week for the Gambinos. They just got served papers and someone stole some of their property from a fence in New Jersey.”

Phil went stone silent.

“Ya didn't clip some fancy pens while you were in New York, did ya?” Augie asked, laughing.

Phil froze. Then, attempting a lighthearted tone, he said, “What are you, crazy? We don't steal pens. Shit, we don't even
use
pens.”

Augie told him that someone had hit one of Gambino's places in Jersey and they were less than happy about it. “Ya can't steal from the mob, right, Phil?”

“Absofuckinglutely,” Phil said, and hung up. He immediately called Louie Diamonds and told him whose pens they had.

“Louie almost shit himself,” Phil said, chuckling, “but he did the right thing. He told his buyer that mum was the word on the pens.” There were no repercussions.

“SOMETIMES IT'S BETTER
to be lucky than good,” Phil pointed out. The pen robbery was a one-in-a-million shot, and Phil knew it. If the Gambino family had found out who'd stolen their merchandise, there would have been nowhere for the Cresta team to hide. Not even Augie and the Chicago people would be able to save them. So after he collected the money
from the
OMAS
job, Phil took a vacation until the Gambinos cooled off.

He visited his sister Mari in Chicago and spent a few days upgrading his skills. The locksmith who had helped Phil with the parking meter job had turned his back room into a sort of college for enterprising young picks, vault men, and alarm men. Phil Cresta had graduated earlier, summa cum laude. But being a believer in lifelong education, whenever he traveled to Chicago he would spend hours learning how to get into the newest vaults being manufactured, how to disable state-of-the-art alarms, and how to make duplicate keys in less than a minute. It was an atmosphere Phil reveled in.

Once, he had devised what he called a miniature “smoker.” With it he could heat (smoke) a regular key and make a perfect duplicate in under a minute. He kept the smoker in his glove compartment and the speed it gave his break-ins became one of his trademarks.

During this late-1965 trip to Chicago Phil designed something new. Soon after New Year's Day 1966 he returned to Boston. It took him a day or two to buy all the components for the device he had drawn. When he finished, he called Tony and Angelo and met them at Amrhein's, a well-known South Boston restaurant. Phil told them to meet him at noon.

Phil, who was usually punctual, arrived fifteen minutes late on purpose. As he pulled into the restaurant's snow-covered parking lot, he saw Tony's car at the far end. He walked across the half-filled lot to Tony's car, reached into his leather coat, and pulled out a little box that was about the size of a pack of cigarettes. He lifted the hood of Tony's car and placed the object on the engine. Shutting the hood, he went into Amrhein's to meet his two friends, whom he hadn't seen in over three weeks.

Tony was so happy to see Phil that he insisted on paying for lunch, but Phil could see a look of concern on Angelo's face. “What's wrong, Ange?” he asked. “Nothing now,” Angelo replied. “It's just not like you to be late. I was worried.” “Well, I
had good reason for being late. Let's go for a ride later, and I'll explain.”

They ate. When they left the restaurant, Angelo and Phil walked ahead while Tony paid the bill. “We'll meet you at McGrail's,” Phil yelled to Tony. “Angelo and I will follow you.”

“Why so secretive, Phil? What's up?” Angelo asked a short time later, when they were heading over the Broadway Bridge. The only reply he got was, “You'll see.”