Final Confession (15 page)

T
O THOSE WHO LIVED IN BOSTON
, 1967 was the year of the Impossible Dream and Yaz. It was especially hard not to be caught up in the dream of the Red Sox winning a World Series if you hung out only a hundred yards or so from Fenway Park. McGrail's, located in the shadow of the baseball stadium, was the place to be that year.

Phil was not a big baseball fan, but he did like the game and the enthusiasm surrounding the Red Sox was contagious. On July 26, 1967, it didn't dawn on Phil that it had been exactly one year since their last job. Tony and Angelo were with him at McGrail's as always, but things were different during the summer of the Impossible Dream. There was no overriding need to plan scores or meet with moles or other informants: they were all driving fancy late-model cars and dressing expensively.

“It was like we were retired at forty years old,” Phil recalled. “We had some great connections in Fenway, with some guys who worked there and drank at McGrail's. We were able to get tickets to any game, which was worth a big deal back then. Those tickets, especially in September, were almost impossible to come by for most people,” Phil said.

The Sox won the pennant only to lose to the St. Louis Cardinals in the Series, but it was a great run. During the games Phil and Angelo and Tony talked of going back into business. Their preliminary plans, though, were interrupted by Jerry Angiulo, who had been breeding resentment toward the obviously successful Phil Cresta.

A week after the Sox lost the World Series, Phil, still the same tough-looking and quiet man who had pulled so many successful heists, sauntered into Joe Tecce's restaurant with a pretty blonde on his arm. She was a woman he'd been seeing lately, and was hoping to see more of. They sat at the bar until a table opened up. Most wise guys wouldn't settle for waiting in restaurant, but Phil didn't mind waiting. Making a scene was against his habit of staying as unnoticed as possible. And besides, there was another customer in the dining room whose attention he didn't wish to arouse.

When a table became available he was seated—at a table directly across from Jerry Angiulo. Phil hadn't been in the same room as Angiulo in three years. Phil waved to New England's boss as he took his seat. Angiulo did not wave back. Phil shrugged and sat down.

Midway through their antipasto Phil's date asked her boyfriend, “What's that guy's problem over there? He's been staring at you since we sat down.”

“That guy,” Phil said quietly, “is Jerry Angiulo. And I think it won't be long before I find out what his problem is.”

A few minutes later Angiulo got up to leave. He stopped by many nearby tables and received hearty good-byes from the diners there. He did not stop by Phil's table, nor did Phil attempt to greet the man.

“I'm glad he's gone,” the blonde said, “he gives me the willies.”

Phil changed the subject and finished his meal as though nothing were the matter.

At the door, he was met by one of Angiulo's henchmen. Phil's sharp eyes caught another piece of muscle a few yards away, and three more nearby. Wishing he hadn't assumed eating lasagna
was a safe thing to do, Phil quickly estimated the time it would take to get his gun in the trunk of his car …

Too long.

“Nice night for a stroll,” he said mildly to man who was already grabbing Phil's arm.

“Yeah, Cresta, why don't you just stroll right this way.” It was not a question.

“He just wants to talk,” Phil said to his date. “Wait here.” He was pretty sure this was true, as the area was too public a place for even Angiulo to whack him. If he was wrong, it didn't matter. There was no way that, unarmed, he could take down five seasoned killers.

Phil and his escort crossed North Washington Street and walked into a parking lot often used by Celtics and Bruins fans when the teams were playing at home in the Garden. Tonight the lot was mostly empty, except for Angiulo, who was standing next to his Cadillac. Phil didn't have to wonder long what this was all about.

“You no-good piece of shit! That is the last time you will disrespect me in public … ” Angiulo yelled at the approaching thief, and then continued in that vein for five minutes or so, barely stopping to take a breath between invectives.

The thought crossed Phil's mind that Angiulo had gone mad, but then he corrected himself. There must be something Angiulo had heard about, maybe about Phil's heists of the previous year or two, despite his efforts at keeping things quiet.

When he got a chance Phil asked, “Is this about money?”

Angiulo, who had been winding down, went crazy again and launched into a new tirade. A car pulled in nearby and parked, and a couple got out, looked at men in the lot, and hurried across the street to the safety of Joe Tecce's. By this time Phil was pretty sure he wasn't going to die—at least not that night in that parking lot.

So at his next opportunity Phil said, disgusted, “So let me get this straight. You're pissed because I waved at you instead of going over to your table in person?”

“You have no respect, Cresta, and that is gonna cost you. Your brother has respect.” Angiulo climbed into his car, done with his lecture.

But Phil couldn't help it. He was not going to take this treatment without a fight. He shouted to the closed car, “Fuck you, you small-minded prick—”

Angiulo jumped back out of the car.

“—You leave my brother out of this, Angiulo! He's got nothing to do with anything!”

“He does now,” Angiulo said quietly. Then he smiled, got back in his car, and took off.

“I knew I should've kept my mouth shut, but that little puke pushed me too far,” Phil said later. “I knew when I watched him drive away that I'd really fucked up.”

When he got back to the restaurant to where his girlfriend was waiting, Phil gave her hug. She was upset from what she'd seen and asked Phil not to leave her alone that night. Phil was thrilled at the invitation.

Since he was pretty sure Angiulo would send someone after him—the only questions were who and when—he stopped by his room at the Fenway Motor Inn to load up. After packing a small arsenal in his suitcase, he took the blonde to her apartment on Commonwealth Avenue. No one came for him that night, but it was the beginning of a continuing relationship for him and this woman who, nine months later, became the mother of his seventh child.

Unlike Phil, his brother Billy “Bad” had accepted the invitation to become a made man. He had shed his blood on the picture of a saint and sworn allegiance to La Cosa Nostra, to Angiulo and his boss, Patriarca. But Billy “Bad” was also Phil's younger brother. Phil had watched him grow up in their awful home, and six years earlier had watched this handsome, gregarious brother fall for a pretty Boston University theater arts student. She was the first—and only—girl Billy had ever fallen head over heels for. But she had refused his offer to “marry me and forget about Hollywood,” and Billy had gone off the deep
end a little when she left Boston and made it big. He never watched any of her movies and would get furious if Phil reminded him that Billy was probably the only person who had ever told Faye Dunaway she should forget her dreams and settle down with a wise guy from Boston. She was about the only thing the brothers couldn't talk about.

So the next day Phil called Billy to ask what last night had been all about. There was no answer.

Given Angiulo's threat, Phil panicked and went right over to his brother's apartment at the Sherry-Biltmore on Massachusetts Avenue, where the Berklee Performance Center is found today. No one answered his repeated knocks and rings. Now really upset, Cresta gave up and headed back to where he'd parked his car. As he started to pull out, he saw his brother turn the corner. Relieved beyond words, Phil jumped out of his car without even putting it in Park, then had to chase the car halfway down the block. After rescuing his car, he turned to his brother, laughed, and gave him a hug. But he stopped when he saw his brother's stony face.

In an instant Phil understood that Billy had been away because he'd been talking to Angiulo, not because he'd been hiding.

“How bad?” Phil asked.

“As bad as it gets,” his little brother replied, avoiding Phil's eyes.

“Who's got the contract?” Phil asked, already knowing the answer.

Billy walked up the steps of the hotel without answering.

But Phil had to hear the words. “Bill,” he insisted, “who is he sending after me?”

“You know who,” his brother answered. “Me.”

Phil's knees buckled. Somehow he'd thought that even Angiulo wouldn't really go so far as to demand that one brother kill another.

Billy gestured for Phil to follow, and when they were in Billy's apartment Billy said, “What the
fuck
did you do to him last night?”

Phil explained what had happened, and Billy shook his head in amazement. “He wants me to kill you because you didn't kiss his ass in a restaurant? Come on, Phil, there's
got
to be more to it than that.”

“I swear, Billy, that was
it
.”

“What a sick fuck! I should walk right in there and shoot him and all
his
asshole brothers—and see how
he
likes it!”

“If you do,” Phil said seriously, “it'll be the last people you
ever
shoot.”

“Well, shit, Phil! What other options do I have? I'm not gonna kill
you!
”

Phil laughed, then told his brother to relax. They'd work something out. “Nobody's gonna have to kill nobody,” he said. “How long do we have?”

“A few days,” his brother said. “I told them I'd have to think it over and I'd get back to them.”

“Tell me everything that happened,” Phil said.

TWO DAYS LATER
Billy called Larry Baione, Angiulo's underboss, who had been with Angiulo when the boss had ordered the hit. “Just me and you, Larry,” Billy said. “Come on, Billy. I like you and Phil. This isn't my call. I have no bad blood here,” Baione said. They decided to meet in a small North End restaurant.

Billy arrived early and sat with his back to the wall, as Phil had instructed. Ten minutes later Baione walked in, by himself, and motioned Billy into an adjoining room. They had a drink and finally Baione said, “What are you gonna do?”

“One thing I'm
not
gonna do is kill my brother.”

There was a long pause before Baione said, “Good. I don't think it's a wise move, and I told Jerry that.”

Relieved, Billy asked, “What happens next?”

“Well, we try to talk some sense into Angiulo.” Baione smiled. “Tell Phil to relax. We'll get this thing straightened out,” Baione said, and he extended his glass in a toast to Billy.

They both drank. Baione led Billy out of the room and into the bar section of the restaurant. The bartender was alone, as the restaurant had officially closed an hour earlier.

“Let's have another one for the road,” Baione said. He sat down at the bar, and Billy joined him.

Feeling very good about the meeting, Billy was pouring his beer into a glass when he first felt the wire around his neck. It was not just a warning. Baione dug the sharp wire deep into the skin, trying to finish Billy off. In his struggle, Billy knocked over a few tables but could not get Baione to loosen his death grip. The wire tightened.

Billy knew he had only one last chance. Knowing that since he was younger and stronger, he had strength on his side for a few more moments, he reached around, grabbed Baione's testicles with his left hand, and squeezed until Baione screamed in pain. Then Billy brought his right hand up and over Baione's right hand, coming down hard on his would-be killer's elbow.

Billy heard Baione's wire hit the floor. He turned and hit the man a solid right hand to the jaw. Baione went down like a ton of bricks.

Billy picked him up and hit him again and again. The bartender was nowhere in sight.

Wanting to kill Baione now, Billy continued to beat his opponent. But at the last moment he decided to send him back to Angiulo in that condition, to tell the boss what had happened. So he left him there in a heap and drove back to the Fenway Motor Inn. Finding no one in room nine, he let himself in and called McGrail's.

When Phil saw the blood he started cleaning Billy up, glad that he was comparatively unharmed.

“I'm going to Miami,” Billy said a little later. “Won't you come with me?”

“No, I'm staying right here,” Phil replied. His anger and disdain were seething. “If he wants me, let him come and get me.”

“You know he doesn't have the balls, Phil. He'll just send his little errand boy to do his dirty work.”

“Looks like one little errand boy wasn't able to get the job done this time.” Phil laughed.

“It's not funny, Phil. You know how it works. They're gonna keep on trying until they get you.”

“I can handle myself, Billy. I've been doing it all my life,” Phil said. “I'm sorry I put you in this situation. As long as I know you're all right, I can handle Angiulo. And you already handled Baione.”

Phil drove Billy to his apartment at the Sherry-Biltmore, where they packed a suitcase. Then Phil drove his brother to the airport, where Billy boarded a flight to Miami.

Within two days, Phil's contacts had calls made to Angiulo by Tony Accardo, from Chicago; and two of Billy's friends also called: Carmine “The Snake” Persico, from the Columbo family in New York, and Johnny Irish, an extremely good-looking guy in Miami who worked for the Columbo family there (until he was later killed by them). Johnny Irish said to Angiulo, “Listen, Billy Cresta is coming back to Boston in two weeks and if anyone even looks at him the wrong way, I'm coming up there. You don't want that.”