The Prince (54 page)

“Sorry, buddy, but we only have two cups of the good china,” the elderly vagrant said with a trace of irony.

Mastrangelo ignored it. “Was there a girl here?”

“A lot of them come by: Miss America, Miss Florida, Miss Give-it-to-me.” It was clear the man enjoyed teasing.

“I'll repeat the question just one more time, then—”

But Mastrangelo was interrupted by the other bum. “Yeah, there was a girl, and she was taken away about twenty minutes ago. There were two men with her.”

Roy Boccia had managed to whisk away Aurora a few minutes before Mastrangelo and the others got there.

He'd had just enough time to call Bontade and ask him for instructions. Bontade thought it wiser not to keep trying to intimidate Mastrangelo. The guy had revealed the extortion to Licata despite the threats against his niece, seriously endangering the girl's life. He thought it was more expedient to continue holding her as a hostage to keep Mastrangelo's anger in check.

But since they didn't have another hiding place lined up, Bontade told him to bring her to his house, at least until they were able to come up with a better arrangement.

When police cruisers surrounded warehouse 82, all they found was a car parked not far from the site of the shooting. The cops ascertained that the car belonged to Roy Boccia, a member of Tom Bontade's family. The trunk was ajar, and inside they found a large quantity of explosives. The bomb squad was immediately called, and the police commissioner alerted the New York County District Attorney's Office.

When Frank Hogan arrived at the scene, police agents had already discovered Vito Pizzuto's tortured body. Hogan was led inside the warehouse and could see what the poor guy had gone through. Even someone like the district attorney, accustomed to violence, was horrified by such cruelty.

Hogan issued a warrant for the arrest of Roy Boccia: he would have some explaining to do about the presence of dynamite in the trunk of his car. Hogan concluded that perhaps the Bontades were responsible for the attacks at the port.

It was all coming together just as Licata had hoped.

Hogan was asked to open a channel of communication with one of the big shots in the syndicate to ultimately reach the families that “governed” the waterfront, in order to resolve the issue of sabotage.

Frank Hogan had learned of the arrest of Saro Ragusa, a young Sicilian who his informants indicated was the head of the family that had replaced the Stokers gang on the Lower East Side.

Saro had been arrested not far from warehouse 82, where Vito Pizzuto had met his atrocious end. But there was no evidence against him that could connect him to that murder.

Hogan decided to question Saro, perhaps with the remote hope of being able to establish a direct line to the families who threw their weight around the port. It had been Charles Haffenden, commander of the B-3 Naval Intelligence Unit, who led him onto that track, with the idea that the Italian Mafia could be responsible for the attacks. Haffenden, called back to duty when the war broke out, had circulated informers throughout the port area. Although Haffenden had been one of the first to realize that the explosions on the
Normandie
might have been caused by the Italian Mafia, no one wanted to consider that theory. The idea of sabotage perpetrated by Nazi-fascist spies was more plausible and reassuring.

So when District Attorney Hogan decided to interrogate Saro Ragusa, he also summoned Haffenden, and the commander of the B-3 willingly accepted the invitation, hoping to be able to corroborate the information reported by his agents.

“The car with the dynamite belongs to a certain Roy Boccia. There's no record on this Boccia in our files,” Hogan told Haffenden.

“Was Boccia the bodyguard of the man who was killed?” Haffenden inquired.

“Right. They ran into a trap, but he managed to get away,” Hogan said. “I put the places he frequents under surveillance, including Bontade's house.”

Saro's struggles for survival in the American metropolis had matured him fast. By now the shy, insecure young man, timid with women, was a past memory. His rise in the underworld had been meteoric. He was now spoken of with respect and was considered one of the few of the new generation worthy to sit with the assembly of family bosses.

Saro, locked up in a holding cell, was informed that the district attorney and the commander of the B-3 Naval Intelligence Unit had come to see him. He figured that a visit by those two in full regalia had to be the result of Prince Licata's plan.

Commander Haffenden came straight to the point. He told Saro that they wanted to engage in a collaborative effort with the Italian families willing to give them a hand against the saboteurs operating at the port. The United States was at war, and any alliance was appropriate in order to defeat Nazi brutality. They asked Saro if he could provide them with union cards so they could place intelligence agents of the third district on board the trawlers. Plus they wanted to be informed of any suspicious activity, such as unusual fuel and provisions purchases, since they suspected that enemy submarines approaching the American coast were resupplied by support vessels operating in the area. In short, they wanted to put a stop to the acts of sabotage that were defeating the plan to furnish military aid to Great Britain.

Saro replied that there was only one person powerful enough to authorize such a collaboration, and it certainly wasn't him. It was Lucky Luciano.

Although he had now been imprisoned for six years in Dannemora, Luciano continued to direct and control the syndicate. He was the one they had to speak to.

That first meeting with Saro in a holding cell at the police precinct in Manhattan was followed by many others that took place instead at Haffenden's private office, in a suite at the Hotel Astor on Broadway.

District Attorney Frank Hogan gave the green light to deal with Lucky Luciano but offered the commander a word of caution: he advised him not to contact the gangster directly, but to do so through his defense attorney, a Russian Jew by the name of Moses Polakoff.

Commander Haffenden followed the prosecutor's advice and summoned Polakoff to the Hotel Astor. As was his way, he came straight to the point and told him plainly that Luciano should not expect a sentence reduction or a retrial in exchange for his help. They were relying solely on his patriotism as a recent American citizen, not realizing that Lucky Luciano, unlike his relatives, had never applied for American citizenship.

Luciano's closest accomplice was also his best friend: the Jewish gangster Meyer Lansky. Polakoff sent for him as well as Saro Ragusa, who had been released for lack of evidence against him.

The three met at Longchamps restaurant on West Fifty-Eighth Street to discuss whether to give a thumbs-up to the authorities' request. Lansky was the most hesitant because he didn't want to give his friend Lucky any false hope. But Saro was able to convince him that it was the only way to go if they wanted Luciano to be released. Polakoff asked him how he could be so sure, given that Haffenden himself had told him that Luciano's help would not lead to any immediate payback.

Saro disclosed that, on the contrary, Frank Hogan had assured him that, when the time was right, the DA's office would take Luciano's help into account—provided that the acts of sabotage were stopped.

A few hours later, Saro reported the outcome of the meeting to Licata: he had managed to convince Lansky that any help Luciano gave the military authorities could not be considered “collaborating with the police.” It was a matter of stopping acts of sabotage against the American armed forces.

Licata smiled. The plan was working perfectly. But they had to proceed step by step.

“We'll get Luciano released from Dannemora with our next move,” the prince declared.

Saro contacted the attorney Polakoff again and told him to ask Haffenden if they could resume talks.

Meanwhile, forty-nine freighters had been sunk in April 1942 alone. While the public and the press believed that U-boats were the major cause of those disasters, in reality most of the sabotage was the work of the Cosa Nostra's covert teams.

Polakoff, meeting Haffenden in his office at the Hotel Astor, argued that it wouldn't be a good idea for him and his associates to show up at a maximum security prison like Dannemora. The guards would notice the irregularity. Therefore, he requested that Lucky Luciano be transferred to a less restrictive prison.

Haffenden relayed Polakoff's request to Frank Hogan, who agreed to it.

The Great Meadow Correctional Facility in Comstock, near Albany, was chosen. Lucky Luciano's transfer was carried out with the utmost secrecy on May 12, 1942. Three days later, Saro, attorney Polakoff, and Meyer Lansky were finally able to meet with the Cosa Nostra's capo.

Saro Ragusa was introduced to the boss by Lansky himself. Shaking hands with Lucky Luciano crowned Saro's ascent into the firmament of the Mafia.

Luciano shook his hand vigorously, as he usually did. “You're sharp, kid,” he said. “They told me this was your idea.”

Saro smiled at him. “Well, let's say someone inspired me. But yes,the idea of sabotaging the
Normandie
and the other convoys came from me.” Licata had insisted that his name not yet be revealed.

Luciano then gave the go-ahead for an antisabotage operation.

From that day on, men from New York's families patrolled every inch of the docks at the city's ports. Extended strikes that would have caused a slowdown in the transport of military aid to Great Britain were averted. A cell of Greek Nazi-fascist saboteurs was stopped and charged with supplying fuel and provisions to German U-boats. Eight other real Nazi saboteurs of German origin were captured as they were coming ashore in Long Island.

All in all, following Luciano's orders, the sinking of Liberty ships and the acts of sabotage on the docks ceased completely in just a few weeks.

It was considered a great victory for the Cosa Nostra families because for the first time the organization had been officially recognized by the establishment—in particular, by the New York County District Attorney's Office.

A
urora lay on a mattress thrown on the floor in the basement of Tom Bontade's house. The cellar was lit by several narrow windows, which afforded a glimpse of part of the garden surrounding the house.

In her confused mind, Aurora was trying to make sense of the situation she was in, but only off and on was she able to distinguish good actions from those that involved some violence toward her. By now the happy moments were lost in the darkness of memory. Her life consisted only of unpleasant sensations that made her fearful and caused her throat to tighten in panic. But she couldn't express those feelings in any way. She knew she was imprisoned in a body that did not respond to her mental impulses. A body that had now become alien to her and that she would have gladly shed. Now and then she remembered the “good” times, associated with the funny man with the scars on his face who came to visit her and brought her flowers or chocolates. They were unforgettable moments. But what was she doing in that dark room now? Everyone had forgotten her. That man no longer came to bring her chocolates . . .
Aurora is all alone . . . Aurora is all alone . . . Aurora is all alone . . .
She repeated those words endlessly, then suddenly, as if miraculously, a tear fell from her eyes and rolled down her pale cheek.

After so many years, it was the first sign that Aurora was regaining consciousness. Unfortunately no one was there to witness it.

Meanwhile, upstairs they were arguing about her fate.

Roy Boccia was now wondering whether they should get rid of her as soon as possible.

Tom Bontade, more wisely, believed that they should use the young woman to hold off Mastrangelo and his hounds instead.

“We could exact a peace agreement with them, in exchange for the return of the girl,” the old family boss concluded.

“They're treacherous as rattlesnakes,” Boccia contended. “We already landed in a trap once before, when Genovese himself demanded a truce between us. You know how that turned out. How can you still trust them?”

“I don't want to end up like the Stokers. I don't want to have to leave here. I want to buy time to beef up our ranks and get back what was taken from us,” said Bontade. “But we have to find another place to hide the girl. This is the first place they'll come looking for her.”

“Okay, boss. We'll keep the girl, and we'll stand up to those bastards.” Roy Boccia had no choice but to accept his boss's decisions.

They had to hurry and find another safe hideout where they could stash their prisoner.

Tom Bontade's residence, on Tenth Avenue in Beechhurst, Queens, consisted of two large buildings with steeply pitched red tile roofs. Bontade lived in the building on the right, while his bodyguards and other family men occupied the one on the left, which had many rooms.

For more than a week, naval intelligence agents under the command of Charles Haffenden had been stationed in an uninhabited house across from Bontade's retreat. The stakeout was part of a much broader intelligence operation organized in collaboration with the families who had gone along with Saro's and Meyer Lansky's invitation.

Since a car belonging to one of Bontade's men had been found packed with dynamite, the investigators were certain that his family was involved in the attacks. For seven days, the agents watched to see who entered and who left the estate.

With their powerful binoculars, they could see Bontade pacing from room to room like a caged lion. It had been weeks since he'd left the house.

The agents had not yet spotted Roy Boccia, for whom they had an arrest warrant. They waited patiently for him to arrive to consult with his boss or come out of the house. But they had no evidence that he was actually in the villa.

Finally, that morning, they saw some movement at the door of the dwelling on the left. Boccia came out and headed swiftly toward the garage to the right of the main building. He got into a two-door Chevrolet Street Rod and drove off toward the Cross Island Parkway.