This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (10 page)

My brother’s arrival was a celebrated event both in the Gotti
household and in the streets, where my father was, by this time, climbing the ladder of leadership, at least among his crew. The birth meant my father now had an heir, someone to follow in his footsteps—someone he could groom to take his place in the dark and dangerous underworld. It also gave him bragging rights, for as much as Dad strained to reassure his daughters that he would have been perfectly content to live in a household of women, there was never any doubt that my father longed for a son.

My mother, on the other hand, did nothing to hide her joy at the presence of John Junior. Mom was a self-described “boy mommy,” a result, she said, of her own miserable upbringing. She truly believed that had she been born a male instead of a female, everything would have been different. Rather than pushing her aside, her parents would have wanted her and loved her, and maybe even stayed together as a family. This belief remained with my mother for years and undeniably impacted the way she raised my sister and me.

As a child, John was as ordinary as the next boy; at times rambunctious and hyperactive, at other times polite and well-behaved. He was showered with love and affection, treated special in a way that is unique to the firstborn male in Italian families. But it never went to his head. He was, for the most part, really grounded. From an early age, John was always the most popular boy in his grade; other children would gravitate toward him, vying for his attention and friendship. Even the older boys in the neighborhood wanted to hang out with John and his crowd.

It goes without saying that this made it quite difficult for me to have any male friends; once they were introduced to my brother, they chose his company over mine. This became something of a hindrance to me in my early teenage years, when I became interested in boys; my brother would never allow any friend of his to get close to his big sister. Angel was four years older than John, so her
boyfriends were not threatened by her little brother, or even interested in him at all.

I learned that my brother would do two things to ensure that any boy who took an interest in me would disappear from my little life: one, he would befriend the boy, which permitted him access to my brother’s popular group of neighborhood pals; two, he’d threaten the boy, telling the poor kid he couldn’t have it both ways. If he wanted to be part of John’s posse, then he would have to stay away from his sister. Those were the rules, and they were not negotiable. Not surprisingly, most boys chose John over me.

I’d often complain about this to my mother, sometimes to the point of crying. But John was her life, her obvious favorite, and he could do no wrong in her eyes. She’d try to appease me by saying something like, “It’s probably for your own good anyway.”

It was during these teenage years that I’d come to resent my brother’s obvious control over my life. Overnight, it seemed, we’d gone from being best pals and playmates to competitive siblings. And, for better or worse, it was also then that I began to see signs of my father’s domineering personality surface in my brother.

Mom later gave birth to two more sons, Frankie and Peter, much to my father’s delight. Having three sons made him proud as a peacock. Having two daughters also made him proud. He doted on each of us in his own special way, often playing up the special traits we possessed and doing his best to bring out the best in each of us. My sister Angel’s special trait was her always easygoing personality. No matter what the circumstances, Angel was always happy. She could cheer you up during the most trying and difficult times Dad called her affectionate names like “Sunshine” and “Miss Personality.” Angel and I always got along as sisters. I rarely remember anything bigger than a spat between us. Of course we fought over typical “sister issues” like borrowing a pair of shoes or a favorite sweater. But we always stayed close. Angel was just as tough
as she was sweet, especially when it came to protecting my siblings or me. If anyone dared to push us around, she was always there to shield us. When it came to me, my father was most proud of how smart I was. In John, it was his leadership ability . . . in Frankie, his obvious dedication and love of sports . . . and later with Peter, his sensitivity.

Frankie was born October 15, 1967. Dad, of course, was thrilled to welcome his second son into the world. Frankie Boy, as we called him, was a sweet, kind, and giving child. He was exceptionally independent, as most middle children tend to be. He always managed to satisfy himself and rarely cried as an infant. Mom always remarked on “what a quiet and unselfish” baby he was. As a toddler, Frankie remained self-sufficient. He played well with other kids and Mom rarely had cause to go up to school or scold him. He had a few close buddies he’d often invite for sleepovers.

Even though he was a popular kid at school, he was extremely shy whenever he was around girls. Being “husky” always gave Frankie a complex. His fears and embarrassment stemmed from a bunch of ignorant and cruel kids who made fun of him, typical schoolyard bullying. It was the only hang-up my little brother had. Still, he was far from obese and he was handsome as hell. He had a head full of dark, thick curls; my siblings and I called him “Curly-Q.” As beautiful as his hair was, he hated it. Any chance he’d get, he would beg Mom to take him to the barber for yet another haircut.

John and Frankie Boy were close in age and got along well. John would always take Frankie along on outings with his friends or to local neighborhood sporting events. Frankie loved sports, especially football, above all else in life. He was so determined to lose weight at a young age because he’d feared he would not be allowed to play sports when he got older.

By the early seventies my parents had a houseful of kids and
were, by their standards, living “the American dream,” though it had taken many difficult years to get to this point. They both always placed great importance on their children and our well-being. This was comforting to me and my siblings. Despite the fact that we were still considered lower class, and living in an apartment in Brooklyn, we had what money simply could not buy—a close-knit family.

From the time we were able to walk and talk, my parents taught each of us to look out for one another. “Blood is thicker than water” was instilled in each of us. As a result, we learned to set aside the usual issues accompanied with sibling rivalry, like jealousy and resentment, and strived to stand by each other—especially when Dad went away to jail.

I
have fond memories of growing up in Downtown Brooklyn. Although it was a predominantly Italian neighborhood, there was also a small Jewish community whose members ambitiously, and smartly, bought up numerous brownstones that would one day become some of the most prized real estate in the city. While the Italians generally stuck together, there were divisions even among this community.

The most obvious line separated them into two groups: those who were “legal” and those who weren’t. Members of the latter camp were pejoratively referred to as “wops,” and in many sections of New York, they occupied the lowest rung of the social ladder. “Wops” were resented and despised, and they routinely held the lowliest and most menial of jobs. In truth, these illegal Italian
immigrants were paid so poorly that it was nearly impossible for them to support their families. To make ends meet, many of these men would take second jobs, often moonlighting for the local mobsters. To these men, this was not a question of ethics or morals; it was merely a question of survival. Hard physical labor during the day was followed by some type of criminal activity at night. The nighttime work often paid better than the daylight work. Most of these men did not think about the consequences of their actions; they did what they could to feed their families.

South Brooklyn—namely, the Prospect section of the neighborhood, running up and down Fifth Avenue—was filled with illegal Italians. Surprisingly enough, my family wasn’t one of them. I’d found this out years later while researching the Gotti family tree. It seems my great-grandparents had taken the voyage from Italy to America on a ship from Naples. The couple settled in Little Italy with intentions of saving money and getting a place a bit farther from the bustle of the city. Eventually they chose the Mount Vernon section of the Bronx—and for practical purposes ended up in Downtown Brooklyn.

South Brooklyn was lined with stores catering to their Italian constituency. The aroma wafting from these vendors filled the air; food was never far from an Italian’s mind. Fresh bread, pizza, and pastries were all around us. An assortment of cured meats and aged cheeses hung in the windows. Money was scarce for us, and we couldn’t buy nearly as much as we wanted, but sometimes it was enough simply to walk down the street and take in the aroma.

Social clubs, too, were popular and prevalent. Men with crisp suits and shiny pinkie rings hung out there all day. On nice days they’d play cards outside all day and well into the night. You could hear them telling jokes; you could watch them conduct business. These were the men—not the cops or lawyers or shopkeepers—who garnered the most respect. And everyone who passed by had
the good sense to acknowledge their place in the neighborhood hierarchy.

Some of these clubs were bars. Being a curious child, I often wondered why these bars would be open so early in the morning. As I got older, I began to understand that these clubs were hangouts, not legitimate places of business.

Often, we’d find my father sitting outside one of the clubs, talking to these men. After a quick hello, Dad would send us on our way. From the earliest age, my father kept his worlds separate. Work was kept in one place, family in another. In his opinion, those two worlds were not to intersect. But the fact of the matter is this: Brooklyn—especially Downtown Brooklyn—was considered Mafia territory. If you were Italian and lived there, it was presumed that you were in “the life,” as it was known. Even now, some thirty years later, when people hear Brooklyn, a great many of them immediately think Mafia.

My siblings and I rarely went inside these social clubs or bars. On one occassion, I remember my father taking us to the New York Aquarium. It was the end of summer—Dad wanted to spend some extra time with us before school started again in September. Earlier that week, he’d taken my sister and me shopping for school clothes. Because we were poor, it was really the only time we ever got new clothes. I remember Dad clumsily navigating his way around the girls’ section in Macy’s department store. Usually, Mom did all of our shopping—but Dad got lucky the night before and won four hundred dollars on a horse race. He couldn’t wait to take us on a shopping spree. Normally, because we were poor, we weren’t the best-dressed kids at school—but we weren’t the worst, either. The embarrassment Dad once faced, the mean and ugly names the other classmates called him and his siblings because they were shabbily dressed, remained fresh in his memory. As a result, he was more conscious of the way his own kids dressed. Mostly,
because we had so little money, Mom made most of our clothes by hand. She used discounted bolts of fabric and an old sewing machine. On our way to the aquarium that day, John and I were dressed in matching red, white, and blue shorts that Mom had made for us earlier in the week. We all piled into the backseat of Dad’s dark brown Cadillac, and along the way he had to make a stop at one of the bars on Knickerbocker. My brother John and I waited in the car, and when Dad came out a few minutes later we complained that we had to use the bathroom. Reluctantly, Dad took us inside the dimly lit bar. Everything seemed so dark—the walls, floors, tables, and chairs. There were a few men in the back playing a game of cards and when they saw me and my brother, they immediately began smiling and scooping up tens and twenties, and handing them over to us. Dad was livid. No kid of his would ever be allowed to accept money, not even from a few made guys and wannabes who were just trying to show off in front of my dad.

“Say hello and be polite,” he quietly instructed us. “But give them back their money.”

Then he turned and cordially thanked the older men, adding, “It’s not necessary.” I went to the bathroom, a dirty, closet-sized space with toilet paper all over the floor. I washed my hands three times before leaving. My brother used the men’s room and then begged Dad for a Coke. Dad gave in.

And that’s when the trouble began.

There was a young platinum blonde behind the bar, a cocktail waitress. She was wearing hot pink shorts, a small white T-shirt, panty hose, and stiletto heels. My brother took it all in without saying a word—until we got home that evening, when Mom asked about the aquarium, and whether we had fun. My brother was more interested in telling her about the “lady named Bunny who kept flirting with Daddy.” And predictably, a major fight ensued.
I remember them screaming at each other, Mom telling Dad to “get out.”

My siblings and I cowered in the back bedroom for nearly an hour, sensing things were about to get uglier.

I remember Dad made his way to the hallway, near the front door of our railroad flat, as if he was tired of arguing and was leaving to let Mom cool off. The next thing I knew, Mom had heaved a large fork from the kitchen to where Dad was standing ten feet away. Incredibly, the fork ripped into Dad’s right shoulder.

We were all stunned. There was blood everywhere. Mainly, though, I remember the look of complete shock on my father’s face. I don’t know whether it was the pain or the sight of his own blood that bothered him most, or the fact that his wife had done this to him. But it was clear that he was stunned. Quickly, though, he removed the fork. Then he ripped off his shirt, revealing an impressive gash. This naturally provoked shrieks of terror from my sister Angel and me.

“Daddy’s hurt!” my sister screamed. “Oh, God, Mommy killed Daddy!”

Even my mother was floored. She stood frozen at the kitchen sink, not knowing what to do. My father, standing in the hallway outside my bedroom, instinctively reached for something to cover the cut and stop the bleeding. Imagine my shock when I realized he had grabbed the new plaid dress he’d bought me just days ago. I was so proud and excited that I’d had it laid out on my dresser, next to my new marble notebooks, and a new pair of black-and-white saddle shoes. Of course I was afraid Dad was hurt, but I couldn’t help crying over my new favorite dress after we’d learned Dad was fine. It was the first day of school, and I had nothing else to wear. Being poor will teach you things like that.