This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (16 page)

The day my father came home from Green Haven in 1976, my sister Angel and I were going to a friend’s birthday party. We had a small close circle of friends we both shared, and often went to the same parties. When Dad first arrived home, after exchanging kisses and hugs, Dad and Mom decided to go out to dinner to celebrate Dad’s release. Of course, Mom decided I would stay home and babysit. I protested and Daddy, always a pushover, gave me my way. He agreed to let me go to the party, providing I came home at a reasonable hour. Usually Mom and Dad went to dinner around 8
P.M
. That night, Dad agreed they would go later, so as to let me enjoy some of the party. I was to be home at 10
P.M
. sharp.

Imagine my father’s shock when I came stumbling up to the house later that night, so drunk I could barely walk. I had my first beer . . . well, actually three, maybe four. Having heard around the neighborhood earlier that day that John Gotti was home from prison, the two guys who gave me a ride home from the party were afraid to drop me off in front of my house. Instead, they let me out of the car at the corner and my father watched as I stumbled down the block like a drunken sailor. When I was ten or so feet from him, I could see the rage and confusion in his eyes. By now, my mother
had come outside. It was nearly 10:30, and she was upset that I was late. The two of them had been pacing the floor for half an hour waiting for me. That was my first mistake. Dad had trusted me, even gave me the opportunity to go to the party, providing I be home early to babysit, and I blew it, big-time. My mother thought she was coming outside to reprimand me for being late; little did she know I was inebriated as well. When she saw me wobbling, I thought she was going to have a heart attack. She started screaming at me. My father stood stunned, shaking his head. The last thing I remember before Mom threw me in the shower with my clothes on was Dad mumbling something like, “Butch, what the hell has gone on here while I was away?”

They never did go out to dinner that night.

I remember sitting at the dinner table the next night; I wasn’t feeling well at all. I had a raging hangover and I thought I was dying. Dad took one look at me and said, “Last night you felt like Superman, right?” I didn’t dare answer. Then he added, “But today you feel like death, right?” Still I didn’t answer. “Your mother and I were up pretty late last night trying to decide what punishment to give you. I say, you already learned your lesson, judging by the way you look and feel today. What do you think? Do you agree?” I couldn’t even look at him. All I did was nod.

We never discussed the incident again.

E
very young girl looks forward to turning sixteen. This age represents becoming a woman, especially in Italian culture, and is celebrated by a lavish Sweet Sixteen party. My father had recently been released from Green Haven Prison, so my Sweet Sixteen was celebrated on an even greater scale. To my amazement the party was like a small but grand wedding. We lived a middle-class life in Queens, in a modest home, in a small and close-knit community, so the elaborate party was a big surprise to me. The party was held at a well-known and very elegant wedding hall called the Queens Terrace on Queens Boulevard.

My father had invited hundreds of guests, even family members from as far away as Boca Raton, Florida. Men arrived dressed in fine, expensive Italian suits with matching silk ties and pocket
hankies, while the women were clad in beautiful, costly dresses and gowns. We didn’t live this way every day—parties like that were not the norm. Ironically, my grandmother, Faye, won the New Jersey lottery. The prize was a million dollars. She offered to pay Dad back the ten thousand he’d lent her years earlier, but he refused it. Grandma also offered to buy each of us expensive gifts, but Mom wouldn’t allow her to. When my grandmother heard about my Sweet Sixteen, she offered to help pay for the party—but Dad wouldn’t hear of it. Both my parents encouraged Faye to use the money to live the life she’d always wanted to. She bought a condo in St. Petersburg, Florida, and moved out of New York less than a month after winning the lottery.

Dad was rising in the ranks. Carlo Gambino had died several months earlier and Paul Castellano, his brother-in-law, was now head of the Gambino Family. While in prison my father had time, lots of time, to start making plans for when he was released. The prison housed some mobsters Dad knew from the streets, men he’d come across once or twice in the life. He carefully observed these men, looking for weaknesses and strong points. It was time to build his own crew—time to handpick men who were willing to lay their lives down for the life. Dad looked for those who had certain qualities necessary to successfully help him to begin his rise to the top of the Family. Strength was important, as muscle and brawn always served tough guys well. But loyalty, trust, and intellect were most important. Especially loyalty. John Gotti sought out men he believed could be trusted till the end, men who would adhere to and honor La Cosa Nostra’s code of ethics religiously. Only a few passed muster and some of these men came with a checkered past. Most of them had served time in prison. This was important to Dad, as he needed to know his men could withstand the rigors of prison life, the trials of being in captivity and not breaking or cracking. Some of them practiced tactics my father was staunchly
against—such as doing or dealing drugs. Dad made his position clear from the start. If they joined up with him, they would be given a “pass” for what they did in the past. They were to begin a new life and were given a clean slate, erased of prior imperfections or sins. If these men agreed to join up with Dad, they had to follow his rules. One such man was Anthony “Tony Roach” Rampino. Tony was a tall man, nearly six and a half feet tall. And he wasn’t pretty. Let’s just say he earned his moniker, “Tony Roach,” because of his appearance. Tony had a criminal record as long as his arm, but he also had a well-earned reputation for loyalty and for getting any job done successfully using whatever force necessary. Tony was mild-mannered and quiet for the most part. But when provoked he definitely rose to the occasion. Dad liked him from the start. They’d met in prison and Dad kept a close eye on him. When both men reached the end of their sentence, Dad asked Tony if he wanted to join his crew. Of course Tony accepted. It was considered good luck to pal around with John Gotti in those days. To be part of his crew was an honor.

These men were taught by my father. There were rules . . . and then there were Gotti’s rules. Dad taught his men to listen, obey, and learn. He also taught them to be mindful of the “old order.” He believed that rules, especially Mafia rules and codes, were meant to be followed to a “T.” He believed these same rules were only to be broken under extreme circumstances. Dad was “old school” even when it came to mob politics.

The night of my Sweet Sixteen, it was obvious to me and many others that John Gotti went to prison a powerful force and came out even more powerful. I remember some of my girlfriends’ reactions as Dad and many well-dressed men huddled in a corner to discuss business. Some of the girls passed comments like, “all those men are connected”—a term used to describe a man affiliated with the life. These girls actually seemed impressed by that lifestyle or way
of living. I never understood this—and while it awed them, it saddened and terrified me. I wondered in silence if they ever really knew about the ugliness of it all. Just as impressed as my girlfriends were, so were my guy friends. They were also afraid and didn’t dare ask me out. As if puberty wasn’t hard enough! With his men put carefully in place, Dad was ready to conquer the streets. That night indicated change—in Dad, in life, our life—and I was terrified.

It was that night I also realized two important facts about my father. He was determined to give us everything he never had while growing up. And under the tough and self-confident demeanor he always put forward, he was actually shy. Toward the middle of the night, the emcee announced a “special dance” between father and daughter, just after the traditional sixteen-candle lighting ceremony, in which the young hostess chooses the sixteen people closest to her, with the last candle being lit by the most special person in her life. I chose my parents. When the dance was announced, my father literally cringed. I remember him loosening his tie and then wiping beads of sweat from his forehead with his silk hanky. I tried urging him while standing on the dance floor, but to no avail. He leaned in closer to my mother and I saw him whisper then nod. Seconds later my brother John appeared to rescue me from my misery and obvious embarrassment, a role, I would later learn, my brother was quite good at—and always prepared for. There was always an unspoken camaraderie between all the Gotti kids; we were always there for each other, in good times and in bad. We all learned early on the difficulties of living in the Gotti household. It was an unspoken rule between each of us and in the end, no matter what, blood was thicker than water.

My brother and I swirled around the floor to Elvis’s “The Wonder of You.” All I could do was cry. I tried so hard to hold back the tears and I leaned my head into my brother’s shoulder in an effort to hide my embarrassment and hurt from the crowded room. Dad
could greet all these men, but not dance with me? I wasn’t that important.

I was angry with my father for weeks—until my mother sat me down and explained why I was left on the dance floor during one of the most important nights of my life. It had to do with my father’s loathing of being the center of attention. This was ironic, as many people assumed my father loved the spotlight. Oh, and there was one more reason Dad would not dance with me that night. He didn’t know how.

F
ootball was a passion for the men in the Gotti household. My father and brothers were die-hard Jets fans. Dad would buy tickets and take the boys as often as he could during football season. When it wasn’t possible to attend a game, the Gotti men would stay at home, feasting on Mom’s delicious food, while cheering on their favorite team from the living room sofa. My twelve-year-old brother, Frankie, adored the sport more than anyone else. He would spend hours each day practicing his moves and exercises to improve his ability. Since kindergarten, he was obsessed with playing on the Lynvet’s team, a junior varsity league from Queens. The home field was an empty patch of green on Crossbay Boulevard just to the right of the exit for the Belt Parkway.

Every time Frankie would pass the Lynvet’s home turf, he’d press his face up against the car window, his eyes glued on the players scrambling around the field, and smile from ear to ear. We often teased him about this, especially the fact that he often fell asleep wearing his New York Jets’ helmet (autographed by Joe Namath). Frank was always a big boy. He was average in height, but a bit overweight. Any sports fanatic knows the guidelines for weight maintenance in pro sports. But who would think the rules were just as strict for Little League teams?

The day before tryouts for the Lynvet’s team, Frankie was so excited he tried on his team uniform at least a dozen times before Mom forced him to take it off and “keep it off.” Mom took Frankie to the field that Saturday morning. My parents had discussed this a few nights earlier and had decided there would be too much pressure on Frank if Dad were present. They were right. Frank did great that morning. But he was crushed when the coach, calling out the names of the boys who made the team, didn’t call his name.

My mother went to find out why. Imagine her shock when the man rudely said, “Your son is too fat to play ball.” Mom was devastated and Frankie was embarrassed. The two of them drove home in silence. Frankie asked Mom not to tell Dad he didn’t make the team; he believed he’d let my father down. Mom explained to him the coach was just plain rude, but this did little to ease the hurt and disappointment for Frankie. Mom praised his efforts, told him how proud she was of him, and tried to make him feel better. Still, when they pulled up to our driveway, Frank went directly inside and straight up to his room.

I felt horrible when Mom told me about this later on. He was such a good, kind, and compassionate boy—it pained me to know someone would hurt him. Mom decided it best to keep this from
Dad. That night, when Dad came home, she only said, “The team was too full” and there was no room for Frankie this season. This news confused and upset my father.

Imagine the rage Dad felt when he learned the truth a few days later. One of the teammates’ fathers ran into Dad at the newsstand one night and told Dad what had really happened the day of tryouts. Dad was furious. He waited until the following week and on Saturday he got up early and went to the ball field. My father asked the coach to “take a walk” with him. Needless to say, the man was reprimanded for his inexcusable behavior, especially since my brother had a complex about his weight to begin with. It was bad enough that the kids at school teased him and called him hurtful names; it was another for an adult to do the same.

Later that day, Dad returned home and had a talk with Mom. A few minutes later the phone rang. It was the coach, calling to speak to Frankie. He’d called to say that one of the kids had taken ill and there was an empty spot on the team, and asked, “Are you still interested in joining, Frank?”
Interested?
It was my brother’s dream come true! I’ll never forget Frank’s adorable face when he danced around the room that day. It’s a memory that remains so clear and fresh in my mind.

Two days before the first practice, Frankie was so excited he couldn’t eat or sleep. All he thought about was running the field and playing with his other teammates. The day before the first practice, he was so excited, he took a shower and spent more time than he normally did fussing with his appearance. He came running into my room and asked if he could borrow my hair dryer. I, too, was in a rush. I was already late for my first class. I told him he had to wait until I was done before he could use the dryer. He was so impatient that he left the house with wet hair. Frankie went to school as usual—except, unlike most days, he had a spring in his
step. Later that afternoon, after school, he met a few neighborhood friends and went out to play. He couldn’t wait to tell them the news. He’d finally made the team.