This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (21 page)

My sister figured Mike was just confused and left. When she returned home for dinner she mentioned something to my mother about whether John was expected home that weekend or not.
Seeing my mother’s surprised reaction, Angel realized too late that she’d opened a can of worms that was sure to get my brother an ass-whipping.

Angel ran upstairs to tell me. She felt really bad about ratting him out. Things got even worse when Mom called the school and found out John was not there.

Within minutes my mother had my father and his associates combing the streets looking for my brother.

The neighboring town, Ozone Park, or “O.Z.” as it was called back then, had been at war with the “spoiled” and more privileged kids of Howard Beach. Really, the whole mess started because a girl from Ozone Park began dating a boy from Howard Beach. In those days the town ruffians did not take kindly to their enemies moving in on their territory, especially their girls. Because of this fiasco, on the weekend before my brother John’s “illegal” leave from school there had been a serious street fight between the two towns. More than six or seven carloads of O.Z. guys had stormed one of the popular Howard Beach hangouts, the Big Bow-Wow, wielding baseball bats and crowbars and beating up many of the neighborhood regulars who were hanging out that night. Out of retaliation, the following night, seven or eight carloads of guys from Howard Beach had quietly entered Ozone Park, creeping into their well-known hangout the Candy Corner, a candy store just next door to the Brooklyn-Queens borderline. This was where mostly made guys and their gophers hung out. The Howard Beach kids did similar damage as the Ozone Park guys had done the night before. It became an ongoing situation in desperate need of defusing. In fact, the streets became so hostile that my father ordered my sister and me to stay at home until things were under control again.

As my brother stood hiding outside, waiting for my sister to pull away from Party-Time that night, a van filled with Ozone Park guys had pulled up, jumped out, and had mistaken my brother for
another kid who looked something like him. There was no way my brother could have been a part of this neighborhood war as he was away at school when all the trouble began. Nevertheless, the guys from Ozone Park beat him up badly, enough that the store owner had to call an ambulance. From what Mike later told my father about that evening, my brother “didn’t even see the beating coming.” The owner told Dad that “a bunch of big, burly kids jumped out of the van and just started beating up on him with bats, crowbars, sticks, and anything they could find.” Mike even told my father that one kid picked up an old hubcap and began hitting my brother over the head and in the face with it.

After Mike grabbed a shotgun he kept hidden behind the counter, he called an ambulance, and then he called my mother. He ran out back, fired two shots into the air, and scared the kids off my brother.

To say my father did not take the incident well was an understatement. An attack on anyone he knew—anyone associated with him—was completely against the rules. But an assault on his son, his heir apparent, and with no reason at all, was a complete declaration of war by his standards. It didn’t matter that the street punks who had done it were merely kids—Dad believed that the kids from O.Z. answered to a higher authority.

These thugs had a hangout just next door to a social club in West Ozone Park where captains within various families, especially the Colombo crime family, could be found. The Colombos were these kids’ mentors, just as the Fatico brothers had been my father’s when he was just a teenager himself. Therefore my father saw these men as responsible for the behavior of the boys.

My mother was the first to learn of the incident from Mike, the candy store owner. She immediately called my father’s social club in East Ozone Park but he wasn’t there; he was at a dinner meeting in the city that night. The two rival clubs were less than a few miles
apart, but those few miles might just as well have been worlds, as most of the men shared dissimilar views and allegiances. When Dad finally got Mom on the phone, he needed to know just how badly my brother had been hurt. When Mom answered in hysterics it sent my father further over the edge. The second phone call my father made was to his social club, alerting every man there to be “ready for action.”

My father raced home from Manhattan in record time. When he walked in the door and took one look at my brother John’s face, grotesquely distorted, his blood began to boil. I can honestly say that the only other time I’d seen him so angry was just after my younger brother’s death. John was lying on the living room sofa when Dad came in. Immediately Dad began to question him, but my brother could hardly speak, his eyes were swollen shut and terribly bruised. His nose seemed like it was spread in two across each side of his face and his mouth was so enlarged it was painful to talk. He also had scratches and bruises covering the rest of his face and body. Luckily, the storeowner had come to the house to make sure my brother was okay, and to let my parents know exactly what had happened. He starting describing how a “carload of punks had been driving, cruising up and down the boulevard for what seemed a little over an hour looking for trouble.” That was all my father needed to hear. He dialed the social club once again.

“Jimmy,” he shouted to “Jimmy-Butch,” who answered the phones at the club, “get
all
the boys you can muster together to meet me down at the social club.” Just before he hung up he shouted into the phone, “If you see any young punks, any of the regular derelicts hanging out on the avenue, break their legs with a baseball bat. Make sure you tell them it’s from me, John Gotti!”

My father didn’t give any thought to mob politics that night; in fact, he was so blinded by his rage that anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way was doomed.

Three unfortunate men remained in the Colombo social club; the rest had already fled when they heard my father was on the way. After Dad beat the three men to a pulp, he left them a message, “Go back and tell your boss that this is just an example of my rage. For every punch my son took, ten guys will fall!” Dad then made his way back outside the social club, where dozens of his men stood at the ready, looking up and down the avenue for any signs of life, men, or teenagers. The streets were deserted.

I
N THE WEEKS
that followed, fear spread so rapidly throughout both neighborhoods that the streets were like a ghost town at night, nearly mimicking the days of 1977 when the “Son of Sam” held the five boroughs captive with his murderous spree. Older teenagers vacated their usual hangouts or cruising routes, and stayed locked inside their houses. This was especially true for those who had participated in the savage beating that nearly killed my brother. They knew it was just a matter of time before my father caught up with them or before their elders did.

Once the elders were involved, numerous “sit-downs” took place. The leaders of the other social club immediately admitted wrong and were made to pay restitution. This was generally a fine, and a hefty one at that, from their own pockets as a means of teaching these men a solid lesson in controlling their future soldiers and associates. But that wasn’t enough for my father; he wanted names. He wanted these young men taught a valuable lesson for what they had done, and my father didn’t believe that the elders would handle it with nearly enough force as he would.

In fact, every time he looked at my brother’s face, it made him more enraged. He would say things to my brother like, “I’d like to get all the guys who did this to you that night in one room, at one time. Then I’d let you take each one of them on at a time, like a
real
tough guy would, and let you teach them a lesson.” My brother didn’t seem to mind, either. He was filled with rage as well. Ever since the beating, he’d become withdrawn and short-fused. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The attack mixed with the grief over losing his brother just a few months earlier made for a powerful and deadly mix of emotions. That’s what had all of us even more concerned than my father’s own dangerous anger.

I
T WASN’T UNTIL
my father got his wish and the key attackers were brought to him, offering formal apologies and begging for their lives, did he even manage one restful night of sleep. As a means of teaching my brother John a lesson, Dad forced him to fight each boy, under fair circumstances. No one had the advantage of a weapon or the element of surprise. The incident had more to do with pride than anything else. I may not have agreed with my father’s tactics or approach back then, but now, after raising three sons on my own, I
fully
understand, at least.

T
WO WEEKS AFTER
the incident with John, Mom received a phone call from the St. Petersberg, Florida, fire department—Grandma Faye had been found dead in her condo just hours earlier. Mom believes Grandma knew she was going to die, because the fire chief found a letter addressed to Mom on the bedside table. It was just a few words:
I’m sorry and I love you.

Grandma also left a signed check—a donation made out to the fire department, with instructions to call Mom after her death. There was also an envelope filled with papers, also addressed to Mom.

Ironically, Grandma had willed the million dollars she had won in the lottery to Mom—her only child.

M
y brother John graduated from New York Military School on a warm, balmy day in June 1982. We had left Queens hours before the official graduation ceremony was to begin so as not to be late. My father could not have been more proud of his son that day.

The military graduation was a beautiful event with an awards ceremony, the traditional valedictorian speech, and a marching band. It was to be the beginning of the rest of John’s life. And my father had plans for him. John had two choices: going to college, or going directly to work. John chose to go to work.

My father was not thrilled. He had hoped John would choose college. But rather than force my brother through another four years of school, Dad decided to help him start his own business,
something small without a large overhead or huge responsibilities.

The business was a trucking company, Sampson Trucking. My father asked John to take my sister Angel’s fiancé, Louis, in as a small partner. Dad believed it was a good idea since Angel and Louis planned to marry the following year.

Sampson Trucking started out slow, but in no time at all it became quite successful, as more and more people signed contracts in an effort to score brownie points with my dad. The company brought in quite a bit of revenue and made for a sound investment during the first few years. Then the problems began. My brother-in-law’s eyes became what Dad called “green with envy,” and he wanted an even bigger piece of the pie. Louis believed he was entitled to equal amounts of the money. He’d invested nothing but wanted half of all the profits.

At that time my future brother-in-law began living and enjoying the fast life, but we all thought he was living beyond his means. My brother John tried to reason with him, but to no avail.

Soon the in-house fighting began. Other problems occurred as well. The FBI was watching Dad more closely, and John as well. Everyone who did business with Sampson Trucking was getting harassed. Companies were forced to hand over their accounting books and many were soon audited by the IRS. These companies were legitimate businesses and soon even the most loyal customers were afraid to do business with John. Sampson lost a lot of revenue, quickly. The company was closed in less than three years.

With my brother John out of work, my father realized he needed to help him get involved with another business endeavor, and fast. He desperately wanted to keep him off the streets. So Dad reached out to a friend in the carpenter’s union. The friend was able to get my brother into the union and secure him a good contractor’s position. John worked at this job for a few years, commuting back and
forth to Astoria, Queens, every morning and evening, five days a week. He really seemed to enjoy it. John was happy and Dad was even happier.

H
OWEVER, ONE AREA
of constant bickering between John and my dad was over the company my brother chose to keep. Sure, he had his usual cast of pals that he’d known since grade school, but once in a while he would bring around a new friend that my father didn’t like, saying that he “didn’t look right.” And he was usually right, as in the case of Johnny Alite, an Albanian kid from the wrong side of the tracks whom everyone said was “trouble with a capital T.”

Every one of us was suspicious of this newcomer, most of all Carmine. He literally hated him and told me that he “didn’t trust him.” Mostly, Carmine didn’t like the way Alite looked at me. He was sure the guy had a crush on me. Johnny Alite was someone who seemed to appear from out of nowhere, without history or roots. Alite said very little about his upbringing or his present living conditions. This automatically sent up red flags. Many people—mostly my brother’s childhood friends—grew extremely suspicious of Alite’s sneaky nature—and tried to warn my brother.

Still, John and Alite spent a lot of time together, mostly horsing around and in the end always getting into trouble. Because of this, Mom also hated Alite. John refused to see the bad in Alite—and in time, others set aside their suspicions and learned to accept him as a means of pleasing my brother—even Carmine. He asked Alite to be an usher at our upcoming wedding. I wasn’t keen about that. But we decided early on to have a “King’s Wedding.” I didn’t want a formal wedding party filled with bridesmaids in frilly long dresses. Instead, the wedding party would consist only of men, twenty-six male friends and relatives.

As the wedding grew closer, more and more rumors began to
surface about Alite. John became involved in many fights, mostly barroom brawls. One fight even led to John and Alite getting arrested. The charges were later dropped, but my parents were beyond angry. Rumors also began flying around the neighborhood that Alite was dealing drugs—and robbing drug dealers. Alite denied everything. He always managed to convince my brother that he shared the same “no-drugs” policy as John and my father.