“Just the same.”
A look passed between them. Because of course it was trouble. Vincent “The Animal” Gargano was a stalker for Carlo Capobianco, the North End boss currently waging a campaign to consolidate the countless smalltime bookmaking operations in the city under his own control-a campaign that was building to its own bloody climax.
Until then, organized crime in Boston had never really deserved the name. No one had ever succeeded in organizing the city, or even tried. Boston had never produced an Al Capone or a Lucky Luciano, a Caesar to unite it. So the city’s gangland remained fragmented and smalltime. It was not even the seat of power for the Mafia in New England. That was Providence, where a heavily Italian population had created more favorable conditions for the Italian Mob than Irish-dominated Boston. It was from Providence that Raymond Patriarca governed New England beginning in the early 1950s, with the blessing of the Genovese and Colombo families in New York. Boston was a backwater. But now perhaps the city had found its Caesar after all, a cocky, pugnacious North Ender, the son of Italian immigrants, whose talent was perfectly aligned with the greatest opportunity: gambling.
Carlo “Charlie” Capobianco was a born bookie. He had got out of the Navy in 1947; just three years later he was running the bookmaking rackets of the North End consigliere Joe Lombardo. But this, Capobianco found, was no military operation. The bookies Capobianco saw were amateurs. They took bets on the numbers in the back of their groceries or barrooms. They treated the books almost as a secondary business. Most were independents: they paid a tribute to the Mafia in exchange for protection from the cops and from Mob shakedowns, and access to the race wire and layoff bank. Nobody was monitoring them, nobody knew how much they were making or how much more they could afford to pay. It was a mess, run by old Mustache Petes like Lombardo who did not understand the numbers business or the potential of a properly managed, centralized gambling network.
Capobianco set out to take it over. From now on, there would be no more independents. Everyone worked for Capobianco and everyone paid. The bookies would render unto Caesar what was Caesar’s. A tax on your take. A tax on your telephone-your lifeline, your link to the whole operation. A tax just for staying in the business. Charlie Capobianco wanted a piece of every nickel bet.
He was not interested in anything but bookmaking and the profits it threw off. He did not dabble in other Mob businesses-unions, dockworkers, truck hijacking, pornography, drug trafficking-because that was not where the big money was. Gambling, that was where the money was. Capobianco had grasped a simple truth: The Mafia was in the gambling business. Since the end of Prohibition, gambling had been far and away the Mafia’s biggest source of income. The rest was a sideshow, for dumb-shit Irishmen and grabby New Yorkers. Capobianco meant to stick to his knitting.
He streamlined the whole operation. Business grew. In boiler rooms in the North End, phones rang off the hook. A dozen guys in each room to handle all the action. Horse races in the afternoon, dog races at night, numbers all day. In the horse room, Danny Capobianco, Charlie’s little brother, carried a roll of half dollars to pay the phone operators, fifty cents a bet.
But alone, Capobianco could only go so far. He was not a made man. That meant he could not muscle in on crews that operated with Raymond Patriarca’s blessing. He couldn’t collect a debt if the deadbeat also owed Patriarca. He could not even protect himself from the other sharks in Boston’s chaotic crimeworld. When they began to shake Capobianco down-when they taxed him -Capobianco did what he had to do.
He drove down to Providence to see The Man. Capobianco handed Ray Patriarca an envelope containing fifty thousand dollars cash and he offered the don a deal: fifty grand down and a guarantee of at least a hundred thousand a year in exchange for a monopoly on bookmaking in Boston. Patriarca accepted.
The deal changed everything. Capobianco moved in on the bookie rackets citywide, and in the early 1960s Boston got bloody.
Capobianco unleashed his stalkers, now augmented by a battalion of Mafia strong-arm men, hundreds of them, with orders to bring the bookies to heel. The stalkers confiscated half the bookies’ take-the tax. Bookmaking profits in turn fed a loan-sharking business, as sharks put that money back on the street at three or four percent a week. And that was the fatal formula: enforcers ordered to show no mercy in collecting debts; and debtors everywhere- bookies unable to keep up with the taxes, borrowers unable to keep up with the vig of three, even four hundred percent a year on sharked money. Bodies began to fall, particularly in the run-down South End. A New Boston indeed.
In the mayhem, a new generation of enforcers flourished. They were feral and vicious. Their violence was flamboyant. They cruised the city like sharks.
The apotheosis of this new breed was Vincent “The Animal” Gargano. And he was hunting for Ricky.
14
Amy had installed a new deadbolt on her apartment door, a monster of a lock that looked like it belonged on a bank vault. It quelled the unease she’d been feeling and it helped her sleep. She did not like to think of this foreboding as Strangler-anxiety; she did not see herself as the hysterical type. But it was getting hard to ignore the alarm on the street. Sometimes it seemed the Strangler was all people talked about.
In the beauty parlor, Amy had listened, captive, while a half dozen women debated the available tactics.
– -I don’t know what I should do when I get home. Maybe I should leave the door open and look around, so if the Strangler’s inside I’m not locked in with him. But then I think, what if he’s outside? Maybe I should lock the door as quick as I can.
– -Even when you’re inside with the door locked, who says you’re so safe? All these ladies he killed, even the young girls, he got in. He finds a way in, this guy.
– -When I go to bed, I set up soda bottles by the door, so in case he opens it during the night, I’ll hear and maybe he’ll get scared off.
– -He doesn’t break in! They let him in! He talks his way in, he’s a con man. So just don’t answer the door…
On and on people talked. Nobody knew anything. Newspapers described the killer as a phantom and a monster, but they had no idea what he actually looked like. They hinted at carnal sadism or ritualistic sexual deviancy and suggested that the Strangler had satisfied his unnatural appetites. But the details were withheld; no one knew exactly what had happened to those thirteen women. Everyone was free to imagine the murders according to her own personal horrors. The victims, on the other hand, were absolutely real. In a city as small as Boston, it was not unusual to know someone who knew someone who knew one of the victims. Even if you could not find such a link, among thirteen victims, young and old, white and Negro, all nice girls, all grandmothers and college girls, it was not hard to find a victim who seemed familiar enough.
Far from distracting people from it, the Kennedy assassination fed the paranoia. It touched the same nerve. The Strangler too was an enemy within. The phantom fiend, they’d been told, probably looked just like them. If it turned out in the end that the city’s resident monster was just another Oswald, well, they might be disappointed but they would not be surprised.
And so it went: Priests warned women from the pulpit to keep their doors locked. Jittery phone-callers flooded the police with warnings about neighbors who were suspected of harboring fetishes, or men who tried to pick them up on the street, or mysterious hang-up calls. Single women felt their hearts quicken when they entered their darkened apartments. Strangler-anxiety became a fact of life.
Amy tried not to feel any of it. What the newspapers had said was true: Statistically, you were more likely to be killed by lightning than by the Strangler. Anyway, she had always felt strong, and feeling strong, she believed, made her so. Still, something was off. She wanted that big new lock. It helped her sleep.
Now she fiddled with the key, sawing in and out, searching for the proper fit as she clutched her purse and the mail and supported a bag of groceries precariously on one raised knee. Finally she was able to get the thing open. She stepped inside, snapped the light on-and screamed.
Ricky was in the armchair in the opposite corner.
“Jesus! Stop, doing, that!”
“I don’t have a key.”
“Exactly.”
