Operation Family Secrets: How a Mobster's Son and the FBI Brought Down Chicago's Murderous Crime Family Read online

  After serving his sentence, my dad worked at a series of grueling manual labor jobs. He and my grandpa shoveled coal out of the back of a truck and hoisted and unloaded blocks of ice into nearby boxcars for the Jefferson Ice Company. He was soon promoted to driving a truck for Jefferson Ice, which paid decent money. Yet his violent side simmered. He and a co-worker, a large black man, got into arguments on the job. The two men didn’t like each other. He forged a phony truce with the guy, and after a night of drinking the man was never seen or heard from again. My dad didn’t admit that he killed the guy, though he told me once that “after that night, nobody seen the guy again.”

  By the mid-1950s, Frank Calabrese, Sr., now in his late teens, was back roaming the streets, pulling off a string of gas station stickups, burglaries, and auto thefts. He decided to get into the “wedding business.” He would scout out ceremonies and rob the guests as they left. At other times, he and a partner would stick up partygoers, lining everybody up and relieving them of their wallets, watches, and other valuables. Every Calabrese street heist was well planned, and he was careful to strike neighborhoods outside the Patch. As a calculating burglar, his number one rule was simple: Never steal from any of the Italian neighborhoods—especially where the bosses live.

  In between robbing weddings and pulling stickups, at twenty-four he married my mother, Dolores Hanley, an Irish American girl. In 1960, with me on the way, Dad moved his budding family into a small two-bedroom apartment on Grand and Menard Avenues on Chicago’s West Side. After my dad lost his day job driving a dairy truck, my grandpa on my mother’s side came to the couple’s rescue. He had ties to the notorious O’Donnell gang inside the Irish mob. Through his Irish connection at city hall, he got my dad a job. My dad also moonlighted with his new brother-in-law Edward Hanley at Hanley’s, a bar in Chicago located on the corner of Laramie and Madison and owned by his father-in-law. At the time, Uncle Ed was an up-and-coming union officer. He later became one of the most powerful union bosses in the country as president of HEREUI (Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees Union International) with 350,000 members.

  My dad scored his first “ghost payroll” job with the city of Chicago as a member of Local 150 of the Heavy Equipment Operators. He reported to work as an “operating engineer” for the Department of Sewers. He would arrive at work in dress pants and a shirt to pick up his paycheck. As a “no-show,” he’d cash it and dutifully kick back a share to the union rep that got him the job.

  Leaving the apartment on Grand and Menard, he moved my mother and me farther west to his recently deceased grandmother’s house on West Grand near Natchez Avenue, where his grandfather converted the unfinished basement into a den and the attic into two additional bedrooms. Throughout the early 1960s, my mother and father shared the house and the converted space with my grandparents and the rest of the Calabrese siblings.

  Between 1961 and 1964, my dad worked as a thief and burglar. After he accumulated more than ten thousand dollars, he invested it around Chinatown and the 26th Street area by providing juice loans to desperate customers who were charged usurious interest rates. By catering to customers who couldn’t secure credit with their local banks and needed short-term money, no questions asked, he soon had a thriving business. My father’s ready-made customer base included the neighborhood gamblers, many of whom were in over their head and desperate.

  As an independent loan shark, the Calabrese juice loan business increased rapidly in the 26th Street Chinatown area. This was before America was flush with easy money from legitimate credit cards and banks. Before MasterCard and Visa, usury was exclusively associated with organized crime. Today the banks have virtually taken over the usury business.

  Juice loans work in the following manner: A “lender” like my dad will assign a percentage on top of the principal that a customer borrows. Depending on how much influence a gambler or a businessman has, the borrower might pay anywhere from 2.5 percent to 5 percent per week, also known as points. The juice loan business is a highly profitable enterprise. If somebody borrows $10,000 at three points, he is now on the hook to pay 3 percent, or $300 per week. This is called “the vig” (short for “vigorish” or Yiddish slang for “winnings”) or, in my father’s line of work, “the juice.” In addition, the borrower still owes the principal amount of the original debt. For instance, if the borrower paid Calabrese $300 a week for the next twenty weeks, that would amount to $6,000 in juice. But the client would still owe the $10,000 principal. If the borrower was fortunate enough to pay his loan down by $5,000 (which would include the $300 juice payment for the original $10,000 that week), he would end up owing $5,000 on the principal, and the juice would be reduced to $150 per week.

  Juice loans became big business for the Outfit, serving both white- and blue-collar borrowers. A clever and opportunistic street lender found that he could accumulate gradual wealth in the juice loan business, and my father’s business flourished unimpeded by the Outfit. But that would soon change.

  In early 1964, my dad caught the attention of the Outfit bosses when he was “whistled in” by Angelo “the Hook” LaPietra, an influential and feared underboss who had his own extensive juice loan operation in the Chinatown/Bridgeport area. LaPietra earned his nickname by his manner of murdering his victims. If someone couldn’t pay or was a suspected rat, “Ang” would have his crew hang his victim on a meat hook, and torture him with a cattle prod or a blowtorch. When the coroner determined the cause of death, most often it was suffocation from screaming. In the early 1960s LaPietra and Jackie “the Lackey” Cerone were overheard by the FBI bragging how they had hung a three-hundred-fifty-pound enforcer, William “Action” Jackson, from a hook. LaPietra and his assistants tortured him for days, keeping him alive on drugs.

  My father, twenty-four years old at the time, was driven to a nightclub near Harlem Avenue by an Outfit soldier, Steve Annerino, to meet with the Hook. LaPietra told him that the only way he could continue his loan operation was under the guiding eye of the Outfit. As an incentive, he was given an additional $60,000 to lend. Later he was given another $80,000.

  My dad had teamed up with a gangster hustler named Larry Stubitsch, who was raised in Chinatown and knew the neighborhood well. He and my dad worked long hours together, and soon spread $350,000 across a few dozen borrowers. Stubitsch was ambitious. He wanted to become an Outfit big shot, while Dad recommended that it would be wise to keep a low profile.

  Once my father became an Outfit earner, he was under tremendous pressure to produce. Failure was not an option, and those who mishandled Outfit money or did not live up to the bosses’ expectations would pay with their lives. He understood the advantages of blending into the streets, choosing to become a solid earner instead of a loud and ambitious wise guy.

  Frank James Calabrese, Sr., portrait of a gangster.

  He stands five feet nine inches, is stocky, with hazel green eyes and a friendly “warm-up-the-room” smile, and doesn’t appear to be a threat. That’s what he wants people to think. But the real Frank senior has the strength of an ox and an explosive temper. His dress code is basic and unassuming, favoring neutral colors, never flashy. During the frigid Chicago winters he prefers a baseball cap, sweatshirts, jeans, and ski jackets to more stylish attire. Wanting to “blend in,” he rarely frequents Outfit hangouts or get-togethers.

  His cheap plastic-framed glasses slide down his nose as he peers at you from over the top of the lenses. Removing his glasses is the cue that a heavy conversation is about to take place and your undivided attention is required. On the streets, Frank senior is concerned about surveillance and speaks in a monotone, a step above a mumble. His speech is clipped neighborhood Italian tough guy: “Dems are nice pants.” “I’ll kick the shit outta the boat a ewes.”

  He may show no emotion; instead, he takes off his glasses and looks directly into your eyes. He’ll speak in a low firm voice and await your response. Instead of yelling, he tightens up with rage as his right hand shakes and his eyes turn g
lassy. Then he’ll start swinging and screaming.

  Whenever “Senior” talks business he covers his mouth with his hand and speaks in code. Deceptive and unpredictable, he interjects into conversations an unexpected smile and a laugh to throw off anybody listening. Concerned about wiretaps, Senior’s favorite place to talk is in the bathroom with the exhaust fan on and the water running. When it comes to certain incriminating words, he likes to make hand motions instead of actually saying them. He rarely uses words like “money,” “guns,” “knives,” “killing.”

  Although my family lived in a cramped basement, it was a carefree time. As the eldest son, Frank Calabrese, Jr., I was called Frankie or Junior, to differentiate me from my dad. I recall my earliest memories of living on Grand and Natchez. I had a full family life surrounded by my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and pets—all living in a single house. It was communal living, not unlike a dormitory, but more fun. I fondly remember spending time sitting under the stairs with my pet boxer, Duchess. The whole family would dress up for home movies. I have vivid memories of my dad performing silly skits for the camera. Every Fourth of July the entire family would crowd outside as Dad would bring home boxes and boxes of fireworks to set off in the street.

  Of all of my uncles, my godfather, Uncle James, was the most easygoing. He and his girlfriend would often take me out driving until Uncle Junior, as he was called, died of cancer at twenty-one. Dying so young, he became a patron saint for the Calabrese family. By 1965, the Calabrese family had its first new house in the suburbs, on the northwest side of Chicago in the village of Norridge, on Lawrence Avenue and Cumberland. We finally had a home of our own.

  In September 1966 my father’s juice business ran into its first real snag. Stubitsch was a brawler who loved to pick fights, including an ongoing beef he had with former Chicago policeman and Outfit associate Dickie DeAngelo.

  Dickie DeAngelo was a friend of the much feared and soon to be boss “Milwaukee Phil” Alderisio. Plying his trade since the Al Capone days working for “Greasy Thumb” Jake Guzik, Alderisio was the consummate hit man, extortionist, juice loan operator, and schemer. Alderisio traveled extensively to Turkey, Greece, Lebanon, and Asia, brokering heroin deals.

  Milwaukee Phil (who was actually from Yonkers and acquired the name because of his control of gambling, prostitution, and narcotics in Milwaukee) had contempt for both Stubitsch and my father because of their expanding juice operations. Phil was known for his huge ego and could be seen strolling down Chicago’s Rush Street nightclub district like he owned it.

  Although my dad tried his best to keep his partner in check, Stubitsch confronted DeAngelo. Once the shooting started, Dad took cover behind a car and watched as his trusted partner was gunned down by Dickie outside the Bistro A-Go-Go, a nightclub on Higgins Road. Stubitsch took two slugs to the midsection and was pronounced dead four hours later at Resurrection Hospital. DeAngelo told homicide investigators a curious story—the shooting occurred when four armed robbers approached him inside the club and the melee continued out on the sidewalk. The investigation stalled after no murder weapon was found, and the charges against Dickie were dropped. Another version of the story is that a fight occurred between my father and DeAngelo over a waitress. Dad put a beating on Dickie. DeAngelo grabbed a gun and started shooting at my father, but Stubitsch was the one who caught the rounds.

  After the DeAngelo shooting, Angelo LaPietra took his young protégé aside and ordered him not to seek revenge for the murder of his partner. “These things happen, Frank. Sometimes we like it and sometimes we don’t.” My dad needed to let things go, or, as LaPietra went on to explain, “As long as you’re with me, nuthin’ is gonna happen.”

  Since my father was not a “made guy,” he needed “a rabbi” or someone with enough clout to fend off any future hits on him. His status as an earner allowed LaPietra to intervene on his behalf.

  With his success, Dad sold his house in Norridge in 1970 and made plans to move the entire Calabrese clan to Elmwood Park, a Chicago suburb. Until recently, it was the tradition in Chicago to buy what were known as three-flats, three-story buildings with an apartment on each floor, enabling extended families to live together. Many three-flats had remodeled basements, and their owners could add a half-story apartment upstairs or an additional room on top of the garage. In 1970, the Calabreses moved into their three-flat on 2515 North Seventy-fifth Court in Elmwood Park. Like others on their street, the property had a private alleyway next to the main road, enabling my dad to come and go at all hours. He and my family occupied the middle apartment, while my grandparents lived upstairs. Uncle Nick would later occupy the garden apartment.

  The Calabrese three-flat was nicknamed “the Compound,” with Dad acting as the family’s patriarch. He took on a large responsibility by surrounding himself with family. He organized regular outings and holiday get-togethers, footing the bill. When his youngest brother, Joe Calabrese, married, and his wife gave birth to twins, it was agreed that Uncle Joe would move into the basement of the Compound, the converted two-bedroom garden apartment where my uncle Nick would later live. Instead of paying rent, he would help out around the house. Joe idolized his brother Frank. Uncle Joe worked two jobs, during the day at a bank and during the evening at a gas station across the street. Like my late uncle James, Joe and Nick treated me like a younger brother. The three of us would play football together, with Joe and Nick showing up at my games at school.

  One day when my father suspected that Uncle Joe had been seeing one of the girls at the bank, he flew into a rage and left a note on his door ordering him to move out immediately. After reading the note, Joe stormed up the stairs. My brother Kurt and I could hear Uncle Joe banging loudly on the door, yelling, “FRANK! FRANK!”

  Kurt and I ran into our bedroom expecting a huge row as my dad stomped to the door dressed only in his boxers. In a flash, he had Joe pinned up against the wall and was beating him with his fists and strangling him. Grandpa and Uncle Nick came rushing in to separate them. I had never seen two brothers fight so brutally. It was a traumatic altercation. The incident poisoned the relationship between dad and Uncle Joe for years. My grandfather became the only Calabrese who stood up to his oldest son. The two would have heated arguments and nearly come to blows. I would cringe as they would scream at each other. That’s when I noticed a change in my father and that he was becoming more like Angelo.

  As he spent more time with his mentor Angelo—or “Uncle Ang” as he was known around our house—he became increasingly short-tempered. Back when we lived in Norridge, the house was packed with family, friends, and relatives. After we moved into the Calabrese Compound, my father’s disposition hardened. He became cautious of visitors, paranoid and moody. Worse, my mom noticed that Dad was explosive toward the children. The family chalked it up to Uncle Ang.

  Angelo LaPietra was an irascible underboss who would yell to keep his crew on edge. Yet he was easier on my dad because he followed orders and did his job well. Angelo could rely on him to bring in more than his share of earnings every month. More important, he didn’t cause problems by going “off the Outfit reservation.” He was the kind of guy Angelo liked: a soldier and an earner who was low-key and content working his juice loans, gambling, and street tax operations. He wasn’t looking to race up the Outfit ladder. If promoted, great. If not, he made it known to Angelo that he wasn’t out to make waves.

  After the death of Larry Stubitsch, business was booming, enabling Frank senior to put more money out on the street. Although he felt restricted having to report to so many layers of bosses, his stance was simple: “As an earner, you have value. If you follow the rules and turn in the dollars, nobody’s going to bother you.”

  As his fortunes grew, in 1970 he enlisted Uncle Nick, whom he could trust and control. After a hitch in the navy, Nick was adrift, feeling restless and disconnected.

  Born on November 30, 1942, Nicholas W. Calabrese had spent a large part of the 1960s in the military. Af
ter Nick did a tour of duty in Vietnam and returned to civilian life, my father convinced Uncle Ed Hanley to find my uncle a well-paying job as a union organizer. He worked on a few building projects for the city under the auspices of the Ironworkers’ Union, including the construction of the McCormick Place Convention Center and the hundred-story John Hancock Building.

  Nick viewed his older brother as a success, a local tough guy who worked for himself and kept a large bankroll in his pocket. By 1970, he felt the allure of my father’s respect and expressed an interest in joining his crew. My father started him off as a driver making a few collections, a typical entry-level position. With hard work, my uncle established himself as a loyal soldier who wouldn’t question authority. My father liked that.

  At any given time, there were a dozen Calabrese family members living at the Compound, the three-flat near Grand Avenue and North Seventy-fifth Court in Elmwood Park. It was a typical Italian post-immigrant communal living arrangement. My parents and the three sons—Frank junior (me, born in 1960), Kurt (sixteen months younger than I), and Nicky (born in 1971)—occupied the main center apartment sandwiched between my uncles, aunts, and grandparents.

  An upstairs addition included my father’s personal office, a spare kitchen, a dining area with a large table for ten, a fireplace, and a couch. Our family used the room regularly, but it was open to anyone in the Compound. No one locked his or her apartment door. If I wanted to drop in on Uncle Nick or watch TV with my grandparents, I could just walk in. Grandma and Grandpa, Nick, and Dad spoke Italian and English, occasionally mixing the languages.