Crime Incorporated. William Balsamo
to the Mafia code of omerta: “talk and you die; keep your mouth shut and we’ll take care of you and your family…”
The state and federal officials became frustrated in their efforts to learn what the meeting was about, but they did learn one thing: the Mafia “grand council” apparently did meet periodically. Its purpose ostensibly was to deal with crucial problems and map ways of enhancing the organization’s holdings and wealth.
After Apalachin, the syndicate never let itself be caught in similar straits. If indeed they met again—and it’s believed they’ve had many conclaves in the years since—they were careful not to send out any more telltale smoke signals of their get-togethers, such as a procession of expensive, out-of-state cars all heading to the same place.
The chapters that follow are a powerful portrayal of America’s Mafia, shaped by the authors through research and investigation—as well as personal experience. We have chronicled in exacting detail every significant episode of the Mafia’s underworld activity from before the turn of the century to the present day.
August 4, 1919, was an unbearably hot, muggy day. The temperature reached 95 degrees at high noon—just the time two sinister-looking figures, dapper in Palm Beach suits and Panama hats, strolled off busy Flatbush Avenue and entered the Mount Olympus Restaurant, in the heart of downtown Brooklyn.
“Hello, my good friends,” a voice encumbered by a heavy Greek accent greeted the two men, who needed no introduction to many of Nick Colouvos’s gathering lunch crowd. Frankie Yale was one of the underworld’s fastest rising gang leaders; his squat muscular companion and chief lieutenant, Anthony “Little Augie Pisano” Carfano (also known as “Augie the Wop”) was equally well known.
“Here, let me give you a table near the big fan in the back where you will be cool,” Colouvos offered. The soft-spoken, personable restaurant owner had looked up to Yale as a hero since the dreary winter’s night in 1918 when a young boy, no older than ten, hawking evening and morning newspapers from a makeshift stand outside the restaurant. That night the stacks of papers were still piled high at an hour when they should have been depleted. It was indoor weather and the streets were deserted.
Nick watched as Yale went over to the boy, bought out his newsstand with a crisp fifty-dollar bill, and commanded him to “Go home to your mama.” Nick never forgot that episode. To the immigrant from a poor Spartan village who had known only poverty until he came to America and lifted himself up by his bootstraps by washing dishes, then working as a chef until he scraped enough savings together to open his own restaurant, the underworld hoodlum’s gesture to the newsboy was an example of true generosity.
He sat his guests down and took their orders, then went off into the kitchen to make certain the meals were prepared to Frankie’s and Little Augie’s satisfaction. Nick wasn’t his usual smiling, ebullient self, Yale remarked to Pisano. “Something is bothering him,” he said.
When Nick brought the food out and served it to his guests, Yale asked what was troubling him. Nick simply shrugged and said everything was all right. Yale didn’t believe him.
“Nick, something is on your mind, my good friend. What is it? Somebody bothering you? You having trouble with the help around here?”
Nick shook his head. “Nah, nothing like that. It’s a personal thing…”
His voice trailed off and Yale sensed a deep problem gnawing at Nick.
“Let’s go to the back room where we can talk,” Yale suggested. He stood up, dug a hand into his pants pocket, and pulled out a wad of cash. He peeled off a ten-dollar bill and dispatched Little Augie to fetch a bottle of Scotch from a nearby liquor store.
When Augie returned, the three retired to the back room. After the drinks were poured, Frankie and Augie settled back to listen to Nick’s plight.
Speaking with considerable hesitation, Colouvos managed to say, “It’s…my daughter…Olympia…You know her, Frankie…You gave her twenty dollars two months ago for her birthday…”
Yale knew the girl. She had an angelic face and long auburn curls that hung down her back. He also remembered that she was eight years old.
Nick explained that for the past several weeks Olympia was extraordinarily melancholy, often crying for no apparent reason, refusing to eat.
“This is not at all like my daughter,” Nick said. “We finally took her to the doctor, but he could find nothing wrong with her. He thinks she is going through a phase, but my wife and I just know something is not right.”
Lately the little girl was awakening in the middle of the night, screaming from nightmares. “I can’t see my child in tears,” Nick protested. “It depresses me. And worse, she won’t even talk about what is bothering her. We don’t know what to do anymore.”
Yale thought of an immediate solution.
“You know what I’m gonna do for you?” He paused briefly to give emphasis to his words. Then, with a grand sweep of his hand, he laid out his blueprint to get into the little girl’s head:
“I’ll get Mary Despano to take Olympia to Coney Island this weekend. Maybe after she goes on a few rides and has some ice cream, she’ll open up for Mary and tell her what’s bothering her.”
Mary Despano, a saintly forty-hve-year-old widow, lived alone in a tenement at the corner of Union and Henry Streets in the center of Brooklyn’s Little Italy. Her husband and son were victims of the great flu epidemic of 1917 and since then Mary had worn nothing but black mourning dresses.
Children adored Mary and many of them made her their confidante. They could tell her things about their personal lives and their weightiest problems that they didn’t dare discuss with their own mothers.
That Sunday Mary took Olympia to the famed summer playground on the Brooklyn shore where, after a round of rides, and hot dogs, french fries, frozen custard and cotton candy, the little girl’s tongue loosened.
After depositing Olympia safely at home, Mary Despano sought out Yale and told him what had been causing Nick’s daughter so much unhappiness and nightmares. Frankie shouted a litany of epithets and slammed his hand against the dining room wall with such force that the picture frames rattled and a crack was left in the plaster.
After Mary departed, Yale phoned the restaurant and asked Nick to have his wife prepare dinner for the following Sunday.
“I want to eat with you and Maria. And be sure to ask your brother George over, too. That is very important. But the children will not eat with us. Mary will take Olympia and your two sons to Coney Island for another treat.”
Nick’s apartment was located in a brownstone on Clinton Street, not more than eight blocks from the restaurant. Nick greeted Frankie Yale at the door and ushered him into the living room where Coulovos’ wife, Maria, and brother were already seated.
After a period of small talk, Mrs. Colouvos excused herself to prepare dinner. Twenty minutes later she brought the roast leg of lamb and all its trimmings to the table, and summoned Yale, her husband, and brother-in-law into the dining room.
The conversation was simple and unencumbered during the meal. After she cleared the dinner dishes, Nick’s wife served the traditional Turkish coffee, the Greek after-dinner delicacy, baklava, and little jiggers of ouzo.
Until this moment, none of the Colouvoses seemed to have an idea of why Frankie Yale had arranged this get-together. Then Yale took the last sip of his ouzo and turned to his host.
“Nick,” Yale began, with a grim face. “I have very bad news about Olympia. The reason she has nightmares is because…”