Animal (3 page)

EDWARD
“
TEDDY
”
DEEGAN
Chelsea, MA (March 12, 1965)
*

PETER A. CASSETTA
Maynard, MA (April 12, 1965)
WILLIAM FERGNANI
Tyngsboro, MA (May 20, 1965)
JOSEPH ROMEO MARTIN
Revere, MA (July 9, 1965)
EDWARD I. CROWELL
Burlington, MA (July 10, 1965)
WADY DAVID
Boston, MA (August 21, 1965)

EDWARD J. MCLAUGHLIN
West Roxbury, MA (October 20, 1965)
JAMES J.
“
BUDDY
”
MCLEAN
Somerville, MA (October 29, 1965)
RAYMOND DISTASIO
Revere, MA (November 15, 1965)
JOHN O
’
NEIL
Revere, MA (November 15, 1965)
ROBERT PALLADINO
Boston, MA (November 15, 1965)
DAVID SID LAUSHES
Quincy, MA (April 25, 1966)
ANTHONY VERANIS
Milton, MA (April 26, 1966)

CORNELIUS HUGHES
Revere, MA (May 25, 1966)

ROCCO DISEGLIO
Topsfield, MA (June 16, 1966)
STEPHEN HUGHES
Middleton, MA (September 23, 1966)
SAMUEL LINDENBAUM
Middleton, MA (September 23, 1966)
JOHN W. JACKSON
Boston, MA (September 28, 1966)
ARTHUR C. BRATSOS
Boston, MA (November 15, 1966)
THOMAS DEPRISCO
Boston, MA (November 15, 1966)
JOSEPH
“
CHICO
”
AMICO
Revere, MA (December 17, 1966)
WILLIAM L. O
’
BRIEN
Stoughton, MA (January 15, 1967)
ANDREW VON ETTER
Medford, MA (February 2, 1967)
JOHN LOCKE
Revere, MA (March 19, 1967)

JOSEPH LANSI
Medford, MA (April 18, 1967)

RICHARD CAMMERATA
Charlton, MA (June 26, 1967)
WILLIAM BENNETT
Dorchester, MA (December 24, 1967)
J. RICHARD GRASSO
Brookline, MA (December 31, 1967)
MISSING
(
PRESUMED DEAD
)

EDWARD
“
WIMPY
”
BENNETT

WALTER BENNETT

THOMAS SASSO

RUBEN NEEDEL

*
FBI Memo BS 92–563, filed by SA Dennis Condon in 1967.

PROLOGUE

Joseph Barboza is the most dangerous individual known

FBI DIRECTOR J. EDGAR HOOVER
, 1965

If Joe Barboza felt out of place, he certainly didn’t show it. He was the lone Portuguese mobster swimming with a school of Sicilian sharks in the dark, dangerous water that was the Ebb Tide Lounge. It was their hangout after all—not his. Barboza’s dream was to become the first non-Italian inducted into La Cosa Nostra, but to the gathered Mafiosi, Barboza was not one of them and never would be. They called him “the nigger” behind his back, and to them he was nothing more than a blunt instrument used to erase their enemies.

Joe Barboza knew exactly what he was—the meanest, deadliest man in the New England mob. Tonight he’d prove it to these so-called men of respect. Fats Domino had just completed his second set of the night. A waitress was wiping the big man’s sweat off the piano as Fats was led upstairs for a rigged game of dice. Poor Fats—he was one hell of an entertainer but he was also a degenerate gambler. He played the Ebb Tide a few times a year, earning twelve grand a week. Most times though, Fats would hit the road owing the house more money than he had earned.

The lounge was relatively quiet now, just a few wiseguys huddled around the bar discussing past and future scores in hushed tones. Joe Barboza sat at a table, with his broad shoulders pressed against a wall and his eyes on the front door. The Ebb Tide was intentionally built with a narrow entrance to block armed men from bursting through the front door all at once. Still, Barboza had plenty of enemies, and the only way to stay alive in this game was to plan for the unexpected. He sipped at his glass of Crown Royale while regaling a buddy with stories from his brief but colorful career as a prize fighter. His deep, baritone voice rose above the other conversations around him, much to the annoyance of one respected Mafiosi.

“Hey, quiet down over there,” the gangster shouted in Joe’s direction.

Barboza paid little attention and kept talking, so the mobster repeated the order.

Joe raised his thick eyebrows and smiled at his buddy as he slipped out of his chair and made his way toward the man, who was leaning against the bar. Barboza moved through the club slowly, his muscled shoulders carving through the crowd like a sharp blade. All eyes were on him now. He savored the attention. It was the same feeling he got each time he had entered the ring, only the spectators in this crowd were all like him—dangerous men. He approached the Mafiosi and offered a crooked smile followed by an open-handed slap across the face. The sheer sound of the impact—flesh on flesh—echoed through the bar. The Mafiosi staggered back and tried to brace himself for another blow. Barboza kept his own dark eyes on the gangster. “Your move,” he muttered.

The problem was—the gangster couldn’t move. His hands were trembling, but his arms remained at his sides as if he were paralyzed. Suddenly, a slightly built and bespectacled man made his way to the bar. Wearing a pair of black suspenders and white socks, Henry Tameleo had the meek look of an accountant. In reality, he was the underboss of the New England Mafia, or “The Office,” as it was called; he held sway over everything that happened inside the Ebb Tide Lounge. Tameleo was normally an even-tempered mobster. Associates called him the Referee, for his ability to settle disputes calmly. Tameleo’s trademark cool exterior was not on display tonight. The outrage over what he had just witnessed was boiling to the surface.

“I don’t want you to ever slap that man again!” Tameleo shouted angrily at Barboza. The underboss waved his bony finger around the Ebb Tide. “This is my place. I don’t want you to touch anyone here with your hands again. You hear me? Never lay your hands on anybody!”

Barboza did not say a word. Instead, he nodded and lunged toward his victim’s face once more—this time with his mouth. Barboza bit off a piece of the gangster’s cheek and spat it down on the surface of the bar. A stunned Henry Tameleo looked on in horror as the wounded Mafiosi crumbled to the floor.

Barboza smiled at the underboss as a small stream of blood trickled from his lips. He raised his beefy palms to Tameleo.

“See Henry, I didn’t use my hands!”

After this night, Barboza’s legend began to grow. He had struck fear in the heart of the Mafia. They no longer called him the nigger. Joe Barboza had a new nickname now—the Animal. This story has become part of New England mob lore, and no doubt it has been embellished over time. Oftentimes, the difference between mythology and reality is difficult to define in the underworld, whose inhabitants are all natural-born killers and liars.

The city of Boston has long been known as Ground Zero for corruption within the ranks of the
FBI
. The bureau’s cozy relationship with Irish mob boss James “Whitey” Bulger has made headlines around the globe. But the story did not begin there.
Animal
is the unbelievable but true tale of the
FBI
’
S
original deal with the Devil. In 1965, amid the backdrop of one of the deadliest mob wars in American history, two unscrupulous
FBI
agents forged a Faustian bargain with Joe “The Animal” Barboza. It was a pact that transformed the justice system in America. Here is their story.

1

Thacher Island—September 1967

Oh Sinnerman where you gonna run to?

NINA SIMONE

Joe Barboza found it hard to believe that his life might end here—in this place. New England Mafia boss Raymond L. S. Patriarca, known simply as the Man—a moniker that grew out of the respect he had built up among gangsters far and wide—was coming for him, and he would not give up the hunt until Barboza was dead. This Joe knew. Given the life he had led up to this point, Barboza had figured he’d take his last breath sooner or later on the streets of East Boston, seated at the bar at the cavernous Ebb Tide Lounge on nearby Revere Beach, or at any other number of places where mob killers like him plied their trade. But here, on this God-forsaken island? It was nearly impossible to imagine.

Barboza had been holed up for the past month on Thacher Island, an unforgiving fifty-acre pile of jagged rock covered by sea grass and poison ivy about a mile off the coast of Rockport, Massachusetts. The island, under twenty-four-hour protection by the U.S. Marshal Service, was crawling with rats and snakes that had been cultivated to help ward off intruders. The only intruders thus far had been the seagulls that made routine dive-bombing runs to pick off unsuspecting vermin as they scurried out of their island holes. The deep, hollow wail of a foghorn, sounding twice every sixty seconds, rang incessantly in Barboza’s head. His enemies had vowed to send Barboza to Hell, but he felt as if he were already there. Joe’s only solace came in the companionship of his wife and their young daughter; both had been forced into hiding with him, and the marshals had sworn to give up their own lives to protect them.

Would their protection be enough? It was a question Barboza asked himself again and again. He had never before had to depend on anyone else for his own safety. It was a foreign concept to him. He had always been the predator, an animal stalking its prey. But now he was the quarry—he was the kill. In the eyes of
La Cosa Nostra
, Joe Barboza had become the
most wanted man in America. His secrets and, more important, his lies had the potential to destroy the New England Mafia and damage crime families from coast to coast. For this, Joe Barboza had to be killed. The U.S. government had taken extraordinary measures to keep him safe. But the one thing Barboza knew was that if the Mafia wanted you dead—you were dead. The key was to strike first. Joe Barboza had fought his own battles on the streets with pistols, rifles, knives, ice-picks, and bare hands. Not that a weapon would do him any good now. Still, a killing tool in his murderous hands might make him feel more at ease, help to take the edge off. The only thing Joe Barboza could do now was hide. He had never hidden from anything in his life.

Barboza’s secret location had been recently revealed in an article printed in a Boston newspaper under the headline “How to Hide a 250-lb Canary.” Barboza’s protector, U.S. marshal John Partington, had been notified that upon reading the piece, Raymond Patriarca had assembled an assassination squad to silence Joe once and for all. Patriarca had recently summoned mob associate Vincent Teresa to his headquarters inside the Coin-O-Matic Vending Company at 168 Atwell Avenue in the Italian section of Federal Hill in Providence, Rhode Island. The dingy mint-green building was hardly fit for a Mafia king like Patriarca—and that is exactly how he wanted it. Like most successful mob leaders, the Man worked to cultivate a low profile. The only hint of the power within was the fleet of polished Cadillacs parked curbside in front of the Coin-O-Matic’s dirty picture windows. When Teresa arrived he was led to a backroom, where the boss dictated his murder decree. “You take (Maurice) Pro Lerner up there and case the island,” Patriarca ordered. “See if you can get Barboza!”
¹