This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (7 page)

My mother walked the six blocks from the subway stop to the boardinghouse, passing the usual familiar faces along the way: Timmy the butcher, who always made sure he saved some bologna ends for her; Mrs. Phyllis, the neighborhood seamstress, forever scrutinizing the young woman’s outfit for any loose threads; and Teddy the baker, who was unfailingly kind, and on this day offered her a cold glass of iced tea, which she gratefully accepted. Across the avenue, a fire hydrant had been opened, allowing a bunch of neighborhood kids to frolic in the steady, forceful stream of cold water. Mom couldn’t resist kicking off her shoes and letting the cool water splash on her legs.

No one minded, least of all the teenage boys hanging out in the street. Victoria was petite, brunette, graceful. The gangly little neighborhood girl had matured into a beautiful young woman, with deep, brown Italian eyes. Small wonder that on that sticky afternoon in Brooklyn, she attracted the attention of every male on Third Avenue.

One of those men was an unwanted admirer—a middle-aged pickup artist who figured all he needed in his bag of tricks was an ability to whistle and hurl juvenile “compliments.” The man grew angry when the young lady ignored his catcalls, and he soon began spewing obscenities. As Mom rounded the corner near the boardinghouse, she thought it wise not to go straight home. The last thing she needed was some wacko knowing where she lived and returning at some point looking for trouble.

The man was behind her, obviously following. She looked up
and down the avenue; the closest place to seek refuge was the pub where she was due for an interview in just a few minutes. Victoria slipped her high heels back on and darted inside the bar. There was a jukebox in the corner playing a teen favorite, “The Duke of Earl.” In the rear of the bar, a pack of young men chatted while shooting pool. One man, in particular, took notice right away. He was handsome, Mom recalled, “in a movie star way,” and well-dressed, in a navy suit and matching navy-and-cream tie.

Within a few minutes the young man had taken a seat at the bar and begun nursing a Scotch and water. Mom eyed him carefully, surreptitiously, not wanting to stare. She ordered a Coke and waited at the bar. Eventually, though, she slid her Coke down the bar and hopped on the bar stool next to him. Believe it or not, Victoria was the aggressor; John Gotti was the shy boy.

“Excuse me,” she began. “Do you mind if I sit here for a few minutes?”

Dad looked her up and down. He was not accustomed to young women taking the lead in these situations, and so he viewed her with a degree of apprehension. At the same time, there was no denying that he found her extremely attractive.

He also noticed she was watching the door intently.

“Expecting a jealous boyfriend?” he joked.

“No.”

“Husband?”

Mom laughed and shook her head.

“No, just a pest—or a pervert. I’m not sure what he is.”

She pointed to the back of the bar; the man in question had followed her inside and was watching her carefully.

My father nodded. He gestured to a pair of his buddies, who quickly appeared by his side. Dad gave instructions to approach the man and let him know, in no uncertain terms, that the lovely young brunette at the bar was unavailable. If the man had a problem with
that, he was to let my father know, and the two of them would settle matters the old-fashioned way.

Of course, it turned out to be no problem at all. The man might have been smitten, or even perverted, but he wasn’t stupid. In those days, in that part of Brooklyn, it was already widely known that John Gotti was not to be provoked. As the leader of a neighborhood gang, he wielded considerable power. If you crossed him, you’d pay for it.

And so the man nodded subtly, respectfully, and quietly walked out of the bar. That’s when Victoria told John she was there about a job. He seemed surprised, but he smiled to be polite.

“You’re too pretty to work at a bar,” he replied.

My mother nodded. “I need the extra money. I don’t really have a choice.”

Dad called the bartender over, leaned across the counter, and whispered a few words in the man’s ear. The bartender eyed my mother approvingly and smiled.

“Welcome to my bar,” he said. “You start this weekend.”

Victoria got the job, just like that.

The two continued talking. The conversation flowed easily, free of the awkward, empty moments that typify most initial encounters. After several hours—and several shots of Scotch for Dad, and a few Brandy Alexanders for Mom—they finally left the bar. It was nearly closing time. Victoria couldn’t believe she’d allowed herself to stay out so late on a work night, but she couldn’t help herself.

“There was just something about John Gotti that drew people to him, like a moth to a flame,” Mom later explained. “He was that charismatic, that charming. I knew before we left the bar that night that he was the man I was going to marry. He was, as the song said that day, ‘The Duke of Earl,’ as far as I was concerned.”

M
Y FATHER WALKED
the beautiful girl home that night. He couldn’t believe they shared such a similar bleak upbringing and background. Six months later they moved in together. Though this was a scandalous arrangement in 1959, neither Mom nor Dad had family that they felt they needed to answer to; they were on their own. Their first apartment was a small studio in Downtown Brooklyn. The ensuing two years would prove challenging, but the love they felt for each other managed to hold them together. Money was still scarce.

Even though he was bringing in more greenbacks than he had in the past, there never seemed to be enough at the end of the month to meet the bills filling up in the mailbox. Strong-willed and passionate, Mom and Dad had endured more than their share of disagreements and separations, some more volatile than others. The fights sometimes resulted in one of them leaving for days at a time. One such incident sent my mother into an emotional tailspin because, as fate would have it, she found out she was pregnant shortly after she left Dad.

Mom weighed her options. Years later, she would tell me, “It was all I thought about day and night; I couldn’t focus, couldn’t function. Your father and the pregnancy were all that was on my mind.” She considered different scenarios. As she would also later tell me, “I knew in my heart I still loved him and wanted this baby. But the circumstances and the timing couldn’t have been worse.”

M
Y MOTHER ARRIVED
at the East Flatbush Women’s Center with tears in her eyes. She thought about her own mother—young, alone, and pregnant—and how badly that situation had turned out. As much as she detested the idea of getting an abortion, Mom was terrified of having the baby. But she realized she couldn’t go
through with it, she couldn’t stamp out the life growing within her. She thought of the younger brother who had been aborted, and became nearly sick to her stomach at the notion of repeating “such a horrible and heinous act.”

“And so I didn’t walk from the clinic,” Mom said. “I ran.”

With nowhere else to turn, she reluctantly went back to the boardinghouse. Aunt Bessie was waiting at her usual perch, leaning out on the windowsill on the second story.

“Hah!” the old woman chortled. “He went and kicked you out, huh?” She shook her head disdainfully. “Your Mr. Wonderful.”

Mom ignored her nasty comments and calmly requested a room to rent. Preferably, she said, the same room she had occupied in the past.

Bessie hacked and wheezed, and continued her mean, drunken rant. My mother let it wash over her. She thought for a moment about running away. But where would she go? She knew her husband, Willy, still loved her and would take her back in a heartbeat. They were not officially divorced, and not even the fact that she was carrying another man’s child would have mattered to him. But she was in love with my father, and no doubt believed—or at least hoped—that he would come looking for her. Mom would never admit it, but I believe that’s the real reason she went back to Aunt Bessie’s: it was the only known address my father had for her; this way, at least, he could find her.

My mother went up to her room and unpacked her things. She didn’t have much, just a few frayed nightgowns, two or three suits for work, T-shirts and jeans, and her most treasured possession: a photograph of her and my father at the Copacabana in Manhattan. They often went there during the time they lived together. The night the picture was taken they were with Marie and Angelo Ruggiero, and the foursome look as though they had not a care in the world.

L
UCKILY
, M
OM’S STAY
at the boardinghouse was short this time around. One night, while visiting my aunt Marie and uncle Angelo, my father showed up at their Brooklyn apartment. To my mother, my father appeared weary and defeated. She’d never seen him look so vulnerable. “As long as I live,” she said, “I will never forget that look on his face.”

Dad’s tired eyes were glassy; Mom suspected he’d been drinking. At first she was surprised to see him there, but she quickly surmised that Angelo must have alerted him that my mother was expected to drop by that evening. Dad shuffled into the apartment, and all my mother could think was
Thank God I look good.
She was careful to do her makeup and put on a dress, just in case Dad stopped by.

Dad stood inside the doorway of the apartment for a few awkward moments, with no one saying a word. Angelo and Marie weren’t sure whether they should stay or leave. The apartment was tiny, so leaving meant, quite literally, leaving the building. There was nowhere to seek privacy, so Angelo and Marie stayed. They hoped to encourage Mom and Dad to end their silly separation.

It was my father who broke the uncomfortable silence.

“What is it that you want? What is it that you want me to do?” he asked.

My mother paused before answering. Her voice catching with emotion, she responded, “I want this.” She gestured to the apartment. “I want a house with a white picket fence, children playing in the front yard, and maybe a dog.”

By now she was getting tears in her eyes.

“And I want us to get married, like Angelo and Marie.”

Dad was surprised. Finally, he began to speak.

“I don’t know if I can give you some of those things. But one thing I do know is this: I’m no good without you. I feel like half of a man and I don’t want to live this way.”

Before the two even got close enough to embrace, Mom announced she was pregnant and Dad nearly hit the floor. Suddenly, the sadness and apprehension drained from his face, replaced by a look of pure joy. It was, my mother would fondly recall, as if he had won the lottery.

T
HE HOUSE WITH
the white picket fence, the dog, and even the marriage came a bit later.

There were, after all, obstacles in their path.

“We still had one very big problem,” Mom explained. “I was already married—to a man I didn’t love.”

Getting the marriage annulled was no small task. Dad used his contacts to secure the services of a lawyer who handled the annulment. It proceeded quietly and reasonably, in large part because Willy, to his great credit, chose not to contest my mother’s request. He was a gentleman, unsuited to do battle with the likes of John Gotti; moreover, he loved my mother too much to stand in her way. Victoria loved another man, and carried that man’s child. What was Willy to do but grant her wish and get on with his life?

T
he wedding wasn’t your typically lavish, over-the-top mob affair. At the time, my father remained on poor terms with my grandparents; and my mother was still estranged from her parents. So the ceremony was small and intimate, attended only by a few close friends and family members.

My father’s relationship with Angelo Ruggiero had evolved into such a strong bond that they practically considered themselves to be brothers. Because of the close friendship between my father and Uncle Angelo, my mother and his wife, Marie, quickly became pals. In the fall of 1962, with Angelo and Marie present as witnesses, my mother and father finally tied the knot.

The two had already been living together for a few years, and my sister Angel was born in 1960. This was a nearly unforgivable
sin back in those days. To my parents, though, it wasn’t such a big deal. After all, the couple had been together, and living on their own, since they were sixteen years old. So in many ways they considered the ceremony to be a mere formality.