Bill woke up late the next morning, and after breakfast in the coffee shop, he went for a swim in the motel's pool. It was a warm sunny day in Phoenix and he felt refreshed after the swim. Later, as he sat under an umbrella at poolside relaxing with the previous day's edition of The New York Times The New York Times, the cool and pleasant feeling began to leave him as he read the text of President Nixon's anti-Mafia speech. The story of the speech was at the top of page one under the headline NIXON REQUESTS WIDE u.s. POWERS TO COMBAT MAFIA, and it was featured above a story announcing the seizure of the Biafran capital by Nigerian troops, and above the North Korean government's castigation of Nixon for continuing to send American spy planes over North Korean territory and for permitting American forces in South Korea to fire heavy weapons into areas in violation of the Korean armistice agreement. Although Bill Bonanno was familiar with the high points of Nixon's speech from yesterday's radio reports and the local press, the thrust of the President's attack seemed somehow more preponderant in the sober gray columns of the Times Times. As Bill read and reread certain paragraphs from the text, he became irritated by its naivete and somewhat defensive. To the president's statement that "many decent Americans contribute regularly, voluntarily, and unwittingly to the coffers of organized crime," Bill Bonanno objected to the term unwittingly unwittingly, convinced that anyone who dealt with a bookmaker was well aware of what was going on. In fact, the horseplayer or numbers bettor had to take the initiative to place an illegal bet, had to seek out the bookie, an individual who did not advertise and who was wary of customers he did not know personally or had not met through a trustworthy contact.

To the president's statement that the Mafia's victims included such divergent groups as the suburban housewife and the college student, the secretary and the bricklayer, and "the middle-cla.s.s businessman enticed into paying usurious loan rates," Bonanno again took exception to the term enticed enticed and he also wondered if the president knew that most citizens who sought money from loan sharks were individuals who had failed to pay off debts in the past, were wheeler-dealer types and chronic gamblers, were the sort who would accept money and agree to the terms and then, rather than pay it back would go to the police and inform on the loan shark. If the so-called victims of loan sharks were reliable people, Bill thought, they would undoubtedly have found a banker at Bankers Trust, or a friend at Chase Manhattan, or a benefactor in government, and would not have sought out a loan shark in Harlem or Brooklyn. and he also wondered if the president knew that most citizens who sought money from loan sharks were individuals who had failed to pay off debts in the past, were wheeler-dealer types and chronic gamblers, were the sort who would accept money and agree to the terms and then, rather than pay it back would go to the police and inform on the loan shark. If the so-called victims of loan sharks were reliable people, Bill thought, they would undoubtedly have found a banker at Bankers Trust, or a friend at Chase Manhattan, or a benefactor in government, and would not have sought out a loan shark in Harlem or Brooklyn.

The general tone of the president's speech that Bonanno quarreled with was the notion that most of the citizens who contributed to the multibillion-dollar crime industry were mindless individuals who had no will of their own, no responsibility for their own acts, they were innocent and pure and had been corrupted by mobsters. Among those "corrupted" in the president's speech were the police who took bribes, as if the mob had to force money into the pocket of the policeman. There was also the suggestion that illegal gambling flourished because the public was "apathetic," when in fact, Bill felt that the public found nothing immoral in such gambling, it being the one form that they could easily afford; they could wager a few dollars every day of the week and still find it cheaper than the expense of one afternoon at Aqueduct or a night at the trotters. Also if they hit the number or scored heavily with the bookie, they could avoid the taxes, it being one of the few loopholes for the workingman who could not write off winter business trips to Florida that coincided with the opening of Hialeah.

By the middle of the afternoon Bill was on the road to Tucson, driving for two hours over a desert highway at great speed, seeing no cars behind him and nothing around him but cactus plants, distant mesas, and wide stretches of copper-colored sand reflecting in the sun. Though he drove with the windows up and the air-conditioner turned to "super cool," he could feel the intense desert heat from memory, recalling the many afternoons that he had spent as a boy following his father's instructions and sitting with his left ear c.o.c.ked toward the sun to stop the draining, and he reminded himself now that Arizona no longer offered any cure for his problems-it merely seemed to add to them.

His Tucson visits in recent years had invariably produced confrontations with the police, and during his last extended stay he was arrested twice and was blown out of a tree by bomb blasts. Although there had been no explosions since September 1968, seven months ago, the FBI and the police had failed so far to identify the bombers, not even the woman Bill saw throwing a package of dynamite from a car as it cruised past his father's home last summer. Perhaps his father now had new information, Bill thought, and maybe that was what he was attempting to convey during the incomprehensible telephone talk a few days ago.

As Bill approached the city he could feel his muscles tensing; the long road trip from San Jose had been marvelously relaxing, but now with his destination in sight he felt his freedom constricted, and slowing down below the speed limit he automatically began to dart glances at the rearview mirror. It was not only being in Tucson that alerted him, but approaching his father, returning to live for even a few days in a house where he would become again the son, subjected to another man's rules, even a man whom he deeply loved; his reaction being new, he did not pretend to understand it fully, for he had felt it only occasionally and briefly since his father's reappearance in 1966. It might have evolved out of their sudden and increased interdependence on one another after the years of separate solidarity in better times, but Bill was aware that he was now more self-conscious in his father's presence, more on guard.

Nearing his father's house on the corner of East Elm Street, Bill saw his younger brother Joseph leaning against a car parked at the curb talking with a few girls and young friends. Bill waved as he pa.s.sed, noticing Joseph's long hair and thinking how characteristic that before leaving San Jose he had had his own hair cut. As he turned the corner to enter the garage, his father came out to greet him, and the watchdog was barking.

The elder Bonanno was deeply tanned, and his bright dark eyes and silver-gray hair accentuated his handsome features. He wore tan linen trousers, Indian moccasins, and a green knit turtleneck shirt through which could be seen the outline of a gold medal and chain around his neck. Bill was pleased and surprised at how well he looked. Bill noticed that the portions of the brick wall that had been destroyed by bombs had now been rebuilt, and he also noticed, after entering the house and kissing his mother, that certain furniture had been rearranged and that his father's office was undergoing a kind of spring cleaning-books were stacked on the floor, drawers were open, and on top of the desk were framed photographs, doc.u.ments from the filing cabinet, several old photo alb.u.ms, personal mementos and letters.

"Look," his father said, leading Bill by the arm into the office, "I want to show you something I found." The elder Bonanno flipped through a pile of papers and, smiling, held up a report card from his grammar school days more than a half century ago. Pointing to a grade in arithmetic, he announced, "Ninety-eight," and he added in what was typical of his humor, "not bad for an Italian."

Bill also saw several photographs showing his father posing with politicians, priests, and Tucson businessmen at banquets years ago, and there was one large inscribed photograph of a powerful minister in the Italian government named Bernardo Mattarella, a native of Castellammare and a boyhood friend of Joseph Bonanno. There were photographs, too, of the elder Bonanno's parents, and on the wall a framed map of Castellammare, and a small colored postcard that Bonanno had recently received showing an aerial view of the Sicilian town as it looks today. "Castellammare has not changed at all," Joseph Bonanno said, "and that is what I like about it, and why I wish that before I die I could see it once more. How nice it is to go back to the place where you were young and to see that it has not changed."

Bill excused himself a moment and went into his bedroom to unpack the small suitcase that he carried. The room was now as it had been when he lived in this house twenty years ago, and the window next to his bed was secured by the lock that he had occasionally unhitched in the middle of the night when sneaking out to keep a date with a young woman whom he had never dared to introduce to his father. In such situations Bill behaved so differently than his brother Joseph did, who made no secret of his private life, coming and going as he wished, and if the elder Bonanno objected, Joseph Jr. would express indignation and would argue with his father in ways that Bill never would have done, and would still not do. His twenty-three-year-old brother had essentially grown up without a father, for the elder Bonanno was on the move so much during young Joseph's formative years, although young Joseph did carry the burden of the name. Once, in military school, Joseph took a swing at an instructor who asked while reprimanding him: "Are you going to grow up to become a gangster like your father?" Joseph soon left that school without protest from the faculty, and in recent years, failing to complete college, he divided his time between bronco riding and car racing, managing a rock group and having his own difficulties with the law.

A year ago in Beverly Hills he and the twenty-two-year-old son of Peter Licavoli of Detroit and Tucson were arrested on suspicion of car theft and armed robbery, an incident that made national headlines but was later dismissed for lack of evidence. The car was registered to Sam Perrone, and Joseph Jr. complained after the case that the Los Angeles police had been tailing him constantly, trying to provoke an incident. It would not be difficult for the police to provoke Joseph because, as Bill knew, his brother was very sensitive to caustic remarks or innuendos from the authorities, and with the anti-Mafia campaign so rampant in the nation now, particularly in Tucson, it was inevitable that Joseph Bonanno, Jr., would have problems.

Bill often thought that it would be better if Joseph left Tucson, but he had no idea where he might go to settle down; he had already left home once or twice after disputes with his father, and these had been bitter experiences for the elder Bonanno, who after Joseph's departure would ritualistically remove all pictures of his youngest son from the wall and would turn facedown those that were on bureaus or tables.

While Joseph had many girl friends, one a tobacco heiress from North Carolina, he had so far terminated every relationship that might have led to marriage, which pleased his mother. She liked having him home. Joseph's interest in car racing, which had once kept him traveling, now seemed to have subsided although Joseph still kept his trophies on display in the house. Perhaps one reason that Joseph had stopped, which might also partially explain why he was now living with his parents, was that his driver's license had been suspended after his conviction on eleven traffic violations. Bill remembered hearing that when the motor vehicle inspector came to the Bonanno home looking for Joseph, the inspector was attacked by the German shepherd, who bit him on the leg, thereby producing another summons for the Bonanno family. It was the second such summons for the dog, and Bill thought that the animal was a very compatible pet.

In the living room, Bill joined his parents for a drink. It was close to dinner time now, and Mrs. Bonanno turned on more lights, including those that focused on the painted protraits of herself and her husband that hung on the wall behind the television set. Bill noticed that his father had smiled for the artist in the same serene way that he had for so many newspaper photographers, while his mother's portrait was more formal, her dark eyes and lean face pensive if not melancholy and her hair less gray than it was now. Still, Bill thought, his mother had now regained the poise that she had temporarily lost during the bombing incidents of last summer, and she also was spry and quick as she moved about the room.

The conversation in the living room was general, centered around references to Bill's children in San Jose and the forthcoming wedding in June of Rosalie's sister Josephine-which Mrs. Bonanno, who was Josephine's G.o.dmother, planned to attend. Then Bill remembered that he had brought with him a book about the Mafia, called Theft of the Nation Theft of the Nation, that his father had wanted to read; the book was written by a professor of sociology named Donald R. Cressey, who had been a national crime consultant in Washington. The elder Bonanno, like his son, read books about organized crime as avidly as people in show business read Variety; Variety; and while Joseph Bonanno believed that much of the reporting about the Mafia was fict.i.tious he nonetheless was interested in references to himself, a subject that he did not find unfascinating. and while Joseph Bonanno believed that much of the reporting about the Mafia was fict.i.tious he nonetheless was interested in references to himself, a subject that he did not find unfascinating.

In handing the book to his father, Bill indicated that his father came off perhaps better than most who were mentioned in the book, although Bill knew that there was a reprint of an FBI transcript quoting a Rhode Island don as saying that the elder Bonanno "was the cause of his own downfall because he was so greedy." Joseph Bonanno inspected the book's black jacket momentarily, the red letters of the t.i.tle on top and below a white drawing of the Capitol dome in Washington smeared with big black fingerprints obviously meant to represent the Mafia. Bonanno smiled softly, shook his head. He flipped through the book, noting that it contained no photographs but that it did contain charts of the five New York "families" that were organized after the Castellammarese War in 1931. Of the five charter member dons of 1931 in New York-Luciano, Mangano, Gagliano, Joseph Profaci, and Joseph Bonanno-only Bonanno was still alive. Bonanno placed the book gently on the table next to his chair, thanking Bill for bringing it. Bill was almost sorry that he had, for on page 156 there was an insulting reference to himself; the author had reported Bill as being "rather stupid and eccentric," which prompted Bill to conclude that Cressey was rather stupid and eccentric, but Bill did not cite the reference to his father.

A moment later, Joseph Jr. walked into the living room, followed by a tall handsome young man with long blond hair named David Hill, Jr. He was from San Antonio, was twenty-two, and had been a friend of Joseph's for more than a year. Hill's father was a retired army general, a war hero. But the son was a connoisseur of art who had studied in Paris, was a young man with strong views on politics and hypocrisy in America who shared with the Bonannos a conviction that the family had been much maligned in the press. When Bill Bonanno had first met David Hill during the previous summer he had been skeptical, concerned that his brother Joseph, who in the past had attracted many unusual and interesting friends, had on this occasion possibly attracted an FBI protege or a spy of some sort. But Bill soon altered his thinking, being guided largely by his father, who took an instant liking to the young Texan, admiring his independence and intelligence and appreciating his friendship at a time when friends were rare. Now David Hill, Jr., stayed at the Bonanno home, and he occasionally drove the elder Bonanno around town on errands, accompanying him and a.s.sisting him almost in the manner of an aide-de-camp. He received no financial remuneration for this, being in fact quite wealthy-which young Joseph confirmed after a visit to Texas in Hill's company-but Hill claimed to be gaining something of value from his closeness to Joseph Bonanno, namely an insight into an unusual mind, a broadening awareness of life from another point of view.

When the FBI became aware of Hill's living in the Bonanno home, word was quickly sent to the Hill family in San Antonio, and the young man himself was asked to appear at the FBI office in Tucson. When David Hill arrived, he met with an agent who expressed shock and dismay at Hill's choice of friends, but said that Hill might be able to compensate for his faulty judgment by a.s.sisting the federal government in compiling data about the habits of the Bonanno family. When Hill refused, and when he emphatically stated that he would not reconsider the FBI's proposition, the agent proceeded to insult him, calling him a disgrace to his family and to his country, adding that young Hill would never be able to hold a position with the United States government, a threat that Hill accepted without appearing to be distraught.

David Hill, Jr., and Joseph Bonanno, Jr., were sitting in the Bonanno living room, equally at home, listening to the elder Bonanno speaking softly on a wide range of subjects, and the elder Bonanno continued to speak freely about his life and times throughout dinner. Dinner was not served in the dining room that adjoined the living room, but rather at the long table in the sun porch to the rear of the house. Mrs. Bonanno did the serving, a.s.sisted by a middle-aged Tucson woman who was a close friend of hers, while Joseph Bonanno, encouraged by David Hill's interest, spoke elaborately about his boyhood background, about the history of Sicily, and about his travels to Paris, his recollections of the United States during the thirties when there was more individual freedom than there was now in the sixties, the era of big government. David Hill interrupted freely to express his own opinions, or to ask for a larger explanation from the elder Bonanno, which Bonanno did with apparent satisfaction.

While Bill had heard all these stories before, he was aware of how animated his father seemed in retelling them now to someone new, an outsider with long blond hair who had a rapport with Bill's father that was not obstructed by their difference in age or the complications of a father-son relationship.

Mrs. Bonanno, standing to unset the table and warm the coffee, seemed pleased that her husband was enjoying the discussion; and young Joseph complimented his friend's ability to put into words what he, Joseph, felt-and Joseph was also privately satisfied with his own role in introducing his father to David Hill, one of the few things that he had done recently that had not resulted in a summons.

After dinner, throughout which Bill had been rather quiet, cheese and fruit were pa.s.sed around, and also brandy. The elder Bonanno remained seated at the table for another hour, even after the dishes and silverware had been removed. He was in an expansive mood, wanting to talk for hours, and Bill thought how lonely it must have been for his father during the past winter in Tucson. His father had been restricted to the companionship of a few men, and if he left the house he was usually followed by the police. He could not take a short vacation trip out of town, for if he requested it the government might seek to counter the doctor's opinion that Joseph Bonanno's heart ailment and the damage that might arise from additional tension justified Bonanno's failure to appear before juries in New York or elsewhere. He was still free on $150,000 bond on the three-year-old federal charge of obstructing justice, although he was essentially a prisoner in his home, and Bill could appreciate how diverting an evening such as this was for his father.

Still, as the discussion at the table continued and as David Hill remained deeply engrossed in whatever the elder Bonanno was saying, Bill could not conceal his restlessness and fatigue. He was beginning to feel the effect of the long motor trip, and he also complained of a mild toothache. He excused himself briefly and walked into the living room where the television was on; he walked out to the front lawn, looking up at the stars and the promise of a clear day tomorrow. He returned later, and took his seat to the right of his father at the table, listening absently for another half hour. His hand rested on a brandy bottle in front of him; and soon, with the nail of his right thumb, he began to scratch into the red wax seal on the neck of the bottle. He did not seem to be conscious of it, but his nail was picking determinedly at the seal, cutting into it, chiseling it down, and tiny pieces of hard red wax began to fall along the tablecloth.

His father continued to talk, and n.o.body seemed to notice what Bill's hand was doing, except his mother. She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a tray of gla.s.ses, watching him for several moments. She frowned slightly, but said nothing until she finally got his attention. Then she spoke softly, directly, her words intended only for his hearing.

"Do you want a scissor," she asked, "or a knife?"

Bill slept late the next day, and when he woke up and went in for breakfast he discovered that his father had waited to have breakfast with him. His father asked about his toothache, seeming concerned and conciliatory.

Later, with Joseph Jr. and David out for the afternoon, Bill spoke with his father without interruption. They dealt with many of the things they had been unable to discuss during the months they had not seen one another, including Bill's court case over the credit card, which would probably go before the jury in the fall. Bill relayed one of his lawyer's opinions that if convicted on all counts of mail fraud, perjury, and conspiracy, he could expect a minimum sentence of ten years in jail. He thought that that was a heavy price to pay for having spent not much more than $2,000 with Torrillo's credit card; but the lawyer had reminded Bill that the government had a strong case and that things might even be worse if Bill took the witness stand in his own defense. The government prosecutor could then interrogate him about subjects other than the credit card incident, and Bill's reluctance to answer could make him seem even more sinister before the jury. It was Bill's a.s.sumption now that his lawyers would probably not put him on the stand.

The elder Bonanno strongly urged his son not to concern himself at this time with such eventualities; things often took care of themselves in time, and the government's case might not really be as strong as it seemed. It would have been unfortunate if the case were before the jury now, with public opinion so strongly aroused about organized crime-it was reminiscent of Mussolini's witch-hunt against alleged mafiosi in the 1920s in Sicily. But in six or eight months, there might be a swing back to more rational thinking, and less flailing of the dead horse that the Mafia had become.

As for the Tucson investigation of who had bombed the Bonanno house, there was not much that the elder Bonanno could say that Bill did not already know or suspect. They both knew that it was not a Mafia job. And yet it was somehow organized and well planned, as had also been the bombing of the Licavoli ranch, Notaro's house, the wig salon where Mrs. Charles Battaglia had worked, and the others. Bill's guess was that a citizens committee of vigilantes, or some kind of political agency, was sponsoring the destruction; but aside from knowing about the mysterious sedans registered to the Deluxe Importing Company, he had made no further progress-and neither he, his father, nor any of their friends could risk pursuing the bombers. They had to leave it to the FBI and police, for if they became involved it might make matters worse; it was perhaps precisely what their adversaries were seeking-a confrontation with the Mafia or a plot portending a scandal or newspaper publicity charging mafiosi with threatening the lives of innocent citizens.

What the Bonannos wanted least in Tucson now was publicity, which was why Bill chose to remain indoors during the day for the entire weekend. He kept the car locked in the garage, did not even stand near the windows during daylight hours. He was fairly certain that the local police were unaware of his presence; if they had known of it, he was sure that they would have invented an excuse to visit the house and ask questions, and then there would have probably been stories in the press speculating on this visit, implying that within the house a secret conclave, with far-reaching underworld implications, was being held.

There were no stories that weekend, but the publicity that the Bonannos had successfully avoided would reach them six weeks later.

23.

ON JUNE 10, 1969, MANY OF THE INNER SECRETS, INTRIGUES, and events leading up to the Banana War-together with a preponderance of data and gossip about the Mafia in general-were revealed by the FBI, which between 1961 and 1965 had been recording private conversations through the use of hidden microphones placed in three locations frequented by alleged mafiosi. One of the mafiosi was a rather jaunty man of fifty-nine with wavy gray hair named Samuel Rizzo De Cavalcante, who was the boss of a sixty-man "family" in New Jersey and who, in the interest of peace and harmony in the underworld, served as the Mafia national commission's messenger in its troubled negotiations with the Bonanno organization between 1964 and 1965.

It was a thankless task at times, and Samuel De Cavalcante's frustrations in the 2,300-page FBI log testify to how his hopes were usually unfulfilled and how finally he himself realized the futility of his efforts. But it was also evident that De Cavalcante, an obscure New Jersey don who had limited prestige in the national society, truly enjoyed his mission, was challenged by its possibilities of success, liked to brag to his underlings about his being on the inside with the top dons, even as a courier, and did not mind shuttling back and forth between New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania to meet secretly with such commission members as Joseph Zerilli of Detroit and Angelo Bruno of Philadelphia as well as with Bill Bonanno and other representatives of the loyalist and separatist groups.

By all standards of the underworld, and even the larger world beyond, Samuel De Cavalcante was a patient well-meaning man trying to do his duty, a man who listened for hours to the dictates of men whose words were really intended for someone else, someone who was never there, Joseph Bonanno; and yet De Cavalcante, responsive to the task, remained always available even after he knew he was wasting his time-time that he might otherwise have devoted to his plumbing business in New Jersey, to his numbers and loan-sharking and other enterprises, to the wife and children that he loved, and to the mistress that he frequently missed.

The romantic diversions of De Cavalcante, which he alluded to in the privacy of his office to confidantes or in telephone conversations, did not evade the sensitive microphones of the FBI any more than later did they evade the newspapers, the magazines, or the two paperback books that gave national circulation to his words after the FBI released them in June 1969. The New York Times The New York Times for days gave as much s.p.a.ce to the De Cavalcante dialogues as it did to the Ec.u.menical Council in Rome, gaining no doubt a higher rate of readership; and among the for days gave as much s.p.a.ce to the De Cavalcante dialogues as it did to the Ec.u.menical Council in Rome, gaining no doubt a higher rate of readership; and among the Times Times's regular subscribers, none read with more interest than Joseph Bonanno, whose photograph had appeared with the first article (a rare photograph, for he was not smiling), and Bill Bonanno, who had learned for the first time what certain mafiosi were saying about him behind his back. The paperback books went into even greater detail, and it was also possible to obtain, as Bill later did, the full thirteen volumes of the FBI transcripts, which federal authorities gave to certain friends and reporters and which could be purchased for $95 at the federal courthouse in Newark.

One of the first admissions by De Cavalcante that difficulty existed in the Bonanno organization was recorded on August 31, 1964-two months before Joseph Bonanno's disappearance. The recording was made by an electronic device emplanted somewhere on or near De Cavalcante's desk in his office in the one-story cinder block building in Kenilworth, New Jersey, where, with a Jewish partner with whom he could speak fairly fluent Yiddish, he operated an air-conditioning and plumbing supply business. Shortly before noon on August 31, De Cavalcante was visited by one of the captains in his "family," Joe Sferra, who was also the business agent for a hod carrier's union in Elizabeth, New Jersey.

"I've been busy with the commission," De Cavalcante complained.

"Who's giving you problems?" Sferra asked.

"It's nothing with us," De Cavalcante replied. "More lousy meetings!"

"Yeah?" Sferra asked.

"They don't want n.o.body to know about it," De Cavalcante said, and he paused momentarily, as if hesitant about saying anything more even to his captain. But Sferra's curiosity was aroused, and he asked, "So, what's new?"

"Oh," De Cavalcante said, "a little trouble over there, in New York."

"New York?"

"Yeah," De Cavalcante said. Then he told Sferra, "Close the door. n.o.body's supposed to know."

After he closed the door, Sferra seemed to have second thoughts about wanting to pry into commission affairs, and he said, "Sam, if you don't want to tell me you don't have to tell me." But Sam De Cavalcante wanted to tell him.

"It's about Joe Bonanno's borgata borgata [family]," he said. "The commission don't like the way he's comporting himself." [family]," he said. "The commission don't like the way he's comporting himself."

"The way he's conducting himself, you mean?"

"Well, he made his son consigliere consigliere," De Cavalcante explained, "and it's been reported, the son, that he don't show up. They [the commission] sent for him and he didn't show up. And they want to throw [Joe Bonanno] out of the commission. So-just now they figure that the coolest place is Rhode Island. You know what I mean? It's a pain in the neck. I feel sorry for the guy, you know. He's not a bad guy."

"How old is he?" Sferra asked.

"Sixty, sixty-two."

A month later, after De Cavalcante had had unsatisfactory meetings with Bill Bonanno, John Morale, and others, De Cavalcante sat in his office telling one of his subordinates, Frank Majuri, and unknowingly also telling the hidden microphone, how difficult it was to deal with Bill Bonanno, adding that he was more fearful of the younger Bonanno than the elder.

"His son is a bedbug," De Cavalcante said, continuing, "I had an appointment..."

"You went to see him?" Majuri cut in.

"Yeah," De Cavalcante said, adding that he had been accompanied by Joseph Zicarelli, a Bonanno member residing in New Jersey. "They got one car in front and one in the back. I said, 'What's going on here? Are we being followed?' He [Zicarelli] said, 'No, don't worry.' " But De Cavalcante realized that while en route to the meeting he was surrounded by Bonanno cars, and that Bill "made sure like I didn't have n.o.body to set him up."

Although not speaking personally to the elder Bonanno, De Cavalcante did talk to him by telephone, recalling how indignant Joseph Bonanno was that the commission was interfering in Bonanno's family affairs and was protecting Bonanno's disloyal captain, Gaspar Di Gregorio, from reprisals.

" 'Where do they come off protecting him?' " Bonanno is supposed to have demanded of De Cavalcante, as De Cavalcante recalled it in his office for Majuri. " 'This is a Cosa Nostra family!' He's telling me over the telephone. 'The commission told me not to try anything with this guy [Di Gregorio] because the commission is responsible for him!' He [Bonanno] don't care, he thinks n.o.body is responsible, [Di Gregorio] belongs to his his family.... They [the Bonanno organization] took an att.i.tude he was thrown out of their family and that n.o.body should have anything to do with him, and where are they coming off protecting him..." family.... They [the Bonanno organization] took an att.i.tude he was thrown out of their family and that n.o.body should have anything to do with him, and where are they coming off protecting him..."

"Maybe the guy wasn't wrong, right?" Majuri asked De Cavalcante.

"Who?"

"The guy they threw out," Majuri said, quickly asking what the Bonanno man in New Jersey, Zicarelli, thought about the situation.

"He don't think," De Cavalcante said, explaining that Joseph Bonanno was Zicarelli's boss. Then De Cavalcante, as if pondering the disastrous consequences that would befall the Mafia if this dispute were not settled, said "That's all the government would want-a thing like this to happen!"

"It would be all over," Majuri agreed. "It wouldn't be like it was with the Gallo boys. This would be an entirely different affair now."

"It would be," De Cavalcante said, conjuring up global visions, "like World War III!"

It was around this period, still a month before Joseph Bonanno's disappearance, that Sam De Cavalcante learned that the commission had lost all patience with Bonanno's independent att.i.tude and had voted to remove him from membership. While the FBI transcripts contain no details on whether the vote was unanimous or even whether all eight of the nine commissioners (excluding Bonanno) partic.i.p.ated in the voting, the FBI listed as commission members in 1964 the following: Stefano Magaddino of Buffalo, Joseph Zerilli of Detroit, Angelo Bruno of Philadelphia, Sam Giancana of Chicago, Joseph Colombo of New York (who reportedly succeeded to the leadership of the Profaci-Magliocco family), Carlo Gambino of New York, Thomas Lucchese of New York, and the imprisoned Vito Genovese of New York.

While De Cavalcante was under no formal obligation to do so, he decided to inform the New Jersey-based Bonanno member, Joseph Zicarelli, of the commission's edict mainly because he liked Zicarelli personally and because he wanted Zicarelli to start thinking quickly about his own interests.

"Joe," De Cavalcante began, after Zicarelli had entered his office, "this is strictly between you and I."

"Yeah?" Zicarelli said.

"If I didn't do this," De Cavalcante confessed, "I'd feel like a lousy b.u.m." Then he said, "The commission doesn't recognize foe Bonanno as the boss any more." Zicarelli said nothing, and De Cavalcante continued, "I don't know what's the matter with this guy, Joe. I done everything possible."

As Joe Zicarelli continued to be speechless, De Cavalcante said, "Well, Joe, I'd feel bad if I didn't tell you. Tomorrow I don't want you to say, 'What the h.e.l.l, we're so close and he couldn't tell me!'... They [the commission] can't understand why this guy's ducking them... They respect all your people as friends of ours, but they will not recognize Joe, his son, and Johnny [Morale]."

Zicarelli seemed incredulous, repeating, "Joe, his son, and and Johnny?" Johnny?"

"Yeah," De Cavalcante said, "when they don't recognize a boss..."

"Then all three goes," Zicarelli finished the sentence.

"The whole three," said De Cavalcante, but on the brighter side he explained that "the commission has no intention of hurting anybody, either. That's most important for me to tell you." But Zicarelli countered that Joseph Bonanno also had no intention of harming anyone, "as far as I know."

"Well," De Cavalcante said, "he might hurt people in his own outfit to cover up some of his story," though he emphasized, "the commission is out to hurt no one-not even Joe Bonanno. But they don't want no one else hurt either."

"Who?" Zicarelli asked.

"Right in your own outfit," De Cavalcante said, meaning Gaspar Di Gregorio and anyone choosing to follow Di Gregorio. "When Joe defies the commission," Sam De Cavalcante went on, grandly, "he's defying the whole world."

It was not a simple matter for Zicarelli to suddenly accept the verdict about his boss; while Zicarelli had never been in a position to observe the Mafia hierarchy intimately, being merely a Bonanno soldier-or, as he described himself to De Cavalcante elsewhere on the FBI tape, "a lousy little peasant"-Zicarelli was aware that Joseph Bonanno had been a respected don since 1931, had been a member of the nine-man commission for several years, and it seemed odd that Bonanno would almost overnight be found unfit. Zicarelli also, though only a soldier, had been influenced by the independent style with which Bonanno had long presided as a "family" boss, being fair and personally close to the men but condoning no interference from other dons. From the formative days of the commission in 1931, following Maranzano's murder, Bonanno had defined the commission as a peacekeeping body that should not intrude into the internal affairs of a family, and since no one had challenged his concept for more than thirty years, why anyone was seeking to do so now confused Zicarelli.

When De Cavalcante sought to explain that the commission was justified in protecting Gaspar Di Gregorio and any other family members who had defected because of the elevation of Bill Bonanno, or for other reasons, Zicarelli kept insisting that all this was an internal matter and that Joseph Bonanno was not obliged to answer for his actions to the other dons on the commission. As to De Cavalcante's point about the elder Bonanno's not appearing before the commission or its representatives as requested, Zicarelli noted that Gaspar Di Gregorio had been boycotting meetings of the Bonanno organization, and Zicarelli asked, "Why didn't Gasparino [Di Gregorio] come in when all the captains a.s.sembled?"

"Well," De Cavalcante said, "he probably had his own rights."

"Where does this make sense, Sam-where can he have his own rights?" Zicarelli asked, citing as an example, "You're my boss, you say 'Come in.' Where is my right? I don't have no rights!" Then Zicarelli, speculating darkly about Caspar Di Gregorio's reasons for staying away, asked, "Is he afraid he's gonna get hit? This guy [Di Gregorio] gotta be guilty of something! Why didn't he come?...He was told! From what I understand, he was given all the extensions in the world, that n.o.body meant no harm or nothing. There was just some misunderstanding and they're holding a meeting. The guy's a captain! What kind of example is he?"

"Well," De Cavalcante said.

"Right or wrong, you go!" Zicarelli said, quickly. "I guarantee you one thing-this guy here is my boss. Right or wrong, if he calls me-I'm going! If I'm gonna get hit-the h.e.l.l with it! I get hit and that's the end of it. It don't make no sense to me!"

"This guy refuses to go, right?" De Cavalcante asked, seeking to clarify Di Gregorio's position.

"Yeah."