One month after the Columbus Circle rally, with the growing Italian-American Civil Rights League showing promise of political influence, Attorney General John N. Mitch.e.l.l sent a confidential memorandum to all agency heads, including the FBI director, instructing them to stop using the words "Mafia" and "Cosa Nostra" because the terms offended "decent Italian-Americans." Encouraged by this decision, officers of the league-the elder Colombo was not an officer but his eldest son, Anthony, was the vice-president-received similar a.s.surance after writing to the Ford Motor Company, which was one of the sponsors of ABC's television series, "The F.B.I." The league also gained concessions from advertising agencies whose commercials, in the league's opinion, portrayed Italians in a demeaning way. When a Staten Island newspaper, Advance Advance, published a series of articles on mafiosi residing on Staten Island, noisy picketers from the league appeared outside the newspaper building, interfered with delivery trucks, and urged that the author of the series be dismissed and that future references to "Mafia" or "Cosa Nostra" be banned. The Advance Advance, which did not comply with either demand, obtained an injunction against the picketing, but not before a fracas had occurred between league members and the police. Among those arrested was the league's president, Natale Marcone, a fifty-seven-year-old former union official who lives on Staten Island.

The New York Times's plant on the West Side was also picketed, and spokesmen for the league later met with Times Times's executives to complain about certain articles and the use of Italian "labels" to describe a portion of organized crime. While the league's representatives were told that under no circ.u.mstances would the Times Times respond to pressure tactics, the managing editor A. M. Rosenthal said that the newspaper was sensitive to all aspects of discrimination in America and that it would review its performance with reference to Italo-Americans to see if there were deficiencies. respond to pressure tactics, the managing editor A. M. Rosenthal said that the newspaper was sensitive to all aspects of discrimination in America and that it would review its performance with reference to Italo-Americans to see if there were deficiencies.

In the months that followed, while "Mafia" still appeared in the Times Times's news columns, it did so with somewhat less frequency than before, being alternated with such terms as "organized crime 'family.' " The Times Times also published certain articles that Joseph Colombo, Sr., approved of, one being a lengthy article about the league itself. The article, though not ignoring the criminal charges against Colombo, concentrated on the league's growth, its aims, and its fund-raising charity drives, hospital construction, its contributions to black neighborhood groups, Spanish-speaking groups, antinarcotics education programs, and its close liaison with the Jewish Defense League. It was estimated to have 45,000 dues-paying members around the nation, and the most active members in its various chapters were called "captains": of the 2,000 captains, 200 were said to be Jewish and 90 were black. The league had raised about $400,000 from members' dues, and $500,000 from a charity show at which Frank Sinatra and several other show business personalities entertained the audience of 5,000 at the Felt Forum in New York. The audience included New York's deputy mayor, Richard R. Aurelio; Paul O'Dwyer, a prominent Democrat; Ed McMahon, the television personality; and several hundred league members among whom, of course, was Joseph Colombo, Sr. The joke that received perhaps the biggest laugh was delivered by the black comedian G.o.dfrey Cambridge who told the crowd: "I got a strange invitation to this thing-a rock came through my window." also published certain articles that Joseph Colombo, Sr., approved of, one being a lengthy article about the league itself. The article, though not ignoring the criminal charges against Colombo, concentrated on the league's growth, its aims, and its fund-raising charity drives, hospital construction, its contributions to black neighborhood groups, Spanish-speaking groups, antinarcotics education programs, and its close liaison with the Jewish Defense League. It was estimated to have 45,000 dues-paying members around the nation, and the most active members in its various chapters were called "captains": of the 2,000 captains, 200 were said to be Jewish and 90 were black. The league had raised about $400,000 from members' dues, and $500,000 from a charity show at which Frank Sinatra and several other show business personalities entertained the audience of 5,000 at the Felt Forum in New York. The audience included New York's deputy mayor, Richard R. Aurelio; Paul O'Dwyer, a prominent Democrat; Ed McMahon, the television personality; and several hundred league members among whom, of course, was Joseph Colombo, Sr. The joke that received perhaps the biggest laugh was delivered by the black comedian G.o.dfrey Cambridge who told the crowd: "I got a strange invitation to this thing-a rock came through my window."

A few months after the show, Joseph Colombo was named "Man of the Year for 1970" by The Tri-Boro Post The Tri-Boro Post, a weekly newspaper that circulates in Queens, Brooklyn, and Staten Island. At a dinner marking the occasion-a $125-a-plate affair that netted the league $101,000-Colombo received a bronze plaque honoring him as the "guiding spirit of Italian-American unity."

But despite such awards and the progress of the league, law enforcement authorities continued to pursue Joseph Colombo; and Colombo believed that the growth of the league and its persistent picketing of FBI headquarters had so offended federal agents that they were more determined than ever to win a conviction against him and to remove him from the scene by a long term in prison. After the announcement of his Man of the Year award, he was arrested in connection with a jewel theft that had occurred three years before in Garden City, Long Island; he was accused of "mediating" between quarreling partic.i.p.ants in the $750,000 jewel robbery, and, for his services, he supposedly received a fee of $7,500. Colombo was also arrested with several other men by the FBI on charges of operating a $5-million-a-year gambling business. After he was released on $25,000 bail, Colombo left the court and went directly to FBI headquarters to join the picket line. While walking, he spoke with newspapermen, repeating his often-expressed opinion that he was innocent of all accusations, that there was no such thing as a Mafia in America, and that the government's law enforcement authorities were prejudiced against Italo-Americans. In an interview he gave to a reporter from the Times Times, he pointed out that when General Electric was proven guilty of price-fixing, its bosses were merely fined; but when the government was dealing with Italo-Americans, it was far less genteel.

Such pleas of persecution which Colombo repeated on radio programs and also on television on the "d.i.c.k Cavett Show," were considered ridiculous by many Italo-Americans around the nation, and among this group was State Senator John J. Marchi, a Republican of Staten Island. He criticized the producer of The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather for agreeing to delete "Mafia" and "Cosa Nostra" from the movie script, adding: "Apparently you are a ready market for the league's preposterous theory that we can exorcise devils by reading them out of the English language." Even some of the "devils" were said to be disconcerted by Colombo's campaign, although they were possibly envious of the publicity he was receiving and the money that the league was acc.u.mulating. Carlo Gambino was one of those rumored to be upset by Colombo's tactics, seeing no wisdom in publicly berating law enforcement authorities, without whose cooperation organized crime could not exist. Gambino was of the old school, and like many ancient Sicilians he was something of a stoic, a believer in patient suffering, acting quietly, saying nothing. for agreeing to delete "Mafia" and "Cosa Nostra" from the movie script, adding: "Apparently you are a ready market for the league's preposterous theory that we can exorcise devils by reading them out of the English language." Even some of the "devils" were said to be disconcerted by Colombo's campaign, although they were possibly envious of the publicity he was receiving and the money that the league was acc.u.mulating. Carlo Gambino was one of those rumored to be upset by Colombo's tactics, seeing no wisdom in publicly berating law enforcement authorities, without whose cooperation organized crime could not exist. Gambino was of the old school, and like many ancient Sicilians he was something of a stoic, a believer in patient suffering, acting quietly, saying nothing. Omerta Omerta. Colombo, American-born and relatively young, was suddenly breaking with tradition. Colombo had adopted the style of the civil rights movement, was staging his campaign in the street in front of television cameras; and Gambino, who had seen many young men come and go in his lifetime, wondered.

Bill Bonanno, 3,000 miles away in California, carefully followed the newspaper reports of Colombo's pickets, but as yet he had no opinion, waiting to see the final results. So far the lawyers had managed to keep Colombo free on bail, except for two short terms in jail, and no one could doubt that Colombo's publicity had brought national attention and donations to the league, and perhaps picketing FBI headquarters had not been a bad idea-for years the federal agents had played a ruthless game, and, regardless of the manner in which the agents might retaliate, they could not do much that they had not already done. Bill recalled David Hale's bombing escapades in Tucson, remembered Hale's plan to have Notaro killed with a crossbow, and Bill wondered what David Hale's counterparts in the FBI were planning in New York.

32.

WHEN BILL BONANNO FINALLY RECEIVED OFFICIAL word that he was to report to prison on the following Monday-January 18, 1971-he was relieved and even pleased. The waiting had been almost unbearable during the last months of 1970. To make matters worse, he had received during that period several calls from New York indicating an approximate date of surrender, then later calls delaying that date after after he had already been given farewell parties by relatives and friends in California. There was nothing more embarra.s.sing than to be the central attraction in a crowded room laden with laughter, tension, and sadness, a scene that culminated after dinner with toasting and tearful farewells and embraces; and then, days later, to see many of those same people again. he had already been given farewell parties by relatives and friends in California. There was nothing more embarra.s.sing than to be the central attraction in a crowded room laden with laughter, tension, and sadness, a scene that culminated after dinner with toasting and tearful farewells and embraces; and then, days later, to see many of those same people again.

This had occurred three times during the winter of 1970, and after the third party and prison delay he told Rosalie to tell friends who might call that he had already gone to jail; and for days afterward, he sat in the house with the shades down watching television with the children, not coming to the phone, which Rosalie answered, not venturing outdoors even at night. These had been the most humiliating hours of his final weeks of freedom, a time when he had truly withdrawn from the world, feeling useless and worthless, an emotional drain on everyone close to him. He had long ago turned in the Cadillac that he had leased for his final month, had solved every problem that he was capable of solving, had said everything that he was going to say to Rosalie and the children. He was psychologically ready for life behind bars; still, from September through December, week by week, he had been inexplicably detained, tortured by time, and it was slowly eroding the pleasant memories that he had planned to carry into confinement.

He hoped to remember most of all the previous summer, during which he, Rosalie, and the children had taken several long motor trips sightseeing through California. They had also spent a week cruising on a large houseboat, accompanied by his sister, Catherine, his sister-in-law Ann and their families. He had driven down to Arizona to visit the elder Bonannos, and though his father was restricted to the Tucson area, he a.s.sured Bill that he would look after Rosalie and the children during Bill's absence. Bill's brother, Joseph, had meanwhile moved from Tucson to an apartment in San Jose, and Rosalie's mother planned to fly to California for an extended stay as soon as Bill had gone to jail.

Fortunately, with help from family and friends, Bill and Rosalie managed to buy a ranch-style home in a new development near San Jose; it was a four-bedroom house on a street with many children and friendly neighbors, and Rosalie was as contented as she could be under the circ.u.mstances.

In the fall, the children returned to school and became more preoccupied with their own activities. Bill's oldest son, Charles, nearly thirteen, the most ingratiating of the Bonanno boys, quickly made friends in the neighborhood and he seemed to be doing better in the present school than he had in the last one. Charles continued to build cages for the endless number of pets under his custody, and he still collected Blue Chip stamps toward the acquisition of new gadgets, having already gotten the electric lawnmower that he had saved for during the previous year.

Joseph, almost ten, was as studious as ever, and his asthma had improved somewhat since undergoing hypnotic treatments from a physician and since Rosalie had asked that guests not smoke in the house. But Joseph was still fundamentally a loner, and recently while playing in the garage he had discovered a bullet, had tinkered with it until it exploded, burning his fingers.

Tory, seven, was becoming huskier and bolder, and Bill continued to see his own boyhood image through Tory's manner and appearance. Tory, like Charles, had quickly made new friends, seemed adept at sports, and he had made his debut on the block by hitting a baseball through a neighbor's window. Felippa, six, was becoming taller and thinner; she was no less attached to Bill, and he was painfully aware in advance of how much he would miss her.

Though Rosalie was now qualified to work as a computer programmer, she had been unable to find a job in the San Jose area that paid enough to cover the expenses of full-time help at home. She also did not want the children to be without her the first year Bill was away, and so she concluded, after awkward discussions with Bill, that she would apply for welfare. Bill was unhappy at first, but he was beyond such vanity at this point. The government claimed all his a.s.sets, his car, his landholdings in Arizona; he was bankrupt, could not earn a dime that was not subject to back taxes, and so he soon accepted the idea that, since the government was taking him out of circulation, it could at least help support his family while he was away.

He had several times planned to explain to the children why he was going to jail, but during the entire summer and fall he managed to avoid it, partly because the children never questioned him about it and partly because there seemed no way of discussing the subject without degrading himself in their eyes. Bill's dilemma was that while he wanted his children to respect the law, he did not want them to disrespect him.

He wanted them to understand that the law was created for the majority of people, and that there were those who committed acts that the law opposed and so those people were penalized; but he also wanted them to know that the law often changed, that what was disallowed now might be permitted a few years from now. He thought of how radically things had changed in his own lifetime with reference to social mores and customs, marriage and s.e.x, literature, films. He remembered that once he had been expelled from boarding school because he led a group of students into Forever Amber Forever Amber, a film that now, in a period of permissiveness and nudity, was mild indeed. He had been born near the end of Prohibition when moralists were still condemning the vices of alcohol, yet now liquor was not only legal and acceptable but was a substantial source of income to the government that prior to 1933 had opposed it. And Bill had just read that New York State was going into the off-track betting business, attempting to eliminate bookmakers and absorb the profits from this enterprise that generations of district attorneys had called a racket, an exploiter of working men, a source of deprivation to their families. Next, Bill was sure, the government would try to take over the numbers game, and the drug market-it was already pushing methadone as a heroin cure-and the point was not that lawmakers were unjustified in doing what they deemed socially beneficial, but rather that they were endorsing the very items that they had not long ago abhorred. They were changing the laws with regard to acts that thousands of men long dead had been arrested for doing-it was all a matter of timing, Bill thought morosely, sitting behind lowered shades in his living room, it was a matter of being at the right place, the right time, and being on the winning side of wars, and having enough money to avoid using a credit card offered by Perrone, and having enough sense to not sign the name "Don A. Torrillo."

Bill had no quarrel with the jury that had convicted him. It had concentrated on those months when he had carried Torrillo's card, had weighed the evidence against him during that time of retreat from New York with a "contract" on his life, and his thoughts at that time had not been overly concerned with the judiciousness of signing another man's name on Diners' Club charge slips. But his acts during those months were related to the pressures of the Banana War, which had its origins and sources of conflict years before he had moved to New York, years before he had even been born-his whole life was interwoven with the past, and for this past he would spend four years in prison; but there was no simple way to explain all this to his children. The only thing for him to do was to begin serving the sentence so that he could be done with it. And after his release in 1974, he would hopefully begin again in another direction. He had no idea what he would do when he got out of jail, at forty-one, but he had plenty of time ahead to think about that.

And so after the many delays in the fall and winter of 1970, he was relieved to learn that he was to surrender on Monday, January 18, to the federal marshal's office in downtown Los Angeles. It was finally definite, precise, real. He told Rosalie, and she reacted quietly and made plans for a final family gathering on the Sunday before his Monday flight to Los Angeles. Bill's mother was then staying at Catherine's house, and the only person who would be unable to attend the dinner would be Bill's father in Arizona, which was why Bill flew to Tucson on Thursday to say good-bye.

Bill was accompanied by his brother, and they were met at the Tucson airport by Peter Notaro, who was driving the elder Bonanno's 1970 Buick Riviera. Notaro would also be surrendering in a few days, having been directed to report to a prison in Texarkana, Texas. Notaro seemed casual and resigned; it was only a year, and Bill kidded him about it, saying that if he he had gotten only a year he could have done it standing on his head. had gotten only a year he could have done it standing on his head.

At the Bonanno home on East Elm Street at the patio gate, Bill was embraced by his father, who seemed thinner, somewhat drawn, but his tanned face was still strong and handsome, and he wore trimly tailored Western pants, a bright shirt, and cowboy boots. After a light lunch with wine, they drove to the elder Bonanno's government-liened 1,110-acre cotton farm beyond the town, where they walked slowly and did not have to concern themselves with the possibility of electronic bugging. Bill told his father of Rosalie's plans to remain at home with the children, and the elder Bonanno again a.s.sured him not to worry about any problems that might arise. Bill explained that after surrendering in Los Angeles he would probably be flown to New York to the federal prison on West Street, where he would be available to stand trial on charges of having fraudulently transferred the ownership of the East Meadow house. Bill would plead guilty, and he thought that possibly more time would be added to his term but that soon after the trial he might be shipped back to California to complete his term at the federal prison on Terminal Island, in San Pedro. There he could be visited regularly by Rosalie and the children, perhaps as regularly as twice a month, and his separation from them and from the outside world would not seem so distant and decisive.

The more Bill talked, the less depressing it all seemed, although he noticed that his father was not saying much as they walked through the fields, with Notaro and his brother walking a few paces behind. His father made general comments, nodded often as Bill talked, but Bill had no idea what his father was thinking or feeling until after they returned to the house. The sun was fading then, the late-afternoon wind was blowing harder through the trees, kicking up dust in the patio where they were sitting. Then, turning to his father, Bill said that he had better begin packing certain things that he wanted to take with him; it was getting close to the hour when Bill was due at the airport.

His father followed him into the hall and stood silently in the doorway of what had once been Bill's bedroom, watching Bill opening and closing drawers, tying his necktie in front of the mirror, then putting on his jacket. His father suddenly seemed shaken and pale as he watched, and Bill said finally, "Look, I can cancel this plane, I can get a later reservation..." But the elder Bonanno quickly shook his head.

"Then, let's say good-bye here," Bill said, not wanting to do so in front of his brother and Notaro.

Joseph Bonanno stepped forward, put his arms around Bill and kissed him. Then the elder Bonanno quickly turned with tears in his eyes; he walked into the bathroom, closing the door gently. Bill stood in the middle of the room, feeling numb and unsteady. He picked up the suitcase and, from the hall, told Notaro to start up the car. After Notaro and Joseph Jr. left the house, Bill walked toward the door, but stopped when he heard his father behind him crying softly, Dio ti binidici Dio ti binidici, G.o.d should bless you, Dio ti binidici Dio ti binidici.

Bill paused but he did not look at his father. He left the house and walked toward the car.

It was foggy and damp at daybreak on Monday, and the children had breakfast with Bill and did not go to school. They knew that they would not be seeing him again for a long time, but only Felippa cried. She had had nightmares during the weekend and was so sick that Rosalie put her back to bed.

Though Rosalie pleaded with Bill to let her go with him to Los Angeles, or to at least accompany him to the airport in San Francisco, Bill insisted that she remain at home. After breakfast, his brother Joseph arrived, remaining in the car as Bill said good-bye, kissing each of the children quickly, then kissing Rosalie, who burst into tears as he left the house.

At the airport, because of the fog, his plane was delayed. Bill was wearing a new yellow shirt, a silk tie, and his best suit, a well-tailored gray pin-stripe which partially concealed his excessive weight; and, as he sat in the plane after saying goodbye to Joseph, he would have pa.s.sed for one of the many executives flying to Los Angeles for a Monday-morning conference. It was a commuter plane and the pa.s.sengers had an easy familiarity with the stewardesses, the plane, and each other, nodding and smiling as they sat down, but Bill was grim and depressed, which he had never remembered himself being on an airplane, and he ignored the man next to him who in a jovial way was trying to discuss the Super Bowl football game played on the previous day.

Landing in Los Angeles, Bill walked through the terminal carrying one suitcase and took a taxi to the federal building at North Spring Street in downtown Los Angeles. A guard stood at the door, and Bill asked directions to the federal marshal's office; arriving, he saw two signs, one marked "civil" and pointing to the left, another marked "criminal" and pointing to the right. Bill headed to the right, stopping when he came to the desk of a deputy marshal on whose uniform was a name tag reading "Ernest Newman."

"I'm Salvatore Bonanno," Bill said, and Newman nodded, unsmiling; he was expecting him. Newman picked up the phone, and placed a call to New York. Bill stood waiting. He heard Ernest Newman asking to speak to Walter Phillips, the a.s.sistant United States Attorney; and when Phillips came to the phone, Bill heard Newman say, in a very official manner, "Salvatore Bonanno has surrendered."

AFTERWORD.

This book evolved out of my father's embarra.s.sment, my Italian-born father's embarra.s.sment over the fact that gangsters with Italian names invariably dominate the headlines and most television shows dealing with organized crime. My father, a proud and consummate custom-tailor who immigrated from Italy in 1920 and prospered on the resort island of Ocean City, New Jersey-where I was born during the winter of 1932-always encouraged me to take pride in my ethnic heritage, a heritage he identified with such names as Michelangelo and Dante, Medici and Galileo, Verdi and Caruso. But as I grew up in the early 1940s, the Italian names I saw most frequently on the front pages were those belonging to the reputed leaders of the Mafia-Charles (Lucky) Luciano and Al Capone; Vito Genovese, Carlo Gambino, Frank Costello, Thomas (Three-Finger Brown) Lucchese, and Joseph (Joe Bananas) Bonanno.

Whenever my father saw me reading articles about such individuals he would shake his head and say things like: "It's all exaggerated! The press will do anything to sell newspapers." At times he denied the very existence of the Mafia, suggesting it was the creation of publicity-craving FBI agents, or Senate committeemen seeking more attention, or Hollywood moguls and other mythmakers pandering to the American public's historic fascination with villains and fugitives, with Little Caesars and G.o.dfathers-all to the discredit of millions of law-abiding Italian Americans like himself. Inevitably this aroused within me a curiosity about the Mafia that would in time lead me to its doorstep, and ultimately beyond the portal into the private world of one of the Mafia's leading families, that headed by Joseph Bonanno himself.

My first sight of a Bonanno family member occurred on the afternoon of January 7,1965, when I-had been a.s.signed as a New York Times New York Times reporter to cover the arrest of thirty-two-year-old Bill Bonanno, a rising lieutenant in his father's organization. The mysterious disappearance of his father six weeks earlier had brought pressure on Bill Bonanno to explain his father's whereabouts (had the elder Bonanno staged his own kidnapping in order to elude federal authorities investigating his alleged plot to a.s.sa.s.sinate three rival bosses, or had he already been killed and privately buried by his intended victims?); and when Bill Bonanno failed to cooperate with the FBI, he was subpoenaed to appear before a federal grand jury in lower Manhattan, and it was there that I got my initial glimpse of him. reporter to cover the arrest of thirty-two-year-old Bill Bonanno, a rising lieutenant in his father's organization. The mysterious disappearance of his father six weeks earlier had brought pressure on Bill Bonanno to explain his father's whereabouts (had the elder Bonanno staged his own kidnapping in order to elude federal authorities investigating his alleged plot to a.s.sa.s.sinate three rival bosses, or had he already been killed and privately buried by his intended victims?); and when Bill Bonanno failed to cooperate with the FBI, he was subpoenaed to appear before a federal grand jury in lower Manhattan, and it was there that I got my initial glimpse of him.

He was standing with his back to the wall in a dimly lit corridor of the gray stone courthouse talking to one of his attorneys during a recess. Though he seemed deeply engrossed in private conversation, nodding with his head bent low as he listened, he also seemed to be watching through the corner of his eye everyone who came and went along the marble-floored pa.s.sageway, and he seemed particularly aware of the detectives and news reporters who stood talking in a circle near the door to the jury room. At one point he noticed I was watching him. And, as if he knew me, he smiled.

I was then in my final year at the Times Times, which I had joined ten years earlier; and, approaching the age of thirty-two and aspiring to be a self-employed writer of subjects of my own choosing, I wondered what it must be like to be a young man in the Mafia. Most of what I had read about organized crime in newspapers and books was obtained through sources in the federal government and the police; and this data, which mainly emphasized gangland slayings and grotesque portraits of men with Runyonesque nicknames, did not satisfy my curiosity about life within the secret society. I was more interested in how the men pa.s.sed the idle hours that no doubt dominated their days, about the role of their wives, about their relationships with their children.

I continued to listen to the reporters and detectives huddled in the corner, but my mind was wandering. Almost impulsively, I detached myself and walked across the corridor toward the tall and clean-cut figure of Bill Bonanno, who was wearing a dark blue suit with a white shirt and maroon silk tie. He was standing next to his princ.i.p.al attorney, Albert J. Krieger, a bald-headed, broad-shouldered man in his forties who was dressed in a gray shark-skinned suit and wore horn-rimmed gla.s.ses. As I introduced myself Mr. Krieger quickly stepped forward to declare that his client had nothing to say. I responded that I wanted no statement, conceding that it was an inappropriate time for an interview; but someday, I said, maybe months or years from now, I would like to sit down with Bill Bonanno and discuss the possibility of writing a book about his boyhood. Mr. Krieger repeated that his client had no comment, and Bill Bonanno remained absolutely silent. But I sensed from his expression that he was responding. Perhaps the idea intrigued him.

I called Mr. Krieger's office in Manhattan several times after that, trying without success or encouragement to arrange a private meeting. But later in the winter, after I had written two letters to Bill Bonanno addressed to his lawyer's office and had left several messages by telephone, I received word that Mr. Bonanno and his lawyer would meet me for dinner on the following week at a steak house along Second Avenue near the United Nations building.

At dinner, although Bonanno was noncommittal about being the subject of a book, we talked for a few hours and got along extremely well. He seemed to enjoy recalling details from his boyhood, his school days in Arizona, the double life he had led as a university student, escorting pretty coeds to parties on football weekends and then driving alone to the Tucson airport to meet one of his father's men arriving from the East Coast. Undoubtedly he had never discussed such things with an outsider before, so insular and guarded had his personal life been. In the restaurant I felt that we were both hearing the story for the first time.

Nearly everything in Bill Bonanno's past had left a sharp, lasting impression. He had almost total recall. He could remember minor incidents in precise detail, could recreate past scenes and dialogue, could describe the places he had seen, what he had felt. Yet he possessed a rare quality of detachment-it was as if a part of him had remained outside of everything he had ever experienced.

Before our discussion ended that night, I asked if he would soon bring his wife to my home for dinner. He said that he would, and he did. After that, sometimes with our wives or children, we met on several occasions, gradually establishing the rapport and trust that was essential to the book I hoped to write, a book that would suggest the complexity of being a Bonanno, the special atmosphere within the home, the pull of the past upon the present.

A year after we met, Bill Bonanno appeared unexpectedly one afternoon at my home in mid-Manhattan. Unshaven and wearing a dark suit and black shirt without a tie, he apologized for the manner of his arrival and then went on to explain with remarkable calm that gunmen had been trying to kill him. He had been "set up" on Troutman Street in Brooklyn three nights before-Friday, January 28, 1966-by a rival faction. Although the entire neighborhood in Brooklyn must have been awakened by the several gun blasts, there had not been a line about it in the newspapers. He was surprised but disappointed. He actually wanted press coverage of the incident, for reasons that I have discussed in this book in Chapter 10. I was no longer working at the Times Times but I volunteered to call an editor friend of mine, and it was this tip that broke the story. It also brought me closer to Bill Bonanno. but I volunteered to call an editor friend of mine, and it was this tip that broke the story. It also brought me closer to Bill Bonanno.

Hearing that I was leaving that week for California on an Esquire Esquire a.s.signment, Bill wrote a letter of introduction for me to his sister, Catherine, who resided near San Francisco, saying that it was all right for her to discuss personal aspects of his life with me. From Catherine I gained valuable insights not only into Bill's character but also into their father, who was still missing at this time-and was never discussed by her in the present tense. Catherine was also perceptive in her a.n.a.lyses of herself, her mother, and her mother's family, the Labruzzos. a.s.signment, Bill wrote a letter of introduction for me to his sister, Catherine, who resided near San Francisco, saying that it was all right for her to discuss personal aspects of his life with me. From Catherine I gained valuable insights not only into Bill's character but also into their father, who was still missing at this time-and was never discussed by her in the present tense. Catherine was also perceptive in her a.n.a.lyses of herself, her mother, and her mother's family, the Labruzzos.

Later, returning to New York, I was able to meet other family relatives and friends through Bill, and they soon became vaguely aware that I hoped to write a book touching on their lives. But if they were suspicious and skeptical-and they undoubtedly were-they nevertheless accepted me as spoken-for by Bill Bonanno and did not question me too closely. Nor did I question them: I was sensitive to the situation, and at this juncture I was far more interested in the domestic atmosphere and the style of people than in any specific information. I was content to observe, pleased to be accepted. At night, after I returned home, I described on paper what I had seen and heard, my impressions of the people. Soon, as I reread certain scenes, I could see the book taking shape. It seemed to suggest fiction, but each detail was true.

In May 1966 the organization's leader, Joseph Bonanno, made his dramatic reappearance in New York, surrendering himself to a federal judge without explaining where he had been during the previous nineteen months; and, after his attorneys had arranged for the posting of a $150,000 bond, he temporarily regained his freedom and became a houseguest (along with his bodyguards) in the residence of his son Bill in East Meadow, Long Island. While I was able to meet with the elder Bonanno there and sit in on only a few family dinners, resulting in such scenes as described in Chapter 13, I felt that he had serious reservations about my plans for a book. Consequently Bill Bonanno began to reconsider the project at this time: tension was now building in the underworld, the so-called Banana War was expanding in Brooklyn and Queens, and Bill was perhaps also concerned about my welfare, a concern that I was beginning to share.

The feud intensified in 1967, with shootings and murders reported in the press, and I lost touch with Bill for months at a time. His wife and four young children were often living in tight security at the home in East Meadow. The telephone, when answered at all, was answered by bodyguards who had little to say. I was no longer able to visit.

I was then also concentrating on a book that I had begun in 1966, a history of The New York Times The New York Times ent.i.tled ent.i.tled The Kingdom and the Power The Kingdom and the Power. I worked on this through 1967, 1968, and into 1969. Occasionally, when I least expected it, I would hear from Bill Bonanno, who called from a telephone booth to chat briefly and say that he was all right. Once I met him for a drink, and he was then in an angry mood, embittered by the disloyalty and fence-straddling of certain men in his world. He was willing to concede that the great leaders from his father's era were either dead or now too old and that the younger men who remained could neither lead nor follow.

The Banana War was essentially over in 1969. The feuding factions had become so splintered that n.o.body knew who was on each side. Disillusioned, the elder Bonanno retired to his winter home in Tucson, Arizona, and Bill settled his family in northern California close to San Jose. During the winter of 1969-after there had been a few bombing incidents on the elder Bonanno's property in Tucson, and after the federal agent who had allegedly organized the incidents had retired from government service-I flew out to San Jose and spent much of the winter and spring there. I saw various members of the family and their children every day. I also spent time with Bill in New York when he made brief court appearances before his conviction on the credit card case.

Although I had read several books about Sicily-profiting mostly from the splendid volumes by the English author Denis Mack Smith-I found very little useful information about the region where the Bonanno family came from; so, after accepting an offer of family a.s.sistance, I flew to Palermo and then drove in a rented car to Castellammare del Golfo.

There I was greeted by a handsome, gray-haired gentleman who identified himself as my escort without giving me his name; and this man, among others, took me through the town and pointed out such sites as the Bonanno family home, the cemetery in which Joseph Bonanno's parents and earlier ancestors were buried, and also the ancient castle on the gulf that gives the town its name.

Back in the United States, in addition to my continuing visits to Bill Bonanno's residence in California, I also drove with him on a couple of occasions to Arizona, where he met with some of his a.s.sociates in Phoenix and spent time with his father in Tucson. His father, always courtly and hospitable in my presence, was no doubt still mildly confused by my relationship to his son but I do not think he attempted to interfere. Bill was his own man now, no longer merely the boss's son and chosen successor. The deterioration of his father's organization had liberated him to a degree from the responsibilities that had governed him during the Banana War, although sometimes I saw flashes of bitterness. Bill still felt betrayed, but I believe that deep within himself he harbored no great rancor toward the Mafia rivals who had tried to eliminate him or the government agents who possibly tried to frame him. I think that the sources of conflict within Bill Bonanno were much closer to home, and this might explain why I was able to get close to him and write about him intimately. He was feeling a tremendous need to communicate when I first met him. While my initial proposal to write about him might have been flattering, particularly since he then felt so misunderstood and had gone through life being his father's son, I do believe that later I served as an instrument through which he could communicate to those closest to him. He could reveal through me, who related to him on his own terms, thoughts and att.i.tudes he did not wish to express directly to his family, to his father. I sensed later that his wife, Rosalie, also confided to me thoughts that she wished to have conveyed to Bill; and Bill's sister, Catherine, and other members of the family, too, were telling me what they wished others to know. I had become a source of communication within a family that had long been repressed by a tradition of silence.

When Honor Thy Father Honor Thy Father was published in 1971-it was Rosalie who suggested its t.i.tle-the book became an immediate bestseller and was soon selected to become a CBS television miniseries. Although no one in the Bonanno family had read the book prior to its publication, and at no point during my research and writing did any family member seek to influence my approach to the material-nor would I have submitted to it if any had-I did subsequently learn from Bill that his father was not happy when the book went public. The elder Bonanno was concerned that the vast amount of public attention the book received in the media would encourage crime-fighting officials to seek headlines by singling out the Bonannos, and he also envisioned himself receiving disrespect within the underworld for having a son who, in talking to me, had violated the Mafia's traditional code of silence known as was published in 1971-it was Rosalie who suggested its t.i.tle-the book became an immediate bestseller and was soon selected to become a CBS television miniseries. Although no one in the Bonanno family had read the book prior to its publication, and at no point during my research and writing did any family member seek to influence my approach to the material-nor would I have submitted to it if any had-I did subsequently learn from Bill that his father was not happy when the book went public. The elder Bonanno was concerned that the vast amount of public attention the book received in the media would encourage crime-fighting officials to seek headlines by singling out the Bonannos, and he also envisioned himself receiving disrespect within the underworld for having a son who, in talking to me, had violated the Mafia's traditional code of silence known as omerta omerta.

Indeed, Honor Thy Father Honor Thy Father was the first book of nonfiction to penetrate the secret society of the Mafia. Unlike such sagas as was the first book of nonfiction to penetrate the secret society of the Mafia. Unlike such sagas as The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather and and The Sopranos The Sopranos, both inspired by the creative minds of writers and directors, there was nothing imagined or made up in Honor Thy Father Honor Thy Father; it used real names, it described scenes and situations that truly happened. It recounted the rise and fall of the Bonannos from the inside, and thus the elder Bonanno could not denounce it without refuting the credibility of his son, his daughter, his daughter-in-law, and other intimates who had been among my sources. And even though Joe Bonanno would not speak to his son for more than a year after the book's publication, his behavior did not affect my relationship with his son or the others. I continued to see Rosalie and the children as well as Catherine while Bill was serving a four-year prison term (from 1971 through 1974) for credit card fraud. I had easy access to him, too, since he had added my name to his guest list at the federal penitentiary on Terminal Island, near Los Angeles. And it was convenient for me to visit him during these years because I was then spending lots of time in the Los Angeles area interviewing people who would be featured in my forthcoming book, which was about the redefinition of s.e.xual morality in contemporary America and would be called Thy Neighbor's Wife Thy Neighbor's Wife.

Among my subjects were Playboy Playboy magazine's publisher Hugh Hefner, who occupied a mansion off Sunset Boulevard; Diane Webber, a figure model who specialized in posing nude for art photographers along the sand dunes of southern California; and Barbara and John Williamson, a married couple who founded a free love community called Sandstone at their hillside estate in Topanga Canyon overlooking Malibu. I would devote several chapters to the Williamsons and their followers in magazine's publisher Hugh Hefner, who occupied a mansion off Sunset Boulevard; Diane Webber, a figure model who specialized in posing nude for art photographers along the sand dunes of southern California; and Barbara and John Williamson, a married couple who founded a free love community called Sandstone at their hillside estate in Topanga Canyon overlooking Malibu. I would devote several chapters to the Williamsons and their followers in Thy Neighbor's Wife Thy Neighbor's Wife, and the fact that I was able to remain at Sandstone for extended periods as a kind of writer-in-residence was mainly due to the efforts of Barbara Williamson, who had read and liked Honor Thy Father Honor Thy Father and had convinced her husband and the others to cooperate with me in interviews. and had convinced her husband and the others to cooperate with me in interviews.

One day, saying she was curious about how Bill Bonanno was adjusting to prison-he was then in the third year of the four-year term-I arranged for her to accompany me to Terminal Island and speak with him in the visitor's lounge. I knew from experience that Bill Bonanno welcomed meeting friends and acquaintances of mine, having a.s.sociated agreeably with many of them when (prior to his going to jail) I took him to such writer's hangouts in New York as Elaine's restaurant. At Elaine's one evening he was pleased to be seated next to the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author David Halberstam, listening as the latter discussed the U.S. government's failed strategy in the Vietnamese war. Halberstam later mailed to Bonanno at Terminal Island a few inscribed copies of his books.

During Barbara Williamson's meeting with Bill Bonanno she was impressed with how cheerful he seemed to be despite the confinements and deprivations of prison life. While I myself could not quite get used to seeing him in prison garb-wearing clumpy shoes and a khaki outfit with a drawstring waist rather than the custom-made suits and expensive Italian-designer shoes that had been his normal attire-I was not surprised when he told us that he was now healthier and more relaxed than at any time in the past decade. With no drinking, no smoking, no overeating, and getting plenty of exercise-playing tennis almost every day-he claimed to have removed more than fifty pounds from his six-foot-two-inch frame since coming to Terminal Island, and he proudly announced his present weight at 198 pounds. He had recently turned forty-one. His main job in prison was working in the library, where he had access to many fine books and lots of time to read them, and he also said that he had cultivated friendships with some interesting fellow inmates. He mentioned the ex-FBI agent, G. Gordon Liddy, who was convicted for his role in the 1971 Watergate break-in case that led in 1974 to the resignation of President Richard Nixon; and a former baseball player named Jerry Priddy who was currently serving time for attempted extortion but had first gained attention in 1941 as a second baseman with the New York Yankees and a double-play partner with shortstop Phil Rizzuto. Bonanno went on to say that he viewed his imprisonment as a retreat from his problematic existence, a sabbatical from unrelenting stress: the threats of rival hit men, the sleuthing of the Feds, the obligatory concealment of underworld income in a hidden economy, and his complicated ties to his wife and children while maintaining criminal links to his father and their dysfunctional Mafia family. "The only time I can escape," he told us, "is when I'm in prison."

Still, he missed the frequency of seeing Rosalie and their four children, he said, adding that they rarely visited Terminal Island more than once a month. For his wife it was a long eight-hour car trip downstate from their home in San Jose, where she held a full-time job as a computer programmer in an insurance firm and where the children, when not in school, were employed part-time in fast-food enterprises or other places in or near their local shopping mall. When Bill was first sent to Terminal Island his children ranged in age from thirteen to seven. The eldest was his green-eyed and fair-skinned adopted son, Charles (who had been obtained at eighteen months of age from a c.o.c.ktail waitress in San Diego who had been abandoned by a U.S. Navy man); and next came Charles's brown-eyed Bonanno kinsmen: ten-year-old Joseph, a frail and sickly youth who suffered from asthma; eight-year-old Salvatore, an outspoken and pugnacious child who was difficult to control; and seven-year-old Felippa, who, as the only girl, grew up doted upon and whose pierced ears held tiny diamond earrings.

When I had first met the children in the mid-1960s, the Banana War was in progress, and the floors and sofas of their home in Long Island were regularly occupied at night by snoring bodyguards whose outstretched legs the children sometimes tripped over in the morning on their way to school. On one occasion Charles went crashing to the floor and split open his head on a piece of furniture and left a trail of blood along the rug.

Police cars regularly cruised through the neighborhood, and sometimes members of the press gathered along the sidewalk taking pictures of the home and approaching the children as they walked together toward the nearby school. "Where's your grandfather?" they would ask, usually directing the question at Charles, who was then eight and unhesitatingly a.s.sumed the role of the senior family spokesman. "We don't know," he would reply. "And where's your father?" "We don't know," he would repeat. I often wondered at the time, and I would continue to wonder in the later years after the family moved to San Jose-where Charles and his younger brother Salvatore would sometimes throw pieces of fruit at the parked cars of Federal agents positioned across the street-what would happen to the Bonanno children after they had become adults and perhaps were married and had children of their own? Would they inhabit homes without bodyguards? Would they change their surnames? Would they deny their upbringing? To what degree could the offspring of the Mafia find social acceptance if they conformed to the laws of the larger community?

As a source of continuing financial support, the Bonanno crime family was clearly in a decline-this seemed clear to me in 1971 when Honor Thy Father Honor Thy Father was published; and it was then, after I knew that the book would become very successful in a commercial sense, that I decided to divert a percentage of was published; and it was then, after I knew that the book would become very successful in a commercial sense, that I decided to divert a percentage of Honor Thy Fathers Honor Thy Fathers film earnings and the book's foreign sales toward an educational trust fund that would cover the cost of the children's college tuitions and other school-related expenses. Not a nickel of the trust money was to be available to the parents nor to anyone else who might presume to represent the children's interests. Only my attorney would control the a.s.sets, serving as the college fund's sole executor-he being Paul Gitlin, of the New York firm Ernst, Cane, Berner & Gitlin. Schools would submit their bills directly to Mr. Gitlin, who, after reviewing them, would pay them from the account established for this purpose. It was my hope that the Bonanno children would have the chance, as I phrased it in the trust agreement, "to be educated out of their tradition and ties to the notoriety of their surnames." film earnings and the book's foreign sales toward an educational trust fund that would cover the cost of the children's college tuitions and other school-related expenses. Not a nickel of the trust money was to be available to the parents nor to anyone else who might presume to represent the children's interests. Only my attorney would control the a.s.sets, serving as the college fund's sole executor-he being Paul Gitlin, of the New York firm Ernst, Cane, Berner & Gitlin. Schools would submit their bills directly to Mr. Gitlin, who, after reviewing them, would pay them from the account established for this purpose. It was my hope that the Bonanno children would have the chance, as I phrased it in the trust agreement, "to be educated out of their tradition and ties to the notoriety of their surnames."

Of course it would be impossible to know in the early stages of the trust whether or not its goals were being realized. I reminded myself that the children's father had received a higher education and still still ended up in the Mafia. It was also true, however, that there were now fewer financial opportunities for Bonanno kinsmen in the crime world due to the outcome of the Banana War. In any case I felt that since ended up in the Mafia. It was also true, however, that there were now fewer financial opportunities for Bonanno kinsmen in the crime world due to the outcome of the Banana War. In any case I felt that since Honor Thy Father Honor Thy Father's dramatic narrative had benefited from the inclusion of the children's stories-exploiting to a degree these otherwise blameless children merely because they had been reared within the Bonanno household-it was fair and appropriate for me to offer them something in return, and the only thing that I could think of was a college trust fund. In addition, I did list their names on the dedication page in the front of the book: For Charles, Joseph, Salvatore, and Felippa-in the hope that they will understand their father more, and love him no less...

In my early discussions with Mr. Gitlin I was concerned that Internal Revenue agents would lay claim to the children's education fund, identifying it as income to the Bonanno family that should go toward repaying several thousand dollars in unpaid taxes that Bill Bonanno allegedly owed the government. It was for this reason that I did not consult with Bill or Rosalie Bonanno prior to setting up the fund; to do so might have suggested a cooperative arrangement between us, a trade-off or a partnership of some kind that could have cast doubt on the fact that I was operating independently from the Bonanno family. In my early appeal to Bill Bonanno for his cooperation on the book I promised only that I would produce an honest and sensitive account of his relationship with his wife, his children, his parents, and the family business he had unwittingly committed to. While my book would remain my my book, I a.s.sured him that it would not ignore book, I a.s.sured him that it would not ignore his his point of view, and it was therefore a rare opportunity for him to enlarge upon the profile of his life that would otherwise be narrowly defined by crime reporters, and eventually by obituary writers, whose information about him would come mainly from federal prosecutors and the police. I believe that my words made an impression upon him, leading me in time to getting the "inside" story I wanted; but during my years of research and writing I continuously reminded myself that I was an "outsider," a reportorial observer beholden only to my publisher and the readers, and I was careful not to complicate my working relationship with my sources by agreeing to potentially compromising arrangements, nor did I accept personal gifts. When I first took my wife and two daughters out to Long Island for a Sunday afternoon visit with the Bonannos, I was driving my white 1957 TR3 sports car, a British-made vehicle with a backseat barely large enough to accommodate the very slender figures of our girls. After we had pulled into the Bonanno driveway, which was lined with large sedans, we were greeted by the bemused comments of Bill Bonanno regarding the tight fit of our "family car." The next day he called to tell me that there was a new Cadillac he had no use for, and would I like to borrow it for a few months at no cost? I politely refused. point of view, and it was therefore a rare opportunity for him to enlarge upon the profile of his life that would otherwise be narrowly defined by crime reporters, and eventually by obituary writers, whose information about him would come mainly from federal prosecutors and the police. I believe that my words made an impression upon him, leading me in time to getting the "inside" story I wanted; but during my years of research and writing I continuously reminded myself that I was an "outsider," a reportorial observer beholden only to my publisher and the readers, and I was careful not to complicate my working relationship with my sources by agreeing to potentially compromising arrangements, nor did I accept personal gifts. When I first took my wife and two daughters out to Long Island for a Sunday afternoon visit with the Bonannos, I was driving my white 1957 TR3 sports car, a British-made vehicle with a backseat barely large enough to accommodate the very slender figures of our girls. After we had pulled into the Bonanno driveway, which was lined with large sedans, we were greeted by the bemused comments of Bill Bonanno regarding the tight fit of our "family car." The next day he called to tell me that there was a new Cadillac he had no use for, and would I like to borrow it for a few months at no cost? I politely refused.

When he and I dined together in restaurants I never allowed him to pick up the check, although he often volunteered to do so, especially on those occasions when we were joined by some of his men. But I always explained that I was writing them off as a "business expense," and indeed after returning home I would list their names on the back of the restaurant bill and then file it in a desk drawer where I kept all my records of spending while interviewing people for the book. At the end of the fiscal year I would total the figure and submit it via my accountant to the IRS with the request that it be used to reduce my taxable income. I also provided the IRS with receipts pertaining to my airplane trips to California when I was visiting with Bill Bonanno and the gas I bought for his car while we were traveling together in California and Arizona. I paid him a total of nine thousand dollars for the exclusive use of his personal papers and some doc.u.ments from his father's files as well as fifty photographs from Bonanno family alb.u.ms-such photos as those taken at Bill and Rosalie's wedding; childhood pictures of Bill, including several with his father; and photos of the elder Bonanno and a few of his a.s.sociates when he was a young man on the rise within the Mafia. I resold many of these photos to magazines in the United States and overseas in 1971 in connection with the printed excerpts from Honor Thy Father Honor Thy Father. The sums of money involved in these transactions were of course noted on my tax returns, and I also wrote letters to Bill Bonanno and his attorney, Albert Krieger, reminding them that they should not forget to include the nine thousand dollar income figure on Bill Bonanno's tax returns. I did not know whether or not this was done, but I kept on file copies of my letters to Messrs. Krieger and Bonanno.

I always a.s.sumed that the day would come when I would be called upon to testify with reference to Bill Bonanno's tax problems-just as I a.s.sumed that the FBI had been tapping my home phone ever since I had made the connection with him; and I a.s.sumed as well that IRS agents were scrutinizing my tax returns since I had begun claiming the names of illegitimate men as legitimate business expenses when dining and wining them in restaurants. In 1970 and again in 1971 I had difficulty renewing my American Express card, which was the card I most frequently used. In the past I had always received a new card prior to the termination date of the older one, but during these two years there were extended delays despite my repeated calls of complaint. I was told that my new card was in the mail, but weeks would pa.s.s without my receiving it; and only once did I get an explanation. It was said that the file containing my records seemed to have been misplaced, which I took to mean that it was in the hands of investigating agents. The agents were probably scrutinizing my signatures while searching for examples of forgery, for allegations of forgery and mail fraud had been levied against Bill Bonanno during the time he was using an unauthorized Diner's Club card and in this case would lead to his becoming (as he phrased it) a "guest of the government" at Terminal Island between 1971 and 1974.

In late 1974, after he had been released from Terminal Island, Bill Bonanno received and accepted a job offer in the public relations department of a large construction firm in the San Jose area. The job paid $350 a week. He also antic.i.p.ated earning extra income after signing a contract with a national lecture agency that promised to send him to campuses and other sites to deliver speeches about prison reform, enlarging on an essay he had recently written for the op-ed page of The New York Times The New York Times. In his essay he had few positive things to say about the correctional system. "The system's interplay at every level-from the lofty judiciary to the correctional officer walking the tiers and making bed checks-is one of moral bankruptcy," he wrote. After he had begun delivering lectures and receiving checks for his appearances, Internal Revenue agents visited the agency and directed that his fees be sent to them. They also laid claim to a portion of his weekly salary at the construction firm. It was the contention of the IRS that between the years of 1965 and 1967 Bill Bonanno had underpaid the government in the amount of $165,471, and, with the addition of interest and penalties, his bill was now $344,540. Bonanno countered by claiming bankruptcy in the latter part of 1974, and it was then that my wife Nan and I were told by our attorney Paul Gitlin that we were both required (since we filed joint tax returns) to give depositions in the bankruptcy case, responding to the government's questions about the validity of the children's education fund. The matter was described in an article in The New York Times The New York Times on February 9, 1975: on February 9, 1975: Mr. Bonanno's attempt to be declared legally bankrupt has been held up by Government objections that focus on his back taxes and the nature of a trust set up for his children by Gay Talese, author of "Honor Thy Father," a 1971 best seller about Mr. Bonanno's father. According to transcripts of hearings held in Federal Bankruptcy Court here [San Jose], Mr. Talese paid Mr. Bonanno $9,000 in the late nineteen-sixties for information that helped provide a portrait of his father, Joseph, the one-time leader of a powerful Mafia family.Sometime later, according to the transcripts, Mr. Talese set up a trust for Bonanno's four children to help with their education. Mr. Bonanno, 42 years old, said in the hearing on Oct. llth that he learned of the trust from Mr. Talese at Terminal Island penitentiary in Los Angeles where he served from 1971 to 1974 on the mail fraud conviction. Mr. Bonanno said that when Mr. Talese started to talk about the trust, he stopped him, saying "I do not know and I don't care to know" how much money was in trust, because of problems he was having with the Internal Revenue Service.Additionally, he said, he "wouldn't let" Mr. Talese tell him "why he was creating the trust," and that he "does not even open envelopes" from Paul Gitlin, Mr. Talese's attorney, who sends interest checks to the Bonanno children here. The Government contends that Mr. and Mrs. Bonanno have "concealed" money they are receiving from the trust, set up by Mr. Talese from a percentage of the proceeds of the book. The children are the designated beneficiaries.In 1973, according to transcripts, the children received $3,216.43 in interest. The precise value of the trust has not been made public. But yesterday, Mr. Talese's wife, Nan, an editor at Simon &