Blood Covenant Read online

  10

  "Hey," Steinberg continued. "I know everything about Sonny. Things I can't even tell you. I knew what he was and who he was and even who he killed. He was a hitter-the hitter. He swam in the biggest ocean and was the biggest, meanest, most terrifying shark in that ocean. Still is. I don't care how long he's been in jail or how old he is. He still is. He was an enforcer, and he did what he did better than anyone.

  "And he was a great friend. My friendship with him caused me enormous problems with the police, district attorney, IRS, FBI, SEC. You name it, but it was worth it. He was always there for me. Always! Artie, Hy, and I were just kids from the Jewish ghetto running a record company that exploded into a $100 million operation before we learned what we were doing. But Sonny kept the wolves away, and he never asked for anything in return. That's why I love the guy so much."

  I know it sounds so Hollywood: Sonny Franzese as the mob enforcer with a heart of gold, the benevolent godfather hovering protectively over some fellow Brooklynites trying to stake a claim in the record business and protecting them for no other reason than to be a pal. Yet from all accounts, Steinberg's improbable story checks out. The government agencies that tried so hard to figure Dad's angle in Buddah Records consistently came up empty.

  There are those who laugh derisively at the image of my father as a benevolent godfather-or a benevolent anything. To them, he was a madman and a killer. And although his victims can't offer their opinions, there remain those who insist they were on his hit list and survived, or at least survived long enough to record their stories.

  The best of these can be found in James Mills' twenty-ninepage Life magazine article published in August 1968. The epic story chronicled Dad's murder trial. Mills shadowed the Queens County, New York prosecutors for nine months, and, as Bob Greene did with "The Hood in Our Neighborhood," produced a lasting work of journalism.

  Particularly engrossing were the sections detailing the terror of the witnesses testifying against Dad. As the trial date neared, the witnesses, including four convicted bank robbers, demanded to be taken to the courthouse in helicopters or armored cars. Their drivers reported that they cringed on the floor of the backseats as they rode to the trial.

  The stress of testifying against Dad and his fellow defendants is not hard to imagine. Nearing hysteria, one particular witness, John Rapacki, a convicted robber, told the prosecutors prior to testifying, "If Sonny hits the streets, he'll kill my wife. I know they'll kill her.... They know they can hurt me by killing her.

  "They're going to kill me. They're going to poison me right in prison. You don't know how powerful they are. They're more powerful than you.... If Sonny beats this, he's gonna figure no one can touch him."

  Not long after Rapacki expressed these views, the jury returned with its verdict of not guilty, and Dad walked away a free man.

  11

  I was so young when much of this took place that I can't say for sure what's true and what's not, but all this talk of murder, blood, guts, and savagery has always struck my mother as a complete fairy tale. Her views of the man she fell in love with, married, and has waited for with a devotion that would make Odysseus' wife, Penelope, blush, are startling in their contrast to the harsher images promoted by law enforcement officials.

  "Boss of this, boss of that.. .the `family.' What family?!" she exclaims. "I was Sonny's family. My children were his family. Sometimes, when I read the papers, I thought he had another wife and kids somewhere, because they were always talking about his `family,' and it wasn't us.

  "And this stuff about his being a killer. He couldn't stand the sight of blood! If one of the kids scraped their knee, Sonny turned his face away. He couldn't deal with it, and I had to take care of it. Then the next day I'd read in the newspapers about what a bloodthirsty killer he was.

  "I didn't know that man in the newspapers. He wasn't my husband. He was the work of somebody's imagination."

  Killer. Madman. Army psycho. Capo. Enforcer. King-in-waiting. Unselfish guardian angel. Gentle lover. Squeamish father.

  Who was Sonny Franzese really? What is certain is that when my mother married him, she set an interesting and undeniably confusing course for my life. Was I destined to follow in my father's footsteps?

  12

  My mistrust of law enforcement officials had its roots in my childhood. One incident that occurred when I was only ten serves to illustrate this point. It was a warm afternoon in the late summer of 1961, and I was playing catch with a neighborhood friend in the front yard of our Long Island home.

  "Throw it high. I want to jump for it!" I shouted to my friend.

  He obeyed, hurling the baseball just above my head. I leaped and snagged it in the webbing of my leather glove.

  "Throw it higher," I said, tossing the ball back. "I want to catch it like Mickey Mantle did against the Red Sox!"

  This time the pitch was too high. The ball skittered off the top of my glove and rolled down the street. I chased after it and found it under the brown wing-tipped shoe of a big man with a craggy face wearing a tan overcoat. He opened his coat, flashed a badge, and pulled a huge black pistol from a shoulder holster.

  "See this gun," he growled, shoving the barrel in my face. "This is for your father. Bang! Bang! He's dead!"

  Those words and the sight of the massive weapon froze me in place. The thought of my father being killed paralyzed me with fear. I hated that evil detective, just as I would eventually grow to hate all the policemen and FBI agents and United States attorneys who, I believed, wanted to hurt my father.

  "Go on, you little punk, get outta here," the cop said, waving the gun to shoo me away.

  I ran off as fast as I could, but I remember that officer and his gun as if it happened yesterday.

  That encounter was just the beginning of some tough times for us in the Long Island suburbs. There were other problems, some of them at home. After dinner one evening, about three months after that incident, I hid in the den and listened as my parents argued heatedly. I hated spying on them, but fear made me hang on their every word.

  The topic of their discussion was my stepbrother and stepsisters. Mom wanted them returned to their own mother. Dad explained for the umpteenth time that his ex-wife wasn't cooperating.

  "What am I supposed to do-throw them out in the streets?" my father shouted. "My hands are tied."

  My eyes widened as I saw my stepbrother, Carmine, wander by on his way to the refrigerator. Carmine had heard this argument so many times before that he had become immune to it. Suddenly, Mom grabbed the barefooted Carmine and pushed him out the door into a blanket of fresh snow that had gathered on the porch. I ran from my hiding place and peered out the window. There I saw my stepbrother hopping up and down on the ice and snow. A wave of terror shot through me, for I figured I was next.

  My mind began working. I wasn't about to be heaved out into the snow by my father without a fight. I rushed over to Mom and grabbed her around the waist. "Stop! Stop!" I cried. "Don't do that to Carmine. Let him in! Let him in!"

  My strategy was to show my father that I didn't agree with what my mother had done. Technically, he was my stepfather, as I said, but since he was the only father I'd ever known, I had never thought of him or referred to him in that way. At the time, however, I was just beginning to understand the difference. That's why I hid and listened to their arguments, and why I felt moved to act. I wanted Dad to know that I was on Carmine's side. Whatever childish logic was in this, the tactic seemed to work. Mom cooled off, and a shivering and perplexed Carmine was allowed to come back inside the house.

  I had done my best to diffuse an ugly scene, but it hardly eased my mind regarding my status in the family. Later that evening, I cornered Mom in the kitchen and pleaded with her to accept my stepbrother and two stepsisters for my sake. I felt that I was in a particularly precarious position, one that made me uneasy for much of my early life. Of the seven children in our house, I was the only one who didn't have Sonny Franzese's blood running
through my veins. I reasoned that if my mother wanted my father's previous children out of the house, where would that leave me? The most obvious solution to the arguments appeared to be a compromise that banished both the "yours" and the "mine" from the family, leaving only the "ours," the three younger children Mom and Dad had together.

  Mom gently assured me that my status was secure, that the union between a mother and her child was unbreakable. She explained that it was that precise union she felt my stepbrother and stepsisters needed in their lives. Her explanation did little to ease my anxiety.

  As my parents continued to debate this issue over the ensuing months, I became so anxious that I tried to run away and live with my grandmother. I guess that I was so afraid of being kicked out of the house that I left voluntarily. But the action reveals what I feared the most: I didn't want to be there the day my fatherwhom I absolutely idolized-finally turned on me.

  He never did. No matter how coolly Mom treated my stepbrother and stepsisters, and how much she believed that "a child belongs with its mother," Dad never withdrew an ounce of love from me. And I never forgot that fact.

  -13

  Dad's rapid rise in the mob enabled our family to make a succession of moves during my first nine years of life. We hopscotched from Brooklyn to New Hyde Park, Long Island, and finally, in 1960, settled in a two-story home in Roslyn, Long Island, a bedroom community twenty minutes from Manhattan. Our spacious home, purchased in 1960 for $39,000, was one of my father's better investments. When Mom finally put it on the market, it brought nearly $500,000.

  As a child, my parents told me, I was every bit the future doctor they dreamed I would become. I was helpful and obedient to my older brothers and sisters, never a "brat," and I hovered protectively over the younger siblings. My only flaw, according to Mom, was a fierce determination to have my way.

  "He could wear me down like you wouldn't believe," she once told a friend. "If he wanted something and I wouldn't let him have it, he would sit there with those puppy-dog eyes and just burn a hole through your heart. I'd almost always cave in."

  Even so, she concedes that I demanded little and used my persuasive power sparingly.

  Dad schooled me in athletics. He taught me how to hit and catch a baseball by playing a game called "pepper" in the backyard during the summer. The game entailed hitting ground balls to each other from close range. He was a firm but encouraging taskmaster, ordering me to bend my knees and keep my body in front of the ball until I could scoop up the sharply hit grounders in my sleep. When it was my turn at bat, I was told to keep my swing level, keep the Louisville Slugger trademark up, and place the ball where I wanted it.

  When the weather cooled and the leaves began to turn, we put away our Roger Maris bats and Mickey Mantle signature gloves and brought out a Joe Namath football. The sport was different, but the lessons continued. Dad taught me to fake one way, cut sharply in the opposite direction, then cradle the spiraling leather-and-lace ball into my arms. He taught me how to lead a receiver so that the football could be caught on the run without breaking stride.

  Whenever the family went to my mom's parents' house in nearby New Hyde Park, Dad and I frequently slipped away from the gathering and retreated to the backyard to play a game of our own creation we called "Off the Wall." We bounced a pink rubber ball off the chimney and tried to catch the rebound before it hit the ground. A catch was worth a point. Hitting the ledge where the cement base merged with the red brick chimney was worth five points. The first one to earn five hundred points won the game. We played this game for hours at a time.

  As I entered my teens, the chimney game became fiercely competitive, and most matches went down to the wire. We each hated to lose, and we each won our share. If Dad fell behind, I had to stay on top of him to make sure he didn't inflate his score. He loved to cheat.

  We argued and laughed and tossed the pink ball against the chimney until the sun set over Queens and it was too dark to see the rebounds. Our competitiveness only heightened our enjoyment of the game.

  These backyard contests and training sessions went on for more than a decade. Dad was never too busy to play with me. In my eyes, he was the world's greatest father, and I cherished every minute we spent together.

  14

  When Dad wasn't grooming me to be a good shortstop, the Catholic schools were trying to mold me into a responsible citizen. I started at St. Ann's Grammar School in New Hyde Park, then graduated to Holy Cross High School in Flushing. I spent two years as an altar boy at St. Ann's Catholic Church in Garden City, frequently rising at 5:00 A.M. so that I could get dressed and ride my bike to the church for six o'clock Mass. Early risers could spot me tooling down the road, clutching the handlebars with one hand and holding my black and white vestments outstretched in the other.

  At St. Ann's, I found myself in the minority. Four out of five students there were Irish, and the Irish and the Italians clashed. Playground fights were frequent, and sports teams were usually divided along ethnic lines. When we played "keep away," it was always the Italians against the Irish. There would be forty Irish guys on one side and about ten of us Italians on the other. Needless to say, we usually got creamed.

  Fighting and playing against stacked odds toughened me and further elevated my athletic ability so that, by the time I reached junior high, I was pretty good. Despite facing yet another hurdle-all the coaches were Irish-I worked my way to starting roles as shortstop on the school's baseball team and halfback on the football team. Despite my small physique (five-foot-eight and one hundred thirty pounds), I was quick enough to dodge bigger, slower players and tough enough to burst through those my own size. These two attributes enabled me to win a junior varsity Most Valuable Player trophy, which Dad proudly displayed in the kitchen. Whenever a new associate came over for a breakfast or coffee meeting, he'd first have to pay homage to the gleaming trophy and listen while Dad bragged about my accomplishments.

  "He should have three trophies up there!" I once heard him say to a group of associates. "He should have won it the last three years, but those dirty Irish coaches kept stealing it from us. This year, he was so good, they couldn't take it away from us!"

  He spoke knowledgeably about my athletic achievements because he rarely missed a game. From the time I donned the iceblue hat and stretch socks of the "Nuzzi Brothers" Little League team in New Hyde Park, through my tenure as Big Jock on Campus at St. Ann's and Holy Cross, Dad was a constant fixture in the stands or on the sidelines. Sometimes he'd come right into the dugout, wearing his standard summer outfit of black nylon socks, sandals, and Bermuda shorts-a dowdy contrast to his dapper Manhattan suits and diamond rings. Often, he brought his close friends, "nice" men who in another world were notorious figures. My cheering section included Jo Jo Vitacco, "Johnny Irish" Matera, Red Crabbe, Felice "Philly" Vizzari, Whitey Florio, Salvatore "Sally" D'Ambrosio, Anthony "Tony the Gawk" Augello, and Fred "No Nose" DeLucia.

  I always knew when my father arrived at the stadium or ballpark in his understated red Plymouth Valiant or, later, his green Buick Electra, and I took note of where he sat in the stands or stood along the sidelines. It was as if I were performing for one person-my father.

  At an eighth-grade all-star football game, I broke through the line and jitterbugged down the field for sixty-five yards before being tackled at the five-yard marker. When I got up, I searched the sidelines for Dad. I spotted him running down the edge of the field, leaping up and down and throwing his fists in the air. His friends trailed behind. When they caught up, they slapped his back and congratulated him on my heroics. Two plays later, I took it in for what would be the game-winning touchdown, causing more sideline celebrations.

  Pumped with adrenaline, I followed by kicking off, dashing down the field and leveling the ballcarrier near the twenty-yard line. The public-address announcer reported that another player had made the tackle. I glanced over to the sideline and saw Dad run to the broadcast booth, wave his fist in anger, and shout at the announcer. T
he announcer quickly corrected his mistake.

  "You see, Rock," Dad said to my grandfather, as they stood behind the bench, "I knew Michael would make that tackle. He ran sixty yards, scored the touchdown, kicked off, and made the tackle! He's a one-man team! That's my boy!"

  My athletic success and the pleasure it gave my father led to a changed role for me in the family. Instead of being the outsider, I was emerging as a star at home, as well as on the ball fields. My single-minded desire to please my father in every way was paying off. I brought home report cards filled with As, stayed out of trouble, scored touchdowns, and piled up base hits.

  As I succeeded, my insecurity over being a stepchild eased. Nothing was ever said between us, but my father's unqualified acceptance of me as his son had made an indelible impression. His love and attention were added to the other qualities I saw and admired in him. I admired the power that surrounded him, his force, and the way he controlled all the bigger men around him. He was fair, kind, and rarely lost his temper, no matter how tense the family situation became. My father was a role model I felt I could emulate, and I made it a point to observe and copy the qualities in him I so admired.

  15