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I Heard You Paint Houses

Frank "The Irishman" Sheeran & Closing the Case on Jimmy Hoffa

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On sale Jun 29, 2016 | 384 Pages | 9781586422387
New York Times Bestseller  —  #1 True Crime Bestseller

The inspiration for the major motion picture, THE IRISHMAN.

“The best Mafia book I ever read, and believe me, I read them all.” — Steven Van Zandt

“Charles Brandt has solved the Hoffa mystery.” — Professor Arthur Sloane, author of Hoffa

“Sheeran’s confession that he killed Hoffa in the manner described in the book is supported by the forensic evidence, is entirely credible, and solves the Hoffa mystery.”  — Michael Baden M.D., former Chief Medical Examiner of the City of New York

“It’s all true.” — New York Police Department organized crime homicide detective Joe Coffey

“Gives new meaning to the term ‘guilty pleasure.’’’ — The New York Times Book Review

**Includes an Epilogue and a Conclusion that detail substantial post-publication corroboration of Frank Sheeran's confessions to the killings of Jimmy Hoffa and Joey Gallo.

"I heard you paint houses" are the first words Jimmy Hoffa ever spoke to Frank "the Irishman" Sheeran. To paint a house is to kill a man. The paint is the blood that splatters on the walls and floors. In the course of nearly five years of recorded interviews, Frank Sheeran confessed to Charles Brandt that he handled more than twenty-five hits for the mob, and for his friend Hoffa. He also provided intriguing information about the Mafia's role in the murder of JFK.

Sheeran learned to kill in the US Army, where he saw an astonishing 411 days of active combat duty in Italy during World War II. After returning home he became a hustler and hit man, working for legendary crime boss Russell Bufalino. Eventually Sheeran would rise to a position of such prominence that in a RICO suit the US government would name him as one of only two non-Italians in conspiracy with the Commission of La Cosa Nostra, alongside the likes of Anthony "Tony Pro" Provenzano and Anthony "Fat Tony" Salerno. 

When Bufalino ordered Sheeran to kill Hoffa, the Irishman did the deed, knowing that if he had refused he would have been killed himself. Charles Brandt's page-turner has become a true crime classic.
'The Irishman' named Best Film By National Board Of Review and New York Film Critics Circle

“Sheeran’s confession that he killed Hoffa in the manner described in the book is supported by the forensic evidence, is entirely credible, and solves the Hoffa mystery.”  — Michael Baden M.D., former Chief Medical Examiner of the City of New York

“I’m fully convinced – now – that Sheeran was in fact the man who did the deed. And I’m impressed, too, by the book’s readability and by its factual accuracy in all areas on which I’m qualified to pass judgment. Charles Brandt has solved the Hoffa mystery.” —Professor Arthur Sloane, author of Hoffa

“Sometimes you can believe everything you read.” — William “Big Billy” D’Elia, successor to Russell Bufalino as godfather of the Bufalino crime family

“My source in the Bufalino family . . . read I Heard You Paint Houses. All the Bufalino guys read it. This old-time Bufalino guy told me he was shocked. He couldn’t believe Sheeran confessed all that stuff to [Brandt]. It’s all true.” — New York Police Department organized crime homicide detective Joseph Coffey

“If the made men Brandt rubbed up against during his five years with Sheeran suspected what Sheeran was confessing to him on tape, they’d both have been promptly whacked.” — Joe Pistone, retired FBI deep undercover agent and the author of Donnie Brasco

I Heard You Paint Houses “gives new meaning to the term ‘guilty pleasure.’ It promises to clear up the mystery of Hoffa’s demise, and appears to do so. Sheeran not only admits he was in on the hit, he says it was he who actually pulled the trigger — and not just on Hoffa but on dozens of other victims, including many, he alleges, dispatched on Hoffa’s orders. This last seems likely to spur a reappraisal of Hoffa’s career. . . . Sheeran is Old School, and his tale is admirably free of self-pity and self-aggrandize­ment. Without getting all Oprah about it, he admits he was an alcoholic and a lousy father. His business was killing people, and . . . he did it with little muss, fuss or introspection.’’ — Bryan Burrough, author of Public Enemies, in The New York Times Book Review

“One of Sheeran’s virtues was his gift as a storyteller; one of his flaws was his tendency to murder, in mobster jargon, ‘to paint houses.’ . . . Although he professed his loyalty to Hoffa – he said on one occasion, ‘I’ll be a Hoffa man ‘til they pat my face with a shovel and steal my cufflinks’ − Sheeran acknowledged that he was the one who killed the Teamsters boss. . . . On July 30, 1975, Hoffa disappeared. Sheeran explains how he did it, in prose reminiscent of the best gangster films.”  — Associated Press

I Heard You Paint Houses is the best Mafia book I ever read, and believe me, I read them all. It’s so authentic.” — Steven Van Zandt, featured actor, “Silvio Dante,” in The Sopranos and musician in Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band 

“Told with such economy and chilling force as to make The Sopranos suddenly seem overwrought and theatrical.” New York Daily News

“Is Sheeran believable? Very . . . and ‘I Heard You Paint Houses’ is a very enjoyable book.” Trial Magazine

“A page-turning account of one man’s descent into the mob.” Delaware News Journal

“A terrific read.” Kansas City Star
© Charles Brandt
Born and raised in New York City, Charles Brandt is a former homicide prosecutor and Chief Deputy Attorney General of the State of Delaware. As a prosecutor, he handled more than 50 homicide proceedings, and he is the author of a novel based on cases he solved through interrogation, The Right to Remain Silent. In private practice since 1976, Brandt was a criminal defense attorney specializing in homicide for a decade, and has been president of the Delaware Trial Lawyers Association and the Delaware Chapter of the American Board of Trial Advocates. He has been named by his peers to both Best Lawyers in America and Best Lawyers in Delaware. He is also the co-author of Joe Pistone's Donnie Brasco: Unfinished Business and of Lin DeVecchio's We're Going to Win This Thing: The Shocking Frame-Up of a Mafia Crime Buster. View titles by Charles Brandt
“They Wouldn’t Dare”
I asked my boss, Russell “McGee” Bufalino, to let me call Jimmy at his
cottage by the lake. I was on a peace mission. All I was trying to do at
that particular time was keep this thing from happening to Jimmy.
I reached out for Jimmy on Sunday afternoon, July 27, 1975. Jimmy
was gone by Wednesday, July 30. Sadly, as we say, gone to Australia —
down under. I will miss my friend until the day I join him.
I was at my own apartment in Philly using my own phone when I
made the long-distance call to Jimmy’s cottage at Lake Orion near
Detroit. If I had been in on the thing on Sunday I would have used a pay
phone, not my own phone. You don’t survive as long as I did by making
calls about importantmatters fromyour own phone. I wasn’tmade with
a finger. My father used the real thing to get my mother pregnant.
While I was in my kitchen standing by my rotary wall phone getting
ready to dial the number I knew by heart, I gave some consideration
to just how I was going to approach Jimmy. I learned during my years
of union negotiations that it always was best to review things in your
mind first before you opened your mouth. And besides that, this call
was not going to be an easy one.
When he got out of jail on a presidential pardon by Nixon in 1971,
and he began fighting to reclaim the presidency of the Teamsters,
Jimmy became very hard to talk to. Sometimes you see that with guys
when they first get out. Jimmy became reckless with his tongue — on
the radio, in the papers, on television. Every time he opened his
mouth he said something about how he was going to expose the
mob and get the mob out of the union. He even said he was going to
keep the mob from using the pension fund. I can’t imagine certain
people liked hearing that their golden goose would be killed if he got
back in. All this coming from Jimmy was hypocritical to say the least,
considering Jimmy was the one who brought the so-called mob into
the union and the pension fund in the first place. Jimmy brought me
into the union through Russell. With very good reason I was concerned
for my friend more than a little bit.
I started getting concerned about nine months before this telephone
call that Russell was letting me make. Jimmy had flown out to
Philly to be the featured speaker at Frank Sheeran Appreciation Night
at the Latin Casino. There were 3,000 of my good friends and family,
including the mayor, the district attorney, guys I fought in the war
with, the singer Jerry Vale and the Golddigger Dancers with legs that
didn’t quit, and certain other guests the FBI would call La Cosa
Nostra. Jimmy presented me with a gold watch encircled with diamonds.
Jimmy looked at the guests on the dais and said, “I never realized
you were that strong.” That was a special comment because
Jimmy Hoffa was one of the two greatest men I ever met.
Before they brought the dinner of prime rib, and when we were getting
our pictures taken, some little nobody that Jimmy was in jail
with asked Jimmy for ten grand for a business venture. Jimmy reached
in his pocket and gave him $2,500. That was Jimmy — a soft touch.
Naturally, Russell Bufalino was there. He was the other one of the
two greatest men that I ever met. Jerry Vale sang Russ’s favorite song,
“Spanish Eyes,” for him. Russell was boss of the Bufalino family of
upstate Pennsylvania, and large parts of New York, New Jersey, and
Florida. Being headquartered outside New York City, Russell wasn’t in
the inner circle of New York’s five families, but all the families came to
him for advice on everything. If there was any important matter that
needed taking care of, they gave the job to Russell. He was respected
throughout the country. When Albert Anastasia got shot in the
barber’s chair in New York, they made Russell the acting head of that
family until they could straighten everything out. There’s no way to
getmore respect than Russell got. He was very strong. The public never
heard of him, but the families and the feds knew how strong he was.
Russell presented me with a gold ring that he had made up special
for just three people — himself, his underboss, and me. It had a big
three-dollar gold piece on top surrounded by diamonds. Russ was big
in the jewelry-fencing and cat-burglar world. He was a silent partner
in a number of jewelry stores on Jeweler’s Row in New York City.
The gold watch Jimmy gave me is still on my wrist, and the gold
ring Russell gave me is still on my finger here at the assisted-living
home. On my other hand I’ve got a ring with each of my daughters’
birthstones.
Jimmy and Russell were verymuch alike. They were solidmuscle from
head to toe. They were both short, even for those days. Russ was about
5'8". Jimmy was down around 5'5". In those days I used to be 6'4", and
I had to bend down to them for private talks. They were very smart
from head to toe. They had mental toughness and physical toughness.
But in one important way they were different. Russ was very low-key
and quiet, soft-spoken even when he got mad. Jimmy exploded every
day just to keep his temper in shape, and he loved publicity.
The night before my testimonial dinner, Russ and I had a sit-down
with Jimmy. We sat at a table at Broadway Eddie’s, and Russell
Bufalino told Jimmy Hoffa flat-out he should stop running for union
president. He told him certain people were very happy with Frank
Fitzsimmons, who replaced Jimmy when he went to jail. Nobody at the
table said so, but we all knew these certain people were very happy with
the big and easy loans they could get out of the Teamsters Pension
Fund under the weak-minded Fitz. They got loans under Jimmy when
he was in, and Jimmy got his points under the table, but the loans were
always on Jimmy’s terms. Fitz bent over for these certain people. All
Fitz cared about was drinking and golfing. I don’t have to tell you how
much juice comes out of a billion-dollar pension fund.
Russell said, “What are you running for? You don’t need the
money.”
Jimmy said, “It’s not about the money. I’m not letting Fitz have the
union.”
After the sit-down, when I was getting ready to take Jimmy back to
theWarwick Hotel, Russ took me aside and said: “Talk to your friend.
Tell him what it is.” In our way of speaking, even though it doesn’t
sound like much, that was as good as a death threat.
At the Warwick Hotel I told Jimmy if he didn’t change his mind
about taking back the union he had better keep some bodies around
him for protection.
“I’m not going that route or they’ll go after my family.”
“Still in all, you don’t want to be out on the street by yourself.”
“Nobody scares Hoffa. I’m going after Fitz, and I’m going to win
this election.”
“You know what this means,” I said. “Russ himself told me to tell
you what it is.”
“They wouldn’t dare,” Jimmy Hoffa growled, his eyes glaring at mine.
All Jimmy did the rest of the night and at breakfast the next
morning was talk a lot of distorted talk. Looking back it could have
been nervous talk, but I never knew Jimmy to show fear. Although one
of the items on the agenda that Russell had spoken to Jimmy about at
the table at Broadway Eddie’s the night before my testimonial dinner
was more than enough to make the bravest man show fear.
And there I was in my kitchen in Philadelphia nine months after
Frank Sheeran Appreciation Night with the phone in my hand and
Jimmy on the other end of the line at his cottage in Lake Orion, and
me hoping this time Jimmy would reconsider taking back the union
while he still had the time.
“My friend and I are driving out for the wedding,” I said.
“I figured you and your friend would attend the wedding,” Jimmy
said.
Jimmy knew “my friend” was Russell and that you didn’t use his
name over the phone. The wedding was Bill Bufalino’s daughter’s
wedding in Detroit. Bill was no relation to Russell, but Russell gave
him permission to say they were cousins. It helped Bill’s career. He
was the Teamsters lawyer in Detroit.
Bill Bufalino had a mansion in Grosse Pointe that had a waterfall in
the basement. There was a little bridge you walked over that separated
one side of the basement from the other. The men had their own side
so they could talk. The women stayed on their side of the waterfall.
Evidently, these were not women who paid attention to the words
when they heard Helen Reddy sing her popular song of the day, “I Am
Woman, Hear Me Roar.”
“I guess you’re not going to the wedding,” I said.
“Jo doesn’t want people staring,” he said. Jimmy didn’t have to
explain. There was talk about an FBI wiretap that was coming out.
Certain parties were on the tape talking about extramarital relations
his wife, Josephine, allegedly had years ago with Tony Cimini, a soldier
in the Detroit outfit.
“Ah, nobody believed that bull, Jimmy. I figured you wouldn’t go
because of this other thing.”
“Fuck them. They think they can scare Hoffa.”
“There’s widespread concern that things are getting out of hand.”
“I got ways to protect myself. I got records put away.”
“Please, Jimmy, even my friend is concerned.”
“How’s your friend doing?” Jimmy laughed. “I’m glad he got that
problem handled last week.”
Jimmy was referring to an extortion trial Russ had just beat in
Buffalo. “Our friend’s doing real good,” I said. “He’s the one gave me
the go-ahead to call you.”
These respected men were both my friends, and they were both
good friends to each other. Russell introduced me to Jimmy in the
first place back in the fifties. At the time I had three daughters to
support.
I had lost my job driving a meat truck for Food Fair, when they
caught me trying to be a partner in their business. I was stealing sides
of beef and chickens and selling them to restaurants. So I started
taking day jobs out of the Teamsters union hall, driving trucks for
companies when their regular driver was out sick or something. I also
taught ballroom dancing, and on Friday and Saturday nights I was a
bouncer at the Nixon Ballroom, a black nightclub.
On the side I handled certain matters for Russ, never for money, but
as a show of respect. I wasn’t a hitman for hire. Some cowboy. You ran
a little errand. You did a favor. You got a little favor back if you ever
needed it.
I had seen On The Waterfront in the movies, and I thought I was at
least as bad as that Marlon Brando. I said to Russ that I wanted to get
into union work. We were at a bar in South Philly. He had arranged
for a call from Jimmy Hoffa in Detroit and put me on the line with
him. The first words Jimmy ever spoke to me were, “I heard you paint
houses.” The paint is the blood that supposedly gets on the wall or
the floor when you shoot somebody. I told Jimmy, “I do my own carpentry
work, too.” That refers to making coffins and means you get
rid of the bodies yourself.
After that conversation Jimmy put me to work for the International,
making more money than I had made on all those other jobs put
together, including the stealing. I got extramoney for expenses. On the
side I handled certain matters for Jimmy the way I did for Russell.
Chapter One: “They Wouldn’t Dare”
Chapter Two: What It Is
Chapter Three: Get Yourself Another Punching Bag
Chapter Four: Little Egypt University
Chapter Five: 411 Days
Chapter Six: Doing What I Had to Do
Chapter Seven: Waking Up in America
Chapter Eight: Russell Bufalino
Chapter Nine: Prosciutto Bread and Homemade Wine
Chapter Ten: All the Way Downtown
Chapter Eleven: Jimmy
Chapter Twelve: “I Heard You Paint Houses”
Chapter Thirteen: They Didn’t Make a Parachute Big Enough
Chapter Fourteen: The Gunman Had No Mask
Chapter Fifteen: Respect with an Envelope
Chapter Sixteen: Give Them a Little Message
Chapter Seventeen: Nothing More Than a Mockery
Chapter Eighteen: Just Another Lawyer Now
Chapter Nineteen: Tampering with the Very Soul of the Nation
Chapter Twenty: Hoffa’s Comedy Troupe
Chapter Twenty-One: All He Did for Me Was to Hang Up
Chapter Twenty-Two: Pacing in His Cage
Chapter Twenty-Three: Nothing Comes Cheap
Chapter Twenty-Four: He Needed a Favor and That Was That
Chapter Twenty-Five: That Wasn’t Jimmy’s Way
Chapter Twenty-Six: All Hell Will Break Loose
Chapter Twenty-Seven: July 30, 1975
Chapter Twenty-Eight: To Paint a House
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Everybody Bleeds
Chapter Thirty: “Those Responsible Have Not Gotten Off Scot-Free”
Chapter Thirty-One: Under a Vow of Secrecy

About

New York Times Bestseller  —  #1 True Crime Bestseller

The inspiration for the major motion picture, THE IRISHMAN.

“The best Mafia book I ever read, and believe me, I read them all.” — Steven Van Zandt

“Charles Brandt has solved the Hoffa mystery.” — Professor Arthur Sloane, author of Hoffa

“Sheeran’s confession that he killed Hoffa in the manner described in the book is supported by the forensic evidence, is entirely credible, and solves the Hoffa mystery.”  — Michael Baden M.D., former Chief Medical Examiner of the City of New York

“It’s all true.” — New York Police Department organized crime homicide detective Joe Coffey

“Gives new meaning to the term ‘guilty pleasure.’’’ — The New York Times Book Review

**Includes an Epilogue and a Conclusion that detail substantial post-publication corroboration of Frank Sheeran's confessions to the killings of Jimmy Hoffa and Joey Gallo.

"I heard you paint houses" are the first words Jimmy Hoffa ever spoke to Frank "the Irishman" Sheeran. To paint a house is to kill a man. The paint is the blood that splatters on the walls and floors. In the course of nearly five years of recorded interviews, Frank Sheeran confessed to Charles Brandt that he handled more than twenty-five hits for the mob, and for his friend Hoffa. He also provided intriguing information about the Mafia's role in the murder of JFK.

Sheeran learned to kill in the US Army, where he saw an astonishing 411 days of active combat duty in Italy during World War II. After returning home he became a hustler and hit man, working for legendary crime boss Russell Bufalino. Eventually Sheeran would rise to a position of such prominence that in a RICO suit the US government would name him as one of only two non-Italians in conspiracy with the Commission of La Cosa Nostra, alongside the likes of Anthony "Tony Pro" Provenzano and Anthony "Fat Tony" Salerno. 

When Bufalino ordered Sheeran to kill Hoffa, the Irishman did the deed, knowing that if he had refused he would have been killed himself. Charles Brandt's page-turner has become a true crime classic.

Praise

'The Irishman' named Best Film By National Board Of Review and New York Film Critics Circle

“Sheeran’s confession that he killed Hoffa in the manner described in the book is supported by the forensic evidence, is entirely credible, and solves the Hoffa mystery.”  — Michael Baden M.D., former Chief Medical Examiner of the City of New York

“I’m fully convinced – now – that Sheeran was in fact the man who did the deed. And I’m impressed, too, by the book’s readability and by its factual accuracy in all areas on which I’m qualified to pass judgment. Charles Brandt has solved the Hoffa mystery.” —Professor Arthur Sloane, author of Hoffa

“Sometimes you can believe everything you read.” — William “Big Billy” D’Elia, successor to Russell Bufalino as godfather of the Bufalino crime family

“My source in the Bufalino family . . . read I Heard You Paint Houses. All the Bufalino guys read it. This old-time Bufalino guy told me he was shocked. He couldn’t believe Sheeran confessed all that stuff to [Brandt]. It’s all true.” — New York Police Department organized crime homicide detective Joseph Coffey

“If the made men Brandt rubbed up against during his five years with Sheeran suspected what Sheeran was confessing to him on tape, they’d both have been promptly whacked.” — Joe Pistone, retired FBI deep undercover agent and the author of Donnie Brasco

I Heard You Paint Houses “gives new meaning to the term ‘guilty pleasure.’ It promises to clear up the mystery of Hoffa’s demise, and appears to do so. Sheeran not only admits he was in on the hit, he says it was he who actually pulled the trigger — and not just on Hoffa but on dozens of other victims, including many, he alleges, dispatched on Hoffa’s orders. This last seems likely to spur a reappraisal of Hoffa’s career. . . . Sheeran is Old School, and his tale is admirably free of self-pity and self-aggrandize­ment. Without getting all Oprah about it, he admits he was an alcoholic and a lousy father. His business was killing people, and . . . he did it with little muss, fuss or introspection.’’ — Bryan Burrough, author of Public Enemies, in The New York Times Book Review

“One of Sheeran’s virtues was his gift as a storyteller; one of his flaws was his tendency to murder, in mobster jargon, ‘to paint houses.’ . . . Although he professed his loyalty to Hoffa – he said on one occasion, ‘I’ll be a Hoffa man ‘til they pat my face with a shovel and steal my cufflinks’ − Sheeran acknowledged that he was the one who killed the Teamsters boss. . . . On July 30, 1975, Hoffa disappeared. Sheeran explains how he did it, in prose reminiscent of the best gangster films.”  — Associated Press

I Heard You Paint Houses is the best Mafia book I ever read, and believe me, I read them all. It’s so authentic.” — Steven Van Zandt, featured actor, “Silvio Dante,” in The Sopranos and musician in Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band 

“Told with such economy and chilling force as to make The Sopranos suddenly seem overwrought and theatrical.” New York Daily News

“Is Sheeran believable? Very . . . and ‘I Heard You Paint Houses’ is a very enjoyable book.” Trial Magazine

“A page-turning account of one man’s descent into the mob.” Delaware News Journal

“A terrific read.” Kansas City Star

Author

© Charles Brandt
Born and raised in New York City, Charles Brandt is a former homicide prosecutor and Chief Deputy Attorney General of the State of Delaware. As a prosecutor, he handled more than 50 homicide proceedings, and he is the author of a novel based on cases he solved through interrogation, The Right to Remain Silent. In private practice since 1976, Brandt was a criminal defense attorney specializing in homicide for a decade, and has been president of the Delaware Trial Lawyers Association and the Delaware Chapter of the American Board of Trial Advocates. He has been named by his peers to both Best Lawyers in America and Best Lawyers in Delaware. He is also the co-author of Joe Pistone's Donnie Brasco: Unfinished Business and of Lin DeVecchio's We're Going to Win This Thing: The Shocking Frame-Up of a Mafia Crime Buster. View titles by Charles Brandt

Excerpt

“They Wouldn’t Dare”
I asked my boss, Russell “McGee” Bufalino, to let me call Jimmy at his
cottage by the lake. I was on a peace mission. All I was trying to do at
that particular time was keep this thing from happening to Jimmy.
I reached out for Jimmy on Sunday afternoon, July 27, 1975. Jimmy
was gone by Wednesday, July 30. Sadly, as we say, gone to Australia —
down under. I will miss my friend until the day I join him.
I was at my own apartment in Philly using my own phone when I
made the long-distance call to Jimmy’s cottage at Lake Orion near
Detroit. If I had been in on the thing on Sunday I would have used a pay
phone, not my own phone. You don’t survive as long as I did by making
calls about importantmatters fromyour own phone. I wasn’tmade with
a finger. My father used the real thing to get my mother pregnant.
While I was in my kitchen standing by my rotary wall phone getting
ready to dial the number I knew by heart, I gave some consideration
to just how I was going to approach Jimmy. I learned during my years
of union negotiations that it always was best to review things in your
mind first before you opened your mouth. And besides that, this call
was not going to be an easy one.
When he got out of jail on a presidential pardon by Nixon in 1971,
and he began fighting to reclaim the presidency of the Teamsters,
Jimmy became very hard to talk to. Sometimes you see that with guys
when they first get out. Jimmy became reckless with his tongue — on
the radio, in the papers, on television. Every time he opened his
mouth he said something about how he was going to expose the
mob and get the mob out of the union. He even said he was going to
keep the mob from using the pension fund. I can’t imagine certain
people liked hearing that their golden goose would be killed if he got
back in. All this coming from Jimmy was hypocritical to say the least,
considering Jimmy was the one who brought the so-called mob into
the union and the pension fund in the first place. Jimmy brought me
into the union through Russell. With very good reason I was concerned
for my friend more than a little bit.
I started getting concerned about nine months before this telephone
call that Russell was letting me make. Jimmy had flown out to
Philly to be the featured speaker at Frank Sheeran Appreciation Night
at the Latin Casino. There were 3,000 of my good friends and family,
including the mayor, the district attorney, guys I fought in the war
with, the singer Jerry Vale and the Golddigger Dancers with legs that
didn’t quit, and certain other guests the FBI would call La Cosa
Nostra. Jimmy presented me with a gold watch encircled with diamonds.
Jimmy looked at the guests on the dais and said, “I never realized
you were that strong.” That was a special comment because
Jimmy Hoffa was one of the two greatest men I ever met.
Before they brought the dinner of prime rib, and when we were getting
our pictures taken, some little nobody that Jimmy was in jail
with asked Jimmy for ten grand for a business venture. Jimmy reached
in his pocket and gave him $2,500. That was Jimmy — a soft touch.
Naturally, Russell Bufalino was there. He was the other one of the
two greatest men that I ever met. Jerry Vale sang Russ’s favorite song,
“Spanish Eyes,” for him. Russell was boss of the Bufalino family of
upstate Pennsylvania, and large parts of New York, New Jersey, and
Florida. Being headquartered outside New York City, Russell wasn’t in
the inner circle of New York’s five families, but all the families came to
him for advice on everything. If there was any important matter that
needed taking care of, they gave the job to Russell. He was respected
throughout the country. When Albert Anastasia got shot in the
barber’s chair in New York, they made Russell the acting head of that
family until they could straighten everything out. There’s no way to
getmore respect than Russell got. He was very strong. The public never
heard of him, but the families and the feds knew how strong he was.
Russell presented me with a gold ring that he had made up special
for just three people — himself, his underboss, and me. It had a big
three-dollar gold piece on top surrounded by diamonds. Russ was big
in the jewelry-fencing and cat-burglar world. He was a silent partner
in a number of jewelry stores on Jeweler’s Row in New York City.
The gold watch Jimmy gave me is still on my wrist, and the gold
ring Russell gave me is still on my finger here at the assisted-living
home. On my other hand I’ve got a ring with each of my daughters’
birthstones.
Jimmy and Russell were verymuch alike. They were solidmuscle from
head to toe. They were both short, even for those days. Russ was about
5'8". Jimmy was down around 5'5". In those days I used to be 6'4", and
I had to bend down to them for private talks. They were very smart
from head to toe. They had mental toughness and physical toughness.
But in one important way they were different. Russ was very low-key
and quiet, soft-spoken even when he got mad. Jimmy exploded every
day just to keep his temper in shape, and he loved publicity.
The night before my testimonial dinner, Russ and I had a sit-down
with Jimmy. We sat at a table at Broadway Eddie’s, and Russell
Bufalino told Jimmy Hoffa flat-out he should stop running for union
president. He told him certain people were very happy with Frank
Fitzsimmons, who replaced Jimmy when he went to jail. Nobody at the
table said so, but we all knew these certain people were very happy with
the big and easy loans they could get out of the Teamsters Pension
Fund under the weak-minded Fitz. They got loans under Jimmy when
he was in, and Jimmy got his points under the table, but the loans were
always on Jimmy’s terms. Fitz bent over for these certain people. All
Fitz cared about was drinking and golfing. I don’t have to tell you how
much juice comes out of a billion-dollar pension fund.
Russell said, “What are you running for? You don’t need the
money.”
Jimmy said, “It’s not about the money. I’m not letting Fitz have the
union.”
After the sit-down, when I was getting ready to take Jimmy back to
theWarwick Hotel, Russ took me aside and said: “Talk to your friend.
Tell him what it is.” In our way of speaking, even though it doesn’t
sound like much, that was as good as a death threat.
At the Warwick Hotel I told Jimmy if he didn’t change his mind
about taking back the union he had better keep some bodies around
him for protection.
“I’m not going that route or they’ll go after my family.”
“Still in all, you don’t want to be out on the street by yourself.”
“Nobody scares Hoffa. I’m going after Fitz, and I’m going to win
this election.”
“You know what this means,” I said. “Russ himself told me to tell
you what it is.”
“They wouldn’t dare,” Jimmy Hoffa growled, his eyes glaring at mine.
All Jimmy did the rest of the night and at breakfast the next
morning was talk a lot of distorted talk. Looking back it could have
been nervous talk, but I never knew Jimmy to show fear. Although one
of the items on the agenda that Russell had spoken to Jimmy about at
the table at Broadway Eddie’s the night before my testimonial dinner
was more than enough to make the bravest man show fear.
And there I was in my kitchen in Philadelphia nine months after
Frank Sheeran Appreciation Night with the phone in my hand and
Jimmy on the other end of the line at his cottage in Lake Orion, and
me hoping this time Jimmy would reconsider taking back the union
while he still had the time.
“My friend and I are driving out for the wedding,” I said.
“I figured you and your friend would attend the wedding,” Jimmy
said.
Jimmy knew “my friend” was Russell and that you didn’t use his
name over the phone. The wedding was Bill Bufalino’s daughter’s
wedding in Detroit. Bill was no relation to Russell, but Russell gave
him permission to say they were cousins. It helped Bill’s career. He
was the Teamsters lawyer in Detroit.
Bill Bufalino had a mansion in Grosse Pointe that had a waterfall in
the basement. There was a little bridge you walked over that separated
one side of the basement from the other. The men had their own side
so they could talk. The women stayed on their side of the waterfall.
Evidently, these were not women who paid attention to the words
when they heard Helen Reddy sing her popular song of the day, “I Am
Woman, Hear Me Roar.”
“I guess you’re not going to the wedding,” I said.
“Jo doesn’t want people staring,” he said. Jimmy didn’t have to
explain. There was talk about an FBI wiretap that was coming out.
Certain parties were on the tape talking about extramarital relations
his wife, Josephine, allegedly had years ago with Tony Cimini, a soldier
in the Detroit outfit.
“Ah, nobody believed that bull, Jimmy. I figured you wouldn’t go
because of this other thing.”
“Fuck them. They think they can scare Hoffa.”
“There’s widespread concern that things are getting out of hand.”
“I got ways to protect myself. I got records put away.”
“Please, Jimmy, even my friend is concerned.”
“How’s your friend doing?” Jimmy laughed. “I’m glad he got that
problem handled last week.”
Jimmy was referring to an extortion trial Russ had just beat in
Buffalo. “Our friend’s doing real good,” I said. “He’s the one gave me
the go-ahead to call you.”
These respected men were both my friends, and they were both
good friends to each other. Russell introduced me to Jimmy in the
first place back in the fifties. At the time I had three daughters to
support.
I had lost my job driving a meat truck for Food Fair, when they
caught me trying to be a partner in their business. I was stealing sides
of beef and chickens and selling them to restaurants. So I started
taking day jobs out of the Teamsters union hall, driving trucks for
companies when their regular driver was out sick or something. I also
taught ballroom dancing, and on Friday and Saturday nights I was a
bouncer at the Nixon Ballroom, a black nightclub.
On the side I handled certain matters for Russ, never for money, but
as a show of respect. I wasn’t a hitman for hire. Some cowboy. You ran
a little errand. You did a favor. You got a little favor back if you ever
needed it.
I had seen On The Waterfront in the movies, and I thought I was at
least as bad as that Marlon Brando. I said to Russ that I wanted to get
into union work. We were at a bar in South Philly. He had arranged
for a call from Jimmy Hoffa in Detroit and put me on the line with
him. The first words Jimmy ever spoke to me were, “I heard you paint
houses.” The paint is the blood that supposedly gets on the wall or
the floor when you shoot somebody. I told Jimmy, “I do my own carpentry
work, too.” That refers to making coffins and means you get
rid of the bodies yourself.
After that conversation Jimmy put me to work for the International,
making more money than I had made on all those other jobs put
together, including the stealing. I got extramoney for expenses. On the
side I handled certain matters for Jimmy the way I did for Russell.

Table of Contents

Chapter One: “They Wouldn’t Dare”
Chapter Two: What It Is
Chapter Three: Get Yourself Another Punching Bag
Chapter Four: Little Egypt University
Chapter Five: 411 Days
Chapter Six: Doing What I Had to Do
Chapter Seven: Waking Up in America
Chapter Eight: Russell Bufalino
Chapter Nine: Prosciutto Bread and Homemade Wine
Chapter Ten: All the Way Downtown
Chapter Eleven: Jimmy
Chapter Twelve: “I Heard You Paint Houses”
Chapter Thirteen: They Didn’t Make a Parachute Big Enough
Chapter Fourteen: The Gunman Had No Mask
Chapter Fifteen: Respect with an Envelope
Chapter Sixteen: Give Them a Little Message
Chapter Seventeen: Nothing More Than a Mockery
Chapter Eighteen: Just Another Lawyer Now
Chapter Nineteen: Tampering with the Very Soul of the Nation
Chapter Twenty: Hoffa’s Comedy Troupe
Chapter Twenty-One: All He Did for Me Was to Hang Up
Chapter Twenty-Two: Pacing in His Cage
Chapter Twenty-Three: Nothing Comes Cheap
Chapter Twenty-Four: He Needed a Favor and That Was That
Chapter Twenty-Five: That Wasn’t Jimmy’s Way
Chapter Twenty-Six: All Hell Will Break Loose
Chapter Twenty-Seven: July 30, 1975
Chapter Twenty-Eight: To Paint a House
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Everybody Bleeds
Chapter Thirty: “Those Responsible Have Not Gotten Off Scot-Free”
Chapter Thirty-One: Under a Vow of Secrecy