Cagan - Mafia Cop: The Two Families of Michael Palermo ; Saints Only Live in Heaven

Copyright 2013 by Richard Stanley Cagan

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

ISBN: 978-1-61608-857-6

eISBN: 978-1-62087-955-9

Printed in the United States of America

I dedicate this book to my wife, Elizabeth Ann McDermott Cagan, whose loyalty, perseverance, and forty-nine years of married love have enabled me to persevere through the thousands of hours that were required to complete this very special story of the life of New York City Special Investigations Unit (SIU) Detective First Class Michael George Sabella.

I also dedicate this work to my loyal and generous literary agent, Sheri Williams of www.redwritinghoodink.net , who was an invaluable asset and friend in helping me to perfect this manuscript.

And finally, most importantly, I also dedicate this book to my good and valued friend, Michael George Sabella, who was, is, and will always be a stand-up guy and who was as "Tough as a Bullet" in fighting crime. He gave his life to the police force.

R.S.C.

Mafia Cop is the dramatic memoir of New York City Narcotics Detective Michael Palermo. Some of those who knew him called him the Mafia Cop because of his intimate relationship with leaders in law enforcement and his personal and business relationships with the dons of two of the major Families of organized crime in New York City.

Palermo worked in his official and unofficial capacities as a negotiator and conciliator in coordinating solutions to conflicts between the New York Families and the New York City Police Department.

Mafia Cop takes you inside the inner world of the New York City Police Department, which was riddled with corruption as a normal daily routine, and into the inner sanctum of the Crime Family organizations where you will meet dons, consiglieres, underbosses, button men, soldiers, and cowboys. Detective Michael Palermo was one of a privileged few members of the law enforcement community who were informed of the impending arrest of crime lord Vito Genovese by the federal government in what many believe was the government's contrived case against him.

Palermo maintained his underworld contacts while visiting with underworld informant Joe Valachi in his Castle Hill Avenue bar in the Bronx and spent many hours with his childhood friend and future Las Vegas underboss, Carmine Canicatti, in Canicatti's after-hours bar and gambling casino in New York City. He was one of only two cops ever allowed entrance theredespite his close relationships with leaders in organized crime, he never compromised his position as a police officer. He was a "stand-up guy" for both sides and never "double-banged" anyone.

Palermo carried out sensitive negotiations with major underworld figures while working clandestinely with retired Chief Inspector Collin Devlin. Chief Devlin spent many of his early years in the Catholic Protectory with his friends, many of whom would become leaders in the Cosa Nostra. It was Chief Collin Devlin who made Mike Palermo a "made man" of the shield.

Palermo was a member of the elite SIU (Special Investigations Unit) and in his career participated in more than 2,000 arrests. He served as an expert witness testifying in international drug smuggling cases, as well as fighting in the trenches of New York City against the illegal drug trade. One of his final major arrests was that of drug trafficker Albie Simmons, who was an underboss to Harlem drug kingpin Nicky Barnes. It was this arrest that triggered his final battle with the District Attorney, who wanted to be governor, over the body and career of Michael Palermo, the Mafia Cop.

Remember that no matter what you are or what you may become,you will never be anything more than the seeds of two families. One ismade of clay, the other of honor. Alfonso Palermo

The story of Mafia Cop begins in 1953, before which many events had already taken place that would mold the life and character of Michael Palermo. It is a value and an entertainment that you read some of the writings and some of the inner mechanizations of this man you are about to meet, Michael Palermo.

I have collected these, his personal manuscripts, these bits of remembrances of his life on the police force in New York City. I found them buried beneath reams of papers encased and shrouded in dust in the bottom of his file cabinet. You will laugh or smile or even wince as you read them. You will learn things you never knew about a secret society of men, a society that lived and functioned behind the scenes, in basements and in stores, on rooftops and in bars, a society that lived another life in the public eye.

These files of Michael Palermo will give you some small insight into the pressures and highlights and street education of a New York City policeman in the middle of the twentieth century.

You will read his story in his own words. You will also read my reconstruction of the events that happened in his life, based upon his private notes; our treasured conversations in the private sanctuary of his home and in his favorite restaurants in which he recounted his triumphs, battles, tears, and laughter; and the testimony of persons who were eyewitnesses to the events that happened. These are all true accounts. Some of the names and places have been changed to protect the innocent. Others have been changed to protect the guilty, the storyteller, and the author.

R.S.C.

In a green fedora and a moss velvet suit, the black man danced in his own private world of smoke and pillsinto a frenzy, spinning up and down, side to side, his elastic frame wedded perfectly to the rock, rhythm, and beat of the psychedelic lights and sounds. His inky pupils dilated and mirrored the straggle-haired lead singer, Mick Jagger, on the stage before him. Foggy images danced in his head. The thumping electronic bass beat tympanis deeper than a bullfrog's bloated throat. Through his eyes and ears, the black man wafted in a sea of opiate fantasy, in a world of melody and primeval beat.

His left eye squeezed closed, leaving aim to his rightaim down the chrome barrel of the .38 caliber revolver buried in his sweaty right palm. The lead singer screamed into the night, a scream of origin and roots buried in Africa. The audience cheered and the singer sang on, his voice piercing the music, triumphant like primal man in his early world.

The man in green squeezed the trigger and the stage began to tilt. Players stood sideways but didn't fall. Shooting stars spun and left a vapor trail in the black man's mind. Smoke and pills raced into his brain, filling it with numbness. The crowd swirled around his green fedora, a spinning wheel of lights and people, a merry-go-round of carousel sounds, a centrifuge sucking his breath into a central whirlpool.