Albert DeMeo - For the Sins of My Father: A Mafia Killer, His Son, and the Legacy of a Mob Life

BROADWAY BOOKS

New York

FOR THE SINS
OF MY FATHER

A Mafia Killer, His Son,
and the Legacy of a Mob Life

ALBERT DEMEO

with
Mary Jane Ross

Contents

For my father,
that he may find redemption

For the Sins of the Father shall be visited upon the children, unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me,
and walk not according to my commandments.

Exodus 20:5

Acknowledgments

A profound thank-you to our agent, Alan Nevins of Renaissance Agency, for being the first one to believe in this book, and for finding a way to make it happen. Thank you also to his assistant, Karima Ridgley, for her consistent helpfulness. To Charlie Conrad and Becky Cole, our editors, our gratitude for bringing the text to print in record time and with admirable attention to detail. Another thank-you to their support staff at Broadway Books; producing this book was truly a team effort.

On a more personal note, we are grateful for the practical support of friends and family: for Tommy, who shared his memories and his unflagging friendship; for Delores, who continues to demonstrate what it means to be a good neighbor; for Erma, the first to listen and the last to judge; for Joe and Maryann, who helped us put together the family puzzle; for Julie, who read the first draft and laughed and cried in all the right places; and for Christy, who spent countless hours listening to Mom talk about the book.

Every book is a collaboration. We are grateful to all who made this one possible.

Albert DeMeo
Mary Jane Ross

Roy Albert DeMeo was born in 1942 in Brooklyn, New York, to working-class Italian immigrant parents. In his late teens he started a small loan-sharking operation to supplement his after-school jobs. In the early 1960s, he became involved with John Gotti and other members of the Gambino crime family, rising rapidly through the ranks to become a Gambino soldier under Anthony Gaggi. When Carlo Gambino died in 1976, newly appointed successor Paul Castellano promoted Roy to the rank of capo, a made member of the family. Roy's business sense made him a valuable financial asset to Castellano, allowing him to develop lucrative enterprises in pornography, loan-sharking, smuggling, and car theft. Roy was the mastermind behind the biggest auto theft ring in New York history. By the late 1970s he had also become one of the most feared assassins in the city. He was murdered by his own associates in 1983 as part of Castellano's purge of family members who had attracted FBI scrutiny. In the years following his death, dozens of murders were attributed to him by former associates who sought plea bargains with the government. Though most of the allegations were never proven, Roy acquired a posthumous infamy through informants' lurid descriptions of the manner in which he disposed of victims' bodies to avoid detection. Roy DeMeo is survived by his wife, Gina; son, Albert; and two daughters, all of whom have gone on to pursue successful legitimate careers.

prologue

CHARON'S CROSSING

I come to lead you to the other shore,
Into eternal dark, into fire and ice.

DANTE, The Inferno

S o far everything had gone according to plan. Each afternoon for the last few weeks, I had ridden my bicycle past the surveillance vehicles in front of our house. A mile or two later I had stopped at various neighborhood hangouts for a soda or a snack, wound through the familiar Massapequa streets, and then disappeared onto the bike trails that weave through the green woods along the Sound. Just a local thirteen-year-old on a bike. The trails were too narrow for a car to follow. My only company was other bicyclists and the occasional jogger.

Every day my route varied, and every day I emerged from the woods in a different location to stand vigil beside a different neighborhood pay phone. That afternoon the call had finally come. I was relieved to be taking action at last.

I had told my mother that I would be spending a few days with Dad. She knew he was away on business, had been for over a month. More than that, she neither knew nor wanted to know. It was safer that waysafer for our family, safer for her sanity. She requested no details, and I offered none. She had long ago made peace with the fact that as the only son, I was the man of the family in my father's absence. I came and went as I chose. No questions asked.

After dinner that night I went to the cabinet in my father's study and removed the cash he'd asked for. Then I went to my room and began packing: enough clothes to last me for a couple of weeks, copies of the evening newspapers, and, of course, my gun. I'd been carrying it for months now, carefully concealed in my clothing. My father didn't like my carrying it, but as he'd explained to me, it was necessary. Our family couldn't hide in the house all day. So I hid the revolver from my sisters, and I hid the fear from myself. It's what a man does, my father had taught me.

I double-checked the items I'd packed, sealed them tightly inside a plastic garbage bag, slipped into my swim trunks, and lay down on top of the bed to wait. The alarm clock was set for 3:30 A.M., but I couldn't sleep. Instead I lay there in the warm darkness, damp with humidity, and watched the glowing dial on my bedside clock inch away the hours, millisecond by millisecond.

At 3:25 I turned off the alarm switch and rose silently, picking up the garbage bag from the carpet. I slipped down the hall in my bare feet, past my sisters' rooms, pausing only by the master bedroom to listen for my mother. I held my breath as seconds passed. Utter stillness. Good. Moving stealthily down the stairs, I made my way through the kitchen and down to the basement, past the target range and my sister's art studio to the boiler room.

The next part was tricky. I would need my flashlight. Turning on the small beam, I aimed it carefully at the windowsill. My hand did not shake. I slipped a flat clip onto the wire that triggered the alarm system; then, taking a deep breath, I unlatched the window and slid it open. To my great relief, the alarm did not go off. I climbed through the window, into the storage area under the backyard decking, and reached back through for the garbage bag filled with my belongings. I could smell the salt air on the wind. I closed the window, removed the clip, and crept toward the door. On the other side were the steps that led to the canal behind our house.

As I opened the door, I heard Major whine. Pausing for a moment, I whispered, It's all right, boy, as he put his muzzle out to lick my hand. Ordering him to stay, I paused once more, searching the night air for signs of intruders. Nothing. Down the ramp in the darkness, to the floating dock at the back of our house. I sat down on the edge of the boards, my ankles dangling in the water, and began to tie the garbage bag around my body.

It was beautiful that night. The summer air was velvet and warm, the darkness broken only by occasional pinpoints of light, shining down on the water from neighbors' back docks. Yet I was immune to the beauty that surrounded me, focused only on the task at hand. Jerking on the rope to make sure I had tied the bag securely, I slipped silently into the chilly water. I made certain there was no splash.