For part one of ���TRUE GANGSTER STORIES���, scroll down to the post from March, 2015.

���Hey, I���m Sonny.�� My father is in the Gambino Crime Family.���

This was the opening line of a neighborhood Brooklyn jackass when he tried to impress a girl.�� He used it on a 15 year-old who, years later, became my wife.�� Maybe it worked on the dimwits, but it repulsed at least as many.�� He may as well have worn a sign that read ���Wannabe Gangster���, but he���d probably have had to borrow it from his clown father.

This particular father was a real tough guy, and Mafia enforcer.

At least, in his mind, and amongst a crowd of impressionable teenagers.

Young punk Sonny would start trouble with everyone.�� Then, when he had to fight to back up his instigations, he would show up with his bigger, older cousin to do battle for him.�� If that failed, he���d be back with his father.

No one we knew ever saw that father fight a man his own size or age.

Real ���mobster���.

In my prior gangster blog post, I referenced an old Brooklyn health club a couple of times.�� Sonny���s father had a memorable moment in that gym one day.�� While pumping iron, he mentioned to another member that he had been in that weight room on the night of the famous New York City blackout (July, 1977).�� He said ���It was pitch black when the lights went out.�� I couldn���t see a thing.�� Couldn���t even find the stairway.���

The other guy said, ���How black can it get in here? I���m pretty sure I could find the stairway.���

���No, you couldn���t.���

���Yeah, I could find the stairway.���

Boom. ��Weights flying everywhere.�� Fucking this. ��Fucking that.�� Walls being punched as everyone looked on.�� Sonny���s dad did his best Lou Ferrigno-becoming-the-Hulk impression, as he raged all over the gym.

Important note: He did not approach the other weight-lifting adult male or challenge him to a fight.�� If the other man was a young boy, the intimidation would have been full-on.

Word is that Sonny is doing life in prison, and his cousin died in jail.�� Not sure what became of the dad, but I���m guessing it wasn���t pretty.

He loved to describe himself as ���Limo driver for the Gambinos���, which could only mean one thing; he was not a limo driver for the Gambinos.

You know the guy in the neighborhood who calls himself a ���car service driver���? Now HE might be driving for the mob.�� I knew one of those.�� Let���s call him ���Mac���.�� Mac was an Italian/Jewish-American, and as a non-full-blooded Italian, he could not become a full-fledged member of the Cosa Nostra, even if he so desired.�� But that didn���t preclude him from lower-level jobs, as long as he could keep his mouth shut and know his place.

Mac began by picking up customers ��� initially mostly well-off, older Jewish women from Long Island ��� and transporting them (and their checkbooks) to some of the backdoor, illegal gambling houses in Bay Ridge or Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.�� When driving those ladies, he was Jewish.�� In the casinos, he was an Italian.

After several weeks of chauffeuring, the powers that be had grown fond of Mac.�� He did his job and kept his mouth shut.

���Can you deal?���

Mac was offered a spot working the Blackjack tables.�� The secret casino had seven ���21��� tables and 4 for Poker.�� The bosses noticed that Mac had an eye for catching mistakes and before long he was a pit boss.�� The former driver was raking in the cash because he was on duty seven days per week, eleven hours per day.

One night, ���The Shiek��� walked in.

This was the highest of rollers.�� He owned an unknown number of gas stations and whatever he needed was provided by Mac and his staff.�� Mac was now in charge of extending credit, and The Shiek had the rare privilege of being offered unlimited credit.

It was a bad night for the gas tycoon.

He couldn���t win a hand.�� The Shiek wound up staying at the casino for three days.�� They fed him anything he wished.�� He was permitted to nap and bathe.

By the final night, the mob boss who ran the gambling house also was the proud owner of two gas stations.

When that big boss, and family don (a famous gangster whom Mac, decades later, still refuses to identify), decided to visit one of his casinos, everything stopped.

He would enter, as in a movie scene, with a beautiful woman on each arm, and a pair of enormous gorillas behind him.�� Mac would hurriedly, but politely, ask all seven gamblers seated at a given table to please stand and wait for an opening at another.�� Mac would then escort the boss to his now-private table, where he, and his entourage, could play as they wished.

Mac is one of many regular Joes who never hurt a fly, and certainly never killed anyone, yet provided for his family by working for the New York Underworld.�� He is a lot like the character Salvatore Salerno in my New York gangster novel, SONS OF THE POPE.�� The way Mac respects and protects the identity of his former boss is similar to the way some characters in SONS will not even mention the name of their don in public.�� They merely touch the tips of their noses when referring to him.

A lot of this stuff is amusing, but it���s important to understand that the mob is no comedy show, and if you choose to involve yourself, you may have to pay the ultimate price. (Continued below SONS OF THE POPE link).

Sons of the Pope

These true stories would not be possible without the help of Paul Smith, Ken Angelos, Deborah Joyce MacDougald, Nora Ball, M.a. Tarpinian, Michael Musumeci, Marc Sheer, Thomas Pirics, Jason Altman, Richard Anderson, Ernest Loperena, Maureen O’Connor, & Joanne O’Connor.