“That’s no big deal,” Tony said. “Let’s do it.”

We always had to consider the value when we laid out relatively big taxpayer bucks. But here we were talking about the possibility of getting to a major crime boss, what the hell’s $500?

I went back and told Lefty that Tony said he would lend us the money. And I dropped another seed: “Tony’s got quite a few bucks, I think, to invest in this vending-machine business he wants to start.”

All that concerned him was that the guy would lend him the G-note. “All right,” he said with his customary gratitude, “we gotta get back to New York right away and get this straightened out about my kid.”

We flew back to New York the next day. Lefty had to make a lot of phone calls and go to a couple sitdowns to try to settle the beef. He told them that Tommy didn’t know who the guy was, didn’t know he was connected, that he had just gotten a tip from somebody that the guy was carrying diamonds. So it was all just a big mistake. It cost Lefty five grand, just as a pacifier, to settle that beef.

“What about that guy with the money?” Lefty asked me. “When you gonna get that grand for me?”

It was time to set the Milwaukee hook.

9

MILWAUKEE

“What about that grand you were gonna get for me from that guy?” Lefty asks. “When you gonna get it?”

We were eating a delicious dinner of veal cutlets in his apartment.

“I’m gonna call the guy, but I wanted to talk to you first. There may be some money in it. He says he’s just been a working stiff at a factory for several years, and he’s saved up quite a bit. Now he wants to go into the vending-machine business. His wife gave him a load of money for it, to go with what he saved. But he’s running into some problems. I figure if we could help him out, maybe we could get a piece of the business or something.”

“The guy’s all right?”

“He was all right when I knew him in Baltimore. I never had any problems with him.” Whenever I introduced another agent in, my escape hatch was that I never vouched for him one hundred percent—I knew the guy, he was all right to me, you draw your own conclusions. In case anything went wrong down the line, that protected me and the operation.

“Where’d you say he was?”

“Milwaukee.”

“Milwaukee! Is he connected?”

“No. He don’t know anything about the mob.” Lefty slaps his fork down. “He’s crazy, Donnie. Doesn’t the fucking guy know you can’t operate a vending business anywhere without connections? Especially Milwaukee. They’re crazy out there. It ain’t like in New York, Donnie, where they may just throw you a beating to chase you out. Out there they’re vicious. They answer to Chicago, you know. They blow people up. Donnie, if this guy’s a friend of yours, you better tell him to get the hell out of that town. Why don’t you tell him to move the business back to Baltimore? Baltimore’s controlled by the crews from Philly and Jersey. They’re easier to deal with.”

“The guy’s been living out there for a while, Lefty. He’s got his family there and everything. He doesn’t want to leave.”

“Tell him to forget about it. How much money does the guy have?”

“Something like a hundred, two hundred grand.”

That touches his soul. “You said his name is Tony? Look, you better let me talk to him. You go out there and get Tony and bring him back. With the thousand he said he’d give me. I actually need more than a grand, Donnie, so tell him to bring two. And we’ll talk.”

I went out to Milwaukee and met with Tony and the case agent, Mike Potkonjak. They filled me in on the extent of Frank Balistrieri’s stranglehold on Milwaukee. The main thing we would try to do was get New York into a meeting with Balistrieri so as maybe to become business partners, with Conte’s Best Vending Company the business.

In the years I was under, I would never collaborate with or introduce another agent into an operation unless I knew him ahead of time and trusted his skills and toughness completely. Every agent I introduced in had been a top street agent before going undercover. We are trusting each other with our lives.

Conte was experienced on the street but inexperienced with the mob. He was an unpretentious Midwestern guy who could, if he wanted to, give the appearance of being a hick. Tough as he was, he was no city slicker.

Conte and I went over the situation very carefully. We spent time discussing how to act, when to talk and not to talk, and so forth. I stressed: Don’t try to impress upon Lefty that you know anything about the mob. We’re going to play this realistically—you’re ignorant about the Mafia. Naturally you know there’s a mob. You know that I’m mobbed up. But even though you’re supposed to be Italian (he was not), you didn’t grow up with the mob, so you don’t know how everything works. You don’t know what it means to talk out of turn. You don’t know what the proper channels are. You don’t know the rules. You don’t know anybody, you don’t know about being connected, you don’t know about protocol. That way you’ll get away with more. If you make a mistake, we fall back on your ignorance.

I was the intermediary in fact and in fiction, the buffer. But he was the guy with the vending-machine business. He would deal with Lefty on the business matters.

As always with undercover agents, we would use our undercover names when dealing with each other even in private. Tony and Donnie. That way you never slip out of character.

We flew into New York at night and drove down to Monroe Street, near Lefty’s. I called him from the phone booth on the corner of Cherry and Monroe. “We’re downstairs,” I tell Lefty. “Come on down, I want you to meet this guy. I got some bread for you.”

“Leave the guy in the car. You just stay by the phone and I’ll be right down.”

He comes down. I hand him the cash.

“It’s only five hundred,” I say.

“Donnie, you said you was coming up with a thousand. I was counting on a thousand.”

“He had to pay for the plane fare and everything, Left. He said that’s all he could come up with on short notice. The guy promises a thousand, he shows up with five hundred. What do you want me to do, Left? It’s better than nothing.”

Down the block, under a streetlight, Conte is leaning against the car, looking around at the sights. He is wearing white shoes and a white belt. He is an avid golfer.

Lefty glances at him. “All right. I don’t want to see this guy right now. Tomorrow you come by the house. You can fill me in on the background, and we’ll go from there.”

Conte and I were staying at the Sheraton Centre. That night I told Conte, “I think we got him.”

The next day around noon we headed down to Little Italy. Conte had never been there. He wanted to go to Vincent’s Clam Bar on Mott Street to try some calamari and scungilli. I dropped him off and went to Lefty’s.

Lefty was more interested now because Conte had actually come to New York to see him and had actually given him some money. I gave Lefty the rundown on Conte’s situation in Milwaukee.

“Milwaukee is bad,” he says. “If this guy doesn’t get connected, there’s a good chance they’ll kill him out there. But if he’s got the kind of money you say he has, maybe we can work something out. If we do this, we got to give Mike a cut, then we got to give the people in Milwaukee a cut, so we got to make sure he’s got the money and he’s willing to give up the money. How much would he be willing to give us a week if we get him the shot to operate his business out there?”

“I don’t know, Left. You got to talk to him about that.”

“Okay, meet me tonight seven-thirty at La Maganette, and I’ll talk to him. Where is he now?”

“Vincent’s. He wanted some calamari.”