Lions at the Gate

By Jeff Langer

In the late 1970's the cocaine was pure and the lust for sex, drugs, and money corrupted the body and soul. The casino boom was flourishing in Atlantic City; and the Natalie Crime Family was making millions. However, the son of a Brooklyn crime boss became slipshod and haughty, disregarding the code of silence and the old-world philosophy of Sicily. This leads to a series of catastrophic events all caught on F.B.I. surveillance tapes.
This is a gripping look at the mafia mentality, narrated by a convict rotting away in a federal prison, who reflects back upon his life explaining what went wrong and how the events of the spring of 1977 destroyed one of the most powerful crime families in the world. What makes Lions at the Gate special is the naked depiction of the mafia, the kangaroo courts, and the corrupt incarceration system.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796082586

Jeff Langer

Jeffrey Langer was born on June 30th 1959, in Lombard Illinois. He atteneded his high school years at Montini High School (Lombard Illinois) 1974-1978. N.I.U. Majored in Education Administration 1979-1983 and spent his college years at Elmhurst College Earned a Masters Degree in Education Administration 1992 He worked as an Events Coordinator Elmhurst College From 1982-2004. He’s also an author of the following books -- Aliens And Cowboys 2005 Along The Road To Heaven 2006 Amazing Baby Boomer Stories (With David Marvin Swindell 2020) American Trilogy 2005 A Sense of Wonder 2007 Beautiful Reward 2008 Bootie Patrol 2001 Chi-Town 2008 Guilty Not Sorry (Adrian Prince Story) 2004 Murder In Miami 2001 Pretty 2008 Who’s Laughing Now? 2001 Ruins To Redemption 1998 Jeffrey’s hobbies include swimming, collecting vintage sports cards, coins, comic books, and records. He is also a proud member of the King’s Point Democratic Club and an active participant in the Kings Point Creative Writers Club.

Book preview

Lions At The Gate

Jeff Langer

Copyright © 2020 by Jeff Langer.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2020900591

ISBN:              Hardcover                   978-1-7960-8198-5

                        Softcover                     978-1-7960-8199-2

                        eBook                          978-1-7960-8258-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 01/20/2020

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Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Four

Epilogue

Dedication

I wrote this book when no one thought I’d ever recover from the lowest point in my life. This book is without a doubt a product of a world of barbwire and lives on fire. I befriended a couple made men that helped inspire this book. From the bottom of my heart, thank you guys.

To all my brothers at South Bay stay strong.

And to all my King’s Point friends: Splash, Brooklyn Jerry, The Piedmont Pide Piper, No Excuse Bruce, and the Princess of the Art World the one and only Stella White.

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PHOTO by Jeff Langer

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Prologue

A few moments later, Blackie pulled the Love Bug up to a red light on 84th Street. He put the gear shift in neutral and slammed on the emergency brake. I knew the answer to the question. I did not need confirmation or a confession. Blackie and Sugar were howling with perverse pleasure. I tapped Sugar on the shoulder. He turned facing me with a big mile high smile.

I pulled the gun from the holster. I cocked the gun and pointed it in Sugar’s face. Sugar’s face turned to stone. He realized our friendship no longer meant anything to me. Sugar had fucked up and now he was going to pay. He stopped laughing. He lurched backward when the bullet entered his forehead. The force of the bullet blew his skull all over the dashboard and windshield.

There was a pause. I pointed the gun toward Blackie’s head and cocked the gun. Blackie turned around blabbing, Uh Jersey, there’s no brains behind dis hear what’s I gotta say. I pressed the gun against his forehead. I said to him in a dead calm voice, Fuck you. I pulled the trigger and the bullet split his head wide open. Blood sprayed all over the inside cabin of the car.

What was left of Blackie’s head smashed into the steering wheel, as the car horn went off like an air raid siren. I was screaming, You two pieces of shit. You thought you were so fucking funny, well you ain’t laughing now! I moved Sugar out of the way.

I pushed the passenger front seat forward. I struggled to open the passenger’s door and climbed out of the car. I was standing outside the Love Bug. I still had the .38 in my hand. My face and hair was soaked with blood. I appeared to be a madman and at that very moment I was.

I peered about. I saw the drivers and passengers in their cars gawking at me. They looked on with horror because they had just witnessed two gruesome murders. I pointed the gun at the nearest motor vehicle. It was a brand spanking new white Volvo. I pulled the preppy young man out of the car.

He was talking very fucking fast. I put the gun to his right temple yet, the cocksucker kept yakking. The man said, You can’t do this my father is the chief of police. The stupid son of bitch had no idea who he was talking to, after all; I just finished killing my best friend in the entire world.

The young man ordered, Put that gun down and show me a little goddamn respect. I was in a daze; my head was on another planet. I had murdered Blackie and Sugar in broad daylight and this piece of shit was telling me his fucking father was a cop and demanding I put the gun down.

Those were the two worst things he could have said. I quizzed the man, What did you say? The man repeated, My father is chief of police. I grinned, Congratulations! I pulled the trigger to the snub nosed .38 and the bullet blew half his head off as his body went crashing to the concrete.

I screamed standing over the young man, I hate fucking cops. His blood was pouring all over the street. I hopped in the Volvo and went speeding down the street. My face and hair were covered in blood. I was overcome with rage, the sort of rage that murders in broad daylight to the horror of the entire world.

Chapter One

In this world you are either the cacciatore o la (hunter or the prey). In the jungle of life it’s the survival of the fittest. Trust me; even the hunters eventually become the prey, in the pitch black or in the naked light of day. You can cage a hunter however, the killer instinct remains. This book is about the lions devouring the lambs. This story does not have a cheerful ending. Then again, I don’t believe in happy endings, except in fucking Hollywood.

By writing this confessional, I’m calling a spade a spade and setting the record straight. I make no apology for this manuscripts profane language and depictions of graphic violence. Do not expect this book to be conventional. After all, I am not the sort of bum that can be held up for a fool’s ransom. This manuscript is written in my own style. I pay little attention to grammars tired and tattered rules, because they were written by Ivy League tools. I wrote this novel my way, and I don’t give a shit what the elitists say.

My first piece of free advice is to pay little attention to the chattering class (when they discuss organized crime) they just make it up as they go. They get it wrong about 95 percent of the time and hardly ever apologize for their outlandish exaggerations. What has been reported in the old grey lady (newspapers), rag tag magazines, and on shout radio are cock-and-bull stories.

I was born under a cover of darkness. I was raised to be a wise guy. I came of age on the backstreets of Brooklyn where there was not enough to go around. A rough and tumble city where there were bruisers, boozers, and three time losers. There is no question I was going to be a made man. One day I was going to be in charge of the family, you know the Godfather. That was the highest honor any Mafioso could attain.

It was preordained I would be a gangster. No one had to convince me; I yearned and burned to be a hoodlum. I was a Brooklyn corner boy, a pure east coast no damn good hood. I was the son of Pal Joey and first Godson to Don Franco. Yes, I was a knock around guy who learned from the streets how to survive and thrive.

I grew up in big bad Brooklyn (Ozone Park) in the 1960’s and 1970’s, suffering the recycled reward, and the spiteful slash of the heinous sword. I was Sicilian and damn proud of it. I was part of Las Cosa Nostra or simply Murder Incorporated. Born into a strife life; where the poor man wanted to be rich, the rich man wanted to be king, and the king was never satisfied until he ruled everything (loosely quoted from a Bruce Springsteen song).

This book is about the Mafia, the real fucking Mafia, not the one you see through the glitzy lenses of Hollywood. This is a chronicle of tyranny, idiocy, and out of control hubris. The Young Turks were all about greed, unbridled lust, drugs, deceit, and demise.

My life was full of crooked deals and shady ideals. Ladies and gentlemen, it was all about getting stinking rich and living in the fucking fast lane. The Natalie Crime Family was the real deal. We were one of the most powerful crime families on the planet.

Connected Dago’s from around the globe knew who we were. Frankie and Johnny feared our barbaric Italian ways. They understood we didn’t take any shit. We never took no for an answer. After all, we had the potente e connesso (the police and politicians) in our back pocket. The key to success is an ageless tale; of who you know and who you blow.

Allow me to be brutally blunt, in the end I was a schifoso (lousy) Mafioso. Yes, my friends the truth is often abhorrent. Yet, I was always a 100% brown powder spoon goon. I dug a lot of holes in the black of night, yes you got that right. I buried a lot of canned peaches, if you know what I mean? Let’s be honest, if a guy went missing he was usually not found. If they were discovered by some ficcanaso (nosey person) and they were dead as a disco.

Grease balls like us played for keeps. When we kidnapped a guy nine out of ten times we whacked him and he disappeared without a trace. If the guy was found, he was rotting away in a car trunk on the Jones Beach Causeway. It was meant to send a powerful message; If you mess with the bull you get the horns.

I don’t believe in the babes in the woods routine. Let’s get this straight about the commonly held fable, that we didn’t hurt innocent people. That is an urban myth. We hurt anyone who wasn’t a made man, without a second thought. If a guy was a pisser, the best way to get him in line was to fuck up his family. I am talking about blasting a cap in his wife’s face, this way the family could not have an open casket (for the funeral).

I was a city boy through and through, I hardly knew the difference between a hoe and a rake. Yet, I was well acquainted with a hacksaw and a shovel. That’s a half a joke, but it’s not too far off the mark. My point is we were not farmers; we were city slickers of pomade greased back hair and Pal Mall cigarettes. We carried a Trojan in our wallets in case we got lucky. We were cocky to the core, and we knew how to settle a score.

We went cruising down Old Kings Highway looking for trim, while copping a feel at the Oriental Theatre on dates with the high school catholic virgins. We were the wild bunch; young, dumb, and full of cum. We rambled and gambled on the backstreets; driving Cadillac go-carts and breaking young girl’s hearts.

We hung out at Don and Angie’s Pizzeria. We fraternized at a neighborhood gin joint called the Pink Pony, trolling for broads and dreaming of playing for the New York Yankees. We still held a grudge for the Dodgers leaving Brooklyn for La La land in 1957. A day that stood in infamy!

Back in the day most of the boys from Brooklyn detested the Dodgers for leaving us high and dry. In our raw opinion, they turned their backs on the very people who truly adored them. The Dodgers leaving Ebbets Field left a giant hole in the heart of all of us.

Nonetheless, what lingered was nostalgia for the Brooklyn Dodgers, from Gil Hodges Bowling Lanes, to Benny’s Candy Store, that hung old banners of the Boys of Summer long after they moved to L.A. Growing up, I was a diehard baseball pervert. My favorite ballplayers were all Italian except for the Mick or Mickey Mantle.

We lived and died over every baseball game and loved to chain smoke, talk baseball, and lie about getting laid. That didn’t happen very often although we bragged it did. Those catholic girls didn’t give it up, unless you were going steady for a long time, or were engaged to be married. My friends and I dreamed about bad girls 24 hours a day, seven days a week. We were always on the prowl for a slut with a round skinny butt, and a set of world class mug jugs.

When we reached our mid teens we hung out at the infamous Jimmy’s Restaurant, the very place messy mob hits went down. We frequented the Black Sheep, a strip club owned by the Natalie crime family. We played high stakes poker at the Wimpy Boy Social Club on 7506 13th Avenue. The very place many years later John Gotti made his home away from home, doing mafia business.

We patronized the Flatbush nightclub scene. I am talking about jump joints like the Slippery Noodle, with our fake ID’s dressed to the nines. We drank straight whisky shots and were proud that we flirted with the hurt skirts. We loved to date and mate Jewish girls because they were easy.

These dirty debutantes were the type of broads we never brought home to meet mom and dad; they were just a rite of passage for young men full of testosterone and slicked back hair. We were burning the candle at both ends looking for ladies who were willing to be more than friends. Mostly these brief encounters were one night stands with donne veloci (fast girls), who were hot to trot at hello and goodbye motels. It was the swinging 1970’s of Donna Summer and the Bee Gee’s; of steamy nights, and afternoon poontang delights.

Back in the day, all the in girls who wanted to be real thin drank Tab. All those in fast the lane were doing Benny’s and Quaaludes. The AM and FM radio stations played music fueled by payola to disc jockeys requiring a $1000 handshake and 28 grams of Bolivian cocaine.

This is allegedly how a record promoter got a song (45) played over and over again. Inside the industry it was called, pay to play. All those grinning clean cut Disc Jockey’s like Dick Clark turned out to be wolfs in sheep’s clothing. This was part of the never-ending corruption of the 1970’s that allegedly continues today.

Anyway, I was more than a mob soldier. I was the grandson of Don Franco, the undisputed King of Brooklyn and the oldest child of Pal Joey. Pal Joey was the son and consigliore (of counsel) to the Don. Both men were headmasters of the old school. They attended more funerals than an undertaker.

They spoke in whispers, and always in Italian. Because they didn’t want anyone to hear what was said. They did not depend on the telephone; they did business the old fashion way (face to face). If the topic was union problems, beefs with mouse’s (the numbers), or shakedowns at whore houses. They avoided discussing family business in front of strangers and guarded their secrets like a nun safeguards her chastity.

My father and grandfather blended into a working-class neighborhood, virtually invisible to the powers that be. True enough, they were well known in mob circles and by many of the neighbors. But to the general public and the meathead media, they were ghosts in the wind. Indubitably we were a tightly knit crime family. We kept our dirty secrets close to the vest and all of this was part of a deviously devised plan.

When I was still a kid Sugar (my best friend) and I did a bunch of illegal shit. We started out in our teens embezzling subway tokens. There was a mass transit worker named Raymond Rizzo; everyone just called him regular Ray. I mean there were so many fucking Rays in the neighborhood with hip nicknames like Cock-Eyed Ray, Psycho Ray, and Meat Cleaver Jay, I guess we ran out of cool street names.

Good Ole’ Ray always smelled of Budweiser and bargain basement breath mints, his pockets jingling with subway tokens. Sugar used to call him Jolly Jingles, yet the name never caught on. The donkey I swear had hate in his eyes and walked on a crooked crutch. He was a city employee working at the Mystic River Subway Terminal.

Ray was a degenerate gambler who could not pick a winning horse in a one horse race. He loved to bet the long shots at Belmont (race track) with the local bookies connected to the Natalie Crime Family. He owed us a stack of green, so he and his fellow of employees used to take home (stealing) giant duffle bags of subway tokens and we would sell them to every Tom, Dick, and Harry in Flatbush, Bay Ridge, and Prospect Heights.

Many of the working stiffs purchased tokens from us using the coins for the B, Q, 2 and 3 trains for their thirty minute commute to Manhattan. We made them available at bargain prices and since we got them for zip or nothing at all Sugar and I made a pretty penny for this sham scam. No madam, I’m not blowing sunshine up your Sunday flirt skirt.

My end was $5,000 not bad for a 14 year old kid. Back in the late 1960’s that was pretty good money. You could buy a brand four door V8 sedan for 5K! We had a sweet thing going, until one day Ray got pinched by a M.C.U. F.B.I. sting operation, and he rolled on everybody but us, out of respect to Pal Joey and Don Franco.

Soon after, we took down a Marvel Comics warehouse in Rhode Island, where we stole a Golden Age Comic Book collection worth $125,000. Weeks later wearing ski masks and wielding handguns we hijacked a U.S. Tobacco eighteen wheel tractor trailer loaded to the hilt with brand named cigarettes. We tied up the driver and I drove the truck away (even though I didn’t have a driver’s license). We sold them to some rag head Arab in Jersey that didn’t ask any fucking questions and we walked away with 75K, not a bad payday.

I also pulled my fair share of triggers. I dug a lot of holes in the swamps of Jersey, you can bet my Aunt Clara’s double chin, sagging tits, and fat ass. I got my hands muddy and bloody. I robbed, blackmailed, and kidnapped. I used muscle to get what the Natalie Crime family demanded. I was heavy handed and never apologized about the lives I hushed and crushed.

If a scumbag owed me money, I did not give two shits if they suffered a fire, flood, or even cancer. I would hear their stories and say, Fuck you, pay me. If they didn’t come up with the money they got punched so hard most of them never gave me a fucking excuse again. When I showed up (every week) they had big fat business envelopes waiting to pay me.

I do have to concede once in a while we came up against a real hard on, who put us on the pay no mind list. Then, they had to pay the piper. I did my first hit at the tender age of 16. His name was Amylase Mussolini, the founder of the Benito Paper Company. The slob had his nose wide open and he didn’t know any better. He thought he could ring up a big slab tab and not pay us. In addition, his blasphemous babe of a strife wife would grab the phone and talk trash to Sugar and I.

Amylase was a degenerate douchebag (gambler) who owed 50 large ($50,000) and refused to pay even the juice money We waited for a few weeks as he gave us one Jack story after the another. So I barged into his office in Great Neck late at night after the factory closed, I strapped him to a leather chair, and slit his throat from ear to fucking ear. I then stripped his wife (who was his secretary) naked and humiliated her with a stapler, then I shot her in the head.

We then rolled in the trucks emptying the warehouse of over 450,000 feminine hygiene products, and 1.2 million rolls of toilet paper which I sold for $50,000 to a competitor. We blew open the office safe grabbing all the money ($94,000). Then we set the factory ablaze burning it down to the ground.

We drove about a mile down the road laying their naked bloody bodies directly in front of a Benito Paper Billboard for all to see. I was making a fucking point, and that point is pay me or die like Amylase and his fucking whore wife. The hit made all the newspapers and pleased Pal Joey and Don Franco.

Doing hits became a matter of blasé habit. It was a way of keeping the social order. After all, the Mafia was the government for wise guys and all those who did business with us. So, at a young age I did a lot of shit. However, you can take this to the bank. I never ratted on anyone, not my family, not my friends, and not my enemies, and believe me if I wanted to be a rat I could have.

My great grandfather was just a peasant selling peanut dispenser’s back in the old country. He was tight with a dollar and pinched every single penny as did my nonno (grandfather) and padre (father). Sadly, I didn’t follow their lead. I was a spender, you know, easy come easy go. I was a typical baby boomer, live for today and the hell with tomorrow. In the back of my mind, I figured there was always more deadhead presidents I could steal at the point of a gun.

The old-school way was to pay with cash. To buy what you can afford and save for a rainy day. The Baby Boomer’s way was purchasing everything with plastic. We spent Benjamin’s like there was no tomorrow. We were the spenders, the Dead Enders, and the ultimate great pretenders. We were all flash, with mountains of dirty cash, racking up gigantic bills, to acquire those Park Avenue thrills.

Life should have been perfect; you know an all expense trip to Disneyland. After all, we had the world by the balls. As a teenager I was eager to bust my cherry, to plunge into a slippery zipper of dove love. Back then life was big, bold, and beautiful. We had youth, influence, and wealth. Who could ask for anything more? Yet, I took it all for granted like somehow I was entitled.

We were the Young Turks, so arrogant and vindictive. We were all about fireworks unlike our parents. That was our definitive downfall as we became the Ugly Americans. We were loud and proud, mean and obscene, yearning for the night club scene. I disregarded all the lectures from Pal Joey and Don Franco. We thought the ways of our parents were over and done.

We believed they were ancient relics of a bygone era. We wanted to be known as the takers not the makers. In the spring of 1977, we were sitting pretty. We were the kings of the castle or the big dogs on the tick clock block. We were akin to movie stars with mad dog muscle.

We were jiving and thriving, we were moving and grooving, we were living big and bold in boogeyman Brooklyn. The Young Turks (1970’s Mafioso’s) were in your face, spoke with our hands, and used spicy language. We didn’t beat around the bush. If we thought you were a jag off, we told you to go fuck yourself.

We were the exact opposite of our parents and grandparents, because they were survivors of the Great Depression, and they were dirt poor. On the other hand we had money to burn and we never experienced financial misfortune. I was 27 years old and had over five million dollars in hard cold cash.

Much of my money was locked away in safety deposit boxes and safes. At the time that seemed the prudent thing to do. In retrospect, I should have buried the Dead Presidents somewhere upstate (New York). That way the riches would have been out of reach of the G-men and I.R.S. when the shit hit the fan.

The Natalie Crime Family ruled Brooklyn much like the ancient pharaohs in Egypt. We had a big piece of A.C. In 1976, the citizens of New Jersey voted to legalize gambling. This paved the way to Las Vegas styled Casinos in Atlantic City, and luxury hotels, which were similar to amusement parks.

Keep in mind the run down casinos were already there, but when the referendum was approved they were legal. We helped raise the money to rebuild A.C. using union pension funds. We built luxury hotels and lavish casinos receiving huge tax breaks (government checks) to do so.

We promised the great people of New Jersey blue sunny skies, thousands of jobs, and a huge influx of revenue to the tax base. The direct result brought about a renaissance to Atlantic City, as the tinsel town virtually overnight transformed from a sewer into a gambling resort and night club Mecca.

Conversely, this was not the case for the pitch black ghettos on the outskirts of the city who never received a dime, and the taxpayers of New Jersey never got their money back. The casinos were overflowing with cash taking in 30 million in revenues in the very first month of operation, and in the process the Natalie Crime family became stinking rich beyond our wildest dreams.

We owned a great deal of real estate in A.C. and the property prices boomed. We had a big piece of one of the hottest dance clubs. A juke joint named Hocus Pocus. It was jammed packed every night with