A Caiman in the Mafia

By Tony Cossu

The author of this novel, Tony COSSU, is a figure of organized crime in FRANCE, where he spent his life chasing "BRINK'S" (armored vans transporting bank money). Every time he was arrested by the police, he managed to escape with the outside help of his friends. Eventually, he took the opportunity to go and live abroad.

"A CAIMAN IN THE MAFIA", is a novel Tony wrote from his prison cell and never wanted to have it published in France, because for him, this story is about the New York Mafia filled with its charismatic characters- so it had to be published in USA.

 

A CAIMAN IN THE MAFIA

An encounter of a man from the jungle, "El Gato" with Gianni, one of the Mafia bosses in an ATLANTA prison. This story will lead us into breathtaking moments that can only be read with passion.

Only a man like Tony COSSU, who through his gangster life knew prisons in many countries while having an "extra-terrestrial" life could write with so much authenticity. Must read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Cossu
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215479025

Book preview

God does not exist.

Men invented him to

find excuses for themselves.

Chapter 1

United States Penitentiary, Atlanta, 2002

Cell Block C cafeteria

Gianni Vincenzo sat drinking his espresso with grappa surrounded by his followers, all fellow Sicilians. He was the only one in the penitentiary who could get grappa and, for that matter, the only one with an Italian espresso machine. Old Sing-Sing made the espresso for Gianni in the mafioso’s cell. Gianni trusted the old man implicitly, and besides, he made the best espresso around.

Ten more days and Gianni would be out. He had been sentenced to eight years, but because of his connections he would serve only three. The FBI had tried its best to get him put away for thirty years, but the jury had not found him guilty of conspiracy to commit murder, after the mob slaying that had left two people dead. In the end, they convicted him only for money laundering.

Gianni was the head of one of the five mafia families in New York. He was 48 years old and about six feet tall. Maybe six one. Even Gianni didn’t know his exact height: he had never bothered to measure himself, and the army had never measured him either. He had evaded the draft by pretending to be deaf. Gianni had brown hair, a strong jaw line, and a thick neck. His chest was massive and his shoulders were so broad that at 250 pounds he was a mountain of flesh and muscle. But a man with undeniable charm nonetheless.

What struck you most about Gianni’s face was that icy stare of his that went straight to the point. Set deep in the brown block of his face, his eyes were of a blue that seemed too pale to go with the rest. His heavy beard made his Latin complexion look even darker. Only those who knew him well knew that behind those steely eyes lay a boundless generosity to others. While Gianni had sought to acquire money and power, he did so mainly to avoid owing anything to anyone else, to stand above the crowd, and to live his life the way he wanted. His mother used to say that his hands were pierced like Jesus’. Gianni would answer, Not Jesus’ hands, but the hands of the thief hanging next to him. He knew himself, that if his hands had holes in them, only blood could flow from them—the blood of enemies who tried to get in his or his friends’ way.

At the table in the cell block C cafeteria where he sat surrounded by his court, the discussion continued, punctuated here and there with a joke or two about the good days to come and especially all the pussy he would be getting as a free man. The atmosphere was so relaxed that no one had noticed the Yugoslav, also known as the Albino, who approached the table walking backwards carrying his tray of grub. A month ago, the Yugo and his crew had decided that the only way out of prison for Gianni would be in a pine box. The Yugos weren’t happy because they thought that Gianni had shafted them on a drug deal. In fact, he had gotten wind that the FBI had infiltrated the network that was bringing coke into the prison. Using his connections, Gianni had warned his guys on the outside, but the Yugos thought it was a maneuver to take over the drug business for himself. They didn’t know that Gianni could have cared less about their dope traffic. What was really at the core of the Yugos’ move was a kind of twisted jealousy—the jealousy that gnaws at those who cannot admit that they are weaker and less charismatic than others, the kind of jealousy that turns to murder in prison. So the Yugos had decided to take him out, plain and simple.

The Yugo, an egg-headed guy known as the Albino, had a steel blade hidden in the hand that held his tray. He took another step back toward Gianni, who had his back to him, laughing enthusiastically at a joke that old Sing-Sing had just told. At the same moment, a tall, slim figure also approached with a tray in his hands. He was known as the Caiman, or sometimes El Gato, because of his feline gait, and he had seen the gleam of the blade hidden under the tray. The tenth of a second that it took for the Albino to analyze the situation—after he understood that the Caiman had figured out what he was going to do—was fatal to him. The Caiman’s long, sinewy arm had sent the metal tray flying like a catapult, and the sharp edge hit him in the throat. The Yugo was paralyzed, choking. He teetered and then collapsed, still holding tight to his homemade weapon. The inmates at Gianni’s table stood as one and threw themselves on the Albino, stamping on him and kicking him without pity.

Enough! Enough! Gianni stepped in. I don’t need a murder charge ten days before my release. This asshole has lived his whole life in prison. Outside he’s just a nobody; all he knows how to do is rape women and hold up the neighborhood supermarket with his nose full of coke to give him the nerve.

Gianni had grabbed the Albino’s shirt collar and lifted him up with his enormous fists. With a deadly look, he added, So consider yourself lucky you’ve got three life sentences. You’ll die here one day. Outside you wouldn’t have survived even two seconds of freedom.

The prison guards were already rushing to the cafeteria, holding their nightsticks and their Tasers, while the prisoners returned to their seats as if nothing had happened. The guards lifted up the Albino, who had some broken ribs and a few bumps on his head. He would keep his mouth shut. He had escaped death this time. He didn’t care about the rest. With three life sentences, the guards and the solitary confinement cells didn’t mean anything to him anymore.

At the table, a row further down, the Yugos kept a low profile. Their plan had failed. They felt unmasked and humiliated, as if stark naked. The men from the two tables, the Sicilians’ and the Yugoslavs’, exchanged deadly stares; their eyes were like the hollow black holes of a sawed-off shotgun. Death was hovering in the air like vultures circling in the sky. The leader of the Yugo clan, Volansky, known as the Buffalo, was staring daggers at the Caiman with his small, cruel blue eyes. Without the Caiman’s intervention, Gianni would now be dead. But the Caiman was not the kind to lower his eyes, not for anyone.

Gianni now hated the Yugos even more. That gang of crazies had failed to understand that Gianni had acted in their interest by counteracting the FBI’s plan about the dope delivery. The following day, after hearing all the details of the incident, including the fact that the blade that had almost pierced his heart was ten inches long, Gianni went to find the Caiman during his daily exercise period.

He found him doing a series of exercises on the horizontal bar. All over his long, sweaty body, his bulging muscles were defined as sharply as if carved with a knife. The contrast between the Caiman’s clothed and unclothed appearance was surprising. When dressed, his height made him look like a man who needed to gain weight and muscle; undressed, this was clearly not the case.

Hello, El Gato. Gianni said, curiosity in his eyes.

Hey, the Caiman answered calmly, with a distant glance.

You saved my life, Gianni said softly. We may not be friends yet, but we’re certainly not enemies. I know you’re a loner, but you know how to earn people’s respect. I’m curious. Why did you do it?

The Caiman took his towel and wiped his sweaty torso. He turned back to Gianni and looked straight into his eyes. So as not to be overheard, they walked a few steps together, followed by Gianni’s men.

You learn more about a man by observing him than by being his confidant, the Caiman began. I’ve always thought you were a good man. You take care of old Sing-Sing. You send him money to make sure he has everything he needs. I also know you take care of his handicapped granddaughter, so that one day she may get out of her wheelchair and walk again. He’s never asked you for anything and he can’t be of much use to you. He’ll surely die here. But you do it all the same.

The Caiman stopped for a moment and glanced toward the Yugo crew at the other side of the prison yard.

What you don’t know, he went on, is that those bastards are shaking him down. So I had already taken sides between you and them. That’s why I stepped in, even if it was none of my business.

Gianni’s blue eyes had turned steel grey. His features had frozen and become as hard as stone. Are you sure? he asked.

The Caiman nodded. Looking at a spot in the distance he added, I overheard the Albino in the library once. I was hiding out in the storage room, drinking the coffee that Sing-Sing had made for me. That asshole thought he was alone with the old man. That’s how I heard the Albino threatening to slit his throat if he dared tell you. But Sing-Sing didn’t want to bother you with his problems. As for me, it was none of my business and I kept it to myself. Later on, I advised Sing-Sing to tell you about it. He wouldn’t. He even asked me to pretend I had never heard about it. He knew you’d be out soon and didn’t want to drag you into it.  The old man ended by saying, ‘When Gianni is out, I’ll take care of the Yugo myself. That’s it. That’s all you need to know.’

Gianni took a deep breath to loosen the knot in his stomach. He rested a hand on the Caiman’s shoulder, a deeply felt gesture for him. Tonight I’d like you to come to my cell. We need to talk this over before I leave. The Caiman nodded. Gianni added, Be careful. Now that you’ve gone up against them, they’ll do everything they can to get to you. You’ve become their worst enemy.

The two men parted and the six Sicilians who followed Gianni everywhere stepped in. They were observant and ready to break the neck and bones of anyone who came too close to their boss. As the Caiman watched Gianni walking away, he thought of the ten-inch blade he had taken off the Yugo. Only a blade like that could kill a man like him. Gianni was built like a mountain. With bare hands, it would take several men to put an end to him.

The Caiman looked at Gianni heading toward the Yugo’s crew accompanied by his bodyguards. Gianni looked down at them with scorn. He let the silence hang in the air, looking at each of their faces one by one. Assholes like you never get anything right. You’re too busy listening to your greedy instincts. I’ll overlook the dope business, but you should know I helped you dodge a bullet with the Feds, not to mention the guys outside who were supplying you.  I’ll even forget you tried to kill me. But the one thing I won’t forget is that you’re shaking down Sing-Sing. When I get out, if I find out you are still fucking with him, I swear, I will kill you, even if I have to put a million dollars on each of your heads. And the Albino is a dead man no matter what.

Gianni’s voice was lethal. No response was expected or desired. He turned around without giving them the time to utter a single word.

Chapter 2

It was 1 a.m. when the guard came to open the Caiman’s cell to take him to see Gianni. Unlike old-time Mafiosi, Gianni was not wearing a silk dressing gown. He was dressed in a well-cut white jogging suit made by a famous Italian designer. Scotch or coffee? he asked.

Coffee, please.

Gianni served him coffee. Its aroma filled the room. He poured himself a small glass of scotch.

Your nickname suits you well, El Gato. You move like a cat and you’re pretty fast too.

The Caiman smiled slightly.

How old are you? Gianni asked.

Almost thirty. 

Fuck, thirty is a great age! Gianni exclaimed.

Becoming serious again, looking at him straight in the eyes, he said, They’ll try to take you out as soon as I’m out of here. They have nothing to lose. Prison is the only world they know. They know they’ll die here. That’s why they just don’t give a shit about who they fuck with.

I know that.

How long until you get out?

A year.

A whole year? That’s too long. Gianni took a cigar from his case. I won’t offer you one. I know you don’t smoke. Gianni took his time lighting his cigar. Then he went on. I think I can get you out of here in two to three months. Try to hold on until then. I can also have you transferred to another joint, but in here I have my ins with the parole board. I am in a better position to help you.

Don’t bother to get me transferred. If you can get a few months taken off my sentence, that’s great. But I am staying here. I’ll be careful. I always am. I am not afraid of them.

Where does that self-assurance of yours come from? You can’t keep an eye on all of them all the time, Gianni replied.

True, but I’ll always be one step ahead of them. I can observe them from a distance. That’s enough for me to know what’s going on in their fucked-up minds. Then it’s only matter of speed. They may be wily, but that won’t be enough.

They are indeed. They almost got me.

Because you were off guard.

I know better now.

Noticing his composure, Gianni grew even more curious about this man, the Caiman. He had always thought that he was different; he was a loner but quite respectful of others. His even stare conveyed the serenity and self-confidence of those who were above fear, above life and death.

Gianni served himself another glass of scotch and poured some for the Caiman. I must admit that just the fact that you make yourself respected in this pool of sharks is amazing in itself. Tell me more about yourself. Don’t forget you saved my life! Gianni exclaimed, with a big smile. The Caiman put his lips to the glass of alcohol and made a face.

I’d rather have some more coffee, please. I’ll never get used to hard liquor. It’s just not my thing.

Gianni snapped his fingers. He had suddenly remembered that he had six bottles of French wine in his cell.

Maybe you’d rather have a glass of good French wine.

That would be better, the Caiman approved. I never turn down a good glass of wine.

Gianni looked for the wine in a corner of his cell and came back with a bottle of Château Petrus. His massive corpulence fully occupied the few square feet of his cell. He took out two balloon glasses and he filled them half-way with great care. Let’s celebrate! I should be in the ground six feet under and, instead, I’m alive and talking with you. I owe it all to you!

They looked at each other as their glasses touched, feeling a bond between them. The Caiman started speaking slowly in a different voice, as if it came from afar. It was the first time he had talked about himself. "I was born in the Amazon, in Venezuela. I come from a tribe that’s almost extinct, virtually unknown to the civilized world. My grandfather was an explorer from Australia. He had spent his life exploring the world. It’s possible that he was lost, or perhaps he just felt at home there, but he stayed with the tribe for a long while along with the three other men on his team. Then one morning, he was found dead. He had been bitten by a snake during the night. The evening before, he’d had a lot of the tribe’s home-made alcohol. He probably didn’t even feel the bite.

During his stay with us, he had shared the bed of one of the young women of the tribe. Nine months later, she gave birth to my father. That’s why I don’t look like I belong to any particular race.

You may look different, but your face has something interesting and unusual and girls like that! You must know that. But, go on, I want to hear the rest of your story.

My father had three children with my mother; me first and then my two sisters fourteen years later. They are bi-racial like me, but they have fair hair and eyes the color of an Amazon stream. The Caiman marked a pause. The image of his young sisters whom he had never seen again was a vivid, burning memory.

I grew up in the Amazon jungle, he began again. At the age of seven, the men of my tribe would throw us in the water with black caimans with a vine around our waists to teach us how to master our fear. Whenever their jaws opened up to cut us in half, the men would pull the vine up and their steel-like teeth would snap an inch from our heads. Once this apprenticeship was over, they took the vine away. We then had to plant our wooden spears into the caiman’s throat, where the flesh is tender enough to go straight to the brain, or we could stab it in its belly from underneath to go straight to the heart. The boy who managed to kill his first man-eater was recognized as a warrior.

Gianni was listening to the Caiman attentively. He was amazed. He had never heard such a story in his whole life. As for caimans, he had only seen them on TV!

Jesus! Facing those monsters when you were just a boy with just a stick in your hand! Go on, Gianni said eagerly.

I killed my first caiman when I was ten years old. At thirteen, I had become an expert. At fifteen, I was the best. When you reach that level of skill, you can master any fear. At any time, the animal can snap and cut off a limb or even your head. Full control of mind and body helps you to react faster. Most people just aren’t able to do that.

A serious expression came over his face. Gianni had his eyes riveted on the Caiman. I see. When something happens, you have already reacted. The average guy just can’t do that.

That’s it. If you’re put in situations like that when you are very young, you learn a lot about yourself. When you learn to control your fear, you reach a superior level of self-control. You can walk along the edge of a tall building like you were walking along the boardwalk.

Gianni nodded with a perplexed expression on his face. Personally, he could not imagine himself walking on the edge of any roof, of any height. Though he was certainly not lacking in courage.

I understand now why the Albino didn’t have the time to stab me in the back when you looked at each other. The son of a bitch! Gianni exclaimed, When I think of it! His face had suddenly hardened.

It’s behind you now, the Caiman replied. The gods aren’t always on the side of the rotten ones.

Yeah, but tell me how many of your tribe have been eaten by caimans. It must happen sometimes.-

Not that often. The men who hold the vines are fast. But sometimes the boys lose an arm or a leg, or they bleed to death.

Jesus! I wouldn’t go near one of those things without an assault rifle.

Gianni poured some more Petrus, put the bottle down and started to stare at the Caiman as if he were a rare species. Gianni was a straightforward man. There was nothing ambiguous about him.

But how did you end up in the States?

The Caiman smiled faintly before going on. One day, five or six Australian men came to our village with guides. Among them was my great-uncle. One night they gave me a shot against an infection," and I woke up on a boat. I was eighteen. They had kidnapped me. Once I got to Australia, I almost killed them all. Then my warrior instincts took over. I observed them and played along to have them trust me. They were good enough to me, but I felt like I was being observed, as if I were different. It was not my world, and besides I resented the kidnapping, they had no right to do it. I stayed three years with them. Now that I think about it, it was probably just because I liked guns.

"My great-uncle had a passion for firearms and he was an accomplished hunter. I was fascinated by that. In the Amazon, we would go hunting every day and practice shooting. He soon noticed that I was very good with weapons. That’s why he took me to Australia. He had me participate in the Sydney shooting championships and I won in all categories.

"That was my passport for the Olympics. I took off to England where his sister had settled. She was a bit of a rebel and had left Australia at an early age to study drama in London, against her family’s wishes. She had become a very famous actress in England. She welcomed me heartily and I spent three years with her.

‘We were very close. She didn’t have any children and lived by herself. We understood each other immediately.

"Then I left for India. I traveled around and got involved in the arms trade until, one day, I had problems at the border. Then I left for the States. I wanted to put some money aside for my family and tribe, meaning to return some day. I had understood that in the civilized world, if you don’t have money you are a nobody. Besides, I was getting used to modern life, to nice clothes and cars ... to a certain level of comfort so that I didn’t know where I belonged anymore.

Still, one day I went back to the jungle. My village had been attacked by a rival tribe. My mother and father had been decapitated, and my sisters had been kidnapped along with other young girls from our tribe.

The Caiman stopped for a while and remained silent, looking away in the distance. When he had been kidnapped by his grandfather’s brother, his young sisters were only four and five. He had never seen them again.

Not an ordinary life you’ve had, kid, Gianni said, finishing up the bottle of French wine.

Gianni admired the Caiman for his undeterred way of fighting alone in a world where he didn’t belong.

I have a gun hidden in the boiler room, Gianni took up. Nobody knows about it except me. I’ll tell you where it is. Old Sing-Sing has a passkey that opens most of the inside doors.

He stopped and looked intensely at the Caiman, looking worried, before going on. I don’t trust the Yugos. They’ll try to get to you. In here, my guys won’t be able to watch you all the time. I would be damn pissed off if something happened to you!

Chapter 3

On the day of his release, Gianni himself was there to hug the Caiman, who was reading a book in his cell. The two men looked at each other without uttering a word. They were stirred up deep inside, but it did not show. Their friendship was beyond words.

Stay alive, Gianni said.

Take this with you, the Caiman whispered pushing a tissue-wrapped object into his hand. It’s the knife that bastard used to try to eliminate you. In my tribe, they say that if you can get hold of your enemy’s weapon, it will protect you your whole life against those with evil intentions. Whether you believe it or not...

Gianni gave him a surprised look, and then smiled.

Do I have to drag it along with me everywhere I go?

No, the Caiman answered smiling back at him.

You just have to keep it in a place where you feel at home.

I’ll make sure I do, El Gato, Gianni said with a wink.

The Caiman looked at Gianni’s massive outline as he walked away. Smoking a cigar and dressed like a prince, he was truly an impressive man.

A little further in the corridor he met the eyes of the Yugos watching the scene. The distorted sneer he saw on their faces said everything about what they had in mind. The Caiman responded with utter calm. He had learned long ago to let nothing show—a skill he had acquired in the jungle facing ferocious predators.

A few days after Gianni’s departure, the Caiman went to see old Sing-Sing, who was in charge of the library. No one could make a passkey like Sing-Sing. Besides, he knew how to keep his mouth shut. He belonged to the old school, the long-time jailbirds who see and know everything but never talk, as if they were blind, deaf, and dumb. Nothing and nobody could get at them anymore. They had learned through those long years inside.

I need a passkey for the basement building leading to the boiler room. Can you get that for me? the Caiman asked.

Old Sing Sing’s glazed eyes rested a long time on the Caiman’s face. He knew that he had told Gianni about his being ransomed by the Yugos. They had stopped ever since. He did not ask any questions. He knew the Caiman was smart and discreet. Someone who could be trusted, like an old jailbird. Sing-Sing could always tell.

Come back tomorrow, he uttered almost inaudibly. "I may have that somewhere but it’s so well stashed, I will need the whole night to remember where I’ve put it. Look here, take this book with you, you shouldn’t leave here with empty hands. It’s Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. You’ll like it. Remember to bring me back the two last books you borrowed, if you’ve finished them. I have to do the monthly inventory."

The Caiman thanked him by nodding and started to leave.

"Cuidate, chaval!"[1] the old man said. He had spent more than twenty years in Sing-Sing, the former penitentiary.

Surprised to hear him speaking Spanish for the first time, the Caiman smiled and answered, "No te preocupes, abuelo.[2] I didn’t know you could speak Spanish."

"I’m learning. I hope to go and live with my daughter one day. She lives in San Salvador

Chapter 4

The passkey old Sing-Sing had given to the Caiman was carved out of a piece of ivory, from an elephant’s tusk. It was a work of art. Ivory can’t be picked up by the metal detectors that prison guards use for body and cell searches. The Caiman looked attentively at the passkey before sliding it into a sock. Old Sing-Sing had told him the key opened a door to the basement corridor, as well as the door to the boiler room. But to enter the basement you had to turn the key in the lock in the opposite direction.

When he came back from the infirmary the following day, the Caiman sneaked into the deserted staircase that led to the basement corridor. He had to avoid being seen, except, of course, by the Yugos.

Once he was in front of the gate, he slid the passkey into the lock. He didn’t have to look back to make sure nobody was around. As a hunter, he could detect the slightest noise.

The bolt of the lock gave way easily. He pushed the door open and closed it again, then he made his way toward the boiler room, ignoring the camera above the door; it hadn’t been working for years. He put his ear to the steel door before using the passkey again. He didn’t hear a thing so he slid it into the lock and turned it twice slowly.

The door opened almost without noise. The Caiman closed it behind him and looked around quickly. He immediately spotted the air vent that Gianni had told him about. He unscrewed the grid with a screwdriver he’d found in a toolbox close to the boiler and took care not to leave any fingerprints on the screws. Once the grid was removed, he thrust his hand in the duct all the way up to his shoulder. Finally, his fingers found their way to an object wrapped up in rags. The Caiman pulled it toward himself carefully. It was an automatic, a military .45 caliber, and it had an extra clip. It was not brand new but the Caiman didn’t care. Guns, just like cars, work better once they are broken in.

The Caiman checked the clip. It was loaded with seven bullets. He worked the breech silently. The gun was working perfectly. He loaded a bullet into the chamber and cocked the hammer ready to fire.

Looking around, he found a hiding place nearby, close to a heap of odds and ends, and put the gun underneath, after checking the angle of fire toward the door. It was right then that the boilers started working again and making a racket. The Caiman listened to the boilers carefully to see how long they would be running. With a satisfied smile, he replaced the grid on the air vent, being careful not to damage the screws. He then left the place as silently as he had come. He left the boiler room without running into anyone and went straight to the yard.

Where have you been, El Gato? asked Dingo the guard, who was on watch at the door that day.

The Caiman showed him the medicine he had got at the infirmary. Is it for diarrhea? Dingo asked while swinging his fat ass back and forth sarcastically. You got the runs?

It’s probably because of the crap they feed us here, the Caiman calmly replied. I’ll never get used to it.

Well, we ain’t at the Hilton here, you know.

You got that right, said a voice from behind them. You should be careful, El Gato. Shitting too much makes you weak. It also can screw with your brain, as they say. And it attracts rats!

The Buffalo, the head of the Yugo crew, was speaking. His glazed blue stare met the Caiman’s eyes. The Buffalo had a sardonic smile. Those who knew him well knew he could set a man ablaze with a flame thrower without thinking twice. Pity had no part in his world.

If you caught the runs, with your 300 pounds of fat, there’d be so much shit that you’d blow up the shit house. The rats would have plenty to eat for a whole month! the Caiman replied without raising his voice. The Buffalo’s pupils tightened dangerously. Dingo the guard, whose ass was as fat as the Buffalo’s, with an extra layer of lard on top, couldn’t help bursting into laughter.

"Fuck! You’re a real comic, El