FROM GANGSTER TO GOD

By Michael Faith

Writing my true-crime autobiography is only half the story. The second half is my redemption and repentance to my Lord and savior Jesus Christ. The book is 100 percent truth, from my wild childhood days in New York City to me joining the US Navy at age sixteen and serving eight years honorably. The only problem, I was living a double life. I was also a mob associate and worked with a crew from one of the five families. It was the early 1990s, the reign of the Teflon Don. I want people to know I'm Irish and Polish, not Italian. I did a couple of successful heists by myself after I was betrayed by my mob connections, who were also childhood friends. I tell my complete story where I was charged with the RICO Act, which is organized crime; conspiracy to rob an armored truck; as well as conspiracy to transfer currency across state lines. I never did no major time because of one mob contact, I'll call Big Loser, who was a total idiot. Every job he planned in New York with me went bust. Besides all that, he screwed up my job of a lifetime. My biggest mistake was picking him and his neighbor to take the money from the armored truck company I worked for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889439707

Book preview

cover.jpg

FROM GANGSTER TO GOD

Michael Faith

ISBN 979-8-88943-969-1 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88943-970-7 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Michael Faith

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

My Crazy Childhood

My Biological Father

My First Driving Lesson

Luck of the Irish

Karma's a Bitch

The South Bronx

No School—High School

Working for a Living

The Lower East Side

Arrested Again

The Halloween Brawl and Fight at the Lemon Tree

Still Running Wild

In the Navy Now!

The Philippine Jail

The Navy-Van Incident!

My Introduction Back to Crime!

Enforcer for a So-Called Bookie

How Not to Rob an Armored Car!

The Bad Times: Looking at Twenty-Five to Life

One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest

How to Rob an Armored Truck!

Redemption and Repentance

My Honeymoon

Vacation with the Family

Jack-of-All-Trades

It's a Boy!

The Bad Days

Fighting My Demons

I Am Legend

Turn or Burn

Appendix

About the Author

My Crazy Childhood

I had so many ideas for the title of this book. Some of them were Crime Does Pay, Rags to Riches, Riches to Rags Back to Riches, My Life as a Gangster, How Not to Rob an Armored Truck, and How to Rob an Armored Truck, Just Another New York Neighborhood Story; but the one that fit the best was From Gangster to God. See without him, this book would not have been written. I died more times than a cat has lives and always wondered why I came back from the dead. I know now, besides meeting my wife and raising my son, it was to complete my autobiography. It's sad that a man like me, who has broken nearly every commandment known to man, is trying to be the voice of reason today; but so be it. God works in mysterious ways, the saying goes, and in my case, it could not be more true.

I grew up in what I consider real New York, when the South Bronx, Brooklyn, Harlem, and the Lower East Side of Manhattan looked like a war zone. If you ever want a look at old vintage NY, just watch the movie Taxi Driver. It shows an accurate portrayal of the streets back in the days of the 1970s. You have to understand NY City was totally different in the seventies, eighties, and nineties than it is now, all cleaned up. I remember the dirty, grimy streets; gang graffiti everywhere; the strong smell of urine in the parks and subway stations. Back when Forty-Second Street was nothing but XXX-rated movie theaters lined up side by side as far as the eye can see; 25-cent peep shows; the prostitutes, the pimps and drug dealers on every block. For Christ's sake, you could even buy snuff films for all the people in the need to know. Those are actual murders on video tape. But that's the NY I grew up in, when it was the murder capital of the US. There was seven million people in NY when I was growing up; and half of them were thugs, street toughs, wiseguys and wannabes. And every one of them has a story. This one's mine.

I was born in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, in 1968. It was a drug-ridden neighborhood full of violent crime. I loved my old neighborhood though. I have so many precious memories of my youth growing up there. I can think back to the times when I was really young. My mom and grandmother would push me and my sister in a double stroller down Nassau Avenue. We would stop at the Polish market, where my grandmother's sister worked. We would buy our Polish kielbasa and always a box of pastries. We would then go down Greenpoint Avenue and head to the five-and-dime. It was called that because everything in the store cost a nickel or a dime. My grandma would then buy us those chocolate-covered fruit-flavored gel candies. We always got the same kind of raspberry and orange. Then it was on our way to the outdoor fruit market, where I would grab the grapes that were at my reach since I sat in front of the stroller. My grandma would let me help myself and always handed me a bunch if I couldn't get them. I can even think back to the times I would be put in a high chair, and my mom would get me a giant salted pretzel. They would put me in the front of the window facing the backyard, where I would watch all the people hang up their laundry on lines that hung back there.

As we got older, we would go hang out at the park across the street from her brownstone apartment on Russell Street, right off Nassau Avenue. My grandma would take us and sit on the bench and watch us play. First, we would roller skate, but back then, the wheels were made out of metal, so you hardly moved. It usually didn't take more than ten minutes and we were done with skating. Then my sister and I would go play on the giant concrete slide. The only problem, you had to enter the enclosed concrete structure to climb the ladder to get to the top. See, all the teenagers would use it as their personal toilet while they got drunk at night. The park locked its bathrooms at nighttime. So my sis and I would hold our noses as we climbed the ladder, always one handed so we wouldn't smell the strong odor of urine.

I would go hang out at the corner candy store and look at all the comic books before picking out the one I was going to buy. I had to pass the corner bar to get in the store. I was always fascinated with it but also a little scared. A lot of Polish and Irish people liked to drink in the old days, then they would fight, so I always had some type of entertainment. In fact, there was a bar on every street.

I remember one day we walked to the local fish market, and it was being held up at gunpoint. My grandma was so cool, she slowly grabbed us by our hands, somehow exiting the store without this guy seeing us. The topper of the story was, as the guy tried to make his getaway, my grandmother stuck her foot out and tripped him. In the process of falling to the ground, his bag of money went flying in the air, with a lot of it spilling out all over the avenue. I thought the guy was going to kill all three of us at that moment. I remember the guy turning around to see who tripped him and the mean look he gave as he went back to pick up his money. Now my grandma was not scared of anything, and she was barely five foot tall.

My favorite memory with her and my sister was when she would take us to Coney Island. We always got on the G train out of Nassau Ave station. She made sure we were always in the first car. The train had a giant window in the front, right next door to the conductor operating it. I would stand right at the window for the whole ride. You actually get the same exact view as the conductor. I was amazed with just flying through the tunnels. As long as you have green lights, the train's moving about 60 mph. It then comes out of the tunnels, where you are now traveling outside on a train trestle that's elevated about three stories up from the streets below. This was always my favorite part of the ride. As we approached, all the avenues lead us to our final stop, Coney Island. The second the trains doors open you're met with the sweet smells of the sandy, salty air. Then we would ride the rides before going down to sit in the sand with our blankets. She would watch my sister and me when we would play in the surf. We would never go to deep since neither of us could swim. Usually, we went as deep as our chests when there were good waves to play in, but you had to watch out for the occasional sneaker wave that's a lot bigger than the rest. At times, there were strong undertows and rip currents. I remember one day, reading the newspaper, fifty people were swept out to sea with no survivors. There were all sorts of dangers on the beach—from hypodermic needles to broken bottles. They were found under the boardwalk all the way to the surf. I imagine it was good training for the guys being drafted to Vietnam at the time.

For two little kids and a grandmother, it was no way to have to live. My mom wanted a better life for my sister and me. So she moved us to Flushing Queens. Little did she know but in my new neighborhood, there was an unlimited number of sick kids all trying to outdo one another. It's like we were always in competition for bragging rights—who was the strongest, the toughest, the craziest, and who flat out had the most guts. By the time I was nine I was a wild child. My mom got me a job in an Irish pub. I was already working a paper route, but she thought it would be good for me to make some extra money. Billy, my soon-to-be stepfather, was totally against it. I still remember him saying, He's got no business being in a bar at his age. Boy, was he right. By the second week, I was stealing a bottle of booze and a case of beer every weekend. I went from being a God-loving, churchgoing eight-year-old to a nine-year-old demon child.

The name of the bar was the 3 O's. It stood for the first letter in their last name. There was Pop and his two sons. They were the owners. My mom grew up with Pop in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. That's how I was able to get the job. I thought it was so cool that I'm working in a bar at nine. I even played on the bar's softball team. I played second and third base mostly and right field. My family would come and watch the games. Even my father, Billy, started playing with us at the annual barbeque games. We had a lot of good times together.

It was an easy job. I had to clean up the bar at 6:00 a.m. The time it reopened from the previous night's festivities. I started at 6:00 a.m. and worked till twelve noon on Saturdays and Sundays. The job consisted of me cleaning up the bar, so I put up the chairs on the tables and swept and mopped the floor, then I would clean the restrooms. I then washed my hands before going behind the bar, washing all the glasses. I had many duties like a bar back. I would stock the beer chess and then ice them down. On Mondays, I would start after school around four o'clock and take care of the liquor delivery. I would carry the cases down to the basement, then open and stock the shelves. I would then pick a bottle of my choosing. I was sampling all different types of liquors, and in my five years there, I must have sampled every single booze known to man. You name it, I tried it. I would put the bottle in the garbage. Then I would take it out to the back dumpster at the end of my shift and take it home. My boss was so cool he would get me breakfast from the German deli down the street. Every weekend I got the same thing: a boar's head ham sliced thin with American cheese on a roll. I ate that every weekend for five years.

Even Pop said, Don't you want to try something else?

I would always respond, Nope, just my usual.

He would let me at the end of my shift keep the quarters and dollar bills that would fall behind the bar's register. I would fish them out with a meter-long ruler. When I was done working, I would play all of the arcade games in the bar. I remember they had Pac-Man, Defender, Asteroids, two pinball machines, and a bowling game where you would slide a puck. He also had a great jukebox with tons of great tunes. He had a huge selection of Frank Sinatra, the oldies and classic rock. Pop would always give me ten free credits just to get me started. I would pick my music choices before playing the arcade games. I always played a lot of Sinatra's music for the old-timers drinking: My Way, New York, New York, Mack the Knife, and others like Dion's The Wanderer. I then woke them up with my other picks. I always finished with Lynard Skynard's Freebird. If that song don't get your blood flowing, you must be already dead. So I made sure Pop always got his change back.

As time went on, Pop asked me if I knew anyone else that needed a job. I was around thirteen years old at the time, So I got my friend D in. On Sundays when the bar was closed from six o'clock to twelve o'clock, I started to drink on the job. When Pop would go out to get the sandwiches, I would tell D to Set 'em up. He would help me place a bunch of mugs in a row, and we would fill them up with rum and Coke. I would slam them down before Pop would get back. D wouldn't drink; he was a jock. So Pop and D would talk sports, and I just kept my face buried in my sandwich and the Sunday news, hoping Pop wouldn't smell me. Which of course, he did, but at the time, I thought I was being slick. Little did I know that he knew the entire time.

Closing time is 4:00 a.m. in most NY bars. This one was no exception. There were plenty of times I would show up a little early and beat Pop to the bar. I would wait on the corner for him so I had to deal with some of the regulars waiting for the bar to reopen. This was the bad part of the job: dealing with some pissed-up drunk that just left one of the many after-hour bars that remain open from 4:00 to 6:00 a.m. New York is really an alcoholic's dream come true. The only time you are prohibited from buying alcohol is on Sundays, from 6:00 a.m. to noon, because of church; but in NY, you can always find an after-hours bar usually run by the mob. I worked in the 3 O's pub from nine years of age until I was fourteen. By fourteen, I was really screwed up. I was experimenting with every drug I can get my hands on, which resulted in me showing up for work late and hung over a few times in a row. Pop finally had enough one day and laid it out. He yelled at me about being late in front of a bunch of regulars. I was so embarrassed I did not show my face again for another four years. I will tell ya more about that when it's time.

My Biological Father

I only have a few memories of my biological father. I guess the saying is true, The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Ever since I was ten, all I ever wanted to be was a criminal. This has a lot to do with my upbringing and genetics, because he too was a criminal. My childhood was far from normal. I used to pretend I was asleep when my father would roll in at night. He would tell me, I know you're not sleeping, but I would just keep my eyes clinched because the sight of him made me sick.

One memory in particular was when we were all in a bar. Now I know what you're probably thinking, Who could be in a bar at three or four years old? But with all the stuff going on at the time people had to deal with back then, they weren't worried about a mom and dad bringing their kids in to relax for a couple of drinks to unwind. I loved it really—the smoke-filled room; the loud sounds of people's voices, all trying to talk over one another; the music blaring from the jukebox in the corner; and the flickering lights of the arcade games. That was how me and my sis passed the time. My mom would give us quarters so we could play. We would pick our selections from the jukebox on which song we wanted to hear. Then we would go play our pinball games. I remember it was Evil Knievel in this particular bar. My legs were too short for my little fingers to reach the flippers. My sis would get me a chair to stand on when it was my turn to play.

All of sudden my joy and elation turned to terrifying fear as the bar suddenly went dead quiet except for the sound of two men arguing. It was my dad and some man exchanging words. The next thing I saw was a flash from a small gun the man had in his hand. He aimed and shot my father right in his face. He fell from his barstool, and I thought he was dead. Immediately, there was a mad scramble for the door. Every man for himself, I guess. I quickly noticed a warm sensation running down my leg and realized I wasn't the only one that just pissed themselves. I looked down and saw two puddles, one from me and one from my sis. Picture that the bar was now vacant. Everyone had run out and left us except for my mom, dad, and this guy that he is fighting. Even the bartender ran out. We stood in our own urine, frozen in fear. My dad got up and ran to the pool cues hanging on the wall. It turned out, it was only a tear-gas gun that blinded him for a short period of time. As my dad grabbed the cue off the wall, the other guy grabbed for it. They began to wrestle for control. Now picture this, my mother was trying to get in the middle of these two. Looking back it was pretty comical. Now picture me and my sister trying to pull my mother out of these two fighting. I remember my dad landing a head butt to the guy's nose, which took the fight right out of him. So now I'm rooting my dad on. Get 'em, get 'em. My dad swung that pool cue like Babe Ruth going for the bleachers. Crack. A perfect hit right across his temple. In the process, it split his head open, like someone waiting to have brain surgery. As his lifeless body hit the floor, his one side of his scalp flopped over, revealing his skull. My dad literally scalped this guy with one swing of his cue. His skin color changed in a flash. From the bright red of arguing and too many drinks to the palest white I've ever seen. As I gazed at him fixated on the giant wound, my dad picked me and my sis up, and he ran out of there.

When we reached the corner, he threw us in the back seat of our car, and when I say, he threw us, he literally threw us in the car. No door needed to be opened because we had a white Cadillac convertible, Coupe de Ville. My dad screamed at my mom, Get the f—— in. Tires screeched from him hitting the gas. Away we went flying down Greenpoint Avenue.

My mom said in a panicked voice, We need to go back and check on him, Tommy. I think you killed him.

My dad replied, Shut the f—— up, or I'll do the same to you.

This made me angry as hell. I threw a barrage of punches at him, screaming I hate you. You're not hurting my mom.

He backhanded me, and I went flying back in my seat.

Back in these days, seatbelts were not enforced. The wind from the night air felt good at first to get my mind off what just happened but that didn't last long because of my pissed-up pants. Next thing, I was freezing, counting the blocks to get home. I concentrated on landmarks that I knew as we flew down the avenue. I remember looking up at the Chinese restaurant my mom would take me and my sis and wishing I was there with just them two. They had the best spare ribs. On the next block was called the five-and-dime because everything cost a nickel or a dime. Soon we were home, and my dad dropped us off. As he drove off, I wished he wouldn't come back.

My other memory of him was when he would take me to this secluded spot on the waterfront in Greenpoint. Right across from the Hudson River was Manhattan. This area was full of high weeds as tall as my father. As we walked to the edge of the river, there was one wooden picnic table where he would take me. He would drink his beers there and then begin to smack me. When I didn't react, he would smack me harder. He kept this up until something inside me snapped. I just remember attacking him with a flurry of punches. He then grabbed me and hugged me and told me how much he loved me. I know it sounds crazy, but I really felt love in that instance from him. I never forgot that, and looking back, I'm glad he did it. I would like to think it was just his way of preparing me for what's to come in life as you get older. I got a hands-on lesson at a very early age on how screwed up the world really is. I guess this was his way of preparing me. I know how crazy this sounds, but in that moment, I felt love from him for the first time.

My First Driving Lesson

At the end of him finishing his beers that day, he then had to drive me to Long Island, where my mother and sister were visiting with friends. As we got into Brentwood, he stopped the car at a candy store. He then told me to drive. I thought he was joking, but he wasn't.

I told him, I can't. I'm too small. My feet can't touch the pedals.

He kicked me out of the car and drove off.

I stood there crying, not knowing where I was.

It seemed like hours I stood there, but it was probably just about ten minutes.

All of a sudden my dad's Caddy came around the corner. I never thought I would say this, but I was happy to see him.

He stopped and said, Are you ready to drive now?

I wiped away my tears and told him, My feet can't reach the pedals!

He replied, I'm going to do that for you. You're just gonna steer.

So I jumped in that car, and that's how I got my first driving lesson—all at the age of five.

Luck of the Irish

I know my father was part of some Irish gang in Brooklyn. He sold dope and did some armed robberies. I don't think he was too good at either one though. He liked to get high too much. See that was the reason my mom finally left him. We were paid a visit by some of his associates that he was using and then stepping on the drugs he was supposed to be selling. My mom was afraid that if they didn't get to him, they might hurt us.

I remember every single thing of my childhood. It's funny really because I can't remember what the hell I usually did five minutes ago.

Another early memory I have was when he and his gang of buddies fought the Puerto Ricans who moved into the neighborhood. They were both fighting over drug turf. I remember this epic battle between the two groups as I watched from our second-floor apartment's fire escape on Dupont Street. It was like a classic scene from a movie. Picture a hundred guys going at it in the middle of the street in the dead of night. I remember beer bottles and garbage cans flying through the air and the sound they made when one would find its intended target or the sound of