The Ten Million Dollar Getaway: The Inside Story of the Lufthansa Heist

Body Count

"It’s Christmas Day,

And we’re on our way

To a ventilation job

In Gravesend Bay."

Irish cop, New York City

It was a crime that was hatched in the bars of Ozone Park. Barely three hours after it was over, the word was already out on the street. Even before the first corpse surfaced, everyone knew it was coming. The name didn’t matter. The face wasn’t important. The identification papers in the wallet didn’t count for much. The how and the why meant as little as the who. It could just as well have been any one of a number of people. The only thing that mattered was that the first dead man wouldn’t be the last. The contracts are out, one mobster said. It was his use of the plural that was most disturbing.

The money from Building 261 hadn’t been stashed, or even counted yet. The jewelry hadn’t been divided. The foreign currency hadn’t been washed. The pawnshops and the black markets hadn’t been flooded with hot goods yet. None of the thieves had left town. There would be time soon enough for all of that. For the moment, there were priorities—grim priorities. And everyone knew what came next. The contracts are out. Plural.

It was a crime that started clean and ended dirty. The day after it was over, an informant told the FBI: Now, they stack the bodies. The word filtered down through the wise-guy network: Stay low, real low, if you don’t want to get ventilated. The word filtered down as it only can in Queens: Trouble brewing. We’re going on the mattress. Stay low.

It was a crime that would touch thousands of people, transforming the lives of everybody who got tangled in its web, and ending the lives of at least ten of them. Two days after it was over, the mob capo spoke to his underboss. There were bodies coming. The underboss told his button man. The button man told his cargo thief. The cargo thief told his fence. The fence told his resident street pug.

It was a crime that would alter the Mafia’s means of doing business in New York, and change, perhaps forever, the very nature of the institution itself. Three days after it was over, the resident street pug told his bookmaker. Bodies were coming. The bookie told his shylock. The shy told his torpedo. The torpedo told his bartender. And the barkeep told his friend, the one who had helped him out of a jam once, the one he owed a favor to, the one who sipped beer when everybody else downed whiskey because the city bought him his drinks, the undercover cop.

If you were a wise guy, and you lived in Brooklyn and you drank in Queens, and your bartender was a wise guy too, and he caught wind of something, and he slipped you the word, you got a break many others would never get. It didn’t mean you’d stay alive, not in these circles, but at least you had a better chance. It was a crime in which a lot of people would never get that chance. Four days after it was over, from the darkened aerie of one of the most foreboding mob joints in the city, a prominent gangster got a break. Stay outta here, he was told. There’s no percentage in it for you anymore. Who was going to argue? Others he knew wouldn’t get the word. Soon they’d be in jail, in hiding, or dead.

The law would come out of this crime looking not much better than the mob. Five days after it was over, the memo came down from the commissioner’s office at One Police Plaza. Couched in bureaucratese, it made no sense at all. It spoke of a rapidly accelerating turnover rate expected among organized crime figures. It became the job of the station house captains to translate that double talk into a street English their line men could understand. Dump jobs is what it means, said the lieutenant at the 113th. More than one. If they know what they’re talking about downtown, you guys’ll be finding bodies in car trunks all over the precinct.

It seldom worked out that way, but this time they knew what they were talking about downtown. The lieutenant had been right. Mob bigs had held a sit-down. They drew up a little list. They farmed out the contracts. And six days after it was over, hit teams were on the street, gin mills were staked out, private homes were ringed with bodyguards, and nine men and one woman were already living out their lives on borrowed time. For one man, in fact, time had already run out.

Seven days after it was over, NYPD Homicide got the first call. The detective on duty filed the report in classic deadpan police lingo. Unidentified man shot DOA by unknown perps for unknown reasons, it began. No further, it ended. But there it was, writ large in the police blotter. Just a week after it happened, the bloodletting had begun. The tabloids trumpeted it in streamers across six columns: UP, DOWN, AND INTO THE GRAVE! And the next day, there was a new catchword sprinting through the streets: Flatlands Tony is back.

A not-so-funny comedy of errors and terrors had begun.

A baseball bat across the temple is a sloppy way to kill a man. The trunk of a car in Brooklyn is an unhygienic place to stow his body. But the technology of the hit was never very sophisticated, and that was the way he wanted it. There were many methods, all of them crude, none of them pretty, and Flatlands Tony knew them all.

Two hours in the acid baths, if the chemicals are properly mixed, and all that’s left of a man are the gold fillings in his teeth. Ten minutes in an auto salvage compactor, and a six-foot hoodlum becomes approximately the size of a ten-inch fanbelt, his bones ground so finely into the metal that they can become a part of next year’s Oldsmobile. Equally effective, though not nearly so refined, is the old Sicilian method: six or seven shots fired into the chest and head from a low-caliber handgun at close range. Then there’s the Elliot Ness-style submachine gun. Or the Colt pistol with the silencer screwed on to muffle the blast; with a rare touch of poetry, that’s known in mob parlance as the whispering death. For disposal, there’s the East River, the Hudson, Jamaica Bay, the Gowanus Canal, and the swirling southern currents of the ebb tide.

This was Flatlands Tony’s work, murder for hire, and a week after it was over he had already completed his first assignment.

Hulking, barrel-chested, massively built, yet benign, almost grandfatherly in appearance, Flatlands Tony was known as a torpedo to the mob, a hit man to the newspaper-reading public, and a common murderer to the FBI, which desperately wanted to lock him up, but had never quite figured out how. He was scar-faced and in his mid sixties. His hair was gray and wavy, giving him an almost distinguished appearance, and his suits all had continental labels. His mug shots showed him grinning ridiculously. For Flatlands Tony was quick to flash a toothy, endearing, almost childlike smile, a strange trait for a notorious, cold-blooded killer. That smile became his trademark. It seemed somehow to express all the glee he so obviously found in his calling.

Two years ago, Flatlands Tony had twenty notches. Six months after it was over, he would have thirty.

Flatlands was, of course, not his real name. It was just the alias by which he was known to the mob and the law alike. It came from the tough ethnic neighborhood in Brooklyn where he grew up, and where, for old times’ sake, he enjoyed leaving butchered bodies behind like calling cards.

Flatlands was a professional, an old-school killer who made a point of not knowing which Cosa Nostra capo put out the contracts he executed. He always dealt through intermediaries, which made him less vulnerable if there were reprisals, and he was never physically present when the hit came down, which allowed him to establish a foolproof alibi. He had learned long ago that there were always flunkies willing to pull the trigger for you. Police credited him with some thirty hits in his career, but he was only hauled into court once, years ago, in his apprentice days, and the charges were abruptly dropped when the star witness for the prosecution suddenly refused to testify after a mysterious headfirst plunge down a flight of stairs.

The exasperated federal prosecutor called Flatlands to the stand one last time. Do you have any moral scruples about killing a man? he was asked. Do you have any qualms about pumping someone full of lead? Does your conscience bother you even a little bit when you see the pictures in the papers the next day of your victim’s wife in tears and all broken down?

There was an objection, court records show, but it was overruled. Flatlands Tony huddled briefly with his attorneys. There was a whispered exchange. When it finally came, the response was terse, muted, predictable.

Based on my constitutional rights, he mouthed, I respectfully decline to answer the question on the grounds that my answer may tend to incriminate me. Then Flatlands Tony looked up at the judge on the bench and smiled.

In New York City in the old days, the streetlights used to kick off at 3:00 A.M. The twenty-four-hour traffic light was still just an item with a question mark on the city planners’ drawing boards. There were no two-way radios in the squad cars, and the blare of the police sirens sounded much more like a plaintive, pitiful whine. The getaway was easier back then, detection problematical. There would be fewer witnesses and less chance of pursuit. In those days, if you killed a man on a job, no more than seven or eight people would ever know you did it. Now, technology was catching up with the torpedo, and police estimated that anywhere between ten and fifteen people were aware of the identity of the killer in any gangland hit. The trick, of course, was in getting those people to come forth, something they’d very seldom do. On the other side of the law, the trick was to get them muzzled. And so the whole focus of the hit man’s job had broadened; today he has to worry as much about the getaway as the kill itself. Flatlands Tony resented these changes in the basic fiber of his work. That was why he preferred places like Bath Beach, Mill Basin, Canarsie, Red Hook, Carroll Gardens, Bensonhurst, Gravesend Bay, and, of course, Flatlands, when it came to choosing a dump site for his victim. For these were the solid ethnic Italian neighborhoods of Brooklyn, where, as Flatlands Tony himself would put it, nobody knows nothing.

There were other changes, too, from the old days, changes that couldn’t be resisted. Back then, he killed Sicilians on behalf of Neapolitans, and he killed Neapolitans on behalf of Sicilians. Those were the days. But all that was a dead era. The blood feuds were over. The mob was in no danger of becoming an equal-opportunity employer; it was as undemocratic as ever, and Italian to the core. But there were hangers-on now too, scores of them, and six months after it was over, a black, a Jew, two Irishmen, and a woman would be rubbed out, gangland-style, along with the usual assortment of Italians.

Six days after it was over, Flatlands Tony already had the first contracts. And seven days after it was over, the mortician already had the first body.

Somewhere, somehow, someone was covering his tracks, severing the cords all over town, killing off any links between himself and the crime. But who? Who had ordered the killings? And what was the crime? Flatlands Tony didn’t have a clue. All he knew was what he read in the papers. There were some things it was better not to know, and wiser never to ask.

The dawning would only come later, much later, when it was too late.

It had something to do with what happened a week ago. Something about the matter of Building 261. Something about a man named Jimmy the Gent.

Brooklyn. Springtime. Daybreak.

Joseph (Gas Station) Manri had a beef. An age-old beef. He wanted more money. He had only gotten half of his $200,000 share, and he was rudely demanding the rest. With him was Bobby (Air France) McMahon, his chauffeur and bodyguard and fix-it man. McMahon had a similar gripe. The two men had an appointment. The appointment was in a candy store, one of those old-time jobs which dealt in comic books, newspapers, and chocolate egg creams in the front room, and loans, ponies, numbers, and a dozen other rackets in the back. The candy store was on 86th Street, in the commercial heart of Bensonhurst, an old-line southern Italian neighborhood that’s called home by more mobsters per square block than any other place in the world, with the possible exception of Castellammare del Golfo, a small fishing village in northwest Sicily. Flatlands Tony knew both the neighborhood and the candy store well, and he had learned of the appointment. He had a man waiting. In the back room of the candy store, Manri and McMahon were told they could pick up the money from two men at a drop site four miles away. When they got to the designated street corner, they spotted the two men carrying canvas money sacks. The men got in the back seat, slowly opened the bags, and drew out pistols. Here’s yours, Joey, one man said. Two shots rang out.

The next morning, NYPD Homicide files show, a schoolboy on his way to class found the bodies of Joseph Manri, forty-seven, male white, also known as Gas Station Joey, and Robert McMahon, forty-two, male white, also known as Air France or Frenchie, slumped over in the front seat well of a 1975 four-door brown Buick LeSabre parked on Schenectady Avenue near Avenue M, in the Flatlands section of Brooklyn. The men had been shot once each, professionally, in the back of the head with two .44-caliber handguns fired at close range. Police were puzzled by the discovery of two empty money bags in the back seat; no fingerprints were ever found. The official report on the hit lists the victims’ occupations as hijackers.

Manri and McMahon liked to masquerade as high rollers, letting on that they knew more than they did, but they were small fish in the circles they traveled in, and they had a knack for getting caught, as their mob aliases derisively make plain. Manri had once done time for sticking up a gas station, an ignominious recommendation for any aspiring button man. McMahon, another noted blunderbuss, was known as the hood who had singlehandedly botched the 1972 Kennedy Airport hijacking of an Air France truck with three million dollars in the till. They were small fry who played with the big guys, but the big guys played for keeps, and they never took them seriously. They just used them, and then dumped them in the back of a car in Brooklyn.

Yet somehow this hapless duo had stumbled into something so big it dwarfed even England’s 1963 Great Train Robbery, and it also cost them their lives. The day after the double killings, it was said on the street that McMahon knew all about the matter of Building 261, and had actually picked out some of the equipment used in knocking it over. It was said Manri had been inside Building 261 on the night it happened, wearing a ski mask. It was said both thugs had some inkling where the money had gone. It was said they were old drinking buddies of a man named Jimmy the Gent.

On the night of the twin murders in Brooklyn, Flatlands Tony was seen by several witnesses, dining in a restaurant in Manhattan.

Queens. Wintertime. Midnight.

Steven (Stacks) Edwards was probably asleep when the killer opened fire. He was undressed and in bed, and though he knew he was a target, he must have felt secure behind the door of his two-room Ozone Park apartment. It was latched, bolted, and double-locked. Stacks had made only one mistake: he should have chained the door, too.

It became known in the annals of New York crime as the key killing. Stacks had given the keys to his apartment to a couple of cronies in crime, for there was high-stakes business to be transacted there, money to be counted, and the mob needed the run of the place. Within forty-eight hours, those keys would change hands twenty-five times; they’d be passed in taverns and duplicated as they worked their way slowly, steadily, silently up through the wise-guy network. For the word was out; there was a big shot who wanted them. And at last, Flatlands Tony had the keys. He had a man waiting in an Off-Track Betting parlor. He gave him a set of the keys and he wrote down an address on a scrap of paper torn from an abandoned, day-old Racing Form. Then Flatlands Tony flashed his toothy smile and strode purposefully up to one of the betting windows.

That night, an hour after the light had gone off in Stack’s second-floor apartment, the gunman staked out on the street below started moving. The first key opened the building door. The next four keys opened the door to apartment 2B, which was locked as only New Yorkers lock doors, but which was still not locked well enough, for the chain dangled idly in its casing. Stacks probably never saw death coming, never knew what hit him. The revolver blazed six times, but the reports were only hisses. The killer locked the door behind him. The whispering death.

The next morning, NYPD Homicide files show, the landlady at 109-16 120th Street in the Ozone Park section of Queens entered newly-rented apartment 2B and found the body of Steven Edwards, thirty-one, male black, also known as Stacks, lying facedown in a pool of blood on his bed. He had been shot six times in the chest and head, and was still lying under the bullet-punctured blankets. There were no signs of forced entry, and no fingerprints were ever found.

Stacks was a small-timer who used to sing the blues and was kept around by the big guys largely for entertainment purposes. As a black hood, he was always on the outer fringes of the Italian mob, selling stolen sweaters on the street, stealing credit cards, driving the wise guys around, sporting his trademark, the telltale black chauffeur’s cap. He had his innings, just like anybody else, but he never could make very much out of them, and when the big chance finally came, he took the gamble and lost his life.

It took G-men months to piece together a handful of stray facts. Stacks had rented the death apartment just five days before it happened. That was part of the Plan. Stacks was found lifeless inside the apartment just seven days after it happened. That was part of the Plan, too, though of course Stacks would never know of it; he was expendable in the classic way that black crooks generally are expendable in an Italian mob. The apartment was only fifteen blocks away from Building 261. And a great many hundred-dollar bills that belonged in the vaults of that building had been diverted—stolen—and taken to Stacks’ digs, just minutes after the big crime was over.

It was said that the taking of Building 261 was made possible because Stacks had once done time in the federal penitentiary in Atlanta, and his cellmate there was a man named Jimmy the Gent.

On the night of the Stacks murder in Queens, Flatlands Tony was seen by several witnesses drinking in a bar and grill in the Bronx.

Long Island. February. Broad daylight.

Theresa (Terry) Ferrara was used to mysterious phone calls at odd hours from unidentified male callers. It was part of her work. She enjoyed it. So she didn’t think twice when the phone rang in her Bellmore beauty salon that evening and the voice at the other end of the line instructed her in Brooklynese to meet a contact at the East Bay Diner a few doors away. She told her niece to look for her if she wasn’t back in fifteen minutes, and then left without her pocketbook, money, and keys. But Terry Ferrara never made it to the East Bay Diner.

Earlier that day, Flatlands Tony had met with a crooked seaplane pilot. Everything was in order. He met with a couple of men the Nassau County cops would later describe only as street people. Everything was in order there, too. That sickening toothy smile flickered across his face, and he drove discreetly off away from the crime scene. The phone call came a few hours later, and as Ferrara walked jauntily toward the diner, the two men, enforcers for one of the Brooklyn mobs, leapt from their car, grabbed her, and forced her in with them. It was the proverbial last ride. No one knows what really happened that day, but gangland tipsters supplied a third-hand account, and the feds pieced together a likely scenario of Terry Ferrara’s final hours. It’s not very pretty.

The men drove to a desolate tract of marshland on the South Shore. The woman was bludgeoned into unconsciousness with a blunt instrument, anything from a baseball bat to a two-by-four. She was then carved up with a serrated object, anything from a meat cleaver to a hacksaw. The men drove onto a long-abandoned wharf where the seaplane was waiting. The pilot had owed the mob a favor ever since that day five years ago when a ranking hoodlum intervened on his behalf with the New York State Liquor Authority to obtain licensing for a club he owned. How can I pay you back? he had asked at the time. We’ll find a way, he was told. It may be days or months or years, but we’ll find a way. You can fly that thing, can’t you? Someday you’ll fly it for us. Just don’t forget you owe us one.

The seaplane pilot had never forgotten, and now the time had come to collect. The men crammed the remains into the hold of the plane, and the pilot taxied out to sea. Halfway between the Great South Bay and Atlantic City, two thousand feet above the waves, the seaplane doors banged open and the remains of Terry Ferrara were cast limb by limb into the Atlantic Ocean.

Four months later, New Jersey homicide records show, a clam fisherman in wading boots found the decapitated, dismembered torso of a woman floating near the north jetty of Island Beach State Park in Barnegat Bay, near the Jersey shore town of Toms River. It was determined that the cadaver’s chest and stomach cavities matched X-rays taken after a gallbladder operation on a woman who later vanished in Nassau County, leading authorities to identify the victim as Theresa Ferrara, twenty-seven, female white, also known as Terry, who lived in a lavishly furnished, $1,000-a-month apartment in the Floral Park section of Queens. If any fingerprints had been left on the body, they’d been scoured clean after four months in the Atlantic Ocean.

The Ferrara disappearance had the tabloids in a tizzy: Here was the mystery woman, the beautiful divorcée, the stunning brunette adventuress who met with foul play. At first, no one could figure out why. One of the strongest unwritten gangland laws is that you don’t kill a woman. Yet Ferrara was so dangerous to the mob that she qualified as a rare exception. She ran a unisex hairdressing place on the Island, but that was too slow for her. She ran with the mob, but apparently that was too slow for her also, so it was boredom more than anything else, according to those who knew her, that made her turn government informant.

Ferrara was an inveterate partygoer and a familiar figure at the discos, beaches, and watering holes of Long Island’s jet set. Her lifestyle and hundreds of contacts made her a natural for the double game she played. She socialized with mobsters, then turned them in. But she was more than a canary; she dabbled in a game with a very high mortality rate—double agentry—and she took money from both sides of the law. She told the feds everything she knew about the matter of Building 261, and was well paid for it. But she helped the mob make possible what happened in Building 261 that night, and was quite well paid for that, too. She couldn’t play both sides against the middle forever, and her downfall was sealed just forty-eight hours after it happened, when, at the urging of FBI agents, she fingered the mastermind of that whole grandiose operation in Building 261, a man named Jimmy the Gent.

At the appointed hour for the abduction of Terry Ferrara on Long Island, Flatlands Tony was seen by several witnesses, toasting a distant nephew at a wedding reception in a catering hall on Staten Island.

Brooklyn. Wintertime. Dusk.

Richard Eaton was a man a lot of people were looking for. He owed money all over town, and the word was that he had just come into a lot of cash and would start paying off if you asked him the right way, which, of course, was none too gently. He was on the lam. He hadn’t had a drink in any of the usual places ever since it happened. The trick was to find him, and he had already proved an elusive quarry. The job went to Flatlands Tony. The teeth flashed and the idiotic grin played again across his face.

The hunt that ensued provides a rare glimpse of how the mob works when it really wants to flush someone out, when it throws its full weight behind an operation. Eaton had a yellow sheet—an arrest record—which meant that somewhere in the police files there was a photograph of him. A cop who was into a loan shark pretty deep, and getting deeper, was persuaded to pull the photo. His debt was promptly forgotten. Next, runners fanned out with his picture. You seen him? the parimutuel clerk at the racetrack was asked. Well, let us know if you do. Eaton’s face went all over the city, up and down the networks, to fruit stands, gin mills, candy stores, bakers, barmaids, bookies. It didn’t matter if you were mobbed-up or not—if you were a wise guy with any kind of connections, you looked for that face. Soon the FBI was looking for it, too, for word of the mob manhunt intrigued them. But the bad guys got there first. Eaton was spotted at last by the bouncer at an after-hours taproom in Canarsie, where he’d gone to slake his legendary thirst. A couple of the bouncer’s boys followed him back to the walk-up a few blocks away, where he was holed up. The next day, police sources believe, Flatlands Tony paid a call on him. Their conversation was unproductive. As Flatlands left, pointing his car toward the Lincoln Tunnel and New Jersey, three hired guns entered. They gave him an hour. Then the noose went around his neck. They never had to fire a shot.

The next day at noon, NYPD Homicide records show, schoolkids on a lunch break peered into the rear of an abandoned trailer truck parked askew on Blake Avenue between Ruby and Drew Streets in the East New York section of Brooklyn, and discovered the body of Richard Eaton, forty-two, male white, missing more than a month. Eaton’s frozen corpse was wrapped in a blanket, his legs bound with a cord, his arms bound with wire, no marks on his body, but a noose around his neck. The Kings County Medical Examiner concluded he’d been strangled. No fingerprints were ever found on the body, the blanket, the noose, or in the truck trailer, which had been reported stolen the day before from a neighborhood just a mile and a half away: Flatlands.

For a penny-ante racketeer, Eaton was as smooth as they come. He was a graduate of Notre Dame and spoke several languages fluently. The newspapers had no clips on him in their morgues and they didn’t know who he was, so they dubbed him an international wheeler-dealer, a con man, a lady’s man, a high-class hood, a courier of crime, and other terms that came close, but didn’t really mean very much. To the FBI, Eaton was a man who moved money. Lots of it.

Agents said he was a paid courier instructed to move a few million dollars from Queens, New York, to Dade County, Florida. Agents said the money came from Building 261 on the night it happened. Agents said he got greedy, took too much of it for himself, and that was why they found him in Brooklyn with a noose around his neck. Agents also said the black address book found in his coat pocket contained the names of every prominent mobster on the East Coast, and the phone number of a man named Jimmy the Gent.

On the night of the Eaton strangling in Brooklyn, Flatlands Tony was seen by several witnesses in the audience at a Knights of Columbus benefit in Weehawken.

Then there were the disappearances. Ozone Park, Queens. January. Noon.

Thomas (Two-Gun Tommy) DeSimone, missing and presumed dead, could have been slain in any of a number of ways. G-men got three conflicting accounts. He was cut down in a volley of handgun fire, stuffed in a concrete drum, and dumped into the Hackensack River near Secaucus. I guess he’s still there, the informant said. But another source said he was clubbed to death, then buried on a farm upstate. And a third weasel said he was suffocated and laid out in the back of a rented car. No one knew. But that day they were hunting a corpse they couldn’t find, and so police opened nearly two thousand cars in the long-term parking lots at Kennedy Airport. The place is a favorite mob dumping ground, and the trunks have long been known to yield bodies. But this time all they found were spare tires.

NYPD Missing Persons Bureau records show it was noon that day when Thomas DeSimone, thirty-two, male white, also known as Two-Gun Tommy, borrowed sixty dollars from his wife, Cookie, and left the house on 116th Street in the Ozone Park section of Queens for the last time. He hasn’t been seen since. Very little else is known. The file is stamped CASE ACTIVE.

The DeSimone dossier describes a mustachioed felon who has been in and out of police lockups all his life. His arm-long arrest record reads like a how-not-to guide. First picked up for knocking over a liquor store when he was a kid, DeSimone went on to varied careers as fence, cargo thief, truck hijacker, labor racketeer, extortionist, bookies’ go-between, and strongarm man. And he did time for every one, for he wasn’t the smartest man who ever swindled a few bucks from a crooked union leader. He was often left holding the bag, or stuck with other people’s raps, and his blunders were so great, and so many people had scores to settle with him, that it was said he’d been living under the gunsight for years. Which made him a natural for a job that clearly outclassed him, where he could first be used, then discarded, consigned to death, robbed of his share and robbed of his life, and no one would complain in the morning. He was a natural for Building 261.

DeSimone was chosen as an inside man. On the night it happened, he barged into Building 261 with the other gunsels, wearing a ski mask. Once inside 261, he doffed his ski mask, apparently because he was perspiring, and the next day a witness poring over the many mug shots of Two-Gun Tommy singled him out as a dead ringer for the only man who’d shown his face. Now DeSimone was wanted by the law, and three times condemned to death by the mob: first, by his accomplices for the lesser jobs he’d mucked up; second, by top capos for the ski mask slip-up in the swoop, which had to be paid back—as mistakes of such dimensions are always paid back—with a life; and third, by the man who had involved him in the plot in the first place, for that was the hidden price of his involvement. The same man who’d been his roommate at the minimum-security halfway house above Times Square where they’d served out their terms together. A man named Jimmy the Gent.

This time, Flatlands Tony didn’t even need an alibi. No one questioned his whereabouts, and NYPD Homicide never entered the case. Under New York State law, if you don’t have a body you don’t have a murder, and DeSimone’s body has never been found.

De Simone wasn’t the only one to vanish without a trace. Hewlett Neck, Long Island. Just east of the Queens line. February. Time of day: unknown.

Martin (Little Marty the Bookie) Krugman knew they were looking for him, and he knew it wasn’t going to be a social call. What he didn’t know was when they were coming. His calling made him very visible—at certain times on certain days he called on certain taverns—and they could have plucked him off whenever they wanted him. But Flatlands Tony said to hold off; they were waiting for something first. Krugman was waiting, too, for Monday-night football, traditionally a bonanza night for the books. He knew he couldn’t go into hiding and stay in town forever; it would arouse too many suspicions and they’d be bound to sniff him out sooner or later. It made more sense to take a windfall on the game, then blow town altogether. But for the first time in the season, Monday night didn’t work out that way. It was a lousy line. The betting public bet onesided and made fortunes, that night, while the odds-makers took a bath. You couldn’t feel too sorry for most of them, but for Krugman it was his last chance. He couldn’t win on the point spread and he was edged out of the middle, too, because no one would let him lay off anymore. The wise guys wouldn’t touch his action this time because they knew he wouldn’t be around long enough to make good on it. He was beat. He didn’t have the cash to pay off, let alone bust out of town. He was stuck, and must have gone from bar to bar on his appointed rounds, looking at all the faces, wondering who would be his Judas.

The details surrounding Krugman’s disappearance are a mystery. No one knows for sure what happened except the guys who did it, and they’re not talking. Little Marty was well-fixed once, but died owing money.

Nassau County Police files reveal that it was somewhere en route from his $125,000 colonial home in exclusive Hewlett Harbor, Long Island, to the rented apartment in Queens where he ran his wire room that Martin Krugman, missing and presumed dead, mid-forties, male white, also known as Little Marty the Bookie, was snatched. There are as many theories about how they disposed of the body as there are cops in Nassau, but not a single hard clue has turned up yet. As usual in these cases, said a Mineola detective, nobody knows nothing.

Krugman, like Terry Ferrara, ran a men’s hairstyling place on the Island as a legitimate sideline, but the pace was too