Authors: Greg B. Smith
Nothing But Money (24 page)
Such were the problems Robert Lino was always dealing with. Anybody who was put with him was there for a reason. Usually the reason was money. The guy had a healthy sports book or shylock operation. The guy had his hooks into a union. The guy owned a strip club or a nightclub or any business that involved lots of cash. The guy had something to offer. Robert, in return, let them use his name and the power of the Bonanno crime family if disputes arose with other Mafia families or any other form of criminal fraternal organization. That was his end. Also he had to show up and settle the dispute.
Usually this was an arrangement that worked out in Robert’s favor. Take, for instance, the situation with another guy who reported to Robert: Jeffrey Pokross. Here was an earner. He had been running car lease schemes for years and had not once visited the inside of a jail cell, but had consistently kicked up significant amounts of money to Robert Lino and the Bonanno crime family. In recent weeks, Jeffrey Pokross had encountered a problem with a Gambino associate named Billy. Billy was a large guy, probably six foot four. Jeffrey was a small guy who was good with numbers and quietly robbing people blind but wouldn’t know how to give somebody a beating if his life depended on it. Billy had been involved with one of Jeffrey’s insurance scams, where the driver, in this case Billy, pretended to have a car accident. Jeffrey’s friend, another Bonanno associate named Patty Muscles, would use his auto body shop as a cover to generate fake bills, and the insurance companies would pay out. Jeffrey, Billy and Patty Muscles all split the amount evenly. Only Billy had decided Jeffrey had stolen some of his share. Billy didn’t have any real proof of this, just the fact that he was huge and Jeffrey was not. He called Jeffrey on the phone and screamed that he was going to kill him and his children’s children if he didn’t cough up some cash. Jeffrey hung up and called Robert Lino. Robert told him to let Billy know that if he had a problem, he should call Robert from Avenue U. Jeffrey did as he was told, and that was the last time Billy bothered him.
In return Jeffrey got Robert a car and sent him a nice fat envelope at Christmas. That was the way it should be: make a phone call, get a car. Then Pokross said he might be able to get Robert a salary. This guy Pokross claimed to have a stockbroker’s license and was going to start up a brokerage house that almost sounded legitimate. He was going to call it DMN Capital, and he’d rented out an office a few blocks from Wall Street. Pokross let it be known that he felt the stock market was about to go through the roof, and he wanted Robert from Avenue U to be part of that.
Robert didn’t really understand how it all worked, but he could tell it was easy money. It wasn’t hijacking trucks or collecting shylock loans or chasing down degenerate gamblers for the vig. With this crowd it was highly unlikely there would be a need for a beat-down, and the amount of money this Pokross was promising was fantastic for doing practically nothing. Pokross had told him he would only be needed if other mob families figured out what was going on down on Wall Street; then Robert would step in and smooth the way.
It all seemed simple enough, although Robert was well aware there was a specific rule in
la cosa nostra
forbidding involvement in the stock market. That rule, of course, was like most rules in the world of gangsters—it was nonsense. The glory days of
la cosa nostra
were finished. The FBI was cracking down on all the traditional money sources: the garbage carters, the fish market, the unions. Wall Street was simply a new opportunity, and if you missed out you were nothing but a fool. For a guy with a sixth-grade education who had trouble signing his name, this kind of arrangement sounded pretty good.
la cosa nostra
forbidding involvement in the stock market. That rule, of course, was like most rules in the world of gangsters—it was nonsense. The glory days of
la cosa nostra
were finished. The FBI was cracking down on all the traditional money sources: the garbage carters, the fish market, the unions. Wall Street was simply a new opportunity, and if you missed out you were nothing but a fool. For a guy with a sixth-grade education who had trouble signing his name, this kind of arrangement sounded pretty good.
It was never this easy with Jimmy Labate, who had finally entered the restaurant and sat down next to Robert. He stared at the contractor like he would like nothing better than to pour a pot of boiling coffee on the guy’s lap.
The contractor explained the situation. He didn’t want to put anyone on the payroll, but out of respect to Robert Lino of Avenue U, he allowed for two guys. He made it clear he couldn’t afford four guys on the payroll, and Jimmy had agreed that two guys—not four—would suffice. Robert asked Jimmy if it was true that he’d agreed to two guys, not four. Jimmy admitted that it was true.
Robert slapped Jimmy in the face.
“You shook hands with this man and then reneged on the deal?”
Robert made it clear how this would work. Jimmy, who was also making a salary at Jeffrey Pokross’s Wall Street operation, DMN, would now deliver a portion of his salary every week to the contractor until the guy was compensated. It was a win-win situation for Robert Lino. The contractor was now his best friend, and Jimmy would learn a lesson about restraint. Maybe. Sometimes being a soldier in an organized crime family was a big pain in the ass.
Mid 1995
Usually Robert Lino didn’t stop down to DMN Capital more than once a week. The narrow streets around Broad and Wall were not exactly familiar territory for Robert from Avenue U. There he looked more like a janitor than a man of respect, with all these college guys in suits and ties and the whole attitude of exclusivity that hung in the money-driven air. Usually he’d drop in just once a week, on Thursday afternoon, make a little small talk, see how things were going, pick up the envelope of $1,500 cash. Sometimes he’d check up on the people he’d recommended for jobs there. There were some brokers he knew of through other members of the Bonanno family who were working there at his recommendation, and he needed to know that they were holding up their end. Usually a visit to DMN was an uneventful affair, a session of listening to Jeffrey’s list of minor complaints and applying common sense to resolve them.
Until now Wall Street had been nothing but money for Robert Lino. The disputes were tiny. A broker claims he hasn’t been paid by a stock promoter. A promoter claims a broker isn’t holding up his end by pushing the bogus stock they’re trying to pump up. That sort of thing happened every day down there. It was no big deal. The big deal would be some guy from another one of the families laying claim to specific brokers or stock promoters, or another family screwing around with the schemes of DMN by manipulating the stock DMN was trying to manipulate for its own ends. So far Robert had had only a few interactions with members of other organized crime families, and all had resulted in solutions both sides could live with.
Now that was changing. Until now only a handful of wiseguys out there had figured out what Wall Street had to offer, and that had been good for DMN and Robert Lino. Most wiseguys really weren’t cut out for it anyway. Most had barely made it halfway through high school before dropping out, and they were usually overwhelmed when confronted with quarterly reports and understanding when a company was overleveraged or undervalued. Robert Lino himself had made it only through sixth grade; he hadn’t come close to basic algebra and was nowhere near the calculus required of an MBA.
Recently, however, Robert had become aware that there were other guys from the neighborhood out there who did understand the numbers game. In fact, more and more of these guys were showing up.
It started with Philly Abramo. He was a captain in the wannabe family from New Jersey, the DeCavalcante group. He claimed to be the father of the pump and dump scam, which was nonsense but sounded impressive. Pump and dump had actually been around since the 1980s, when a handful of gangsters made some money hyping bogus stock. Regardless, practically everyone in the underworld knew that Philly Abramo had mastered the art of keeping pump and dump below the radar. That, of course, was the key. You didn’t actually have to know everything about Wall Street to play the game. You just had to appear to know what you were talking about. It was the magician’s trick—misdirection. Make the audience pay attention to your left hand while your right hand is robbing them blind. Philly Abramo was the Harry Houdini of Mafia Wall Street.
And now he wasn’t alone. It had long been rumored he was making millions—not thousands, not tens of thousands, not hundreds of thousands. Millions, all on Wall Street. And he didn’t have to pull out a gun, shove in a knife, chop up a body, pour in the concrete—none of that messy business. He surrounded himself with guys who could do that, but even they rarely had to make a guy disappear. Mostly the scheme worked with a mere threat, and that was easy. These Wall Street guys—even the corrupt ones—were pushovers. Just talk about putting them inside a fifty-five-gallon drum and they’d do whatever you wanted. Fear without blood. That was a good deal. And now everybody had heard of Philly Abramo and his millions and it was clear that Philly Abramo was no longer going to be the only gangster on Wall Street.
As a result of Philly Abramo and his reputation for pulling down millions, Robert Lino had received a telephone call from Pokross about a guy showing up at DMN’s office on Liberty Street who didn’t belong there. This wouldn’t have been a problem if the guy was just another stock promoter, but this guy was claiming to be with the Lucchese crime family and had announced that DMN was now going to be his.
Robert Lino did not need this aggravation. Here he was, a married man now, his wife a college-educated administrative assistant for a big corporation in New Jersey (and the daughter of a gangster). They were planning on having children. This was the new Robert Lino: family man. Unfortunately the old Robert Lino, Robert of Avenue U, had to surface occasionally to ensure the provider could provide.
Today’s problem was the Padulo brothers, Vito and Vinnie. The two were registered stockbrokers in their late thirties who’d bounced from one boiler room to another and were now pushing stock for DMN. Jeffrey Pokross had invited them in to push a couple of new stocks DMN was selling, and was paying them bribes to do it. The two companies were called Beachport Entertainment, which allegedly put on ice shows, and International Nursing, which owned a couple of nursing homes on Long Island but was pretending to be a multimillion-dollar operation caring for seniors coast to coast. For weeks Jeffrey wrote checks to the Padulo brothers to hype both Beachport and International Nursing. As far as he knew the Padulo brothers were not affiliated with any particular crime family. Jeffrey was wrong. He realized his mistake the morning a guy with glasses called Joe Baudanza showed up at the offices of DMN along with ten of his own personal brokers without a legitimate license between them. Baudanza announced that they were setting up shop at DMN, as the Padulo brothers had requested.
A broker named Robert Gallo was there when it happened and he called Jeffrey Pokross, who right away called Robert Lino. Robert Gallo knew this Joey Baudanza from the neighborhood. He called him “the kid with the glasses.”
“This kid with the glasses, he’s up there with a whole crew,” he told Pokross. “What’s he doing up there? It’s Robert’s place.”
Now Robert Lino was forced to drive over to DMN, and it wasn’t even a Thursday. He went into Pokross’s office and took this guy, Baudanza, with him. They came out a few minutes later and Lino went into another room with Pokross.
“How could you let this happen?” he said. Robert said he’d take care of it, and when he left, he wasn’t smiling.
This was a big problem. It was like one group of pirates coming upon another group right after they’d opened the map and saw the big “X” in the middle. It meant the Bonanno family would have to sit down with the Lucchese family and figure out a way to divide up the spoils without seeming weak. This did not seem right considering that the spoils had been created by the Bonanno family in the first place. And it raised questions about the loyalty of the Padulo brothers. Who, precisely, had told them bringing in another Mafia family to DMN was a good idea in the first place?
A few days later Baudanza, the kid with the glasses with the Lucchese group, was out of DMN. That took care of the Lucchese group. Then the Colombo group showed up. This time it was the Padulo brothers again, whining about money. They had a different math than Jeffrey Pokross. They claimed DMN owed them $160,000 more in retroactive bribes, and they wanted it because they were out the door and headed for a boiler room operated by the Colombo family. Again Pokross called Robert Lino; again Robert Lino had yet another sit-down, this time with the Colombo family. Again he prevailed, and DMN didn’t have to pay the Padulo brothers a cent. Out the door they went, leaving Robert from Avenue U with a bad feeling about Wall Street.
CHAPTER TWENTY
January 19, 1996
By seven thirty in the morning, the crusaders of Wall Street marched toward the New York Stock Exchange, resolute in their pursuit of the Grail. The streets of Lower Manhattan were alive with the bustle of ambition: Broad Street, Wall Street, Beaver Street, Exchange Place, Maiden Lane. Each teemed with crusaders assigned their mission. These knights were called stockbrokers, investment bankers, financial analysts, each the product of years of training. Instead of learning the skills of archery or fencing or hand-to-hand combat, these knights had immersed themselves in the principals of accounting, the language of economists, the calculus of profit. None wore a steel mail leotard or cast-iron helmet. They wore Burberry topcoats, Brooks Brothers suits, crisp white shirts, silk ties. None carried a broadsword or lance or shield. They wielded shiny leather suitcases with gold monogrammed initials, stuffed with earnings reports and 10-Qs. Their noble steed amounted to the Seventh Avenue IRT subway line.
In the crowd one soldier of fortune pressed forward, wrapped in winter coat and scarf, head bowed against the January wind. His name was Robert Grant, stock picker, and he pressed forth with the purpose of one who believed he would surely be richer by day’s end. He was headed for his job at the Monitor Investment Group, and he didn’t want to be late. When you’re on a crusade, being late is simply not an option.
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