This Day in Mafia History

Hey, listen up, pal! It’s friggin’ mind-blowing, y’know? Practically every freakin’ day of the year is tied to some important “Family” shenanigan. I mean, c’mon, you got your typical hits, your busts, those unfortunate suckers who didn’t fare too well in court, or maybe they just mysteriously vanished into thin air (Hey, Tony, where the hell are ya?). But hey, it ain’t all doom and gloom, capisce? We got some of The Boys tyin’ the knot, and others gettin’ sprung from the joint. And let me tell ya, we got these huge-ass meetups goin’ on right here too. Ya know, life’s a rollercoaster in this business.

So check it out. We got this fancy calendar thingy, right? It’s got all these tiny icons, so even you can understand what the hell’s goin’ down. And it’s packin’ all the juicy details about what went down on those dates. Keep your eyes peeled, and don’t ask too many damn questions.  Got it?  Good.

JULY

On July 1, 1933, things went south for Alice Kenny Diamond, known in the streets as KiKi Roberts. This dame, the widow of the infamous Jack “Legs” Diamond, was found with a slug to her left temple at 1641 Ocean Avenue in Brooklyn. Word on the street is, Jack’s enemies wanted her silenced for good, but some whisper it could’ve been her own doing. The scene was fishy, with three cups of joe on the table, showing Alice had some company before meeting her maker. Cops said her face was stuck in a look of pure disbelief, like she couldn’t believe her luck had finally run out.

July 1, 1928, a Sunday afternoon, and Frankie Yale, the big shot of Brooklyn, gets a strange call at his Sunrise Club. The caller says something’s up with his new wife Lucy, back home with their baby girl. Yale, thinking it’s trouble, jumps into his flashy, coffee-colored Lincoln coupe, ignoring his buddy Joseph Piraino’s offer to drive. He tears up New Utrecht Avenue, but a Buick sedan with four armed goons pulls up next to him. Yale’s ride had armor, sure, but those windows were wide open for bullets. When the light flips green, he floors it, but the Buick’s on his tail. They chase him up New Utrecht, then west on 44th Street. The Buick gets close, and they let loose—a shotgun blast to the head and a submachine gun bullet through the brain. Either one would’ve done the job. Yale’s Lincoln, now out of control, jumps the curb and crashes into a brownstone stoop at No. 923. This hit marked the first time a submachine gun was used in a New York gangland killing. Despite reports in August that two guys were being hunted for the murder, the killers of Frankie Yale vanished into the shadows, never to be identified.

On July 4, 1902, a firecracker by the name of Maier Suchowljansky, later known as Meyer Lansky, pops into the world. This ain’t no ordinary baby; this kid grows up to be the “Mob’s Accountant.” Lansky, along with his pal Charles “Lucky” Luciano, sets the stage for the National Crime Syndicate in the good ol’ U.S. of A. This guy was no pencil pusher; he was the brains behind the mob’s money, making sure every cent was counted and every racket was running smooth. Born on Independence Day, it’s like fate knew he was gonna be a big shot in the land of opportunity.

Listen up, ya mugs! Lemme spin ya a tale about the birth of the slickest cat to ever walk the streets, Johnny “Handsome Johnny” Roselli. Born Filippo Sacco on the Fourth of July, 1905—yeah, that’s right, Independence Day, and boy, did he take that to heart. This kid didn’t just make fireworks in the sky; he lit up Hollywood and the Vegas Strip like no other. The Chicago Outfit saw his potential and snapped him up quicker than you could say “Jack Robinson.” And get this, even the spooks over at the CIA wanted a piece of Johnny’s action, ropin’ him into a scheme to take out that Cuban hotshot, Fidel Castro. Now that’s what I call a star-spangled start!

Frank “The Dasher” Abbandando, born July 11, 1910, was one of the meanest mugs to ever walk the streets of New York. This guy wasn’t just any contract killer; he was a maestro with an ice pick, aiming straight for the heart and never missing a beat. Part of the notorious Murder, Inc. crew, he left a trail of bodies that made the Grim Reaper blush. But it ain’t all sunshine and roses for a guy like The Dasher. After offing a Brooklyn loan shark, the law finally caught up with him. They gave him a one-way ticket to Sing Sing, and on February 19, 1942, he took his final bow in the electric chair. Now that’s a birthday story to make you think twice.

July 11, 1931, in Brownsville, Abe Reles, with Frank “The Dasher” Abbandando and Harry “Happy” Maione, started their war on the Shapiro brothers by draggin’ Irving Shapiro outta his home and beatin’, kickin’, and shootin’ him. Bye-bye Irving.

July 12, 1979, the day the game changed: Carmine “The Cigar” Galante, Leonard Coppola, and Giuseppe Turano got whacked at Joe & Mary’s Italian Restaurant. The New York crime families were sweating over Galante’s gutsy move to grab the narcotics market. Genovese boss Frank Tieri played diplomat, rallying Cosa Nostra’s big shots to greenlight Galante’s demise, even roping in the retired Joseph Bonanno. With Rastelli, the official boss, pushing for it, the Commission didn’t hesitate. They gave Joseph Massino the nod, and the hit was on. As Galante savored his last lunch at Joe & Mary’s on Knickerbocker Avenue, flanked by loyalists Coppola and Turano, his so-called bodyguards, Amato and Bonventre, sat tight. At 2:45 pm, three masked hitters stormed in, shotguns and handguns blazing. Galante, Turano, and Coppola dropped dead on the spot. The infamous photo showed Galante with a cigar still clenched in his teeth. Amato and Bonventre? They didn’t lift a finger and walked out untouched. The killers vanished, leaving a bloody statement in their wake.

Thomas Gaetano Lucchese, also known as Tommy, Tommy Brown, or Tommy Three-Finger Brown, kicked the bucket on July 13, 1967. After being in and out of the hospital since August ’65, the big boss of the Lucchese crime family finally met his end from natural causes at his crib in Lido Beach, Long Island. Born on December 1, 1899, this Italian-American wiseguy was one of the founding fathers of the Mafia in the U.S., bringing that Cosa Nostra heat from Sicily. From ’51 to ’67, Tommy ran the show, leading one of New York City’s notorious Five Families.

July 8, 1939—Peter Panto had the guts to tell an ILA crowd that Anastasia, Adonis, and Vincent Mangano were making moves to control the union. Anastasia didn’t like that. Six days later, on July 14, a phone call lured Panto out of his house, and that was the end of him.

On July 15, 1936, FDR himself put the kibosh on President Harding’s 1921 sweet deal for Ignacio Lupo, the slick counterfeiter. He yanked that commutation faster than a getaway car and tossed Lupo back in the clink. Ain’t no more free rides for this wise guy!

On July 16, 1948, Charles “Charlie the Jew” Yanowsky, the big shot of the Hoboken docks, got his ticket punched. Found stabbed to death in Clifton, Jersey City, Charlie was a real syndicate mobster, tight with a New Jersey governor. This guy wasn’t just any wiseguy; he was an organizer for the International Longshoremen’s Union, running the New Jersey piers with an iron fist. Before he ended up in the morgue, Charlie did time in Alcatraz and even survived getting shot in the back by the Feds, only to bounce back and keep running his rackets. Back in ’36, the cops busted up an Arsenal gang in a west side New York warehouse, where these mugs had been cooking up some serious heat for their bank jobs. Charlie the Jew, now he’s swimming with the fishes, but his story’s one for the ages.

July 16, 1953: Just outta the slammer, Joe Adonis ain’t gettin’ no break—he’s already up to his neck in perjury charges. Ain’t that a kick in the head?

July 16, 1973: The end of an era, boys. Michele “Big Mike” Miranda kicks the bucket. This ain’t just any wiseguy—Big Mike was a Genovese consigliere, one of the real power players in New York’s underworld during the ’50s and ’60s.

July 16, 1973—Thomas Eboli, the “front boss” of the Genovese crime family, got whacked with five shots to the head and neck while crashing at his girlfriend’s place in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. They picked Capo Frank “Funzi” Tieri to step into his shoes, but everyone knew the real shot-caller since ’69 was Philip “Benny Squint” Lombardo.

July 16, 1936: Ain’t no more freedom for Lupo the Wolf. Ignazio Saietta, that old Black Hand terror at 60, got himself locked up again, must serve 20 more years on a new racket. The big man in the White House himself, President Roosevelt, pulled the plug on his parole, after Lehman and Geoghan raised a stink ’cause the bakers were complainin’. So, the gates of the Atlanta penitentiary slammed shut yesterday on Lupo, the oldest public enemy around, with over $3 million stashed away back in Italy from his New York hustles. Looks like the wolf’s got no more runs left in him.

On July 20, 1934, the Brooklyn Troop gave Abe Reles a hand in settlin’ a score with them Shapiro brothers. Only William was left, and he’d already sworn off the racket three days before, tellin’ his sister Rose he was “gettin’ out” and ditchin’ any thoughts of payback for his dead brothers. Smart move, but a bit too late, see? They cornered him in the basement of some joint on Rockaway Avenue. Reles, Abbandando, Gurino, Maione, and Strauss showed him no mercy—beat him and strangled him till he was just another statistic.

July 20, 1942: Moses Louis Annenberg wasn’t just some ordinary Joe. Born in Prussia back in ’77, this fella came over to Chicago, started out sellin’ papers on the street, and ended up runnin’ the Philadelphia Inquirer and the Daily Racing Form, among others. But let me tell ya, even a big shot like him ain’t untouchable. Roosevelt’s boys caught up with him for dodgin’ taxes to the tune of over three million bucks. They threw the book at him, just like Capone. Annenberg did his stretch in the pen, but he got out in June ’42. Sadly, he didn’t last long. A brain tumor got him, and he checked out at the Mayo Clinic on July 20, 1942. A real rags-to-riches tale, cut short, capisce?

Alright, youse better listen up, ’cause this is one for the books. On July 21, 1935, the big cheese, Joseph Amberg, teamed up with his muscle, Jack Elliott and Frank “Little Frankie” Teitelbaum, to take out Brownsville’s own Hymie Kasner. They snuffed him, stuffed his body in a sack, and dropped it down a manhole like yesterday’s trash. Now, if they knew Kasner had ties to heavy hitters like Albert Anastasia and Louis Capone, they didn’t give a damn. But when Kasner’s body washed up in Jamaica Bay, the big bosses called a syndicate court. Even Joe Adonis and Ben Siegel tried to save Amberg’s hide, but the vote went south, and Amberg went underground, running for his life.

Kuppy Migden had been shadowing Philip Orlowsky for a week. On July 25, 1939, it was showtime. He rolled out with the hit squad—Louis Capone, Bugsy Goldstein, Seymour Magoon, and Jack Parisi. They spotted a guy who fit Orlowsky’s description leaving his place on East 178th Street. The crew followed him and let loose, hitting him with six bullets. But they messed up—big time. Instead of Orlowsky, they took out Irving Penn, some music exec. As he lay dying, Penn told the cops, “I don’t have an enemy in the world.” Too bad for him, he ran into the wrong ones.

Born on July 27, 1904, Abner “Longie” Zwillman was a force to be reckoned with in the world of organized crime. This Jewish-American mobster carved out his empire primarily in North Jersey, rubbing elbows with the likes of Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky. Zwillman’s criminal operation, a key player in the National Crime Syndicate, thrived from the 1920s through the 1950s, hitting its zenith in the late 1930s. Longie was a powerhouse, a name that struck fear and commanded respect across the underworld.

July 27, 1934—Brooklyn Troop member Walter Sage got what was coming to him. We iced him 32 times, tied him to a slot machine frame, and sent him for a swim in Swan Lake. Took till the 31st for him to show up, but we knew he wasn’t going nowhere.

Born on July 28, 1909, Harry “Pittsburgh Phil” Strauss was the coldest killer to ever walk the streets. A top enforcer for Murder, Inc. in the ’30s, he whacked over a hundred men—some say even up to 500—using whatever was handy: guns, ice picks, water, dirt, you name it. Phil never packed heat, always keeping it clean in case the bulls nabbed him. Known to his pals as “Pep,” he was knee-deep in assaults, heists, and dope deals. Busted 18 times but never nailed until he got pinched for whacking Irving “Puggy” Feinstein. Tried to play crazy to dodge the rap, but it didn’t fly. Him and his partner, Martin “Buggsy” Goldstein, got fried in Sing Sing’s Old Sparky on June 12, 1941. Curtains for ol’ Pep.

July 29, 1919: Johnny Spanish, born Giovanni Mistretta in ’89 on the Lower East Side, was no ordinary mug. This guy was a real tough cookie, makin’ his bones in labor racketeering, holdups, and even murder. He ran with the Five Points Gang, but things went south with his old pal Kid Dropper. They had a beef over a dame, and it wasn’t pretty. After a stretch in the slammer, Spanish got out and dove back into the dirty business, even becoming a big-time dope peddler. But on July 29, 1919, his luck ran out. While strollin’ into a joint at 19 Second Avenue, three goons pumped him full of lead. Kaplan was fingered, but the charges vanished like smoke. A rough end for a rough guy, capisce?

Two weeks after his “WANTED” notice vanished, Anastasia pulled a fast one and joined the U.S. Army. He pitched himself as a cargo-loading expert. At 39, he was right in the crosshairs of the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940, which had all men from 21 to 45 signing up for the draft. With his rep and rap sheet, you’d think they’d laugh him out the door, but nope—they took him in. He got his marching orders and reported for duty on July 30, 1942.

Listen up, ’cause I’m only sayin’ this once. On July 30, 1975, Jimmy Hoffa, the big cheese himself, vanished like a ghost outside the Machus Red Fox Restaurant in Michigan. Poof, gone, just like that. No one’s laid eyes on him since, not a trace, not a whisper. Whoever pulled this job knew what they were doin’. Hoffa didn’t just disappear; he was disappeared, capisce? Ain’t nobody talkin’, and those who know ain’t sayin’. That’s the code, and that’s how it stays.

Alright, listen up, ’cause this tale’s got all the juice. Salvatore Maranzano, born July 31, 1886, in the gritty streets of Castellammare del Golfo, Sicily, wasn’t just any wiseguy. This fella, nicknamed “Little Caesar,” stormed into New York and took the reins of what’d become the Bonanno crime family. In 1930, he kicked off the Castellammarese War to snatch control of the American Mafia, icing rival Joe Masseria in April ’31 and crowning himself capo di tutti capi—the boss of all bosses. But power’s a dangerous game, and on September 10, 1931, Charles “Lucky” Luciano had him whacked, setting up The Commission to keep the peace and share the power among the Five Families. Now that’s a rise and fall straight outta a gangster’s dream.

July 30, 1941: So, Whitey Krakow finally got his ticket punched. Born Walter Krakower, this New York hitter for Murder, Inc. took his last breath on Delancey Street, shot dead like a dog. They say he ran with big names like Bugsy Siegel and Frankie Carbo, even though folks got it twisted thinkin’ he was Bugsy’s brother-in-law ’cause of his last name. Whitey was neck-deep in the game, suspected in the rub-out of Harry “Big Greenie” Greenberg back in ’39. But karma caught up, and it was fellow hitmen Abe “Kid Twist” Reles and Allie “Tick Tock” Tannenbaum who fingered him before he got whacked. He wasn’t the only one, though—guys like Benjamin Tannenbaum, Sidney “Shimmy” Salles, and Tony Romero all met similar fates. After Whitey got iced, the whole Murder, Inc. crew started foldin’ and singin’ to the law.