Big Mike: Funny How?

Been reading T.J. English’s book, “Havana Nocturne,” about the Mob’s control of Cuba during the Batista years. New York’s Meyer Lansky and Tampa’s Santo Trafficante, along with a few lesser gangland lights, had a strangle-hold on the gaming and hotel businesses in the island’s capital city in the 1950s. Hoping to turn Havana into the Monte Carlo of the Caribbean, they funneled untold millions into the pockets of dictator Fulgencio Batista and his cronies even as Fidel Castro, Che Guevara and their gang slept on the rainforest floor in the mountains of eastern Cuba, waiting for a chance to oust the repressive regime.

Reading about the Mob — real history and not cinematic mythology — always unsettles me. Whenever people speak of mobsters, they titter and almost seem nostalgic for the days of Vito Corleone’s sponsorship of Johnny Fontaine (intentionally portrayed to suggest Frank Sinatra), the Chicago Outfit crowning Jack Kennedy president or even Tommy DeVito challenging Henry Hill by saying, “Funny how?”

The romance created by Francis Ford Coppola or Martin Scorcese aside, the mob was a terrifying bunch of sociopaths. No matter how elegantly Sam Giancana dressed, or how efficiently Anthony Accardo and Murray Humphreys ran their corporate empire, they still would have no second thoughts about bashing a guy’s skull in with a baseball bat.

I lived among mid- and lower-level Outfit soldiers in Chicago’s northwest side. In my neighborhood, virtually every block was home to several juice collectors, union goons, bookies or policy operatives. They wore pricey Italian knit sweaters and gleaming Stacy Adams shoes. They drove shiny Buick or Cadillac convertibles and decorated their homes for the holidays with more lights than can be found on the national Christmas tree in Washington, DC.

To the immediate south and west, the real big shots of the Outfit — Accardo, Giancana and others — lived in regal suburban homes among “respectable” neighbors like bank presidents and corporate execs.

Surrounded by these dirty guys, my pals and I viewed them with nervous humor and not a little bit of awe. We all dreamed of driving shiny Buick or Cadillac convertibles as soon as we got our drivers licenses. And any time we could, we joked about Mobsters.

For instance, there was a kid named Renaldo Collera, Ronnie for short. He was a sweet guy, wouldn’t hurt a soul, but he was strong as an ox. He was the best athlete among us. He could run like the wind, hit the ball a mile, throw perfect spirals and sink baskets from halfway to Elmwood Park. A Sicilian, Ronnie had a shock of curly hair so wild that it stood straight up even in a mild breeze. For this and his physical attributes, we called him The Jungle Man.

Poor Jungle Man. When we were in eighth grade, his daddy-o made the papers. A clerk in the City Collector’s Office, Salvatore Collera handled liquor license applications. It seems he’d handle some applications in a far more timely manner than most, primarily because those particular applicants had wisely given him generous cash gifts. Unfortunately for The Jungle Man’s pop, the US Attorney took a dim view of such largesse and prosecuted him. Sallie Collera eventually was invited to spend a few years as a guest of the federal Bureau of Prisons.

One hot afternoon, after playing hardball in the Lovett School field, we were walking toward The Jungle Man’s house where, he promised, he’d mix up some Wyler’s lemonade for us. Suddenly, a long, black Cadillac squealed around the corner. Fat Marc, sweaty and panting, hollered out, “Take cover! It’s Sallie Collera! It’s a mob hit!” The rest of us leaped into the bushes as if for protection, screaming in laughter. That is, the rest of us except The Jungle Man.

“You fuckin’ assholes!” he yelled.

Fat Marc called out from the bushes, “Hey Jungle, whattsa matter with you? You wanna get hit?”

“Stop it, you jags!” The Jungle Man demanded, his eyes filling with tears.

Naturally, we could no more stop it than we could stop ourselves from breathing. The Jungle Man stomped off. “Yo Jung,” Banana Nose Joe called out, “what about the lemonade?” The Jungle Man flashed the finger at us without turning around.

We laughed ourselves silly for the next few minutes. After catching his breath, Banana Nose Joe suggested we run over to Connie’s Italian Beef, pick up some real lemonade and bring it to The Jungle Man. Within an hour, we were all sitting on The Jungle Man’s stoop, sipping lemonades and making fun of Banana’s nose and Fat Marc’s weight.

The Jungle Man was smart guy. The next time he saw a long, black Cadillac while we were all together, he yelled out, “Take cover!” All of us — The Jungle Man included — leaped into the bushes as if for protection. We roared doubly hard that time and The Jungle Man had preempted any further teasing about the Mob and his daddy-o.

Funny thing is, no official had ever accused Sallie Collera of Mob connections. But what with The Jungle Man’s Sicilian roots and the fact that Sallie was a convicted felon, well, we felt compelled to make the connection.

We’d have never made fun of guys whose fathers really were connected, guys whose fathers’ pictures were regularly in the papers. We weren’t interested in having our jaws broken or worse. We’d all seen the deep purple blood stains on sidewalks where real Mobsters had been hit.