The Apprentice

Walking the back ally’s and side streets of Philadelphia with a mobster was not exactly how I envisioned my first day of my apprenticeship. It all began with my father’s involvement as a bookkeeper for the Salvatore Sabella Family in the summer of 1921.

l was born in South Philadelphia in 1906. Thousands of immigrants, emigrated to New York and Philadelphia at the turn of the century to fulfill their dream of a better life, including my father. He had worked as a tailor and part-time bookkeeper in his native Sicily. He opened a small tailor shop in South Philly that provided us with the sustenance needed to stay alive. My father became friendly with a member of an Italian street gang. It wasn't long before he started aiding them in bookkeeping and money laundering. Our family's fortunes took a huge leap forward, and we moved into a small two-story home within the city limits. In high school, I excelled academically and was determined to pursue a career in medicine or law. My mother applauded this idea but father withheld his salutary comments until he felt the time was more appropriate. My life took a sudden turn in the wrong direction on a brisk, sunny morning in March,1926.

My father asked me to meet him in his downtown office. I rode the trolly bus out of the Southern Depot, dropping me off within walking distance of my father's place of business. The trolly bus had only been open a little over a year and was still considered a marvel by most of us. Despite his small size, my father always maintained an air of sophistication, dressed impeccably in the finest suits he could afford. His hair grayed at the temples and he donned wide-brimmed glasses that partially concealed the scar extending from his left eye to his cheek. The man sitting opposite him was a massive hulk of a man. He was puffing a cigar that protruded from the corner of his full lips. The smoke wafted over his prominent nose. His hair was dark and unruly and draped over his dirt rimmed collar. The man’s poorly tailored suit hung on his body as he slumped in the chair.

"Sonny, this Tony Bianco. He is one of Salvatore Sabella's lieutenants. He has a proposition that you might be interested in."

I had heard of Salvatore Sabella. My father seemed all too familiar with saying the man's name. I wondered if my dad could be involved with the mob? I had no interest in having any kind of relationship with Tony. "I can spare a minute, father. I have classes starting in an hour."

Tony stood and reached out his hand. He was larger than my first impression. His hand was the size of a ham. To intimidate me, he crushed my hand. I was frightened and intimidated. "So, Sonny. You are the young man Joey has been boasting about. Doing well in school, he says. That is good. I never went to school myself, but I do well. Ask your father." He looked at my dad, who nodded affirmatively. "Your father says you want to be a doctor or lawyer. Is that true?

I nodded, wondering where this conversation was heading.

"In my business, we have no need for doctors. Morticians, yes, but doctors, no. A faint smile formed on his lips and then quickly disappeared. "We do, on occasion, require the assistance of a good trial lawyer. My boss believes in cultivating a lawyer from a young age. Sort of like training a horse to jump fences or a dog to run through a hoop. You get what I'm saying?"

"I'm not sure where this is going since I don't have a horse or a dog."

"Ah, Joey, your son has a fine sense of humor. That is good. Just caution him to treat Tony with respect. You know what I mean?"

I looked in my father's direction. He appeared nervous. "I apologize, Mr. Bianco, but I am unclear about the point you are trying to make."

Tony looked at me for a while without speaking. "Sonny, your father has given his consent for you to serve an apprenticeship with me this summer before you enter college. In return, we will pay your expenses for college and law school. After that, you will make time in your practice to see that the Sabella family is provided legal advice if the situation arises. Don't say something right now that you might regret later. Talk this over with your family tonight and we will meet tomorrow. Same time, same place." He rose from his chair and lumbered from the room.

After he left, my father motioned for me to sit down. "I don't want your mother involved in this situation, son. Let's keep this between you and me. I made a mistake about ten years ago. Money was tight, and I wanted more for you and your mother. They asked me to make adjustments in the Sabella family's books. At the time, this appeared to be harmless, and I wasn't concerned. Before long, I was involved in money laundering schemes. Now I have put your life in jeopardy. Unfortunately, the mob does not take kindly to the word no. They consider it a personal affront and act accordingly. Please consider the apprenticeship and college. Become a brilliant lawyer for everyone's benefit. Then go to some other state, like California. Set up practice and ignore this contract."

Too stunned to speak, I sat down across from my father. He sat with his head bowed, studying his hands in his lap." It's all right, father. I will just quietly acquiesce and not raise any red flags." My father raised his eyes, much relieved, I am sure.

Two weeks later, I met with Tony and officially began my apprenticeship. I was completely unaware of the multitude of illegal and legal enterprises that the family was engaged in. Covert establishments conducting wagers on a diverse array of sporting events. Lawful drinking establishments where men were seated at tables in private rooms, engaged in gambling activities. A door with a peephole granted access to an opulent chamber, where courtesans recline on plush sofas, anticipating their next patron. They also owned a five-star hotel and a first-rate restaurant.

I spent much of my time studying the intricacies of money laundering. The Family would funnel money through intricate transfers and transactions, or through select legitimate enterprises. The money is “cleaned” of its illegitimate source, making it appear as legitimate business profits. They were bringing in huge amounts of cash from their illegal enterprises that they needed to conceal from local authorities and the IRS. Their legitimate businesses received the cash in paper bags and reported it as cash income. My life became more complicated and interesting. Tony wanted me to learn about "layering the money". This is a convoluted process that involves funneling the money through multiple transactions, accounts, and entities. They considered sending the money through one or more foreign currency exchanges. They expected me to learn about investing in the financial markets. When the money accumulated, it would be transferred to accounts in offshore tax havens where banking transactions are less regulated.

I studied hard and was enjoying what I was doing. I realized what I really needed was a joint business-law degree. My father received glowing reports on my apprenticeship. My mother was happy I was learning the ins and outs of running a business. If she only knew the truth, perhaps I wouldn't be sitting where I am now.

Tony entrusted me to the care of their business consultant. He made sporadic visits to check on me. Roger was a quiet family man with two children. It seems likely that he was coerced or compelled to take on this job. He knew if the books fell into the hands of the authorities, he would spend years in jail. Bright and early one morning, Tony came by and informed me we would go to the shooting range. I knew better than to ask why.

We drove along a rural dirt road, arriving at a location where targets were arranged against the backdrop of a low hill. My dad was a hunter, so I was familiar with guns and was a pretty fair shot. Another man who arrived earlier, opened the trunk of his car as we pulled beside him. They did not introduce me to him. Tony took two pistols from the man and handed me one. He explained it was a Colt Police .38 special. He was holding a .45 caliber 1911 Colt. Tony seemed pleased to be talking about guns and I had the feeling he knew what he was talking about. The other man brought over two boxes of ammunition and set them on a low wooden bench. The targets were cut-outs of a man placed about 20-30 yards away. I had the honor of being first. I emptied the gun and felt pretty rather pleased with myself. I knew I had hit the target.

Tony pulled out a small field glass from his coat and studied my target. He smiled for the first time since I'd been acquainted with him. "Not bad. Then he raised the .45 and fired six times in quick succession. "Shall we go down and see how dead our men are?"

I looked at my target first. Of the six shots I fired, five hit the target, scattered around from top to bottom. Tony's target looked a bit different. All six bullets had torn a hole in the man's chest you could cover with the palm of your hand. I was deeply impressed and my fear of Tony intensified even further.

Tony slapped me on the back with his meaty hand. "Come. We need a little practice."

We spent the rest of the morning with Tony coaching me as we fired the pistols and the1903 Springfield rifle the man brought to us. Eventually, I enjoyed myself and certainly improved my shooting skills. I wasn't sure why I needed to be a marksman, and the answer came as a complete surprise.

We went to the shooting range on two more occasions. Tony seemed pleased with my progress. I told him I was going off to college at the end of the month, so this would probably be my last chance to be on the range with him. He nodded, but said nothing. Later, on the ride back, he seemed pensive, as if he was weighing alternatives somewhere in that thick skull of his.

"Sonny," he finally said. "There is a party that I want you to attend with me next Friday night. I'm not asking. This is mandatory. Here is the address. It's across from the civic center. Meet me in the lobby at seven sharp. There is no need to dress up." He let me out of the car with no further explanation.

Friday night rolled around, and I made my way to the civic center. In my heart, I was glad my apprenticeship was coming to an end. This cloak and dagger game was weighing on me. The prospect of entering college brought with it a great sense of relief, particularly because the cost was fully covered. I went across the street to the hotel, where Tony was pacing back and forth in the lobby. "Looks like a big to-do about to take place outside the civic center, Tony. What's going on?"

Tony said nothing, just motioned for me to follow him. We rode the elevator to the third floor. Tony appeared apprehensive and there was a glistening film of perspiration on his face. He inserted the key for room 306 and we entered. From the window, I could see all the commotion across the street as the party was getting under way. Tony locked the door and walked over to the bed. It was at that moment I laid eyes on the .38 pistol and the Springfield rifle. A sudden chill ran from my toes to my naïve brain. We were here to assassinate someone. That was the reason for all the target practice. I was going to be a party to it. Then it hit me. This was the mayor's annual kick-off party for his fall campaign. We were going to assassinate the mayor. I turned to Tony, whose gloved hands were wiping his fingerprints from the rifle. I elevated my hand in protest, prompting him to seize the pistol and point it in my direction.

"This is the last thing we are going to ask of you, Sonny boy. Consider it the final phase." A thin smile creased his lips as he handed me the rifle. "Now, open the window and wait for the mayor to take the podium. Make this a clean shot and we are out of here. Miss and it's you that will not see the sunrise tomorrow morning. You can consider this a sort of initiation into the Family."

I knew better than to protest or ask him why they want me to kill the mayor. I opened the window and sighted the rifle on the crowd across the street. This would be a less challenging task than aiming at the diminutive target silhouettes. People were clapping and blowing paper whistles as the mayor began to address the crowd. The mayor spoke, and the crowd quieted down. I repositioned the sights from the mayor's head to center them on his chest. Tony was getting restless and tapped me on the shoulder. The mayor raised a bottle of champagne, making a toast. I pulled the trigger.

The bottle of champagne exploded, and glass and party participants flew in all directions. People were screaming and pointing toward me in the open window. Security cops were rushing across the street. I turned and Tony stood there with his face red with anger.

"Why you little, little son of a whore," he managed to spit out."

He should not have said that. I shot Tony center mass, just like he instructed me to do. He tried to raise the pistol, and I shot him again. Man, he was one tough sucker to get off his feet. He staggered, dropped the pistol, and fell to the floor.

I gently lay the rifle down, leaned back against the wall, and closed my eyes. I knew I must be dreaming. The door burst open, a group of shouting men stormed into the room, brandishing their guns. Then, all was quiet. I felt a hand on my shoulder and a voice sounding like he was speaking through a 50-gallon drum said. "What have you got to say for yourself, young man?"

I opened my eyes and answered with a sad smile. "Well, sir, I guess I just lost my scholarship."

The End