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Tuesday, November 15, 2005
In Today’s column: "XHEVEDET 'JOE' LIKA, THE ALBANIAN DRUG LORD, AS DEPICTED IN CONTRACT KILLER. BY HOFFMAN & HEADLEY (January 1, 1992)," "From CHAPTER 20: 'CONTRACT ON A U.S. ATTORNEY;'" and "From CHAPTER 21: 'THE GREEK TURNS RAT.'"
Professional Necessity
Organized crime historians and writers must forever be on the lookout for ethnocentrism in their work and in the work of their peers. The organized crime literature is among the most ethnocentric studies of them all.
What is Ethnocentrism?
"(Greek ethnos ("nation" + -centrism) or ethnocentricity is the tendency to look at the world primarily from the perspective of one's own culture. Many claim that ethnocentrism occurs in every society; ironically, ethnocentrism may be something that all cultures have in common." See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethnocentrism
The opposite of ethnocentricity is "cultural relativity." Organized crime historians and writers must seek to achieve a level of universal cultural relativity in their work and in the literature as a whole.
What is Cultural Relativity?
"Cultural relativism is the principle that an individual human's beliefs and activities make sense in terms of his or her own culture." See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cultural_relativism
From the standpoint of the American Mafia, i.e. the standpoint of the UNDERWORLD ESTABLISHMENT, the Albanian gangster who seeks to remain UNCONNECTED is an "outlaw." Zef Mustafa is an Albanian gangster who, on the contrary, is VERY CONNECTED.
Zef Mustafa
Zef Mustafa is an Albanian gangster who has never had a legitimate job. He is, however, good at murder, extortion and other criminal activities. Mustafa is an alcoholic who drinks all day long. From 196 to 2002, Zef Mustafa earned $19 million as a part of a massive Internet fraud scheme that netted $250 million from marks who were the lover's of pornography. They stupidly provided their credit card numbers at websites controlled by Zef Mustafa's cosa nostra confederates.
Contract Killer: The Explosive Story of the Mafia's Most Notorious Hit Man Donald "Tony the Greek" Frankos by Willaim Hoffman & Lake Headley, (January 1, 1992), Thunder's Mouth Pr; 1st ed edition, ISBN: 1560250453, pages 277-286, tells us about Xhevedet "Joe" Lika, the Albanian outlaw.
Tony the Greek's account of his experiences with Joe Lika, as recorded by William Hoffman and Lake Headley (January 1, 1992) in Contract Killer, is an ethnocentric one. Although he is not an ethnic Italian-American, but rather the son of a Greek-American father and an Italian-American mother, Tony the Greek uses the Italian-American Mafia as his sociological reference group.
What is a Sociological Reference Group?
"Groups we use as standards to evaluate ourselves." See: http://www.sociology.osu.edu/classes/soc101/mccloud/101.autumn05.notes.10.05.05.pdf
We see Tony the Greek’s self-ascribed ethnocentrism and reference group in his language.
From CHAPTER 20: 'CONTRACT ON A U.S. ATTORNEY'
As Tony the Greek is quoted in Contract Killer by Hoffman & Headley (January 1, 1992):
"In 1984 I was taken to MCC in Manhattan to give a disposition on our civil lawsuit. My cell partner at MCC was Junior Persico, boss of the Columbo family, a man I never saw smile. Persico had a paralyzed arm------the result of an attack by Larry Gallo-----and a warrior's courage. He had taken over the reins of the Columbo family from Joseph Columbo himself, who was killed on June 28, 1971, at that Italian-American Unity Day Rally in Columbus Circle by that black hit man working for Joey Gallo.
The Columbo family Persico headed dealt in hijacking, shylocking, cocaine, numbers, and extortion-----a great deal of extortion. And the family dealt in murder. When Junior Persico marked someone to die, it happened-----often from the Mafia don personally pulling the trigger. He would kill in a heartbeat, and didn't need a great deal of provocation.
Junior Persico controlled numerous nightclubs, some of which he shared with Fat Tony Salerno of the Genovese family. Members of the organization tended to be young, inexperienced and trigger-happy, but thier lack of sophistication was compensated for with boldness.
Junior Persico didn't rank as the only celebrity at MCC. There were a number of big-time mafiosi, a gaggle of politicians, even a Soviet spy.
Everybody on our floor, believing the place was bugged, conversed in sign language. This was awkward, however, and code words were occasionally spoken aloud, or on some occasions people simply forgot and spoke.
I was popular among the Mafiosi who admired killers and thought it admirable that during a period when rats proliferated, I merely swallowed a twenty-five-year minimum. Sometimes I let myself feel pretty good about it, too, especially when someone like Junior Persico indicated approval. After all those years, I still craved acceptance" (p 277).
According to Tony the Greek's account, as recorded by William Hoffman & Lake Headley (January 1, 1992), there is more substance between Xhevedet "Joe" Lika's legs than there is between his ears.
The Ultra-violent Underworld Outlaw
Testosterone begat chemical dependency which begat ultra-violence. Ultra-violence, in turn, begat "respect."
"It was in our cell that I first met Albanian drug lord Xhevedet (Joe) Lika, known as the "three legged man" because of his long c----, which he displayed proudly. He spent a lot of time strutting around naked, even played cards in the nude. Lika, 5'7", had an elongated torso, short stubby bow legs, and very white skin. He didn't like Italians and they left him alone because he was so violent. Like Japanese kamikazes, his drugged up hitters would go after John Gotti, Paul Castellano, or even President Reagan, if Lika gave the word. There was no way to stop people like that, and Mafiosi knew it" (pp. 277-278).
Even though his is not a name of household familiarity in the American upperworld like "Al Capone" and "John Gotti," Xhevedet "Joe" Lika is known in the international underworld.
A ultra-violent outlaw is unscrupulous. He is ultra-macho and, will indiscriminately order anyone he perceives as an obstacle to his aspirations.
Hoffman & Headley (January 1, 1992), in Contract Killer , continue Tony the Greek's narrative:
"A few days after Junior Persico introduced us, Lika visited our cell while Persico was away. Usually he preferred speaking to me in Greek, but this day in talked in English, using a lot of "mother-f-----s."
"You know motherf----- Mike Bici?" he asked.
"Yes," I said," "He's at Auburn."
"The motherf-----. You hit that motherf----- for me? I pay you twenty thousand dollars."
Mike Bici was slated as star witness in Lika's upcoming drug trial. Since I'd be returning to Auburn after my civil deposition, Lika figured I was his man. In need of more money for lawyers handling the appeal of my murder conviction (their meters never stopped running), I told him I'd try to take care of it.
But Lika wasn't finished. Two days later he called me into his cell and said, "I might want Bici's father killed."
"Why?"
"If you can't get that mother----- Mike, then his father's gotta go. Can you help me with this?"
I said I could find someone.
"There's more," he said.
"Yeah?" Lika's mother? I wondered. This was a bloodthirsty little bastard.
He produced pictures of two men.
"This one, he's a mother----- government lawyer. Alan Cohen. He thinks he can put me in jail and not pay. He dies for putting me in jail."
"How about the other guy?"
"Drug cop. Mother----- arrested me. Broke into my home. He dies too."
"With the DEA?"
"That's it. D---whatthe****youcallit---EA."
It began to sink in. Lika wanted me to kill Mike Bici, and failing that, arrange a hit on Bici's father. He also wanted to whack an Assistant U.S. Attorney and the federal agent who busted him. I looked at the Albanian-----he was buck naked-----and saw a face twisted into hate.
"I hear you're good," Lika said. "Mother----- who work for me, they get caught. Then I get caught. You can help me, Greek?"
"Maybe. How much you willing to spend?"
"A half-million dollars. Something less, you understand, if your people can't get them and have to kill their wife and children instead."
And I believed him. One reason the Mafia gave Lika such a wide berth was because he would have an entire family blown away. He didn't give a s---- about antiquated Cosa Nostra customs like "respect" (pp. 277-279).
Albanian outlaws give pause not only to the members and associates of the Italian-American underworld, but also to the members and associates of other organized crime groups.
Initiative: Ultra-violence and Narcotics
Even fellow mobsters are afraid t o do business with the Albanian gangs. A member of the "Kielbasa Posse," an ethnic Polish mob group, speaking anonymously for Philadelphia's City Paper, declared in 2002 that Poles are willing to do business with "just about anybody. Dominicans. Blacks. Italians. Asian street gangs. Russians. But they won't go near the Albanian mob. The Albanians are too violent and too unpredictable.
Using Tony the Greek's words, William Hoffman & Lake Headley (January 1, 1992) continue:
'"Where did you get these pictures?" I asked, referring to the photos of Cohen and the DEA agent.
"Hey, there's nothing I can't get. They got s---- about me, I've got s---- about them."
"Yeah," I said, neutrally.
"Who you gonna get?" he asked. "Joe Sullivan? He's your friend, I hear. I'd like that. The famous Joe Sullivan."
"Joe's in Comstock."
"Fat Tony Salerno?"
"I can't got to Fat Tony with s--- like this."
Lika made me nervous. On what planet did he live? Everybody in organized crime knew Sully was locked away, and I suspected even schoolchildren understood that Fat Tony didn't hire himself out as a killer. I was talking with a loose cannon, nevertheless one offering half-a-million dollars. I didn't doubt he had the money, and twenty times that amount. Plus I had the perfect guy for him.
I called Jimmy Coonan. "Got something big for you," I said.
"The bigger the better," Coonan said.
Come down to see me.
Coonan and his brother Jackie, each in a $1,500 suit, showed up in the visitor's room two days later. Coincidentally, Joe Lika was also in the big enclosure, talking with his wife and three kids.
"How's my man," Coonan asked.
"I'm not doing too good," I said, which elicited an inappropriate Richard Widmark cackle from him.
"What you got?" he asked, after palming several hundred dollars into my hand.
I palmed them back. "These are too big for in here," I said. "Try to break them down next time you visit. Tens and twenties."
I told Coonan the deal: $300,000 for Cohen; $150,000 for the DEA agent; and $50,000 for Bici's old man, if I failed to take out his son Mike.
"That guy's crazy," Coonan said. All them f------ Albanians are crazy."
"Yeah," I agreed.
Coonan sat thinking. His brother Jackie didn't say a word. I knew Coonan would go for it. Unlike Fat Tony, killing was a major part of his business.
"Tell him it's a deal," the Westies boss told me.
"Right," I said, "take his money, do the job and haul a--."
"It shouldn't be much of a problem," Coonan decided. He also decided he wanted $200,000 in advance.
"I don't see why not," I said.
Coonan got up to leave and for just a moment he lcoked eyes with Joe Lika, who had been paying more attention to our conversation than to whatever his wife had been saying. Coonan gave him an almost imperceptible nod: it was a go.
Well, not quite. When Lika cornered me after the visit were over, he agree to pay $100,000 in front, more after the first killing took place. "Coonan won't turn down a hundred grand, right?" he said.
Wrong. Coonan got pissed off and threatened to forget the deal. He was a rich guy at this time, doing a lot of killing for the Gambinos, and had established a solid friendship with John Gotti, heir apparent to Paul Castellano. "I don't need this s---," Coonan said to me. "Tell this crazy Albanian its two hundred thousand or I'm out."
Lika said to offer him $150,000.
I did.
Coonan held out for $200,000.
Lika wanted the job done. "I will go that high," he said, "but try to get it for a little less."
Jesus Christ. Here I was relaying offers and counteroffers to my friend Jimmy Coonan from Joe Lika, a guy I didn't even like who expected me to negotiate him a better deal. What the f---are you doing, Greek? I asked myself.
The question made me think about a lot of things. The simmering anger I felt about that twenty-five-to-life. Now I played messenger boy for Lika and Jimmy Coonan, and Lika hadn't offered me a dime over and above the $20,000 for Mike Bici, though I knew Coonan would cut up his share.
A dozen rationalizations flooded my mind, reinforcing, I suppose, an idea I had suppressed ever since the murder conviction: that I ought to start looking out for my own best interests, which didn't include a possible accessory-to-murder charge in the killings, for Christ's sake, of federal government employees.
I hated the idea of being a rat. I know everybody says that, but I believe my entire life points to this truth: the main satisfaction I obtained as a criminal came from being acknowledged as a tough guy, a hitter, an individual who knew the consequences and accepted them. Most important, the only friends I had were criminals; I wasn't comfortable with anyone else (I remembered the misery of my two tries at honest employment. pumping gas and selling pretzels), and if I went to the cops I'd become a pariah.
The thought wouldn't leave my head, though I tried to banish it. It made my stomach churn, and I cursed myself repeatedly, calling myself every name in the book. I became physically sick, retching in the toilet bowl, but the thought would'nt go away. Hell, it won't hurt to think about it, I kidded myself, me who wouldn't rat on even a hated guard or some big son-of-a-b---- who was hurting young kids.
Maybe it could be done without anyone knowing, I began to think. A one-shot deal. No one would be hurt. Surely the Lika-Coonan information I possessed would register as a blockbuster with the feds, and I figured they likely give me a quid pro quo, something for something. Specifically: reducing that f******* twenty-five-year sentence to fifteen, so maybe there'd be a few years left when I got out.
I honed the plan in my mind, waffling this way and that. I came up with a way to do it where nobody would suffer, but still I hesitated because I would know that I'd been a rat.
What tipped me over the edge was a hack's joking aside that prisoner's should watch what they said, "the walls have ears." I fantasized that listeners already knew the multiple murder plan, and I stood right in the middle of it. I convinced myself that I could save everyone a lot of headaches, actually do them a favor, and help myself besides. I know now I was rationalizing, though some of it worked out pretty much as I planned.
A few day's later I whispered in a guard's ear, "I want to talk to the U.S. Attorney."
Instead, when called out of my cell, I met Jim Nauwens, a criminal investigator for the U.S. Attorney, Southern District. We talked in his office, right next to MCC, in a building teeming with federal prosecutors' (pp. 279-282).
The Alex Rudaj Organization, New York's Sixth Family?
Alex Rudaj (Allie Boy, Uncle Radaj, Xhaxhai, Sandino Ruovic), 38, of Yorktown , New York, is the leader of an Albanian gang that at one time was associated with the Gambino Cosa Nostra Family, one of New York’s five indigenous cosa nostra families.
In the third week of the "Albanian Mafia Trial," prosecutors said that Rudaj and his friend Colotti broke off from the Gambino Crime Family after Phil Loscalzo died in the early 1990s. Their goal was "to become one day, they hoped, a sixth family."
Who is Nardino Colotti?
Nardino Colotti (Leonardo, Lenny), 43, of the Bronx, N.Y., is the Italian protégé of Phil "Skinny Phil" Loscalzo and a co-leader of the Albanian gang.
Who was Phil Loscalzo?
Phil "Skinny Phil" Loscalzo is a deceased Gambino Crime Family soldier.
Sometimes an ethnic gang will start out "connected" to the American Mafia and evolve into an "unconnected" American Mafia rival. From the standpoint of the American Mafia establishment, the members of the Alex Rudaj Organization are outlaws.
From CHAPTER 21: 'THE GREEK TURNS RAT'
It must have been easy for Tony the Greek to characterize Xhevedet "Joe" Lika in a stereotypical and ethnocentric manner. After all, Tony the Greek flipped on Joe Lika. Tony the Greek tells it all to William Hoffman & Lake Headley (January 1, 1992):
"I've got information you'll want," I said, NEVER BEING one to dance around the point. Still, I didn't like being here. No matter how I justified it to myself, it felt wrong.
"What is it?" Nauwens countered, also wasting no time. His manner was friendly enough, but he knew we came from opposite sides of the law. Both of us were wary.
I told him about my sentence. Obtain fifteen-to-life for me, I said, and I'll make you a hero for saving some important lives.
"I have to know what you've got."
The 5'10", soft spoken, blond Nauwens mimicked a New York wiseguy beautifully, and I judged him a straight shooter, a first impression that has been confirmed many times. I didn't kid myself that he was in my corner, but unlike other government men I later encountered, he never raised hopes only to shatter them after he got what he wanted. During this initial conference I believed him when he said he couldn't even suggest a deal to his superiors until he learned what I had to say.
I ran down the whole story about the contracts on Bici, Bici's father, Cohen and the DEA agent. Nauwens took notes and asked questions, maintaining a poker face, but I knew the information rated top of the line.
"How about that fifteen-to-life?" I asked.
"What you've said needs to check out."
"I know that. It will. But, no matter what you decide, I'm not testifying against nobody. I've given you the details you need to save some lives, but I'm not going further."
"Let me look into this," he said.
"Yeah. But do it carefully. I'm dead if word gets back to the inside."
Nauwens and others conducted their own discreet investigation and confirmed what I had told them.
A week later I found myself back in the investigator's office. I was asked whether I would be willing to enter the Federal Witness Protection Program.
"I don't think I'm interested," I replied. They'd want everything if I joined the Federal Witness Protection Program, and I couldn't do that to the only friends I had.
I wanted to make my own life better. The feds hadn't given me anything yet, and I wondered if I'd made a mistake spilling my guts about Lika. I should have gotten something before telling them what I knew. I'd been a sucker, and now they ached for more. This crowd of investigators and prosecutors had a pretty good idea of the detailed, comprehensive information I could provide (twenty-five years doing business with godfathers and wiseguys, hearing their most intimate secrets). They didn't say it, but I don't think they ever intended to make a deal, even if I gave up everything.
The government wasted no time squashing Lika's murder plot. While elaborate precautions were taken to protect Cohen and the DEA agent, investigators made it clear-----face-to-face-----with Lika that they knew of his plans, and he'd be the sorriest son of a bitch in the world if they weren't dropped (its hard to see how it could have been worse for him as it turned out: upon conviction for the drug charges, he was sent to Marion Prison, a horrible place, probably for the rest of his life).
Federal agents began tracking Jimmy Coonan's every movement. He soon figured out what this meant, and although he had already abandoned the idea of whacking Cohen and the DEA agent, the pressure amount to insurance against the deed ever being committed.
No one in MCC suspected that I had provided the information that short-circuited the conspirary. Lika and Coonan thought the feds had discerned the plot from tape recordings, which made sense: they weren't being prosecuted, so how could there be a live witness? It wasn't for lack of prosecutorial zeal that Coonan and Lika avoided finding themselves in the dock. Right from the start I was asked to wear a wire, record the whole story on tape. I refused.
So-----no one had been hurt, though my position hadn't been improved a whit. It was worse, in fact. I knew I'd betrayed one of the few tenets sacred to me.
My civil deposition on the beatings in Westchester finally completed (Kersch and I ultimately received $180,000 in damages), I was returned to Auburn, where I became the rope in a tug-of-war between two powerful forces, the Mafia and the government. Although their goals were different-----the former wanted my silence, the latter wanted to hear me sing-----each employed a carrot approach. John Gotti, Junior Persico, Fat Tony Salerno, and John Sullivan all sent their regards, and promises of any assistance needed. The FBI stayed in touch, an agent several times dropping the word "protection."
It made me think. Did I need to be protected? Maybe yes. Might not some of the people who had hired me in the past decide that a dead Greek would put an end to their worries? I was no longer of use to them, and I knew scores of their secrets.
Correction officials transferred me to Comstock Prison in 1985 for what turned out to be a (probably) last reunion with Joe Sullivan. Locked near us was a heavyset punk-----Joe called him a "garbage can"-----named David Berkowitz, known to the world as Son of Sam.
"You're not to very well liked," I said to Berkowitz the first time I saw him. "Why did you shoot all those young girls?"
He was afraid, and should have been. "What can I say?" he answered. "That was my life."
I turned out to be wrong about his not being well liked. Every business day I saw women lined up to see him. Many of them had come to propose marriage.
Two events occurred in December that flopped me into the government camp: the murder of Gambino family godfathers Paul Castellano, and a message I received from Gotti drug dealer Oreste "Earnie Boy" Abbamonte.
The powerful Castellano was gunned down, along with his underboss Tom Bilotti, on December 16, 1985, in front of Sparks Steak House on East 46th Street in Manhattan. I never doubted Gotti was behind the killing (he immediately became the new godfather), and I later learned from fellow rats I locked with that one of the shooter's was John's brother Gene.
Serving as a lookout was none other than Jimmy Coonan.
Now Gotti had even more to lose if I sang to the feds, but he was too smart to authorize what Ernie Boy Abbamonte did: send a message that said, "There's not a rock big enough for a rat like you to hide under."
No, John didn't approve that warning. I knew him too well to believe he's alert his quarry. We had become friends at Dannemora, I'd met him three or four times a week during my brief 1981 flirtation with freedom, and he'd stayed in touh ever since. Ernie Boy acted on his own-----maybe he had his reasons for hating me, though I never figured them out.
It took no genius to figure out Gotti's motives. I had been referred to as a "rat" and this means the new godfarther had learned about my role in the Lika case. Where could this information have come from except a source within the U.S. Attorney's office? Perhaps a Mafia mole? Or maybe some office flunky not satisfied with the government pay scale? The feds have their own rats.
Rage at Gotti overwhelmed every other consideration. The treacherous son of a b_____ whated me whacked. Well, maybe I'd be the one who did the burying.
I acted in unthinking haste, engaged that John Gotti had ordered my death. Well, I was no Willie Boy Johnson, willing to wait meekly for the assassins to show.
I called Jim Nauwens and said, "I want to talk to you."
"About the Program?" he asked.
"Yeah?"
"You're gonna have to tell us everything."
"Yeah" (pp. 283-287).
Xhevedet "Joe" Lika Today
Xhevedet "Joe" Lika, 55, is still doing life at the Marion USP. His register number is 100.