LEFT FOR DEAD


By

SAL GRECO










Acclaim for
LEFT FOR DEAD


“Sal Greco understands how to tell a story. His real strength is in his ability to write convincing realistic dialogue. Reading the book, you can actually hear the voices of characters like Jake ‘The Wrench’ and Tom ‘The Animal’ as if you were right there with them. Greco’s intricate detailing of everyday mob life makes this book all the more believable and therefore all the more enjoyable. The book ends up being an inspirational tale of a man who, after losing nearly everything, is able to turn his life around and live a life of example for others. Whether you’re a fan of Mafia stories or not, this book will keep you entertained from cover to cover and more importantly, it will leave you feeling touched and inspired.”

Valentine Brkich
eResource 2005

"Sal Greco's telling of Joe Bellante's story moves rapidly. Greco lets us see clearly inside Bellante's head as a child and a young man. He uses simple words and short sentences to good effect in order to accent the violent and purposelessness of Bellante's life. The book is a page turner and hard to put down."

Writers Digest 2004

"Left For Dead by Sal Greco is the biography of Pittsburgh organized crime figure Joe Bellante, and the assassination attempt that turned Joe's life around and set him on the road to the ministry in search of redemption. A clear-cut testimony of the hardships of survival and powerful pressures that mold life for good or ill, Left For Dead is highly recommended reading for anyone with an interest in the culture of American organized crime."

Midwest Book Review 2004

“There have been a lot of books written about organized crime but never one like this. It is a tale of one man’s journey from rebellion to ruin to restoration of his soul. Having known Joe for over 40 years, I can assure the readers the author has captured the raw energy of Joe’s incredible life. I have been an eyewitness to Joe’s transformation.”

Reid Carpenter - CEO, Pittsburgh Leadership

“If I ever met anyone I didn’t want to mess with, it was Joe Bellante. If I ever met someone I would call if I needed help or love, it would be Joe Bellante. A dramatic and humorous novel well worth the read.”

Dr. Herbert Barks – Hammond School - Author. Reading the River, Primetime

“Normally, I wouldn’t read anything like this, but after I read a few chapters I couldn’t put the book down. I pictured these guys as regular people. It’s easy to get caught up in this funny, light read.”
Carol Silvis – Teacher, Author

“Even when he was on the street, Joe never wanted to hurt anybody--unless they really deserved it. These days, he’ll fight for your soul with the same strength he flexed in the bad old days. He’s an American classic--the tough guy with a heart of gold who found redemption.”
Joseph Sabino Mistick
Law Professor
Duquesne University


“Left for dead is more of an experience than a read, while turning the pages you feel as though you're right there at the table with Joe and his friends.”
Joe Varhola, writer/director DOG PLAYERS

“Sal Greco brings a Bukowski-esque writing style to this hard boiled story of a Pittsburgh mobster. A great read.”
Gerard Vanaski
Freelance editor



CONTENTS


Introduction 11
1 Take the Cannoli 13
2 Dungeons and Diamonds 21
3 Shot in the Dark 25
4 Staying Alive, Staying Alive 30
5 The Toolbox 38
6 The Color of Money 43
7 Extra…Read All About It 50
8 Deliver Us … 58
9 Holy Water 66
10 Confession is Good for the Soul 70
11 Confusion and Confirmation 76
12 There’s Money in Trash 80
13 Spending Spree 87
14 T & A 91
15 Camp Catastrophe 96
16 Young Life to Young Dragons 102
17 Lost My Appetite 108
18 Take This Job and Shove It 112
19 No Money…No Meat 116
20 Black Hand 124
21 On the Mob Training 131
22 Collection Agency 139
23 Get Me to the Church on Time 146
24 Dollars and Sense 148
25 Burgers and Bullets 156
26 Mine’s Better than Yours 162
27 Money, Money, Money 165
28 In the Still of the Night 172
29 Nothing Better to do 179
30 Monkey Business 184
31 Bear Hunting 192
32 Molotov Cocktail 198
33 Travel by Trunk 201
34 Down by the River Side 209
35 Double Trouble 215
36 Man Made 221
37 Target Practice 230
38 The Nasty Neighbor 236
39 Pork Chops 244
40 Saving Santo 248
41 Trouble at Five O'clock 252
42 Take the Money and Run 259
43 Money’s no Object 268
44 Top Ten Hits 278
45 Pay up or … 286
46 Don’t Get Around Much … 293
47 Recuperation 302
48 Looking for Revenge 306
49 Hit or Miss 311
50 Working for a Living 313
51 The Second Time Around 318
52 We Were in the Neighborhood 321
53 Last Supper 325
Epilogue 332









INTRODUCTION


At age ten, Joe Bellante traveled with his father, a numbers man, and saw the bookmaker’s dining room table stacked with cash. Walking around the table touching the money, he grinned and said, “I want to do what he does, Dad.”

Several months later he acquired a gun.

At age twenty, he was an enforcer for the mob in Pittsburgh. His specialty was loan sharking, extortion and ‘doing things to people.’

At thirty-two, he was at the top of his game. He had big cars, money, expensive clothes…and enemies.















CHAPTER 1

TAKE THE CANNOLI
July 17, 1972






Santo opened the glove compartment, took out a .38 automatic and slid it into his pocket. A few minutes later he steered his black sedan onto Larimer Avenue; an Italian section in the East End of Pittsburgh, and screeched to a halt in front of the Blue Falcon Club.
To outsiders the Blue Falcon was an Italian Social Club. To insiders it was a place where illegal gambling took place. Hijacked goods and loan sharking dollars distributed. Heisted cigarettes and booze purchased. Six thousand people lived in the area but not one of them was a member of the Blue Falcon.
The car air-conditioning cooled him off before he slid his two hundred ninety pounds from the car. He leaned against the fender in his fine
tan Italian suit. His silk shirt had three buttons opened to expose the gold chain laying in the forest of his chest. Peering out from under his straw fedora, he scanned the neighborhood, instinctively keeping his back covered. He waited for Jake ‘The Wrench’ Pizzaro.
He and Jake were two of about fifty soldiers and associates who worked for organized crime in Pittsburgh.
Jake lumbered out of Moio’s Italian Pastry Shop which was a few doors away from the club. His black silk shirt glimmered in the afternoon sun. He was a Mack truck of a guy stuffed into a five foot nine frame. He earned his nickname for breaking kneecaps, crushing elbows and cracking heads with the twelve-inch pipe wrench he carried in a black briefcase. He gestured to Santo’s car. “Hey, new car?”
Santo grinned and in his guttural voice said, “Yeah. ‘71 Buick Roadmaster. Got it a couple months ago. Always wanted a black sedan.” He sounded the same whether he was joking, talking about women or giving the details of a hit. He tugged at his pants and scratched his balls.
Jake held open a bag to Santo. “Here, take a cannoli.”
“Naw. I just ate lunch.”
“Boy, I love these. I could eat a dozen.” Jake blessed himself and took a bite. Everyone knew about Jake’s rituals. He blessed himself if a funeral car passed, blessed himself before he gambled at the track, at cards or the craps table or before he hit a guy with the wrench.
“Dozen? You eat a dozen and you’ll gain twenty pounds.”
“I could eat two dozen and never go over three sixty. You want something else? Lemon ice?”
“No. Nothin’.” Santo laid his forearm on Jake’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “Hey, you hear anything about me on the street?” Mothers strolled by, pushing babies in carriages. A few Italian widows dressed in the traditional black followed close behind.
“Like what?” Jake bit into the cannoli, powdered sugar sprinkled down the front of his black silk shirt.
Santo removed his straw hat and mopped the heat of the day from his coal black eyebrows. “Like somebody out to get me. Maybe even a contract. You get the picture?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Somebody shot at my car last week when I was driving through East Liberty.”
Jake tugged at the button on his shirt and grabbed another cannoli. “Did what?”
“Shot at my car. You know anything?”
A truck driver hit his air horn for a car double-parked in the street. Both men stood quiet until the truck passed. Jake said, “What’s that?”
“I said, somebody shot at my fuckin’ car. You know anything?”
“Naw, I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout that.” Jake swallowed the mouthful of cannoli.
Santo dropped his cigarette butt and ground it in the pavement. “Anybody else around? Pete, Tom, Richie? “
“Naw. Nobody’s around. No one’s at the club either. I seen Mark on the street. He said he was goin’ to see Sam Bocari.”
“I’ll look for him. If you hear anything, call me.”
Jake finished the cannoli, licked his fingers and brushed the powdered sugar from his shirt. He scrunched the bag and threw it in the street. “Yeah, I’ll do that. I’m gonna get a couple more cannolis.”
Santo watched Jake walk back into Moio’s. Shaking his head, Santo mumbled, ‘Pig.’ He scanned the streets. After lighting another cigarette, he strolled down Larimer Avenue, watching an old woman pull up her stockings, two girls playing with a hula-hoop, and shoppers toting bags.
Though Santo’s thoughts were elsewhere, he was aware of four guys on the corner arguing in Italian.
Down the street, he ran into Nicky ‘The Trunk’ Rocca standing under the faded red sign of Ramini’s Bakery working on a slice of pizza. He drawled, “Hi, Nicky.”
“Yeah, Santo.” Nicky backed away. “Hey, you got a cigarette?”
Santo knew about Nicky. Everyone at the Blue Falcon Club knew about Nicky. Life on the street had drained him of his youthful looks and exchanged it for acne, pale skin and poor health. The poor bastard looked fifty instead of twenty-five. Talked and moved like he was on fast forward. Skinny, puny guy weighed half of Santo’s weight. Liked to hang around wise guys. His side business was ‘trunking’ - breaking into car trunks and pawning the stuff. He was always seen lugging golf clubs, bowling balls, tires or toolboxes into pawnshops all over town.
Tapping his pack of Camels, Santo offered one to Nicky. Nicky wiped his mouth with his arm and laid the slice of pizza on a car fender. He wiped his hand on his T-shirt and cupped his hands around a match to light the cigarette. His hands were shaking. He took a long drag. “Thanks, man.”
Santo stuck the pack back inside his suit pocket and laid his arm on Nicky’s shoulder. Nicky’s body tensed. “Thanks for the tip you gave me a couple weeks ago. About that warehouse.”
Nicky twisted his neck to look at Santo “Yeah. Yeah. Sure, Santo.”
“Hey, you hear anything about me on the street?” Santo blew smoke rings.
Nicky jingled coins in his dungaree pocket. “Like what?”
“Like somebody lookin' to get me.”
Nicky fingered his moustache and squinted. He smiled and revealed a line of misshapen gray teeth. “I heard some shit.”
Santo fingered his gold chain necklace. “So, what you hear?”
Nicky took a heavy drag. Smoke circled around them. Nicky took another drag. “Can I have another smoke?”
“Yeah, here.”
Nicky took the cigarette sticking it behind his ear.
Raising his voice, Santo stepped closer. “What you hear?”
“Like maybe one of your guys.”
“Where’d you hear it?”
“Outside the Blue Falcon last week. Couple guys talkin’. I heard your name. Somethin’ about screwin’ up a deal.”
“You know the guys?”
“Two guys.”
“Whaddaya mean two guys?”
“I don’t know ‘em. Never seen ‘em before. Two big goons.”
Santo kept the cigarette dangling out the side of his mouth. “Yeah. What else? You got a name?”
“Yeah. Whadda you do for me?”
Faster than a cobra, Santo’s thick hand grabbed a fistful of Nicky’s T-shirt. “Look, you little piece of shit. I ain’t here to bargain with you. You get the picture?”
Nicky stared at Santo’s mouth. His hands shook. “Okay. Okay. I just thought you could help me out. You know, help me out. Maybe gimme a load of TVs, cameras. Some good stuff to hustle.”
Santo let go of him. “I'll see what I can do for you. Now, gimme a name.”
“Joe. Joe Bellante. That's the name.”
Santo thought about the funny story about Joe going around the Blue Falcon. Joe got Nicky a grass-cutting job for one of the mob guys. Nicky never showed up and when asked by Joe why he didn’t go, he told Joe, ‘The bus driver wouldn’t let me on the bus with the lawnmower.’ Joe didn’t say anything. He lifted Nicky over his head and threw him in the dumpster.
Santo stared at Nicky. His face-flushed. He smashed his fist into his left palm. “Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!”
“Yeah. Joe’s the guy.”
“I heard you.”
“Hey, you got a couple dollars so I could get somethin’ to eat?”
“Eat?” Santo pulled out his wad of twenties, decided against it and and pulled some ones from his front pocket. “Here’s two bucks. Now, get outta here.”
Santo wiped sweat from his face. He tapped out a Camel cigarette from the pack and lit up. Nicotine penetrated his system, and he relaxed. The smoke drifted from his mouth and nose. He stared down the street. In between drags on his cigarette, he rubbed the scar on his right hand and twisted the diamond pinky ring on his left.
He had the furrowed brow look. Guys stayed out of his way when he had the ‘look’ - if anybody said or did the wrong thing, he was known to ‘hit ‘em in a minute.’
He drove around for about an hour thinking about the situation. Santo punched the dashboard. Son of a bitch. Nothing scared him, except Joe. Joe scared the hell out of him. Joe was the favorite son, the top collector in the mob.
Santo was second banana to Joe, although his specialty was a ‘Youngstown tune-up’ - a car bomb. It was something real special. He learned from the best, his dad, ‘Fingers’ DiOrio.
‘Fingers’ aptly named because he possessed expert skills for cracking safes and building detonation devices. ‘Fingers’ could wire a car or break into a safe in thirty seconds flat. He was known nationwide by police departments. They often called upon him to open safes.
Santo followed in his father’s footsteps and often used a car bomb to get rid of his problems.























CHAPTER 2

DUNGEONS AND DIAMONDS
July 20, 1972






Joe Bellante entered the 'dungeon,’ a makeshift gym in the basement of his three-story red brick house. Stale air smelled of mold and sweat. The only light came from the small basement window and two ceiling light bulbs. A large poster of Rocky Marciano covered the wall of gray boulders. Hand written on the corner of the poster was 49 – 0.
Joe stretched out in his bulletproof vest on the weightlifting bench doing bench presses like he had done for the past twelve years. Every day. On each end of the bar were manhole covers. Each cover weighed one hundred twenty five pounds. They were a gift from a guy serving life for decapitating his victims with a machete.
Before the guy was sentenced, he called Joe over to his house and handed him the covers. “Here, Joe. I won’t be needin’ these.”
When Joe carried them into his house, a cop walked by and asked, “What are you doing with the manhole covers?”
Joe stopped and smirked. “I lift ‘em.”
The cop walked away.

Dean Martin’s song, ‘That’s Amore,’ played on his small radio. Along with the music, the other sounds were heavy breathing when Joe lowered the bar to his chest and glanced at the handmade sign nailed to the rafter - NO PAIN, NO GAIN, NO SHIT. He pushed the bar to a locking position. The heavy workouts enabled Joe to maintain his classic power lifter build - short and compact with muscular thighs, short arms and naturally sloping shoulders. He especially liked to punch the heavy weight bag with bare fists.
He developed a unique method over the years by punching an object or person from six inches way. With short punches, he could throw about two hundred a minute like a jackhammer. The result was thick hands that swung at his sides like wrecking balls, just what he needed for his job as an enforcer and collector for organized crime. He was proud of his reputation in Pittsburgh and up and down the East Coast.
He bulked up with heavy bench presses. Reps with three hundred fifty pounds gave him a chest, which required a size fifty-four blazer to cover.
After pushing out two more reps to the music, Joe dropped the bar on the support rack. The metal clang echoed in the room. After several sets, he posed in front of the full-length mirror and stepped on the scale. Two hundred fifteen. He grabbed the tape measure. Biceps, nineteen and a half inches. Chest fifty-six inches. At thirty-two, he was in peak condition.
During his second set of ten reps, the basement door opened. His wife, Marie, yelled down, “Phone.”
“Comin’.”
He finished six more reps.
Joe passed through the kitchen. Marie was at the sink washing dishes. Marie was a diminutive, attractive woman in her early thirties with a milk white skin in contrast to Joe’s ruddy Marlboro complexion. Their five young children were scattered throughout the house.
He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his T-shirt. Breathing heavily, he picked up the phone and answered in his raspy voice. “Yeah.”
“Joe, how you doin'? This is Santo.”
“OK, what’s goin’ on? Hey, how was that leather jacket deal couple weeks ago?”
“Good. Thanks for your help. I owe you somethin’ for that. Hey, can you help me out again?”
Joe plucked a cigar from the box of Parodies, lit it and blew smoke rings to the ceiling. “What you need?”
“I need cash. I heisted some jewelry. Diamond rings, watches, bracelets, chains. I figger they're worth about three grand on the street. Need to dump 'em fast.”
“Whadda you want me to do?”
“I figger you could flip 'em. You have contacts to get rid of stuff.”
Joe took a puff savoring the cigar. “Maybe.”
“How ‘bout I give you, say four hundred.”
Joe gazed at the TV. “Four. Yeah, okay. When do you wanna meet?”
A football hit Joe on the shoulder and he threw it back to his sons Jimmy and Vincent who were playing in the living room. “Hey, kids. Take it easy. I’m on the phone.”
Santo paused. “How ‘bout tonight at nine in front of the Family Oven? I'll drive. You follow.”
The Family Oven Restaurant, another favorite meeting place of mob guys, was located on Negley Avenue in East Liberty.
After the phone call, Joe finished his workout of dumbbell curls, dips and jumping rope.





















CHAPTER 3

A SHOT IN THE DARK
July 20, 1972






Joe grabbed pants and a shirt from the closet which housed his Italian wardrobe. Shirts were easy to choose, regardless of season. They were all short sleeved. He tightened his belt and went to his dresser. Running his fingers along the silver barrel of the .45 Beretta automatic, he changed his mind and stuck it back in the drawer next to the nickel-plated .25 caliber in its leather ankle holster. He called it Mr. Smith and Wesson. He considered it a last line of defense. No knock down power, but up close it could do a lot of damage - tools of the trade for an enforcer for the mob.
He was an expert shot with the .45. If he wanted to, he could blow out a guy’s head a football field away, but he didn’t need guns to meet Santo. They had been friends since grade school when they played stickball, football and broke into stores. Twelve years had passed since they had joined the mob back in 1960.
After fastening his watch, he checked his appearance. He felt the Italian silk blazer. Not bad for a high school graduate. Married, five kids nice house. New Cadillac every year. Doing
better than the schmucks who work in the mills. Making six or seven times what they made.
He turned off the television and went out the front door. Standing on the porch, he checked for his car keys. He kissed Marie. “I’ll be home about eleven o’clock.” Four year old Joe Jr. and two year old Vincent hugged Joe’s legs. “Where you going daddy?” He scooped them up and kissed them. “I have to go to work. I’ll be back late. See you tomorrow, boys.”
They waved while Joe sauntered down the front steps and got into his dark green Cadillac Eldorado. He bought a new one every two years. Paid cash. He waved to Marie and the boys. Rummaging through the glove compartment, he selected a tape of Frank Sinatra’s ‘Come Fly With Me’, and stuck it in the cassette deck.
Since his first robbery at age ten, he had worked hard to earn respect as a wiseguy in the mob. It was in his blood. He was Sicilian. His grandfather was a Sicilian Don in Italy. Joe’s goal was to be a Don in organized crime like his grandfather.
Ten minutes later, he stopped in front of the Family Oven Restaurant behind Santo's Buick and honked. Santo waved from the driver’s seat and pulled into the street. Joe rolled down the window and wiped the sweat of the night from his upper lip. He followed Santo snaking his way along Penn Avenue in East Liberty past the stores and movie theaters to Frankstown Road in Pittsburgh’s East End. Joe stayed a short distance behind Santo. Where’s the hell’s he goin?’
Santo steered his sedan past several rows of cars and a dumpster into a dark, deserted corner of the Penn Hills Shopping Center. Joe eased up and rolled the Cadillac several car lengths behind Santo before stopping. He leaned back against the leather seat taking heavy puffs of his Parodi cigar.
The headlights on Santo’s car went off but the engine was running. The car leveled out after Santo slid out. He opened the back door, took out a box, and sauntered toward Joe’s car with the box tucked under his left arm.
Santo’s lumbering gait reminded Joe of a rhinoceros.
Santo reached into his coat, withdrew his right hand, and dropped it to his side. Santo raised his arm. Pop! Pop-pop!
What the hell?
Flashes from Santo’s .32 brightened the night. Bullets slammed into the hood and roof. A shot deflated the left front tire.
Son of a bitch. Joe threw the car into drive. Santo ran around to the driver's side and fired. One explosion followed another.
Stunned by his buddy’s betrayal, Joe reeled in terror. The first bullet crushed his right cheekbone; another slammed into his chin searing his throat. Burning sensations flooded him. His hand went up to his eye. Blood gushed over clothes, the seats, and floor. He felt no pain and remained conscious. His throat constricted and his insides went dry. A river of fear washed over him and he gagged.
His palms sweated, his heart thudded, and blood pulsed through his veins in a burst of adrenaline. Everything happened so fast, Joe's mind didn’t have time to grasp it. He felt the fear before he knew why he was frightened. The attack was so sudden it took Joe a minute to realize Santo had lured him into a trap. Son of a bitch.
With blood streaming from his face, Joe grabbed the baseball bat in the back seat and stumbled out of the car. In agony, he struggled to focus with his left eye and staggered after Santo. His legs buckled and he fell. On his knees, he shouted, I’m gonna' kill you! Kill you!”
Santo raced to his car and screeched away leaving a trail of burnt rubber.
Joe threw the baseball bat at the car shouting, “I'll kill you. You’re a dead man.” He wiped his right eye, soaking his shirt with blood. Staggering back to his car, he pulled himself into the driver’s seat. He didn’t have the energy to even close his mouth. His heart pumped overtime, his brain sent messages to his nerves, muscles and organs but he couldn’t do anything. He stared at the starry sky expecting to die in his car. He whispered, “Lord, let me live.”
Joe laid his head back on the seat. He tried to gain some strength. He rested. He didn’t know how much time had passed when the sound of an approaching vehicle made his heart race even faster. Panic and more sweat. Is Santo coming back to finish the job? God, don’t let me die here.