Jersey Boy: The Life and Mob Slaying of Frankie Depaula

Copyright © 2009, 2012 by Adeyinka Makinde

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-0637-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-0638-9 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-0639-6 (dj)

iUniverse rev. date: 9/21/2012

Contents

Illustrations

Acknowledgements

Preface

Prologue: Whaddaya Guys Doin’ Here?

1. BEGINNINGS

2. PRO

3. THE GARDEN

4. THE TIGER

5. HE COULDN’T TAKE IT TO THE BELLY

6. COPPER INGOTS

7. HIT

8. POOR CAPTIVE SOUL OF PURGATORY

9. THE TRIAL

Epilogue: Lamentation

Chapter Notes

Sources

Chronology

Record Of Frankie DePaula

ALSO BY ADEYINKA MAKINDE

DICK TIGER

The Life and Times of a

Boxing Immortal

Illustrations

1 Frankie with his sister Angela and mother Virginia in April 1946 (Courtesy of Joe & Anna DePaula)

2 The ‘Jersey Jolter’. At the beginning of his pro-career in 1962 (Author’s Collection)

3 & 4 According to Al Certo: Frankie would go to the gym when forced to train. But you couldn’t hold him by the hand after that. You had to live with the guy. Who the hell wanted to do that? No one, outside of the girls appeared to have control over him (Both Author’s Collection)

5 & 6 At a boxing luncheon to promote his impending bout with Juan ‘Rocky’ Rivero to be held at Madison Square Garden. With Frankie from left to right are his manager Gary Garafola, stablemate Jimmy Dupree, the Garden’s Duke Stefano and trainer Jose ‘Wilpy’ Vincente (Author’s Collection). With Frankie Valli (Courtesy of Richard Gizzi)

7 The Jersey Journal anticipates Frankie’s bout with ‘Irish’ Jimmy McDermott. September 1968 (Courtesy of The Jersey Journal)

8 Frankie displays his right fist to the admiration of fellow Hudson County boxers. From left; Pat Murphy, Mike Mamarelli and Adolphus McClendon (Author’s Collection)

9 Jimmy McDermott on his way to the canvas during the first round of the inaugural boxing show at the Garden’s Felt Forum (Author’s Collection)

10 Frankie the poseur. And according to one cartoonist God’s gift to Jersey City go-go girls (Courtesy of Grayce Ilvento Kautz)

11 Frankie takes on Dick Tiger (Courtesy of Gregory Speciale)

12 Frankie knocks former world light heavyweight champion, Dick Tiger into the ropes during a thrilling encounter at the Garden. October 25th 1968 (Courtesy of Jimmy Failace)

13 But he will lose the bout which will be anointed Ring magazine’s ‘Fight of the Year.’ The following morning, Frankie will embark for Las Vegas on a gambling expedition and blow all his purse money (Courtesy of Jimmy Failace)

14 Jersey’s boxing hope (Courtesy of Gregory Speciale)

15 Taking a break from sparring. Al Braverman, on the left, and Gary Garafola attend to Frankie at his training quarters in Grossinger’s, Upstate New York (Author’s Collection)

16 While preparing for Foster, Frankie plays around with some young guests (Courtesy of Leon Gast)

17 Gary’s Rag Dollis actually owned by Genovese capo James Napoli who has an investment of his own in Frankie’s forthcoming bout (Author’s Collection)

18 Frankie with Joe Namath in his dressing room at Madison Square Garden, prior to his bout with Bob Foster (Courtesy of Bobby DePaula)

19 Bob Foster versus Frankie DePaula, 22nd January 1969. Frankie first drops Foster but is then sent to the canvas on three occasions before the bout is stopped in the first round on the basis of the ‘Three Knockdown Rule.’ An overmatched club fighter? Or a conniving match-fixer? (Author’s Collection)

20 Frankie is arrested by a United States Marshal on suspicion of the theft of copper ingots from Port Newark Dock May 1969 (Author’s Collection)

21 Detective Joe Coffey escorts Frankie from the District Attorney’s Office on the day Frankie is indicted by a grand jury for perjuring himself while being questioned over fix allegations surrounding his fight with Bob Foster December 1969 (Author’s Collection)

22 The alley beside 283 Harrison Avenue in Jersey City pictured in 2007. Frankie was ambushed there in the early hours of the morning of May 14th 1970 (Author’s Collection)

23 Frankie’s grave at the Holy Cross Cemetery, North Arlington (Author’s Collection)

Both front and back cover photographs courtesy of the author.

Acknowledgements

I would like to extend my thanks to the following persons without whose help I could not have completed this project.

Bobby DePaula; Joe & Anna DePaula; Michael DePaula; Jerry Acquaviva; Henry Marler; Grayce Ilvento-Kautz; Frankie Failace; Jackie Schaefer; Don McAteer; Jimmy Dupree; Paul Venti; Ron Lipton; Tommy Kenville; Al Certo; Tommy Gallagher; John Carlson; Kevin Finnegan; Joe Coffey; Samuel DeLuca; Elaine Davis; Anthony Napoli; Dave Anderson; Gregory Speciale; Father Frank McNulty; Joe Mancini; Harold Alderman; Jerry McGrellis and Jed DiMatteo.

My thanks also to the staff at the British Newspaper Library, the Jersey City Public Library, the Hudson County Prosecutor’s Office and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Preface

TO JERSEY BOY: THE LIFE AND MOB SLAYING OF

FRANKIE DEPAULA

The name Frankie DePaula was initially for me a footnote. An exciting footnote because of a memorable duel he fought with Dick Tiger, the subject of the previous biography that I wrote, but a minor detail nonetheless. The road to committing myself to producing a biography of a not tremendously famous or well-remembered fighter was not a straightforward one. I had set aside a portion of a website I created on Dick Tiger dedicated to the amazing duel which Frankie fought with Tiger at New York’s Madison Square Garden in October of 1968. It was memorable enough for Ring magazine to declare it the ‘Fight of the Year’, and memorable enough for the great Dick Tiger to display four portraits on his living room wall recounting the moments when Frankie and he were knocked to the canvas; each man on two occasions. Some months later in 2001 I received an e-mail from Mike DePaula, Frankie’s son, asking whether I could send him any pictures which I may have had of his father. We corresponded for a while, and Mike implored me to write his father’s story. If I could not manage a book he would be contented with an article. I thought about it and from what I had garnered from my research on Dick Tiger, I felt that the Frankie DePaula story was fascinating enough to warrant a stab. This, after all, was a man who had led thousands of supporters, pied-piper style, through a succession of arenas because of the excitement and anticipation he generated from his ability to end a fight with one punch. A man who inspired so much devotion that some were willing to bet their homes on him emerging victorious. The idea was to produce an article which would coincide with the twenty-first anniversary of his father’s demise on September 14th and I sent it off to eastsideboxing.com on the evening of September the 10th. Normally, my submissions would be uploaded onto the site in a matter of hours, but because of the literally earth-shattering events of the following day, it took forty-eight hours. Entitled Frankie DePaula: In Memoriam, I can honestly say that this piece of writing alone has elicited among the most profoundly poignant responses it has been my good fortune to receive from subscribers to the World Wide Web. Most were of course from boxing aficionados, but a great many came from people who were native to Jersey City. Frankie was my cousin, I heard of Frankie when I was growing up, Frankie was a friend, You did justice to his story, Thank you for remembering and so on. If I hadn’t known before, I began to discover that the name and personality of Frankie DePaula was one inextricably woven into the consciousness of many of the natives of this city. And this a man who for all intents and purposes was a ne’er-do-well, a phenomenally gifted individual who wasted his talents and ended up getting murdered in the most mysterious and unsavory of circumstances.

My curiosity piqued. Why I wondered had no biography ever been written about him? Why was it that for years after his death in the gymnasiums of Jersey City, old time trainers and old time boxers would bring up his name and regale his extraordinary punching power and street fighting prowess, but then after a rueful shake of the head, would say little more? It was as if Frankie was the name that daren’t be spoken at length. Certainly, his death was shrouded in much smoke and haze, and those in the know did not speak openly about the truth as they knew it. Frankie was, you see, the victim of a Mob slaying, and speaking bluntly about these things while the figures involved in his murder were alive was simply too dangerous. Besides, if Jersey City people have one distinguishing cultural facet, it is to mind your own business.

I entered into a correspondence with Jed DiMatteo, a networker extraordinaire who produces an internet newsletter, the Jedsey Journal for Jersey natives still resident there, and those in the ‘diaspora.’ I learned more. There was a lot more to Frankie that made him a compelling character and a lot more to his death than had previously come to public light. My follow-up article in 2006, The Mysteries of Frankie DePaula, elicited more positive responses. I had tried to speculate on the range of reasons as to why Frankie was executed. Also, I had tried to put Frankie’s story within the realms of the social and cultural norms of Jersey City. I knew I was on to something when one ex-resident commented tongue-in-cheek that the article brings back a lot of memories: the corrupt politicians, the muggings, the grime and filthy streets. Makes a guy homesick. Yet, I discovered in my research how attached Jerseyans are to their city, for decades the fiefdom of Mayor Frank Hague, the epitome of the American phenomenon called ‘Bossism’ and synonymous with Tammany Hall-style political shenanigans with its legacy of corrupt public officials and a powerful Mafia cult. But if Jersey City was truly the worst place to live in the United States as author Jerry McGrellis discovered from a survey conducted in the late seventies when he left home for a career in the military, it fell on disbelieving ears. Jersey City was a place where neighbors cared for each other and had a capacity for producing people of remarkable resilience and resourcefulness. As he remarks: I guarantee you that anybody that left there still loves it with a part of their hearts. Frankie DePaula was a Jersey City native through and through. As he stated in tones which were both defiant and full of pride before his contest with Bob Foster for the world light heavyweight title, "Win, lose, or draw, I will still be Frankie DePaula of Jersey City.

But Frankie was trouble-prone almost right from the beginning of his brief, tumultuous and tragic life. In and out of reform schools, a spell in prison and the threat of more incarceration at the time of his death when he was under a federal indictment for committing perjury, Frankie was forever promising to explain his side of the story and excuse himself of his bad behavior. To be Frankie, and to be close to him, was to be at the centre of a wild, scary, thrilling and funny existence. His life was one adrenaline rush of brutal street knockouts, fame, beautiful women, drugs and easy money. But it was also a tale of misspent youth and adulthood. Of neglecting his wife and children and of forming dangerous alliances with mobsters and their underlings. Frankie exited this world leaving a lot of people sorely disappointed in him, a broken family and a legacy mired in confusion.

He was, as trainer Al Certo told me, his own worst enemy.

Frankie, according to Al Braverman who served as his corner man and who effectively managed him for a time, was one of the most likeable guys you’ve ever seen in your life, and one of the most stupid guys you’ve ever seen in your life. While Frankie may have been blessed with all the attributes which any athlete would wish to be imbued, he could never build on it. If he was training for a fight and happened by at his favored pool room to see the guys and someone said, Frankie, let’s smoke a joint, he was apt to do that without even giving it a second thought. His name will never appear among the pantheon of great Italian-American boxers of the magnitude of Pep, Marciano, Graziano, Basilio or Giardello because he never took anything seriously. Anything he wanted to be, he could have been, Al Certo asserts. Yet, Frankie’s name will forever be overshadowed by the fictional character of ‘Rocky Balbao’ who many will swear is an amalgam of Frankie. So much, from Rocky’s mannerisms to his hang ups, his love of children and animals, and, of course, the fact that he and not Chuck Wepner, a contemporary of Frankie’s, and Sylvester Stallone’s inspiration, was of Italian lineage. But the truth of Frankie is much darker than the fiction of ‘Rocky.’ Where ‘Rocky’ was mild-mannered and forgiving, Frankie was unrelenting in his aggression, where ‘Rocky’ was monogamous and a loving husband, Frankie was a philanderer and neglectful. Both men collected for the Mob, but where ‘Rocky’ would be almost apologetic on his visit and be willing to come back another day, Frankie’s presence reduced at least one victim to lose control of his bowels. And whereas ‘Rocky’ the club fighter came close to dethroning the reigning world champion in a tremendous display of heart and courage, Frankie lost to Bob Foster in a single round in circumstances which some suspect was a fix.

With Frankie, you either loved him or hated him. Frequently, it was both. He had a charm and a charisma which drew people to him. One night at the Rag Doll, a night club in Union City with which Frankie was associated, his friend Jerry Acquaviva counted no fewer than forty women who requested to meet him or to have their photographs taken with him. Men no doubt wanted to get close to him because it was better to be on his side and be known to Frankie than to be a stranger. His sense of humor could be ‘sick’, but he made you laugh. He had according to Acquaviva, the mischievous demeanor of a cat about to pounce on its prey. His aura was palpable, and if one stood back and observed the people who frequently surrounded him, one would see happiness in their eyes, one would see fear in their eyes, or one would see anger in their eyes. He was an imposing figure with a very dark side where he would bully and threaten people or worse. He could act like a spoilt child or be volatile like a bomb waiting to explode. This, usually after he had taken to drink or had imbibed more than several sniffs of cocaine.

And while Frankie’s story is also the story of his environment and how it shaped him and molded him ready for his eventual destruction, there is much which appeared to be in-born; certain unappealing characteristics which no amount of well-intentioned nurturing at home, disciplined instruction within the environs of a Roman Catholic school or the frequent interventions of the criminal justice system could eradicate. True, Frankie was very protective of his friends, and developed a reputation as being something of a ‘Robin Hood’ character, but it was often not allied with commonsense. If a friend said he was in trouble, Al Braverman once remarked, Frankie would run down to a bar to help out, even if there was a gun waiting for him. Not particularly smart of him were the associations he made with gangsters who would eventually dispose of him once they had no further use of him. Frankie died young but did not leave a good-looking corpse. He departed this world a quadriplegic; emaciated and ridden with bedsores; the ultimate irony for one who had seemed so vital in the energy he had expended throughout his life, for one who appeared inviolable and invulnerable.

Yet, his story fascinates, and I believe resonates as a cautionary tale of the betrayal of talent by one whom the gods appeared to have favored with the potential for glory and greatness.

Adeyinka Makinde

London, 2009

Prologue:

Whaddaya Guys Doin’ Here?

Frankie, as was usual, could not stay in one place for long. The warm, spring evening of May 13th 1970 was not unusual. Over the years he had made it a habit of burning up the roads and sidewalks of Jersey City in the relentless pursuit of some kind of fun. Some kind of adventure. When he hung out at the appointed pool room or street corner or sports park or yard, he hardly ever arrived or left alone. In tow would be a changing roster of friends or acquaintances. It had been different for the past three months or thereabouts. For Frankie had only one travelling companion; a woman twelve years younger than his thirty with whom he was completely obsessed. Long-haired, bright-eyed and generously proportioned, his ‘princess’ giggled at his frequent witticisms; indulging him with a stroke of his cheeks as his darkish face creased with laughter. At other times, she would execute a more discreet brush of his thigh. They were now at Frankie’s favourite diner. On the other side of the table was Frankie’s friend Jerry. They hadn’t been seeing each other as often as they used to do. Frankie, Jerry reckoned, had grown more distant. He had begun to appear more absorbed in himself and in his dealings with his newer circle of associates. He was, it seemed, a troubled man. One who had lost control of the reins of his life. Between Frankie and him, the conversation was sparse and bereft of the high jinks and ribaldry of old. Between Jerry and the ‘princess’, not a word was exchanged. They sipped their coffee mugs dry and at a quarter past nine o’clock Jerry was ready to leave.

Oh, come on Jer, let’s go back to the room. Look, we’ll smoke some weed; have a few drinks, said Frankie.

Nah, Frank. I gotta get up early tomorrow. I just got this job and I’m real tired, Jerry replied. See you buddy.

See you tomorrow, Jer. I hope, Frankie said, as he raised two of his fingers in the peace sign.

It was all so ironic. Frankie the perpetual warrior. The intemperate slugger professing peace. If Frankie could have bought anything now it would be some peace of mind. Peace from the police officers biding their time to pick him up on this or that charge or to rummage for this or that information. Peace from grand jury subpoenas. Peace from the incessant appearances he had had to make at court trials. He had had enough of the phone calls from the people who were threatening him and from their intermediaries who brought messages laced with stern advice.

Time drifted. The ‘princess’ motioned to Frankie to remind him that she had promised to meet up with her friend ‘Twiggy’ at the pool hall across the road. They strolled across Communipaw Avenue and at 10.30 P.M. arrived at Billiard Time. Laura Ladagona, was like the princess a lively and spirited young woman. Both were fun-seeking and unconventional. Both had husbands who were nowhere in sight. The princess had separated from her’s the previous September, while Laura was expecting to meet up with her friend Tony later in the evening at the princess’s apartment. They sat down, chatted and had a few drinks. After about an hour, they were on the move again; a friend gave them a lift to Journal Square, where ‘Twiggy’ was dropped and from where they were driven to the Chateau Renaissance, a hotel located in North Bergen. Again Frankie was in familiar environs. He had often camped here with Gary Garafola, his manager, when in training for his bouts. But he hadn’t seen Gary in the week since he and the ‘princess’ had returned from Newark after the trial both men had been involved in had ended. While in the lobby in front of the Cork Louge, Frankie briefly conversed with two men. They had not been long in the lounge of the Chateau, when the ‘princess’ complained of feeling ill and Frankie took her to the nearby North Hudson Hospital in Weehawken where she received treatment from a Dr. Edmund Coestino in the emergency room.

After a short stay at the hospital, they returned to the Chateau. There they met James Galdieri, a Jersey City attorney, who drove them to the Colony Restaurant in Jersey City for a late night meal. On finishing, Galdieri, who knew Frankie through what he would later inform a court as business dealings, drove the couple to Harrison Avenue where the ‘princess’s’ apartment was located at number 283. He dropped them off at the sidewalk from where Frankie and the ‘princess’, a few paces ahead, made their way through the cool breeze which drifted through the dank, smoggy night. They entered the outer lobby of the complex, and walked to the inner door. A message scribbled on a piece of cardboard confronted them.

BUZZERS AND BELLS ARE OUT OF ORDER. PLEASE USE THE BACK ENTRANCE AND OPEN

The lock on the door was stuffed with copies of old newspapers.

I’ll go round the back and let you in, Frankie said turning to the ‘princess’.

Try the key anyway, she urged.

Frankie turned the knob and pushed, but the door wouldn’t budge.

Go sit over there, Frankie said motioning towards the planter. The ‘princess’ took a seat and waited for Frankie to open the door.

Frankie strolled nonchalantly through the darkened alley. The spotlights at the back area, working well the previous night were shattered. It was pitch black. As he turned towards the back entrance, two figures emerged from the shadows. A brief glance of recognition shone across his countenance. He knew both men.

Hey! Whaddaya guys doin’ here? he asked; his voice betraying a stunned incredulity.

Frankie smelled a rat and sooner than he blinked, both men raised their arms to reveal two sets of .45 hand pistols. In the millisecond during which Frankie contemplated the square-shaped muzzles at the end of either gun that stared at him, the thought that he should take flight may have crossed his mind. For the average man, it would. But Frankie was not the average man. The overwhelming instincts which had guided and informed his decisions all his life were geared towards fighting back. Of annihilating any threat he encountered. It was around 2.45 A.M. when the first blast shattered the grave-like quiet; causing a number of windows to fly open. Very quickly and instinctively, Frankie raised his left arm in the manner he was accustomed to when he was blocking a punch inside a boxing ring. The heavy calibre slug smashed into his elbow. He dipped groundwards, but regained his footing. The shooter now moved closer towards him, but Frankie turned at him swinging with his right arm. The side of the shooter’s face absorbed the meaty knuckles that had knocked out many opponents on the streets and in the ring. For one last time, Frankie had broken a man’s jaw. Frankie now turned and began running down the alley holding up his injured arm.

The ‘princess’ who had been jolted up from her seat on hearing the first shot now came closer to the window. She had heard a scream. It was a scream she had heard once before, and she knew it was Frankie’s. Standing with her face pressed against the outer glass doors of the lobby, she saw Frankie crouched and running out of the alley and into the driveway until he bumped against a car. When he pulled away, she noticed smudges of deep red blood.

Behind him, both gunmen followed. First out was a heavyset man, around five-foot-eight inches tall, wearing a straw hat with a dark band, along with white short-sleeved sweatshirt and khaki coloured trousers. As the man trailed him, Frankie suddenly stumbled and slipped downwards. In the split second of time offered by the moment, the gunman paused to plant his right leg. Then leaning forward, he took aim with the long, black weapon that was held in his right hand and squeezed the trigger. Two flashes, the ‘princess’ would recall, came out of the gun. One bullet missed, but another penetrated the upper half of Frankie’s back and settled in his spine. Frankie absorbed the bullet as he tripped. Though his knees buckled and his fingers touched the ground of the sidewalk, his body did not go all the way to the ground: As quick as he fell, she remembered, that’s as quick as he got up. Still in her line of vision, and with the gunman in hot pursuit, Frankie continued running in the direction of Westside Avenue until he ran past the first house and out of her sight.

The ‘princess’ now put her hand on the glass door and began to walk out of the lobby just as the second gunman, debilitated by his jaw injury, and shouldering himself against the wall, was running out of the alley. As she pushed her hand out of the glass door, she saw him. He ran past and was approaching the end of the driveway when he turned his head sideways. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met before he averted her gaze. Startled, the ‘princess’ jumped backwards and remained rooted against the mailboxes which were arranged in front of the apartment lobby. Taller than his counterpart, he was of much slighter build and wore a black leather jacket over his dungarees and T-shirt. Still holding his gun, he continued up to the driveway; stopping briefly to cast nervous, furtive glances to his left and to his right, before scrambling leftwards in the direction of Westside Avenue.

It was now that her bottled emotions erupted. She let out a scream and began hitting all the buzzers she could hit. Inside the apartment block, on the second floor in the home directly above the ‘princess’s’, Patrol Officer James L.Gallagher had begun falling asleep when the loud bangs of gunfire brought him back to consciousness. Instinctively, he reached for his revolver and jumped out of his bed to turn on a light. Speedily, he put on a pair of trousers and as he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, he could hear the ‘princess’s’ frantic pressings. She was standing by the door and pounding on it yelling, when he finally opened it.

Frankie’s been shot! Please help. He’s dying out there!

Gallagher knew Frankie. Very few people in Jersey City would not have known of the Italian boxer with the stocky physique whose fights around Hudson County and in