Doctors and professional people were the best targets, he said, because they were always looking for ways to invest their cash. Lately his most prominent victims had been chiropractors. He had pled guilty so that other “family” members wouldn’t be hauled into court to testify.

Rossi and I stayed in the apartment with Sonny and John. At about two A.M., we were all getting ready to go to bed. Rossi comes out of the john in his Jockey shorts. Sonny starts rolling on the floor laughing. “Holy underwears!” he spouts whenever he can get a breath. “Holy underwears!” Rossi’s Jockey shorts have holes in the back. Sonny can’t control himself. “Wearing two hundred dollar slacks, hundred dollar shirts, two hundred dollar shoes, and you got fucking underwear on since you were in high school! Holy fucking underwears!”

Two days later Nicky Santora reported that he had found our marijuana price of $270 to be too high. But he said that he could do business if our source would “front” 200 pounds and wait for payment for a week.

When we went back to Florida, we contacted our source and told him the grass hadn’t checked out to be as good as he said, and that the only way our people would buy it was if they would front 300 pounds and wait two weeks for payment. The guy had to think it over.

The next time Sonny came to Florida, he brought news of a shake-up in the Commission. “They knocked down Funzi Tieri,” he tells me. He said the power was now Paul Castellano, Neil Dellacroce, and Joe Gallo—the top guns of the Gambino family. “They were given the power and are handling it properly,” he says. “I met with Paulie the other day. I did him a big favor which nobody else could do. Paulie has an alliance now with the old man here.” He meant Trafficante.

He didn’t tell me what the favor was. But the Gambinos were big in the drug business. In any case, Sonny was indicating that he was now in tight with the new boss of bosses.

He was waiting for Santo Trafficante to come to the motel. Trafficante arrived, and they went to Sonny’s room. Permitted by a court order, we had his room bugged. But right away they turned up the TV volume to cover their conversation.

Sonny and I were having dinner alone. Sonny didn’t wear a lot of jewelry or anything flamboyant, but he did have some nice rings. If he had a gold buckle on his belt, he would wear gold; with a silver buckle, white gold. It is common for wiseguys to wear pinkie rings. But he had one that I really liked, a white-gold horseshoe with tiny diamonds in it. I loved that ring. It was his favorite too.

“Sonny, one of these days I’m gonna get a ring like that.”

“Like what?”

“That diamond horseshoe ring. I really like that ring. I always wanted one like that. But they’re too expensive, and I never could get one in a score. One day I’ll get lucky.”

“You like it? You just got lucky. Here.” He slid the ring off his finger and put it down by my hand. “It’s yours.”

“Hey, Sonny, I can’t take that from you.”

“Why not? You like it, you got it.”

I really couldn’t take it from him. I couldn’t accept an expensive gift like that in my position. I would have to log it and turn it in just like any other evidence; otherwise, I would compromise myself in the investigation. I guess I could have taken it and then given it back when the operation was over, but if it got lost, or Sonny got whacked or something before, it would really bother me to have accepted it.

I didn’t want to offend him, either, because he did it from the heart. He would do things like that, never make a big deal out of it. “I really appreciate it because I know how much you like that ring.” I pushed it back across the table with my fingers. “I can’t take it, but thanks.”

He shrugged and slipped it back on his pinkie.

The next afternoon we’re in the coffee shop at the Tahitian.

“I feel strong today,” he says.

“So? What does that mean?”

“I feel strong enough to beat you at arm wrestling.”

“Sonny, you never beat me. What’s gonna make today any different?”

“How strong I am. Come on.”

“In here?”

“Come on.”

We put our elbows up on the table and go through all the gyrations of getting ready, lock our hands in.

“You ready?” He looks me in the eye.

“Yeah.” “

“I’m gonna beat you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Go!”

We strain our arms together. Then he spits in my face, I flinch, and he slams my hand down.

“I didn’t tell you how I was gonna beat you.”

Sonny had a scheme. You couldn’t get really good Italian bread anywhere in the area. We asked around why that was, why the bread was so much better in New York. Nobody knew. We asked a baker, an Italian guy from New York.

“The water,” he says. “The water in the New York area is the best there is. It’s crucial. Something to do with how the yeast reacts. That’s why you can’t bake Italian bread that good anyplace else in the country.”

Next thing I know, Sonny had set up a deal with this guy. He’s going to bake for us. Sonny is going to get a fleet of tanker trucks, like those that deliver milk, and truck New York water down to Florida and have this guy bake our Italian bread and make a fortune.

Tony Mirra got out of prison. When he was in the can, guys kept reporting to Lefty that Mirra was calling people and was pissed off because he heard that Lefty and I had made a ton of money in Milwaukee and were making a ton of money in Florida, and some of that should be his because he brought me around to the crew in the first place.

Lefty tells me, “I told him, ‘You better have friends when you come out.’ I says, ‘You better stop knocking people, knocking their brains out.’ ”

When I was alone with Sonny at the Tahitian, he says, “I gotta ask you something, Donnie. Is Rocky a wire?”

“Hey, Sonny, I been dealing with him for over six years without any problems, and I been using him to buy and sell merchandise. No problems. That’s all I can say.”

“Well, Mirra branded him a wire. But, of course, that’s Mirra’s style.”

Lefty had a lion. Some guy who raised animals in New Jersey gave Lefty a little cub. Lefty loved it. He took it with him when he drove around in the car. He kept it at the Motion Lounge, and we played with it. It was a nice little pet. Lefty never gave it a name. We just called it “lion.” It stayed in the front of the club at the bar. We also had a regular house cat that stayed in the back.

After a couple of months the lion was growing into a real lion. It started leaving claw marks on the leather seats of Lefty’s car, so he couldn’t drive around with it anymore. It clawed you when you played with it. It got to be the size of a large dog. Pretty soon we couldn’t even take it out for its usual walks. It stayed at the club during the day, but it couldn’t be left there all night anymore. Sonny’s cousin, Carmine, owned an empty warehouse not far away from the Motion Lounge, so Lefty would take the lion over there every night in a van. Guys would go there every day and feed it. It was costing around $200 a day to feed, because the guys were giving it prime steaks.

I was on the phone from King’s Court one day, talking to Boobie at the Motion Lounge. “Lefty’s across the street loading the lion in the truck,” Boobie says. “We got to get the lion out from under the bar. Somebody ratted him out. It could cost us a $10,000 fine.”

Somebody in the neighborhood had spotted the lion in the club and called the police. By the time the police came, Lefty had taken the lion to the warehouse. What the cops found was the house cat sleeping on the pool table in the back room.

The cop says to Charlie the bartender, “I’m talking about a lion.”