When New York Governor Thomas Dewey commuted the sentence of imprisoned Mafia boss Charles “Lucky” Luciano 80 years ago, it was widely described as an act of wartime necessity. For Luciano, it proved to be a life sentence of a different kind.

Dewey’s rise to national prominence began in 1935. New York City Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia and Governor Herbert Lehman backed the creation of a special prosecutor’s office to confront racketeering and political corruption that conventional law enforcement had failed to contain. Dewey — young, disciplined and relentlessly visible — fit the moment perfectly.

LaGuardia valued Dewey’s independence and understood the political dividends of a successful crusade against organized crime. Dewey, in turn, recognized that high-profile prosecutions could serve both justice and ambition. His office produced arrests, headlines and convictions. Critics soon noted that Dewey appeared as adept at managing public perception as he was at managing cases.

Dewey’s first major fixation was Arthur Flegenheimer, better known as Dutch Schultz. As Dewey’s investigations tightened, Schultz voiced his hostility within the upper reaches of the underworld, proposing to the Mafia’s ruling body, the Commission, that Dewey be eliminated. The idea was briefly entertained — Albert Anastasia is said to have conducted reconnaissance on Dewey’s routines — before the Commission rejected it outright.

When Schultz announced he would proceed regardless, his fate was sealed. The bosses could not tolerate a unilateral act that would invite catastrophic retaliation. Schultz was gunned down in New Jersey in October 1935, undone not by Dewey but by his own recklessness.

As Schultz lay dying, detectives recorded fragments of delirious speech, including references to “The Boss” and “John,” interpreted as nods to Luciano and Chicago mobster Johnny Torrio. Whether meaningful or not, the episode further cemented Luciano’s image as the unseen authority behind the syndicate — and a new target for Dewey.

Dewey’s methods of securing a conviction against Luciano remain hotly debated. Although Dewey was successful in indicting Luciano on prostitution-related charges, it was far from an airtight case, as direct evidence implicating Luciano was in short supply. But the outcome is not disputed. In 1936, Luciano was convicted and sentenced by Judge Philip McCook to 30 to 60 years in prison.

Luciano was briefly housed at Sing Sing prison before being transferred to Dannemora, aka “Little Siberia,” which state officials believed would be most effective in isolating him. There he remained until global events presented an opportunity.

Dewey’s prosecutorial fame propelled him into electoral politics. After losing the 1938 gubernatorial race, he won the office in 1942. At the same time, the United States entered a global war that unexpectedly reconnected Dewey with Luciano.

With the New York Harbor vital to the war effort, military officials feared sabotage and espionage along the waterfront — an area long dominated by organized crime. Those fears intensified in February 1942 after the docked USS Lafayette, formerly the French liner Normandie, caught fire and capsized. Though later deemed an accident, the incident accelerated cooperation between the Office of Navy Intelligence and law enforcement.

ONI officers, including Captain Roscoe C. MacFall and Commander Charles Radcliffe Haffenden, consulted Manhattan District Attorney Frank Hogan and Assistant DA Murray Gurfein for access to the underworld. They made contact through Fulton Fish Market boss Joseph “Socks” Lanza, who pointed them toward the most influential incarcerated figure available: Luciano.

Luciano’s prison visits soon included a “who’s who” of Mob figures and attorneys. His influence was quietly acknowledged, if rarely detailed, regarding the New York waterfront (and, later, Sicily during the Allied invasion, dubbed Operation Husky).

In early January 1946, Dewey acted on a formal recommendation from the New York State Parole Board to commute Luciano’s sentence, with deportation as a condition. The decision was finalized on February 9, setting in motion Luciano’s immediate removal from the United States.

Luciano’s wartime cooperation has often been framed as blackmail or a secret bargain. Historian Thomas Hunt offers a more pragmatic interpretation. Any truly damaging material Luciano possessed, Hunt notes, would likely have surfaced during his appeals. None ever did, and Dewey was well aware that Luciano’s sentence was excessive in the first place.

Instead, Dewey’s decision to commute Luciano’s sentence — on the condition of permanent deportation — represented the most expedient outcome available.

“Dewey’s conditional commutation and deportation allowed him to ensure that [Luciano] was kept out of New York and the rest of the United States permanently,” Hunt explains. “While this is often presented as some sort of win for [Luciano], it actually looks to me like the best possible outcome that Dewey could have hoped for at that moment.”

In February 1946, Luciano was transferred to Sing Sing, then taken to Pier 7 at Bush Terminal in Brooklyn and placed aboard the Laura Keene, bound for Italy.

Dewey was re-elected governor in 1946 and later ran unsuccessfully for president in 1944 and 1948. His upset loss to Harry Truman effectively ended his national ambitions.

Luciano, meanwhile, alternated between resentment and resignation. “Dewey framed me,” he told columnist Earl Wilson in 1949. “But it was politics. He was ordered to do it, and he stooped to it.” He paused before adding, “But I got out of prison under him … so I got nothin’ against him.”

Depending on his mood, Luciano offered varying assessments of Dewey over the years. “I almost made Dewey president,” he boasted to columnist Leonard Lyons in 1958. “And I almost made Kefauver vice president.”

The commutation resurfaced publicly during the Kefauver Committee hearings of 1950–51, when investigators scrutinized organized crime’s reach into politics. Dewey did not testify, but Commander Haffenden did, later admitting he may have overstated Luciano’s wartime value: “I used the word ‘great,’ which was probably over-evaluating it.”

In 1951, the Gannett News Service, citing what it described as a reliable source within Dewey’s inner circle, outlined the governor’s reasoning for commuting Luciano’s sentence. According to the report, the decision rested on three points:

1. The commutation was recommended unanimously by the Parole Board.
2. Luciano had already served 10 years in prison, representing the first of the consecutive terms imposed at sentencing.
3. The commutation of the minimum sentence was contingent upon permanent banishment from the United States.

“There is no mystery about the case,” Dewey said. “I spent 18 months putting Luciano in jail. The commutation was handled in the same way those matters have been handled by all governors of New York in recent years, with one exception.”

Luciano rarely discussed the specifics of his wartime assistance, preferring generalities colored by mood. Speaking to a Reuters reporter in 1949, his tone shifted from resignation to melancholy. “In 1946, I was pardoned and sent to Italy,” Luciano said. “America wanted to thank me in this way — but at the same time she said, ‘Goodbye, Lucky. Let’s be friends — at a distance.’”

Christian Cipollini is an organized crime historian and the award-winning author and creator of the comic book series LUCKY, based on the true story of Charles “Lucky” Luciano.

Forty years ago, a faction of Gambino crime family members orchestrated and executed a brazen coup to permanently remove their contentious boss, Paul Castellano. On December 16, 1985, assailants shot and killed him in the heart of holiday shopping season in Midtown Manhattan.

Born in 1915 in Brooklyn to Sicilian immigrants, Castellano grew up in a world under the influence of local Mafia crime families. That also included his own immediate and extended family. He and Carlo Gambino, his first cousin and future boss, also became brothers-in-law after Gambino married Castellano’s sister, Catherine, in 1932.

Castellano’s criminal life began in the 1930s through low-level rackets, but he quickly distinguished himself with his business-minded approach to organized crime. Unlike many of his contemporaries who built reputations on violence, Castellano cultivated political connections, leveraged legitimate-appearing businesses — particularly in construction, meat distribution and trucking — and positioned himself as a modernizer who understood both street operations and white-collar schemes. His combination of family ties, strategic marriages and financial savvy earned him steady promotions within the crime family.

Castellano’s ascent accelerated under Gambino, who trusted his discretion and intellect. Gambino, who became boss in 1957, eventually promoted Castellano to capo and later used him as a key adviser. By the early 1970s, Castellano controlled lucrative construction and union interests and had become one of the family’s primary earners.

Mounting disdain

There was no single reason for some members of the crime family to dislike Castellano. Instead, multiple factors seemed to have accumulated over time, contributing to the dissonance. Among the most significant criticisms began with Castellano’s appointment as boss in 1976 — a decision that bypassed then-underboss Aniello “Neil” Dellacroce, who was in prison at the time.

Gambino’s dying wish designated Castellano as his successor. However, those loyal to Dellacroce found this choice shockingly unconventional and, worse, disrespectful to the underboss, who was well-liked and respected by most soldiers and captains.

Critics within the organization also felt that Castellano lacked the credibility that comes from experience and was disconnected from the street-level hustle that generated the cash envelopes kicked up to the boss. But not everyone harbored such resentment. Some, including a few of the mutineers-to-be, generally regarded Castellano as respectable, at least for a time.

John Gotti, who headed a crew in Queens based at the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club, maintained a close relationship with Dellacroce. He openly expressed his disappointment over Castellano receiving the top position. By the early 1980s, the divide between Gotti’s crew and Castellano became more pronounced and vocal. Dellacroce acted as a buffer between Gotti and Castellano. However, the situation escalated when rumors of “surveillance tapes” reached Castellano.

Reel-to-reel danger

Beginning in 1981, the FBI recorded a series of conversations, unaffectionately known as the “Quack Quack Tapes.” The recordings revealed that a few members of Gotti’s crew had been dealing dope, including Angelo “Quack Quack” Ruggiero, Gotti’s close friend, as well as Gotti’s brother, Gene. Ruggiero was at the heart of this problem, as the bulk of the audio was recorded on a tapped line in his home. After the government tapes captured Ruggiero’s loose lips in astounding candidness, he and Gene found themselves indicted in a federal narcotics case. This was bad news for the family, but it led to bigger internal problems.

Castellano became aware of the wiretap recordings when the indictment was revealed in 1983. Ruggiero’s attorneys had access to portions of the surveillance audio tape transcripts.  The recordings featured certain Gambino crime family members discussing drug deals and even mentioning Castellano, including disparaging remarks against the boss.

At first, Castellano did not know much about the actual content of the tapes, except that the indicted members of his crime family may have broken his strict edict — no dope. As bits of information trickled out, his concern and anger grew. He eventually demanded that Ruggiero give up whatever tapes or transcripts he had. Gotti’s crew, however, knew that if Castellano heard the details within those recordings, it would likely result in severe consequences.

The war of attrition placed Dellacroce in a difficult position as he tried to shield Gotti’s crew, who were unwilling to provide the damning evidence, while keeping Castellano’s temper at bay.

The tapes from Ruggiero’s home phone were not the only recordings of notable importance in the lead-up to Castellano’s demise. Foreboding conversations were recorded during a meeting in 1983 at Casa Storta restaurant in Brooklyn on January 23 between Ruggiero and Colombo family capos Gennaro “Gerry Lang” Langella and Dominic “Donny” Montemarano.

Perhaps ironically, the FBI recorded the conversation in pursuit of an entirely different case against Colombo boss Carmine Persico. It just so happened that the casual meeting revealed things nobody put together until after the infamous Castellano hit.

Langella: “Your boss [Castellano] is breaking our ——. This —— is going to —— us. And I’m telling you don’t repeat this because I don’t want anybody to think I’m a wacko. What did I tell you, Donny [Montemarano], after the holidays, what would happen?”

Montemarano: “Neil and Johnny will die.”

Langella: “That’s it. I said I made a prediction, and you know what?”

Montemarano: “Just what you see is going on.”

Ruggiero: “It’s getting worse and worse.”

The trio also discussed a rift between Dellacroce and Castellano, and about Castellano’s frequent tendency to speak ill of “everyone.” Additionally — and possibly without their knowledge at that moment – they subtly hinted at Castellano’s destiny.

Langella: “He ain’t going to get away with it no more, somebody’s gonna—”

Ruggiero: “I know.”

A nearly perfect ambush

Gotti saw a preemptive kill as his only path to survival, but he could not move without broader internal support. Frank DeCicco and Salvatore “Sammy the Bull” Gravano became essential players to get that backing. Through whispered networking, the conspirators gauged the other crime families’ stance on an unsanctioned hit of this magnitude. The consensus was not exactly positive, but wasn’t a hard no either.

But there was a problem: Nothing could be done to Castellano while Dellacroce was still alive. Then Dellacroce lost his battle with cancer on December 2, 1985. Making matters worse, Castellano did not attend the wake, citing his legal troubles and desire to lay low.

DeCicco, though tied to Castellano, recognized the growing resentment and understood that the family was at risk of splintering. Ever pragmatic and ambitious, Gravano concluded that backing the hit was the most realistic way to protect his own crew and future within the family.

It was only after Gotti, DeCicco, and Gravano acknowledged that Castellano’s removal was both unavoidable and manageable that they decided to act. The result was not a cohesive conspiratorial group, but a transient coalition of factions, each convinced it had more to lose by remaining inactive.

The date was set, thanks to DeCicco’s insider information. He was to attend a meeting at the Sparks Steak House with Castellano, his underboss Tommy Bilotti and others on December 16, 1985.

According to Gravano, the job consisted of 11 men: four shooters, a few backups and the getaway drivers. They were all Gambinos, and most were “made” men. The shooters wore beige trench coats and “Russian-style” hats (Gravano recalled in a recent podcast that he wasn’t sure but thinks the fashion was Ruggiero’s idea.)

Gotti and Gravano parked across the street from the restaurant. When they spotted Castellano’s car and visibly confirmed that both the boss and underboss were inside, they radioed the team to move in.

At 5:16 p.m., as Castellano exited from the passenger side of the vehicle in front of the restaurant, he was shot multiple times. Bilotti immediately exited the driver’s side attempting to fire back at the assailants, but he was approached from behind and fatally shot.

This all occurred while hundreds of people were in the area, including on-duty and off-duty cops. But the hit went down so quickly and efficiently that there was little anyone could do. The hitmen had walked off and disappeared among the crowds.

Theories began to surface just days after the shocking murder. Ronald Goldstock, executive director of the state’s Organized Crime Task Force, gave his perspective to a reporter at United Press International: “[Castellano] was facing trials and a lifetime in prison. [The Mob] considered him a liability. … He could only bring them harm.”

Others theorized that the coup had the hallmarks of “young turks” ridding the ranks of the old guard. Regardless of which was the most probable theory, the common thread was Gotti, now the de facto kingpin of the Gambinos.

At the time of Castellano’s assassination, the Gambino crime family was both the largest Mafia clan and generally viewed as the most powerful of the Five Families, even though internal tensions and federal pressure were beginning to destabilize it.

Fame and fallout

The bullets outside Sparks didn’t simply end Castellano’s reign; they shattered the fragile underworld balance he had tried to maintain. Gotti’s ascent, forged in that blaze of gunfire, became a turning point the entire Mafia would be forced to navigate. His refusal to hide in the shadows, with his tailored suits and swaggering confidence, drew the public’s fascination and the government’s fury in equal measure.

Almost overnight, the new boss found himself as hunted as he was celebrated, while figures such as Vincent “Chin” Gigante watched the spectacle unfold with cold calculation, determined to strike back for the break in protocol.

In the years that followed, the legend of the “Dapper Don” — and later the “Teflon Don” — would emerge from this collision of bravado, media attention and relentless surveillance. But the murder of Castellano remained the event that set the stage for everything.

When Gravano broke the code of silence and sat before federal prosecutors, the full machinery behind the hit finally came into focus. His testimony mapped out the conspiracy in stark detail, including the meetings, the surveillance and the shooters positioned around the restaurant waiting for Castellano’s car to roll up.

Castellano’s murder stands not only as the moment that elevated Gotti, but arguably as the spark that set in motion the slow, public unraveling of Cosa Nostra. What followed were investigations that decimated the families, internal rivalries that turned deadly and the collapse of a criminal dynasty that once seemed untouchable.

Christian Cipollini is an organized crime historian and the award-winning author and creator of the comic book series LUCKY, based on the true story of Charles “Lucky” Luciano.

Chicago Outfit associate Willie Bioff rose to power as a corrupt union official, extorting millions from Hollywood studios on behalf of organized crime. In 1955, long after he became a government witness and went into hiding, a car bomb rigged to his truck exploded in the driveway of his Phoenix home, killing him. Although he may have tried, Bioff could not escape from his criminal past.

Born in 1900, Bioff’s family moved from Russia to Chicago when he was a young child. After coming of age, he gravitated toward questionable career paths. He began with pimping and petty hustles in the 1920s but moved into the more profitable labor racketeering by the early 1930s.

Labor racketeer

Bioff teamed up with a pliable union man, George E. Browne, and muscled in on local theater owners using threats of striking projectionists. Their work soon caught the attention of the Chicago Outfit. According to one story, the boss received word about the two when they were celebrating a big score at a club owned by Al Capone’s associate and former bodyguard, Nick Circella, aka Nick Dean. Frank “The Enforcer” Nitti requested a meeting with them, an invitation the pair could not refuse.

In 1997, Vanity Fair writer Nick Tosches offered a different story: Mobster Johnny Rosselli originally schemed to bring in Bioff and Browne.

“At a 1934 Chicago meeting (Browne and Bioff were not invited), Rosselli explained the profit structure of the movie industry, and a plan was laid for a wholesale extortion operation of the major studios” via the International Alliance of Theatrical State Employees (IATSE), Tosches wrote. “Rosselli would operate as the puppet master of Browne and Bioff.”

Backed quietly by the Chicago Outfit, the two discovered a gold mine in Hollywood. Terrified of strikes delaying production, studios would accept any help they could get to keep sets running on time.

As Browne gained influence and power as a recognized figure in the union scene, Bioff, Circella and others took care of the hands-on dirty work of intimidation and extortion. In 1934, Bioff and Browne seized control of IATSE.

Their extortion scheme didn’t always produce the desired effect on the first attempt. Some studio heads held out, although briefly. But the pair honed their tactics so that most studios, big and small, inevitably kicked up the cash.

The fix was simple: Pay up or the cameras stop rolling. The moguls, from MGM to Fox, preferred discreet payoffs to union crises. Bioff, a sharp dresser and smooth talker, played his role well, convincing Hollywood he was not a bagman but a businessman.

In the lucrative racket, Bioff extorted large studios for $50,000 and smaller studios for $25,000.

Extortion scheme revealed

All bad things must come to an end, however, and by 1937 the Bioff-Browne endeavor came under public scrutiny. Then, in 1939, syndicated columnist Westbrook Pegler, a vocal opponent of corruption and rackets, revealed Bioff’s old pandering charge and the unusually quick release from jail that followed.

Bioff faced court first in Los Angeles and then was extradited back to Chicago to face charges in early 1940. That, however, was nothing compared with the charges his extortion racket brought.

The federal government handed down indictments on Bioff, Browne and Circella for tax evasion and racketeering. In 1941, the trial began.

“Obedience was never one of Bioff’s strong points,” Alan K. Rode wrote in a piece for Noir City Magazine. “On the stand, he accused studio bosses of bribing him to maintain labor peace — while remaining mute about the Outfit’s orchestration of the scheme.”

The jury didn’t buy it and returned quick verdicts. In November 1941 a jury sentenced Browne to eight years, Bioff to 10, and issued each a $10,000 fine. Circella, who had been laying low, was apprehended on December 1, 1941. He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to eight years.

During the sentencing, prosecutor Mathias F. Correa described Bioff as a “gangster-

racketeer type who could never be rehabilitated to live a useful life in society.”

The events that followed, however, changed some of their minds about cooperation.

All three received various threats, and some were directed at their family members. According to some accounts, Bioff was more angry than fearful. On February 2, 1943, the warnings escalated into brutal reality.

Estelle Carey, the 34-year-old model, dice girl and girlfriend of Nick Circella, was found murdered in her apartment on the North Side of Chicago. She had been bound, beaten and burned. Some theorized it was a message to Circella, Bioff and Browne. Others believed the assailants were searching for an alleged cache of money and valuables, as Carey was Circella’s “banker.” Regardless of the motive, it was clear that the violent scene was the work of Chicago’s underworld.

Stunning both Hollywood and the Outfit, Bioff and Browne decided to flip.

Bioff and Browne sing

The federal government had discovered more theatrical union corruption nationwide involving specific members of the Chicago Mob. Bioff and Browne’s change of heart would help put away some of the biggest names.

At one point during cross-examination, Bioff said of himself, “I was just an uncouth person, a low-type sort of man. People of my caliber don’t do nice things.” His testimony had dire consequences for the underworld.

Their testimony in 1943 reached straight into the Chicago syndicate’s elites. Among those named were Nitti, Rosselli, Paul “The Waiter” Ricca, Louis “Little New York” Campagna, Charles Gioe, Phil D’Andrea and others.

Nitti, facing inevitable conviction, chose suicide instead, as reported by the coroner. The rest served varying stretches in federal prison. Bioff’s cooperation branded him as the betrayer who shut down the Mob’s Hollywood pipeline and broke the code of silence.

Browne and Bioff got out of prison early in 1944, unlike Circella. Historians disagree on whether Circella and/or his girlfriend cooperated with authorities, but he served his full sentence nevertheless.

In rare praise, Pegler commended Circella’s resolve in a 1953 column: “If you are going to rate gangsters you must proclaim your standards, and all authorities agree that the ideal is a character who keeps a still tongue in his head, never squeals and never begs.”

Circella left prison only to face deportation in 1953. By 1955, initial reports (and many historical accounts since) stated that Circella was shipped off to Argentina. However, Circella ultimately ended up in Mexico and set up operations there. Allegedly, his presence influenced Sam Giancana’s decision to move there after his 1966 release from prison.

According to some sources, Browne, who had a long history of stomach ulcers, slipped into obscurity back in Illinois after his prison release and “drank himself to death” in the early 1950s.

A dynamite finale

After prison, Bioff went to Arizona and lived under an assumed name, William Nelson. He and his wife, Laurie, seamlessly integrated into the state’s social elite. Bioff struck up a friendship with the clever and sophisticated Harry Rosenzweig, a political player with strong connections to the Republican establishment, and even caught the eye of Barry Goldwater, an emerging political figure and department-store heir whose charm and network defined midcentury Phoenix.

Through Rosenzweig, Bioff purportedly donated about $5,000 to Goldwater’s first Senate campaign — a considerable amount back then — and, per contemporary reports, even rode on Goldwater’s private plane. Meanwhile, Bioff’s underworld instincts found a fitting outlet through Gus Greenbaum, the casino operator based in Phoenix and Las Vegas. Greenbaum introduced Bioff to Nevada’s profitable gaming industry, giving him a job as entertainment director of the Riviera Hotel.

On the morning of November 4, 1955, Bioff tended to his usual routine, which included a drive into town to check stock market activity. While his wife watched from the kitchen window, Bioff climbed into his pickup truck and turned the key in the ignition, which triggered a charge wired beneath the seat. He died instantly.

No more than 15 minutes after the massive blast shook the neighborhood, reporters and police arrived on scene. His wife had just turned her back from the kitchen window when the explosion launched shards of glass and framing into the house. “He turned to wave,” she told a reporter at the scene. “He always waved. I waved back.”

Pressing further, the reporter asked if she thought he was a victim of foul play or perhaps was suicidal, to which she replied, “Oh God no!” and added, “He didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

The explosion was so violent that officials could not determine immediately if the blast was caused by dynamite, nitroglycerin or some other components combined.

Rumors soon circulated about recent visitors in the Phoenix area, including then-Chicago Outfit boss Tony Accardo. Police were convinced of one thing — it was a Mob hit.

Three years later, Greenbaum would meet his own grisly end in Scottsdale, found murdered along with his wife in what police called a “vicious underworld settling of accounts.” The Arizona desert, it seemed, wasn’t far away enough for either of them.

Christian Cipollini is an organized crime historian and the award-winning author and creator of the comic book series LUCKY, based on the true story of Charles “Lucky” Luciano.

If you thought the traditional Mob was dead, think again.

The FBI on Thursday announced sweeping indictments implicating members of four of the five New York crime families in illegal gambling schemes. Twelve members or associates of the Gambino, Bonanno, Genovese and Lucchese crime families were among those indicted, along with former professional basketball players and others.

New York Mafia members allegedly were involved in operating rigged weekly illegal poker games, including games in Las Vegas.

According to the FBI, the games were operated with the “express permission and approval of” Mafia members and associates. In exchange for a portion of the proceeds, the Mafia members provided support and protection for the games and collected debts using “threats and intimidation.”

The poker games were rigged using high-tech devices. According to the indictment:

“The members of the cheating teams … used card-shuffling machines that were purportedly randomly shuffling the playing cards to ensure fairness. However, the rigged shuffling machines were secretly altered to use concealed technology to read the cards in the deck, predict which player at the table had the best poker hand, and relay that information via interstate wires to an off-site operator. The operator then communicated that information by cellular phone to a member of the cheating team seated at the rigged game poker table, referred to as the ‘Quarterback.’”

That person at the table used “secret signaling” to share the information with the other members of the cheating teams playing in the rigged games. The cheating teams used the information from the Quarterback to defraud the victims, who believed they were playing in straight games.”

Other cheating methods listed in one of the indictments include an X-ray poker table, “electronic poker chip trays,” “card analyzers that utilized technology onto decoy cellular telephones,” and marked cards detectable by “specially designed contact lenses or sunglasses.” The use of cutting-edge technology to fleece victims sets this case apart from other recent gambling busts and scams.

Wealthy victims were invited to participate in the games, often by former professional basketball players. According to the indictment, Portland Trailblazers coach Chauncey Billups and former player Damon Jones, who played for 10 different NBA teams, were two of those players.

Other defendants in the case laundered money for the ring by using shell companies, third parties and cryptocurrency.

Although most of the rigged games occurred in New York, some were held in Las Vegas and Miami. Billups was involved with the Las Vegas games in 2019.

Illegal gambling is nothing new for the Mob. This is not even the first time this year that a Mafia gambling ring has made the news. However, the unfair nature of these poker games is unusual. Having a reputation for cheating the clientele makes for bad business. But this case combines two of the Mob’s favorite schemes: illegal gambling and scams.

The New York Post released details about some of the charged mobsters. One of the 12 identified in the indictment is Angelo Ruggiero Jr., son of Angelo “Quack Quack” Ruggiero, who was the late John Gotti’s close friend and crew member. Gambino mobster Lee Fama is known as a poker high roller in Las Vegas. Matthew Daddino, a made man in the Genovese crime family, had only recently “earned his button.”

Although the rigged poker scheme is big news on its own, another indictment went out today that targeted insider information and NBA game-fixing.

Three defendants in the rigged poker case were also named in the NBA gambling indictment: Eric Earnest, Shane Hennen and Damon Jones. Hennen, a Las Vegas gambler, was arrested in January for masterminding a sports-fixing scandal in connection with Jontay Porter, a former Toronto Raptors forward. Jones is accused of selling insider information to bettors, which included unreported news about an injured Lebron James in February 2023.

However, the game-fixing indictment does not list any Mafia members or associates among the defendants. There may be a Mob connection, but it is not apparent at this time.

Director Patel concluded the press conference this morning with a warning to other would-be gambling offenders. “If you’re participating in the legal gambling industry, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” he said. “If you’re participating in illegal conduct, you’ve got everything to worry about. And this case shows it.”

On October 23, 1935, Dutch Schultz was shot in a Newark restaurant along with three of his associates. In the hours that followed, the four men succumbed to their wounds, one by one. Schultz, the last to go, held on until the next day. In that time, he muttered a string of strange, rambling remarks. Much of it was incoherent, but a few lines drew attention from detectives at his bedside. Schultz’s lifetime of crime had come to a dramatic end.

Becoming the ‘Dutchman’

Born in the Bronx in 1902 to Russian-Jewish immigrants, Arthur Flegenheimer began his life of crime early. After a stint in prison for burglary, he aligned himself with Arnold Rothstein’s crew and made a name for himself during Prohibition. In 1925, the Bronx Sheriff Edward Flynn deputized him, which didn’t last long. His badge was revoked within six months.

Shortly after, Flegenheimer adopted the alias “Dutch Schultz” and emerged as a violent, fast-rising figure in New York’s underworld. Bootlegging was his first major racket, earning him the nickname “Beer Baron.” After Prohibition ended, he moved into the profitable Harlem numbers game.

His high-profile feuds with Jack “Legs” Diamond and Stephanie St. Clair became part of his legend. However, Schultz’s increasingly reckless disregard for both law enforcement and Mob protocol eventually would bring about his downfall.

By the mid-1930s, Schultz’s empire was crumbling under law enforcement scrutiny. He set his sights on eliminating Thomas Dewey, the up-and-coming special prosecutor aggressively going after organized crime. But the Commission — the Mob’s ruling body — voted against it. Killing a prosecutor was bad for business.

Schultz made it clear he would defy that order and kill Dewey anyway, which sealed his fate. The Commission voted to eliminate Schultz before he could bring the heat down on everyone.

Dinner and gunfire

On the night of October 23, 1935, Schultz and his crew were at the Palace Chop House in Newark, New Jersey. The bar area was relatively busy with about a dozen patrons, but Schultz and his men were in the back room. As fate would have it, he stepped into the restroom just before the shooting began.

At least two gunmen entered the restaurant and opened fire. Three of Schultz’s top men — Otto Berman, Abe Landau (misidentified in some papers as Leo Frank) and Bernard “Lulu” Rosenkrantz — were hit. Both sides exchanged gunfire, although accounts vary on who shot whom and when.

Schultz was shot in the restroom and staggered out, collapsing on the floor. All four men were taken to the hospital, while the shooters disappeared into the night.

Meanwhile, across the river in Manhattan, gunmen targeted two more Schultz associates. Martin Krompier and Sam Gold were tracked down in the theater district and shot. Gold recovered quickly, while Krompier suffered multiple surgeries. Both survived.

Back in Newark, police found Schultz’s crew unhelpful in piecing together what happened. Clinging to life longer than his associates, Schultz delivered a strange final performance.

The deathbed transcript

On October 24, police stenographer F.J. Long arrived at the hospital. Schultz was slipping in and out of lucidity as Sergeant Luke Conlon tried to question him. Their exchange, recorded between 4 and 6 p.m., meandered between surreal and tragic:

Conlon: Who shot you?

Schultz: The boss himself.

Conlon: He did?

Schultz: Yes, I don’t know.

Conlon: What did he shoot you for?

Schultz: I showed him, boss. Did you hear him meet me? An appointment appeal stuck. All right, Mother!

Conlon: Was it the boss shot you?

Schultz: Who shot me? No one.

Conlon: We will help you.

Schultz: Will you get me up? Okay, I won’t be such a big creep. Oh, mama, I can’t go through with it, please. And then he clips me. Come on.

There were other odd mutterings, including references to “John,” possibly Johnny Torrio, and “the boss,” thought to be Lucky Luciano. Cops latched onto those names, even though both Torrio and Luciano had alibis — they were conveniently out of state at the time.

Before his death, Schultz converted to Catholicism and received last rites from Reverend Cornelius McInerney of Jersey City.

Aftermath and fallout

Unlike the usual chaos that follows a major Mob hit, Schultz’s death didn’t spark a war. There was no power vacuum. Instead, his rivals — and some of his friends — quietly absorbed his empire.

But the media frenzy around his death gave law enforcement a new focus: Lucky Luciano. Whether he was involved in ordering the hit, Luciano now became the face of organized crime. Prosecutors needed a headline, and Luciano fit the bill.

Police also investigated a woman reportedly seen with Schultz earlier that evening. Witnesses said she left the Chop House about 45 minutes before the hit. Investigators suspected she may have been a “finger woman,” sent to confirm Schultz’s location for the killers.

As for the triggermen, Newark cops quickly named a suspect: 21-year-old Albert Stern, aka Stein. He was already linked to multiple killings and was thought to be a rising Mob enforcer.

Days later, Stern was found dead in a Newark boarding house.

“Stern was in bed,” the Associated Press reported. “His head projected over the headboard. A necktie, knotted tightly about his throat, was tied to an open gas jet.”

The official ruling was suicide, but few believed that. Some thought Stern was a decoy, while others believed he was involved with the Schultz hit and silenced to tie up loose ends. Either way, many suspected mobsters had staged the scene.

Murder Inc. sings

The dead-end Schultz investigation resurfaced in 1940 when the Murder Inc. case exploded in Brooklyn. A string of hitmen turned informants began naming names. Among them were Abe “Kid Twist” Reles and Albert “Tick Tock” Tannenbaum.

Tannenbaum claimed he wasn’t involved in the hit but knew who was. According to his testimony, the team that took out Schultz consisted of Charles “The Bug” Workman, Emanuel “Mendy” Weiss and a getaway driver known only as “Piggy.”

Workman, Tannenbaum said, went into the men’s room and shot Schultz but wasn’t certain who he was shooting. Weiss handled the others. As Weiss fled to the getaway car, Workman doubled back to go through Schultz’s pockets. When he finally exited the restaurant, the car was gone.

Workman escaped on foot and was furious. The hit had gone sideways. During a sit-down with boss Louis “Lepke” Buchalter, Weiss argued that Workman had wasted time and endangered everyone. Lepke sided with Weiss and let it go.

Weiss would later be tried and executed for a separate murder, which left the Schultz hit to fall on Workman.

Indicted in 1941, Workman initially pleaded not guilty but then switched to no contest. He was the only person ever convicted in connection with Schultz’s murder. He served time at Trenton State Prison before being moved to Rahway in 1952.

Charles Workman, by all accounts, was a model inmate. He kept quiet, never testified and never flipped. After 23 years behind bars, he was granted parole in 1964.

He hoped to slip out of prison quietly, but the press had other ideas. On March 10, 1964, as he walked out of Rahway and approached a waiting blue Thunderbird, he was greeted by a wall of photographers, reporters and onlookers.

“Charlie the Bug walked 10 steps through a crowd of newsmen to the waiting car without smiling, turning his head or talking,” a reporter noted.

Workman lived out his remaining years quietly, surrounded by family. He died in 1979.

Unanswered questions

Despite the testimonies and convictions, several aspects of the Schultz hit remain unsettled.

The identity of the getaway driver — “Piggy” — was never confirmed. In his 1951 book Murder, Inc., prosecutor Burton Turkus wrote, “Rumors have it he is still alive and that he has climbed quite a way up the gangland social ladder.”

Later accounts floated the name Seymour Schechter, said to have been tortured and killed to keep quiet. But no definitive evidence ties him to the case.

The ballistics report also raises questions. Schultz was killed by a .45-caliber bullet, but his associates were shot with .38s. The hitmen reportedly used .38s and possibly a sawed-off shotgun. But Schultz’s men were armed with .45s and fired back.

Could Schultz have been shot by one of his own? Rick Porrello, writing for AmericanMafia.com, finds this plausible. He also questions the oft-repeated story that Workman rifled through Schultz’s wallet, leading Weiss to abandon him.

“First, how could he possibly have had the time with Landau and Rosenkrantz in pursuit?” Porrello writes. “Second, in the ambulance en route to Newark City Hospital, Schultz pulled out his wallet — which contained $725 — and handed it to Bernard Allberg, an attendant.”

Schultz reportedly gave Allberg another $300 at the hospital. Both amounts were later turned over to the police.

Schultz’s death also triggered a treasure hunt that has recently received renewed attention. Some believe that his final words contained clues to an alleged cache of money and other valuables he may have hidden before death.

Christian Cipollini is an organized crime historian and the award-winning author and creator of the comic book series LUCKY, based on the true story of Charles “Lucky” Luciano.

The sensational exploits of Depression-era con artist Victor Lustig are now underworld legend. But many oft-told tales overlook his surprising involvement with key criminal figures and events in 1930s gangland.

Officially, his name was Robert V. Miller — at least according to law enforcement. But even that is uncertain. His birthplace and date are murky, although most agree he was born in Bohemia around 1890. A scar on his left cheek — allegedly from a jealous husband — was one of the few consistent features across his many disguises.

Throughout his criminal career, Lustig used at least 45 aliases, including Robert Duvall, Robert Wagner, Bert Lustig and, most famously, “Count Lustig.” Fluent in five languages, he refined his trade under the tutelage of notorious con men such as gambler Nicky Arnstein, and eventually settled in the United States after World War I.

Friends in low places

From the early 1920s through the Great Depression, Lustig pulled scams from New York to Kansas City while quietly maintaining a family in the Midwest and conducting affairs abroad. He was frequently arrested but usually talked or bribed his way out of trouble. His criminal network included racketeering gambler Arnold Rothstein, bootlegger Waxey Gordon and St. Valentine’s Day Massacre suspect Gus Winkeler.

In a 1929 incident, U.S. and French agents arrested Lustig and associate William MacSherry for attempting to sell fake stocks. During questioning, the pair claimed to be members of Al Capone’s gang, an assertion quickly denied. When asked by reporters, Capone’s associate Jake Guzik said, “Never heard of them.” Other unnamed gang members echoed the sentiment.

Though best remembered for purportedly swindling Capone (and then returning the money) and “selling” the Eiffel Tower — twice — it was his infamous “money box” scam, in which he sold a phony currency “duplicator,” that cemented his legend. Ultimately, it was counterfeiting that brought him down in 1935. The exposés that followed — many likely fueled by Lustig himself — blurred fact and fiction. Even today, many aspects of his underworld ties remain obscured.

The original dopemen

On July 15, 1930, federal agents raided Manhattan’s President Hotel looking for gangster Jack “Legs” Diamond. They found Diamond meeting with Lustig and an associate, Abraham Leimas. All three were arrested but released shortly after due to lack of witness identification.

That meeting turned out to be a prelude to something bigger. A month later, Diamond left for Europe, allegedly to oversee a $250,000 investment in a liquor and narcotics venture. A Justice Department memo placed Lustig aboard a White Star Line vessel alongside several suspected underworld figures: Charles Green, alias Entratta; Salvatore Arcidiaco, a man identified as Lucania (likely Lucky Luciano); and another known only as Traeger. Aside from Entratta, who wasn’t on the mission, the others — including Lustig — arrived safely in Antwerp.

Diamond took a separate ship but was arrested in Germany and sent back to Philadelphia. On October 12, Diamond was shot four times at New York’s Monticello Hotel in a botched assassination attempt.

Suspicions flew. Some blamed Capone, while others pointed to remnants of Arnold Rothstein’s faction (specifically traffickers Oscar Kirshon and Charles Cook). Nearly all theories circled back to cocaine, morphine and money.

Diamond stayed quiet while recovering, but his mistress, Kiki Roberts, did not. She told police that Lustig and Arcidiaco had met with him earlier that day. The pair, along with Diamond’s rival, Dutch Schultz, were briefly detained. Schultz was released quickly, but Lustig and Arcidiaco admitted to being in Europe.

Lustig claimed he had been in Paris when Diamond was arrested and believed the operation had been canceled. Arcidiaco gave vague answers about a failed business venture. Letters later showed Diamond begging Lustig for financial and legal aid. Records confirm that Luciano registered in Antwerp but was never questioned. Still, his name surfaced repeatedly in the press as a possible suspect in the shooting.

Double-crossed by a lover

By 1935 Lustig had accumulated 38 arrests on his record. He also had leveraged his underworld network into his most audacious scam yet: counterfeiting. Allegedly through Capone’s affiliation, Lustig partnered with William Watts, a Nebraskan druggist who crafted currency printing plates. Lustig handled the distribution channels. But the high-quality fake bills soon drew the attention of federal agents.

Lustig’s criminal network was responsible for his rise but also contributed to his fall. One of his connections was Mae Scheible, Pittsburgh’s infamous “Number One Madam,” who ran a high-end brothel in the city’s Oakland district. Pursued by authorities in 1934, she relocated her operation and some of her workers to New York.

Scheible and Lustig had history. He once conned her into buying fake bonds, only to return the money later. Despite the grift, they remained intimately connected. But according to former Secret Service agent Frank Seckler, things soured in 1935 when Lustig borrowed her car to take another woman out (some suggest it was Watts’s wife). Not long after, authorities received an anonymous tip. Another version claims someone mailed a locker key with instructions.

“We always thought Mae Scheible, burning with jealousy, was our informant,” Seckler wrote in 1951.

Agents staked out Scheible’s New York apartment and eventually arrested Lustig nearby. Although he had nothing incriminating on him, the key led to a Times Square subway locker containing printing plates and $50,000 in fake bills.

Lustig escaped federal custody in New York on September 1 by tying bedsheets together and climbing out a third-story window. Authorities suspected that one of Scheible’s associates helped him escape.

On the run for weeks, agents tracked him using wiretaps on Scheible’s phone and an unnamed informer. They traced Lustig to Pittsburgh’s Northside, where he was seen leaving Lane’s Stag Hotel on September 28. He entered a chauffeured car and was arrested a block away.

“His pointed mustache… shaved off, and with adhesive tape cleverly drawn over a livid cheek scar to make him appear smooth faced,” The Pittsburgh Press reported. “Lustig surrendered with a show of violence, shrugging his shoulders and remarking: ‘Well, boys, here I am.’”

He was briefly held in Allegheny County Jail before being extradited to New York.

The Count’s legacy

Lustig and Watts went to trial in December 1935. Lustig refused to name accomplices, but Watts turned state’s witness.

“To hell with it, let’s get it over with,” Lustig told his lawyer. “All I wanted was to see if that rat would really squeal.”

Even his attorney, Charles White, gave up: “This man is a psychopathic case.”

Watts got 10 years. Lustig received 20 and was sent to Alcatraz.

While Lustig faded from headlines, Scheible remained tied to ongoing vice cases. In 1936, she was convicted under the Mann Act and sentenced to four years but jumped bail. She later surrendered in San Francisco. The same year, Luciano was convicted in a sensationalized vice trial and sentenced to 30 to 50 years. Decades later, some — including Seckler — suggested that Lustig, Scheible and Luciano together had been the prostitution racket’s true masterminds.

While in Alcatraz, Lustig filed more than 1,000 medical complaints. Most were ignored — until his health visibly declined. He was transferred to the federal hospital in Springfield, Missouri, and died on March 11, 1947, of pneumonia related to a brain abscess. His death wasn’t publicly confirmed until 1949, when his brother, Emil, appeared on counterfeiting charges in a New Jersey courtroom.

“Do you have a brother known as ‘The Count,’ a notorious swindler?” the judge asked.

“Yes,” Emil replied. “His name was Victor. He was my only brother.”

Agents told the New York Assistant U.S. Attorney’s office, “We do not know how many bills still may be in circulation. We have picked up $2,340,000 he and his agents made and passed.”

The Count’s storied escapades re-emerged in 1950s pulpy crime magazines and tabloids, followed by biographies published in the decades thereafter. However, contemporary efforts to uncover his origins — birthplace, schooling, family, etc. — have yielded little results.

Today Lustig remains what he always was: a charming phantom of crime, wrapped in rumor and illusion.

Christian Cipollini is an organized crime historian and the award-winning author and creator of the comic book series LUCKY, based on the true story of Charles “Lucky” Luciano.