Carpooling with Carlos, Ch. 11

Returning from another trip to Morgan City,

Thomas Messina eyed the various makes and models of cars and trucks that straddled the yellow lines in the parking lot of the Town and Country Motel in Metairie.  As each new day came and went, new faces began to appear at Carlos Marcello’s Airline Highway headquarters. On most days, Messina recognized each Capo who ran the day-to-day businesses of his boss’s empire, and over time, they in turn understood “the kid,” as he was often referred to, was a trusted member of the organization. But lately, more cars with out of state plates were parked in front of the rooms of the motel. These new faces, to Thomas, seemed to indicate a different level of mafioso. The men were harder, less friendly, all business. Activity and stress were on the rise.

Walking into the outer office where Marcello’s secretary, Frances, sat at her desk, Messina noticed three men, dressed in black trousers, white starched shirts, narrow ties and tailor fitted coats. Each man, smoking Perfecto Garcia hand-rolled cigars from Ybor City, never acknowledged Thomas as he moved casually between smoke, pungent aftershave and made men in Rubentein Bros custom suits.

It was always a welcomed relief when Thomas Messina returned to New Orleans and safely gave Carlos, yet another stuffed envelope picked up from the Newport Motel in Morgan City. Messina never opened the envelopes, but he knew they contained cash, lots of cash.  The amount of cash was not his concern. Where the cash originated and to whom it would be dispersed, deposited or distributed to, did not matter to the young man. For Messina, taking it from the glove box of his Chevrolet Impala and placing it in the hands of Carlos Marcello was all that mattered.

Plato once said, “The measure of a man is what he does with power.” For a man like Carlos Marcello, power meant colluding with government officials to keep his syndicate not only running but to also keep his interests profitable. Even in the early 60’s, Marcello’s businesses were pulling in over a billion dollars a year in dirty money. In just about every level of government, Marcello’s hand could be felt. His power influenced mayors, governors, city councils, legislators, sheriffs, prosecutors, judges, probably even the local dog catcher. Mr. Marcello, a “poor tomato salesman,” used his power to amass an empire that from the mid-1950’s until his death reflected a net worth that many estimated to be nearly $15 billion.

His empire was strong throughout the Southern United States, especially in Texas, Louisiana and Mississippi. His hand of influence was felt in small towns and in state governments. However, Carlos Marcello was not your typical mafia kingpin. He was not a household name throughout the country.  He was seen mostly in his clubs in New Orleans, Shreveport and Dallas. As other crime bosses made the news in Las Vegas, New York City, Chicago and even Hollywood, Marcello was content with staying off the radar, minding his own business and keeping his sphere of influence relatively local. Well, until John and Robert Kennedy decided to stick their noses in Marcello’s business.

Marcello’s hatred for the Kennedy brothers was not a secret. There were several significant events that fueled Marcello’s contempt for many in government, particularly the federal government. One could point to a trip to Washington D.C. to speak before a congressional committee investigating organized crime where Marcelo cited the Fifth Amendment and remained silent throughout the proceedings. In addition, there were indictments, harassment from the INS, the IRS and the New Orleans Crime Commission. But at the top of the list was the day Robert Kennedy had Carlos deported to Guatemala, depositing him on a tropical jungle tarmac in a suit and tie, leaving him and his attorney to stare at the tail of a C-130 transport plane.

On a sunny day in September of 1962, Thomas Messina was given orders to pick up food and drinks and take them to Carlos Marcello’s Churchill Downs, the 6,500-acre swampland plantation on the Westbank of New Orleans in Jefferson Parish.  Marcello told Messina he would be along later in the day and that he would be driving himself to the farm. Something Messina found strange as Marcello was not known to drive his own car very often.

Dust kicked up behind the Lincoln Continental as Marcello steered the big car down the narrow gravel lane that lead to his Westbank retreat.  Messina was sweeping off the front porch when the big Lincoln came to a stop and Marcello and three other men exited the car.  The four men, dressed casually for the occasion and the location, walked briskly into the farmhouse and settled into comfortable chairs that were neatly arranged on a sweeping rear porch overlooking tall Cypress trees and a shallow marsh with groups of water lilies floating casually across the dark water. The men accompanying Marcello were the same three men Messina had seen at the Town and Country Motel earlier in the year.

Cigar smoke and laughter floated over the serene wetlands as the men joked about women, sex, gambling and their business ventures. Drinks flowed, lies and truths told and as the sun slowly eased into the Western sky, the topic of Bobby Kennedy’s Justice Department surfaced, and the conversation grew serious.  Marcello asked the men to follow him inside to his poker room, complete with soft couches, card tables and an imported pool table that Carlos remarked was given to him by a man who could no longer hold a pool stick after an unfortunate accident with a meat grinder.

An uncomfortable silence followed the Mafia boss’ statement about meat grinders and an unfortunate accident. Everyone in the room knew that less than 50 feet away was the swamp where many a man had become Marcello Gumbo. One of the men swirled the ice in his nearly empty glass. Another man stared at his shoes. The third man decided he needed another drink and rose quickly to the Mahogany bar to pour a shot of whiskey from a crystal decanter into his glass, tossing it back and pouring another drink before returning to one of the sofas.

Carlos raised his voice to say “Livarsi na petra di la scarpa!” (Take the stone out of my shoe!) He then says, “Don’t worry about that little Bobby, son of a bitch. He’s going to be taken care of.”

Carlos knows that before he can rid himself of Robert Kennedy, he will have to kill President John Kennedy first. He doesn’t share those thoughts with the other men, but when Carlos abruptly stands up, signaling the end of the meeting, everyone understands Marcello’s intentions.

In the adjacent room, Thomas Messina swears he can hear his heart beating, his body frozen in place, afraid to move until he hears the four men walk outside to smoke another cigar before they head back to the city.