MOB SISTERS - The St. Patrick's Day Massacre

It took a while for Harry to convince her. It hadn't been easy to come around to his point of view.

"I told you before, I'll say it again — you got a gold mine in that pussy of yours, pumpkin," Harry said. They were breakfasting at the kitchen table while Harry was opening the mail with a switchblade. "You oughta be out there using it to advantage."

"I understand only too well what's entailed in being a hooker," Victoria retorted, cutting open the poached eggs on toast Harry had made and letting the juice ooze out onto the plate. "And listen, even Joe Lo B. didn't consider me in that category. It's not my style."

"Don't knock it," Harry said, placing the switchblade down to stir milk into piping hot oatmeal. "But anyway, who's talking about hooking? What I'm saying is you got an edge, you gotta use it. Hasn't it been said that one pubic hair on a woman's body is stronger than the Atlantic cable?"

"Other women don't have my mind," Victoria pointed out.

"No reflection on you, honey," Harry said, "but you gotta learn nobody makes it on their brains alone, not even men. There's no shame admitting everybody needs support from the right auspices. Sex is political. Nobody oughta have anything against using their pussy. That's what God put it there for, to do some good. You got a great cunt — why lose out? You got a complex about not wanting to be considered a bimbo."

"I just believe a woman should get to a point in life where she calls the shots, Harry."

"You're there, baby. Do you realize you're one of the most envied, powerful woman in this city or this nation, for that matter?"

"Then why should I have to lower myself to cater to some ass hole?"

"Baby, you can play a role and still retain your dignity. Lotsa guys can only accept you in certain roles, as an entre, but after the preliminaries they start seeing other aspects. Only you gotta meet them half way to get things started."

"Christ on the fucking cross, Harry, I've probably been to bed with a thousand different men in my day, and where did any of it get me?"

"Ok, but you're smarter now, so you play the game on a higher level."

"The whole thing is that a penis makes a difference, and that hole we women have louses us up. It's like something's missing and you have to compensate — "

"Men use women. It's the same thing."

"No," Victoria insisted. "It's a man's world."

"Only because you don't understand the male point of view. You'd be surprised if you could get inside a guy's head — or his cock."

"Yeah, I bet I would."

"Honey, there's no shame making sex the modus operandi -- and seldom is it ever that cut and dry, anyway. It's a grey area. You're dealing in guys' egos and things they won't even admit to themselves — "

"Well, I have to say you have a point, Harry, much as I hate to admit it — the right man could be a boost."

"Sure. Look how this Jasmine operates. She's out there putting her cunt to good use. You wanna lose out?"

All right, but it was tough to swallow. She'd really believed she was beyond that phase. How often had she thought of Marilyn Monroe's famous exit line to the 20th Century Fox head honchos when finally released from her indentured slavery 7 year contract: "Ok, boys, that's the last cock I suck." Now if that wasn't the all-time classic example of a female cry of independence! This, Vic thought, was exactly the way things should work out for a woman once she got to a certain stage in life, and the sooner the better. She had fancied herself being there already, and yet more and more it now seemed that she wasn't.

Not that she hadn't voluntarily, even enthusiastically, sucked her share of cocks — still did, for that matter — but the ultimate power was in freedom of choice. All men automatically expected their cocks sucked, whereas not all cocks were suckable; some didn't lend themselves to it; but reluctance to suck a particular cock could cost a woman dearly. Then it was a power struggle, a problem she still hadn't solved, dammit all.

"I see the fine line, Harry. Just as long as I call the shots without the guy being the wiser."

"Now you're talking. And Zino should be a priority. He can do a lota good with the drug situation."

"Right you are, Counselor," Victoria said. "The sooner I get to Zino's balls the better."

"He and Jasmine have a non-exclusive relationship, according to the wiretaps. So that gives us more leeway than we originally thought. It's encouraging."

They formed a plan how to get Zino hooked. Now they just had to corner him and start setting it up.


Friday night, the finest judges, politicians and priests in the city gathered at the private Italian club Tiro a Segno at 66 MacDougal Street for the best pasta in town, followed by target practice at the New York Rifle Club downstairs. They struck paydirt with a tip from Harry's wiretap, advising Anthony Zino would be dining there. The plot was ready to hatch; it was all systems go.

Vic and Harry were enjoying capelli d'angeli, listening to His Eminence New York's cardinal and others of the Roman Catholic hierarchy in their weekly rendering of maudlin Irish songs when she was called to the phone. Heading back to the table again, lured by the strains of "Mother Machree," Vic's attention was brought to the men's room. An emerging figure, face turned away from her, was lighting a cigarette, the match flame protected by his cupped hands.

The man was impeccably groomed, starched white handkerchief in breast pocket, nails freshly manicured and glossed. He was wearing a shantung suit, and his tie bore the logo of another one of the city's best known Italian clubs. On his right hand was an unusual mark, a rooster tattooed between the crease of his thumb and trigger finger. When he squeezed his fingers, the rooster looked like it was flying. As he skulked away from the men's room, his walk was slow, deliberate. The face was hard and sallow. He had the muscular body of a man much younger than his years. Thick joined eyebrows covered his forehead in a baneful soot black line. He was ultra glamorous, like a character from a Hollywood gangster movie. He was Anthony Zino.

Victoria went right up to the mobster and pitched him. Baring his teeth and grimacing, he agreed to meet her for lunch the following Tuesday at the Black Angus. Holy canoli, the deal was coming alive.

"Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, that's an Irish lullaby." The prelates' strains, the cardinal's tenor predominating, reached a crescendo and died out, as Vic returned to her table, a triumphant smile covering her face.


Skillfully made up, dressed to kill, Victoria twisted her hair back and gazed at her image with approval. Viewing herself looking magnificent in a black matte dress encrusted with brilliants was an antidote to any frustrations she might have recently been feeling. Just give her this crack at Zino — she'd knock his socks off; the guy would be putty in her hands. She'd build an ongoing relationship that would benefit her in a host of areas — she'd sew up the airports, get herself positioned in the supermarkets, work it so she'd replace Jasmine and become Zino's primary side action.

The St. Patrick's Day corned beef caper she had in mind was the perfect entree to Zino's balls, small but stylish, and it made a point. It was an important piece of work. After she'd executed this one to satisfaction, he'd be sure to swing other deals her way. She was due for an upward shift, and this luncheon was the beginning. Donning a short square shouldered capelet with baroque beading, she fastened on a delicate, black veiled, doll-sized dinner hat -- just the right conversation piece — and she was off.

The Angus was jumping at noon, populated today by a disproportionate number of private carters, including the renowned Rocco Portone, garbage king of Staten Island, who was one of Anthony Zino's golfing partners.

Victoria sat waiting for the celebrated mobster to appear. Outside the Angus was one long line of impressive limos, inside, the euphoria of blue sharksin suits, monogrammed shirts and pinky diamonds. Vic was in her element. This was the place where bigwigs in the meat business and supermarket trade, garbage execs and mafiosi met to make payoffs and to scheme, plot and conspire to defraud, rob, murder, and otherwise conceive illgotten gains. Lunching and enjoying drinks today were controlling factors of the ash can handlers, distillery workers and butchers' unions.

At the table across the way sat bullnecked, bullvoiced Morrie Kahn, he of thick hands the size of snow shovels and one glass eye. Kahn sported huge sweatmarks under the arms of his shiny silk shantung suit. His specialty was taking contaminated seafood from overseas that had been rejected for American import, cleaning it out in formaldehyde to get rid of the stench, then bribing US food inspectors to give it a stamp.

Even from a distance of 20 feet, you could almost smell bird crap on the hands of Phil Golden, who ran the leading chicken brokerage firm in the city down on lower 5th Avenue at 14th St. His ravaged face looked like it was made of melted wax, his right earlobe was missing, he had a third grade education and wore a dangling black pearl ornament attached to the protruding zipper of his high-waisted trousers. Golden was immaculate but for the stench of poultry exuding from his pores. It was enough to make a person become a goddamn vegetarian.

She carried a rap sheet in her head on these guys, knew their act, and anyway, she had a photographic memory when it came to essentials.

Present also was the muscle man for the embalmer's union, Frankie Bruno, whose troops were all bums and strongarms helping him operate at the polls. And there was Willie Wolters, the horse meat king, charged with conspiracy to pass seventy-five grand in counterfeit bills, whose conviction was reversed on a technicality by a crooked appeals judge.

Another distinguished guest was Mike Giordano, who ruled an International Longshoreman command post at the Jersey docks, where he was head honcho of Local 564. In addition to being her soldier Georgia Jensen's significant other, Giordano was also a close crony of Anthony Zino's. Giordano wore a huge white star sapphire ring covering half of one finger, and his left thumb was lopped off at the bottom joint. Vic wondered what particular project had brought Mike here today.

Waiting for Zino to arrive, she picked up on the deals going down, bribes being passed under the table, rub-outs being hatched. She watched Bernie Komack, crown prince of Jersey carting -- nothing went on in the state garbage business without Bernie's blessing — she heard him bark to his luncheon companion, "Not to worry, Sy — Abe can always collect, even if he's gotta crack the guy's skull open with a pipe."

All this was heady stuff. Victoria felt like the right girl in the right place at the right time. Everyone was staring at her, and why not? She was one helluva great looking woman.

Zino should be here any moment. He didn't have far to go. This was his neighborhood. Opposite the Angus was the Round Table, a few doors down from which, at the San Carlos Hotel, Zino kept an apartment, his home away from his wife and five kids in Bayside, Queens. Every day he maintained his ritual of steam, massage and nap at the Luxor Baths, also in the vicinity.

She belonged in a higher class setting than this, but the Angus was a good base to start from, it was power on a certain level, and it could decidedly be a springboard to better things.

The feather in her cap she sought was Zino's blessing on using the airports to bring in the drugs; but she'd work up to that gradually. The important thing was to establish a relationship, get the bonding process rolling right away. To that end she wanted to hook him into something simple but compelling that would command his immediate respect. Her scheme would involve double crossing Al Steinbrenner, meat business potentate, and she wanted to flatter Zino by asking his approval. Because of his position of elder statesman, she'd ask permission to go for the jugular. Then with what she had in mind for after lunch, better believe it would guarantee her having this guy by the balls.

Zino was winding his way through the tables, saying hello to the contingent of private carters and other nefarious luncheon guests. His lip curled when he greeted her with a firm handshake. He was dressed in an expensive Hickey Freeman suit and looked like he'd just come from the barber --- freshly shaven, trimmed and smelling of spicy aftershave. Good sign; he cared enough to show her that kind of respect. After he was seated and the waiter had taken their order, Zino said, "That's some hat you got on. Can you eat with that thing in your face?"

Vic removed the veil and gazed at him with rapt attention.

"That's better, doll. Now I can see your beautiful kisser."

Progress. Encouraged, Vic launched into a well-rehearsed speech. The real profit in the meat trade, she knew, was in specialty cuts — briskets, corned beef, hamburger and sausage. To have the shops take your product entailed payment of "gratuities," and it was Anthony Zino who arranged all manner of behind-the-scenes payoffs to Local 174 of the butchers' union, among others. From a short-lived affair with Al Steinbrenner, Vic knew the latter had been pumping an extra 8 to 10 cents per pound into all the corned beef he sold the supermarkets in the tri-state area. Steinbrenner had the market cornered. Zino got his cut for arranging things with the mob and for keeping peace in the unions.

But Vic saw a way of fucking Steinbrenner, thus repaying him for his having both dumped her and cheated her on a business deal. At the same time this would enhance Tony Zino's take and upgrade her stock with him.

She said, "Look, Tony, both you and I know that the real profit in the meat trade is in specialty cuts like briskets, corned beef, the stuff ground into hamburger and sausage, et cetera. You know as I do that Al Steinbrenner, the man who has the corned beef and brisket market on the eastern seaboard cornered, has been pumping an extra few pennies per pound into all junk he sells in this area. Now you get your cut from Al for arranging things with the mob and for keeping the unions happy."

Zino stabbed his caesar salad, cut open his sour cream and chives baked potato, mashed it down with a fork, and then, executing a boarding house reach across the table, helped himself to four mounds of butter.

"I see you're a man who's unconcerned with his cholesterol count," Victoria observed, and continued talking shop. "I happen to hate that son of a bitch Steinbrenner and I don't think I'm the only person who voices that sentiment."

She watched Zino's reaction but he betrayed little. "I have a way of screwing Steinbrenner that I know will appeal to you, Tony, at the same time allowing you to increase your take substantially."

Each year Steinbrenner held back from the market all the corned beef he had stored in his coolers down on 14th Street in anticipation of St. Patrick's Day. Then the second week in March, he deliberately jacked up his prices. Since he had a monopoly, that meant carte blanche; everyone was obliged to meet his scalper's prices.

"Just suppose Steinbrenner couldn't deliver for St. Patty's?" Vic said. "Suppose his supply was cut off? Every Irish pub in town, every hotel and restaurant would be willing to pay an extra few cents per pound for the stuff, to say nothing of the supermarkets."

When Vic outlined her plan to Zino, his first reaction was, "You wanna end up in the morgue with a tag on your toe?" But as she explained more fully, seeing dollar signs and feeling no great loyalty to Steinbrenner, he appeared more interested.

"I don't mean to be nosy, but what's Steinbrenner paying you?" she asked.

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

"Look, you owe Steinbrenner nothing. So why be loyal to this fink?"

"Why've you got in for him?"

"That's my business. Just tell me, are you interested in making a buck? Because if I have your backing and blessing, I can move forward. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain."

She could tell he was considering it. Of course he'd go for it. It was money under the table, wasn't it? She'd give him a while to think about it because she had a couple of more ideas worth bouncing off him, including getting another loan shark concession going.

Lowering her voice to a confidential tone, she said, "I need your advice, Anthony. Aside from my personal attraction for you and my desire to know you better, I want your help." She leaned closer, aware her tits were practically popping out of her neckline. "Let me be blunt. We both know you're the man to see when you want to give a kickback to the butchers' union."

"They don't call it a kickback, sweetheart. They call it a gratuity," he corrected, carving an obscenely thick steak that was oozing with blood and fatty juice.

"Ok, what I need to determine is how much do we have to offer these supermarket dudes to take our stuff?" Vic said, playing thoughtfully with her watercress.

"At least seven, eight hundred a month."

"What about the middlemen?"

"That's included."

"We want to get our goods prominently displayed — private label aspirin, matches, designer meats — "

"Not to worry. They'll do as I say. If I say. What'da ya got to offer them?"

In addition to the aforementioned, Vic had a new product lined up. She began telling him about a fabulous, as yet unknown in the United States, exclusive designer meat from Europe known as Leberkäs, a member of the sausage family. It so happened she had a mouthwatering recipe for Leberkäs, stolen during a one night stand with an Austrian butcher on a trip to Vienna. Butchers were the only people in Austria who knew the secret of how to make Leberkäs. Ingredients were closely guarded, handed down in families for generations. The item was bound to go over big in the American market. Al Steinbrenner had promised to take her Leberkäs and reneged. Worse, he had duplicated her stuff, stolen it out from under her and was planning to launch it under another name. The guy was a schmuck and a crook. And a lousy lay besides.

Vic said, "I have a provisioner out in Neptune, New Jersey, a German guy who made me up some samples. His initial price on the Leberkäs was a bit out of line, but we can alter the recipe, use more fillers — you know, a touch of sawdust and some mouse droppings — "

When Zino made a face, Vic said, "Come on, Tony, why're you turning green? Mouse crap's pure protein, for God's sake. You don't have to eat this shit. The Leberkäs retains its taste, rodent fecal matter notwithstanding — we just bring the cost down. In fact, I have a sample without the mouse droppings in my refrigerator at my home, and I would be delighted to give you a taste, if you care to come up for a drink ..."

"Think maybe I'll pass on that one, sweetheart. I'm a steak and roast beef man myself."

She'd come up with a more provocative invitation before lunch ended. Undaunted, Vic continued. "My kraut guy in Neptune will make the Leberkäs, label and all. He'll also be my provisioner on the corned beef."

"Corned beef? They'd know where it comes from, then."

"No, because this is private label, so to speak generic stuff sold by the guy in Neptune to our shell corporation in the Bahamas, and therefore totally untraceable... the Neptune dude's not on the line, nor are the supermarkets — nobody knows anything — they need product quick, they buy the only game in town."

"Can you rely on this guy to produce quality stuff?"

"Definitely. I've dealt with him in the past."

"So Steinbrenner checks who's the guy, and this dude out in Neptune gets leaned on."

"Why? He's only the provisioner. He's in the clear."

"So they trace the provisioner to you, and you get clipped."

"No way. Like I said, we use a shell corporation, offshore, untraceable."

"What happens to Steinbrenner's corned beef? You just dump it by the wayside?"

"Hell, no, we sell it abroad. I have buyers lined up in South America, Asia and Africa who'll pay a premium — they go ape over corned beef in those third world countries — and we don't have to pass inspection. So we make it on both ends."

"This corned beef sounds like a one-shot deal only."

"Right. After this we go onto the next gig. This first one's just to show you who I am and what I'm capable of."

"Why is that important to you?"

"Because I want your respect. I have ulterior motives, and I think this could make a difference in your level of excitement."

He perked up on that one. Gradually, he was getting more interested. He said, "You said something about loansharking?"

"Right, some concessions in Hudson County."

"From what I hear, you got a woman on your team who's close to Mike Giordano. What'da ya need me for?"

"Coming through your auspices gives me added clout."

He said he'd look into it. And then, just as she knew he would, seeing dollar signs and feeling no great loyalty to Steinbrenner, Zino gave her the nod on the corned beef caper. "But remember," he said, "I keep outta this. If my name ever comes up, I don't know nothing."

"No problem," Vic said.

"Because if anything ever comes out, I'm the guy who's gotta deal with the responsible parties in an appropriate manner."

"I'll take that risk. You see, Tony, I want to do this one to prove something... that I can hatch a plot, strategize and execute. Ok, so it's not a zillion dollar deal but it will provide me with satisfaction and increase my standing with you. It makes a statement."

Victoria consulted the diamond studded black onyx dial of the Bucherer Vacheron Constantin yellow gold bracelet watch that Harry, using counterfeit currency, had purchased from a fence, his birthday present to her. They had finished lunch and were lingering over coffee. Everything had gone perfectly. It wouldn't be long before her plans would be reality. Now was the time to lure him back to the Woodward. She'd arranged with Harry to be out for the next several hours. Or if Zino preferred, she'd accompany him to the San Carlos. The plan: they'd shake on it, then fuck on it; the physical act would constitute sign, seal and delivery. He'd switch primary allegiance from Jasmine to her, and all sorts of deals would start opening up.

But something went drastically wrong. Out of the blue, it came upon her, unexpectedly and without warning, something that could only happen to a member of the female mafia — to a male mobster like on the 12th of never. It was her menstrual period — one whole fucking week early.

"Can you believe it?" Vic told Harry in disgust. "No wonder it's called the curse."

"You should've gone for it anyway. You do with me — "

"I keep telling you, Harry, about the difference between a guy you can fart with and one you can't."

"Well," Harry said, "if at first you don't succeed — "


In the annals of organized crime history, it has been noted the famous Sicilan Vespers was a grossly exaggerated event that possibly never even happened, and that the same might also be said of the celebrated St. Valentine's Day Massacre. In that case, possibly the St. Patrick's Day Massacre as staged by Victoria Winters and her La Femmina female mafia crew never happened, either. However, there are those who will swear it did, and all things being equal, the St. Patrick's Day Massacre, like Sicilian Vespers and the Valentine's Day Massacre, is one of those larger than life mythical tales that will be handed down by law enforcement and the media for generations to come. True or not, such events take on a life of their own.

They got right on the corned beef situation. Harry had located a closeout deal, dummies that were ringers for twenty pound packages of corned beef. The discount store owner was happy to unload the lot for peanuts. It was practically free.

Victoria put together a crackerjack team of her best women. Her sexy roadstop decoys distracted Steinbrenner's Teamsters who were hauling the real corned beef, engaging the drivers in erotic motel dalliances, while a half a dozen other La Femminas per truckload set to work hijacking the meat products, replacing them with the dummies. While Sally, Norma, Jessica and Molly were disrobing, unzipping flies and going down on truckers, Vic's four strongarms, Mildred, Ethel, Elaine and Carmen, were unloading the trucks, replacing the real items with the bogus product.

The real corned beef was reloaded into Vic's fleet, driven by her girls — who included a former lady wrestler and a Roller Derby veteran — then driven to Vic's meat lockers in Jamaica, Queens. The theft preliminarily went undetected, since the dummy corned beef was wrapped and resembled the real thing.

Immediately prior to St. Patrick's Day, when tavern-keepers all over town were desperate because Steinbrenner couldn't deliver, Vic's troops manned the phones. Using an offshore Panamanian company as an address, they sold the only game in town. Due to the careful layering of intermediaries, Steinbrenner was unable to discover who was behind the job, but angrily charged his footsoldiers if they valued their lives they sure as hell better find out.

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