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The First Family: Terror, Extortion, Revenge, Murder, and the Birth of the American Mafia

The First Family: Terror, Extortion, Revenge, Murder, and the Birth of the American Mafia

4.1 26
by Mike Dash

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Before the Five Families who so notoriously dominated U.S. organized crime for a bloody half-century, there was the one-fingered, surpassingly cunning Giuseppe Morello and his murderous coterie of brothers. Born into a life of poverty in rural Sicily, Morello became an American nightmare, pioneering the bizarre initiation rituals, imaginative protection rackets,


Before the Five Families who so notoriously dominated U.S. organized crime for a bloody half-century, there was the one-fingered, surpassingly cunning Giuseppe Morello and his murderous coterie of brothers. Born into a life of poverty in rural Sicily, Morello became an American nightmare, pioneering the bizarre initiation rituals, imaginative protection rackets, influential underworld reigns, and Mafia wars later popularized by countless books, television shows, and movies.

In The First Family, Mike Dash tells the little known story of the Morello family. He follows the birth of the Mafia in America from the 1890s to the 1920s, from the wharves of New Orleans—where Morello himself disembarked in the United States—to the streets of Little Italy. Using previously untapped secret service archives, prison records, and interviews with surviving family members, Dash brings to life the remarkable villains and unusual heroes of the Mafia's early years, from the colorful members of the Morello family to Joseph Petrosino, an Italian cop with a thick Naples accent, and William Flynn, a dogged U.S. Secret Service agent, who banded together to bring down Morello.

More than just a pulse-quickening Mafia narrative, The First Family is the first authoritative account of a particularly crucial period in American history, in which the modern American underworld was born.

Editorial Reviews

Jonathan Yardley
Morello—not Vito Genovese, not Al Capone, not Lucky Luciano, not any of those creeps who paraded before the Senate's Kefauver Committee which investigated organized crime in the early 1950s—was the true father of the American Mafia. Dash leaves no doubt about that. A British historian and journalist whose capacity for research appears to be limitless, Dash has dug into tons of material and emerged with a work of popular history—written in lively, lucid prose, with a strong narrative line and a wealth of anecdote, much of it gory—that seems likely to be the definitive work on its subject for years to come.
—The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly

Decades before the Five Families emerged and more than half a century before Mario Puzo wrote The Godfather, Giuseppe Morello and his family controlled all manner of crime in New York City. Bestselling historian Dash (Satan's Circus; Tulipomania) presents an enthralling account of this little-known "boss of bosses," dubbed "the Clutch Hand" because of his deformed arm. Arriving with his family from Corleone, Sicily, in 1892, Morello soon set up a successful operation counterfeiting American and Canadian bills. His empire expanded to include extorting local businesses, insurance scams and kidnappings. The Mafia-a term that Dash underscores was used by outsiders, not members-was in its infancy when Morello came to America, but by the time he was gunned down in 1930, families had cropped up in all five boroughs and in cities across the country. Dash depicts the balance between loyalty and betrayal as an ever-changing dance and nimbly catalogues the endless gruesome murders committed in the name of revenge and honor. Readers may think they know the mob, but Morello's ruthless rule makes even the fictional Tony Soprano look tame. Maps. (Aug.)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Library Journal
Before Luciano, before Capone, there was Giuseppe "The Clutch Hand" Morello. Arriving in the States in 1892 from Corleone, Sicily, "The Clutch Hand" is believed to have been the force behind America's first Mafia family. As drawn here from transcripts, news reports, and police files, Morello's life story has it all—a harsh childhood, a physical infirmity, the tough life of an immigrant—plus the ultimate rise to power. British historian Dash (Satan's Circus) has taken on the challenging task of piecing together Morello's story. While a lot is unknown about Morello's life, he was also a master at manipulating and leading from behind the scenes. Even after a stint in federal prison, he was still a force to be reckoned with until he was gunned down during the "Castellammare War," a violent period for the U.S. Mafia in the early 1900s. Dash includes a handy cast of characters but does a terrific job of clearly writing about each person so readers won't find much need for the list. VERDICT Recommended for all readers interested in true crime or New York City—or in a good history book.—Karen Sandlin Silverman, Ctr. for Applied Research, Philadelphia
Kirkus Reviews
The Mob comes to America, and rivers of blood flow. The literature surrounding the Mafia is vast, particularly in the glory days of the 1930s and '40s, but very slight for the first days of the American mob. London-based journalist and historian Dash (Satan's Circus: Murder, Vice, Police Corruption, and New York's Trial of the Century, 2007, etc.) fills the gap with this altogether excellent account, which begins, as always, in Corleone, Sicily. Giuseppe Morello-variously known as "The Clutch Hand," "Little Finger" and "One Finger Jack"-earned his chops as a mobster, starting off with penny-ante crimes and swiftly working his way up to the murder of a corrupt cop. Things got hot after that, whereupon Morello made for New York and set up shop doing much the same work, then branching out to take part in whatever mischief was afoot. Dash swiftly reviews the reasons why the Mafia evolved in Sicily, and why it was so exportable, noting that local habits of keeping quiet and resisting state power proved helpful in protecting the newcomers from the authorities-even though the metropolitan police soon organized an "Italian Squad" made up of Italian-American cops such as the little-sung Joe Petrosino, murdered on Morello's orders, and Michael Fiaschetti. Dash's narrative soon involves Secret Service agents, politicos and ward bosses, minor hoods and ordinary citizens, building toward Morello's downfall. Hubris and retribution figure heavily, as do a slew of second-generation mobsters who had designs of their own, independent of the old-timers. Dash writes with flair and care alike, taking pains to keep a complicated story and a vast cast of characters on track while studding the tale with nicelyhard-boiled observations, including, "The one trait Joe Masseria fatally lacked was a talent for diplomacy."Essential for students of organized crime in America. Murder and mayhem buffs will enjoy it too.
From the Publisher
"Altogether excellent.... Dash writes with flair and care alike." ---Kirkus Starred Review

Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
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6.36(w) x 9.60(h) x 1.39(d)

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Chapter One

The Barrel Mystery the room felt like the bottom of a grave. it was damp, low ceilinged, windowless, and—on this raw—boned New York night—as chilly and unwelcoming as a policeman’s stare.  

Outside, on Prince Street in the heart of Little Italy, a fine drizzle slanted down to puddle amid the piles of rotting garbage strewn along the edges of the road, leaving the cobbles treacherous and greasy. Inside, beneath a billboard advertising lager beer, a featureless, cheap workingmen’s saloon stretched deep into the bowels of a dingy tenement. At this late hour—it was past three on the morning of April 14, 1903—the tavern was shuttered up and silent. But in the shadows at the far end of the bar there stood a rough—hewn, tightly closed door. And in the room behind that door, Benedetto Madonia sat eating his last supper.  

The place was advertised as a spaghetti restaurant, but it was in truth an eating house of the most basic sort. An old stove squatted against one wall, belching fumes. Musty strings of garlic dangled from the walls, mingling their odor with the smell of boiling vegetables. The remaining fittings consisted of several rough, low tables, a handful of ancient chairs, and a rusting iron sink that jutted from a corner of the room. Gas lamps spewed out mustard light, and the naked floorboards had been scattered with cedar sawdust, which, at the end of a busy day, coagulated in a thick mix of spit, onion skins, and the butts of dark Italian cigars.  

Madonia dug hungrily into a stew of beans, beets, and potatoes, hearty peasant food from his home province of Palermo. He was a powerfully built man of average height, handsome after the fashion of the time, with a high forehead, chestnut eyes, and a wave of thick brown hair. A large mustache, carefully waxed until it tapered to points, offset the sharp slash of his Roman nose. He dressed better than most workingmen, wearing a suit, high collar, tie, and well—soled shoes—all signs of some prosperity. Exactly how he earned his money, though, was scarcely obvious. If asked, Madonia claimed to be a stonemason. But even a casual observer could see that this was a man unused to manual labor. His forty—three—year—old body had begun to sag, and his soft hands—neatly manicured—bore no trace of an ­artisan’s calluses.  

After a while the solitary diner, sated, thrust his bowl aside and glanced across the room to where a handful of companions lounged against one wall. Like him, they spoke Sicilian—a dialect so rich in words drawn from Spanish, Greek, and Arabic that it was scarcely intelligible, even to other Italians—and, like his, the jewelry and the clothes they wore were quite at odds with their supposed professions: laborer, farmer, clothes presser. Yet there was no mistaking the fact that Madonia was an outsider here. Immigrants though all those in the restaurant were, the others had become New Yorkers and now felt quite at home amid the teeming streets of the Italian colony. Madonia, on the other hand, had first come to Manhattan just a week ago and did not know the city. He found it disconcerting that he required an escort to find his way round Little Italy. Worse, he was growing increasingly alarmed at the way these men he barely knew muttered together in low voices, and spoke so elliptically that he could not grasp the meaning of their words.  

Madonia had little chance to grapple with this mystery. The Sicilian had barely finished his meal when, with a click that echoed loudly through the room, the solitary door into the restaurant swung open and a second group of men appeared. In the sickly flicker of the gaslight Madonia made out the face of one he knew: Tommaso Petto, an oval—faced hulk of muscle and menace whose broad chest, strong arms, and limited intelligence had won him the nickname of “the Ox.” Behind him, another figure lurked, silhouetted momentarily against one wall of the saloon. It was that of a man of slender build and middling height, his eyes twin drops of jet, like black holes bored into his skull. The newcomer’s face was expressionless and gaunt, his skin rough, his chin and cheeks unshaven. He wore his mustache ragged, like a ­brigand’s.  

The Ox stepped instinctively aside, allowing the slight figure to step into the room. As he did so, a spasm of anxiety ran through the other figures in the restaurant. This was their leader, and they showed him fearful deference. Not one of the half—dozen others present dared to return his gaze directly.  

Madonia himself was not immune to the terror that the black—eyed man inspired. The newcomer’s voice, when he spoke, was parched, his gestures undemonstrative and minimal. Above all, there was the disconcerting way he swathed the right side of his body in a voluminous brown shawl. The arm that he kept hidden was, Madonia knew, appallingly deformed. The forearm itself was stunted, no more than half the length of any normal ­man’s. Worse still, its hand was nothing but a claw. It lacked, from birth, the thumb and first four of its fingers. Only the little finger, useless on its own, remained, like the cruel joke of some uncaring deity. Black eyes’ name was Giuseppe Morello, but his maimed appendage had earned him the nickname “Clutch” or “the Clutch Hand.”  

Morello wasted little time on ceremony. A single gesture from his good left hand sufficed; two of the men who had been lounging along the wall jerked up and pinioned Madonia, each seizing an arm as they dragged the diner to his feet. Their prisoner struggled briefly but without effect; grasped none too gently by his wrists and shoulders, he had no chance of escape. To shout out was hopeless; the room was too far from the sidewalk for even a full—blown scream of terror to be audible. Half standing, half supported by his captors, he writhed helplessly as the black—eyed man approached.  

Exactly what passed between Madonia and the Clutch Hand is uncertain. There may have been a brief but angry conversation. Most likely the word nemico, enemy, was used. Perhaps Madonia, aware, far too late, of the lethal danger he was in, begged uselessly for mercy. If so, his words had no effect. Another gesture from the black—eyed man and the two associates restraining the prisoner dragged him swiftly across the floor toward the rusty sink. A rough hand seized Madonia by the hair, yanking his head back and exposing his throat. At this, a third man lunged forward wielding a stiletto—a thin—bladed dagger, honed to razor sharpness and some fourteen inches long. A ­second’s pause, to gauge angle and distance, and the blade was thrust home, sideways on, above the ­Adam’s apple.  

The blow was struck with such brutal strength that it pierced ­Madonia’s windpipe from front to back and continued on till it struck bone. The men holding the captive felt his frame collapse, limbs rubbery and unresponsive, as the weapon was withdrawn. Using all their strength, they hauled the dying man back to his feet as Petto the Ox stepped up, his own knife in his hand. A single sweeping slash from left to right, so fierce it cut right through ­Madonia’s thick three-­ply linen collar, severed both throat and jugular vein, all but beheading the prisoner.  

Shocking though this violence was, it was premeditated. As life left Madonia in gouts, the men gripping his arms forced his head over the sink so that each succeeding pulse of blood drummed against the iron and gurgled down into the drains. The little that escaped fell onto the ­victim’s clothes or was soaked up by the sawdust underfoot. None reached the floorboards to stain them and leave lasting evidence of the crime.  

It took a minute, maybe more, for the awful flow of blood to ebb. As it did, thick fingers reached around ­Madonia’s gashed neck and tied a square of gunnysack around his throat. The coarse fabric absorbed the dying trickle from the wounds as the corpse was doubled, lifted bodily, and carried to the center of the room. There other hands had dragged a barrel, three feet high, of the sort supplied by wholesalers to New ­York’s stores. A layer of muck and sawdust, scooped up from the floor, had been spread inside to absorb any remaining blood, and the dead ­man’s body was forced inside with uncaring savagery.  

One arm and a leg projected from the barrel, but that was immaterial; Morello and his men had no interest in concealing the body. ­Madonia’s corpse was meant to be discovered, and the savage wounds it bore were a deterrent. Still, there was no point in chancing premature detection. An old overcoat, its labels carefully removed, was spread over the protruding limbs and the barrel wrestled and maneuvered back into the saloon and thence through a door that opened onto an alley. A decrepit one-­horse covered wagon stood there, waiting in the darkness. Several of the Sicilians combined their strength and heaved their burden onto it; two men, hunched now in heavy cloaks, climbed on. And, with a creak of springs and clop of hooves, Benedetto Madonia embarked upon his final journey.  

An hour or so later, shortly after dawn, a cleaning woman by the name of Frances Connors left her apartment on the East Side and set off to the nearest bakery to buy rolls.  

Her neighborhood was desperately impoverished. ­Connors’s tenement stood between a failing livery stable, its business proclaimed in peeling paint, and a collapsing row of billboards buttressed with iron scrap. To her right, as she turned out of her apartment, the East River slopped a tide of stinking effluent against crumbling wharfs. To her left, a warehouse full of cackling poultry leaned hard against a factory. And directly ahead, where East 11th Street met Avenue D, her route to the nearest bakery took her past the scarred exterior of Mallet & ­Handle’s lumberyard.  

Mallet & ­Handle’s was just as filthy and decrepit as East 11th Street itself. The yard smelled sourly of refuse, and its walls were pocked with unwashed windows swathed protectively in chicken wire. Most days deliveries piled up haphazardly outside, forcing passersby to pick their way through ragged piles of timber. This morning, though, another obstacle blocked ­Connors’s path. A barrel, covered with an overcoat, sat squarely in the middle of the pavement.  

The lights were coming on in nearby tenements and the rain had all but ceased, but it was still too early for the stevedores and sweatshop workers of the neighborhood to be about. No one saw Mrs. Connors chance upon the barrel. No one watched her size up the obstruction, or lift a corner of the cloth to peer inside. They heard the Irishwoman, though. What Connors saw brought a scream to her lips so full of terror that heads came thrusting out of windows up and down the street. The cleaner had exposed the right arm and the left leg of a corpse. And below them, peering out from sawdust dark with blood, a face with a high forehead, chestnut eyes, and thick brown hair.   Connors’s cries brought the local watchman running. He, in turn, ran for the police. Patrolman John Winters, who hastened up from his post nearby, pulled away the coat and saw at once that the man in the barrel was dead; his gashed throat and the chalky pallor of his skin were proof of that. Long blasts on the policeman’s whistle brought reinforcements rushing to the scene. One man was sent to phone the men of the Detective Bureau while the others set about examining their find.  

It was a horrific job. Everything that Winters touched was sticky with gore; the face and body of the dead man were spattered, the clothes saturated; blood oozed between the ­barrel’s staves. But there was little to show how the corpse had found its way to East 11th Street. Rain had wiped out traces of the covered ­wagon’s journey; footprints had dissolved to mud, cart tracks had been obliterated. And though Sergeant Bauer, of the Union Street station house, had passed the lumberyard at 5:15 a.m. and was quite certain that the barrel had not been present then, door-­to-­door inquiries along both sides of the street failed to reveal a single person who had seen the wagon as it rumbled down the road or had any idea how it could have been unloaded by Mallet & ­Handle’s without anybody noticing.  

Forensic science was still in its infancy in turn-­of-­the-­century Manhattan; fingerprinting, just introduced by Scotland Yard, had yet to be adopted by the New York Police Department (NYPD), and the notion of preserving a crime scene was unheard of. Not bothering to wait for the detectives of the 14th Precinct to appear, Winters prized ­Madonia’s body from the barrel—a difficult job, as it was wedged firmly inside—and stretched it out amid the puddles to examine it for clues. No effort was made to protect the body from the elements, but the patrolman did observe two details of importance: the coat that had covered the barrel was only slightly wet, despite the drizzle of that night, and the body beneath it remained warm to the touch. Plainly the butchered corpse had been abandoned only recently, and the man himself had not been dead for long.  

It was left to Detective Sergeant Arthur Carey to start a systematic search. Carey, the first policeman with experience of murder to reach the spot, tagged the contents of ­Madonia’s pockets; they consisted of a crucifix, a date stamp, a solitary penny, and several handkerchiefs, one of them, small and drenched with perfume, evidently a ­woman’s. A watch chain dangled from the ­corpse’s waistcoat, but the watch was gone; there was no wallet, and no name sewn anywhere into the clothing. Even the labels in the ­victim’s underwear had been removed. “There was,” the detective conceded, having checked, “not a scrap of information on the body to establish identification.”   Carey felt more confident in guessing the dead ­man’s nationality. The ­corpse’s looks were clearly Mediterranean. More tellingly, a brief note, written in Italian in a ­woman’s hand, had been found crumpled in a trouser pocket. Both earlobes had been pierced for earrings, a practice commonplace in Sicily, and the stiletto wounds on ­Madonia’s neck also looked bloodily familiar. In the course of his career, the detective had examined the victims of several Italian vendettas. Most likely, he concluded, the man had died in one of the murderous feuds common in Little Italy.  

Not all of ­Carey’s colleagues were so certain; in the first hours after the murder, some officers were working on the theory that the dead man might have had his throat cut by a vicious robber or was even the victim of a deranged crime of passion. The possibility that the corpse was Greek or Syrian was also mooted. Most policemen, though, concurred with the sergeant’s swift deductions. There were, after all, dozens of murders every year in the Italian sections of the city, and most were the products of exactly the sort of deadly feuds with which Carey was so familiar. Few cases of this type were ever solved; New ­York’s police (nearly three-­quarters of whom were Irish) did not pretend to understand what went on in Little Italy, and faced with witnesses and suspects who rarely spoke much En­glish and seldom sought to involve the authorities in their disputes, detectives found it almost impossible to solve even incidents in which the murderers’ identities, and the reasons for the killing, were common knowledge in the immigrant community.  

It was clear from the outset, though, that this murder would not go uninvestigated. The brutality of the assault, and the unprecedented circumstances of the ­barrel’s discovery, had all the makings of a great sensation; by the time Carey had concluded his initial examination, at about 6:15 a.m., the sidewalks outside Mallet & ­Handle’s were already clogged with gawkers who milled about in the hope of glimpsing the now shrouded body. A squad of police reserves, summoned from nearby station houses, had to link arms to keep back a crowd that quickly swelled to several hundred people. The first newspapermen appeared as well, scrawling down their shorthand summaries of what was known about the case. Bloody murder was always front-­page news.

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From the Publisher
"Altogether excellent.... Dash writes with flair and care alike." —-Kirkus Starred Review

Meet the Author

Mike Dash is a historian and a former journalist whose work has appeared in numerous national newspapers and magazines. He is the New York Times bestselling author of seven books, including Satan's Circus, Thug, The First Family, and Tulipomania. He lives in London.

Lloyd James has been narrating since 1996, has recorded over six hundred books in almost every genre, has earned six AudioFile Earphones Awards, and is a two-time nominee for the prestigious Audie Award.

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First Family: Terror, Extortion, Revenge, Murder, and the Birth of the American Mafia 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 26 reviews.
jason019 More than 1 year ago
i'm a fan of true crime and i found this book , from actually reading another book by the same author titled satan's circus. for the first family i found very interesting and couldn't put the book down. if you want to know the true history of the americanized mafia this is a must read . it centers around a few main people responsible for the birth of the american mafia. if it wasn't for these guys , people like john gotti and all the other famous gangsters would have probably never surfaced. a must read for a true crime fan. also check out satan's circus, it's about police corruption in new york city at the turn of the century also very well written and interesting.
N_G_Fletcher More than 1 year ago
It seems quite amazing, given the thousands of books published on the mafia both here and in America, that no one before Dr Mike Dash was able to trace their roots among counterfeiters and blackmailers in turn-of-the-century America, particularly New York. Dr Dash tells the somewhat sprawling story of the first Italian crime family to come over from Sicily with great aplomb. I've never read so much interesting stuff about the political and social background affecting the formation of the Mafia in Sicily before, and knew nothing about Guiseppe Morello and his family of extortionists and criminals who carried out some of the bloodiest murders New York had ever seen. He doggedly follows the ups and downs of Morello's career, charting the expansion of his and other families' empires, their connections with other families across the country and abroad, revealing an organized and terrifyingly brutal group who preyed on their own countrymen before turning to the wider populace, and were capable of the most overt betrayals if there was money in it for them. But whatever they did to other Italians, for decades the police couldn't break their own code of honor and get information on their rackets and executions. Most of the relevant police records were dumped in the river in the early 80s apparently, but Dr Dash had the bright idea of tracing this early criminal activity through the operations and reports of the American Secret Service, who were originally set up to tackle counterfeiting after the American Civil War. At that point it's estimated that an incredible half of the country's money was fraudulent. Because the Secret Service were small - something like 9 officers covered the whole of New York - and because they fortuitously handed in a written report every day, Dr Dash was able to trace the painstaking gathering of information and throw light onto the birth of the Mafia as we know it today with his own painstaking researches. He conjors up the atmosphere of the dirty streets of Little Italy, the inter-family feuds, sudden outbursts of violence and the length to which these characters would go to keep their secrets brilliantly, bringing to life what could have been a very dull account. It's a big tale, with a large cast, but somehow you never lose track of who's who and what's going on, no matter how complicated it becomes. Here's proof that decades before most people think the Mafia were operating in America they had roots in all the major cities where Italians had emigrated. If you're interested in American crime and the Mafia, this is a must read book.
Billy_Hardy More than 1 year ago
A first-rate book. A British historian and journalist whose capacity for research appears to be limitless, Dash has dug into tons of primary material - Secret Service reports, trial transcripts, witness confessions, prison records,family letters and police reports from two continents - and emerged with a work of popular history of unusual authority, written in lively, lucid prose, with a strong narrative line and a wealth of anecdote, much of it gory - that seems likely to be the definitive work on its subject for years to come. The First Family is up-close, personal, and full of you-are-there detail, and Dash is that rarity: a perfectionist in his research and a writer who perfectly carves out his story with a pen as sharp as a stiletto. He has a strong sense of place and is surprisingly vivid, almost obsessive in his pursuit of details. His writing style is deceptively novelistic and is belied only by the 34 pages of precise source notes that rival those of some of the more "serious" Mafia writers. When Dash says a murder victim ate a stew of beans, beets and potatoes, you can bet he did; when the victim was all but beheaded by a knife that penetrated his thick, three-ply linen collar, ditto. Even if The First Family weren't a non-fiction chronicle of the earliest days of the Mafia, the book would be worth reading as a perfect example of literary historical non-fiction. And for writers attempting to unearth an obscure story from the long-ago past, Dash's technique is a template. This is writing with authority. P.S. To the author of an earlier, negative review of this outstanding book, I say: check your sources before you write (as Dash invariably does). Dash provides impeccably sourced proof that the Giuseppe Morello arrested in New York in 1900 and 1903 was the same man as the Petru Morello mentioned by Bonanno. He includes a photograph of a plainly one-fingered Giuseppe from the US National Archives, snapped by the Secret Service in 1900, and points out that the New York death certificate of the man Bonanno refers to as "Petru" Morello names him as Giuseppe; also that the NY coroners' report likewise identifies the dead man as Giuseppe and gives a detailed description of the dead man's deformed arm. He cites several sources written by William Flynn which describe this man's deformity, and notes that Secret Service agents nicknamed him "One Finger Jack". Dash also gives clear justifications for describing the Morello family as the "first" Mafia family - plainly stating that they were not the first Mafiosi to arrive in the New World, simply the first for whom there is a clear- continuous history that runs to the present day, which cannot be said of New Orleans. To cite notoriously sloppy and inaccurate writers such as Herbert Asbury and Carl Sifakis in a critique of a careful researcher (and PhD) like Mike Dash seems to me perverse.
iluvvideo More than 1 year ago
This book was eye opening. It traces the Mafia in the 1890's US to the 1940's. It starts in Italy (Sicily to be exact) tracing the roots of an organization fostered by non resident (and non representative) government, ineffective (and often corrupt) local law enforcement as the factors most prevalent to giving this outlaw family it's foothold. When some of these early criminals could no longer function under the radar of notice in Italy, many sought refuge in the United States, immigrating mostly to limited ethnic ghettos first around New York City. This was just the beginning. Again law enforcement was not adequately prepared to deal with the criminal element in communities where they did not speak the language, had severely limited resources (manpower and money), but especially dealing with people who were used to treating police with grave suspicion if not outright hostility. These criminals knew how to play these advantages to their utmost advantage. Extortion, kidnapping, gambling, liquor, and counterfeiting were rampant. Given victims distrust of authorities most of these crimes went unreported, victims thinking that it was better to just allow these to go on than try and deal with an ineffective police system. Criminals knowing their advantage did not hesitate to use violence to maintain control. Threats, intimidation, physical beatings and even graphic murder were common. Giuseppe Morello aka Clutch Hand due to a physical deformity became the leader of this 'first family' of crime Mafia style. The development of 'the family' its recruitment, initiation, discipline and spread along the eastern seaboard but ultimately most of the urban US becomes inevitable. The authorities (police and FBI) tried to slow this menace and combat its continued existence but were predictably ineffective. It took the extreme courage and dedication of several individuals to stem the tide. Mike Dash delivers a complex and exhaustively researched and documented view of the early development of the notoriously secretive Mafia. It's truly an unforgettable experience.
c_strella More than 1 year ago
I think I was 8 or 9 or maybe 10 when I first saw Pay or Die with Ernest Borgnine. It was my introduction to The Black Hand, and although I was rooting for the Italian Detective (Petrosino), I remember being intrigued by the criminals in the story (all essentially bullies) and wondering how they became so powerful? I was very naive, amici. Fast forward thirty plus years when I'm living in Little Italy. Irony of ironies, I'm standing at a tiny triangular park off the corner of Kenmare and Spring between Cleveland Place and Lafayette Street waiting for someone to drop off money (the irony being I was one of the bad guys) and quickly getting irritated because the guy I'm waiting for is late, when I turn around and read the plaque attached to the fence. Lieutenant Petrosino Park. No, there was no epiphany. I liked what I was doing at the time, especially the fazools, but it did make me wonder whether or not it was some cosmic sign. Another dozen years pass (nearly 10 since I abandoned being a bad guy) and I pick up a book called The First Family, a well-researched and meticulously laid out tome that offers those interested in the genesis of the Italian-American mob a detailed history of its main players and all the social, economic and political variables necessary for its growth and survival. Mike Dash touts a smallish man with a deformed hand, Giuseppe Morello, as the first boss of all bosses in what was then the ghetto of Little Italy. Morello hailed from the small and very impoverished town of Corleone, Sicilly (Si, amici, the same Corleone Mario Puzo wrote about). Already a member of the honored society in Sicilia, Morello came to New York, where returned to old habits (counterfeiting - and not very good counterfeiting, as one of his forged notes was described as having "11 misspellings") - and after finding himself in trouble, reformed his mob family exclusively with people from his home town. The First Family provides individual stories of terror, extortion and revenge (Sicilian vendetta style), and, of course, murder, and those are as intriguing as the story of how poorly the police then pursued the criminals of Little Italy and Italian Harlem, but it most accurately provides us with the harsh reality of what all ethnic criminal organizations/mobs ultimately do to their own people, especially when the pickings are most ripe (when they first immigrate to a new country). It was interesting to read how law enforcement back then also relied on informants with within or close to the mobs to pursue arrests. I can't recount what the author offers in this very interesting book because it would do a disservice to some very polished writing. The First Family is a very well documented account of what happened to Italian immigrants, and how some eventually established what became a national coalition of organized crime. Me, I'm still fascinated with this stuff. It is an undeniable slice of Americana that remains intriguing. Dash makes no excuses for the ruthless Giuseppe Morello or any other form of organized crime. I used to, but that has more to do with what were personal insecurities than reality. More than worth the price of the investment, The First Family is a must read for anyone interested in organized crime, the economics of an immigrant underclass trying to survive in a capitalist society, immigration, law enforcement, Italian and/or American history. My best non-fiction read of 2009 to date.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Great read from page one on. If you like to learn about the early days of organized crime, this book is a must. The characters are so well described you can see them. Enjoy!
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Do you want to know how the NYC Mib took form? Read this book. This book is a great prequel to "Five Families"
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