Free Cullotta: The Life of a Chicago Criminal, Las Vegas Mobster and Government Witness by Dennis N. Griffin Page A

Johnson’s on North Avenue at seven forty-five. Make sure you bring your car.”
    Frank knew better than to ask questions.
    That night he met Tony and an Outfit driver named Saint at Howard Johnson’s. Tony took Frank’s car and left him with Saint. Saint popped his front radio speaker and pulled out a .38. Frank turned toward him and his right hand went behind his back, where he had a gun in his waistband. Saint, knowing Frank was ready to protect himself, put his gun in a less threatening position between his legs. About forty minutes later, Tony returned. He said to Frank, “Here’s your car. See you later.” Frank heard him tell Saint there hadn’t been any problems.
    The following morning, Billy’s wife called Frank. “Where’s Billy?” she asked.
    “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”
    “Something’s wrong, I know it. He always calls me if he’s going to be late or isn’t coming home.”
    “I’ll keep my ears open. I’ll call you if I hear anything.”
    Frank didn’t know for sure what had happened to Billy, but in his heart he figured his buddy was dead. He got part of the story talking with Tony about ten days later.
    “Billy’s wife called me a few days ago looking for him,” Frank said.
    “Frankie, Billy’s gone. It’s all over. Forget about it, it’s done. I don’t want you to say anything to Jimmy about it, though.”
    “Can you tell me what happened that night at the Chicken House?”
    “I guess so. Billy was in the restaurant looking for you. I told him you were outside waiting for him. I said, ‘Let’s go see him.’ When we got outside, Billy saw the Outfit guys and went for his gun. I grabbed him around the neck and shoved him in the Outfit car. Frank, Billy went rather easily.”
    Frank saw Jimmy Miraglia in a restaurant a few nights later. “Have you seen Billy around?” Frank asked.
    “No, no I haven’t. Why?”
    “Don’t you think that’s kind of strange? Maybe you ought to make yourself scarce.”
    “I’m not worried. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
    Frank learned later that the next night, Jimmy was in a lounge and some Outfit guys were outside in their work car, laying for him. Jimmy got lucky that night when the police spotted the car and searched it. They found a stash of guns and arrested everybody. That should have been another message for Jimmy, who should have run like hell right then, but he didn’t. They got Jimmy the next day.
    Tony told Frank all about it shortly afterward.
    “Jimmy was in a lounge when we got him. We took him in the liquor storage room and beat him, but we didn’t kill him. We left him locked in the room and while we were gone, Jimmy got into the booze. He was drunk when we came back for him. We took him out and put him in the trunk of his own car. Saint and I were in the follow car. While we were driving Jimmy apparently pulled out the wires for the brake lights. When we saw the brake lights in his car go, out we motioned for the driver to pull over so we could find out what the problem was. As soon as we opened the trunk Jimmy jumped out and made a run for it. We caught him, knocked him out, and took him to where we were keeping Billy’s body.
    “Jimmy knew he was going to be killed. He asked to be strangled so his wife could collect some insurance money. We did what he wanted and dumped him in the trunk of a car along with Billy. Then we drove the car to another neighborhood and ditched it. A couple of days later somebody noticed the stench and called the cops.”
    Tony was in a talkative mood that day and divulged the rest of the story about the night Billy McCarthy was killed. He said, “He was one tough fucking Irishman. We beat that motherfucker with everything, but he wouldn’t tell us who did the Scalvos with him. We finally got so pissed off we put his head in a vise and turned it. The kid’s eyeball popped right out of his fuckin’ head. Billy begged me to kill him. He gave up Jimmy’s name just before he