Gangsters and Goodfellas: The Mob, Witness Protection, and Life on the Run by Henry Hill & Gus Russo

Author:Henry Hill & Gus Russo
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: #pw3
ISBN: 9781590772027
Publisher: M. Evans and Company
Published: 2004-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Once we were flying out of Nebraska, the marshals let us in on the secret and told us we would start a new life in Lexington, Kentucky. In the back of my mind, I knew something wasn’t kosher about that location. I went down the list of reasons of what could be wrong with Lexington. It wasn’t because of the racetracks—it was something else. I was recycling all the crap from my brain on that plane and I almost dropped dead when I realized what the problem was: there was a huge federal penitentiary in Lexington! I must’ve known almost two-dozen goodfellas in that joint, and their families visited them frequently. In fact, some families and girlfriends of wiseguys moved to Lexington just to be close. I knew that if we were spotted by any of those visiting family members near the area—at the track, a bar, or in a McDonald’s (like I’d eat that shit)—we’d be signing our own death warrant. Word would spread like wildfire, and that would be it for us.

Paranoia hit me like a bucket of water when I realized the horrible possibilities. When we landed I must’ve looked like I had seen a ghost. Our location was so bad that I was sure there was someone in the airport ready to whack me at the baggage claim. So now I had to meet my new babysitter from the local marshal’s office, and he read me the riot act. Each region had different marshals. I always traveled with at least three armed marshals. The nicest, most decent guy I met was in Nebraska. The rest of them were bastards. And I didn’t make their life too easy. But this new guy would be my nemesis.

The Kentucky head marshal was a guy named Al, who was like the stereotypical fat sheriff in old westerns. This guy was six-foot-four, red hair, 240 pounds, and looked like he played tackle for the Wildcats. This surly, red-faced, tobacco-spitting Southerner and his crew were going to be watching out for us. “This is your new home,” he said. “The Bluegrass State.” I didn’t have time for formalities and bullshit like that. “Get us outta here now,” I said. “It’s too damn dangerous.” How the Feds missed this one was beyond me, and this fat prick looked at me like I was out of my mind, like I was some tough guy barking orders because of some macho thing. So I informed him about the penitentiary and its inmates and all the bad things that could happen. Instead of actually listening to me, the schmo was sizing me up. He didn’t want to be embarrassed by a guy like me in front of his team, so we just stood there, staring each other down. It was ridiculous!

“Well, I got news for you, guys,” I said. “There’s a federal prison eight blocks from here. And I know about a dozen guys doing time there. There ain’t no fucking way on this earth that I am staying in this town.

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