If you trace the decline of the Italian-American Mafia to one point in time, that point would be the murder of Danny Greene. In the seventies, the fearless Irishman boldly muscled in on the Mafia. Danny was a formidable opponent - intrepid, charismatic, shrewd and cunning. His master plan was to take over the rackets from the Italians under the auspices of the Irish banner. You see, Danny was fiercely proud of his roots. His name was Greene and his signature color was green. His "luck of the Irish" seemed inexhaustible as did the loyalty of his beloved guardian angel.
With every bungled mob attempt on his life, Danny's reputation for being indestructible grew. He seemed to have the soul of a Celtic warrior, the fighting machine who knew not the meaning of fear - who despised the thought of a life of meaningless old age, but instead preferred to die in battle, and have his legend live on in history.
In the end, the war with Danny Greene would only begin to haunt La Cosa Nostra. As a result of the numerous investigations, several high-ranking Mafiosi betrayed omerta, the Sicilian code of silence, in effect sentencing themselves to death. Their testimony would help cripple Mafia families in Los Angeles, Kansas City, Milwaukee and Cleveland and aid in the historic 1986 "commission trial" convictions of the bosses of New York's Bonnano, Colombo, Luchesse and Genovese crime families.
Danny would have been proud. This is his story.
Chapter 1 John Nardi, a 61-year-old union official, was saying good-bye to friends, business associates and relatives at the Italian-American Brotherhood Club in Little Italy. On Tuesdays, the exclusive club featured elaborate dinners attended by judges, politicians and prominent businessmen and presided over by ninety-year-old Tony Milano. During the thirties the location served as headquarters for Tony Milano and his brother Frank, both Mafia leaders. Tony Milano, known respectfully as "the old man," was still considered consigliere or counselor emeritus to Cleveland's La Cosa Nostra. John Nardi, Secretary-Treasurer of Teamster Vending Machine Local 310, was a nephew by marriage to Tony Milano. It was just past 10:00 p.m., but the area was well lit by streetlights. One-hundred yards down Mayfield Road, past the popular Italian Restaurants, bakeries, bars and Holy Rosary Church, four young, nervous Mafia soldiers had concealed themselves in bushes on a railroad bridge overlooking the neighborhood. They watched the front of the Italian-American Brotherhood Club. One was aided by binoculars; another by the telescopic scope of a high-powered, semi-automatic rifle.
As John Nardi reached to unlock the door of his brand new Buick, the gunman squeezed off his first round. The sharp report sliced through the traffic noise from nearby Euclid Avenue. The would-be assassin's aim was off slightly. Nardi ducked behind the car as several more shots followed. One smashed through the driver's door. Two more shattered the windshield. Nardi was unharmed. After a few moments of wary silence, keeping his head down, he crawled through the passenger door, over the crumbled glass, put the key in the ignition and sped off.
It was September 10, 1976, and there was a vicious mob war going on in the Midwest. Nardi had recently returned from Florida, where he successfully defended himself against federal narcotics and gun-running charges. Only four months earlier, longtime Mafia boss John Scalish died during heart surgery, leaving a vacuum in the local mob leadership. Nardi was a Mafia boss candidate. Tony Milano was hoping to have his son, Peter, return from the west coast to work with Nardi. Obviously many were against Nardi controlling northeast Ohio's rackets. There had been other attempts on his life.
Nardi was a devoted family man, who enjoyed picking up his grandchildren after school and bringing them over for dinner. Those were his plans on May 17, 1977 at 3:00 p.m. after he was leaving his office. Again assassins lay in wait watching for their target to appear. But Nardi had been taking precautions. He carried a gun and had been parking in different locations. But today, his car was parked near his office, in the rear of the parking lot of Teamsters Joint Council 41, across from the musicians union.
This time Nardi's stalker had his finger on a button, not a trigger. The explosion of the vehicle parked next to Nardi's rocked the area as officials and members from several labor unions ran outside helping to pull him from the fire, smoke and wreckage. Nardi's legs had been blown off.
"It didn't hurt," Nardi said. He was pronounced dead minutes later.
Nardi was not known as a gangster. He was a tough labor leader and a friend to many in need. The city was shocked. Cleveland had a strong labor union base, and the fatal event took place in a labor union parking lot. Many saw it as a particularly irreverent act not only against an individual, but against an institution they held dear. But Nardi was only one of many bombing victims during that dark period in Ohio's history.
Thirty-seven bombings - placing a package the gangsters called it - rocked
Cuyahoga County that year, twenty-one of them in Cleveland alone, James Neff
reported in his book, Mobbed Up. The war was fought over control of illegal
gambling, bookmaking, loan-sharking and labor rackets, as well as a share of the
casino skim money coming from Las Vegas.
In the end, the Mafia war resulted in unprecedented, multi-agency investigations culminating in historic convictions and treacherous mob defections from Los Angeles to Kansas City and Cleveland to New York City. Amazingly, the origins of the whole thing could be traced to one man with whom John Nardi had closely allied himself in veiled pursuit of power in the underworld. He was one unlikely man who came to be called the Irishman.
