Final Confession (13 page)

Tony then went in for the kill. “Hey, I'm not saying I can't use the money, but compared to what those highwaymen are taking down, fifty-eight large is just chump change.”

Tilley responded with, “Tony, I'll be honest with you. I thought you guys were somewhere behind those scores.”

“I wish.” Tony shrugged.

“Ya know, I got called into the North End on the highwaymen hits,” Tilley whispered.

“No way!” Tony said, as if shocked.

“Yeah. The big guy himself sat me down and grilled me about the scores,” Tilley said nervously.

“Angiulo called you in? Were you scared?”

Tilley looked Tony straight in the eyes and admitted, “I was shittin' bricks, but you know how it is: if he calls, you answer.” Tilley wiped sweat from his face at just the thought of the incident.

Tony whispered, “Angiulo thought you were behind the highwaymen hits?”

“Yeah,” Tilley answered. “Can you imagine that? I have no idea where he got my name, but I squared it with him.”

Tony asked how.

“Luckily I was out of the country when two of the jobs went down,” Tilley explained.

“So he bought it?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, but the prick made me show him my passport. Can you believe that?”

“With Angiulo I'll believe anything.” Tony sighed. “So you're off the hook?”

“As far as I know,” Tilley said, looking around.

“Good.” Tony smiled. “Maybe we can do some stuff together. I'm sick of working with Cresta, and Angelo feels the same way.”

“Seriously?” Tilley was smiling now.

“Absolutely. We're both tired of Mr. Perfection and all his planning and waiting and then more planning and more waiting,” Tony scoffed.

Tilley was thrilled at the prospect that his prodigal sons might be returning. He grabbed the check and paid it.

On the way to their cars, Tony said, “Who knows, Ben, maybe we can start our own highwaymen scores.”

Tilley spun around and said with a scowl, “Don't even kid like that, Tony. Whoever did those jobs, they're already dead. They just don't know it yet.”

By that afternoon word had spread throughout the criminal population of Boston and beyond that Phil Cresta was the loner who robbed the Brookline armored truck—just as Phil had hoped it would. The highwaymen heat was turned way down, as the robberies stopped and crime went back to normal.

Not long after Tony's meeting with Tilley, Phil, Angelo, and Tony watched the 1966 St. Patrick's Day parade in front of the Transit Cafe in South Boston with some wise guys from Southie. “It was funny,” Phil said. “We'd made more than a million dollars in just over two months and we couldn't tell anybody. Everyone in Southie that St. Patrick's Day was talking about the highwaymen scores and they were all praising the robbers. I felt like jumping up on the table and yelling, ‘We did them, we did them.' We would've been big heroes that day in Southie, but we would've been buried the next day. So we just sat there listening to all the gossip. It was pretty funny. Whitey Bulger, according to one Southie wise guy, was the only one smart enough to plan jobs like that. On and on the speculation and the theories went.”

A Southie guy named Nee asked, “What about you, Phil? Who do you think the highwaymen are?” Angelo and Tony spun around and looked at Phil, who was cool as a cucumber. “I have no idea,” Phil responded, laughing, “and I don't really give a shit as long as they stay away from armored cars.” “Yeah, a loner doesn't need company, right, Phil?” Nee asked, chuckling as did everyone else in the room, all of whom were fully aware that Phil was the loner who'd stolen $58,000 two weeks before. “Hey, I didn't pull that score,” Phil protested weakly. “Yeah,” Nee shouted, “you probably wouldn't tell us if you were one of the highwaymen either.” “I have no idea what you're talking about,” Phil protested again. And again everyone laughed.

P
HIL SPENT
the rest of March 1966 lying low and catching up on some homework. Both the police and Angiulo wanted the highwaymen. Phil wasn't worried about the cops—there had been no extras on their team for the highway robberies, so there was no possibility of an informant. He wanted to give Angiulo time to cool down, though. Boston's boss did not like his turf being invaded.

Back in 1962, when Phil had been making a couple of hundred bucks a day from parking meters, tax free, he'd wisely invested in some property in New Hampshire, just over the Massachusetts border—a long way from the hellhole where he grew up. By New England standards, the land was miles from civilization, and he loved going there. But the farm, as he called it, ended up being used more for business than for pleasure. It was his East Coast place for studying the newest alarm systems, the newest locks and vaults. This is where Phil spent the early spring of 1966.

On that farm he had a whole workshop in which he could spend hour after hour improving his skills. Angelo noted, “Once Phil got with those locks and alarms he was in another world. He would not leave that back room until he had mastered every
new lock on the market. He got a huge kick out of being able to open those new locks and alarms. And, man, he was good at it.”

The isolated farmhouse also served as a shooting range. Phil, Tony, and Angelo would practice with handguns, shotguns, and rifles that they bought or stole. Practice kept them busy during the down times, and their skills sharp. For the next few weeks Phil stayed at the farm. Angelo and Tony visited often.

In mid-April Phil returned to Boston, rested and anxious to use his skills. Louie Diamonds had gotten word to him at the farm, through either Angelo or Tony, that he had some information to sell. Phil was anxious to buy.

He hadn't talked to Louie since their meeting at Castle Island. He wondered how Louie would greet him. As soon as he entered Louie's office, he relaxed. Louie seemed genuinely happy to see him. Louie told about being called to the North End to meet with the boss, and how, maybe thanks to Phil's advice and threat, Louie had been smarter than Phil had really hoped.

Louie had admitted doing business with Phil on the first diamond merchant robbed in Brighton; but since that theft hadn't been classified as a highwaymen hit, Angiulo didn't care. He believed Louie when Louie said he'd had nothing to do with the other three New York guys. But, being thorough, Angiulo sniffed Louie Diamonds out for other names. Ben Tilley was the only name Louie could come up with.

Phil was relieved that his own name hadn't come up. And more relieved when Louie informed him that nobody had mentioned the highwaymen stuff in over a month. The Angiulo investigation appeared to be over.

In the very next breath Louie said, “It's too bad you're out of business, though.” “Why?” Phil asked. “Well, I just got wind of a big diamond guy who'll be in Boston next week.” “Go on,” Phil said, “I'm listening.”

For the next half hour Louie told Phil about a diamond salesman who worked between Boston and New York and who wasn't connected in any way with the mob. “Are you sure?” Phil
pressed. “The last guys, according to you, weren't connected either, and look what happened.” “You're wrong, Phil. They
weren't
connected when you hit them. They went to Gambino for protection
after
a couple of jobs went down.” Phil thought about it and realized that Louie was right, but he countered, “Don't you think the same thing will happen with what's-his-name?” “Walter Bain,” Louie said helpfully, and then, “If you make this your last highwaymen robbery ever, what do you care what kind of heat Gambino puts on Angiulo? Fuck both of them.”

“Yeah, and they'll fuck both of
us
pretty good if they
do
find out.”

“I'm not saying anything, Phil, and I know you're not either. So how is anyone gonna find out?”

“I don't like to push my luck, that's all. I'm surprised we've kept it a secret this long,” Phil said.

But the Bain thing was tempting. Louie was estimating the take to be in the area of half a mil. As he left the diamond broker's office, Phil told Louie, “I don't know, let me think about it.”

Phil pitched the idea to Angelo and Tony that night at McGrail's. They were both skeptical. “What if Louie's just setting us up?” Tony asked Phil. “For who?” Phil replied. “Could be Angiulo. Could be Gambino. Who knows?” Tony said. “He knows he's a dead man if he sets us up,” Phil argued emphatically. He pointed out that Louie was far too smart for that. “We made the guy some decent money. How much does he want this time?” Angelo wondered aloud. “More. It's always more, no matter how much he's made,” Phil responded. “Yeah, I guess you're right,” Tony said.

Since they weren't getting any closer to a decision, Phil suggested they check this guy Bain out, then talk again. They agreed.

Walter Bain was a forty-two-year-old diamond broker from Dedham, Massachusetts. He was a big-time broker who worked exclusively for Baumgold, Incorporated, of New York. After clocking Bain for a couple of weeks, the team decided to take
him down. There were a few things that would differentiate this highwaymen robbery from the others. First, Bain traveled only in daylight. This was going to make the Bain theft a lot more difficult than the others. And Bain was shrewd. They'd clocked him on six different occasions and he never took the same route out of Boston twice. He would leave his house around nine-thirty in the morning and go to Dedham Police headquarters, where he'd have left his uncut diamonds for safekeeping the night before. He not only kept his car in his locked garage, he had a lock on his gas tank. He was a very thorough person. He was also a careful driver: he never went over the speed limit and he never changed lanes. Once he got on the Massachusetts Turnpike, he moved to the center lane and stayed there. He was doing all the right things to protect himself.

“Bain was good,” Phil said, “but we were better.”

They set the date to hit Bain: May 2, 1966. But before that day came, Louie Diamonds dangled another temptation in front of Phil Cresta's face.

BESIDES KNOWING
when diamond merchants were in town and where they were staying, Louie Diamonds often knew where they would store their merchandise for safekeeping while in town. In those days some of the top-of-the-line jewelry salesmen, when visiting Boston, would temporarily store their merchandise in a local police station. What better place, right?

Wrong!

A famous diamond merchant came from New York to Boston for a show at Hynes Convention Center in late April 1966. Louie Diamonds told Phil that the salesmen was staying at the Parker House, a piece of news that brought a smile to Phil's face. Louie also told Phil that the New Yorker always kept his diamonds and other jewels somewhere in Station 1 on North Street, four blocks from the Parker House. The news, to Phil, was like one of those challenges from his days on the streets of the North End. He could almost hear the words behind Louie's information: “I dare you!”

Phil found out when the merchant was arriving, and Tony and Angelo, a picture of the salesman in hand, waited at the airport, in East Boston, for him. Phil was standing at the corner of North Street, downtown.

At the airport, the salesman hailed a taxi and went directly to the North Street police station. Tony and Angelo followed at a safe distance, through the tunnel that connects East Boston to downtown, and onto North Street. Tony spotted Phil standing on the corner and, as agreed, hit the horn three times.

As soon as he heard the three beeps, Phil turned and started toward the police station. By the time the jewelry salesman and the taxi driver began unloading three big cases and carrying them into the station, Phil was already inside, looking at some pictures of wanted men taped to the wall, some of whom he knew. To the average observer, Phil, dressed in chinos and a blue-and-gold windbreaker with an insignia on it, looked like an off-duty detective. There were three civilians filing complaints in the lobby, and a dozen or so officers coming and going. Nobody even looked in Phil's direction.

The salesman came to the desk and asked for the captain, who came out and greeted him like an old friend. The captain called a couple of young cops, who carried the three cases down a flight of stairs, followed by the captain, the jewelry salesman—and Phil Cresta.

The captain pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and told the cops to put the cases down and go back upstairs. They passed Phil on their way up, and disappeared. The door the captain opened, about twenty feet to the left of the bottom step, had no lettering on it. Phil watched as the captain and the jewelry salesman carried the three cases into the room, then he exited the station before the men began their trek up the stairs.

Having seen all he needed, Phil walked over to the European Restaurant, where he found Tony stuffing his mouth with a huge sausage sandwich. Tony tried to ask Phil a question, but the words were inaudible. Angelo, sipping on a bottle of Schlitz, inquired, “How'd it go, Officer?” Phil looked down at his Boston
Police Emerald Society windbreaker and laughed. “You'd better take that jacket off before Angiulo's guys whack you,” Angelo said, laughing. “Not only am I a cop, but an Irish one to boot,” Phil said, smiling. “Yeah, you're about as Irish as Capone,” Tony exclaimed. Phil stripped off his Emerald Society jacket and got down to business.

The diamond show was not scheduled to open until the next afternoon. Phil and Angelo drove to Sears and purchased a new suitcase, then back to the Fenway Motor Inn, where Phil showered and put on the same clothes that he'd worn that afternoon in the police station. This was a two-man job, and Phil decided to use Angelo only.

At 9:00
P.M
. he and Angelo left the motor inn and headed downtown. In the trunk of the car lay the new piece of luggage and inside it were three red bricks. Phil and Angelo sat outside the police station for an hour, watching and waiting. It was a Friday night, which generally meant a lot of police action in downtown Boston. By 10:00 o'clock many people were plastered and just looking for trouble, which they usually found. By 10:30 that night, the North Street police station was humming, as squad cars and wagons brought in their human cargo to be processed and booked. It was mass confusion, as drunken students intermingled with pickpockets and shoplifters.

Phil liked what he saw, but still he waited. At 10:45 six young women walked into the station, apparently to report a crime. Phil knew instinctively that the time was ripe. He grabbed the suitcase with the bricks inside and headed into the station. He heard the women reporting that their car had been stolen. Nobody paid any attention to him as he headed down the stairs, took a left, and stopped in front of the unmarked door. It took Phil less than ten seconds to pick the lock. Once inside, he hit the light switch and headed for the three locked jewelry cases in the far corner of the tiny room. He picked their locks in a matter of seconds. He then took the bricks out of his suitcase and placed the contents of the three cases into it. Once all the jewelry was safely stashed, he placed a red brick in each of the jewelry cases, relocked each case, and left the room.

He quickly climbed the stairs. The women were still crying to the desk sergeant about their lost car. He walked out the door, crossed North Street, placed the suitcase in the backseat, and got into the front seat of a car that Angelo and Tony had stolen that afternoon from Logan Airport.

The next morning Phil anxiously looked in both Boston newspapers to see if there was any mention of the jewel robbery. There was none, nor would there ever be. It was too embarrassing for the Boston Police to admit that someone walked into one of their stations and carried out $750,000 worth of precious stones. The jeweler, Phil later learned, picked up his three cases the next morning and went to Hynes Convention Center, where the jewelry show was being held. He opened the first case and almost had a heart attack.

Phil was on a plane to Chicago by then. He visited his two elderly jeweler friends, who were pleased to see him and even more delighted to see the jewels. While he was there, waiting for the jewels to be fenced, Angelo and Tony were in Boston, continuing to clock Bain. Since there had been no publicity on the police station heist, they felt safe to keep the schedule they'd set up to hit Bain.

Phil stayed in Chicago with Mari for three days. On the third day he got a call from one of the jewelry merchants he'd visited when he arrived in town, who asked him to stop by their store. Phil accepted the invitation as well as the $450,000 in cash that he was handed. He flew back to Boston, where he split it with Tony and Angelo. “We split everything three ways. That was the one rule we lived by,” Phil said. Tony always laughed about the police station robbery in which he didn't really play a major role. He told Angelo that Phil paid him $150,000 for eating a sausage sangwich.

“The best part about that job,” Phil said, “was that we didn't have to cut in that sleaze Louie Diamonds. He had heard the rumors like everyone else, but he could never put us together with the robbery.”

The salesman recouped his losses from his insurance company. Although there were rumors in some circles about the
theft, nobody publicized it. The story took on legendary status and no one knew for sure how the $750,000 worth of jewels had disappeared from so “safe” a place. While many people, especially those in the jewelry business, have talked about the robbery, nobody knew how it was done or by whom—until now, that is.