ANDERSON’S APARTMENT; AN INTERIOR conversation. Transcription NYPD-JDA-155-23; 23 August, 1968. Participants John Anderson and Vincent “Socks” Parelli have been identified by voice prints.
PARELLI: Jesus Christ, a guy could get a heart attack climbing those fucking stairs. You really live in this shit-house?
ANDERSON: That’s right.
PARELLI: And you got to make a meet here? It couldn’t be a nice restaurant in Times Square? A hotel room maybe?
ANDERSON: This place is clean.
PARELLI: How do you know? How does anyone know? Maybe one of your rats is wired. Maybe your cockroaches been trained. Hey! How about that! Trained bugs! Not bad, huh?
ANDERSON: Not bad.
PARELLI: What I’m saying is, why have me drag my ass all the way over here? What’s so important?
ANDERSON: This is the way I wanted it.
PARELLI: All right, all right. So you’re the boss. Big deal. We agreed. I take orders. Okay, boss, what’s the setup?
[Lapse of six seconds.]
ANDERSON: We have our first meet tomorrow night, eight thirty. Here’s the address. Don’t lose it.
PARELLI: Tomorrow? Eight thirty? For Christ’s sake, tomorrow’s Saturday. Who the hell works on Saturday?
ANDERSON: We meet tomorrow, like I said.
PARELLI: Not me, buster. I can’t make it. I’m getting a blow-job at eight. Include me out.
ANDERSON: You want out of the whole thing?
PARELLI: No, I don’t want out of the whole thing. But I. …
ANDERSON: I’ll tell Mr. Angelo you can’t make the meet tomorrow because some quiff is going to give you head. Okay?
PARELLI: You suck, you bastard. When this is all over, you and me, we’ll have our own meet. Somewhere. Someday.
ANDERSON: Sure. But you be at that meet tomorrow.
PARELLI: All right, all right … I’ll be there.
ANDERSON: I got five guys, plus you and me. There’s a smart fag who can finger the good stuff. He knows paintings and jewelry and silver. His name’s Haskins. I got a tech named Ernest Mann. He’ll cut off the telephones and alarms, open the doors and boxes—whatever we need. Then there’s a spade named Johnson, a muscle, but smart. He’s no hooligan. Then there’s two brothers—Ed and Billy Brodsky. Ed is an all-around man, a good driver. His young brother Billy, he’s a wet-brain but he’s a powerhouse. We need a guy for lifting and carrying. Billy will do what he’s told.
PARELLI: Any of them panic guys?
ANDERSON: Tommy Haskins maybe. The others are solid—real pros.
PARELLI: I’ll keep my eye on Haskins.
ANDERSON: You do that. Socks, I don’t want no blasting. There’s no need. Half the families will be gone. No one left but old women and kids. We got a plan that’s been figured four ways from the middle. You’ll hear it tomorrow. Everything will go like silk.
PARELLI: I carry a stick. That’s definite.
ANDERSON: All right, you carry a stick. Just don’t use it—that’s all I’m saying.
PARELLI: I hear you work clean.
ANDERSON: That’s right.
PARELLI: I still carry.
ANDERSON: I told you, that’s up to you—but you’ll have no call to use it. You won’t need it.
PARELLI: We’ll see.
ANDERSON: Another thing—I don’t want these people slammed around. You understand?
PARELLI: Oh, I’ll be very polite, boss.
[Lapse of five seconds.]
ANDERSON: And I don’t like you, prick-nose. But I’m stuck with you. I needed another body and they gave me a sack of shit like you.
PARELLI: You fuck! You fuck! I could burn you! I should burn you right now!
ANDERSON: Go ahead, prick-nose. You’re the guy who carries a stick. I got nothing. Go ahead, burn me.
PARELLI: Oh, you lousy fuck! You piece of funk! I swear to Christ, when this is over I’ll get you good. But good! Nice and slow. That’s what you’ll get, cracker. Something nice and slow, right through the balls. Oh, are you going to get it! I can taste it. I can taste it!
ANDERSON: Sure, you can taste it. You got a big, fucking mouth—and that’s all you’ve got. Just you be at that meet tomorrow, and at the other meets until next Saturday.
PARELLI: And after that, white trash, it’ll be you and me … just you and me.
ANDERSON: That’s right, prick-nose. How many women you screwed with that snout? Now get your ass out of here. Be careful getting a cab. We got some punks in this neighborhood—oh, maybe ten years old or so—who might take your piece away from you.
PARELLI: You mother. …