28

All men have eyes, Machiavelli says, but few have the gift of penetration.

I fully realize that for an outsider the gift of penetration is a difficult one to attain when considering my world, because we of that world are normally silent, and when we do speak we use the terms of an alien culture.

This book has tried to bridge that gap.

We now come to the part of my life after my retirement from the Volcano. Mine might not have been the most elegant nor the most dramatic exit from power, but I had accomplished what I had set out to do. I retired while I was still on top, with life and limb, with my wife and children and with my worldly goods.

I would have been content, after 1968, to lead a quiet, uneventful life, in which case I would have nothing to report and my story would end here. My retirement to Tucson, however, turned out to be a retreat into an inferno. I repaired to Tucson thinking that perhaps I might leave my reputation behind. I voluntarily came to Arizona to get away from my world and not to establish a branch of it in Tucson. There has never been what Americans call a “crime family” in Arizona. From the time I first came to Tucson, in 1942, I had always rejected any attempt to include Tucson in my world. Tucson was a place to get away from it all.

The early 1940s were a fruitful, happy time for me. I had been blessed with a loving wife, two children and many, many friends. I had just acquired the Sunshine Dairy Farm in upstate New York. My affairs in the Volcano were running smoothly and peacefully. I was in the process of becoming an American citizen. My health was good.

My wife, Fay, and I were concerned about our son’s health, however. Salvatore suffered from an ear infection. An operation in 1940 had failed to stem the discharge from his ear, and the doctor had recommended a dry climate. So in the spring of 1941, Fay and I, accompanied by eight-year-old Salvatore and six-year-old Catherine, climbed into the family Cadillac, with Johnny Morales at the wheel, and took off to discover the American frontier and find a dry climate.

The trip west was my first cross-country trip, for which I was glad I owned a Cadillac—a great car in those days. We traveled through Colorado, New Mexico and Utah, states which to us Easterners seemed to have otherworldly landscapes. At Taos, Johnny and I had our picture taken with a real American Indian who had braided pigtails down to his waist. I bought Salvatore and the tomboyish Catherine a pair of cowboy boots. In contrast to the kids, we grownups looked incongruous in the West. Fay wore a black jump suit with a turbanlike sash over her hair. Johnny liked to go around in his white socks and sandals. I wore a pair of two-toned oxfords, white at the instep and brown at the toe cap and heel.

Our motley crew made its way to Los Angeles. Back then Los Angeles was a gracious city with clean air, with actors and cowboys and also with men of my Tradition. As Father of one of the New York Families, I was greeted and treated like a visiting dignitary by the leaders of my world on the West Coast. I dined, for example, with Jack Dragna, who hailed from Corleone, Sicily, and was the top man of my Tradition in the Los Angeles area. A leader from San Diego, Tony Mirabile, who was born in the Sicilian town of Alcamo, some five miles from Castellammare, came to pay his respects. But the man I enjoyed seeing most was Jimmy Costa, who was about my age and who also came from Castellammare.

Jimmy took me to a Hollywood eatery where many of the movie actors dined. Among the actors there at the time were Errol Flynn and Jean Harlow. Jimmy introduced me to Flynn, who suggested we all go to Catalina Island on his yacht. My dinner companion for the evening was a famous actress, whose name I won’t mention. She was a sweet and lovely woman. Flynn, on the other hand, was no gentleman, contrary to his swashbuckling screen image. He was foul and rough with women. And as for Jean Harlow, she seemed a slatternly sort. As movie stars, I enjoyed both Flynn and Harlow, but as human beings I disliked them. They were just living it up, nothing else.

For our return trip to the East, we took a southerly route through Arizona. Here was the dry climate we were looking for, but summertime in Phoenix, which we passed through, was so hot that Fay didn’t understand how people could live in such a climate. They didn’t have air conditioning then. We returned to New York, thankful for its ocean breezes. Later that year, Salvatore’s ear was operated on again for mastoiditis, and once again, the doctor advised us that the only thing the boy could do for his ear was to sit in the sun and allow his ear to drain. This second operation hastened my decision to take Salvatore to live outside New York. So we shoved off for Arizona again. Fay and I chose Tucson over Phoenix because we wanted a small town where no one knew me and where we could enjoy an existence far apart from that which we knew in New York.

I didn’t know a soul in Tucson. All I had was a letter of introduction from Bishop Francis Spellman in New York to Bishop Daniel Gercke in Tucson.

In the winter of 1942–1943, my family and I left Brooklyn during a terrific blizzard. Our second trip to the West was less leisurely than the first, because the United States was now at war. Certain foods and sundry other products were scarce. The government rationed gasoline. The whole country was under wartime restrictions and immersed in war-related activities. I registered for the draft, but I was never drafted because I owned a dairy, a vital wartime industry. You could say I contributed milk to the Allied cause.

In my world, according to the old Tradition, a man fights for personal honor and he feels patriotism for his family. Our fighting is personal, direct, man-to-man. You call this a feudal notion. In your world, in wars between nations, a pilot pushes a button and releases a bomb that will kill thousands of human beings. The pilot never hears a single scream. Today, war among nations is indiscriminate, impersonal, remote … less manly, as it were. War has become a sort of video game.

One of the proudest moments of my life was the day I became a naturalized U.S. citizen in 1945. At my naturalization ceremony in Brooklyn, the federal commissioner asked me,

—If you become a citizen and have to fight against Italians, what will you do?

Another Italian, also seeking citizenship, had been asked the same question and had replied that if sent to war he would kill every Italian without compunction. This man wanted to show how patriotic he was to his new country in order to impress the commissioner.

When I was asked the same question, I didn’t want to take a chance on offending the commissioner or having him doubt my patriotism, but I didn’t want to be untruthful either.

—My duty is to fight for my country, I answered.

—But what if you are sent to fight in Italy? the commissioner persisted.

I was beginning to think the commissioner was trying to taunt me.

—I would do my duty, I answered. But in my heart I would feel bad about killing Italians.

Instead of reproving me, the commissioner approved:

—You will make a good American, he said.

*   *   *

On the way to Tucson, we stopped in Dallas to visit with a friend, a lieutenant commander in the Navy. The next day, about seventy-five miles west of Dallas, my wife realized she had left something behind.

—Whatever’s the matter?

—I forgot my coffee pot in Dallas, Fay said, looking out the window like a mournful spaniel.

It was not your ordinary coffee pot. It was an Italian coffee pot, the kind used to make espresso coffee. In those days, I doubt whether there was such a coffee pot for sale in all of the Southwest.

To many Italians, a meal that does not conclude with a tiny cup of espresso is no meal at all. Italians become addicted to this very dark and very strong coffee at an early age. Although most Italian-Americans get used to drinking regular coffee, usually rather contemptuously referred to as “brown coffee,” nothing can quite replace the taste of “black coffee” to an Italian’s palate. Black coffee is a symbol of culture and heritage: it represents home and the dinner table. Fay carried along her coffee pot and her “black coffee” the way a farmer moving to a foreign country might take along a pot of his native soil.

—Stop the car, Fay demanded abruptly. Let’s go back for the coffee pot.

Fay and I began bickering about the advisability of wasting a couple of hours to retrieve the coffee pot. It was a comical scene now that I look back on it, but at the time it was an exchange full of bluster and indignation, as most domestic tiffs are. I wound up telling everyone to keep quiet.

Once we reached Tucson, our Dallas friend sent us the coffee pot by mail. Even so, for the couple of weeks before it arrived, Fay was inconsolable.

*   *   *

In Tucson we resided in a motel for about a month while we searched for a house and a school that Salvatore and Catherine could attend. When I took my letter of introduction to Bishop Daniel Gercke of Tucson, he recommended I enroll my children at SS. Peter and Paul Church, which had a school. Eventually, Fay and I rented a house near the church. The pastor of the church was Father Francis Green, who had come to Tucson from the Ithaca-Cornell area of upstate New York, with which I was acquainted. We became friends. After Bishop Gercke died, Francis Green succeeded him as bishop of the archdiocese of Tucson.

In May of 1943, Fay and I went back to New York, taking Catherine with us. We enrolled Salvatore in a boarding school for the summer. The Arizona climate was good for Salvatore’s ear, but Salvatore would have to remain away from the rest of his family most of the year. These were melancholy years for him, but there were compensations.

Salvatore (as well as Catherine, a regular Annie Oakley in those days) had taken an immediate liking to Western life. I bought him a horse, a saddle, tack, boots, a complete western outfit. Salvatore already was a good horse rider, but in Arizona riding horses became a passion.

*   *   *

That first winter in Tucson, a couple of policemen came to the house. On spotting them, Fay shook her head in dismay. I thought, Oh no, here we go again.

Instead of handing me a subpoena, the policemen asked me if I wanted to buy a ticket to the policemen’s annual ball. They said they had not sold many tickets. I was so happy that the policemen had not come to harass me that I reached into my pocket and gave them all the money I found, about $450.

Shortly after we rented our house, a fruit basket, containing fresh oranges, grapefruits, dates and bananas, would appear just about every morning at our back door. Since we didn’t know anyone in town, we couldn’t imagine who was delivering the basket. One morning I was driving around town when I noticed a car following me. I stopped suddenly. The pursuing driver also stopped and came rushing out of his car. He was a middle-aged man, short, slightly chubby, with graying hair and deep-set eyes. He came up to my door and said in Italian:

—My name is Andrea Cracchiolo. I’ve been bringing you fruit every morning.

Don Andrea, as I was to call him out of courtesy, was to become one of my best friends in Tucson. Cracchiolo was born in Cinisi, which is at the eastern tip of the Gulf of Castellammare. Although he himself did not participate in the affairs of my world, Cracchiolo understood the old Tradition and had relatives and friends in my world. One of these friends was Joe Zerilli, the Father of the Detroit Family.

—He told me to put myself at your disposal, Cracchiolo told me during our initial encounter. He told me to put myself at your disposal from A to Z.

Through motel and real estate investments, Cracchiolo made a fortune. He’s in his nineties today. Two of his sons are lawyers, one is a doctor. One of his daughters married a lawyer who became a superior court judge in Tucson.

It pleased me to have met another Sicilian in Tucson. Cracchiolo was glad to do me favors. When I wasn’t in town, he would visit Salvatore at school, take him for rides and bring him Italian delicacies. My second winter in Tucson, rather than rent a house again, Fay and I lived with the Cracchiolos at their house.

It certainly didn’t hurt Cracchiolo in those days to have me as a friend. Later on in his career, there were times when the fact that he was my friend saved Cracchiolo from possible harm from others. To some degree, at least, I was instrumental in helping Cracchiolo come up in the world. His sons and daughters might be loath to admit this today. Nevertheless, I was one of many steppingstones in their father’s success. It takes many steppingstones, you know, for a man to rise. None can do it unaided.

Cracchiolo, the first Italian I met in Tucson, was to lead me to the second. One day Cracchiolo invited me to an Italian restaurant in town. He wanted us to go without our wives. He took me to a restaurant called Caruso’s because he wanted to introduce me to its owner, Nino Zagona.

—This Zagona is an enigma, Cracchiolo told me. He works, he cooks, he sleeps near his kitchen and talks to no one.

I asked to talk to the chef.

—Tell him there’s an Italian in his restaurant who wants to eat a true Italian meal and who desires to speak to him.

The waitress left and quickly returned, saying the chef was too busy.

—See, Cracchiolo said, what’d I tell you?

—Tell the chef, I said, there’s a gentleman from out of town who wants only the chef to take care of him.

We had to wait a bit, but at last Zagona came to our table. He looked at me warily at first. Then, in a flash, we recognized each other. But the apprehension didn’t leave Zagona’s face, as if he was trying to determine what I wanted.

—Excuse me, don Peppino, excuse me, Zagona said.

Cracchiolo, of course, was stupefied that Zagona knew me. Zagona offered to cook anything I wanted. He and I gave each other a knowing glance, and he went back to his kitchen. Zagona had good reason to be worried on first seeing me. I knew about Zagona when he lived in New York. In New York, Zagona used to be associated with the Mineo Family, which after the Castellammarese War became the Mangano Family. Zagona also got himself in some sort of trouble in New York with people in our world. My coincidental meeting with him worried Zagona, because he thought I would tell his enemies in New York his whereabouts.

When we had a chance to talk in private, away from Cracchiolo, Zagona told me that my cousin Stefano Magaddino had once saved his life. He said he had always sympathized with the Castellammarese. Basically, he put himself at my mercy.

—Either you trust me or you don’t, I told Zagona. If you don’t trust me, you might as well get out of town right now. But if you do trust me, I’ll see what I can do for you.

That spring, upon my return to New York, I talked to Vincent Mangano about the Zagona matter. Although there were people in Mangano’s Family who felt they still had a score to settle with Zagona, Vincent and I agreed that as long as Zagona remained in Tucson and as long as I took responsibility for him, then no harm would come to Zagona. I relayed the good tidings to Zagona; he could now build his new life in Tucson without dread. After I did him this favor, Zagona was a generous host whenever my family went to his restaurant. On many occasions, Zagona brought Italian food to my son at his boarding school.

During my third winter excursion to Tucson, Zagona told me he wanted me to meet one of the frequent visitors to his restaurant, a county judge. This was Evo DeConcini, whom I have mentioned before. Since the judge knew the establishment in town and the legal system, Zagona told me, he had been useful to him. Zagona said he would often give the judge free meals or take food to his house on feast days. It was a cozy relationship in the Italian manner.

Evo DeConcini was by far the most prominent Italian in Tucson. His roots were northern Italian. In Italy, there exists a schism between northerners and southerners. The northerners think the southerners, the Sicilians in particular, are savages. In northern Italy they derogatorily refer to the south of Italy as la terra bruciata—the scorched land. The southerners think the northerners are cold and smug.

It was about 1944 that Zagona introduced me to Evo DeConcini at Caruso’s restaurant. Thereafter, we began to see each other again at the restaurant. Then Cracchiolo, ever eager to make new contacts himself, began inviting Fay, me and Evo for dinner. Thus, Evo became the friend of both Cracchiolo and me.

I began to feel even more comfortable around Evo after I learned that he and his family had been befriended by Tony Mirabile, the leader of a Sicilian clan in San Diego. When Mirabile, Papa Tony as he was sometimes called, visited Tucson, in the mid-1940s, he, Evo and I went out to dinner many times.

The earlier days of our friendship were the most enjoyable. When I was in town, we would visit each other’s homes. The DeConcinis were never reluctant to accept my generosity. I would take them out to restaurants and I would pick up the tab. Evo and I played golf together with club pro Wes Conrad at the Randolph Park golf course. I can still see Wes instructing the stiff judge:

—Hey, judge, look at me. You have to be loose as a goose.

Later on, Evo liked to take me to the exclusive Old Pueblo Club, a private club in downtown Tucson where Evo was well known; he would introduce me to his friends. I joined the Italian-American Club, a social-political club whose guiding force was Evo DeConcini. Sometimes we had dinners at Cracchiolo’s house. It was there that I have my first recollection of Evo’s son, Dennis DeConcini, currently the junior U.S. Senator from Arizona. This must have been in 1949 or 1950. Dennis, barely a teenager, would play with Cracchiolo’s youngest son, Andrew, who was about the same age. I used to smoke long, thick cigars back then, and when I threw away the butt, Dennis and Andrew would scamper to scoop it up and puff on it, out of view of their parents.

Evo was a tall, thin, pallid man. He was in his forties when I first met him. He already was losing his hair and wore spectacles. Evo was rarely loud or demonstrative, around me anyway. He was a reserved chap, soft-spoken, discreet, low-key. In contrast, his wife, Ora, was a robust and vivacious woman. She seemed to be more “natural” around people than her husband. With me, Evo hardly ever talked about his youth or his background. He was polite and genial, but very guarded. I could never imagine Evo standing up to another man and saying, “I hate your guts.” Evo was very politic.

The DeConcinis are often referred to as a political dynasty in Arizona. Evo, the father, has been Democratic Party chairman, a member of the University of Arizona Board of Regents, a state attorney general, a superior court judge and a state supreme court judge.

After retiring from the state supreme court in the early 1950s, Evo devoted his time to business. It is no secret that his family is well off. It is one of the richest and most influential families in the state.

Throughout the 1940s and the early 1950s, I made many friends in town, over the entire spectrum of society, just as I did in New York. For example, I was the friend of Gus Battaglia, a rancher and cotton farmer in nearby Eloy (Gus was no relation to Charlie Battaglia). I knew Sam Nannini, a land developer; and Paul Cella, a lawyer who went on to become a city magistrate. I met a young, struggling lawyer by the name of Larry D’Antonio, who went on to become my civil attorney. I became friends with Victor Tronolone, an accountant who was to handle my income tax returns and who also handled Evo DeConcini’s business taxes until 1980. I knew Pete Licavoli, a man of my Tradition from Detroit who also had retired in Tucson. I knew Dr. Salvatore Megna, a retired doctor from Milwaukee who became a successful real estate investor when he came to Tucson; Dr. Megna was also a man of my Tradition. I knew Tucson Police Chief Bernard Garmire and U.S. Congressman Harold Patten, who was my neighbor. I knew businessmen by the score. A good friend of mine was Dick Drachman, a member of one of Tucson’s pioneer families. Dick’s brother, Roy, handled the sale of the Five Bar B Ranch, an exclusive piece of property I owned on Tucson’s east side. Through Dr. Megna, I became friends with Dr. Francis Roy, Dean of the Liberal Arts College at the University of Arizona. I became friends with several priests. Probably the closest to me was Father Theodore Radtke, who was a priest in Phoenix and later on in Payson, Arizona. When Father Radtke died of a heart attack, the caretaker of his church called me before anyone else. Father Radtke had told her that if anything happened to him, she should call me first.

All this namedropping has a purpose.

I have mentioned enough names to show that I had friends in Tucson from all walks of life, as I did in New York. In Tucson, some of my friends knew who I was in New York, some suspected, and some had no idea. It didn’t matter. The fact is, we all got along. I hadn’t come to Tucson to subvert the town. The businesses I had were legitimate. I had many real estate holdings. One of them was the Cortaro Cotton Farm in Marana, Arizona. One of the numerous parcels of land I owned (and still own) was a parking lot in downtown Tucson. I used to be a partner in the Sciortino Italian-American bakery in Tucson.

Politics also drew my attention, albeit as an interested spectator and little else. In the mid 1950s, I attended a political meeting of Democratic Party supporters of Ernest McFarland, who was later elected state governor. Evo DeConcini was there, as was Stewart Udall, the Arizona Congressman who went on to become U.S. Secretary of the Interior in the John Kennedy administration. Udall, Evo DeConcini and I, as well as others, all sat together in the first row.

In 1959–1960, before the Democratic Party National Convention, I met John Kennedy, who was the guest of honor at a reception at the Eloy ranch of my friend Gus Battaglia.

The only other President I have ever met was Franklin Roosevelt, and that was in 1933, the first year of Roosevelt’s presidency. In those days, the Tammany Hall political machine still ruled New York City. My contact with Tammany Hall was a politico named Albert Madinelli. He wanted me to pass the word among my people that Roosevelt was the man to vote for in 1932.

After the election, Madinelli said he wanted me to attend a private party for Roosevelt. I hesitated to accept his invitation. Although I was the Father of a Family, I was brand-new at it and but twenty-eight years of age. I felt somewhat bashful.

—I have to meet the President? I asked Madinelli. Aren’t you enough?

—Nonsense, Madinelli said. It will be good for you.

—But why should I meet the President?

—Because you and your friends contributed many votes.

I attended the private reception, which, if I recall correctly, was held at a restaurant on Lafayette Avenue in Manhattan. The wait to see Roosevelt was excruciating for me. I could see Roosevelt at one end of the room, a vibrant, charismatic man, posturing, gesticulating, cocking his head sideways, fingering his cigarette holder. I could hear what a glib and clever speaker he was.

I felt self-conscious about my poor English, and when I was introduced to him I really didn’t know what to say. Madinelli spoke a few words to Roosevelt, and from then on Roosevelt took charge:

—So, you’re the handsome guy they told me about.

Then he pointed to a photographer across the room and shouted,

—Hey, you, take a picture of us.

Turning to me once again, the President said,

—If you ever come to Washington don’t forget to come see me. Glad to see you. Thanks for your help.

He was all blarney, but I liked him.

I can’t say I liked Kennedy, however. My opinion of John Kennedy is tainted by the low opinion I had of his brother Robert, whom I considered a demagogue when he was U.S. Attorney General. When I shook hands with John Kennedy, I thought of his dad, Joe Kennedy. When I lived in New York, I would sometimes go to Sag Harbor, Long Island, in the summer. This was one of the coves, so I was told, that the Kennedy people used to transport whiskey during Prohibition. How different have been the fortunes of our two families since then!

*   *   *

In 1953, in Tucson, the federal government charged me with concealing information on my naturalization papers. If the government could prove its charge, I faced possible loss of citizenship and deportment.

I had become a U.S. citizen in 1945. On citizenship applications they ask you if you have ever been convicted of a crime. I answered no, which was the truth. The government contended I was convicted of a wage-and-hour violation in the early 1940s.

I consulted my Tucson friend Evo DeConcini, who had just resigned as an Arizona supreme court judge. He agreed that the government was trying to pull a fast one.

—They must like your name, Evo said.

Evo recommended several lawyers. Although these lawyers consulted Evo, Evo preferred to remain in the background.

At my trial in Tucson in 1954, the prosecution contended I had perjured myself on the citizenship application by not mentioning that two Brooklyn clothing factories in which I had an interest were fined a total of $450 for having violated the federal minimum-wage-and-hour law. My defense established, however, that I was only a stockholder in the companies. The companies, not I, were fined for the violation. The companies, not I, paid the fines.

In addition, several of my Tucson friends appeared in court as character witnesses: Evo DeConcini; Mundy Johnson, general manager of Valley National Bank in Tucson; Bishop Francis Green, bishop of Tucson’s Roman Catholic diocese; and Harold Patten, U.S. Congressman from Tucson.

They all rated my character as good.

The case was dismissed.

After that, my relationship with Evo became more intimate. He and I did each other small favors. In addition to fresh fruit and fine cheese, I gave Evo ties, a ruby tiepin and a Patek Philippe gold watch.

In May of 1955 Evo was awarded the Star of Solidarity—a decoration by the Italian government in recognition of outstanding achievement. I was the program chairman of the banquet for the formal presentation. I wound up contributing a big share for the banquet through my lawyer, Larry D’Antonio, whom I instructed to work on the arrangements.

In the summer of 1955, Evo and his wife, Ora, visited Europe. I gave them bon voyage gifts of flowers, fruits and candy, and I saw them off at the ship. During this trip, the DeConcinis visited Sicily. Frank Garofalo, who had been the second in my Family, had retired to Sicily. Since Evo had already met Frank in Tucson, I asked Frank to be the guide and helper of the DeConcinis while they stayed on the island.

When the DeConcinis returned to New York in November 1955, I treated them, as well as their son Dino and Evo’s secretary, Hassie Baker, to a swanky supper at the Latin Quarter.

In 1957, Evo and his wife attended the twenty-fifth anniversary celebration for my wife and me in Tucson. Later that year came the Apalachin debacle. I asked Evo if it would be better if we didn’t see each other in public. I didn’t want to embarrass him needlessly.

Evo asked me if I had anything to hide. I said no, that my conscience was clear. Evo then said he didn’t care who knew about our friendship.

In 1966, after my well-publicized reappearance in New York following my kidnapping, I was in Tucson for the Christmas holidays. I was eager to see how many of my Tucson friends would remain true. Evo surprised me one morning by visiting my house. Evo wished me a Merry Christmas and asked me how I was.

—Well, I’m not dead.

I couldn’t go into details with Evo, but I could see he was genuinely concerned about me. I thought this was the finest moment of our relationship. He wished me good luck in New York.

Several times after that I dropped in to see Evo at his office. Evo’s son, Dennis, also a lawyer, had an office on the same floor. Once Dennis invited me into his office to meet some clients. In those days, whenever Dennis DeConcini saw me he acted respectful.

*   *   *

My past friendship with Evo has led to unfounded speculation that perhaps Evo had ties to organized crime. It should be abundantly clear, however, that Evo and I had a clean relationship.

What sticks in my craw is the family’s hypocrisy.

The DeConcinis began to estrange themselves from me in the early 1970s. That was a low time for me. That’s when my fair-weather friend Evo dropped me.

The break roughly coincided with the election of Evo’s son Dennis as Pima County attorney in 1972. Since then Dennis DeConcini has tried to whitewash and disinfect Evo’s friendship with me. As you would expect, Dennis DeConcini, now a U.S. Senator, continues to give the impression that his father and I had but a casual, fleeting friendship. Dennis says that although his father knew me, he didn’t know who I really was.

It is true that I never leaned across the dinner table and told Evo DeConcini,

—Hey, judge, do you want to know who I am? I’m “duh boss.”

Technically, then, Evo and his son could say the DeConcinis knew me only as a retired Wisconsin cheesemaker. But that hides more truth than it reveals. After all I’ve said about my contacts with Evo (and there were many more I haven’t mentioned), it is an insult to Evo’s intelligence to say he didn’t really know who I was. Evo would have to be a dunderhead not to have a pretty good idea of who I was. Evo was no dummy. He wouldn’t have gotten to be who he was if he were that naive.