Product Description

"Petey Chops wasn't kicking up. And if he didn't start soon, he was going to get whacked." So begins Making Jack Falcone, the extraordinary true story of an undercover FBI agent's years-long investigation of the Gambinos, which resulted in a string of arrests that crippled the organized crime family.

But long before Joaquin "Jack" Garcia found himself wearing a wire with some of the Mafia's top capos, he was one of the FBI's unlikeliest recruits. A Cuban-born American, Jack graduated from Quantico standing six-foot-four and weighing 300 pounds -- not your typical G-man. Jack's stature soon proved an asset as the FBI looked to place agents undercover with drug smugglers, counterfeiters, and even killers. Jack became one of the few FBI agents dedicated solely to undercover work.

Using a series of carefully created aliases, Jack insinuated himself in the criminal world, from the Badlands of Philadelphia, where he was a gregarious money launderer, to the streets of Miami, where an undercover Garcia moved stolen and illicit goods and brought down dirty cops. Jack jumped at the opportunity to infiltrate the shadowy world of La Cosa Nostra, but how would the Cuban-American convince wiseguys that he was one of their own, a Sicilian capable of "earning his button" -- getting made in the Mafia? For the first time, the FBI created a special "mob school" for Jack, teaching him how to eat, talk, and think like a wiseguy. And it wasn't long before the freshly minted Jack Falcone found himself under the wing of one of the Gambinos' old school capos, Greg DePalma. DePalma, who cared for an ailing John Gotti in prison, introduced Falcone to his world of shakedowns, beatings, and envelopes of cash, never suspecting that one of his trusted crew members was a federal agent.

A page-turning account of the struggle between law enforcement and organized crime that will rank with such classic stories as Donnie Brasco, Serpico, and Wiseguy, Making Jack Falcone is an unforgettable trip into America's underworld through the eyes of a highly decorated FBI veteran.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #19245 in Books
• Published on: 2008-10-13
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Hardcover
• 272 pages

About the Author
Jack Garcia spent a total of twenty-six years as a special agent for the FBI. He has received awards from the United States Attorney's offices in Philadelphia, New York, Boston, and Miami, as well as the FBI's Director's Award for Investigative Excellence and the Federal Law Enforcement Foundation Lifetime Achievement Award. Now retired from the FBI, Jack enjoys spending time with family and friends.

Michael Levin writes and ghostwrites in Orange County, California, where he runs www.Business Ghost.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
PROLOGUE

The Battle of Bloomingdale's

Petey Chops wasn't kicking up.

And if he didn't start soon, he was going to get whacked.

In the Mafia, "kicking up" means sharing with those above you in your crime family the money you make in loan sharking, construction scams, gambling, numbers rackets, prostitution, drugs, stolen jewelry, sports memorabilia, Internet pornography, or any other criminal enterprise. Peter "Petey Chops" Vicini ran a highly successful gambling and numbers operation in the Bronx that netted him millions of dollars. As a made member of the Gambino crime family, he was responsible for sharing some of that wealth with his capo, the individual to whom he reported, along with the "administration" of the family -- the boss, the underboss, and the consigliere.

Nobody can touch a Gambino, or a Lucchese, or a member of any of the other families that make up La Cosa Nostra in New York. No one can move into his territory, steal his shakedown victims, or interfere with his moneymaking activities. But operating under the protection of a crime family comes at a price. The Mafia soldier must kick up. He must share what he makes with those above him. A Mafia soldier must also report to his superiors regularly. Some capos insist on meetings every day. And the soldier had better come with money to kick up the line. Failure to do so is a capital crime in the Mafia, and for months now Petey Chops had been avoiding his responsibilities. He wasn't kicking up. He was in hiding from the rest of the Mafia.

The Gambino boss was Arnold "Zeke" Squitieri, an old-style Mafioso who avoided the limelight the way his illustrious predecessor, John Gotti, had sought it. Squitieri was a convicted felon due to his involvement in the narcotics trade; so much for the Mafia's "code" that forbade dealing drugs. Squitieri had assigned Petey Chops to Greg DePalma, another old-school Mafia guy who had been a Gambino capo, or captain, since the 1990s and a made man in the family since 1977. Greg was in his early seventies when he emerged from prison after serving time for shaking down Scores, the Manhattan strip club made famous by radio shock jock Howard Stern.

The Mafia and the FBI both considered Greg a relic, a washed-up has-been or, in the colorful language of the Mafia, a brokester, a broken-down valise. Yet Greg was anything but a broken-down man. Within months of his release, he was riding high once again among the Gambinos. So high that the boss of the family, Squitieri, assigned Greg, among many other tasks, the responsibility of meeting with and collecting from the prize Gambino soldier and cash cow, Petey Chops.

Petey Chops had become a thorn in Greg's side. He simply wouldn't report. Petey Chops always made excuses. He'd say things like "Greg, I can't meet you. I'm being watched. I'm under investigation. I don't want to take a pinch."

Meaning he didn't want to be arrested.

"Hey," Greg would respond, "we're all being watched! Now get over here with the money!"

Still no Petey.

Months went by. DePalma grew tired of Petey's whining. And then he had an idea.

He heard that Petey Chops and his girlfriend went to eat at the restaurant buffet in the Bloomingdale's department store in White Plains every Monday night at six. On February 21, which happened to be the Presidents' Day holiday, the Old Man, as Greg was called, decided that he, his Gambino soldier Robert Vaccaro, and I would find Petey at Bloomingdale's and straighten him out.

Who am I? An FBI undercover agent who had managed to infiltrate Greg DePalma's crew. Greg thought I was Jack Falcone, a big-time jewel thief from South Florida, and he had made me part of his crime crew. He had no idea that I was only the second FBI agent in history to deeply infiltrate the Mafia on a long-term basis. Joe Pistone, playing the role of Donnie Brasco, was the first.

I knew that the matter had been festering with Greg, because money was important to him. It was also the principle of the thing -- to benefit from your privileged position in an organized crime family and not share the wealth...it's a fatal mistake.

That Presidents' Day, Greg, Vaccaro, and I sat in La Villetta restaurant in Larchmont, New York, when Greg turned to me and rasped, "Listen, we're gonna go for a ride."

As usual, Greg didn't tell me our trip agenda. I always became a little anxious at moments like that because I wasn't in control. I could be taken anywhere -- out on a hit, or even to my own demise. I never knew.

"Where are we going?" I asked, trying not to show my concern.

"Don't worry about it," the Old Man told me. "Let's go to White Plains."

What could I do? I drove a Hummer at the time, as befit my role as a successful South Florida jewel thief. FBI agent Bim Liscomb, a member of the FBI surveillance team, was covering me. Like me, he didn't look like an agent. He was African American, heavyset, and he wore a beard, which was anathema in J. Edgar Hoover's time. Actually, in Hoover's day, that entire package would have been three strikes and you're out. I opted to have him cover me because he didn't look anything like an agent, and because he didn't drive one of those brand-new cars with the tinted windows that always gave surveillance teams away. What do I look like? I'm six foot four, 390 pounds. I don't look like an FBI agent either.

We left La Villetta, and the three of us piled into my Hummer. I couldn't get on the phone and say, "Bim, I'm going to White Plains. Follow me." Instead, I hoped that he would notice us heading away in my H2 and discreetly follow us. I drove slowly, as usual, so I wouldn't lose my tail. My torpor behind the wheel always drove Greg crazy.

"You drive like an old lady!" he complained. "Hurry up, Jackie boy! It takes you a fucking hour to drive what it takes me half an hour!"

"I always go slow," I told him. "I get flashbacks from an accident I had when I was a kid."

If Greg had been in a hurry, he would have told me, "We gotta get there fast. You're not fucking driving." I'd follow him and pretend to get lost, just to zing him. But that wasn't happening this time. We were all in one car, my car, and I still had no idea what we were doing.

On the way, Greg finally explained the nature of our mission.

"We're going to Bloomingdale's," he said. "We're going to find that cocksucker Petey Chops."

Okay, so today's not my day to get killed. That's a positive. But why would we look for a recalcitrant Mafia soldier in a department store? Greg volunteered no more information, and as a member of his crew, I was in no position to inquire.

We arrived at Bloomingdale's and didn't know where the hell the restaurant was. There were housewares and rugs all around us. By nature, we weren't the kind of people conversant with the layout of department stores. Mob guys don't buy retail. The three of us definitely didn't look like shoppers. We looked like Mob guys -- dressed to the nines, manicured and barbered to perfection.

It took us a while, but finally we found the restaurant, and we waited for Petey Chops.

At 6:00 P.M. there was no sign of Petey.

Ten after six. Still no sign of him.

Six-fifteen. Nothing.

That's when one of the waiters recognized Greg. The waiter had the slick look of a guy comfortable leaning on the rail of a racetrack or hanging around a Vegas sports book. If you had any reason to be in contact with organized crime in Westchester County, you knew Greg DePalma, and this guy certainly did.

"You guys want a table?" the waiter asked Greg cautiously. Everybody was cautious around Greg, who, even in his seventies, would reach out and slap someone he considered disrespectful.

"We just ate," Greg explained, disgusted that Petey Chops wasn't there.

At that moment, I felt good because regardless of what was about to happen, I knew it wasn't a hit on me.

Meanwhile, Greg muttered under his breath, "That cocksucker, where is he?" He called the waiter over. Whenever we were in public, he comported himself with stereotypical Mob guy behavior.

"You know my friend Pete that eats here on Mondays?" Greg growled.

The waiter nodded. "He usually comes in with his girl," he replied carefully, not knowing what answer might be the wrong answer.

"When this guy comes here again," Greg told him, "tell him that he is to see me tomorrow at the nursing home in New Rochelle."

The nursing home, the United Hebrew Geriatric Center, was where Greg's son Craig lay in an unconscious state. Craig had been comatose for several years, after a prison suicide attempt. Craig, a made member of the Gambino crime family, had been convicted along with Greg in the Scores case, but he had cooperated with law enforcement in exchange for a reduced sentence. To an old-school Mob guy like Greg, his son's actions were reprehensible. He passed a note to Craig to that effect, and Craig, full of shame, had tried to take his own life. Instead, he had put himself into an irreversible coma. Greg regularly did Mafia business in front of his son's body, on the correct assumption that the FBI would not have the bad manners to bug his comatose son's room.

The waiter nodded.

Greg glared at him. "Tell me what I just said!" he said menacingly.

"Meet you at the nursing home in New Rochelle," the wide-eyed waiter repeated.

Greg nodded, and we figured that was that. Petey wasn't showing, so we left the restaurant and began to make our way out of the store.

Just as we passed the housewares section, there he was! Petey Chops in the flesh...with not just one girl but two at his side. He saw us and got nervous. As well he should have.

"There's that jerk-off!" Greg exclaimed, heading toward him.

Robert and I fell back. Greg walked up to Petey, who kissed him on the cheek, and then turned to Petey's two companions.

"Ladies, do you mind?" Greg asked, to the point as always. "I gotta talk to him."

"Girls, get a table at the restaurant," Petey told them nervously. "I gotta talk to these guys and I'll be right there."

The ladies obviously realized that they did not need to be a part of whatever was going to happen next, so they took off.

Greg and Petey leaned against the wall and started...

Customer Reviews

Going deep undercover....
I love undercover cop stories and this one takes the cake, better yet it is true! MAKING JACK FALCONE is true crime but it reads like a best-selling mob thriller. I am sure this story has already been optioned by Hollywood.

This is the story of Cuban born Joaquin "Jack" Garcia. A highly decoratede FBI agent who goes deep undercover to expose and bring to justice elements of the Gambino Crime family. Jack is not your typical FBI agent, at over six foot four and over three hundred pounds he is an imposing individual. But he is more than just a big tough guy. After much training he is able to pass himself off as a Sicilian mobster. In fact, he is good enough at the part to end up at the power center of Gambino crime enterprises. This is an amazing story that takes the reader into the inside of the world of organized crime, the payoffs, the retributions, earning your buttons, and the back stabbing that can lead to your demise in an instance. Jack lived his life undercover for years and that is part of the tension of the book, he is the hunter and the hunted at the same time. One mistake and he will be exposed, and the mobsters won't play nice! The vernacular of the book is also raw and unvarnished giving it the feel of the streets and I loved all the mob characters. It reminded me of the movie "GoodFellas" in that way.

This book is highly recommend for those who like stories about true crime, the mob, or undercover cops.

RICK "SHAQ" GOLDSTEIN SAYS: "A MAFIA SMACK-DOWN IN BLOOMINGDALE'S!"
The author Jack Garcia has retired after twenty-six years as a special agent for the FBI. The preponderance of that time was spent undercover infiltrating every type of organized crime imaginable... drug distribution... weapon sales... jewelry theft... counterfeit money... counterfeit cigarettes... government corruption... police corruption... and in perhaps his greatest achievement of all... not only infiltrating the infamous Gambino Mafia crime family... but being next in line to be crowned a "MADE-MAN"... "A WISE GUY"... "A-KNOCK-AROUND-GUY... but then the FBI pulled the plug on the operation despite Jack's vociferous objections.

Jack was only the second FBI agent to ever be accepted as a Mafia undercover "ASSOCIATE". The first was the legendary Joe Pistone: aka Donnie Brasco. What helped Jack be so successful in his undercover status, in addition to ice cubes in his veins and a giant pair of "brass-ones" was the fact that he just DID NOT LOOK LIKE AN FBI AGENT. The FBI has strict physical guidelines that must be met including a certain height and weight ratio. It took Jack two tries to make it into the FBI because of his weight. Jack was originally six-feet-four and two-hundred-fifty pounds. Jack was told he had to lose forty pounds and come back. Jack lost the weight... came back and made the cut... but that weight class would be a forgotten memory down the road.

The FBI actually conducted a "MOB-SCHOOL" to teach potential undercover agents how to be a mobster. How to talk... how to walk... how to dress... proper slang... and... how to eat like a Mafioso. As Jack would learn firsthand, eating was almost a full-time job in the Mafia. So eat is what Jack did... and at one point his weight came very close to the FOUR-HUNDRED-FIFTY-POUND MARK! Like I said... he DID NOT look like an FBI agent. Jack's undercover name "FALCONE" was selected in honor of a "courageous Sicilian judge who had been murdered by the Mafia along with his wife and three police bodyguards a few years earlier. The FBI had honored Judge Falcone with a bronze bust at the FBI Academy because of his fortitude in his fight against the Italian Mafia." In addition to the sheer terror that Jack faced every day and night gaining influence in the Gambino family... additionally... it is an almost "IMPOSSIBLE-TO-BELIEVE" fact that he was *SIMULTANEOUSLY* working undercover in four other major cases... all with different persona's... in different parts of the country from Florida to New York... involving among other things the counterfeiting of United States one-hundred-dollar bills in North Korea using the same ink and the same paper as the U.S. Treasury. "In the eyes of the Secret Service, they were as good as real." "COUNTERFEIT MONEY POSES A GREATER THREAT THAN PRACTICALLY ANY OTHER CONTRABAND WHEN IT COMES TO NATIONAL SECURITY. IF NORTH KOREA FLOODED THE UNITED STATES WITH THESE FAKE BILLS, IT COULD TAKE DOWN THE ENTIRE U.S. ECONOMY. THESE BILLS WERE THAT GOOD."

Meanwhile Jack "Falcone" was also attempting to win the trust of Gambino "Capo" Greg DePalma who was known to take "tough" stances with people he suspected of stealing from him. Such as putting a power drill to the head of someone he believed had stolen from him at a strip joint... "And on another occasion used a cattle prod on a guy's scrotum." For a little "light" work Jack would mix in setting traps to catch crooked cops in Florida... and expose Atlantic City politicians on the take. As Jack's weight mushroomed he worried about his health... but for a number of years in a row the FBI cancelled his yearly physical due to budget constraints. In one of the "black-humor" life-is-stranger than fiction scenes in the story... the Mafia got Jack and the rest of their crew health insurance through a corrupt union official, and they all went to get a checkup... and they found that Jack had a serious heart problem and they kept him in the hospital. The FBI didn't know where Jack was... he couldn't call his wife... and after all the years worrying he'd be killed by a Mafia bullet... it turned out that his illicit Mafia "union" health insurance may have saved his life!

The stories are endless, and Jack's a natural born raconteur. One story involves a visit with Greg DePalma to Bloomingdale's because they knew that Petey Chops a Made-Man ate there. It turns out that Petey wasn't "KICKING-UP" (Which means he wasn't sharing his ill gained loot with the individuals above him in the Mafia food chain.) so "the crew" waited for Petey to show up at Bloomingdale's... and when he shows... one of the boys grabs "a solid glass Kosta Boda candleholder, nearly a foot in length, from the nearest display and whacked Petey over the head with it. When it connected, I heard a "pop" like a broken cantaloupe. Bystanders gasped. Petey Chops dropped to the floor, unconscious, blood gushing from his head." NOTE: The author provides a footnote with the exact description of the lovely product/weapon directly from Bloomingdale's website. You will not put this book down... start to finish... and luckily Jack leaves us with an ending promise that he has many more stories to tell. I hope so, because I will be the first one to buy his next book!

Very Quick Read
I really enjoyed this book. It was a quick read. While it was not in the same league as "Wiseguy" by Nicholas Pileggi, it was an interesting true tale of mob infiltration. I do have some criticisms of the book, but to go into them would give away too much of the tale. If you've read "Wiseguy," you may enjoy this one. If you haven't, read it first, but this was a solid book.
--Jeffrey Lee Hollis--