The Denver Mob

Funerals

Gaetano’s Poster

The Denver Mob

On a wall at Gaetano's Italian restaurant there hangs a huge, framed, poster-like medley of the faces and names of the Italian mob families of Denver dating back to Prohibition and bootlegging, which began in Colorado in 1916. The mobsters’ names are certainly no secret. Search “Denver Mob” online and there they are, readily named, and their reigns as capo dei capi even dated. When the 21st Amendment went into effect on December 5, 1933, ending Prohibition, racketeers turned to other means of support – gambling, loan sharking, numbers, and whatever else this seedier side of society could devise. By the time the bullets had stopped flying, the last Denver mob family standing was the Smaldones – Clyde, the suave padrone of the Italian north side, and his brother Eugene aka “Checkers” – the muscle of the family. Their restaurant at West 38th Avenue and Tejon Street opened in 1947. Its first cook was mama Mamie Smaldone. Its front door is still bulletproof. Its name is that of a Catholic saint, and yet, Gaetano is Clyde in English.

It has been said that there is no place safer than a mafia run neighborhood. The Smaldones took care of everyone – the very poor and needy found food and money on their porches as well as clothing for the children as the need arose. For youngsters who got arrested, they had lawyers waiting with bail money for them. They supported orphanages, provided for the poor in other neighborhoods including Jews and Blacks. They were the main support of their neighborhood church – Our Lady of Mt. Carmel. They were urban Robin Hoods as well as urban robbing hoods. Clyde and Checkers served many years in prison, but their brothers and offspring continued their “business ventures” during their absences.

The old west side Jewish and Italian neighborhoods of the 20s and 30s were near one another leading to fights and friendships, and as hormones would have it, to a few interfaith marriages as well. Without exception, it was Jewish women who married into mob families. In the main, they maintained their religion, while also becoming involved in the Italian-Catholic culture of their new homes. For whatever reason, and I was never made privy to it, I became rabbi to the mob’s Jews. Let me temporize that a bit. I did not counsel them, did not preach to them, did not teach or convert them ... I did the funeral ceremonies for their Jewish wives, mothers, or Jewish children. Here’s how that worked.

The phone would ring at exactly 10:00 PM. Not a minute earlier or later – precisely ten. Rikki would give me a knowing look. I’d answer.

“Hello.”

“Is dis de Rabbi?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Rabbi, Sir, it is my sad duty to inform you dat Mrs. Mary Sunshine has gone to her eternal rewaads. Da funeral will be dis Tursdey at tree in de afternoon at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church on Navajo Street. Her husband Frank wud like you to say de woids.”

“I am so sorry to hear about your loss. Can you give me Frank’s number. I’d like to call and offer my condolences.”

“Wit all due respects, you wud be better off not knowing dat number, Rabbi. Besides, you can tell him in person. He and some of de family members will meet wit chu tomorrow in your office at your church (sic) at four in de afternoon, so as to talk about our lovely dear departed.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Dat too is not important, Rabbi. I will also see you tomorrow, of course. I go where Mr. Frank goes.”

“Okay, let me check my schedule for tomorrow and Tur ... Thursday.”

“Dat also is not necessary, Rabbi. Wit all due respects, doze times are already established. The family is so very pleased that you will make a lovely service and say de woids so nice as you always do. Have a good evening, Sir, and apologize to de misses for me if I have disturbed your evening.”

Choice is a gift for those who are unfettered. I suppose I could have said no, but then I would have lost the opportunity for several unusual adventures. Here are just two.

Mary

At four sharp, the family was welcomed at the Temple and led into my study. The greetings were very cordial. Frank gave me a hug as I expressed my sympathies. Hand shakes and introductions followed. We sat. Without prompting, everyone took turns regaling me with words of praise for mama, wife, sister, friend ... a woman who remained faithful to her religion, lit Shabbat and holiday candles, prepared a Seder each year, ate no bread during that holiday, fasted on Yom Kippur ... a woman who ran a grocery store next to the church, where she was told about all who were in need or in trouble. She helped women get to doctors, the pregnant got appointments with ob/gyns, those down on their luck got rent money, those who lost a job got matched with those who need a worker, kids going to college got funds for tuition and books ... she was in short a match-maker for the entire Catholic-Italian neighborhood. A Yenta for the gentiles.

At three the next afternoon, the church was overflowing. Priest, Pastor, Deacon were all seated in the front row. I asked them to join me on the pulpit; after all, its their church. They demurred saying that it was my service and they were but dear friends and honored guests at this funeral service. The family and close friends were seated in a mourners’ room off to the side of the pulpit. They had a commanding view of the pulpit, but could not be seen by anyone in the congregation.

While it was not a problem speaking about her early years and wedding to Frank and about their many children, I had no intention of talking about her connection to immediate family and other relatives who had without doubt broken every one of the Ten Commandments. Especially, since the mention of such might generate a bit of distress among several of the mourners who, I am certain … were carrying.

Everyone there knew that Mary had been Jewish and that a rabbi (!) was now addressing them from their church pulpit. So, I spoke primarily about the values found in Leviticus 19 and how her actions exemplified them – how she had honored her parents; the ways in which she kept the Sabbath; how she would not tolerate defaming, insulting, discounting, or ignoring others regardless of their race, religion, or culture. Through her neighborhood store she did indeed feed the very poor, day after day, at little or no charge; and in so many ways how she eased the medical and legal financial burdens of so many “… of us assembled here to pay her honor. Who among us has a story to tell of how she eased your cares? Yeah, she clothed the naked – who here received clothes for your kids when you couldn’t afford them, or sports equipment or uniforms that were beyond your ability to provide? Many a bride got her dress through Mary, and many a groom got a job because of her, and many a child got into college with her connections and financial help.

“This Jewish lady was a fixture in this Catholic neighborhood. She learned its culture, spoke with its nuances, greeted all with a smile on her face and a friendly disposition. Yes, Mary exemplified the very best of the Bible’s human values making her as the Book of Proverbs would call such a loving and lovely lady, A Woman of Valor.”

I ended the ceremony with the Ayl Malay Rachamim and Kaddish, because I sensed what had not been determined before the ceremony. It was the bodyguard who came up to me after the last of the congregants and the clergy had finished with their thank-yous.

“Rabbi, doze were woids of truth you spoke. Mr. Frank is very pleased. He wants you to know that Mrs. Mary will be buried tomorrow in de family plot at Mt. Olivette Cemetery. She will be in the space right next to one reserved for Mr. Frank. You do not have to attend. Wit our thanks for de service today, Mr. Frank wants you should know dat you are always welcome here. You will always be safe here.”

I find it strange that somehow when one guarantees what was never before in doubt, it leads to doubt of that which was originally taken for granted. I had felt perfectly safe in that church and neighborhood. Now that my safety was guaranteed, I didn’t feel quite so.

Carol

“Hello.”

“Is dis de Rabbi?

“Yes.”

“I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Chauncy whose beloved daughter has sadly been called to her eternal rewaads. De funeral will be held at de Memorial Chapel at Fairmount Cemetery in four days, dis Friday at two in de afternoon. Mr. Chauncy would like you to say de woids.”

Her name was Carol. She was 40, killed by a drunk driver on I-25, who (fortunately for him) also died in the collision. She was a smart, handsome woman, who never married. Her mother was Jewish and raised her as such. Her father, a member of the “family” and a dedicated supporter of the church, did not object in the least. Carol had been a dynamic high school teacher, a coach for the girl’s varsity basketball team, and most beloved by lots of people from all over the city, and all walks of life.

The chapel of this massive and multi-religion cemetery was fairly large. It seated perhaps 600 in undivided pews – 20 rows, 15 people on each side of the center aisle that ran directly from the rear door to the small pulpit. Unlike the church, there was no mourners room. Instead, the first two rows in front of the pulpit were reserved for the family. I arrived about 20 minutes early. The organist, hidden from view, was toying with the stops and pedals when I called out to let her know I was here. She called back a greeting, and must have taken my presence as a get-serious alert, since her notes for the next 15 minutes were soft and harmonious. The rear doors were opened and congregants began streaming in. As I was arranging my notes on the podium, I looked up to see that the seats were filling quickly.

Several school buses pulled up at the chapel doors – hundreds of teens made their way into the now crowded chapel. It was SRO, so they filled in the spaces between the end of each row of seats and the wall, standing two deep. There was no more room inside. Hundreds of teens would stand outside and listen through speakers above the doorway. The buses moved off toward the parking area and limos took their places. The family had arrived. I could see them through the open rear doors. For a brief moment, they organized themselves. The teens made a path for them to enter. Uncles and aunts, grandparents and parents, cousins – 40 year-olds with their very young children, and then the 20-somethings, then the teens walking in with the 7 to 12 year-olds.

Quietly, somberly, slowly they made their way down the center aisle. And then I noticed ... every women was wearing the identical black dress. Long black sleeves, high neck, below the knee hem lines, black hose, black patent leather low heels, short black veil anchored by a small black hat. Right down to the youngest little girl, every one dressed the same. Each wore a thin gold necklace bearing a tiny cross, except for Carol’s mother whose chain bore a Star of David. Except for wedding rings, no other jewelry, no frills – identical. Men and boys wore the same dark gray suits with thin pinstripes, white shirts, solid color ties ... some were purple with a matching purple kerchief tucked neatly into a suit’s breast pocket. Others wore blue or mauve or teal matching sets. And the shoes were all the same – black patent leather loafers with the top in suede, dyed to match the color of the tie. Thirty, forty, fifty family members filled the two rows in such a way as to assure that Carol’s parents sat in the front row on the aisle to my left.

In four days a whole lot of dress and suit makers were kept mighty busy. The shoes? I couldn’t imagine how they arrived, sized to fit and colored to match the ties. This had to be papa’s doing. The Boss orders; the work is done. This was his way of paying honor to his daughter; moreover, this was his way of showing respect to his wife. Catholic, Jew, all dressed alike ... there is no distinction in mourning – a tear is a tear, a tearing of the heart, an emptiness of the spirit. We bleed alike, we cry the same salty drops. There is no distinction in death. The entire family was dressed alike – beautifully made clothes, and yet, I couldn’t help but think ... shrouds. A family emulating, identifying with their deceased.

I spoke about Carol’s youth, her education, her love of and devotion to teaching, about her successes, and her dreams of the future that were cut short by the tragic end of her life. And then,

“ ... a large Catholic family raised a child as a Jew, proud of her faith. They supported each other’s choices, learned from each other differences, and embraced their commonalities. One large family raised a child, and then that child went on to raise a thousand children, or two or three thousand or more, hundreds of whom are here today in this chapel or standing just outside its doors. We are all united in so many ways – each of us can appreciate the gift of another’s caring, another’s willingness to share what they know, their efforts to lift us when we falter or perhaps fail, the pains they take to promote understanding and clarity no matter the depth of the problems. Carol showed us all how to play the game of life – to be who we really are on the inside, and to allow room for diversity on the outside. The teacher prepares others for successes, and there is no greater measure of success than to become the very best you that each of you can become. We honor her by our presence today. It’s the least we could do for a person who honored us by her caring presence with us on so many days, months, and years of her all too brief life. May all of us be comforted through her memory.”

Family only, gathered for the commitment ceremony at the majestic mausoleum on the east side of the cemetery. Closing prayers then Kaddish, and the family drifted out to waiting limos. I spoke with her mother for a while.

“We’ll mention Carol’s name tonight at Temple and say Kaddish. We would be honored to have you join us for the service.”

“Rabbi, you’ve been so comforting to me and to the family. I’ll light a memorial candle for her and then Shabbat candles with the family, and we’ll share memories. But thank you. I know that you would make me feel most welcome at Temple. Perhaps, another time. No, for certain, sometime soon. I’ll bring Chauncy, maybe his parents ... ha, and maybe even his priest.” A hug and she was on her way to the car.

The bodyguard approached. We were the last two in the room. “Dat was a beautiful tribute, Rabbi,” he says as he tries to stuff as wad of bills in the breast pocket of my suit. “It’s okay. De Boss wants you should have dis little something.”

Where did this little something come from, I think? Is it stolen, laundered, bilked, is it from a rigged slot, from usury paid. “It’s okay,” I say. “I was pleased to be able to do this mitzvah, this noble deed of burying the dead. Tell your Boss thanks, but it is unnecessary.”

“Rabbi, you don’t understand. One does not say no to Mr. Chauncy. It is in your best interests to take dis and den you can give it to charity or … you could burn it even, but you do not say no-thanks to da Boss.”

“If its so important to your boss to give me a gift, then tell him that I will accept it personally from him. I want to see if he is happy to give it as a gift, otherwise, this is like so much charity left on the doorstep of the needy, and I am not needy. I enjoy a gift given with a smile. That is like sharing in the joy. But I’m not interested in getting charity.”

“Rabbi, all I can saay is dat you got some kind of nerve. I’ll meet chu at chur car in five minutes.”

Chutzpah, nerve, gall - none of that. I take his money, I owe him. Can’t say no to the boss? I certainly can now, but not if he thinks I then owe him.

“Here’s da deal, Rabbi. Mr. Chauncy says dat he understands perfectly. You’re an honorable person. He appreciates dis very much. He wants you should know dat he owes you. You ever need someting – medical or legal help, protection for your church or your family, anyting, you just call our church and da Father will get in touch wit us immediately. Anyting, remember. And again, you done right by da Boss.”

As I drove toward home, thoughts turned to Carol and her mother. Life must have been, must still be, a perpetual quid pro quo. I do, you owe me. You do, I owe you. If I were to ask for his help, immediately the ‘who owes who’ arrow swings toward me. Nothing is free; with the mob everything has a price. Even their charity costs the recipient eventually. It’s positively ... un-Jewish.