"I Heard You Paint Houses", Updated Edition: Frank "The Irishman" Sheeran & Closing the Case on Jimmy Hoffa

by Charles Brandt

Frank and I frequently visited a Philly capo, a made man I’ll call Carmine, at his private social club, members only or bring a search warrant. The single obvious illegal activity going on in the club was gambling. It was a “card casino,” three or four poker games always in progress, with the house supplying a dealer and getting a cut of every pot, with Carmine’s men watching to ensure the house got every bit of its money. The first time Frank and I sat at Carmine’s bar in his social club, Carmine’s thick refrigerator box of an underboss, a guy who appeared to be about forty years old, came over and stood to the left of me to make small talk with Frank who was on a bar chair to my right. The whole time the underboss and Frank conversed over me, the underboss talked to Frank but never looked at him. Instead he stood there six feet away firmly glaring at me as if I were a poker pot he had to keep an eye on, looking me up and down, letting me know he would never forget me. I smiled pleasantly, like the real Mona Lisa. Carmine was among the many who had been told I was writing a whitewashing book for Frank. The underboss would never have done this without being told to do it.