The InformantBook - 2011
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There were three cars inside, a black Cadillac, a black Corvette, and a black SUV that seemed to be about seven feet tall....The three cars looked as though they represented three moods of Paul Castiglione—pretentious, childish, and stupid.
He raised his MAC-10 with its silencer on the barrel and fired a line of rounds across the front of the booth about six inches from the ground, then a second line back across the booth about two feet up. The noise was barely audible, just the gun's hot, expanded gas spitting out bullets, and the bullets punching through the wooden-board wall. The gun was so fast that after it was still, the ejected brass casings clinked as they all fell on the asphalt, bounced once, and rolled.
The government has been protecting one criminal so he'll tell on another for—what? Fifty or sixty years? And what has this gotten us?" "Half as many criminals."
Prison was a trade school for young Mafiosi. There they got to know important older men and the minor criminals who worked for them, and spent lots of time listening to lectures about methods and systems. They lifted weights and did pull-ups. At the end of a sentence they came out stronger, meaner, and smarter, with allies and sponsors they hadn't had before.
EDDIE MASTREWSKI HAD always had his own philosophy. "Killing is just one of a lot of things people ought to do for themselves, but end up paying somebody else to do for them. They pay some pimp to provide a woman who will go to bed with them, and they buy a fancy car and hire somebody to drive it for them. That's no way to live, but their mistake is a fortune for people like us. Do your own killing, drive your own car, find your own girls."
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