The Art of the Heist

Ten

I faced a choice: still wild, or tame? I applied to the University of Massachusetts, Boston, and was accepted. But I could not make up my mind whether or not to register for classes. If I did, I knew I would have to apply myself fully to my studies. But with so many other opportunities vying for my attention, I wasn’t sure I could do so. I was intent on following my music career, but first I had to decide whether to try the straight and narrow or not.

Soon after I got out of Walpole my friends and family hosted a welcome-home party for me. Everyone who meant anything to me was there-family members, childhood friends from Milton, band groupies, associates from my Revere Beach days, guys I’d run with in prison-many of whom I hadn’t seen in nearly seven years.

It was an unlikely collection of people, one more suited to an episode of This Is Your Life than a social gathering. Al Dotoli was on the road at the time with a band he was managing and couldn’t be there, but many of my former bandmates showed up. Also in attendance were Billy Irish, Ozzy DePriest, and Bobby Donati. Of my closest friends from Walpole, only Ralph Petrozziello, who was still serving out the remainder of his sentence, was absent.

Naturally, my older sister, Patsy, came. Much to Patsy’s chagrin, an old classmate of hers from Milton High School named David Houghton was there as well. As a teenager, David had had a huge crush on my sister. When we lived on Oak Road he had developed a habit of lurking in front of the house late at night, half-hidden-or so he thought-by a telephone pole. He fashioned himself a young Marlon Brando, complete with leather jacket and motorcycle cap. But despite his flair for fashion, Patsy never reciprocated David’s feelings.

I, on the other hand, adored him. Sensing this, and no doubt seeing an opportunity to get closer to my sister, David took me under his wing. During the time he and Patsy were in high school together he was like an older brother to me, taking me to the movies or out to the local burger joint for fries or a shake. In return I put in a good word for him with Patsy whenever I could. I lost track of David for a time after he and Patsy graduated, but in the years before my incarceration he had reappeared in my life, showing up regularly to hear me play.

I was thrilled to see David at the party and quickly introduced him around. To my surprise, he and Bobby Donati hit it off immediately. It was the beginning of a friendship that would last for years to come.

It was my party, but as far as I was concerned someone else was the guest of honor: Martha Ferrante had driven down from her parents’ house in Northampton to be there. Nothing could have made me happier. Despite the fact that it was our first meeting outside the walls of Walpole prison, I felt as if we’d known each other our entire lives.

Al Dotoli came to my mother’s house to see me as soon as he got back into town. Al had big plans for me, and he didn’t want to waste any time getting my music career up and running once again.

“I could get you work tomorrow,” he told me, stretching out his lanky frame on my mother’s couch as if to illustrate the ease with which my career could be revived.

“I’m sure you could,” I agreed, somewhat reluctantly. Even after six years in prison, I knew I still had a huge following. If anything, the Back Bay incident and my time in Walpole only added to the mystique of my rock-and-roller persona. The question now was whether I wanted my old life back at all.

“But?” Al asked, sensing the hesitation in my voice.

“There’s a lot to think about,” I said. “Like I might be going to college.”

Al balked. “Who says you can’t play music and go to school?”

“You know I hate doing things halfway.”

Al leaned forward, setting his elbows onto the table. “I’ve been around this business for a while now,” he said, “and I’ve learned a thing or two. I can tell talent when I see it, and you’ve got it in spades. You can be something, Myles, something big. I’ve always said that. But you’ve got to do it now, while you’re still young.”

I knew he was right. Playing rock and roll was a young man’s profession. Prison had already eaten up what could have been the best years of my music career. If I wanted to salvage what was left of it, I couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

“You’re only young once,” he said, as if reading my mind.

I smiled. Al’s devotion to me was as persuasive as any argument he could have made. “I need some time,” I told him. “To think things over, weigh my options.”

Al sighed, slumping back in a posture of exasperation he often adopted in his dealings with me.

I wish I could say the choice was difficult, that I agonized over my decision, torn between the thrill of my old life and the heady hush of academia, that my conscience pulled me in one direction while my youthful heart dragged me in another. But let’s be honest: college never stood a chance. I registered at UMass, and even attended a few classes. But in the end my college career lasted less than a week.

The high that comes from performing, from being onstage and connecting with an audience, is like nothing else in the world. It’s as addictive as any drug, as powerful as any religion, as satisfying as even the best sex. Offered the chance to relive that feeling, I found it impossible to walk away.

Besides, having prided myself on my rebelliousness for so long, the thought of becoming part of the very system I scorned seemed like the worst kind of capitulation. Rock and roll was all about refusing to toe the line. That’s what I was all about. That and the urge to get back to collecting, by whatever means necessary.

Acting as my personal manager, a role he would fill for the next three decades, Al Dotoli quickly put together a band for me. It was an impressive group of musicians. As usual, I sang and played guitar; a kid named Bean, who’d been in my band at Walpole, backed me up on bass; Harry French was our drummer; Chucky Norton, Paul Donsanto, and Danny McBride, later of the band Sha Na Na, took turns playing guitar. Good to his word, Al soon had steady work for us. That winter and into the spring we played in clubs around the Boston area and on the New England college circuit. By summer of 1973 we were regular headliners at a place called the Beachcomber, on Wollaston Beach in Quincy.

If I had one worry concerning my decision to put off school, it was that Martha would disapprove. But nothing could have been further from the truth. She was thrilled to see me doing something I so clearly loved, and came down from Northampton as often as she could to hear me play.

Like my Sunday afternoon concerts at Walpole, the Beachcomber gigs attracted a surprisingly diverse audience, from the highest of Boston’s high society to the lowest Southie thugs. Brahmins and bookmakers, coeds and cons: they all rubbed elbows on the dance floor at the Beachcomber. And I did my best to keep them coming back.

Much of my appeal as an entertainer has always had to do with the fact that I know how to put on a good show. That’s not to say I don’t have real talent. Certainly, my musical ability drew people in. But they also came to forget themselves, to indulge in the fantasy of freedom, to laugh at themselves and the world around them. My popularity, whether in Walpole or Wollaston Beach, lay in my ability to fulfill that fantasy. Like any good musician, I took my work very seriously. At rehearsals my band members and I were meticulous in our preparations. But once we got in front of an audience we broke loose. We quickly became known for our onstage antics.

Al Dotoli’s contribution to our success cannot be overstated. A born producer, Al had a gift for spectacle. Using my outlaw persona to our advantage, dubbing me the “President of Rock and Roll,” Al created a thrilling signature show for the band. I worked out a terrific cover of Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues,” referencing Walpole Prison instead. Another Johnny Cash hit, “Riot in Cell Block Nine,” quickly became our signature song. Al rigged flashing lights and police sirens to simulate an actual riot. When we were done playing, the entire band would leap off the stage, brandishing our guitars as if they were guns, spraying the crowd while the sound of machine-gun fire blared from the speakers. This was long before the days of mosh pits and stage diving, and the move was a surefire crowd-pleaser. But it wasn’t without physical risk. One night we were playing at a place down in Dennis-port named Jason’s. The club had particularly low ceilings, and when we went to do our stage jump, Bean, who was the tallest member of the band, hit his head and knocked himself out. Everyone, including me, thought it was part of the show. It wasn’t until we climbed back on stage and saw blood pouring out of Bean’s forehead that we realized he wasn’t pretending. Fortunately, we managed to revive him, but he never performed the move with quite the same gusto after that.

It didn’t take long for the audiences at the Beachcomber to begin resembling their prison counterparts in more than just their diversity. As my popularity grew so did the number of Walpole alumni at my concerts. My shows soon became an informal arena for guys looking to hook up with their buddies from the inside. If they could connect themselves to me, so much the better.

“You’ve got a hundred best friends out there,” Martha said one night. “And every one of them has a story to tell with you in it. Bank robberies, cop shootings, museum heists. Who knew you had so much time on your hands?” Her tone was light, but I could tell that so many people wanting a piece of me bothered her.

She was right to be concerned. Al was worried as well, and moved quickly to make sure my shows didn’t become gathering places for ex-cons, even going so far as to ban certain individuals from the clubs we played in. His actions did not make him popular with the Walpole crowd.

To the authorities my success was proof of the inherent injustice of the world. I was a cop shooter, after all, a punk kid who didn’t know the meaning of respect. I should have been locked away somewhere, notching off the days in miserable solitude, instead of signing women’s breasts in a Wollaston Beach nightclub.

Looking back, I can see that it wasn’t just my success that goaded them, though surely that was part of it. What infuriated them-what has always infuriated those in authority-was my ability to take everything in stride. I had breezed through six years at Walpole as if it was a lark. Now, as if to add insult to injury, I’d reclaimed my music career with similar ease.

Once again, I was the thorn in their side, the collar everyone wanted. Once again, all eyes were on me, watching, waiting, hoping I would slip up.

By the end of the summer of 1973 I was riding high. I had a wonderful girlfriend and a growing following. For a few brief months it seemed as if I had succeeded in outrunning my past. But as anyone who has spent time on the inside will tell you, prison loyalties run stronger even than bonds of blood. Mine would soon be tested.

During my first year out of prison, I had managed to keep my nose clean. Music kept me busy and well above the fray. I didn’t hit a single museum, or anything else. That’s not to say I wasn’t there with a hand up when guys needed me. Anyone who came to me looking for help got it. But for the first year of my parole my paychecks were all legit. In 1974 Al got me into the studio to record some preliminary songs for an album. The band members from Sha Na Na, who were enjoying national success at the time, graciously agreed to back me up in the studio. Danny McBride played guitar, Chico Ryan played bass, Lenny Baker played saxophone, and Jesse Henderson was our drummer. We recorded a sensational cover of the Elvis Presley hit “I Was the One,” and were poised to make a terrific album, when my old friend Ralph Petrozziello showed up at the Beachcomber one Sunday with other plans for me.

Ralph was the last of my Walpole crew to be released. He came out of prison anything but reformed, itching to get back to what he did best. There’s only so much one man can do on his own, and most of that falls into the category of petty crime: small-time holdups and burglaries, drugs, the occasional contract job. Real scores require at least two guys, if not more. It wasn’t long before Ralph decided he needed a partner.

“How’d you like to make some money?” he asked me as we sat at the bar after my show.

“What do you think this is?” I responded, motioning to the empty stage. “Charity work?”

He shook his head and leaned closer to me. “I mean real money. Not this nickel-and-dime shit they’re paying you here.”

I would have been offended if he hadn’t been right. My music provided me with a steady paycheck, but it was steadily meager. If I hadn’t been living with my mother at the old house on Oak Road, I would have needed some other form of income to get by. Ralph, on the other hand, was clearly cashing in, dressed to the nines and driving a nice car, taking his girlfriends out for fancy dinners and champagne.

“I’ve got a tip from some of my friends,” he said, lowering his voice a notch. “There’s a boxcar full of electronics coming into the Dedham freight yard tomorrow night. I’ve got a guaranteed buyer for whatever I take. But I can’t do it alone.”

I shook my head, catching sight of Ralph’s expensive Italian shoes as I did so, the leather buffed and gleaming. I’ve always been a sucker for the finer things.

“Say the word and the job is yours,” he said, turning slightly on his stool, glancing around the bar. “But don’t wait too long. There’s at least a dozen guys in here who would kill for a piece of this gig.”

In the end it was the money that got me, the money and what it could buy-and not just fine wine, expensive clothes, and extravagant weekends away with Martha, though these were things I could appreciate.

Like all collectors, I am a man driven by the desire for possession. Unlike most people, for whom the pleasure of looking is enough, I am not content with mere appreciation. I don’t deny having stolen art for its value, monetary and other. But there is much more that I have taken out of love or lust, the possession of which is worth far more to me than the pieces themselves.

By 1974, my collection had grown to include, among other things, Chinese porcelains, Japanese bronzes, Asian watercolors, and antique weapons of every description. I had acquired a number of full suits of armor, both Japanese and Western. My sword collection alone boasted dozens and dozens of the finest examples of Japanese craftsmanship, including katanas and their slightly longer cousins tachis (traditional samurai swords), naginatas (large pole weapons), tantos (samurai knives), kwaiken (small, delicate knives used by samurai women), and nodachis (large two-handed swords). I displayed many of these pieces at my mother’s house in Milton, having converted her dining room into a museum room. The rest I stored in her attic or in a shed in the backyard. But despite the impressive size of my collection, it wasn’t enough.

If I accepted Ralph’s proposal, I knew, I’d soon have enough money to buy whatever I wanted. My decision was an easy one.

“I’m in,” I told Ralph as we left the club that night.