Digital Extras

10.18.2001 00:05

Death for disrespect

For years, Bobby Buehne lived a double life -- as a player in the Providence underworld and as a police informant. Now he has a new identity and a new life, which the government gave him after he helped lock up a ruthless figure in the Rhode Island mob.

BY W. ZACHARY MALINOWSKI
JOURNAL STAFF WRITER

"Ronnie and Peter just got killed!"

Paulie Calenda was on the phone, sobbing. Two more of his pals had been gunned down: three now within two years. Each time, Calenda and Bobby Buehne had been among the last to see the victims alive.

"What?" Buehne said. "You've got to be kidding me!"

It was Friday, April 1, 1994, some time after 1 a.m., when Bobby Buehne got the call. Calenda, the mob associate and millionaire businessman, told Buehne to come right over to his townhouse off Atwood Avenue, in Cranston.

As Buehne climbed from bed and got dressed, many thoughts crossed his mind. Has someone found out I'm a police informant? Are Ronnie and Peter really dead? Maybe I'll get whacked at Calenda's place.

Buehne (pronounced Bee-nee) called Bobby Lauro, his contact with the Providence police.

Lauro hadn't heard about the double murder, but said he would check with the state police. He called back and told Buehne it was true: mobster Ronnie Coppola and Peter Scarpellino, his loyal underling, had just been killed in the Hockey Fans Social Club, in Cranston.

Before he left his apartment, Buehne reached under his mattress and grabbed his black .38-caliber handgun. He tucked the gun in his waist and headed for Calenda's.

He arrived at the Cranston townhouse to find Calenda, his wife, Gail-Ann, and Coppola's widow, Paula.

Buehne and Calenda headed to the social club.

THE HOCKEY FANS Social Club was swarming with cops. A Cranston police officer was posted outside as detectives scoured the club for bullet shells and evidence.

Flashing blue lights from the police cruisers and the crackling of police radios filled the air outside the windowless club on the corner of Plainfield and Tweed Streets near the Johnston line.

Club patrons who had been inside the hangout had been rounded up and brought to the police station for questioning.

Buehne and Calenda stopped at the yellow police tape.

State police Detective Cpl. Brendan P. Doherty, a veteran mob investigator, came over and shook hands with Buehne and Calenda. Buehne peered inside the front door of the social club. He could see, on the floor, a leg with a burgundy Pierre Cardin shoe, the same type of shoe that Coppola had worn the first time they met at the Ace of Hearts social club.

At just about that time, in East Providence, Antonino "Nino" Cucinotta, a made member of the Patriarca crime family, drove to his daughter's house. He caused a ruckus by pounding on the door, and someone called the police. When the East Providence police arrived, they ran into Cucinotta. He told them that he was the suspect being sought in the Cranston shootings.

TO CUCINOTTA, it was all about respect.

His star in the mob had been plummeting for years. Born in Sicily, Cucinotta immigrated to Rhode Island in 1961. He was a meat cutter, but he eventually moved to a new line of work: soldier in the Patriarca crime family.

His perks as a made guy included a no-show job with the City of Providence. Still, the money wasn't flowing as he'd hoped.

One day in the 1980s, Cucinotta and mob pal Nicola Leonardo complained to mob boss Raymond J. "Junior" Patriarca.

"How are we going to live?" Leonardo said.

"Go rob a . . . bank," Patriarca said.

No banks were robbed. Instead, Cucinotta became Patriarca's driver and gofer -- chauffeuring him around town, picking up his coffee and morning newspapers, feeding and cleaning his dogs.

Patriarca paid him $100 a week. Nonetheless, there was an upside to the grunt work: Cucinotta was seen in the company of the head of organized crime in New England. He was with the boss at weddings, wakes and funerals.

Patriarca was obsessed with FBI wiretaps -- and police scanners.

One day, Patriarca watched from the doorway of his home in Lincoln as Cucinotta pulled into the driveway. As Cucinotta climbed from the car, Patriarca heard a distinctive chime come over the scanner.

Patriarca told Cucinotta to go back and open the car door again.

When he did, they could hear the chime from the car and the scanner.

Bingo!

The mobsters knew that an electronic bug had been hidden in the car. They set out to trick the eavesdropping authorities.

For the next few weeks, whenever they were in the car, Patriarca and Cucinotta talked about leaving Rhode Island and starting new lives. They never talked about crime.

Eventually, the eavesdroppers caught up with Patriarca. In 1991, the mob boss pleaded guilty to federal racketeering charges and was sent to prison. Patriarca, a weak leader, lost control of his crime family.

Cucinotta's stature also took a hit.

By the 1990s, Cucinotta was living in a modest apartment on Starr Street, in Johnston, and working as a flagger on road construction sites.

He was always short on cash, and often hit up Coppola for money.

Coppola, showing respect for a made guy, would peel off a couple of hundred dollars from his roll and give it to him.

Cucinotta had a tough time accepting his diminished role. He was often seen in social clubs, drinking alone and getting in arguments. He suffered from depression and took large doses of Valium.

Sometimes, when he felt suicidal, he took strolls through cemeteries.

ON THE NIGHT of Thursday, March 31, Buehne stopped by the Hockey Fans Social Club.

Cucinotta was there, at a table with Nicola Leonardo. Buehne noticed that they were chatting in Italian.

Calenda was there, at another table with Coppola and Scarpellino.

Buehne stayed only briefly at the club; he was tired and wanted to get home to his apartment on Vera Street, in Cranston.

Later, Calenda walked over to Cucinotta's table and said that he understood Italian.

"What's the big deal that you understand Italian?" Cucinotta responded.

Cucinotta was offended that Calenda was trying to impress him.

A few minutes later, Scarpellino approached Cucinotta.

"You know, Nino," Scarpellino said in a low voice, "I was told to tell you that you're not welcome in the club."

Cucinotta froze. He was infuriated that he -- a made guy -- would be subjected to such treatment from a nobody like Scarpellino.

To make matters worse, the order was coming from his longtime friend Coppola.

Cucinotta left, but not for long. He returned with a gun.

Cucinotta walked through the front door -- he said later his head was "going 100 miles an hour" -- and headed directly to Coppola's table.

"Who the . . . is going to throw me out? You?" Cucinotta yelled.

He fired two shots into Coppola's head.

One bullet passed through his skull above his left eye, exited behind his ear, and landed in a wall.

Playing cards scattered across the table.

A handful of patrons scrambled for cover.

Scarpellino, still clutching his hand of cards, ran to the bathroom and locked the door. Cucinotta fired twice into the door. One shot tore through Scarpellino's back, another in his neck.

Coppola and Scarpellino were dead. Scarpellino wore socks, but no shoes. He had fled his killer in such haste that he had left his shoes under the card table.

Cucinotta walked out of the club past the framed posters of Marilyn Monroe, James Dean and former Yankees star Don Mattingly.

There was $10,000 in cash on the card tables, and nearly $12,000 stuffed in Coppola's pants pockets. The mobster's cigar was left smoldering in an ashtray.

THE DAY AFTER the double murder, Jack White, a veteran reporter for Channel 12 (WPRI-TV), dropped by New England Industries, a costume-jewelry plant in South Providence. He approached the plant's owner, Paulie Calenda. White's police sources had told him that Calenda -- not Coppola and Scarpellino -- had been Cucinotta's intended target.

Calenda screamed at White, and told him that his information was wrong. He told him to get out of the plant.

White checked back with his sources. They again told him that Cucinotta wanted to kill Calenda.

White went to the scene -- the Hockey Fans Social Club -- for a live shot to lead the 6 o'clock news. Under the glare of the camera, White proclaimed that Cucinotta had returned to the club looking for Calenda.

After the live report, White removed his earpiece and microphone while the photographer broke down his equipment.

Suddenly, a speeding red Pontiac Fiero screeched to a halt in front of them. Out lumbered Calenda and Buehne.

Calenda was furious. He grabbed White's tie and threw several punches, landing a glancing blow to White's mouth. The punch split White's lip, causing blood to dribble down his chin.

The reporter punched back.

"Paulie, let's get out of here!" Buehne yelled. "The cops are going to be coming."

The police urged White to press assault charges, but he refused.

He didn't want to become the focus of the story.

ON SUNDAY, April 3, the night before Coppola's wake, Buehne went to Federal Hill and stopped by Caffe Verdi, the bar that was run by Luigi "Baby Shacks" Manocchio, acting boss of the Patriarca crime family.

Manocchio, a fitness buff who runs every day, was trim and appeared much younger than his 67 years. He had been a formidable figure in the New England underworld for decades.

Although he has a criminal record dating to the 1940s, Manocchio is best known for vanishing after participating in the 1968 double murder of two mob associates: Rudolph Marfeo and Anthony Melei inside a Pocasset Avenue grocery store.

Manocchio was a fugitive for more than a decade, hiding out in New York City and Europe.

In 1979, he returned to Rhode Island to answer the criminal charges. He pleaded no contest to a charge of murder conspiracy and served just 21/2 years in prison.

A deal was cut because a key witness was suffering from Alzheimer's disease.

Manocchio's ability to dodge a long prison sentence only enhanced his reputation.

Now, Buehne was downing vodkas with cranberry juice in his cafe.

Manocchio recognized Buehne from the times Coppola had dropped in for private meetings.

"What are you doing? Preparing yourself for tomorrow?" Manocchio asked.

Buehne replied that he was.

"Yeah, we lost a good friend," Manocchio said.

THE WAKE WAS a major mob event.

Hundreds of mourners paid their respects at the Mariani Funeral Home, a modern white brick building in the North End, the same neighborhood where Coppola ran his rackets. Bobby DeLuca, a capo in the Patriarca crime family and Coppola's close friend, stood under the burgundy awning, shaking hands and exchanging hugs.

Gaythorne "Poochie" Angell Jr., a bookmaker from Smith Hill, was there. So was William "Blackjack" DelSanto, a mobster from Federal Hill. And Edward "Mulligan" Romano, a longtime capo from the North End.

Buehne and Calenda were among the crowd that filed through the funeral home. Buehne packed his handgun because Calenda knew that the mobsters blamed him for Coppola's death.

At one point, DeLuca pulled Calenda aside and spoke to him privately. He asked him what had happened at the social club. DeLuca also spoke to Calenda about a possible debt Calenda owed Coppola.

It wasn't true. Nonetheless, Calenda was unnerved by the conversation. He didn't need DeLuca and his goons on his back.

The next day, the funeral was held at St. Rocco Church, in Johnston, just around the corner from the club where the double murder took place. Buehne served as a pallbearer, one of six men carrying Coppola in his coffin.

Major players in the mob, as well as law-enforcement authorities and the media, were recording the moment.

It was a big moment for Buehne.

IF BEING SEEN at Coppola's funeral made Buehne feel more like a player, it also fueled his paranoia. By that autumn -- September of 1994 -- Buehne was worrying that his cover would be blown. He had to prove to his mob friends that the authorities were after him.

Buehne set something up with Steve Cross and Bobby Lauro, the Providence detectives who had been his handlers since he decided to become an informant five years earlier.

They promised Buehne that they would have him arrested for falling behind on his payment of court fines and for associating with felons, a violation of his probation.

One day, about 10:30 a.m., Cross, Lauro and two other detectives from the Providence police intelligence unit burst into Calenda's office.

Lauro picked up Buehne from his chair, slammed him into a wall and announced that he was under arrest.

Cross argued with Calenda.

"Get out of here!" Calenda shouted. "He's not doing anything wrong!"

The police handcuffed Buehne and hustled him from the building in South Providence.

In the unmarked police car, Buehne and the officers laughed. They stopped for a bite to eat and then went to the courthouse where Buehne's problems were straightened out.

The next day, Buehne returned to Calenda's business. He bumped into Albert Ursillo, a mob associate, who was awaiting trial on charges that he participated in the execution-style murder of a Massachusetts man.

Calenda had given a job in the factory's plating room to Ursillo, who was free on bail.

Ursillo sidled up to Buehne and patted him on the back.

"What's the matter, Bob?" he said with a grin. "Do you have a problem with the law?"

Buehne told him that he had.

"Get used to it," Ursillo said. "Those guys will be on you forever."

Tomorrow: The culmination of a life as a police informant.

Back to: RI News Printer-Friendly Version Read/Post to our Bulletin Board on this topic