Cullotta: The Life of a Chicago Criminal, Las Vegas Mobster and Government Witness by Dennis N. Griffin Page B
Authors: Dennis N. Griffin
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split up.”
Marie agreed. She left with her clothes—armloads of garments and furs—and the $10,000 diamond ring Frank had bought her. As she walked out the door, he wondered why he hadn’t listened to his mother.
•
•
•
Being a rising star in the crime arena brought Frank into the law-enforcement spotlight. He recalls that the notoriety was not only an annoyance, it carried a financial cost as well. At least once a week he was pulled over and questioned. He found that nine out of ten times, he could bribe the cops. He believed that in most cases, a little extra cash was all they were looking for anyway. Usually fifty or a hundred bucks would work. Sometimes, if he was short on money or just didn’t feel like paying, he’d give them the dodge. But then he’d have to keep out of that jurisdiction for a few days and the cops wanted even more money the next time they caught up with him. Sometimes he was locked up overnight; other times they kept him for forty-eight hours.
During one arrest Frank was in a particularly defiant mood and refused to let them take his mug shot. He told the officers to go fuck themselves, pulled down his pants, and mooned them. Reinforcements were called in and Frank was handcuffed and punched around.
“Listen you prick, you’re going to the lockup until we get that picture,” one of the cops said. “If we have to frame you for something to keep you locked up, we’ll do it.”
They got their mug shot.
Some of the cops, especially the detectives, liked to play hardball. Frank always figured the ones who gave him a beating while they had him cuffed were cowards. He had little respect for them and challenged them to take off the cuffs to see how tough they were. He felt the ones who didn’t rough you up were trouble. They were the ones who got you by using their minds, not their fists. They were the ones who would build a case against you that could put you away for years. They were the really dangerous ones.
•
•
•
In the late 1960s, the Chicago Police Department created a special unit to confront the crews of professional burglars and robbers overrunning the streets of Chicago at that time. The new outfit was called the Criminal Intelligence Unit, or CIU. An officer named Bill Hanhardt was in charge of it; Jack Hinchy was second in command. These cops were sharp, and if Frank hadn’t known better, he’d have thought they were burglars or robbers themselves. They thought just like he did and continuously nipped at his heels.
Hanhardt was a quiet guy who did his talking with his eyes. Frank was in his office a few times and Hanhardt asked him questions about things he’d done that nobody knew about. But the head of the CIU knew. Frank had no idea how he knew, but he did. He found it kind of scary that Hanhardt had so many things figured out.
On the other hand, Hinchy, in Frank’s opinion, was a maniac. He used to threaten Frank by saying, “Cullotta, some day I’m going to catch you walking out of a joint you just robbed. I’m going to be right there. And I’m going to blow your fucking head off.”
Frank just smirked at him, which made him all the madder. Frank, his car-bombing friend Bushelhead, and another guy named Vince got word from Frank’s dispatcher friend about a truckload of televisions and made the snatch. They drove the rig to a big junkyard the gang used. The plan was to leave the rig and come back in a couple of days to move the load. They didn’t know it then, but the CIU was on them the whole time. When they returned, the cops were waiting.
Frank was up on the trailer when the yelling started. Then he heard gunshots. He tried to jump to a fence behind the trailer, but didn’t make it. A cop ordered him to the ground with his hands on top of his head. Then he hollered to the other cops, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I’m back here and I’ve got Cullotta on the ground. Don’t shoot!”
Frank doesn’t know if it was
Marie agreed. She left with her clothes—armloads of garments and furs—and the $10,000 diamond ring Frank had bought her. As she walked out the door, he wondered why he hadn’t listened to his mother.
•
•
•
Being a rising star in the crime arena brought Frank into the law-enforcement spotlight. He recalls that the notoriety was not only an annoyance, it carried a financial cost as well. At least once a week he was pulled over and questioned. He found that nine out of ten times, he could bribe the cops. He believed that in most cases, a little extra cash was all they were looking for anyway. Usually fifty or a hundred bucks would work. Sometimes, if he was short on money or just didn’t feel like paying, he’d give them the dodge. But then he’d have to keep out of that jurisdiction for a few days and the cops wanted even more money the next time they caught up with him. Sometimes he was locked up overnight; other times they kept him for forty-eight hours.
During one arrest Frank was in a particularly defiant mood and refused to let them take his mug shot. He told the officers to go fuck themselves, pulled down his pants, and mooned them. Reinforcements were called in and Frank was handcuffed and punched around.
“Listen you prick, you’re going to the lockup until we get that picture,” one of the cops said. “If we have to frame you for something to keep you locked up, we’ll do it.”
They got their mug shot.
Some of the cops, especially the detectives, liked to play hardball. Frank always figured the ones who gave him a beating while they had him cuffed were cowards. He had little respect for them and challenged them to take off the cuffs to see how tough they were. He felt the ones who didn’t rough you up were trouble. They were the ones who got you by using their minds, not their fists. They were the ones who would build a case against you that could put you away for years. They were the really dangerous ones.
•
•
•
In the late 1960s, the Chicago Police Department created a special unit to confront the crews of professional burglars and robbers overrunning the streets of Chicago at that time. The new outfit was called the Criminal Intelligence Unit, or CIU. An officer named Bill Hanhardt was in charge of it; Jack Hinchy was second in command. These cops were sharp, and if Frank hadn’t known better, he’d have thought they were burglars or robbers themselves. They thought just like he did and continuously nipped at his heels.
Hanhardt was a quiet guy who did his talking with his eyes. Frank was in his office a few times and Hanhardt asked him questions about things he’d done that nobody knew about. But the head of the CIU knew. Frank had no idea how he knew, but he did. He found it kind of scary that Hanhardt had so many things figured out.
On the other hand, Hinchy, in Frank’s opinion, was a maniac. He used to threaten Frank by saying, “Cullotta, some day I’m going to catch you walking out of a joint you just robbed. I’m going to be right there. And I’m going to blow your fucking head off.”
Frank just smirked at him, which made him all the madder. Frank, his car-bombing friend Bushelhead, and another guy named Vince got word from Frank’s dispatcher friend about a truckload of televisions and made the snatch. They drove the rig to a big junkyard the gang used. The plan was to leave the rig and come back in a couple of days to move the load. They didn’t know it then, but the CIU was on them the whole time. When they returned, the cops were waiting.
Frank was up on the trailer when the yelling started. Then he heard gunshots. He tried to jump to a fence behind the trailer, but didn’t make it. A cop ordered him to the ground with his hands on top of his head. Then he hollered to the other cops, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I’m back here and I’ve got Cullotta on the ground. Don’t shoot!”
Frank doesn’t know if it was
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