Same place, different time

By Kevin Cullen, Globe Columnist  |  July 16, 2007

Before Jerry Angiulo, erstwhile leader of the local chapter of La Cosa Nostra, gets out of prison in September and makes a nostalgic return to the North End, somebody needs to prepare him for reentry.

Jerry hasn't changed that much in the 24 years he's been a guest of the nation. He's still as ornery and profane as when the feds lugged him out of Francesco's, before he got to eat his pork chops or brothers Frankie and Mikey got a chance to sample their linguini with clam sauce. He still thinks he was framed by the government. At 88, Jerry's more retired than reformed.

But if Jerry hasn't changed much, the North End he left behind has.

"This isn't an Italian neighborhood anymore," Donna Beatrice, one of the Angiulos' Prince Street neighbors, says glumly. "It's a yuppie neighborhood."

Beatrice says what census data show. When Jerry and his brothers were arrested, about 70 percent of the people who lived on the blocks surrounding Prince Street were either Italian-born or of Italian descent. Today, that figure is below 30 percent. In that same period, the median income in those households has more than quadrupled, to more than $50,000, about 25 percent higher than the city average.

"We've got nannies walking kids, we've got dog walkers walking dogs. Dog walkers!" Beatrice says. "There used to be little Italian family groceries on all the corners. Now there's these high-end markets selling stuff none of the old-timers can afford."

Hanover Street, the North End's spine, and the streets that run off it retain an Old World veneer, with cafes where old men speak Italian and peruse copies of La Repubblica. The number of restaurants has doubled since the 1980s, but the natives can't afford them. On the side streets, copies of the Wall Street Journal sit in front of condos that Financial District traders call home. Cafes that once boasted about their variety of grappa now entice customers with "Free Wi-Fi" decals.

The European, the sprawling restaurant that could accommodate First Communion parties, is now a CVS. Circle Pizza, which had the best slices on Hanover, became a KaBloom, and that just closed. Bella Napoli, a good restaurant run by one of Jerry's soldiers, Johnny Cincotti, didn't survive Johnny C's stretch in the can. It's a beauty salon now.

If he can get past all that, Jerry will find some comfort on Prince Street. Beatrice, who feeds the pigeons from her second-floor window, will greet him warmly. So will 83-year-old Leo Rizzuto, who sits in a chair on the sidewalk most days.

And when Jerry climbs the stairs to The Office, the old Mafia headquarters at 98 Prince St., he will find that his 86-year-old little brother, Frankie, has purposely not changed a thing. It is a shrine to another time, another place, that thing of theirs. The cheesy bullfighter painting is still on the front room wall. The old, white fridge is in the corner. And there's a commercial oven in the kitchen, which will cook the pork chops Jerry never got a chance to eat at the now-defunct Francesco's.

When the Angiulos ran the mob, bookies dropped off $45,000 a day. Frankie counted it. Now the biggest bookie in the state is the state. When Frankie got out of prison seven years ago, he moved into The Office. Despite drooling developers and bad karma -- FBI bugs planted in The Office allowed the Angiulos to talk themselves into prison -- Frankie won't sell.

The Office is part museum, part mausoleum, Frankie as curator, sitting there every day in a black leather chair, reading the newspaper, watching the television, waiting for the boss, his big brother Jerry, to come home.

I knocked on the weathered door the other day, to congratulate Frankie for his brotherly devotion, his sense of tradition, his standing up for the old North End. Frankie, a newspaper in one hand, regarded me briefly, with utter contempt, before slamming the door in my face.

Who says omerta is dead?

Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at cullen@globe.com.