12. The contract
Copyright © 2000 by Dan E. Moldea
On November 6, 1976, a Teamster official with whom I had become friendly, called me at home. He said that he had just attended a meeting of Teamsters in Pittsburgh during which there had been a discussion about having me killed.
Immediately upon hearing that, I switched on my tape recorder.
"What's the talk?" I asked.
"I'm telling you," he replied, "you better watch it!"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm just telling you! You better watch your goddamn step, or you're going to get yourself killed!"
"Why's that?"
"I'm telling you."
Laughing, I continued, "Why? Who said something now?"
Getting angry with me for not taking him seriously, the Teamster said, "You think it's a joke!"
Getting serious, I responded, "No, I don't think it's a joke at all! Why? What's going on?"
"Hell, Dan, some time ago, I just happened to be in an office, and I pick this thing up. And, man, they have the history on you, your family, and everybody else!"
"What's going on? Tell me what the story is! How bad is it?"
"You'd better cool it up in that area!"
"Up in what area?"
"Up in the Michigan area! You've stepped on some pretty big toes!"
"Like who?" I asked. "McMaster?"
"Like Rolland McMaster!"
"Level with me! What's the story?"
"The only thing I can tell you is: you better cool it, you know? I can't tell you to cool it. Just watch your step, because you've been pretty fair with me."
"Yeah, that's right. And that's why I'm asking. Tell me what's going on . . . "
"You better watch them up in the Detroit area! You better watch the Teamsters! I'm telling you. . . . Oh, man, they got a biography on you that's ten-miles long! They know every step you make!"
Now, really concerned, I pleaded, "Give me the whole story. . . . Come on, level with me! Tell me what's happening. . . . "
"I'm telling you one guy you should watch out for is ol' Mac!"
"McMaster? He and I get along!"
"You and him get along? Don't you better believe that!"
"I talked to him about three or four months ago. We got along just fine. . . . Were you up in Michigan when you heard this stuff?"
"Oh, no. I heard it through Pittsburgh. . . . "
"Well, I know that people were pretty upset with me, because of the grand jury that my work started."
"On McQuaide?"
"McQuaide [and] Interstate. . . . Well, tell me about this thing with me."
"I saw a biography on you, complete, you know?"
"A biography?" I asked.
"I mean, complete: Your life, your family, where they work, so forth, everything!"
"Why? Do they do this for all reporters?"
"Do they do it? You're the only guy I've ever heard! Your name was mentioned in a few conversations!"
"And there's no way that anyone could know about you and me! There is no way!" I assured him.
"No! They don't know!"
"There is no way, because I've never mentioned your name! I don't even keep your telephone number listed anyplace where anybody can find it! . . . [How has] it been discussed?"
"I didn't want to get involved in the conversation when I overheard it, you know? . . . The only thing I'm saying is stay clear of some them, especially guys that are really loyal to Mac."
The source assured me that I was the target, not my father. Whatever threat had been leveled against Dad was clearly a means to get to me.
Later, I had a second telephone conversation with my source and then a face-to-face meeting with him. Finally, he alleged that he had heard that a mere $1,500 had passed hands to kill me.
Actually, at first, I was more embarrassed about the price on my head than fearful about the threat to end my life.
* * *
After the first conversation, I went to my key sources at the FBI and played the tape for them.
When the recording ended, I turned and said to them, "There, what do you think of that?"
"Jesus Christ!" One of the FBI agents said. "What are you going to do, Dan?"
"What do you mean: what am I going to do? What are you going to do?" I asked.
"Dan, no crime's been committed yet."
"Guys, in order for a crime to be committed, I've got to be dead! And that's why I've come to you!"
One of them replied, "All we can do is advise you to move to a neutral city."
"A neutral city?" I asked. "What's a neutral city?"
"A neutral city is a city that's not controlled by any particular organized-crime group."
"Like where?"
"Like Miami. Like Las Vegas. Like Washington, D.C. All of the crime families are in those cities. No one group controls any of them."
After this conversation with these federal agents, I telephoned both the person who had allegedly passed the $1,500, as well as the person who had allegedly accepted the money. I knew both of them from my previous work.
Although both adamantly denied any plans to have me killed, I angrily told each of them: "If any member of my family is harmed--if I'm harmed in any way, if I get struck by lightning--you are going to be held responsible for it! I have a tape, which shows that you guys discussed killing me. And the feds now have this tape."
I didn't know whether these calls would do any good, but I did feel better after making them. Regardless of their impact, I decided that it might finally be time to move out of the Midwest.
Next stop: Washington, D.C., a neutral city.