A Mobster's Account of a Murder

An aging, former mafia associate/hit man tells us in his own words how he killed a man one night. This wasn't a contract, nor was it done on orders or in self-defense. The bottom line: a thieving con artist finally scammed the wrong guy, and got two in the head for it. A common situation that often arises in Gangland.

I get this story, written in the mobster's own words, via Shaun Attwood, a Brit who came to Arizona to seek his fortune and ended up getting busted for selling drugs. He spent a couple of years in one of America’s toughest jails—Sheriff Joe Arpaio's Maricopa County jailhouse, which receives a lot of media attention on a regular basis.

I have already written about Shaun, when I reviewed his book, Hard Time, which is based on his experiences in Maricopa County jail with mobsters, Aryan skinheads, bikers, transvestites and assorted other colorful criminals he met. The book will debut in the U.S. in May; previously, he detailed his experiences in jail on his blog, Jon's Jail Journal.

I'd been reading his blog for years. One of the highlights was his deep friendship with the mafia associate mentioned above -- his nickname was TwoTonys, and Shaun met him in prison after he was sentenced. TwoTonys was elderly and sick when Shaun met him, and actually died last year.Shaun wrote some great stories about this guy, but he also gave TwoTonys the pen, so to speak, and the old gangster wrote some pretty compelling stuff, including a story of how he murdered a man, as mentioned above. He was in his prime when this story takes place.

Here is the brief bio Shaun wrote about TwoTonys:

Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate who was serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Left bodies from Tucson to Alaska, but claimed all his victims "had it coming." Had his own brand of philosophy. Two Tonys died from liver cancer on September 8th, 2010.

Here, in his own words, is TwoTonys' account (with Shaun's permission):
07 Jul 08

The Whacking of Charlie (by Two Tonys Part 1)
This whack is on the record and I’m doing time for it as I write. When it went to court, I was my own barrister, as you Englishmen of the Old Bailey put it. If a motherfucker ever asked for it, this asshole did. I even told the jury in my closing argument this guy should have made a sign and pasted it to his forehead reading: KILL ME. I wish we had the transcripts of that trial. It was not only fun, it was funny. I didn’t give a flying fuck if they voted guilty or not guilty, I was already serving too much time to outlive, so I just played and had fun and ran up the bill for the taxpayers.

I come down from Alaska back in the day. Me and my Tucson partner Louie had lost our coke connection, a Mexican guy named Carlos, who got busted by the Feds and had to go to the joint. So I had a lot of heat on me up in Alaska at the time. Not so much from the cops as from a rival clique up there from Nevada who had lost one of their heavy hitters – but that’s another chapter for the book.

So I get to Tucson. Louie’s Mom and Dad are as senile as hell. They own a couple of big hotels in Tucson. Louie runs one. They run the other. So the one Louie runs is a mix of Hotel California and the Bates Motel. It’s got dope cliques out of the ass, living in it and doing deals out of it. Not the actual transfers, but the business end of it. So I’m staying there. I’m carte blanche – no bill. This Louie only rents out the first three floors. The fourth floor is for just a few of the regulars. There’s about twenty rooms on the fourth floor. Louie’s got his aunt who works in the dining room and coffee shop on the other end of the floor. He’s got a lush named Bobby who runs a car leasing company in a room.

Charlie’s staying on the fourth floor. He’s a dope dealer and a half-ass pilot for a drug operation in and out of Mexico. He worked for a Mexican national from Culiacan named Berego, who was staying at the hotel on the ground floor. Berego didn’t rate fourth floor with his buddy Charlie.

Anyway, I’m lying out by the pool one morning taking the sun, when Louie pages me to the lobby, so I go up. He meets me and we go up to the poker room where we run a few games a week. There sits this asshole Charlie with Berego who he says doesn’t speak any English (which I still think was bullshit).
So Louie opens up with, “Hey, Two Tonys, this is Charlie’s guy, Berego. He claims he can go south and be back in three days with as much high quality coke as we want, but we got to pay up-front.”
Now, I’m the bull with the horns (short for I got the cash). In fact, I had just lent Louie $10,000 to make his payroll. But I ain’t no lame. My rule was: no front – dollars and dope on the table.

So Charlie starts this sales pitch about how big Berego is in Sinaloa. How he’s connected to the big cartel. Then Louie jumps in trying to put the close on me because he wants coke. So I decide I’ll test this asshole out. We come to an agreement with Charlie as interpreter. I give Berego $5000. He leaves tonight, which was Thursday, and Sunday he’s back with ½ LB of blow. If it’s good and all goes well, we’ll place a bigger order next time. It’s a test run to see how everybody acts.
Now, I look at Charlie and say in the most serious tone I can, “Charlie, let me understand you are standing good for this guy if I do de bizznezz.”
He replied, “I have no doubts. He’s good. I’ve known him for years.”
I say, “OK. Let’s roll on it.” I give the asshole $5000 from my stash in Louie’s safe, expecting to see him back Sunday night with ½ LB of coke. Not a lot of dollars for me in those days, plus we needed a good connect to restart our Alaska thing. Of course I had a little heat in Alaska, as I said. I had just put a tough guy to sleep up there.
So Berego leaves for Mexico. 60 miles to the border, then around a 1000 to Culiacan.

Now Friday, Saturday, Sunday, the hotel is jumping. Broads galore. Weed deals being worked out by the pool. It was wild. Tucson was wild. It’s 1977. Coke and weed are kings.
So I’m staying in Room 417. Charlie is in 415, but we don’t chum together. I was way too slick to hang with him. Anyway, him and his little clique have a watermelon and vodka party by the pool on Sunday. I stop by.
He says to me, “Hey, I got a little blow. Let’s go up to my room and have a toot.”
So me and him and a couple of his pals go up to Room 415.
Well, when we go in, I notice a shotgun in the corner and a pistol on the nightstand.
I say, “What you got there?” So he shows me his arsenal. He’s got a machete along with a sleeping bag, a canteen of water, a .44 Bulldog pistol next to his bed and an AR-15 fully auto.

He’s doing blow and his tongue is wagging trying to impress me in front of his weedhead crew. So I give him a few ooh’s and ahh’s and no-shits as he explains that if they have to land and run from the D.E.A. they can survive in the desert. Real fucking cowboy shit. I keep waiting for John Wayne to come in wearing leather chaps for a line of blow.
So I ask this Charlie to step out in the hall with me, away from his lames. We do.
I whisper to him, “Hey, your guy will be in tonight. Have you heard from him yet?”

Now I know we have all been in a situation, whether buying a car or even a washing machine, where the seller was saying things like “Oh this is great. Don’t worry. Just call me,” but immediately after the sale, you pick up a tone in the guy’s voice or his actions, and a little voice inside you tells you that you fucked up. Well that’s what I picked up from Charlie. But I tried my best to shake it off.

So Sunday night comes. I stay at the hotel bar hanging out with Louie. No Berego. No Charlie, he’s out somewhere.
So on Monday morning I get up and find no Charlie in his room. I go down to Berego’s room (he paid by the month). No Berego. About noon, Charlie shows up. I’m by the pool as he walks by. I stop him.
“Where’s our guy?”
He says, “No sweat. He’ll show. No problem”
So I hang out all day. But I still got that gut feeling. On Monday night I call my buddy, Sal, and we arrange to meet at a club. I tell Louie I’ll be checking in to see when Berego shows up. And as I proceed to have a few drinks with Sal and a few grams of bullshit coke I’m getting fucked up – especially when I keep calling Louie and he tells me no show on Berego

The Whacking of Charlie (by Two Tonys Part 2)
Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Left bodies from Tucson to Alaska, but claims all his victims "had it coming."
Part 1 left off with Two Tonys getting angry at Charlie after Berego (a connection Charlie had vouched for) took Two Tonys’ money to Mexico and didn’t return with the agreed upon cocaine.

And as I proceed to have a few drinks with Sal and a few grams of bullshit coke I’m getting fucked up – especially when I keep calling Louie and he tells me no show on Berego, and Charlie’s not around.

So the bars close at 1am. Me and Sal go for coffee. Then he drops me off at my rental car (it’s a comp from the lame drunk on the fourth floor). I go back to the hotel. Louie is up in his suite. He’s got some personal blow. So I ask if Charlie is back.
He says, “Yeah, he’s in his room down the hall.” He heard him come in.

Now we got guns galore. I always pack a lightweight .38 snub nose 5 shot in an inside holster in the small of my back. Real James Bond shit. It’s hard to see but easy to get too. And it’s real secure. When I went clubbing, I got up and boogied. Yeah, I was a disco duck. If you wanted broads, you couldn’t just sit around and talk out of the side of your neck, you needed to dance and the blow was always nice. A lot of coke whores around.

So I go down to Charlie’s room, knock on his door and he opens it. He’d been asleep. It showed on his face. He has on no shirt and a pair of cut-off shorts.
So I go in and tell him, “We’ve got to talk.”
He lies back on his bed.
I sit in a chair across from his bed.
The only light is in the bathroom. The door is open so it’s shining in.
So I get right to it. I say to this cowboy, “Where’s Berego?”
Now Charlie is grumpy. He’s been partying all weekend with probably my money or half of it. Plus he had just gotten to sleep and here I come waking him up at 3am with 20 questions.
So he actually replies in a shitty tone, “I don’t know.”
So I say to him, “Where’s my dope?”
Again, he says, “I don’t know. He’ll be here.”
So I jump and as I do I’m reaching for my .38 out of my back.
He’s reaching for his Bulldog in the nightstand.
I get to him. I put the .38 in his mouth and say to him, “You, motherfucker.” As I pull the trigger I feel a fine spray of like wet sand shoot up in my face. I do it again. Two in the mouth. The wet sand spray was this assholes teeth and blood. Two is good. I pull out and leave.

I figured the drunk down the hall or Louie’s aunt heard the shots. So I go out in the hall. Louie’s head is looking out of his room.
I say, “Get back inside. I’ll be back.” So I go down the stairs not the lift. Go to my car. Shoot over to Sal’s house. He was still up. Coke does that. I take a shower. Change clothes. We wear the same size. We put the bloody clothes in a bag, take it to the desert and throw it. I stash my .38 under a cactus that I can retrieve due to the milepost marker and I go to a pay phone and call Louie.
He says, “Nobody heard a thing.”
So I say, “Good. I’ll be back down.” I go back to the hotel. It’s early dawn.

I take Louie’s master key and go back in Charlie’s room, now the asshole’s death chamber. I wipe down the arms on the chair, door handles, etc. He’s sitting up lying in his bed but he’s a fucking mess. Lot’s of blood has come out of his lying mouth onto his chest. I take nothing. I leave his guns, his knives. I don’t even look for money.

This wasn’t about money or dope. This was about judging who you’re fucking with. A human life is worth more than $5000, but since then I’ve seen guys killed for $50. So it’s not about money. That coke has a way of making you think you’re all that and a roll of print toilet paper.

Bottom line, the maid finds him two days later. Cops come, investigate, and want to interview me. I refuse. My attorney’s a real fine crook himself, who finally commits suicide, but that’s another story. He tells the cops I don’t want to discuss anything with them. Arrest me or kick rocks.
Berego never comes back.
Charlie’s case goes unsolved for 17 years, because nobody gives a fuck about dope dealers.


  1. Love it Ed! Would love to read this guy's blog and book. I can tell there is a lot of interesting "my kinda" stories in it. Do you know the name of the book?

  2. Read my newest post -- Shaun's blog Jon's Jail Journal has more on Two Tony's but the book is "Hard Time."


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