Elizabeth Flynn

Special to the Indianapolis Star

It’s not every day you meet a New York mobster in Panera.

It was just your normal Saturday, or so we thought. Debbie, Colleen and I had gone through the motions of working out at LA Fitness then bolted across the street for our weekly bagel.

The regulars were always in there — Sherman, Pat and Dorothy. And Mat. Eventually we would know them all and become regulars ourselves. The day we first met Mat, we were simply waiting in line to order when he came up to us, “Hey, Good Morning. How yous guys doing today?”

The three of us grabbed our bagels and sat down near Sherman, Pat and Dorothy. Mat was stationed at his own table covered in books and notepads, pill bottles and cigarettes and a sweating glass of iced tea.

Sherman, in his mid-seventies around that time, shared his stories about growing up black in Ohio in the late 30s and 40s and how his teacher once told him that she wasn't really going to waste time on him because he was just a (racial slur.) Mat was up and down from his table, making his rounds, talking to everyone.

Dorothy and Pat, like us, usually just sat and listened to Sherman and Mat tell their tales.

The next week at LA Fitness, the girls and I had to slow down our treadmills in order to talk to each other about this odd guy we’d met the week before and how he didn't really fit into the landscape.

Obviously Italian with his chiseled face, squared chin and aquiline nose, though that wasn't really it...I knew a lot of Italians in Indy, but his accent belied a Midwestern upbringing. Rye? Brooklyn? Long Island? Something like that. And he was hyper nervous. Our curiosities were piqued. He was intriguing and we knew something was up with him. What was he doing in Indianapolis of all places? In Panera? He was a square peg.

So we finally gave up the workout, put the arm weights down mid-pump and said, “Let’s get over there and see if he’s back today.”

Once at Panera, we were settling in at a table with our double toasted blueberry bagels, extra butter, when Mat came over. I said, “So uh, Mat, you’re not from around here are you? What’s the deal?”

“Actually, no. I grew up on Long Island.”

He then told us he was from a large Italian family of seven siblings and had formerly been in the music business in New York. He even received occasional residual payments for his work in the industry. He never stood and talked very long; he needed to go outside to smoke about every half hour. Through the window we watched him puffing away, smoke curling around him while he paced and talked on his cell. He never stopped moving whether he was inside or out.

Mobster in Our Midst:He ratted out his dad – then disappeared to Indianapolis

Weeks and months went by, every Saturday all of us getting together at Panera. My husband called the whole group of us “The Goonie Squad” in an affectionate way, of course. Occasionally we met for dinner, too, and one Christmas some of us went to Sherman’s house to bring him a Christmas tree because he never put one up.

Finally, one day Mat began talking about his father. He said his father was in prison in New York for racketeering. I had no idea what racketeering was. He said his father was in his 90s and that he was, in fact, the oldest prisoner ever to be incarcerated in the United States.

Then poof! He’d gone for a smoke and that’s all we got out of him that day. But I got on my computer that afternoon and looked up “the oldest prisoner...racketeering...New York.”

And there it was. Our friend Mat was the son of John “Sonny” Fanzese, a Mafia under boss.

‘Sonny’ Franzese was a notorious career criminal associated with the Colombo crime family, one of the big five. My research revealed that Sonny reportedly murdered 50-60 people in his heyday and that he disposed of them in ways too gruesome to even describe here.

And then this: He was in prison at that particular time because his son, namesake John Franzese Jr. — the friend we knew as Mat — turned state’s evidence against him a few years earlier. He was serving an eight-year sentence, which would mean he’d be out of prison at age 100.

When I told the girls who Mat really was, their jaws dropped, their eyes popped. They were speechless — and that’s a rare thing. The next Saturday we didn’t even go to LA Fitness. We went directly to Panera and when we saw Mat, we said, “Sit down right now and talk.”

Who is:John 'Sonny' Franzese and the Colombo crime family?

It turned out that Mat, or, in fact, John, was in witness protection for his role outing his father and some other bad elements in the mob. He said he had good reason to do so and that the FBI took care of him by sending him to Indianapolis for safety. Sonny threatened him after the trial ended, vowing to have him murdered. Mat said he was happy to be in Indianapolis and not just because it was hundreds of miles away from the mob he testified against.

“I love Indianapolis,” he told us. “This is my home now.”

I said, “Mat, it said your dad murdered like 60 people back in the day. I mean, what the...?”

“Elizabeth,” he said. “Don’t believe that stuff you read on the Internet. My dad only killed about 40 people.”

He wasn’t trying to be funny.

But what was puzzling was that Mat said he loved his dad. He said it over and over. I said, “Mat, your dad was a murderer.” He said, “He was a great dad.”

I’m not going to lie. At first I worried my friendship with Mat might end in me sleeping with the fishes. But he assured me no one was looking for him and I knew he’d keep me out of harm’s way.

Over the years, Mat told me about his family. His grandfather they called Tutti the Lion who was an early mobster back in Naples, Italy before there even was a Mafia. His crazy Uncle Onufrio who once tied up a guy in his basement and blowtorched his hands and feet because the guy owed him money. His brother Michael, dubbed the “Yuppie Don” who made millions for the mob by bootlegging gasoline and then became a born-again Christian.

Occasionally I chimed in with stories of my own, sharing with Mat, “Hey! We had a grand baby last month!” And then another time, “Guess what? We had another grand baby!”

My stories weren’t really of the same caliber.

I learned of Mat’s spiritual passion and his strong interest in studying to become a Cistercian monk. He told me about his cocaine and alcohol addiction and how he almost died on the streets of New York after 10 years homeless, drunk and high. How there had been times when he wished his cousin hadn’t found him, near death on Lorimar Street, and scraped him off the ground. And how grateful he had become.

The first time I went over to Mat’s house, I was pretty sure my car would be gone when I came out. He lived in a converted garage behind Courage House, a sober-living home he managed. Drug dealers lived across the street.

The recovering addicts lived in the main house that was tumbledown with peeling paint and a kicked in screen door. A junkyard dog next door ran up and down the fence line snapping and snarling and salivating endlessly. And the yard was strewn with all manner of debris.

But in back by Mat’s place was a patch of flowers tenderly cared for, and his cherished cat Indy was waiting for him by the door. I thought about where he grew up on Shrub Hollow Lane in a tony Long Island town of lavish homes and lush lawns. His had a putting green and a pool with a changing cabana in the back yard. He didn’t seem to miss any of it.

Mat told me his identity had been revealed on social media and the FBI needed to get him out of Indianapolis.

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“Elizabeth,” he told me. “I’m not leaving Indianapolis. I’d rather get out of witness protection than leave here.”

Leaving the program would be dangerous. It also afforded Mat an important opportunity. The the FBI banned him from traveling to most states, New York being one of them. But leaving the program meant he could now go back home. He could see his dad.

When his mother died, he was not permitted to go to her funeral.

“My dad will be 102 this year and there’s no more time left,” he told me. “I know I hurt him by talking to the feds, but I also know without a shadow of a doubt he has forgiven me.”

So just a few weeks ago, he drove to New York to see his dad one last time. He spent an hour and forty minutes with him and drove back the next day. No one knew he was there. On his way home to Indiana, Mat was at peace.

“It was wonderful,” he told me. “He said he loved me.”

My girlfriends and I don’t go to Panera anymore; we prefer Einstein’s. We don’t work out anymore either because we just aren’t seeing any results. In fact, the Goonie Squad has broken up. Sherman passed away. Dorothy moved. Pat goes to Einstein’s too, now.

But Mat can still be found there studying the saints and talking to the customers and, every half hour, smoking and pacing outside. On nice days, you’ll see him sitting on the grassy knoll out front just enjoying another day being sober in his beloved hometown. Wave to him if you’re passing by. He’ll for sure wave back.

Elizabeth Flynn is a freelance writer.