George (Sonny) Logan at age 12 had mastered the exchange rate of heroin like his friends on the street. Pretty soon he had turned his back on his parents an grandparents and their lives of work-a-day drudgery. He became a thief and dope dealer and had caught a felony beef and a string of misdemeanors. At age 36, he figured he had kicked heroin 16 or 17 times.
Sonnt met Ida in 1966, after her main man got locked up. He always had dope and fancy clothes, and she began dealing with him and then sleeping with him. They were married while in a federal drug rehabilitation program at Lexington Ky.
Sonny was looking for a steady job, even if it was working for criminals, and the way the men in the warehouse talked, he might get one. So on Feb. 17 he went back to P.F.F., Inc. (Police-F.B.I. Fencing, Incognito).
Pat was waiting for him. He wanted much more detail about the killing of Gilbert Parsons. "The guy you shot," Pat said. "The boss likes it. Tell me about the piece - what did you do with it?"
Sonny saw he was in trouble. Having lied before, now he made up something else. "I threw it in the east branch of the Potomac." He described in detail the two guns he said he had used and said he shot Parsons six or seven times. The lawmen had read the police homicide report and it told pretty much the same facts.
Listening to Logan, some of them were sure he was the killer. He even looked the part to them, with his close-cropped hair and menacing eyes, hunkered down in his turtleneck and leather jacket. Angelo, who had spent two years on the homicide squad, studied Logan's demeanor adn concluded that he was guilty. Sonny's forearms tensed and his voice dropped when he told about Parsons.
Mike Franzino chambered a shell into his shotgun when Logan walked into P.F.F. Angelo did the same with his Mossberg pump-action shotgun. The guns were normally loaded with two shells of Four-Shot, a special police load designed for wider spread and impact; and three shells of double-ought buckshot, 32 pellets per shell. Either load could blast through the quarter-inch plywood false wall and blow apart the man standing in front of Pat.
Even though the shooting of a dope dealer like Gilbert Parsons cheered Angelo, he badly wanted George Logan. The way he figured it, if Logan had killed once, he could kill again and this time Angelo or some other lawman might be the dead man.
Angelo's frustration sharpened when he allowed himself to remember that the murderer he most wanted behind bars was right now free. This man had stomped an old man to death to get his Bulova watch and the money in his pants. Angelo had cracked the suspect into confession, but a judge barred rhe confession from evidence, ruling that it had been given under duress. The defendant was able to plead guilty to second degree murder instead of getting the first-degree-murder conviction - and probably life imprisonment - that Angelo was sure he deserved. The murderer had been released recently. Seibert hoped he would run into him one day and that the man would try something. He'd nab him on the spot.
Now here was Logan, boasting of killing a man, Angelo fingered the trigger of his shotgun. Let him try something, he thought. Please try something. This time, there would be no plea.
George Logan wasn't the first to agree to be a hit man for P.F.F. Mike Franzino, in the running notes he took at the backup counter for the FBI, had recorded some 30 who said they would kill for P.F.F. Franzino was generally surprised that people volunteered to murder. Some of them, he believed, would have gone out of kill for fifty bucks. Mike had seen criminals portray themselves one way to judges and police; he was surprised to see how different and bold they were when they thought they were among friends. The others in P.F.F. however - Angelo Lasagna, Tony Bonano, pasquale Larocca, Bohanna La Fontaine, and Raco Rigatone - hd worked undercover on the streets of Washington, and nothing surprised them. Tony Bonano, for instance, twice had had men point a gun at his head and pull the trigger only to have the gun misfire.
When George Logan confessed to an unsolved murder to prove his qualifications, the men behind the false walls itched to make the collar; instead they had to watch him walk away.
George was having his way now, the men in the warehouse told themselves. But in 11 days it would be their turn. "You be sure to come to the party," Pat handed him a P.F.F. card and wrote in ink "8:15 p.m., Saturday, February 28." They planned for George to be one of the first to arrive.
Audrey Clipper, mother of George (Sonny) Logan, arrived at her Northeast home after a long day as a domestic worker. "Where's Sonny?" she asked. Her mother reported that George had left a few minutes earlier. "Sonny got himself all perfumed and dressed up," she said. "He said he was goin' to a party!"
A party? That was strange. Sonny never went to parties before - he didn't like groups. This was troubling. Mrs. Clipper had raised George, her only child, and a number of foster children, and George was the only one who had given her grief. Although he was 36, he spent many nights at home, and she tried as best she could to keep track of him. Mrs. Clipper got to thinking. She had received a couple of strange phone calls in the last week from a Mr. Pat Pasquale, as she recalled the name, and he had mentioned something about a party. The conversations had been brief and nasty; she ran over them again.
He had asked if Ida were there. "Where is she?" he demanded.
"She don't live here," Mrs. Clipper said.
"You're lying. She does live there. Who are you?"
"It's none of your business who I am. What do you want with Ida anyway?"
"She owes me money."
"Are you a bill collector?"
"No . . . I want my money."
"If you crazy enough to give her your money, you find her - and don't you call on my phone with your nasty mouth." Mrs. Clipper said, slamming down the phone.
A few days later, he had called back.
"Didn't I tell you not to call?" she had said.
"I want Ida."
"Ida don't live here."
"You're a liar," he said.
"I'm Audrey Clipper, and she doesn't live here," she said, preparing to hang up.
"Wait a minute, wait a minute, we're havin' a party and she's supposed to come and bring girls," Mr. Pat Pasquale had said.
"You'll have to call her - don't you call here with your nasty mouth."
"Don't you tell me what to do," she recalled him saying, and he hung up on her.
Had Sonny gone off to meet with that man. Mrs. Clipper wondered anxiously, Ida might know, so now she called her son's wife for help. It was shortly after 8 p.m. "He's gone to meet the big boss. He comin' from New York," Ida said.
Mrs. Clipper could barely restrain herself. "Oh, so Mister Mouth is goin' to the party to see the big man, hul." She regarded her son as a big talker and a big liar; there was no telling what he was getting iato.
Ida said she wasn't going to accompany George to the party. "The girls have to put on a show. They want you to turn tricks and everything. I'm not gonna put on on show - besides, there's no money jumpin' off; I'm not goin'."
As the bewildered Mrs. Clipper listened. Ida told how P.F.F. worked. Mrs. Clipper thought a moment and spoke up. "You mean all that time, people standin' around in front of the phone booth, holding things, and no police came . . . Ida, they have to be the police."
"They ain't the police," Ida argued. "The police don't act like that."
"Yes, they do," Mrs. Clipper insisted. "They got a whole lot of stuff in 'em."
"Naw," Ida said. "All them people who went up there, they'll never be able to get 'em, there were too many."
"Ida," Mrs. Clipper said, "they know each and every one of you."
(Editor's Note: George (Sonny) Logan, who confessed to the murder of Parsons on videotape, was acquitted of the crime by a Prince George's County jury last year. His defense maintained Logan had lied to impress men he thought were Mafia. An accessory charge against Ida Logan was dropped after the acquittal.)