Lack of credibility spoils mobster's story

Karen Algeo Krizman, Special To The News

Published March 21, 2003 at midnight

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Double Deal reads like the script of a bad mob movie.

Clichés and stereotypes riddle this autobiography of former police officer and mobster Michael Corbitt; and the ensemble cast is so massive that it's hard to keep track of all the players.

If you haven't heard of Corbitt before, you're probably not alone. He is a minor character, who just happens to think much of himself. (However, you might recognize the name of the co-author, Sam Giancana. He's the nephew of the famous mob boss of the same name.)

Corbitt served as chief of police for Willow Springs, Ill., from 1973 through 1981. By his own admission, he also was a bagman for the Mafia during his entire career in law enforcement.

But, as Corbitt writes, calling what he did " 'law enforcement' was a bit of a stretch." Encouraged to become a police officer by the elder Giancana, Corbitt says that when he joined the Willow Springs force in 1965, the Chicago suburb was a haven for organized crime.

"Short of Las Vegas, there wasn't another spot in America with so many different rackets going full blast, twenty-four hours a day, with no concern whatsoever for the law or the consequences of breaking it," Corbitt recalls. "Everybody knew my real job was to make damned sure nothing got in the way of all those rackets. . . ."

Corbitt continued to serve and protect the mob until his conviction in the late 1980s on federal charges of racketeering and conspiracy related to his involvement in the murder of Diane Masters, a prominent college trustee.

Masters' husband, Alan, had his own ties to organized crime and was imprisoned for plotting to kill his wife. The whole sordid affair was well-documented in a made-for-TV movie and two books - Blind Justice and Shattered Hopes: A True Crime Story of Marriage, Murder, Corruption and Cover-up in the Suburbs.

Paroled from prison in 1998, Corbitt should have left the past behind. His story alone is simply not as riveting as he thinks it is - although at times it is hard not to smirk at his inflated ego.

Describing his skills as a police officer, Corbitt writes, "I'd walk into a bar where there was a disturbance, and it was like I was Buford Pusser in the movie Walking Tall. I was always in plain clothes, with cowboy boots, and my gun was stuck in my pants or in my pocket. But they took one look at me and knew who I was - and it was over. I mean, over."

Once you're done laughing, the real problem with Double Deal is still staring you in the face: You simply cannot trust Corbitt.

He makes many accusations and details life in organized crime. However, much of what he says is based on hearsay and long-ago conversations that he re-creates. Ultimately, you have to wonder how much of Corbitt's story is fact and how much is fiction.

It doesn't help that Corbitt constantly contradicts himself. Besides the obvious irony of his competing lines of work, in one chapter Corbitt admits to punching out his girlfriend. A few chapters later, he states, "There was nothing I hated more than a wife beater. And there was nothing I enjoyed more than bringing one of those (expletive deleted) down."

Even Corbitt admits that his tale is more than slightly twisted. Given his first joint, he writes, "I'd never smoked reefer before. I was a cop and marijuana was illegal, so as far as I was concerned that made it off-limits . . . which, I admit, doesn't make any sense given my other activities."

Some of the contradictions aren't as obvious, though. In Double Deal, Corbitt recalls banker pal Joey Testa inviting him to his Florida home in 1981. "I don't think we slept from the minute I got off the plane," Corbitt writes. "We had a great time. We hit the town every night, and during the day we found some girls and went out on the boat. We got half a mile out and it was everybody get naked."

Shortly after his visit, Testa was killed in what Corbitt says was a mob hit. Fortunately, though, Corbitt has some fond memories of the final days with his friend.

Or maybe not.

A little digging reveals that in 1997 Corbitt told Chicago Sun-Times reporter Robert Manor that he never took Testa up on his offer to visit him in Florida. Given Corbitt's history, this quibble alone is enough to throw a cloud of suspicion over the whole book, which ultimately is just a Deal gone bad.

Karen Algeo Krizman is a freelance writer living in Littleton.

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