
Together, Volpe and Modarelli left the shop, situated directly across the street from the massive stone walls of the Allegheny County Courthouse, Western Pennsylvania’s most imposing symbol of justice. Like the authorities, we’re forced to rely on the words of men who earned money by breaking the law. Hanging from his pocket was a watch fob adorned with 25 diamonds forming his initials, “J.V.” On his shirt, he wore a diamond-encrusted stick pin a 6-carat diamond ring adorned his right hand. At age 38, he was smooth-faced and dressed in a blue-gray summer suit, a white silk shirt with brown stripes, a black bow tie, and a brown and white woven belt. Though not a big man - he stood 5 feet 5 inches tall and weighed 175 pounds - Volpe cut a striking figure. Once the barber’s work was finished, Volpe rose from the chair. Modarelli may have been disappointed, but he stuck around.

“I just fixed up a mortgage of $2,600 for a widow.” “I’m pretty well cleaned out myself,” Volpe told him. And, in an age lacking an economic “safety net,“ he was known to help those in need.īut on this day Modarelli was out of luck. Roughly a third of Allegheny County’s workers were unemployed.
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The full weight of the Great Depression pressed down on the nation’s chest. Maybe, he thought, Volpe would loan him some cash. He had fallen on hard times and needed money. Modarelli was a former numbers racketeer from Squirrel Hill. This was Friday, July 29, 1932.Īt some point, Charles Modarelli entered the place.

On Saturdays, he would plop down $2.25 and get a haircut and manicure, too. A crowd of hard men with rolled-up sleeves staring down at him.īut at noon, John Volpe was clean and dapper as he entered Frank Manna’s barbershop at 527 Fifth Ave. In less than an hour, he would be lying face up on a greasy, spit-stained curb.

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