The Day I Almost Witnessed A Mafia Hit

I grew up in Smithfield, a relatively small town in rural Rhode Island.

I came from a good home, was raised properly, and never got into any major trouble. I think the worst thing I ever did was throw a few eggs on Halloween or maybe cut a few classes. One time I threw a baseball wildly and it went out into the street and struck a car. That was the extent of my criminal history.

My parents always tried to instill a sense of responsibility in me, and they believed that I would appreciate my possessions more if I worked hard for them and bought them with my own money. They felt that once I turned sixteen and got my driver's license, I should also get a job. That's really how I was put in the position of almost witnessing a mafia execution.

My Godfather is a great guy. And when I say "Godfather," I mean my actual Godfather. I don't mean it as the "kiss the ring" type of mafia Godfather! I mean it as the trusted family friend type of Godfather that my parents would entrust their children to should tragedy strike.

He was a chef and he had owned and worked in classic Italian restaurants for many years. He was managing a restaurant in the Italian section of Providence, known as "Federal Hill" by most, and so they asked him if he had any work for me.

The entrance to Federal Hill, a prominent Italian neighborhood in Providence

As it happens, a bus boy position had just opened up. That, ladies and gentlemen, is how I got a job at "The Arch," one of the most popular restaurants on Federal Hill at the time.

The first few weeks were uneventful. I was a naive kid from a small town, and so I kept my head down and cleared dishes, set tables, polished silverware, refilled water glasses, vacuumed floors, carried trays, and effectively carried out the all-important chores required of a bus boy. The owner took a liking to me, and so did most of the staff. I enjoyed the work and was pretty good at it as well.

As a sixteen-year old kid, I had heard about the mafia on the news and in movies, but never really realized that it actually existed in Providence. Time went by, and the more I worked at the restaurant, the more I came to realize that it was actually a real entity, and that many of the patrons who frequented the restaurant might actually be "wiseguys."

You could see it and you could feel it. Some patrons were treated differently than others. There were some people that the owner would sit down at the table with, give them complimentary wine and champagne, and in many cases comp their entire bill. They became known to me simply as "people who could sign." In other words, when it came time to pay their bill, they would just sign the bottom of the check and hand their server a cash tip.

I was doing very well at the job, and as I said, I was well liked. Shortly after my seventeenth birthday, my efforts were rewarded, and I was promoted to the position of "waiter." Nowadays it's called a server, but in the restaurant industry back then, a male was a "waiter," and a female a "waitress."

My promotion came with a lot of benefits, mainly a pay raise. I was able to make a lot of money in tips, and for a seventeen-year old, you could say that I was "making bank." I guess by today's standards it wouldn't be very much, but $100 a night in tips was HUGE for a high school age kid back in 1992. All I know is that nobody else that went to high school with me had the cash that I had. I have to admit, it felt good. Still, it was all legal, and that's the way I wanted it. I knew better than to get involved with any of the people "who could sign."

I'd been a waiter for approximately nine months when I reported for work on Friday, September 18, 1992. I had to be at work at four o'clock pm, and I remember that I was about ten minutes late that day because I had a hard time finding a place to park.

I immediately went to work polishing silverware, setting tables, topping off salt & pepper shakers, and filling my waiter's station with anything and everything that I anticipated needing that evening. After all, Saturday was our busiest night, and that night should be no exception.

The doors opened at five pm, and by six o'clock I had three tables and was settling in to my normal routine. We were busy at first, but by eight or eight-thirty it had slowed down considerably. We had a our usual crowd which consisted of a mix of regular customers along with a "who's who" of the New England mob.

Mob enforcer Kevin Hanrahan, circa early nineties

I noticed that my Godfather's daughter, who also worked as a waitress there, was waiting on a table of four or five men. They came in every Saturday for dinner and always requested her. I recognized one of the men at the table, as he was somewhat of a legend on Federal Hill. His name was Kevin Hanrahan, and he was a reputed mob enforcer. He was an absolutely huge man, with fists that could double as sledge hammers and a gaze that would melt even the most vicious criminal.

My cousin had just finished clearing their dinner plates, and they ordered some coffee and after dinner drinks. They usually sat for an hour or so after they finished their meal. She dropped the check on their table, and by this time, there were only a few other tables that were still occupied.

We were chatting by the server's station and my Godfather approached us. He said that since it was so slow we could leave early and enjoy a very rare Saturday night out if we wished. Well, of course we both jumped at the chance to leave and salvage the rest of the evening. It was September in Rhode Island, so it was a little chilly outside. We both grabbed our coats and walked out the front door. We exchanged goodbyes, and went our separate ways.

I ended up picking up my girlfriend and we drove around for a while and ultimately ended up in a wooded area in Smithfield where a lot of young couples went for privacy. A "lover's lane" of sorts. We went for a bite to eat after and I dropped her off, returned home, and proceeded to turn in for the evening.

When I awoke the next morning and went to the kitchen to get a coffee, my mother dropped a bomb on me.

There had been a murder just feet from the front door of the restaurant where I was employed!

Apparently, the party of men sitting with Hanrahan had left and headed to another local mob haunt in a nearby city. He told them he'd catch up with them, and then he went to the bar and had a drink. When he was finished, he walked to the glass double doors and proceeded to exit The Arch restaurant (my place of employment). He turned left and took just a few steps when two gunmen approached him from the front and fired three shots. The bullets ripped through his chin, temple, and face. Hanrahan slumped to the ground, dead instantly.

I was shocked as I learned of the hit. Even though I had absolutely nothing to do with any of these so-called "wiseguys," a feeling of fear came over me. Is this the place I wanted to be working at at just seventeen-years old? Are these the type of people I want to be around? All of these questions and more began bouncing around inside my head. After all, I was there LESS THAN TWO HOURS before it happened!

What if I had been walking out of the door right behind him and was struck with a stray bullet? I have to admit it was a very eerie feeling. I had waited on this man before, served him food, engaged in small talk with him, and seen him full of life less than 12 hours ago. Now he was gone forever. The finality of it struck me like a ton of bricks.

The most unbelievable part of this, though, was that the entire side of the The Arch that faced the street was mostly large glass windows. There were dozens of people in the restaurant. There were pedestrians on the street when it happened. Yet, NOBODY saw ANYTHING! That was the power of the mafia in Providence in the early nineties.

Former location of The Arch restaurant

The crime remains unsolved to this day. There was a breakthrough five or six years ago, but I don't think it went anywhere. There were undoubtedly many eyewitnesses to this murder, yet nobody would speak to law enforcement. I can't say that I blame them. If is I had been there at the time and was questioned, I simply would have said "I didn't see anything, officer."

However, life goes on. I had to work at noon on the Sunday following the murder, and I went to work. I remember having to walk past a large blood stain on the sidewalk, and as I made my way into the building, I noticed a chunk of glass missing from one of the windows. A bullet that had ricocheted maybe?

A patrol officer stands over a blood stain from the Hanrahan shooting

Time went by, and as the blood stain faded from the sidewalk, the crime faded from my memory.

I worked at The Arch for two more years, but I never forgot the day I almost witnessed a mafia hit.

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