A Rival Spy Used a Wiretap on Gambino — He Found His Own Car Filled to the Roof With Expanding Foam 

March 3rd, 1972, 6:47 a.m. Anthony Tommy Ears Castellano sat in his 1971 Buick Riviera outside a diner in Benenhurst, Brooklyn. The key was in the ignition. His hand was steady. He’d done this a thousand times. Turn the key, engine starts, drive away routine. He turned And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. the key.

 The door locks engaged with a mechanical thunk that made his blood run cold. Then he heard it, a hissing sound, soft at first, then louder, coming from the vents, from under the seats, from the trunk. Tommy looked down. White foam was erupting from every crack and crevice of his dashboard, expanding fast. Within seconds, it was at his ankles, then his knees.

 He grabbed the door handle, locked. He slammed his shoulder against it. Nothing. The foam kept rising, cold, sticky, pressing against him like wet concrete, his chest, his neck. He was screaming now, but the foam was in his mouth, his nose. The last thing Tommy ears saw before the foam covered his face was his own terrified reflection in the rear view mirror, and then darkness.

Tommy woke up 4 hours later in a warehouse in Red Hook. He was lying on a concrete floor covered in dried foam like a bizarre statue. His whole body achd. He could barely move. Someone had cut him out of the car, peeled the foam off his face just enough for him to breathe, and dumped him here. There was a note pinned to his chest.

 It said, “Three words in neat handwriting. I always know.” No signature. Didn’t need one. Tommy knew exactly who sent the message. Carlo Gambino. The man Tommy had been spying on for 6 months. The man whose phone lines Tommy had tapped. the man whose private conversations Tommy had been recording and selling to the Columbbo family for $5,000 a week.

 But here’s what made Tommy’s hands shake as he read that note. Here’s what made him realize he’d made a fatal miscalculation. The foam trap in his car that required knowing exactly which car he drove, exactly where he’d park it, exactly when he’d be there, and exactly how to rig it without being seen. That meant Gambino hadn’t just discovered the wire tap yesterday or last week, he’d known for months.

 And instead of killing Tommy immediately, instead of sending soldiers to put a bullet in his head, Gambino had watched him, studied him, learned his patterns, and then when the time was right, sent a message that would echo through New York’s underworld for the next decade. You don’t just kill a spy.

 You make an example that ensures nobody ever tries it again. To understand what happened that morning in Benenhurst, you need to understand who Carlo Gambino was in 1972. He wasn’t the loudest boss. He wasn’t the flashiest. Men like John Gotti would later grab headlines with expensive suits and public swagger.

 But Gambino, he was quiet, methodical, the kind of man who never raised his voice because he never needed to. By 1972, Carlo Gambino controlled the largest and most profitable crime family in America. Unions, construction, the full ton fish market, JFK airport, waste management. If money moved through New York, Gambino got a piece.

 But his real power wasn’t muscle. It was information. Gambino understood something most bosses didn’t. In the underworld, the man who knows the most wins. Not the man with the most soldiers. Not the man with the most territory, the man with the most secrets. And Tommy Castiano had made the mistake of thinking he could steal Gambino’s secrets without consequences.

Tommy wasn’t just any wiretap specialist. He was good, maybe the best in New York. He’d learned his trade in army intelligence during Korea, came back to Brooklyn in 1954, and started using those skills for the families. By the early 70s, every boss in New York knew Tommy ears. You needed to know what arrival was planning.

 You needed evidence for a union shakeddown. You needed to find out who was skimming. You called Tommy. And 6 months ago, the Columbbo family had called him with an interesting proposition. September e 1971, 6 months before the foam incident. Joseph Columbo Senior was in the hospital after being shot at an Italian-American rally in Columbus Circle. His family was in chaos.

 His sons were fighting for control and they needed leverage. Joe Columbo Jr. met Tommy at a social club in Carol Gardens. The conversation was brief. We need to know what Gambino’s planning. Joe Jr. said, “My father’s laid up. Gambino’s probably making moves. We need to hear what he’s saying in private.

 Tommy had worked for the Columbos before. Small jobs. Tapping a union rep’s phone. Recording a meeting between rival contractors. Simple stuff. But this this was different. This was tapping the most powerful mob boss in New York. That’s a big ask, Tommy said carefully. Gambino’s got the best security in the city. He sweeps his house weekly, changes phones constantly. He knows every trick.

 That’s And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. That’s why we’re paying you $5,000 a week, Joe Jr. replied. plus a $20,000 bonus when you deliver something wears me can use. Tommy thought about his daughter’s college tuition. He thought about the new house his wife wanted in New Jersey.

He thought about retiring in 5 years with enough money to disappear. He took the job. The first challenge was access. You couldn’t just walk up to Carlo Gambino’s house at 2,230 Ocean Parkway and start drilling into phone lines. The neighborhood was crawling with Gambino’s people.

 Retired soldiers who sat on stoops all day watching. Legitimate businesses owned by cousins and nephews. Everyone reported to someone who reported to someone who reported to Carlo. But Tommy had an advantage. He knew a guy. Sal Benadetto, a telephone company lineman who did side work for the families. S had access to junction boxes, switching stations, places where multiple phone lines converged.

 You didn’t need to touch Gambino’s house. You just needed to find where his phone line connected to the network. It took Tommy 3 weeks of surveillance to map out Gambino’s communications. The boss had three phone lines, one listed residential line at his house, one unlisted line at his social club on 101st Avenue in Ozone Park, and one line at his son Thomas’s house that Carlo used for certain sensitive calls.

 The residential line would be swept regularly. The club line was too exposed. But the line at Thomas’s house, that had potential. On October 12th, 1971, at 2:30 a.m., Tommy and S open opened a junction box four blocks from Thomas Gambino’s house. Using a basic wiretap setup, a high impedance parallel connection that wouldn’t create voltage drops or audio feedback, Tommy installed a tap.

 The signal fed to a voice activated recorder hidden in a utility shed behind a nearby apartment building. The beauty of the setup was its simplicity. No one needed to monitor it in real time. The recorder only activated when someone spoke on the line. Every 3 days, Tommy would retrieve the tapes, replace them with fresh ones, and deliver the recordings to Joe Colombo Jr.

For the first month, the take was modest. Conversations about family dinners, Thomas Gambino talking to his wife, his kids calling from college. But Tommy kept listening because he knew the patient ones always win. Then in early December, Carlo started using Thomas’s line for business. The first useful recording came on December 8th.

 Carlo talking to his under boss, Anello Delroce, about a heroin shipment coming through Newark. names, dates, distribution points. The Columbos could use that information to either intercept the shipment or negotiate a better cut of their own operations. Joe Columbo Jr. was thrilled. He authorized a $10,000 bonus for Tommy on top of the weekly fee.

 The second recording came on January 15th, 1972. Carlo discussing a plan to push the Lucay’s family out of certain union positions at JFK airport. specifics about which union reps were being paid off, which contracts were being rigged. By February, Tommy was delivering gold every week. He’d tapped into the private communications of the most secretive boss in New York, and the money was rolling in.

 Tommy bought his wife that house in Montlair, New Jersey. He opened a college fund for his daughter. He started planning his retirement. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. What Tommy didn’t know was that Carlo Gambino had discovered the tap in November, 2 weeks after it went live.

 November 1971, 4 months before the foam trap. James Jimmy Rags Regusa was Carlo Gambino’s personal security specialist, not a soldier, not an enforcer, a technician. Jimmy had learned counter surveillance in army intelligence. Same as Tommy Castiano, except Jimmy had stayed in the game, kept learning, kept evolving. Every week, Jimmy swept Gambino’s properties for bugs, taps, and surveillance.

 He checked phone lines, examined wall outlets, inspected light fixtures. He used spectrum analyzers to detect radio frequency transmissions and ohm meters to measure resistance in phone lines. On November 23rd, during about a year routine check of Thomas Gambino’s house, Jimmy found an anomaly. The phone line showed a 0.3 ohm resistance drop.

 Tiny, almost undetectable. Most technicians would miss it, but Jimmy didn’t miss anything. He traced the line to the junction box four blocks away, opened it, found the tap. Professional work, clean installation, high impedance parallel connection, voice activated recorder in a nearby utility shed. Whoever installed this knew what they were doing.

 Jimmy photographed everything without disturbing it. Then he called Carlo. They met that night at Tomaso’s restaurant on 86th Street. Carlo listened to Jimmy’s report without expression. When Jimmy finished, Carlo was quiet for a long moment. Can you tell who installed it? Carlo asked. The work.

 This is specialist level military training. There’s maybe 10 guys in New York who can do a tap this clean. Find out who. Jimmy spent the next week making discrete inquiries. He talked to phone company sources. He examined installation techniques. He built a profile. By December 1st, he had a name, Anthony Castellano, Tommy Ears, known wiretap specialist, works freelance for the families.

 More importantly, Jimmy had footage from a surveillance camera at a nearby bodega that showed Tommy and Sal Benadetto near the junction box at 2:30 a.m. on October 12th. Carlo looked at the photographs. Who’s paying him? Working on it, Jimmy said. But given the timing, right after Joe Columbo got shot, I’d say it’s the Columbo family.

Probably Joe Jr. Carlo nodded slowly. Don’t touch the tap. Leave it operational. Jimmy was confused. Boss, they’re listening to everything. I know. That’s exactly what I want. Over the next 3 months, Carlo Gambino did something remarkable. He started using the tapped phone line strategically. When he needed to make a genuinely sensitive call, he used payoneses or met in person.

 But when he wanted the Columbos to hear something, he used Thomas’s line. Drive them. December, he discussed a heroin shipment that didn’t exist. The Columbos sent men to intercept it. They found nothing and looked foolish. In January, he talked about union moves at JFK airport that were deliberately misleading. The Columbos repositioned their own operations based on bad information and lost money.

 In February, he mentioned that he was concerned about a mole in his organization, someone leaking information. He even named a few innocent people as suspects. The Columbos, thinking they had inside intelligence, started investigating those same people, wasting time and resources. Carlo was feeding disinformation through the tap, and the Columbos were eating it up.

 But Carlo’s real plan was more elegant. He was studying Tommy Castayano. Every time Tommy retrieved the tapes, Jimmy Rags photographed him. They documented his roots, his schedule, his patterns. Tommy drove the same car every day. A 1971 Buick Riviera, dark blue, license plate NY 8472. He parked in the same spots.

 He ate breakfast at the same diner in Bensonhurst every Tuesday and Friday morning at 6:30 a.m. Carlo noticed something else. Tommy was spending money. New house in New Jersey, new clothes. His wife was driving a new Cadillac. For a freelance technician, Tommy was living well, too. Well, that meant he was being paid serious money, which meant the Columbos valued the information, which meant they were acting on it perfect.

By late February, Carlo had seen enough. He called Jimmy Rags to Tomaso’s restaurant again. “It’s time to send a message,” Carlo said. “Not just to Tommy, to everyone. I want every boss in New York to understand that when you come after me, I already know. I’ve always known. And I’m And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. Always three steps ahead.

” “What do you want me to do?” Carlos smiled. “Something creative? something they’ll talk about for years. March 2nd, 1972, the night before the foam trap, Jimmy Rags assembled a team, not soldiers, specialists, a locksmith who could defeat any car security system, a chemist who worked with industrial materials, an automotive technician who understood vehicle electrical systems.

 They worked from a detailed plan. Tommy’s car would be parked outside the Benhurst diner the next morning. They had a 4-hour window between midnight and 4:00 a.m. to prepare everything. The material they chose was two-part polyurethane expanding foam. Normally used for insulation and construction, but with modified chemistry, it could expand to 50 times its liquid volume and harden within hours.

 The chemist prepared a slow release version that would remain dormant until activated by an electrical trigger. At 1:30 a.m., the team arrived at the diner. Tommy’s Buick sat in its usual spot under a broken street light. The locksmith defeated the door locks in 40 seconds. They worked quickly and quietly.

 The automotive tech rigged the ignition to trigger the foam release. Turn the key, complete the circuit, activate the canisters. The canisters themselves, small cylinders filled with liquid foam, were hidden throughout the vehicle. under the seats behind the dashboard in the door panels inside the trunk. 16 canisters total connected by pneumatic lines to a central trigger.

The door lock mechanism was modified to engage when the ignition turned. Once locked, the doors couldn’t be opened from inside without significant force. They didn’t want Tommy dead. They wanted him terrified. The locksmith added a pressure release valve that would allow the foam to vent slightly through the trunk seal, preventing the car from becoming a complete pressure vessel that might explode.

 The goal was containment, not execution. By 3:45 a.m., the installation was complete. They locked the car, swept the area for any evidence, and disappeared. At 6:47 a.m., Tommy Castellano climbed into his car, turned the key, and learned what happens when you steal secrets from Carlo Gambino. The foam did exactly what it was designed to do.

 It expanded rapidly, filling every void in the vehicle within 90 seconds. It was cold, disorienting, suffocating. Tommy panicked, as anyone would, but the chemistry was precise. The foam covered his face, but the slow release formula meant it didn’t harden immediately. He could still breathe barely through small air pockets. At 7:15 a.m.

, Jimmy Rags and two associates arrived with a van. They used pneumatic cutters to open the Buick’s trunk, injected a foam dissolving solvent, and extracted Tommy from the vehicle. The whole operation took 12 minutes. They drove Tommy to a warehouse in Red Hook, cut away the foam from his face and chest, left him on the floor with the note pinned to his shirt.

I always know. When Tommy finally processed what had happened, the message was clear. Gambino had known about the tap for months. He’d known who installed it. He’d known where Tommy parked. He’d known Tommy’s schedule down to the minute. And instead of simply killing him, Gambino had orchestrated an elaborate psychological operation that would become legend.

 By noon, Tommy had staggered to a pay phone and called Joe Columbo Jr. “It’s over,” Tommy said. He knew. He’s known the whole time. Everything we heard was what he wanted us to hear. Joe Jr. was silent for a long moment. “Where are you now?” “Doesn’t matter. I’m out. I’m done. And you should be, too. You can’t beat this man. He’s always three moves ahead.

Tommy hung up. He drove to his house in Montlair, told his wife to pack everything essential, and they left New Jersey that night. Last anyone heard. And if you like this video, remember to leave a like, subscribe, and turn on the notification bell. Tommy was running a small electronics repair shop in Phoenix, Arizona.

 He never worked for the families again. The story spread through New York’s underworld within days. A rival spy tapped Gambino’s phone. Gambino not only knew about it, he fed disinformation through it for months. Then he trapped the spy in his own car with expanding foam, cut him out, and let him live to tell the story.

 The message resonated with every boss, every soldier, every ambitious operator in the five families. Carlo Gambino knows. He always knows. And if you come after him, you won’t see it coming until you’re drowning in foam, gasping for air, realizing you were never the hunter.