SHITFELLAS

MY TÊTÊ-Â-TÊTÊ WITH HENRY HILL

MIKE CARAVELLA

MAY 19, 2026

As far back as I can remember all I ever wanted was to NOT be a gangster.

You’ve all seen Goodfellas, or read the non-fiction book it’s based on, Wiseguy, so I’m not compelled to explain who Henry Hill was. And as for my life, particularly as a child, I was completely immersed in that infamous culture that grew more and more loathsome to me as I grew up. And I was being defined by it just because of the way I looked and sounded. But strangely enough, however the old saying goes, “life imitates art imitates life…” definitely goes around the block a few times with this one…

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In 2006, living in LA and chasing the dream, I started bartending at a Hollywood celebrity hangout. One brunch shift, I had my most beloved NY Football Giants game on the TV at the bar. There was this dude ponied up to the stick, with a big ole Stetson on his head and dark black sunglasses observing me closely as I grimaced and herked and jerked and ooohed and aahed with every play in the game as I simultaneously slung Mimosas and Bloody Marys. That dude, John, originally from New Jersey, was a rabid Giants fan as well. We became fast friends right there on the spot.

John, at that time, was a music agent for the William Morris Agency, where he repped tons of mega-bands you all know the names of. He is now a Partner of WME, William Morris Endeavor. So just like that, hanging out backstage at big concerts, and sitting in skyboxes at sporting events suddenly became the norm for me. It’s actually not as exciting as you’d think it, as most of the Hollywood posers are pretty stiff, just wanting and waiting to be seen. The most fun at these things was always when my wife Jean would tag along. She’d drink it all in, figuratively and literally, and end the night starched across a chaise lounger, sloshed to the gills.

My family connections to the Goodfellas universe is strangely mutli-tiered. Not only was my dad a street level guy for the Gambinos, but his sister married into the Lucchese Crime Family. The Varios to be precise. Lenny Vario to be exact. The son of “Big Paul” as he is known in the movie. This was Henry Hill’s childhood best friend. My Uncle Lenny. Henry, I guess, either had a modicum of compassion, or couldn’t bear the guilt and purposely omitted him from his telling of the story.

Lenny died at 27, badly burned and left in the street in front of the hospital after whatever happened that night. My cousin, his son, was only a year old when it happened. Another one of those stories that my parents were never clear on, saying it happened in a horse stable fire, but you can do the math. I think the events are actually glossed over and modified by both Pileggi and Scorsese, as told to them by Henry. I was 5 when it happened, but I actually have memories of Uncle Lenny. He was very mischievous and playful with me, and that stood the test of time in my mind.

And so went my complicated relationship with most of my dad’s friends. To me they were all funny, ball-breaking “uncles”, as they insisted on being called. But to the rest of the world, they were quite ruthless, and deadly. These guys paraded around my house all the time and acted like family. And then one by one they would stop showing up completely. When I would ask my parents where “Uncle Carmine” has been, they would respond, “He’s away at college.” Their word for prison or the cemetery. I could list a hundred of these guys, but I’ll name just one for now to further the point. I used to sit on Tommy Cacciopolo’s lap, “Tommy Sneakers” as he was known, at my dad’s pinochle games. He’d rub my back and make me laugh while he played. Tommy went on to be the Boss of the Gambinos after Gotti.

And then the lines in my connections get blurred between reality and story telling. One of those “uncles”, Frank LoGuidice, better known by his stage name Frank Sivero, was one of my dad’s best friends. Frank was Genco in The Godfather II, and had a later run popping up in some Adam Sandler movies, but for this story here I’m telling today, he plays one of the most recognizable characters in Goodfellas, Frankie Carbone.

So, armed with all of that, I made my way through the backstage crowd, walked up to Henry Hill, and smiled and stuck my hand out. He smiles back and shakes my hand. I say hello and then lean in a little. “Lenny Vario was my uncle”, I whispered to him. All of the color immediately leaves his face, as his jaw simultaneously drops, and he looks me in the eye with fear and he mutters, “Please don’t kill me.”

I’m almost instantly surrounded by security, who start interrogating me right there on the spot. I explain to them, yes Lenny Vario was my uncle, but I have nothing to do with any of that. I’m an actor, just here to see the show that I came to with the guy who booked the main event. Wise-ass, yes. Wiseguy, no. John verified, and they left us alone. John shot a glance at me, quite impressed with the kerfuffle I caused and we started laughing our asses off, and went inside and enjoyed the rest of the night

The next morning it’s back to reality for me. Day shift at the bar job. The bar was as quiet as it normally is at 11am and I’m there just doing my setup and getting ready for the day. The front door opens and I’m getting a customer earlier than I usually do. He clears the doorway and just stands there for a beat. It’s Henry Hill.

I recognize him instantly, just as I did the night before. Being where I’m from, my street-smart radar goes off and immediately my mind goes to a scene right out of a Scorsese movie. Henry walks over to the bar slowly, and sits down. My instinct is to play it off. Just play dumb. I walk up to him and just play the role of the friendly neighborhood bartender. “How’s it going? What can I get you?”, I say with a smile. He says something I don’t understand. I ask him to repeat it. I still don’t understand. My Brooklyn instincts kick in and I’m thinking, “don’t lean in closer to him”. He saves me the trouble and speaks louder now. “Blargh grah um blehhh…” he says. Now my bartender instincts kick in. He’s fucked up.

After another 15 minutes of this, I start to realize no one else is walking through that door, and this was just the craziest of coincidences. That being said, duty calls, and I need to get rid of the drunk at the bar. I go over to the phone and call the cab service who takes care of these problems for me. After I hang up, I walk around the bar, politely guide Henry out the door, and sit him on the bench we have out front. Job well done.

A few minutes later, the door opens again. This time it's the cabbie, all frantic and sweaty, saying he needs my help outside. I follow him. When I get outside, the sun is bright and hot, and Henry is down for the count, face planted on the concrete. I go over and bend down and shake him a bit, but he’s out cold. And he’s pissed and shit himself. Being the tough guy that I am, I reached into his pocket anyway, and pulled out his wallet without getting any residuals on my hand. I peel a $20 off his knot, find a card for a talent agent's office near Universal Studios, and hand them both to the cabbie. “There’s your fare.” I told him. We scraped up the shitty-pantsed former Vario family wiseguy off the ground and dumped him in the back of the cab, and away they went. I watched them drive off for a minute, and laughed to myself at how these scenarios just always seem to find me. And then I walked back into the bar and went back to work.

Just another average day in the life of this not so average schnook.

Howard Stern was still all the rage then. Artie Lange, who was a writer and an on-air personality for him, was doing a stand-up comedy tour that John was booking. I was a big fan of the Howard Stern show from the beginning, so when John asked me if I wanted to come along with him to the show at Universal's Gibson Amphitheater, I was all in.

The pre-show backstage gathering was jammed, and I noticed right away the whole “Wack Pack” from Howard's show was there. John and I got some drinks and were mingling around when I noticed George Takei and his partner Brad, and sidled over and started a conversation. We were hanging out with them for a bit when I noticed another famous Wack Packer across the way. I elbowed John and said “There’s Henry Hill. Let’s go.” John had no idea what I was up to, but he tagged along.