I just finished reading “Gotti's Rules,” a terrific book about the late New York mob boss John Gotti, by former Philadelphia Inquirer reporter George Anastasia, who spent more than 30 years reporting on the Philly mob and other crime stories. The book reminded me of arguably the most bizarre experience I ever had in all of my 57 years as a reporter. 

It was so bizarre, in fact, that I have a nephew who still brings it up when we get together, even though it happened almost 43 years ago.

In March of 1981, I wrote a daily column called the “Peep-le Page,” in the Philadelphia Journal, a sports-heavy tabloid with offices at 3010 Market St., right across the street from the mammoth Philadelphia Bulletin. Two or three evenings a week after work, I would work out at a small fitness club on South Broad Street.

One evening I was on a treadmill at the club when a handsome young man on the treadmill to my left struck up a conversation. He asked what kind of work I did, and when I told him, he said, “Oh my God. I read your column every day. It's great to meet you. Hey, I think I can get a great interview for you with my uncle. It would make a terrific story.”

I thought that maybe his uncle was a chef or union leader or maybe even an elected official, so of course I asked him who his uncle was since you never know where the next good story comes from.

“My uncle is Phil Testa,” he said. “Do you know who that is?”

He might as well have asked me if I knew who Ronald Reagan was. Phil Testa was the head of the Philly mob. He took over after the previous Philly mob boss, Angelo Bruno, often referred to as “the gentle Don,” was shot to death in a car in front of his South Philly house on March 21, 1980. According to newspaper reports, Bruno was killed by other mobsters because he refused to get involved in the drug trade, a potential source of vast income. Bruno and Testa were reportedly good friends, but after all, business is business.

Testa, a short, taciturn man with a pock-marked face, was Bruno's “underboss.” According to police officials at the time, he was installed as Bruno's successor and promptly got his underlings involved in heroin and cocaine traffic. Testa was often referred to as “Chicken Man” by the press because he had a legitimate poultry business for many years, which he ran as a “cover” for his more nefarious activities.

Testa also owned a restaurant just off 2nd and Market streets in Old City, where his nephew (my treadmill next-door neighbor) was a server.

“There is no way on earth that Phil Testa is going to agree to an interview,” I told his nephew. “He never talks to the press. He keeps a very, very low profile for obvious reasons. Angelo Bruno was friendly with reporters, and look what happened to him.”

“I think he will go for it when I tell him I read your column every day and that you don't trash anybody. You say nice things about people, and I will tell my uncle that you will say nice things about him,” said the nephew.

I gave the nephew my phone number, and he said he'd call me back, but I honestly thought I had as much chance of actually interviewing the Chicken Man as I did of interviewing then-British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.

Two days later, however, the nephew called me and said, “Phil said OK, although there are some things he is not going to talk about. He wants you to promote his restaurant in your article because business has not been so good lately.”

Testa’s instructions, according to the nephew, were for me to bring my wife to the restaurant that Saturday night at around 8 p.m., along with two friends. He planned to arrive at about 11 p.m. and would take me up to his second-floor office for the interview. 

“He said to eat and drink all you want, and he will pick up the tab,” the nephew said. “You just have to tip the waiter.”

I had mixed feelings. But you only live once, and this was definitely an exclusive, because I was sure Testa had never talked to a reporter before.

So we showed up that Saturday, March 14, 1981, with two friends, Richie Curlett, a restaurant writer for the Northeast Times, and his companion, Judy McKee. We had a fine dinner with excellent service. 

After our meal, our friends left at about 10:30 p.m. At about 11:15 Phil Testa walked in and went upstairs right away. The manager came over and told us that he'd give us a signal that Testa, who was doing some paperwork, was ready to talk to me. About 20 minutes later he gave me the OK sign, and I went upstairs.

Testa was stoic; he did not smile or laugh once or change the stone-faced expression on his face. He would not answer most questions and essentially just wanted to talk about how great his restaurant was, how fresh the homemade pasta was, and how he was going to start having live entertainment. I left thinking I had a pretty boring article at best.

The next morning I got in my car at about 9:30 a.m. and drove to work. I was driving down Kelly Drive, which was then called East River Drive, listening to music on the car radio when the music suddenly stopped. “We interrupt this program to bring you a breaking news bulletin,” a voice declared. “Alleged Philly mob boss Phil Testa, 56, was murdered last night just after 2 a.m. as he entered his house at 2117 W. Porter St. in South Philadelphia.”

According to the report, a remote control bomb had been set off across the street that was so powerful it blew off the front door, the porch roof and the front of Testa’s house. Testa was rushed to St. Agnes Hospital, which was one mile from his home, where he was declared dead at 4:15 a.m.

I almost ran my car off the road. 

When I got to the newsroom, editors Walt Herring and Ray Stewart, whom I had told about my then-upcoming interview with Testa, were apoplectic. “You have to write that story,” they insisted. “Who cares what he said! You had to be the last person to talk to him right before he was killed.”

My story ran at the top of page one the next day, of course, and I was fielding congratulatory pats on the back from my co-workers and calls from numerous other people. The editors told me to take the next day off, as it turned out that the Testa issue was the top-selling issue since the Journal started publishing on Dec. 7, 1977.

Testa's murder sparked a war within the family, leading Nicodemo Scarfo to seize the top position for himself. According to some news reports, “Scarfo would go on to lead the family for a decade with a bloody rampage, fueled by paranoia and aggression.”

When my nephew brought up the Testa murder recently, I told him, “It's a good thing Testa didn't ask us to come to his house for an after-dinner drink.”

Len Lear can be reached at lenlear@chestnuthilllocal.com