At 1:30 in the morning on June 11, 1970, Tommy DeSimone, Jimmy Burke, and Henry Hill were driving up the Taconic State Parkway with a dead man in the trunk. At least, they believed he was dead. They had beaten Billy Bats unconscious at the Suite, a nightclub in Queens, forty minutes earlier, wrapped him in tablecloths, and stuffed him into the back of Henry’s car. Now they were headed upstate to bury a made man from the Gambino family.

Killing a made man without permission was a violation of mafia law that demanded blood for blood. Every mile they drove carried them closer to a reckoning they hadn’t yet begun to understand. When they finally opened that trunk hours later and heard Billy Bats groaning, when they had to finish the job with shovels and tire irons because the first beating hadn’t killed him, the real problem began. Paul Vario, Tommy’s boss and a capo in the Lucchese family, was about to learn that his crew had just put a target on all their backs.

And when Vario asked Henry Hill one simple question—who killed Billy Bats—Henry hesitated. He protected Tommy. But what if he hadn’t? What if Henry had given up Tommy DeSimone the moment Vario demanded answers?

Would Vario have sacrificed Tommy to prevent a war between families? Would the Gambinos have been satisfied with one body instead of hunting the entire crew? And would the Lufthansa heist ever have happened if Tommy DeSimone was killed in 1970 instead of 1979? To understand what was at stake, you have to understand how the mafia worked in 1970.

There were rules, not laws. And the most important rule was simple: you don’t touch a made man without permission. It didn’t matter if he insulted you. It didn’t matter if he disrespected you in front of your crew.

It didn’t matter if he made you look like a nobody. If he was made, he was untouchable. If you wanted him dead, you went through channels. You made your case.

You waited for approval. If you didn’t get it, you swallowed your pride and moved on. Tommy DeSimone didn’t believe in swallowing anything. William Bentvena was thirty-nine years old, a Gambino family soldier, and everyone called him Billy Bats.

He had been in prison since the 1960s on narcotics charges, serving fifteen years for running heroin with the Ornofrio group. He got out in 1970, and his associates threw him a welcome-home party at Robert’s Lounge, a bar in Queens owned by Jimmy Burke, a Lucchese associate. The scene is shown in Goodfellas at what appears to be Henry’s bar, but that location is a cinematic simplification. Burke ran Robert’s Lounge as neutral ground where different crews could drink, gamble, and do business without starting wars.

That night, Billy Bats walked in like he owned the place. In his mind, he probably did. He was made. He had power.

He had respect. And he had no idea that the young kid serving drinks—the one who used to shine shoes when Bats went away—that kid was now a killer. Tommy DeSimone was in his twenties, six-foot-two, with a violent temper and a chip on his shoulder the size of Brooklyn. He had been working for Paul Vario since the 1960s, running truck hijackings, fencing stolen goods, and breaking legs for loan sharks.

Henry Hill described him as wearing a wiseguy suit and a pencil mustache, trying to look older than he was, trying to prove he belonged. Tommy was good at violence. He was good at making money. But he was terrible at controlling himself.

When Billy Bats walked up to him that night and asked if he still shined shoes, Tommy snapped. The insult wasn’t just a joke. In the mafia, your reputation was everything. If someone made you look weak, if someone reminded everyone that you were nobody once, you lost respect.

And if you lost respect, you were dead. Tommy knew this. So when Bats made that comment, Tommy turned to Henry Hill and Jimmy Burke and said five words: “I’m going to kill that f**. ”

But he couldn’t.

Not that night. Billy Bats was made. Tommy wasn’t. Two weeks later, on June 11, 1970, Billy Bats showed up at the Suite, the nightclub Henry Hill owned in Queens.

The place was nearly empty, just a few guys hanging around playing cards and drinking. Tommy DeSimone walked in, saw Bats, and decided tonight was the night. He had Jimmy Burke with him. Jimmy was older, forty years old, experienced, and smart.

Jimmy knew this was a bad idea. But Jimmy also knew you didn’t tell Tommy no. So when Tommy pulled out his gun and started pistol-whipping Billy Bats in the head, screaming, “Shine these f***ing shoes,” Jimmy held Bats down. They beat him until he stopped moving.

Paul Vario was fifty-six years old in 1970. He had been a capo in the Lucchese family since the 1950s, running crews out of Brooklyn and controlling gambling, loan-sharking, and hijacking operations at JFK Airport. Vario wasn’t flashy. He didn’t wear expensive suits or drive Cadillacs.

He operated from the shadows, running his business out of a cabstand and a pizzeria, keeping his name out of the newspapers. He was smart, he was careful, and he had a violent temper that could erupt without warning. Henry Hill once watched Vario flip a table and beat a restaurant manager because the guy spilled wine on Vario’s wife. Then Vario sent his crew back that night to beat every staff member with baseball bats.

That was the man Tommy DeSimone worked for. A man who demanded respect, who controlled his territory with fear, and who understood that killing a made man without permission could get everyone killed. When Vario first heard about Billy Bats going missing, he knew. He didn’t have proof.

He didn’t have details. But he knew, because Tommy DeSimone had been complaining about Bats for two weeks. Because Jimmy Burke had been acting nervous. Because Henry Hill couldn’t look him in the eye.

So Vario did what any smart capo would do. He started asking questions quietly, carefully, trying to figure out how bad this was going to be. And that’s when he pulled Henry aside and asked him directly: “Who killed Billy Bats? ”

In reality, Henry hesitated.

He didn’t want to give up Tommy. They were friends. They had worked together for years. They had made money together, hijacked trucks together, buried bodies together.

So Henry stalled. He said he didn’t know. He said maybe Bats went back to prison. He said maybe Bats left town.

Vario knew Henry was lying, but he didn’t push. Not yet. Because Vario was waiting to see how the Gambino family would react. If the Gambinos didn’t know who killed Bats, maybe this whole thing would blow over.

Maybe they’d blame it on someone else. Maybe Vario’s crew would survive. But what if Henry had told the truth? What if Henry had said, “Tommy and Jimmy killed him.

They beat him to death at my club and buried him upstate”? What would Paul Vario have done? Here’s what you need to understand about Paul Vario. He wasn’t loyal to Tommy DeSimone.

He was loyal to money. He was loyal to power. He was loyal to staying alive. Tommy was a good earner, sure.

Tommy brought in cash from hijackings and robberies. But Tommy was also a liability. He was violent, unpredictable, and now he had killed a made man without permission. If the Gambinos found out, they’d demand justice.

And if Vario didn’t give them Tommy, they’d come for everyone. Vario’s crew, Vario’s operations, maybe even Vario himself. So if Henry had confessed, Vario would have done the math. One body to prevent a war.

One volatile, dangerous associate to protect an entire operation. The decision would have been easy. Vario would have killed Tommy DeSimone in 1970. But how?

You can’t just walk up and shoot a guy in your own crew without causing problems. Even if Tommy deserved it, even if everyone knew he’d violated the rules, you still needed approval. So Vario would have gone to his bosses in the Lucchese family. He would have explained the situation.

Tommy DeSimone killed Billy Bats, a Gambino soldier, without authorization. The Gambinos are going to find out, and when they do, they’re going to want blood. Vario would have asked for permission to give them Tommy. Clean it up before it becomes a war.

The Lucchese leadership would have agreed, because in 1970 the Gambino and Lucchese families had a strategic alliance. They worked together. They respected each other’s territories. They didn’t start wars over one soldier.

So the bosses would have told Vario: “Handle it. Make it quiet, and make sure the Gambinos know we’re cooperating. ”

Then Vario would have reached out to the Gambinos directly, probably through a sitdown, probably with a mediator from the Commission. Vario would have said: “We know what happened to Billy Bats.

We know who did it, and we’re giving him to you. ”

That’s how the mafia worked. When someone violated the rules, you handed them over. You showed respect.

You prevented escalation. And you protected your own operation. Tommy DeSimone would have been told he was getting made. That’s the classic setup.

You tell a guy he’s about to become a made man, the highest honor in the mafia. You tell him to dress nice, meet at a specific location, and come alone. Tommy would have believed it. He’d been waiting for this his whole life.

He would have walked into that room thinking he was about to become untouchable. Instead, he would have been shot in the head, probably by someone from the Gambino family, probably by someone who knew Billy Bats personally. The Lucchese family would have watched. They would have sanctioned it.

And they would have walked away clean. Tommy DeSimone would have died in 1970 instead of 1979. Nine years earlier. Before the Lufthansa heist.

Before the body count got worse. Before everything fell apart. And what about Jimmy Burke? Jimmy helped kill Billy Bats.

He held him down while Tommy beat him. He helped bury the body. So why wouldn’t the Gambinos want Jimmy dead too? Because Jimmy was valuable.

Jimmy Burke was one of the best earners in the Lucchese family. He ran hijacking crews at JFK Airport. He had connections with unions, with truck drivers, with cargo handlers. He made millions for the family.

And unlike Tommy, Jimmy wasn’t a hothead. He was strategic. He was disciplined. He killed when necessary, not when he was angry.

So if Vario went to the Gambinos and said, “We’re giving you Tommy, but we need to keep Jimmy,” the Gambinos might have agreed, especially if Jimmy delivered something valuable in return. Money. Information. A future favor.

The mafia was a business, and businesses make deals. But here’s the thing. If Tommy died in 1970, Jimmy Burke’s entire operation would have changed. Tommy was one of Jimmy’s best guys.

Tommy was fearless. He was willing to do the dirty work. He was the muscle Jimmy needed for high-risk jobs. Without Tommy, Jimmy’s crew would have been weaker, smaller, more vulnerable.

And that means some of the biggest crimes in mafia history might never have happened. The Lufthansa heist, December 11, 1978. Six million dollars in cash and jewels stolen from the Lufthansa cargo terminal at JFK Airport. The biggest cash robbery in American history at the time.

Tommy DeSimone was one of the robbers. He was on the crew. He was inside the terminal. He was part of the plan.

If Tommy had been dead for eight years by 1978, Jimmy Burke would have needed someone else to fill that role. Maybe he would have found someone. Maybe he wouldn’t have. But without Tommy, the crew’s dynamic changes.

The trust level changes. The risk calculation changes. And maybe, just maybe, the Lufthansa heist never happens. And if the Lufthansa heist never happens, Jimmy Burke doesn’t become paranoid.

He doesn’t start killing everyone involved. He doesn’t murder Stacks Edwards for leaving fingerprints in the getaway van. He doesn’t kill Martin Krugman, the man who brought the potential heist score. He doesn’t kill Parnell Edwards, Louis Cafora, Joe Manri.

The body count doesn’t pile up. And Henry Hill doesn’t become a witness against the crew. Because without the Lufthansa heist, there’s no FBI investigation, no pressure, no reason for Henry to flip. Paul Vario would have avoided prison.

Jimmy Burke would have kept earning. Henry Hill would have stayed loyal. And the story that became Goodfellas would have been completely different. But Tommy’s death in 1970 would have done something else.

It would have sent a message to every associate, every soldier, every wannabe wiseguy in New York. The message would have been clear: you kill a made man without permission, you die. No exceptions. No second chances.

Doesn’t matter who you work for. Doesn’t matter how much money you make. You violate the rules, you pay the price. And that message might have prevented other murders, because guys like Tommy DeSimone weren’t unique.

There were dozens of violent, impulsive, dangerous associates running around New York in the 1970s. Guys who thought they were untouchable because they had a crew behind them. Guys who killed first and asked questions later. But if they saw Tommy get whacked for killing Billy Bats, they might have thought twice.

They might have shown restraint. They might have followed the rules. Or maybe not. Because the mafia in 1970 was already breaking down.

The old rules were fading. The Commission was losing power. Families were fighting each other over territory, over money, over respect. The five families were becoming more fractured, more violent, more chaotic.

And guys like Tommy DeSimone were the future. Reckless, brutal, willing to break any rule to get ahead. So maybe Tommy’s death wouldn’t have changed anything. Maybe someone else would have killed a made man.

Maybe the Gambinos would have retaliated anyway. Maybe the violence would have escalated no matter what Paul Vario did. But here’s what we know for sure. Paul Vario was a pragmatist.

He wasn’t sentimental. He didn’t protect people out of loyalty. He protected his operation. And if giving up Tommy DeSimone in 1970 meant avoiding a war with the Gambino family, he would have done it without hesitation.

Henry Hill knew this. That’s why he didn’t tell the truth. Because once Henry said Tommy’s name, Tommy was dead. And Henry would have been responsible.

He would have been the guy who gave up his friend. He would have been the rat. Even though Tommy deserved it. Even though Tommy had violated the most sacred rule in the mafia, Henry couldn’t do it.

Not then. Not in 1970. He also knew Tommy was close to Burke, and Burke wouldn’t spare him if he became a rat. But nine years later, in 1979, someone did.

Someone told the Gambino family that Tommy DeSimone had killed Billy Bats and Ronald Jerothe, another Gambino associate. And someone gave Tommy up. Most people believe it was Paul Vario. Because by 1979, Vario had plenty of reasons to want Tommy dead.

Tommy had attempted to rape Henry Hill’s wife, Karen, with whom Vario was having an affair. Tommy had lifted his ski mask during the Lufthansa heist, putting the entire operation at risk. Tommy had become too dangerous, too unpredictable, too much of a liability. So Vario allegedly told John Gotti, a rising Gambino captain and a close friend of Billy Bats, that Tommy was about to be made.

And Gotti allegedly killed him. On January 14, 1979, Tommy DeSimone walked into an apartment in Queens thinking he was about to become a made man. He never walked out. His body was never found.

Some claim that Gotti shot Tommy three times in the head, and that Tommy’s death was instantaneous. But other accounts say Gotti tortured Tommy first, that he made Tommy suffer because Jerothe had been Gotti’s friend. After killing Bats, Tommy had killed another connected man, Ronald “Foxy” Jerothe, a Gambino associate close to Gotti, because Jerothe had threatened to reveal Tommy’s secrets if Tommy didn’t stop dating his sister. So Gotti wanted Tommy to feel every second of pain before he died.

Either way, Tommy DeSimone was dead. Nine years after he killed Billy Bats. A few years after killing Foxy. Nine years after Paul Vario could have stopped everything by giving him up.

Nine years too late. Would Tommy have died quietly, quickly, efficiently? Would the Gambino family have been satisfied with one body instead of waiting nine years for revenge? Would Paul Vario’s crew have survived intact?

Would the Lufthansa heist have happened? Would Goodfellas even exist? We’ll never know, because Henry Hill protected Tommy, and Tommy lived for nine more years. And in those nine years, Tommy committed more murders, more robberies, more violence.

He killed Michael “Spider” Gianco, a bartender who talked back to him. He killed Stanley Diamond during a beating that went too far. He killed Dominic Remo Casini on Jimmy Burke’s orders. He killed Ronald Jerothe.

And every one of those murders brought more heat, more attention, more danger to Paul Vario’s crew. Tommy DeSimone was a ticking bomb, and Paul Vario knew it. But Vario didn’t act. Not in 1970, not when he had the chance.

Maybe because Henry didn’t give him the full story. Maybe because Vario thought he could control Tommy. Maybe because Vario didn’t realize how dangerous the situation was. But by the time Vario finally gave Tommy up in 1979, it was too late.

The damage was done. The Lufthansa heist had brought the FBI down on everyone. Jimmy Burke was killing witnesses left and right. Henry Hill was about to flip.

And Paul Vario’s entire operation was about to collapse. On May 3, 1988, Paul Vario died in federal prison. He was seventy-three years old. He had been convicted of extortion, fraud, and conspiracy.

He had spent his final years in a cell, his empire destroyed, his reputation ruined. Henry Hill’s testimony had put him there. The same Henry Hill who once had the chance to stop everything by telling Vario the truth about Billy Bats. The same Henry Hill who chose loyalty over survival.

The same Henry Hill who eventually chose survival over loyalty when it was too late to matter. In the mafia, loyalty is a weapon. It’s used to manipulate you, to control you, to make you take risks you shouldn’t take. Paul Vario demanded loyalty from Henry Hill, but Vario wasn’t loyal to Tommy DeSimone.

He used Tommy until Tommy became a problem. Then he gave him up. That’s how the mafia worked. Loyalty flowed up, never down.

If Henry Hill had understood that in 1970, if he had told Vario the truth about Billy Bats, Tommy would have died and Henry might have lived free. No witness protection. No testimony. No life on the run.

He would have been the guy who did the right thing, the guy who followed the rules, the guy who prevented a war. But Henry chose friendship. And friendship in the mafia is a death sentence, because eventually everyone betrays everyone. It’s just a matter of time.

Tommy DeSimone betrayed the rules by killing a made man. Paul Vario betrayed Tommy by giving him to the Gambinos. Henry Hill betrayed everyone by becoming an informant. Jimmy Burke betrayed his entire crew by killing them after the Lufthansa heist.

And the mafia itself betrayed the idea that honor and loyalty meant anything in a world built on violence and greed. So what if Henry Hill had told Paul Vario the truth about Billy Bats in 1970? Tommy would have died quietly. The Gambinos would have been satisfied.

Paul Vario’s crew might have survived. The Lufthansa heist might never have happened. And Henry Hill would have learned the most important lesson in the mafia nine years early: in this life, you protect yourself first, because no one else will. That’s the story.

A decision that never happened. A confession that was never made. A betrayal that came nine years too late.

And the bloody trail of bodies left behind because one man chose loyalty over survival in a world where survival was the only thing that mattered.