Epic Walking Tours’ Historic Village Walking Tour stops at the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village.
In 1966, the Stonewall Inn was just another shuttered Greenwich Village bar when it was quietly purchased and reopened—not by a gay rights pioneer or a visionary entrepreneur, but by frontmen for the Genovese crime family.
At the top of that family was Anthony “Fat Tony” Salerno, a cigar-smoking Bronx kingpin known more for numbers rackets and labor union strong-arming than the nightlife of downtown Manhattan. But for the Mafia, vice was vice—and if it could be taxed, skimmed, or extorted, it was profitable. The LGBTQ+ community, criminalized and harassed by police and society alike, offered an especially vulnerable—and lucrative—market.
Fat Tony didn’t hang out in the Village. He ruled from his headquarters at the Palma Boys Social Club in East Harlem, where he kept a low profile, dressing like a modest businessman even as he moved millions through gambling, loan sharking, and real estate. But the operations his family ran downtown were part of a larger strategy: dominate the city’s underworld economy from the Bronx to the Battery. In that structure, Stonewall was a tiny piece—but an important one.
The bar’s immediate operators were more hands-on types—associates like “Fat Joey” Gambino and Ed “The Skull” Murphy, a former convict who served as manager and doorman. Through these men, the Genovese family ran Stonewall as a cash-only, no-questions-asked club where gay patrons could drink, dance, and meet without fear of being outed—provided they stayed quiet, paid up, and tolerated the occasional police shakedown.
But to many of its patrons, Stonewall was one of the few places in New York where they could breathe. Drag queens, hustlers, transgender women, lesbians, and gay men of all backgrounds crowded inside, forming their own sanctuary in a city that had little interest in their safety—or rights.
Every night the register overflowed with cash. Thousands of dollars flowed from the Village up the organized crime chain, some of it undoubtedly reaching Salerno’s operation. The Genovese family had already figured out the math: gay bars, especially unlicensed ones, could be gold mines. They didn’t care about the politics or the people—only the profits. And Stonewall was a steady earner.
But the club’s existence rested on a fragile balance: police tolerance, paid protection, and the silence of its patrons. When that balance broke, everything changed.
On the night of June 27, 1969, NYPD officers raided the Stonewall Inn—something they’d done before. But this time, the crowd didn’t disperse. Patrons pushed back. In 1960s New York City, an informal ordinance—often enforced under broader laws against masquerading or cross-dressing—required people to wear at least three articles of clothing that matched the gender assigned to them at birth. Police used this rule to harass, arrest, and intimidate transgender and gender non-conforming individuals, especially in LGBTQ+ bars and neighborhoods like Greenwich Village. Though never officially codified, the “three-article rule” became a tool of systemic discrimination until LGBTQ+ activism in the late 1960s and beyond began to challenge and dismantle such practices. Word spread up and down Christopher Street: the police were cracking down again. But this time, people had had enough.
What followed was six nights of unrest—the Stonewall Uprising.
For the Genovese family, the riots weren’t just a public spectacle—they were a business liability. The bar was closed within days. Police attention and community organizing made the environment riskier. The idea that a mafia-run dive bar had become the birthplace of a civil rights movement would have been laughable to Fat Tony Salerno, who saw no politics—only payouts. But that was exactly what happened.
In the years that followed, Salerno’s name rarely appeared in public discussions about Stonewall. By then, he had bigger problems—federal surveillance, RICO investigations, and internal mob wars. In 1986, he was convicted in the Mafia Commission Trial and sentenced to 100 years in prison. He died behind bars in 1992.
Yet his shadow—and that of the Genovese family—lingers in the story of Stonewall. It’s a complicated legacy. The Mafia exploited the LGBTQ+ community for profit, using secrecy and blackmail to maintain control. But by doing so, they inadvertently created the spaces where community could form, where resistance could begin. The mob ran the Stonewall Inn, but they never expected a revolution to be born on their grounds.
Today, a plaque outside the Stonewall National Monument remembers the uprising as a turning point in LGBTQ+ history. Tourists take photos. Activists leave flowers. The bar is now a symbol of pride, not exploitation.
But it’s worth remembering that in the 1960s, safety had a price—and it was often paid to men like Fat Tony Salerno. That the patrons of Stonewall turned the tables that night—not just on the police, but on everyone who profited from their oppression—makes the rebellion even more remarkable.
In the end, what began as a mafia-run hustle on Christopher Street became the spark of a global movement for dignity and freedom. And not even the Genovese family could silence that.
