1972, NYC. I knew Sal Naturile—a first-hand account of the actual Dog Day Afternoon.

Hot. Manhattan.
As the sweltering summer of ’72 dragged on, each day seemed more oppressive than the one before.

New York City continued its descent into a massive financial crisis, and that August the FBI took notice of me and tapped my phone.

304 W 75th Street, NYC

Cool apartment.
I was living in a building between Riverside Drive and West End Avenue—with my tuxedo cat named Maxwell—in apartment, 17F, on the top floor of 304 West 75^th Street. For a 21-year-old kid from Kansas, I was living in pretty rarefied air. I’d recently returned from a year on the road performing in a couple of plays, The Impossible Years and Send Me No Flowers.

The doorman welcomed me home and the elevator attendant took me up and down. Zabar’s, Citarella, and Fairway Market were just a couple of blocks away. A Chinese laundry on West 76^th Street took care of my shirts and socks and such. And businesses and restaurants in the neighborhood delivered almost anything I might need.

Paying for it.
While auditioning for plays (more rejections than hires) and for commercials (more hires than rejections), I managed The Penny Candy Store on Seventh Avenue and West 10th Street in Greenwich Village.

The store’s owner, Joe Manganello, lived across the hall from me in apartment 17H.

Stephen Brockelman in the original Penny Candy Store 1970; New York Magazine

The Phone Call.
That summer, something remarkable happened. Late in the afternoon on August 22nd—a Tuesday—the weather was milder than usual, the sky was blue, the air was clean, and I was in the West Village counting candy—Mary Janes, Sugar Daddies, Atomic Fireballs, Kits, Squirrel Nut Zippers, and the like. I received a phone call that afternoon that caused the FBI to tap my phone for a few weeks. The call was from one of my employees, a young man who was late for his shift.

It was about five o’clock that afternoon when Sal called the store. He sounded sincerely sorry—but not at all confused or excited—as he explained that he knew he was late but probably wouldn’t be coming to work at all. Because, he said, “We’re holding up a bank.”

I tuned the radio to WCBS. This is exactly what I heard:

I’d interviewed Salvatore Antonio Naturile (he was a slender 18-year-old, had dark hair and, curiously, a blonde mustache) for a sales job at The Penny Candy Store a few months before. The interview took place in Manganello’s apartment. Sal seemed like a passive guy, he seemed to want the job, and he could count change quickly and correctly. The variable work hours didn’t seem to conflict with anything else in his life. I hired him—he was a hard worker, polite, and always punctual. After a few weeks, he learned to up-sell from penny candies to big chunks of homemade fudge—chocolate, vanilla, and peanut butter—the real money-maker. His register was never short more than a few nickels or dimes, which he always offered to cover.

As Sal and I spoke, I began to hear clicks on the phone line. The clicks were a new development. As the number of clicks increased, his voice became a bit fainter with each of them.

“Can’t you just walk to the door and give yourself up, Sal? Come on, man. You know whatever you’re doing won’t work.”
“I’ve got to hang up. I think there are police at the back door. Tell Joe hi.”

He spoke matter-of-factly as if he were reporting inventory.

The real Dog Day Afternoon, news photo.

Sal hung up. I dialed Manganello, 724-4881. (No area code needed in those days.) After some unusual clicking on the line, Joe answered—I thought it strange that I’d heard a dial tone but didn’t hear his phone ring before he answered.

“Sal just called,” I said. “He’s robbing a bank.”
“Oh, shit. God, dammit. The one in Brooklyn? I’m watching it on TV.”
Joe paused; I waited.
“Close the store. If you need some cash take it from the register. Just leave and lock the door. We’ll talk when you get home.”

Heading north.
I took the subway—the Seventh Avenue IRT No. 1 train—from the Christopher Street-Sheridan Square as I usually did after closing the store. Walking up Broadway from the 72^nd Street station, I saw fewer people than normal. I learned later many folks were actually in bars and businesses—gathered around radios or watching televisions—waiting for the finale of the escapade.

Wojtowicz told the police to bring pizza because, he told them, the hostages were hungry.

Home, I grabbed a bottle of Tanqueray from my freezer and knocked on Manganello’s door across the hall.

Watching the event.
Joseph R Manganello and I drank gin and tonics as we watched the robbery unfold on WCBS TV. We called out for Chinese delivery from Hunan 79. We learned of the complexity of the event, the strange personalities involved, and more about someone named John Wojtowicz, who was apparently the “mastermind” of the heist. For the first time, we heard the robbery of the Chase Manhattan (now JPMorgan Chase) bank branch on the corner of East Third Street and Avenue P in Gravesend, Brooklyn was to fund the sex reassignment operation of Wojtowicz’s wife, Ernest Aron (later known as Liz Eden). According to a later report by WCBS, Naturile’s share was to finance his two sisters’ removal from foster care and separation from their mother, who—they reported—drank heavily, was abusive, and had neglected all three of her children for years.

Fourteen hours later, long after night had fallen and the last of the Kung Pao chicken had been eaten, we were still watching the ongoing coverage as it was announced that Sal had been fatally shot in the head, point-blank at JFK Airport by the FBI. He had been pronounced dead at the scene, CBS said. Joe and I just looked at each other in silence. I went back across the hall and went to bed.

The Mastermind.

A call from Kansas.
My mother had heard about the heist on TV, and she called me later that morning.

“Honey, that crazy robbery wasn’t anywhere near you was it?”
“No mom, it was a long, long way away,” I responded wearily.

We chatted for a while, and as we were saying our goodbyes, she said, “You really should call the phone company, Stephen. There’s a tremendous amount of static on your line.”

Confirming the clicks.
My suspicions about the noise on the phones was confirmed a few days later. Manganello knocked on my door. He had a finger in front of his lips in a shhh, don’t say anything sort of way. I nodded, understanding, but not understanding why. He said, “Let’s go for a walk.”

We were on Riverside Drive when Joe said, “I was taken to an FBI office for an interview. They asked if I suspected you knew anything about the robbery or about Sal. I told them I was sure you didn’t. They told me they’d been monitoring my phone, the store’s phone, and your phone since the afternoon of the robbery. Be careful.”

Joe walked into Riverside Park. I turned around and went home.

Three Septembers later Dog Day Afternoon was released.

Dog Day Afternoon, one-sheet. “The robbery should have taken ten minutes. Eight hours later, it was the hottest thing on live TV. And it’s all true.

UPDATE, September 28, 2025:
Look at what AI did with my story in less than 10 minutes. It’s all kinds of amazing:
https://brockelpress.com/2025/09/28/a-dog-day-afternoon-blog-post-and-mp3-and-ai-a-unique-exploration/