A sign that the new-century Cosa Nostra is getting soft? "Jerry," the brother of a mob associate and longtime pal of wiseguys, thinks so.

"In the old days, the mob would never stop looking for you if you ratted them out," Jerry tells City Paper. "If you was in any place in America that the mob had connections to, you'd be killed!"

In the 1950s and '60s, Mafia soldiers and associates who talked to the law were targeted for death. Any mobster, anywhere in the country, was expected to carry out the hit if the informant was found to be living in their backyard. With 25 active and powerful Mafia crime families nationwide and in Canada that were willing to track down rats, gangsters-turned-government-witnesses from Boston and Chicago were gunned down on the streets of San Francisco and in Los Angeles, where they had gone to start new, mob-free lives.

"Now," asks Jerry, "who cares?"

When one crew of mobsters goes to jail, those who take over concentrate on one thing—making money. Going after ex-members who turned is costly, time-consuming and not something today's mob leaders prioritize. One big exception, however, is "if a guy is stupid enough to come back and he's seen, then he's gonna's get whacked here."

That's what happened to Mario Riccobene, a mob associate who testified against his brother, Harry "The Hunchback." After Harry and then-boss Nicky Scarfo went to jail, John Stanfa took over. Mario figured everything was ancient history and decided to leave witness protection. Bad move. In January 1993, Mario was shot to death sitting inside his Ford Taurus outside a South Jersey diner.

"Mario should of never come back," Jerry says. "He was around, so he got his. If he'd stayed in Elvis country, then he'd still be alive."

The current generation knows a lot about the program's shortcomings and figures having to live in Nebraska or Alabama without access to good Italian food, family, girlfriends and easy money from crime is punishment enough. The story of Joe Salerno helps cement that feeling.

A former New Jersey plumber, Salerno testified against his pals Scarfo and Phil Leonetti in a murder trial and before a Senate subcommittee on organized crime in the late 1980s. After that, Salerno and family went into hiding. One night at an Embarcadero restaurant more than 15 years ago, Salerno gazed out at the Golden Gate Bridge and the reflections of the San Francisco skyline sparkling in the bay and explained how much he missed Margate, Ventnor and his hometown.

"There is no place as beautiful as South Philly," the former mob associate said emphatically, as his eyes scanned one of the world's most picturesque settings.

In 1995, soldier-turned-witness Nick "The Crow" Caramandi sat in a beachfront Gulf Coast hotel and talked about how much he missed the South Philly mob life. He hated living in places like Colorado and Alabama, where he had nothing in common with the locals.

"If I had to do it over again, I wouldn't," he said, "I'd stay in Philly and take my chances with the mob. The witness protection program is bad. And it don't work."

So, anyway, what about Previte?

"Nobody's gonna go out of their way to find that fat piece of shit," Jerry says of the one-time Philly cop who'd talked about moving to the Carolinas to start a legitimate business after the trial. "But if he starts hanging out in Jersey or in Philly, he's not gonna be around for long. That's just my guess."

Good news and strong brew for the patrons of the J&F coffee shop, the Ninth and Moore establishment that was shuttered last month by L&I for illegal gambling. The reputed mob hangout is open for business and although the video-poker machines are gone, card games continue.

"They're just a bunch of old guys playing," a source says. "They moved stuff around inside the store so you can't see the card table when you first come inside. But they're still gambling. It's just cards."