Bob Dylan's romantic account of this mobster's life conveniently glosses over the man's cold-blooded ruthlessness. (Lester Bangs called the song "one of the most mindlessly amoral pieces of repellent romanticist bullshit ever recorded".) But Dylan did get Gallo's death correct: he was indeed blown down in a clam bar in New York. And now his remains lie forgotten beneath a scraggly bush, his name half covered with dirt.
Between even locating this guy plus excavating the genealogy of Eleanor Roosevelt, your sleuthing has reached a new high…
If the bullets didn’t get poor Joe, the clams might have.