If you’ve watched Martin Scorsese’s three-and-a-half-hour epic The Irishman, you probably remember the first time Robert De Niro and Al Pacino speak on the phone. Pacino, playing the legendary Teamsters leader Jimmy Hoffa, utters four words that carry a lot of weight: "I heard you paint houses." On the surface, it sounds like a weirdly specific career inquiry. But in the world of the 1950s mob, it was anything but home renovation.
So you paint houses basically meant you were a contract killer. The "paint" wasn't Sherwin-Williams; it was the blood that splattered on the walls after a hit. It's a grizzly metaphor. Honestly, it’s one of those bits of underworld slang that feels almost too cinematic to be real, yet it became the cornerstone of Frank "The Irishman" Sheeran’s confession.
Sheeran’s response in the film—"I also do my own carpentry"—refers to making the coffins or disposing of the bodies. It’s a chilling exchange. But while the movie made the phrase a pop culture phenomenon, the truth behind the man who claimed to "paint houses" is far more complicated and controversial than a Hollywood script suggests.
The Man Behind the Metaphor
Frank Sheeran wasn't a born mobster. He was a guy from Philadelphia who served over 400 days of combat in World War II. That’s a massive amount of time on the front lines. Experts often point to this period as the moment Sheeran became desensitized to killing. When he came home, he drove trucks. He was a big guy. He was intimidating. Eventually, he met Russell Bufalino, the head of the Bufalino crime family.
Charles Brandt, a former prosecutor and the author of I Heard You Paint Houses, spent years interviewing Sheeran. This is where the story gets sticky. Brandt’s book is the primary source for the claim that Sheeran killed Jimmy Hoffa.
It’s important to realize that the FBI never officially "closed" the Hoffa case based on Sheeran's word. Some people believe him. Others, like former FBI agent Robert Garrity, who led the "Caseat" investigation into Hoffa’s disappearance, remained skeptical.
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What Really Happened in Detroit?
On July 30, 1975, Jimmy Hoffa vanished from the parking lot of the Machus Red Fox restaurant in Bloomfield Township, Michigan. He was supposed to meet two mob figures: Anthony "Tony Jack" Giacalone and Anthony "Tony Pro" Provenzano. He never came home.
Sheeran claimed he was the one who drove Hoffa to a house nearby, walked in behind him, and put two bullets in the back of his head. According to the book, the "paint" was cleaned up, the body was taken to a crematorium, and the mystery was solved.
But here’s the problem.
In 2004, the FBI actually pulled up the floorboards of the house Sheeran identified. They found bloodstains. For a moment, the world thought the mystery was over. Then the DNA results came back. The blood wasn't Hoffa's. It was human, but it didn't match the labor leader.
This is where the "So you paint houses" narrative starts to show some cracks. Was Sheeran a high-level mob associate? Absolutely. Did he know who killed Hoffa? Almost certainly. But was he the literal painter in that specific room?
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The Language of the Underworld
Mobsters rarely use direct language. They don't say "I want you to murder this guy at 4 PM." That's how you end up in a federal penitentiary on a RICO charge. Instead, they use "euphemisms."
"Taking care of a problem."
"Going for a ride."
"Straightening things out."
The phrase so you paint houses fits perfectly into this linguistic tradition. It provides "plausible deniability." If a phone line is tapped, "painting a house" sounds like a business transaction. Even if the cops know what it means, it's harder to prove in front of a jury than a direct order to kill.
However, many mob historians, like Selwyn Raab—the guy who wrote the definitive history of the Five Families—argue that "painting houses" wasn't actually a common term. He suggests it might have been specific to the Bufalino circle or even something Sheeran and Brandt emphasized to give the book its "hook."
Why the Story Endures
Despite the forensic evidence—or lack thereof—the story of Frank Sheeran remains a focal point of American true crime. Why? Because it offers an ending.
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Humans hate a vacuum. For decades, the Hoffa disappearance was the greatest "whodunnit" in American history. People suggested he was buried under the end zone at Giants Stadium. Some thought he was put through a car compactor. Sheeran’s story, while possibly flawed, gives us a name and a face.
The movie The Irishman isn't just about a hitman; it's about the passage of time and the loneliness of a man who outlived all his friends and enemies. It uses the "painting houses" motif to show how a person can trade their soul for a seat at the table.
Actionable Insights for True Crime Buffs
If you're digging into the history of Sheeran, Hoffa, and the "painting houses" phenomenon, don't just take the movie as gospel. Scorsese is a master, but he's a storyteller, not a historian.
- Read "The Hoffa Wars" by Dan Moldea. Moldea is widely considered the top expert on the Hoffa disappearance. He famously confronted Robert De Niro about the inaccuracies in Sheeran’s story. He believes Sheeran was involved but wasn't the shooter.
- Check the FBI’s "Hoffex" Memo. This is a 1976 document that outlines the primary suspects. It’s a fascinating look at what the government actually knew just months after Hoffa vanished.
- Look into the Bufalino Crime Family. Everyone talks about the Gambinos or the Genoveses, but the Bufalinos (based in Northeastern Pennsylvania) were incredibly powerful and secretive. Understanding Russell Bufalino is key to understanding why Sheeran was even in the room.
- Compare the forensics. Research the 2004 forensic sweep of the Detroit house. Seeing the discrepancy between Sheeran's confession and the DNA evidence provides a necessary reality check.
The truth is rarely as clean as a fresh coat of paint. Whether Frank Sheeran was the ultimate hitman or a man looking for late-life relevance, the phrase so you paint houses has secured its place in the lexicon of American crime. It serves as a grim reminder that in certain circles, the most innocent-sounding words can be the most dangerous.
To get the full picture, look beyond the screen. Focus on the grand jury testimonies from the 70s and the conflicting accounts of mob turncoats like Nicholas "Little Nicky" Caramandi. The real story isn't found in a single confession, but in the messy, contradictory reports of those who lived through the era.