Rothstein (3 page)

“There are phone calls for him. They are wanting `Mr. Rothstein,’ or `Arnold,’ or `A. R.’,” Scher would later recount in classic Damon Runyon Guys-and-Dolls present tense. “I do not ask who is wanting him. One thing I do not do is to be asking questions. In my business you mind your own business, understand?

“Anyhow, this last call comes, it must be maybe a quarter after ten. I tell him he is wanted and he goes to the telephone. He talks maybe a minute…. Did I hear anything? … The way he talks, you could stand right beside him and not hear anything. Besides, who listens?”

Arnold Rothstein listened to the voice on the phone. Putting on his hat and coat, he said. “I’m going over to see McManus. I’ll be back in a halfhour.”

McManus was George “Hump” McManus-not one of A. R.‘s more satisfied customers. In recent months, A. R. had substantially lengthened his list of dissatisfied customers. Arnold always possessed two minds regarding the repayment of obligations. Money owed him was to be remitted promptly-and to that end A. R. was not above employing threats or actual violence. “God help you if you don’t,” he invariably responded when debtors promised repayment. He never spoke more sincerely regarding the Deity.

When Arnold owed others, however, he proved notoriously laggard, and in recent months, he grew slower still. His luck had turned bad. At Belmont Park on Memorial Day he lost $130,000. His sizable Long Island real estate holdings had proven disastrous. Despite his “Big Bankroll” reputation, Rothstein had always played it close to the vest financially. He put his cash to work feverishly in scheme after scheme, keeping little in reserve. Paying debts often involved rushing about to secure cash. As he grew wealthier, his situation became more difficult, not less.

Capping Rothstein’s recent setbacks were huge losses in a spectacular three-day long craps and poker session. A. R. had pretty much invented the floating crap game, much as he had either invented or perfected a lot of things: rumrunning, labor racketeering, the modern drug trade. All in all, he invariably stood ready to do business, to act as middleman, to be available, for anything profitable. “Rothstein,” said his most prominent attorney. “The Great Mouthpiece,” William J. Fallon. “is a man who dwells in doorways. A mouse standing in a doorway, waiting for his cheese.”

At the game in question, back in early September, Arnold Rothstein acted not as middleman, but as active participant-and biggest loser. The action transpired in Apartment 32 of the Congress Apartments at 54th Street and Seventh Avenue-home of small-time gambler Jimmy Meehan. The twenty-five-yearold Meehan bragged he was a “commission broker,” hinting his “commissions” came from hosting various games of chance. Jimmy rented his apartment on a modest hourly basis. For this game, arranged by George McManus, Meehan received $10 an hour.

Besides A. R., McManus, and Meehan, several other professional gamblers participated: Arkansas-born Alvin C. “Titanic” Thompson; Meyer Boston and his brother Sam (Sam used his Wall Street brokerage house as a front for the brothers’ gambling activities); upstater “Red Martin” Bowe; and San Franciscan Nathan “Nigger Nate” Raymond.

The story that Thompson had survived the Titanic’s sinking was apocryphal, but tales of his remarkable skills as gambler, con man, and golfer were not. Thompson often augmented skill with guile. “Over the years,” one writer so artfully noted, Titanic had “won the admiration of everyone who admires crooked gamblers by his willingness to bet large sums on anything, provided, of course, that the anything had been previously rigged.” Damon Runyon based his character “Sky Masterson” on Thompson.

The Boston brothers (so named for the city of their birth; their actual surname was Solomon) were longtime denizens of the Lower East Side. A 1912 report described short, pudgy loudmouthed Sam Boston as “a full fledged pickpocket and fagin … noted for his propensities as a seducer.” Handsomer and quieter, Meyer was playing pinochle for an astounding $500 a game.

Nate Raymond had been barred from Pacific Coast League ballparks for fixing baseball games. He was in town with his bride, the very minor Hollywood actress Claire Omley Ray. They married aboard a plane over northern Mexico, with heavyweight champ Jack Dempsey as best man.

Betting at the game in question commenced on Saturday night, September 8, 1928. It ended Monday morning. Each man started with $500 in chips, with bets in the hundreds-of-dollars range. But three hours after the opening deal, Rothstein raised the stakes. “A thousand I hold a higher spade than you, Titanic,” he challenged Thompson. A. R. won, and side bets in the thousands now accompanied each hand.

Outwardly A. R. maintained his composure. Rothstein was almost always calm, ever moderate in habit. While others cursed, chainsmoked, and swilled bootleg liquor to steady their nerves, “The Great Brain” sipped water, did not fidget or curse, did not smoke or drink, nor even chew gum.

On this long night, A. R. also did not win. It was not a case of bad cards. Almost always he possessed hands good enough to bet on. Invariably the competition held better. He should have realized luck was not on his side and quit, but he didn’t. Rothstein knew that the biggest bankroll-usually the house, but not in this case-holds an advantage as long as the game continues. Ultimately the odds turn, and the bigger bankroll outlasts the smaller ones. Rothstein counted on that. But the odds never turned.

While Rothstein lost, Nate Raymond won. Not surprisingly, Raymond wanted to walk away. Each time he attempted to phone his new bride and prepare his exit, Rothstein stopped him. “Arnold,” Nate begged. “this play is getting kind of rough. You’re in pretty far now. What do you set for the limit?”

“The sky,” A. R. responded. “I haven’t any limit.”

Rothstein continued losing. Finally, as everyone teetered into exhaustion, A. R. dared Raymond to cut the high-card for $40,000, the biggest bet on a high-card cut in gambling history.

“I wanted to go to the ball game,” Raymond later swore in court. “So I cut a card with him. Rothstein cut himself a deuce.”

It was over. Raymond finished $219,000 ahead; Joe Bernstein $73,000; Titanic Thompson $30,000. Hump McManus had lost $51,000; Red Bowe $5,700. Rothstein totaled his losses, which were almost completely in markers-his I. 0. U. s. He had lost $322,000, nearly $10,000 an hour.

Rothstein loved money and hated losing. And hating to lose meant making more enemies. “He was not a good loser,” related Meehan, who had known him for eight years. “He always wanted to win. That’s why he would never play the other guy’s game. He always waited for them to play his game. Then he would clean up a million, or maybe two million, and say `Good night, boys,’ and blow. But, oh boy, when they took him over the jumps how he squawked.”

Rage burned within Rothstein, an anger fueled by the growing suspicion that he-“The Great Brain”-had been cheated. It was ini tially a vague feeling. How could his luck be so abysmally bad? How could he possess so many decent hands and still lose time after time? At first, he couldn’t figure out how it was being done, but after a while he put together a theory. Nothing he could prove, mind you, but sometimes you don’t need exact proof. You just know.

By the time the game ended, Arnold Rothstein knew. Perhaps that’s why he challenged Raymond to that last bet-just to verify how crooked everything was. “That’s about $80,000 in stakes and $204,000 in side bets,” Rothstein hissed as he eased his way to the door. “I think, my friends, that some of you play cards with more skill than honesty-I think I’ve been playing with a pack of crooks.”

Such an accusation carried both injury and insult; for if the game was fixed, A. R. was under no obligation to pay his considerable debts.

“Why you low rat,” someone shouted, “this is one of the few games that you ever sat in that was on the level. You’ll pay, big boy, don’t you worry about that. Who do you think you are to call anyone crooked? You’re a welcher-You’ve been welching all your life, but you’re not going to welch this time.”

“Is this the way he always does business?” Titanic Thompson asked. This wasn’t what he had planned. “That’s A. R.,” McManus replied, hoping it would all blow over. “Hell, he’s good for it.” The other four Easterners, Sammy and Meyer Boston, Red Bowe, and Joe Bernstein joined McManus in comforting the out-of-towners. “You fellows want to sell your paper?” Bernstein laughed. “I’ll buy it at a discount.” Neither Thompson nor Raymond accepted his offer. McManus reassured them. “He’ll be calling you in a couple of days.”

Usually, that’s how it played out, but weeks passed, and Rothstein didn’t pay. To make things worse, he repeated his suspicions, telling his close associate, the gambler and confidence man Nicky Arnstein, that he had indeed been cheated. Arnstein extended his sympathy, but crooked games, cheating, and cardsharping were all part of the cost of doing business. Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. When you lose, you pay up. “Arnold,” Nicky advised. “rigged or not, you have to pay off. Even if it was crooked, no point to your advertising you were a sucker.” Damon Runyon also urged his friend to settle. “I never welch,” A. R. responded. “I’m just making them sweat a little.”

But Rothstein had truly decided not to budge. “I’m not going to give them a cent,” he’d say, “and that goes for the gamblers and gorillas. I can be found any night at Lindy’s, if they are looking for me.”

“And if I get killed,” he added nervously, “no one is going to get any money.”

As proprietor of the game, George McManus was morally responsible for seeing all bets were settled. George McManus did not like to sweat.

Some people did more than sweat. Calls flooded Rothstein’s office, demanding he honor his debts. Increasingly the calls became harsher, more vindictive. In October 1928 gunmen tried kidnapping Rothstein for ransom. Waiting in a parked vehicle outside Arnold’s West 57th Street offices, they mistakenly grabbed haberdasher Charles Winston, a fellow closely resembling A. R. A block later, they discovered their error and unceremoniously dumped their victim in Central Park. Rothstein convinced Winston not to go to the police. Later that month, outside the Fairfield Hotel, unknown assailants beat up a Rothstein bodyguard. Not wanting to share this fate, another bodyguard fled to the West Coast.

Jimmy Meehan was inside Lindy’s on the night of November 4th. As Rothstein left the restaurant he beckoned Meehan to follow. On the sidewalk, A. R. confided. “McManus wants to see me at the Park Central.” He then took his pearl-handled, long-barreled .38 caliber revolver from his pocket and gave it to Meehan for safekeeping. In New York’s underworld, a certain etiquette governed the bringing of firearms to a meeting. Sometimes, if your safety was guaranteed, carrying a rod was simply gauche. A. R. had determined that this conference merited disarmament. “Keep this for me,” he told Meehan. “I will be right back.”

At 10:47 Park Central service elevator operator Vince Kelly heard footsteps on the adjacent stairway. He saw a man “walking down slow,” holding his side with his arm. Maybe he was ill or maybe just drunk. “Are you sick?” Kelly asked.

“Get me a taxi,” the stranger responded, holding out a dollar. “I’ve been shot.”

Night watchman Thomas Calhoun and house detective Lawrence Fallon now came on the scene. Fallon ordered Kelly to find a policeman. Only then did Fallon take a good look at the man before him: “Sure, I recognize him. Everybody knows Arnold Rothstein.”

A. R. had indeed been right to take out life insurance.

A taxicab roared to the curb. Hotel watchman Calhoun had found Ninth Precinct patrolman William M. Davis a few blocks away, outside the Broadway Tabernacle at Broadway and West 56th Street. Davis placed an alarm (“like the [rule] book says”) to the 47th Street station house, commandeered a cab, and dramatically arrived at the Park Central atop its running board. “I get one look,” Davis will recount, “and I know who he is.” After all, most police found it useful to know Arnold Rothstein. It not only avoided unnecessary embarrassment, it often proved highly profitable.

“I ask him who shot him,” Davis continued, “and he says, `Get me home. The address is 912 Fifth Avenue.’ I start writing in my book. I ask him again, `Who shot you?’ He just says, `Don’t ask questions. Get me a cab.’ ” At 11:55 P.M. an ambulance, containing Dr. Malcolm J. McGovern arrived at the Park Central. “While the doc is looking at him,” Davis continued. “I am getting the names of all the witnesses. By the time I am finished, they are taking him away.”

In his pockets, Arnold Rothstein, possessed “only” $6,500-just $1,025 in cash.

North of Manhattan, in suburban Westchester County, Gotham’s Mayor “Gentleman Jimmy” Walker and his girlfriend, showgirl Betty Compton, dined at Joe Pani’s fashionable suburban nightclub, the Woodmansten Inn, the sort of place where gangsters and businessmen and politicians rubbed elbows, the type of establishment that stopped the entertainment on election night-just two days hence-to announce each district’s returns.

That Sunday night, bandleader Vincent Lopez, a Walker friend, was the nightclub’s featured entertainment. Walker had a table reserved near Lopez’s orchestra. Shortly after midnight, Compton cajoled the still very-married mayor onto the dance floor, kicked off her new slippers, and giddily asked Lopez to autograph them. Lopez borrowed a pen from one of the chorus members, a beauty named Starr Faithfull, to oblige.

A few tables away, a group of gangsters also celebrated. New York’s underworld often partied at the Woodmansten. One approached the mayor, whispered in his ear, and suddenly Walker’s gaiety stopped. His Honor threw some money down for the check, and told Betty Compton. “Come on, Monk. We’re leaving.”

Vincent Lopez knew something was wrong. “Are you all right, Jim?” he asked Walker.

“Not exactly.”

A band member took over the orchestra, and Lopez followed Walker and Compton to the cloakroom. While Betty freshened up, Lopez remarked, “Something’s happened, Jim. I noticed the `boys’ were acting funny.”

Walker just stood there, holding his girlfriend’s fur wrap. “Rothstein has just been shot, Vince,” he said. “And that means trouble from here on in.”