Rothstein (32 page)

Genius and nerve marked Fallon. No one was better in a court room, thinking on his feet, citing relevant-or, upon close examination, irrelevant-precedents. No one was better at improperly injecting ideas into a jury’s minds. Were his comments overruled by the judge and stricken from the record? Of course, but the damage had been done. Juries still heard Slippery Bill’s inadmissible, improper, and often unsubstantiated comments-and couldn’t help but give them credence. No attorney exhibited more daring in goading judges mercilessly-if it served his clients. And if all that failed, no member of the bar could more skillfully cause incriminating documents or witnesses to simply vanish. And no one tendered bribes more smoothly to amenable jurors.

Fallon was born just off Times Square, on West 47th Street, half a block from Broadway. He first earned his living quietly and respectably as an assistant district attorney in suburban Westchester County. But around 1918, something within him snapped. Fallon claimed he had wrongly convicted a man and couldn’t live with his shame. But that wasn’t it. Maybe it was drink, though it took him a few more years to become a roaring drunk. Or maybe Bill Fallon simply realized that there was more money and glamour defending crooks on Broadway than prosecuting them in White Plains.

Two early cases, both containing healthy doses of sex, guaranteed Fallon’s reputation. In early 1919, he defended former actress Mrs. Betty Inch, a blackmailer caught red-handed accepting hush money. Fallon positioned Mrs. Inch on the witness stand to expose her wellturned ankles. She won a mistrial. For her second trial, Fallon secretly built a high wooden fence around the witness box-then blamed prosecutors for its construction, charging that it spitefully meant to block sight of his client’s shapely legs. “This hurts,” he fulminated. “The insult of it! The shame! That civilization permits men to treat a beautiful, frail woman in this manner shows to what depths we have sunk since the age of chivalry. I have half a mind not to go on with this case!”

He did. The jury deadlocked again. It was the prosecution that gave up.

The following year The Great Mouthpiece defended twenty-eight yearold Ernest Fritz, a married cabdriver accused of brutally causing the death of twenty-four-yearold girlfriend, Florence Coyne, during a savagely wild petting session in his taxi. Fallon did everything from having the prosecution’s star professional gynecological witness reverse himself and appear as a defense witness to sneaking Fritz’s actual taxicab into the courtroom-and then not mentioning its rather large presence (a rather large and expensive mind game)-to calling the dead woman’s cuckolded husband as a defense witness. On March 9, 1920, a jury needed just three hours and thirty minutes to find Ernest Fritz not guilty.

Fallon made little money defending cabdrivers or penny-ante blackmailers. Money could be made defending New York City’s increasingly prosperous underworld. Fallon found Arnold Rothstein a steady and well-paying customer. After all, A. R. led a life full of precarious legal troubles, from shooting cops to fixing a World Series. A man like Bill Fallon could prove very handy.

On one level, the Big Bankroll and the Great Mouthpiece were a good team. In a world of boorish plug-uglies and musclemen, Rothstein and Fallon exhibited intelligence, wit, and daring. In their seamy worlds, they were the class of the field, but their relationship contained the seeds of major conflict: The Big Ego vs. The Great Ego.

Each tolerated the other, conceding his skills and achievements, but not liking, loving, or particularly admiring him. Fallon’s ego actually outpointed Rothstein’s. He scorned Arnold, goaded him, mocked him to his face.

Rothstein neither smoked nor drank, but worried constantly about his health, especially his digestion. No underworld figure ever drank more milk than Arnold Rothstein. Nor did anyone ever eat more figs. Arnold considered figs essential to his continued wellbeing, carrying a bag around with him, and replenishing his supply from an all-night fruit stand on his way home each evening.

Always knowing a man’s weakness, Fallon probed at A. R.‘s. One night he casually inquired as to whether Rothstein felt well, meaning to goad him into a rage. Of course he did, Rothstein responded. Why was Fallon asking?

“Aren’t you eating too many sandwiches?” Fallon inquired solicitously.

“What are you getting at?” A. R. wanted to know.

“Don’t you think you should go to Atlantic City [for a rest]?” The Great Mouthpiece suggested.

“I never felt better in my life.”

“That just goes to show how appearances can deceive. Are you sure your stomach isn’t upset?”

Rothstein grew angry-and defensive. Maybe, Fallon might be on to something. “I know it isn’t,” he cut him off.

“Then it must be your gallbladder.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” A. R. fumed.

“Is that what the doctor told you?”

“Hell no! I haven’t been to the doctor. There’s nothing wrong.”

“Is that what the doctor told you?”

A. R. could only repeat: “Hell no! I haven’t been to the doctor. There’s nothing wrong.”

“I hope you’re right.” Fallon rose to leave.

“What’s your hurry?”

“No hurry, only I’m not going to tax the strength of a sick man.”

“Who says I’m sick?”

“You say you’re not,” Fallon said, conceding the point-after having done his damage. “Certainly you should know.”

Their animosity degenerated into petty remarks about the other’s looks. One day Fallon commented to associates: “A. R. has mouse’s eyes,” a remark that infuriated Rothstein, since even meaningless remarks will infuriate those ready to be outraged. A. R. responded by repeating old rumors that Fallon cut his own hair-he had a magnificent red pompadour, but a reputation for being cheap about certain things-and then embellished it by speculating that he also colored it himself. When this reached Fallon (as Arnold knew it would), he retorted: “Did you ever see a mouse that had false teeth?”

To his associates Fallon continued on his mouse theme, jibing “Rothstein is a man who dwells in doorways. A mouse standing in a doorway, waiting for his cheese.”

Rothstein returned the animosity. A. R. employed numerous attorneys, but only Bill Fallon never was engaged to draw up or execute his will. “I can’t trust a drunk,” he told Fallon to his face on more than one occasion.

In 1920 Nicky Arnstein had to trust Bill Fallon. Nicky realized he couldn’t hide forever. Being on the lam was akin to sentencing yourself to prison. He resolved to stand trial and, with Bill Fallon representing him, he stood an excellent chance of freedom. However, he did not wish to await trial behind bars. If he surrendered, he’d need bail money-in a $5 million case, a lot of it.

Fanny Brice’s finances were at a low point. She couldn’t provide bail, nor were her friends willing to assist her, but Bill Fallon knew A. R. would. Rothstein would collect not only a handsome rate of interest from the Arnsteins, he’d earn something far more valuable: Nicky’s silence. Nicky Arnstein knew the rules of the underworld. If A. R. assisted him, he could never testify against him.

Brice and Fallon met Rothstein at the New Amsterdam Roof, where she appeared nightly in Flo Ziegfeld’s Midnight Frolics. “I’d be glad to take care of that matter for you, Miss Brice,” Rothstein said agreeably.

As usual, something in A. R.‘s manner annoyed Fallon. “You needn’t put yourself out, A. R.,” he interjected. “It’s all taken care of.”

Rothstein knew better. He also knew it was in his own interest to supply the money in question: “I happen to know that it isn’t. What do you think of that?”

“I could be arrested for what I think,” Slippery Bill snarled.

“That might be possible, too.”

“But it isn’t probable.”

A. R. wasn’t getting anywhere trading insults with the Great Mouthpiece, so he returned to the business at hand, bail for Nicky Arnstein, demanding an answer from Fallon in twenty-four hours. He warned-no, he threatened-that Nicky had been “spotted, and may be brought in at any time.”

Brice told Fallon to stop his games and accept A. R.‘s offer. Rothstein promised $100,000-in Liberty Bonds. Still Fallon couldn’t help needling A. R.: “Bet you’ll cut the coupons yourself, I suppose.”

“Yes,” A. R. replied, gritting his pearly white false teeth, “inasmuch as the bonds belong to me, I suppose I’ll tend to little things like the coupons.”

Fallon arranged for Nicky to surrender himself. Arnstein drove from his Pittsburgh hideout-his car breaking down in both Syracuse and Albany-to Mamaroneck, just north of Manhattan. There, Arnstein (sans waxed mustache) rendezvoused with Fallon (hungover, with collar soiled and face unshaven) and drove to Amsterdam Avenue and West 96th Street, where Fanny joined them. Meanwhile, Rothstein alerted Herbert Bayard Swope to Arnstein’s arrival, so Swope’s New York World might enjoy an exclusive story. Swope assigned reporter Donald Henderson Clarke to escort the trio downtown. However, Clarke got roaring drunk and missed the trip. World reporter George Boothby replaced him.

It was Saturday, May 15, 1920, the morning of Gotham’s annual police parade. Thousands of New York’s Finest marched down Fifth Avenue, and somewhere en route, a blue Cadillac landaulet chauffeured by Fallon and carrying World reporter Boothby and Mr. and Mrs. Arnstein joined them. As their car passed the official reviewing stand, Arnstein arose to doff his gray cap to Mayor John E “Red Mike” Hylan and Police Commissioner Richard Enright. Fallon and Brice restrained him.

Arnstein’s grand gesture was not entirely spontaneous or coincidental. In fact, he had previously written to Commissioner Enright requesting two tickets for the reviewing stand. Enright assumed it was a hoax.

Reaching District Attorney Swann’s office, Arnstein surrendered, but complications ensued. Swann had promised Fallon that Nicky would be released on $60,000 bond, but now Assistant District Attorney Dooling asked judge Thomas C. T. Crain to set bail at $100,000. Crain split the difference at $75,000. Fallon groveled before A. R. for the additional $15,000, but he got it.

That liberated Arnstein from state clutches, but authorities now bound him over to federal bankruptcy court, which demanded an additional $25,000 bond, something no one had counted upon. Nicky, who dreaded spending a single night in the Tombs, now found himself in the stinking old Ludlow Street jail.

Meanwhile new troubles visited his wife. While Nicky sat incarcerated, Fanny waited at a nearby cafe, nervously amusing Bill Fallon, Harold Norris of the National Surety Company, and the World’s Donald Henderson Clarke (sufficiently sober to finally join the group). At some point, someone noticed that Miss Brice’s new Cadillac landaulet had disappeared-stolen. Inside the cafe was Michael Delagi, Big Tom Foley’s attorney. Fallon and Norris knew if anything crooked happened in that neighborhood, Delagi was somehow responsible. They rushed at him, berating him frantically. Delagi told them to go to hell.

Henderson remembered the magic word: “Rothstein.” “Look here,” he informed Delagi. “Go ahead and be mad at Fallon and Norris. That was not their car that was stolen. The car belongs to Nicky Arnstein. Nicky is a member of your club in good standing-if being charged with being the `master mind’ in a $5,000,000 haul counts for anything in your set-and he is being bailed by Arnold Rothstein. You knew that, didn’t you-Arnold Rothstein. And, besides, Fanny Brice has had enough trouble. Listen to her crying back there.”

“A. R. is on the bail?” replied a suddenly chastened Delagi. “Well, I don’t mind telling you a mistake was made. The guys that took that car didn’t know who it belonged to, see? They thought it was just one of those cars. And they’ll be getting busy in about five minutes changing it so its own mother wouldn’t recognize it. That is, maybe they will. Wait a minute.”

Delagi phoned a Lower East Side garage, where Miss Brice’s car was about to undergo considerable cosmetic surgery. He had called in time. It would be returned untouched.

A few minutes later, Brice’s vehicle arrived, accompanied by Monk Eastman and three of his associates. Eastman apologized profusely. “We’re sorry this happened,” he told Bill Fallon. “We didn’t know to whom the car belonged.” Then, as starstruck as any schoolboy-but considerably dumber-he asked to meet Fanny Brice: “Will you introduce us to the lady?”

“Introduce you blankety-blank blanks to a lady!” Fallon stammered. “I should say not.”

Fanny had her car, but still needed additional bail for her husband. As collateral for Nicky’s local bail, she had already provided Rothstein with rights to her town house and country home; to the royalties for several songs; to her 72nd Street dressmaking business, Lottie and Brice; and a lien upon her salary. Now he asked for more. The Tribune recorded his new price:

To ensure Arnstein’s appearance in the bankruptcy proceedings against him, Fanny had to part with the possessions that are most precious to an actress-her jewels. So the hands that the slender Jewess extended to Nicky yesterday when he finally was released were bare of all ornaments, except a platinum band, her wedding ring.

Before Swann’s office could try Arnstein, however, authorities brought him to Washington, D.C. to face trial on federal charges. One night, Arnstein and Fallon attended Washington’s Keith-Albee vaudeville house, where Nicky introduced the Great Mouthpiece to performer Miss Gertrude Vanderbilt. Fallon had a wife back home, but they had been drifting apart for some time. He already had his flings and would have more, but Gertrude Vanderbilt was as close to the real thing as a man like Bill Fallon, living in an increasingly tinsel world, would know.

Federal authorities wanted answers from Arnstein about the Liberty Bonds. Fallon instructed Nicky not to answer 447 of their questions, on grounds that “to do so might tend to incriminate or degrade” him. Federal authorities contended that, as a bankrupt, Arnstein had forfeited that right. In Arndstein v. McCarthy, the United States Supreme Court said he didn’t.

When Arnstein went to trial in the District of Columbia, Fallon brought in yet another hung jury. Mr. and Mrs. Arnstein appreciatively named their firstborn son in the Great Mouthpiece’s honor, and Nicky presented him with a ruby-and-platinum ring as a token of affection and gratitude. But federal authorities opted for another trial, and soon attorney and client had a major falling-out. Nicky grew edgy over his counsel’s unorthodox work habits, particularly alarmed by time spent with Gertrude Vanderbilt. Arnstein’s patience snapped when he learned that Fallon had given his ruby ring to Gertie-and she had immediately lost it in a taxicab.