What’s in a Name?
Known by many names — A. R., Mr. Big, The Fixer, The Big Bankroll, The Man Uptown, and The Brain — Arnold Rothstein seemed more myth than man. He was the inspiration for Meyer Wolfsheim in The Great Gatsby, and Nathan Detroit in Guys and Dolls. He was rumored to be the mastermind of the “Black Sox” scandal, the fixing of the 1919 World Series. Arnold Rothstein was gambling, and Arnold Rothstein was money. He was Mr. Broadway and had his own booth at Lindy’s restaurant in Manhattan where he held court.
Donald Henderson Clarke was one of a few newspapermen that Rothstein was friends with. Within months of Rothstein’s death, Clarke wrote In the Reign of Rothstein, a memoir of the reporter’s friendship with such luminaries of the day as William J. Fallon, Nicky Arnstein, Fanny Brice, Gertrude Vanderbilt, Peggy Hopkins Joyce and Rothstein himself. Below are some of the personal observations Clarke revealed about Rothstein:
- He never smoked tobacco or drank alcohol
- His voice was mild and pleasing; his mannerisms graceful; his grammar was not perfect…And his wit was amazing
- When he first appeared in the news, Rothstein was a slim, young man of 26, with dark hair, a complexion remarkable for its smooth pallor — as if it never had to worry about razors — white, skillful hands, and amazingly vital, sparkling, dark brown eyes
- The Rothstein eyes were features above all others that those who met him recalled most faithfully — those laughing, brilliant, restless eyes glowing in the pale but expressive face
- He prided himself inordinately on his ability to read character
- In gambling, those who lost to him insisted that it was not skill, but good luck that won for Arnold Rothstein
Clarke went on to say, “And contrary to common belief, the underworld is inhabited exclusively by human beings. My picture of Rothstein physically is simply of a quiet, medium-sized man, inconspicuously dressed, in this restaurant or that, in this courtroom or that, or strolling on a sidewalk with a friend, frequently reaching down to snap the garter on his sock, his ready laughter revealing those white, even, artificial teeth, hardly whiter than his pallid skin, which was like a woman’s.”
Arnold Rothstein, unlike many of the underworld figures who would make a name for themselves in America during the 1920s, was actually born in the United States. In a brownstone on East 47th Street in Manhattan, Arnold was born in 1882, the second of five children. Shortly after his birth the family moved to a larger home on East 79th Street.
Arnold, whose parents Abraham and Esther were brought together in an arranged marriage, was considered different from his siblings at an early age. He was not a happy child or outgoing like the others. Arnold spent many hours alone in cellars and closets choosing dark places in which to play. At the age of three he had already taken a disliking to his older brother Harry. One night Abraham entered the boy’s bedroom to find Arnold standing over Harry with a knife in his hand. When the father pleaded for an explanation. Arnold simply replied, “I hate Harry.”
Years later Rothstein told a psychologist that when he was six years old his mother took Harry and his younger sister, Ethel, on an extended trip to San Francisco to visit her relatives. The first night she was gone Abraham found Arnold hidden away in a closet weeping uncontrollably.
“You hate me,” cried Arnold. “She hates me and you hate me, but you all love Harry. Nobody loves me.”
It was the only time Rothstein had shown any deep emotion during his childhood.
Arnold continued to live in Harry’s shadow lacking an identity of his own. He fell two years behind in grade school and found himself a classmate of his younger brother Edgar. This didn’t seem to bother Arnold who from this point kept up with his classes. Edgar would later recall, “I’d do all the homework and Arnold would copy it and remember it. Except in arithmetic. Arnold did all the arithmetic. He loved to play with numbers.”
When Harry Rothstein was thirteen he informed his parents that he wanted to study to become a rabbi. This decision delighted Abraham. Arnold, who had shunned his religious studies even more than his regular schooling, was chided by his father, “You should be proud of being a Jew.”
A defiant Arnold responded, “Who cares about that stuff? This is America, not Jerusalem. I’m an American. Let Harry be a Jew.”
After completion of two years at Boy’s High School, Arnold quit school for good in 1898 at the age of sixteen. He had found his calling in the streets. He began shooting dice for nickels and pennies and kept a record of his winnings. Arnold frequented pool halls, which in the early days of their existence were places where bets were placed and lotteries played. As gamblers waited around for the results there was usually a billiards table to occupy their time. Rothstein earned a reputation at the billiards table and his pocket money began to grow.
Rothstein became a regular at Hammerstein’s Victoria Theatre where a craps game was always in action every Monday. The popular game drew the likes of Monk Eastman and Herman “Beansie” Rosenthal. Rothstein’s success at the game and his growing bankroll made him a popular figure at the game and at other gambling spots. He soon began lending money to several of the players. For every four dollars he lent he collected five in return. If any problems arose in collecting the loans, Rothstein would turn to his newly found friend Monk Eastman. The bullet-headed thug, with a broken nose and cauliflower ears, met little resistance when trying to retrieve payments due Rothstein.
While building a reputation as a gambler and money loaner, while still only sixteen, Rothstein began to cultivate a friendship with Timothy D. Sullivan, Tammany Hall’s East Side political boss. Sullivan, known as “Big Tim,” gained his powerful political standing by delivering the democratic vote on Election Day. In return, Sullivan looked out for the people in his district, delivering coal and food for the needy, and helping others get jobs or legal assistance when necessary.
Rothstein became a regular at Sullivan’s headquarters. He ran errands for “Big Tim” and served as a translator for Sullivan’s Jewish constituents. Sullivan soon realized that Rothstein was a young man with a future. Meanwhile, Rothstein found in Sullivan the father figure he was desperately searching for.
As conflict continued in the Rothstein household, Arnold, now 17, took a job as a travelling salesman peddling headwear. He informed his not-too-disappointed father that he would be moving out. Rothstein’s work took him to upstate New York, Pennsylvania and West Virginia. Two years into the job he received a telegram while he was in Erie, Pennsylvania informing him that Harry had died of pneumonia.
Years later Rothstein would tell his wife Carolyn, “Somehow, I had the feeling that I was responsible for Harry being dead. I remembered all the times that I wished he were dead, all the times I had dreamed of killing him. I got to thinking that maybe my wishing had finally killed him.”
After the death of his brother Harry, Arnold made a serious attempt at mending the relationship with his father. He moved back home, worked at his father’s factory, stayed away from the poolrooms and even attended the synagogue. Arnold’s efforts failed. After an argument he left home again feeling that he was unloved and unwanted. He would never spend another night in his parents’ house.
Rothstein’s new home was the Broadway Central Hotel and his new profession was that of a cigar salesman, which kept him in close contact with gambling houses, hotels and saloons. His favorite hangout became a poolroom owned by John J. McGraw, the manager of the New York Giants baseball team. Here Rothstein honed his talents as a pool player and gained the reputation of being one of the best on Broadway.
During this period, the first decade of the twentieth century, Rothstein began working on his bankroll. He believed that by carrying a large sum of money, and flashing it, that it helped gauge his prominence. “Money talks,” Rothstein told a reporter. “The more money the louder it talks.”
In Leo Katcher’s fine biography of Rothstein, The Big Bank Roll, the author discusses Rothstein’s work philosophy:
“The cigar salesman made a good living. He lived frugally, did not dissipate. Each week the roll in his pocket grew a little thicker. He knew he could never attain his ultimate aim by simple economies, but these could start him on his way. He didn’t like long range projects. He was essentially a short-term, quick-turnover man.
“Rothstein pursued a fixed course. He worked at selling cigars until he accumulated $2,000. He decided that this was sufficient to base an entry into gambling as a profession. He quit his salesman’s job. He would never again work for anyone else. All the rest of his life, no matter what else he might be, he would always be a professional gambler.”
With “Big Tim” Sullivan’s backing, in 1902 Rothstein began working on his own. He booked bets on baseball games, elections, horse races and prizefights. In addition, he gambled on his own — shooting craps, playing pool and participating in poker games. Rothstein had a simple philosophy, “Look out for Number One. If you don’t, no one else will. If a man is dumb, someone is going to get the best of him, so why not you? If you don’t, you’re as dumb as he is.”
Rothstein was cautious not to over expose himself in bets. He found that the secret of winning was simply to have a large enough bank roll to be able to lose one more bet than anyone else could afford to lose. Rothstein continued to prosper from his gambling endeavors and he was still lending money at exorbitant interest rates. He began to invest his income in legitimate businesses as a silent partner. He became part owner of an automobile dealership and several drug stores.
By 1906 his bankroll had grown from $2,000 to $12,000. To flash his roll served as a sign of his ability and success and earned him respect in his chosen field. In 1907, he met his future wife Carolyn Greene, a 19 year-old actress. He once took her to dinner and spread his money out over the table. “This is going to make me important,” he told her. “I know how much money means. I’m going to have more and more of it. Nothing is going to stop me.”
Rothstein had selected his wife very carefully. Not a womanizer, he had Carolyn checked out thoroughly before presenting her to his family. At an uncomfortable meeting in his parent’s home, Abraham questioned his daughter-in-law to be.
“Are you Jewish, Miss Greene?” he inquired.
“My father is Jewish and my mother is Catholic. I have been brought up as a Catholic,” Carolyn replied.
“But you will change your religion if you and Arnold should marry, will you not?” Abraham asked.
“No, Mr. Rothstein,” came Carolyn’s response.
“If he marries outside his faith, he will be lost to me,” said Abraham.
Rothstein left his parent’s house for yet another time with a feeling of being unloved. His father’s wishes had no effect on his plans to wed Carolyn. On August 12, 1909 Rothstein and Greene were married in Saratoga, New York during the heart of horse racing season. Newspaperman Herbert Bayard Swope was Rothstein’s best man. Rothstein’s parents did not attend. When word of the wedding reached Abraham, he reacted by donning a prayer shawl and reciting the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead, for the second of his sons.
Rothstein had promised Carolyn that after he made a lot of money he would retire from being a gambler. Rothstein was comfortable discussing his philosophy of gambling with his wife, but never the actual mechanics, and certainly not the people he interacted with. At Saratoga he pawned all of the expensive jewelry he had given Carolyn to obtain cash. This was more lucrative than borrowing the money at a higher interest rate. By the end of the honeymoon, which coincidentally coincided with the end of race season at Saratoga, Rothstein had won $12,000 and got Carolyn’s jewelry out of hock.
Returning to New York, Rothstein decided to open his own gambling house. He rented two brownstones on West 46th Street and he and Carolyn took up residence in one, while the other was outfitted with roulette wheels, faro and poker tables. Rothstein then went to “Big Tim” Sullivan to discuss “protection.” Sullivan, an Irishman who believed in marriage and large families, was delighted that his protégé had wed. His wedding gift to Rothstein was protection, but with a string attached; Rothstein had to take on William Shea, a deposed building inspector, as his partner.
Shea, a self-proclaimed anti-Semite, distrusted Rothstein from the beginning of their relationship and felt that his partner was always cheating him. Rothstein, who Leo Katcher claims “made a lot of acquaintances, but few friends,” did not mix well with others and was constantly in the habit of referring to people as “chumps.” When a group of Rothstein’s detractors got together to take advantage of his pool playing vanity, a Broadway legend was created.
The group brought Jack Conway, a Philadelphia sportsman and accomplished jockey, who happened to be an expert pool player, to town. One night at Jack’s, a popular Manhattan hangout, Rothstein walked in and was invited to sit down with the group as they discussed baseball and prizefights. During this talk it came out that Conway was “probably” the best amateur pool player in the country. Rothstein, unaware of Conway’s background or that he was being set up, sensed a challenge and jumped at it.
The two men agreed to play to 100 points for $500 at John McGraw’s Billiard Parlor. The game began on a Thursday night at 8:00 p.m. By the time it ended, at 4:00 a.m. Saturday morning, some 36 hours later, Rothstein was rumored to have won over $10,000. The match received so much publicity that it was reported on in two of the New York City newspapers. In one account Rothstein was referred to as “a well-known sportsman.”
To increase the winnings at his gambling house, Rothstein was in constant search for what the gamblers called “marks.” A mark was a wealthy individual who enjoyed gambling and believed he could “beat the house.” One of the first “marks” that Rothstein was able to land was Charles Gates, whose father had become wealthy from the invention of barbed wire. Gates came in and dropped $40,000 at the roulette wheel and faro games.
Gates wrote a check for the amount and accompanied William Shea to the bank the following morning to cash it. By evening Shea had not returned with the money. Soon Shea sent word that he was keeping the entire $40,000 because he felt he had been cheated by Rothstein in the past. After consulting with Sullivan, Rothstein told “Big Tim” that he was going to let Shea keep the money, of which one third he was entitled to anyway, but that he had to sign a contract releasing him from the partnership. When Rothstein caught up with him, Shea was drunk and readily signed the papers thinking he had pulled a fast one on his “sheenie” partner. After Shea sobered up and realized the blunder he had made he went crawling to Sullivan for help.
“Nothing doing,” Sullivan told him.
Rothstein realized that using attractive women could be a great help in bringing in the marks. One of the women Rothstein utilized was Peggy Hopkins, a beautiful ex-show girl. One night Hopkins brought in Stanley Joyce, a man she would later wed, and Percival H. Hill, of the American Tobacco Company. While Joyce dropped $17,000, the unlucky Hill ended his night of gambling by signing over an IOU to Rothstein good for $250,000. Rothstein suffered through a restless night wondering if he would have any trouble collecting the money. Carolyn urged that if he did collect, that he keep his promise to her and retire from gambling. When morning arrived, Rothstein took a cab to the offices of the American Tobacco Company and collected a certified check for a quarter of a million dollars. Carolyn, however, did not collect on the promise made to her.
(Corbis)
By 1910 the unholy alliance of police, politicians and the underworld had been going on in New York City for half a century — at least. The political leaders were supplied by the unscrupulous national embarrassment known as Tammany Hall. The underworld leadership had passed from Monk Eastman, who was imprisoned in 1904, to William Alberts, better known as “Big Jack” Zelig. The main figure in the police corruption was Captain Charles Becker.
This combination began to self-destruct around 1912 based on two factors — the deteriorating mental state of “Big Tim” Sullivan, and the greedy single-mindedness of Becker. Sullivan had been institutionalized before being placed in a home in Williamsburg. On occasion Sullivan would slip past his attendants and return to his old stomping grounds in the Bowery or along Broadway. In September 1913 Sullivan disappeared after an all night card game with his guards. A few days later his body was found on the railroad tracks near the Westchester freight yards. An engineer stated that Sullivan was dead before the train ran over his body. “Big Tim’s” funeral was attended by more than 25,000 mourners.
Long before Sullivan met his maker, two men were trying to muscle in on his control of local gambling. One was Tammany Hall politician Thomas Foley, the other was Captain Becker. The rise and fall of Charles Becker would be a short, but spectacular one. However, his brief time in the limelight would be the subject matter of no less than three books.
Herman “Beansy” Rosenthal got involved in gambling around the same time Rothstein did. Despite the backing of Sullivan, Rosenthal’s operations were always a failure. He was not a particularly bright individual. With “Big Tim” in fading health, Becker decided to make his move on Rosenthal’s latest operation — the Hesper Club. Becker ordered Jack Zelig to collect protection payments. Rosenthal refused to pay and went to Florrie Sullivan, Tim’s brother, for advice. When Florrie suggested that Rosenthal hire some muscle of his own, “Beansy” sought out an ex-lieutenant of Monk Eastman, Bridgie Webber. No sooner had the alliance formed than word got back to Becker. Zelig and his gang invaded Webber’s clubhouse and destroyed it, nearly beating Bridgie to death in the process.
Florrie Sullivan’s next piece of advice was for Rosenthal to give in, which he did by making Becker a partner in the Hesper Club. The partnership was not an amicable one and Rosenthal let it be known — to almost everyone — that when “Big Tim” regained his health the matter would be straightened out. When Becker’s order for Rosenthal to keep his mouth shut went unheeded, the captain had the Hesper Club raided and “Beansy” was arrested and fined.
Shortly thereafter a Becker associate was charged with murder. Becker sent word to all the gamblers under his protection to fork over $500 for the defense fund. When Rosenthal refused, Becker ordered his thugs to administer a vicious beating to him. Rosenthal went to Tom Foley for help only to be rebuffed. Turning to Rothstein, Rosenthal was advised that he was fighting a losing battle. Rosenthal then turned to alcohol. With his tongue loosened by the liquor he told his story to Rothstein’s friend, newspaper reporter Herbert Bayard Swope.
This information soon got to the district attorney and eventually back to Becker. It was Rosenthal’s plan to just scare Becker; he didn’t plan to testify against him. He told Rothstein, “They can’t make me say what I don’t want to say.”
Rothstein responded by offering Rosenthal $500 to get out of town. The stubborn gambler refused.
Becker then got word to Zelig, who at the time was in jail, to put together a hit squad to kill Rosenthal. Zelig got out of jail and was given $2,000 to hire a team of killers to silence “Beansy.” After being threatened in a restaurant in front of his wife, Rosenthal finally realized the grave situation he was in. He went back to Rothstein to take him up on his offer.
“You waited too long,” Rothstein informed him. “You’re not worth $500 to anyone anymore, Beansy.”
On July 15, 1912 the four assassins hired by Zelig shot Rosenthal to death outside the Metropole Hotel. In just two weeks time all four gunmen were behind bars. They quickly ratted out Zelig as the man who hired them. Zelig was apprehended and turned government witness implicating Captain Becker, who was arrested on July 29. The trial of the four assassins was scheduled to begin on October 6, 1912. The day before, Zelig was murdered as he boarded a streetcar. Despite the loss of the state’s star witness the four men were convicted of first degree murder and died in the Sing Sing electric chair on April 13, 1914.
Becker was then tried in a highly publicized trial and found guilty. While his appeals were pending, Becker was desperately seeking help from Tammany Hall. Katcher informs us:
“Other forces, even more powerful, and other men, however, were no longer interested in Becker. His usefulness to them was over. They knew that changing times had caught up with The System, that it was now necessary to divorce the police department from direct control of vice and graft.
“It was not that The System was obsolete, but that this one part of it was. It was an essential part, so a substitute had to be found for it. A new kind of bag man, a new ‘man between,’ was necessary.”
With Sullivan in the grave and Becker soon to be executed, Rothstein’s new protection came from an even higher source — Tammany Hall boss Charles F. Murphy and his closest advisor, Tom Foley. The year 1913 was a watershed year for Rothstein — the year he would move to the top. This all came about due to his relationship with Murphy. The politician used Rothstein as the “man between” Tammany Hall and the underworld.
In 1910, as a favor to Foley, Rothstein bailed a confidence man out of jail. In doing so, he realized the high premiums that could be charged for this service and he went into the bonding business for himself. Rothstein began to work with reputable bonding and surety companies, paying them a lower interest rate for the money he borrowed than he charged for his own services. The risk he faced was potentially larger if a client decided to skip bond, but when jailed men were asked to give their word to appear at trial and were told, “God help you if you don’t,” Rothstein had few problems.
With everything Rothstein was involved in he handled himself with the air of a successful businessman. Murphy, Foley and James J. “Jimmy” Hines, a future Tammany stalwart, relied on Rothstein and his services, which included anything from posting a bond to having a ballot box stuffed. Rothstein became the conduit between Tammany Hall and the underworld and he was getting richer because of it. Leo Katcher writes:
“Lawyers, fixers, people in trouble, sought him out. He was a pipeline to ‘Fourteenth Street’ (location of Tammany Hall). If you wanted a favor from the Hall, Arnold Rothstein could expedite it, assure it, for you. And so you paid him.”
Rothstein took cash for everything he did. Soon he and Carolyn moved to an apartment at the corner of Broadway and 52nd Street. Their new home had eight rooms and two baths, as well as separate quarters for a butler and a maid.
During the early morning hours of May 16, 1917 Rothstein was enjoying one of his favorite pastimes — rolling dice in a floating crap game. The game was being held in a second floor suite at the Hotel St. Francis on West 47th Street. Rothstein, who was sponsoring the game, made sure all the proper hotel employees were tipped handsomely to make sure the game was not bothered. Around 3:00 a.m. five gunmen entered the hotel lobby after being informed by an accomplice who was participating at the dice tables. While two of the men stayed downstairs, the other three went up to the room and used the elevator boy, who doubled as an errand runner for the gambler, to get inside.
Rothstein knew most of the players in the room. In addition to professional gamblers the group included stockbrokers, doctors, actors, attorneys and businessmen. One man that stood out to Rothstein was a two-bit gambler who had the distinction of being present at several games that had recently been held up. As the masked gunmen entered the room Rothstein’s first reaction was to drop his bankroll, estimated to be $60,000, to the floor and kick it under a rug. His next response was to keep his eyes on the inside accomplice, who had seen Rothstein drop the money, throughout the whole ordeal.
When the robbers searched Rothstein and found just $2,600 in his watch pocket they angrily removed a diamond stickpin he was wearing.
“I’ll send you the pawn ticket, AR,” the gunman said.
“Don’t bother,” Rothstein replied. “I’ll have it back before the mail carriers arrive tomorrow morning.”
Rothstein never took his eyes off the man he suspected of conspiring with the robbers. When the gunmen left, he bent down and picked up the hidden wad of cash. As Rothstein had vowed he had his stickpin back the following morning. As he discussed the robbery with his friend Swope, the newspaperman poked fun at the gambler and told him the police were already aware of what took place and that they considered Rothstein “too yellow” to talk to them. Telling Rothstein, “They’re laughing at you, Arnold. The word is out that you’re buffaloed,” Swope finally got the gambler’s goat. Rothstein went to the police station and identified two of the robbers from mug shots.
On August 22, 1917 Rothstein appeared in court and testified against the two gunmen. Based on his testimony the two men were convicted and sentenced to Sing Sing. One of the men, Albert Johnson, cursed Rothstein and vowed to get him. Two months later Johnson escaped, but not before telling a cellmate that he planned to kill Rothstein. The police notified Rothstein of the escape. Although his friends advised him to leave town until Johnson was captured. Rothstein refused claiming it would make him look scared and that it would tarnish his fearless reputation. Despite the iron façade, Carolyn later revealed that he was afraid. Weeks after the escape a New York police officer informed Rothstein that Albert Johnson was killed by a security guard in Detroit while trying to rob a bank.
Less than two years later Rothstein was a participant in another floating crap game, this time on West 57th Street. The police were tipped off to the game and a raiding party showed up. One of the officers pounded on the door and shouted, “Open up, before we bust in.” The raiding party was dispersed by a volley of bullets that crashed through the door. Miraculously the gunfire caused only three minor flesh wounds.
The officers cried out, “This isn’t a stickup, it’s the police.”
The door was quickly unlocked and the angry raiders entered and arrested 20 men including Abe Attell, a Rothstein bodyguard and former featherweight boxing champion. The men were searched, but no gun was found. A patrol wagon was summoned and the men were escorted to it. As the gamblers were being loaded on, a bystander watching the procession pointed out to one of the officers a figure hiding on the second floor fire escape.
After the wagon took off, two officers re-entered the building and climbed out on the fire escape where they discovered Rothstein hiding with a revolver. Rothstein then drove the wounded officers to the hospital, where their wounds were attended to, and then back to the station house where he was booked on an assault charge. Rothstein then provided bail money for all the gamblers who had been arrested.
Despite the fact the police officers admitted they had made a mistake by not properly identifying themselves, an overzealous inspector, Dominic Henry, with the help of an assistant United States attorney, pushed for an indictment and received one on June 5, 1919. When the case was called Rothstein’s attorney requested a dismissal, which the judge readily agreed to. Later, one of the newspapers hinted that Rothstein had paid $32,000 to get the case quashed.
An investigation was called and in a bizarre twist of events Inspector Henry found himself indicted for perjury — convicted and sentenced to five years in prison. It would take the maligned police official until 1924 to get his life, finances and career with the police department straightened out.
While the incident showed the power of Rothstein’s influence, the publicity, which he always sought to avoid, troubled him.
By 1914 Rothstein was already on his way to becoming the go-to-guy for lay-off betting in the bookmaking business. Since its early years, America has had a love affair with horse racing — and betting on horse races. As placing wagers on the sport became more popular, especially in the country’s larger cities, the art of bookmaking, also known then as pool operating, became popular too. It was not until Rothstein came along to organize the various bookmakers that it became a huge money making venture. By the mid-teens Rothstein’s ever-growing bankroll allowed him to set the terms for what became known as the lay-off bet. This is the process of evening out a bookie’s slate when one horse has so much money riding on it that the results can break the bookie’s bank. He simply bet’s the other way with someone with enough money to handle the bet and the two split the winning percentage from the bets placed.
Rothstein was soon known from coast to coast as the man who could handle any lay-off bet. Assembling a loyal group of men who worked around the clock for their master, Rothstein’s ability to take care of this type of betting would last until his death.
Meanwhile, as the country moved through the 1910s, Rothstein’s gambling contemporaries in New York fell by the wayside. Having one of the few reputable gambling houses in the city Rothstein decided to close up shop because it had become too well known. In 1916 he opened a new casino in Hewlett, Long Island where the cost of “protection” was not nearly as high as in Manhattan. Both the building and the land the gambling house occupied were owned by a state senator who was recognized as a major political figure in the area. The casino was lavishly furnished and provided the gamblers, who arrived by invitation only, with the best in food and drink. All of the casino’s employees were required to dress in appropriate eveningwear.
Rothstein took advantage of what he termed “snob appeal” for his gambling den. “People like to think they’re better than other people,” Rothstein once told Damon Runyon. “As long as they’re willing to pay to prove it, I’m willing to let them.” For three years he allowed them to “pay,” to the tune of $500,000 in profits, before he closed the club in 1919 after the local authorities became greedy.
Rothstein did not remain out of the casino business for long. In 1917 he was approached about bankrolling a gambling house at Saratoga, which he did until closing his Long Island operation. Rothstein then opened his own place in Saratoga, which he named the “Brook.” The combination cabaret, gambling casino, nightclub and restaurant was described as one of the grandest of its kind. The Brook drew the wealthiest gamblers in the country. Katcher claims, “Rothstein wanted only the best people as customers. To him ‘best’ and ‘wealthiest’ were synonymous. He had no other gauge than money by which to judge.”
After the 1922 racing season was completed a reform mayor was elected in Saratoga. The candidate ran on a platform to rid the area of bookmakers and gamblers. Shortly after the election an “emissary” of the mayor-elect contacted Rothstein to let him know the new city leader was “willing to forget some of the promises he made.”
“How much?” barked Rothstein.
“You can take care of it for $60,000,” came the reply.
Rothstein shot back, “You go back and tell him to go to hell. Anyone who’d sell out a whole town wouldn’t hesitate to double-cross one man.”
The Brook was sold and, while Rothstein stayed clear of owning anymore casinos at Saratoga, he continued to bankroll various operations until he died. One of these gambling houses was the “Chicago Club,” which came into the possession of a group of investors headed by Charles “Lucky” Luciano.
Three events took place in Rothstein’s life that became legendary and created a reputation for the gambler that certainly preceded him and made him the talk of New York.
The first incident occurred in 1917. August Belmont owned a horse named Hourless, whose trainer, Sam Hildreth, was considered one of the best in the country. During the 1917 racing season Hourless lost in a three-horse race to that year’s Kentucky Derby winner, Omar Khayyam. Hildreth knew he had been outsmarted by Hourless’ rider, a dishonest jockey who dropped his whip during the race. When the New York season was over an enterprising track owner agreed to put up a purse for a grudge match between the two horses. On October 17, the day before the race, Rothstein decided to bet $240,000 on Hourless, but could not find anyone willing to handle a wager that large. Later that day, Rothstein received a telephone call and was informed whatever bet he was willing to place there was a man who would accept it — no limit.
Rothstein knew immediately that there must be a fix. He called Hildreth and voiced his concern regarding the sudden change of heart of the bookmakers to take his bet. If there was going to be a sucker in this race, it was not going to be Arnold Rothstein. At the last minute Hildreth changed jockeys and Hourless won convincingly. Rothstein pocketed a cool $300,000.
This bet was the largest Rothstein had won up until this time and he would exceed it twice in 1921. The first bet occurred on July 4. Independence Day was the second of the three big racing days that took place at the New York horse racing tracks (the other two being Memorial Day and Labor Day). On this holiday Rothstein was betting on his own horse, Sidereal.
Sidereal’s entrance in the day’s third race was a last minute decision by Rothstein. In fact, the horse was stabled at Belmont Park and the race was being run at Aqueduct. Rothstein sent Carolyn to fetch the horse while he maneuvered around the busy track drumming up business and, at the same time, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible so not to tip his hand. Rothstein “borrowed” as many as forty trackmen to do his bidding in placing bets on Sidereal. By the time the horse arrived at the track the paddock judge told the trainer he had beaten the deadline by a mere six seconds. Sidereal won the race and Rothstein earned the incredible amount of $850,000.
Weeks later, on August 20, Rothstein won $500,000 by betting on another of his horses, Sporting Blood, in the Travers Stakes. Rothstein had received some quality information about problems the favored horse was experiencing. He was quick to take advantage of the information — for which he always rewarded the provider well.
Despite the rumors that swirled about Rothstein’s horses, both Herbert Bayard Swope and Carolyn Rothstein insisted that he ran an honest stable. “Arnold was never mixed up in a crooked race,” Carolyn maintained. “He made his big winnings on races where he had superior information. He used every possible trick to find out more than anyone else and get the best odds.”
One of those who believed the rumors was August Belmont. Leo Katcher describes Belmont’s confrontation with Rothstein in his effort to keep him away from his racetrack.
“You know your reputation,” Belmont said. “It hurts racing to have you such a conspicuous figure.”
“What are you trying to say?” Rothstein demanded.
“You know what people are saying, Arnold,” Belmont replied. “And what they’re thinking. Half the country believes you were the man who fixed the World Series.”
Next to the “Night of Sicilian Vespers,” Arnold Rothstein’s “fixing” of the 1919 World Series is the underworld’s most popular myth. The reality is, however, as Leo Katcher claims, “He did not fix the Series. Rothstein’s name, his reputation, and his reputed wealth were all used to influence the crooked baseball players. But Rothstein, knowing this, kept apart from the actual fix. He just let it happen.”
The series between the Chicago White Sox and the Cincinnati Reds was won by the underdog Cincinnati team five games to three (at the time the series was best of nine). Eight players from the Chicago team conspired to throw the games due to their intense dislike of owner Charles Comiskey, who they considered a cheapskate. However, the American League did not respond until over a year later after the completion of the 1920 season. At that time all eight players involved were banned from playing baseball for life. Ban Johnson, the president of the American League, was certain of Rothstein’s participation in the fix and openly said so. To which Rothstein responded, “My only connection was to refuse to do business with some men who said they could fix it…I intend to sue Ban Johnson for libel…”
Rothstein traveled to Chicago to testify before a grand jury investigating the fixed games. Part of his testimony follows:
“The whole thing started when (Abe) Attell and some other cheap gamblers decided to frame the Series and make a killing. The world knows I was asked in on the deal and my friends know how I turned it down flat. I don’t doubt that Attell used my name to put it over. That’s been done by smarter men than Abe. But I wasn’t in on it, wouldn’t have gone into it under any circumstances and didn’t bet a cent on the Series after I found out what was underway. My idea was that whatever way things turned out, it would be a crooked Series anyhow and that only a sucker would bet on it.”
An attorney representing Comiskey and the White Sox believed Rothstein, as did the members of the grand jury. Despite the fact that Rothstein was cleared and never charged his name will forever be linked to Major League Baseball’s darkest hour.
Charming, aristocratic and worldly were all words that were used to describe Nicky Arnstein. Married to the popular singer and comedienne Fanny Brice, Arnstein was on top of the world in 1920 — but things were about to change.
Beginning in 1918 a series of robberies occurred involving Wall Street security houses. There was a basic pattern to the robberies. A messenger on his way to a bank or brokerage house, carrying as much as several thousand dollars in securities, mostly Liberty Bonds, would be stopped, sometimes beaten, and relieved of the negotiables. Despite the frequency of the crimes no precautions were made by the security houses to provide protection to the messengers. The losers were not the security houses that deployed the messengers, but rather the bonding companies that provided insurance to the brokers. While police seemed helpless in rounding up the thieves, the monetary value of the stolen securities by early 1920 was estimated at $5 million dollars. The police determined that a “mastermind” was at work.
On February 6, 1920 the police broke the gang when they apprehended seven men after $2,500 was stolen from another messenger. One of the men arrested, Joseph Gluck, after spending ten days in jail, felt he had been double-crossed, having been led to believe his bail money and lawyer would be provided by his “employer”. Angered by this turn of events, Gluck spilled out the details of the robberies to the authorities. The information revealed that many of the victimized messenger boys were actually involved in the robberies.
Gluck insisted that he knew his employer only as “Mr. Arnold.” Detectives flew into a frenzy surmising they had finally obtained information to put away the nefarious Arnold Rothstein. Their excitement was short-lived when Gluck could not identify Rothstein from a photograph. After giving a physical description of Mr. Arnold, detectives provided Gluck with a number of pictures from which he picked out Nicky Arnstein, who had often used the name “Jules Arnold” as an alias.
Detectives who were friendly to Rothstein informed the gambler of Gluck’s cooperation. Rothstein contacted Arnstein and advised him to leave town immediately. Arnstein fled to Ohio to hide out. A nationwide manhunt was begun for Arnstein, which, spurred by his marriage to Brice, filled the front pages of newspapers across the country. Meanwhile, as details of Gluck’s confession leaked out regarding Arnstein’s role as the “mastermind” of the robberies, Fannie Brice was quoted, “Mastermind! Nicky couldn’t mastermind an electric bulb into a socket.”
While Arnstein was in hiding Rothstein was preparing for his defense and fending off allegations that he was behind the robberies. Rothstein hired the legal team of William J. Fallon and Eugene McGee to handle the case. In a move that was indicative of Rothstein’s influence, he was able to establish a bail amount before he negotiated Arnstein’s surrender. Arnstein returned and gave up on his own terms, amusing himself by riding with Brice and Fallon down Fifth Avenue in New York’s annual police parade.
Rothstein’s generosity was not solely out of friendship. Carolyn later revealed that her husband told her, “They’re not after Nicky, they’re after me. A lot of people would like to tie me into this and some of them think they can get Arnstein to say something that would lead them to me.” Rothstein was correct in his thinking; however, Arnstein never revealed a thing. Despite promises of leniency, Arnstein always maintained his innocence.
Fallon successfully argued for the case to be tried in Washington DC as a federal crime punishable with a two year sentence, as opposed to a New York State offense in which Arnstein could face up to twenty-five years. The first trial resulted in a hung jury at which Arnstein did not testify. Before the second trial, Fallon ran off with a woman leaving McGee to handle the defense. McGee failed and Arnstein was convicted and sent to Leavenworth.
Throughout the remainder of Arnstein’s life he maintained he never knew the reason why Rothstein had helped him. There is much doubt that Arnstein was truly guilty and that Rothstein was involved in the actual thefts. However, no one doubted that Rothstein was the only man in New York who could have fenced the stolen bonds.
In “The Big Bankroll,” Leo Katcher gives us the following description/definition of the “bucket shop,” an operation which began shortly after the Civil War when railroad stocks flooded the market and were purchased by thousands of investors:
“The bucket shop was a cut rate, bargain basement securities supermarket. It operated on the layaway, or installment, plan, with very little down. Purchasers of stocks could buy on a margin as low as one point.
“The bucket shop was a brokerage house. It had the normal complement of tickers and a board on which prices were posted and they came over the tickers. In their early days the bucket shops were straight gambling houses.”
The bucket shops enjoyed their initial popularity from 1900 until the “financial panic” of 1907. After a decade the booming economy brought on by World War I began a second round of activity, this lasting until the market crash in 1929. The operations were not exclusive to New York City. Several successful operations had branch offices in other cities in the country.
While no dollar figures from the bucket shop operations were ever tallied, New York State bankruptcy courts did report that during one five-year period customers were bilked to the tune of over $212 million dollars.
Rothstein did not have a direct hand in the ownership of these bucket shops. He backed some of the major operations like Dillon & Company and E. M. Fuller & Company. These operations, although large and profitable, required less start up money. However, what they did require was protection. This is where Rothstein prospered. With Rothstein’s influence with the police, the prosecutor’s office and Tammany Hall, he helped protect the bucket shop operators from legal harassment and from regulatory laws that might be initiated in the state capital.
When a bucket shop operator was arrested, Rothstein would post bail and provide legal counsel. However, when E. M. Fuller & Company, an operation run by Edward Fuller and William McGee, went under costing investors some $5 million, a newspaper journalist, Nat J. Ferber of the American, investigated the losses, which resulted in sensational trials and media coverage — and Rothstein’s presence in front of a grand jury.
When E. M. Fuller & Company filed bankruptcy, all of the assets, as well as the two principals, disappeared. Fuller and McGee were hiding out in the Rothstein home riding out the storm. Once Rothstein hired the law firm of Fallon and McGee (no relationship) to represent them, the two men surrendered. This would begin a five-year long saga involving trials and grand jury hearings, with the case never really being resolved.
In the ensuing investigation prosecutors found checks totaling $353,000 made out to Rothstein, who was then called before the grand jury to testify. Allegations were made that the payments were either gambling losses Fuller was repaying to Rothstein, including supposed bets made on the 1919 World Series, or that Rothstein was laundering the stolen Liberty Bonds through the company. This latter belief arose after it was revealed the same type of bond laundering occurred with Dillon & Company, a bucket shop run by Rothstein intimate Philip “Dandy Phil” Kastel, in which $407,000 had been loaned to Rothstein with Liberty Bonds put up as collateral.
During the inquiries Rothstein seemed nervous at first, but then began to enjoy matching wits with the prosecutors. As the inquests dragged on for years he became a formidable foe to them. Perhaps the highlight of Rothstein’s testimony came during an exchange regarding how the gambler had obtained the Liberty Bonds. After much bantering between the prosecutor, judge, and Rothstein, the judge suggested the question put to Rothstein be rephrased.
“Where did you buy the Liberty Bonds, or, if you did not buy them, where did you procure them,” asked the prosecutor.
“Now, that’s a question I can answer,” replied Rothstein. “I can’t remember.”
In the meantime, Fallon and McGee were busy defending Fuller and McGee, each time the trial ending in a hung jury. After the second trial a juror admitted he had been bribed by Fallon, not only in the Fuller trial, but also in an earlier one in which he had sat on the jury. When a second person came forward to corroborate the allegations, Fallon found himself on trial. In what was considered his greatest courtroom performance, Fallon ably defended himself and was acquitted by an awe struck jury. As Fallon made his way out of the courtroom he stopped in front of Ferber, the journalist whose investigation had initiated the bucket shop trials. In a voice loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear, Fallon told him, “I promise you I’ll never bribe another juror.”
Fallon’s trial brought to an end the sensationalism that surrounded the bucket shop investigations. It also was the last hurrah for Fallon. The “Great Mouth Piece” died not long afterward and one of the shooting stars of the 1920’s Broadway scene was extinguished.
The Mafia Encyclopedia defines Prohibition as “the greatest day for organized crime in America.” Little did Rothstein know at the advent of the Volstead Act that he would be one of the founding fathers of organized crime in the United States. In fact, Rothstein actually believed the new law would be effective.
When Prohibition began on January 16, 1920, Rothstein had many of the component parts of organized crime in place. Leo Katcher explains:
“Rothstein was one of the first rumrunners. He made the smuggling of uncut diamonds and narcotics a side enterprise.
“He operated one of the largest bail bond businesses in New York. Each man for whom he provided bail had to give Rothstein his insurance business.
“Rothstein had ‘pieces’ of many night clubs and cabarets. This was a bonus he took for financing them, at his usual rate of interest. His ‘partners’ found that they had to purchase or rent such equipment as silver and linens from firms that Rothstein owned. They also had to place all their insurance with Rothstein’s firm.
“Rothstein financed many retail outlets for bootleggers. His realty firms negotiated rentals and leases.
“He bankrolled many bootleggers and provided them with trucks and drivers to transport their illegal cargo.
“Rothstein’s main function though was organization. He provided money and manpower and protection. He arranged corruption — for a price. And, if things went wrong, Rothstein was ready to provide bail and attorneys. He put crime on a corporate basis when the proceeds of crime became large enough to warrant it.”
One of Rothstein’s first ventures into rum running came after a meeting with Waxey Gordon (Irving Wexler) and Detroit bootlegger Maxie Greenberg. While in Detroit, Greenberg began smuggling in whiskey from Canada. Realizing how profitable this venture was, he wanted to expand and needed $175,000 to do so. He traveled to New York in hopes that through Gordon, he could obtain financing from Rothstein. Gordon knew Rothstein from having worked for him in the garment district as a labor enforcer.
Rothstein met the two in Central Park. Sitting on a park bench, he listened to their plan to smuggle in Canadian whiskey. The following day the three men met again, this time in Rothstein’s office where he made a counterproposal. Rothstein would finance the venture, but the liquor would be purchased and brought in from Great Britain. Gordon, who was acting as a middleman, asked to be included in the deal and was cut in for a small “piece.” From this “piece,” Gordon would launch a successful rum running empire and become a wealthy man. After Rothstein ended his partnership with the two in 1921, he continued to help finance them. Gordon took over two large warehouses when they split, one in the city and the other on Long Island. Rothstein would later use Gordon’s speedboats to smuggle in diamonds and dope.
Rothstein got out of the rum running business for one reason — he couldn’t control it. While he would continue to bankroll rum running operations throughout the 1920s, Rothstein would focus on letting other individuals take the risks while he collected the profits.
Opium based narcotics and cocaine flowed freely in this country until the first two decades of the 20th century. The first attempt to regulate drugs came with the Pure Food & Drug Law of 1906, but few restraints were imposed. In 1916 the Harrison Act was passed and while it was enacted to control the narcotics traffic it was mainly a revenue measure. However, it was effective enough that by 1921 there was for the first time a demand for illegal drugs.
Rothstein was not a pioneer in the field of dope peddling, instead he was introduced to the big money potential by both Lucky Luciano and Waxey Gordon. By the mid-1920s many of Rothstein’s income producers had gone by the wayside. The bucket shops were gone, the stolen bond market had ceased, he no longer owned gambling houses, and he had retired from rum running. Rothstein was still collecting money from all the people he had backed and bankrolled in illegal activities. His bail bonding and insurance companies were still thriving as well as all of his legal enterprises. Several individuals who had entered the rum running and bootlegging market after him were becoming millionaires many times over. Rothstein’s only influence over them was with his connections to Tammany Hall.
It was during this time that Rothstein decided to devote his efforts to organizing the drug trafficking in this country. His interest was in wholesaling, not the street pushing of narcotics. Entering at this level, his only competition came from unscrupulous members of the medical profession. Rothstein’s goal was higher as he set out to regulate supply and demand and organize the drug trade on an international basis.
Rothstein employed several men to do his overseas bidding. Among them were Harry Mather, “Dapper Dan” Collins, Sid Stager, George Uffner, and Jacob “Yasha” Katzenberg. Rothstein then purchased the well-known importing house “Vantines.” The establishment had a legitimate reputation and shipments arriving from China and the orient received only a cursory inspection. Rothstein made sure that when he got word someone was furnishing a home that Vantines received part of that business. It was reported that Fanny Brice “was made” to purchase thousands of dollars of furnishings and bric-a-brac from Vantines to adorn a new apartment. In addition to Vantines, Rothstein purchased several antique shops and art galleries to serve as legitimate fronts for his drug business.
As waves of narcotics began to permeate the city and create a new generation of drug pushers and addicts, Rothstein’s bail bond business kicked into high gear following increased arrests. Nat J. Ferber, the American journalist who had earlier exposed the bucket shop rackets, was instrumental in revealing the narcotics epidemic. Ferber wrote, “Rothstein established himself as the financial clearing house for the foreign dope traffic…He was the only man in the United States who could, and did, establish a credit standing with the foreign interests sending drugs into this country.”
Leo Katcher informs us, “Of all Rothstein’s enterprises, this had been the most carefully developed. He had given it time, effort and all his intelligence. Yet, it was the most costly business that ever occupied his time, his interest and his money.”
Ironically, Rothstein never made a cent from his narcotics ventures. Every dollar he received was put back into the operation and he died while the business was moving forward — at full steam.
Rothstein reached his pinnacle during the wild days of the “roaring twenties.” Despite his wealth, power and influence — outside of his fictionalized participation in the 1919 World Series fixing — Rothstein will be remembered most for the future underworld leaders he helped tutor. In addition to the aforementioned Waxey Gordon other major underworld personalities that came under Rothstein’s wing were Jack “Legs” Diamond, Charles “Lucky” Luciano, Meyer Lansky, Frank Costello and Lepke Buchalter.
Among the men that served as bodyguards for Arnold Rothstein over the years was John T. Nolan, better known as Jack “Legs” Diamond. When Rothstein began bankrolling bootleggers in the early 1920s he helped provide them with trucks, drivers and protection. He hired Diamond and his brother Eddie to oversee this part of the operation. Diamond was soon hijacking some of the shipments he was hired to safeguard. Rothstein soon wearied of Diamond and his antics.
In Anatomy of a Gangster, author Gary Levine gives us this inflated image of Diamond’s association with Rothstein:
“Legs Diamond became Rothstein’s official bodyguard, consultant on drugs and whiskey, and hit man. Rothstein, in turn, protected Diamond from the authorities and financed many of his gang’s operations. As Rothstein’s power and operations grew in scope he came to rely more on Legs who, in turn, grabbed a bigger share of Rothstein’s profits for himself. Legs guaranteed the security of Rothstein’s fifty and one-hundred-thousand-dollar card games and when a gambler was found floating in the Hudson River, it was a good guess that Diamond had escorted him home.
Whomever Rothstein had Diamond “hit” is still a mystery. Rothstein wasn’t the only crime figure who tired of Legs. There were several attempts to murder Diamond throughout the 1920s and early 1930s. Legs was wounded so many times that he earned the nickname the “Clay Pigeon of the Underworld.” On December 18, 1931 Diamond was murdered in upstate New York.
Luciano
Luciano always credited Rothstein for teaching him the finer things in life. “He taught me how to dress, how not to wear loud things but to have good taste; he taught me how to use knives and forks, and things like that at the dinner table, about holding a door open for a girl, or helping her sit down by holding the chair. If Arnold had lived a little longer, he could’ve made me pretty elegant; he was the best etiquette teacher a guy could ever have — real smooth.”
Rothstein once took Luciano to Wanamaker’s, an expensive clothing store, where the young future crime boss purchased “two or three of everything.” When the question of whether to buy suits ready made or made to order came up, Rothstein insisted Luciano have his suits made by a gentile tailor. Luciano gave credit to Rothstein for creating a whole new image for him.
In The Last Testament of Lucky Luciano, the authors claim, “By watching, practicing, imitating, listening to the lessons of Rothstein, he (Luciano) had learned the ways of the rich and had acquired the veneer of a gentleman.”
It was Rothstein who introduced Lansky to modern business practices utilized by large corporate firms. He showed Lansky how to turn bootlegging into a formal business operation. Through Rothstein, Lansky met Waxey Gordon. Although the two men would later become personal enemies, during the Prohibition years they were bootlegging partners after Gordon relocated to Philadelphia.
Rothstein introduced both Lansky and Luciano to affluent society people who saw a certain excitement attached to bootleggers. Lansky shied away though, preferring to remain anonymous and work behind the scenes.
Lansky told a biographer, “Rothstein invited me to dinner at the Park Central Hotel, and we sat talking for six hours. It was a big surprise to me. Rothstein told me quite frankly that he had picked me because I was ambitious and hungry.” It is no wonder who his mentor was when Lansky, who would outlive most of his contemporaries, remembered this dinner with Rothstein some fifty years later.
In the early 1920s Frank Costello and his brother Eddie started out as small time rum runners. They worked briefly for Rothstein before using his financing to go big time. By the mid-1920s the Costello / “Big Bill” Dwyer combine was one of the biggest rum running operations on the East Coast.
With the money Costello made he and Rothstein were frequently involved in business deals together, and borrowed from each other. After Rothstein’s death investigators found an IOU for $40,000 from Costello in Rothstein’s papers.
Costello’s biographer, Leonard Katz, wrote in Uncle Frank that “There’s no question that the younger, less sophisticated Costello admired Rothstein’s shrewdness and learned from him many things not taught in Harvard’s School of Business.” Whether the finer points of organized crime were taught to Costello or whether he stole them is questionable. Costello once told a reporter that the things he admired in other people he stole for himself.
After Rothstein’s death Costello became the new “man between” with Tammany Hall. No other underworld figure would ever have more political influence with the corrupt New York political machine.
Of all Rothstein’s disciples only one came from a similar background, Louis “Lepke” Buchalter. Leo Katz tells us, “Lepke came from a good family, his antecedents much like Rothstein’s. His people were honest, in comfortable financial condition, pious and educated. Of their children they had trouble only with one, Louis.”
Rothstein had held a grip in labor racketeering, but did not get involved in a big way. Buchalter’s entrance in the field came in the mid-1920s when Rothstein gave him the opportunity to move into the garment rackets. Buchalter, described as a dreamer with imagination, saw the potential for wealth and power in this area at a time when his contemporaries continued to get rich from Prohibition.
In addition to becoming the number one labor racketeer in America after Rothstein’s death, Buchalter took over his mentor’s drug trade. In 1939 Buchalter was convicted of federal narcotics charges and sentenced to 14 years in Leavenworth. During the Murder, Inc. trials of the early 1940s Buchalter was found guilty of murder and was executed at Sing Sing in 1944. Buchalter had the dubious honor of being the only organized crime leader to ever be executed.
“Man reported shot in Park Central Hotel, Seventh Avenue and 56th Street. Ambulance dispatched.”
That was the message recorded at 10:53 p.m. on Sunday, November 4, 1928 by a desk sergeant in Manhattan’s West 47th Street station. By midnight, the information had been updated to show that Arnold Rothstein, 46 years old of 912 Fifth Avenue had been shot in the abdomen and found near the employee’s entrance of the Park Central Hotel.
Earlier that evening, Rothstein arrived at Lindy’s restaurant on Seventh Avenue and went to his private booth. Lindy’s was Rothstein’s office. He kept a regular schedule there and several men were already waiting to see him when he walked in that night. One of the men, Jimmy Meehan, ran the Park City Club, one of the city’s biggest gambling dens during the 1920s. Meehan operated the plush club with a bankroll supplied by Rothstein.
About 10:15, Rothstein received a telephone call. After a short conversation he hung up and motioned for Meehan to walk outside with him. “McManus wants to see me at the Park Central,” Rothstein said. He then pulled a gun out of his pocket and handed it to Meehan saying, “Keep this for me, I will be right back.” Meehan then watched Rothstein walk up Seventh Avenue.
The man who had requested Rothstein’s presence at the hotel was George McManus. A bookmaker and gambler, McManus was well connected in the city with one brother serving on the police force and another serving as a priest. Several weeks earlier, McManus had hosted a high-stakes poker game in which Rothstein had participated. The game began on September 8th and continued into the morning of September 10th. Other players participating in the game were West Coast gambler Nate Raymond, Alvin “Titanic” Thompson, and Joe Bernstein. By the end of the marathon card game, Rothstein was a big loser. He owed Raymond $219,000, Bernstein $73,000, and Thompson $30,000. When Rothstein walked out, without so much as signing an IOU, a couple of the players became irritated. McManus assured the pair, “That’s A. R. Hell, he’s good for it. He’ll be calling you in a couple of days.”
A week passed and Rothstein had still not made good. Rumors began to circulate that the game was crooked. Rothstein confided to Nicky Arnstein, who by now was out of prison and back in New York, “A couple of people told me that the game was rigged.” Arnstein’s advice to Rothstein was to pay the players off, “no point to your advertising you were a sucker.”
Rothstein held off paying his debt though, hoping to make the gamblers sweat and maybe take a lesser payoff. The players however were beginning to pressure McManus since he was the host and had promised them that Rothstein would make good. McManus sought help from his friend Jimmy Hines of Tammany Hall. Hines, who was also a friend of Rothstein, began to pressure him to clear up the matter.
As the weeks passed, the pressure began to get to McManus who began drinking and threatened Rothstein for not making good on the debts. On Sunday night November 4, McManus called Rothstein from room 349 in the Park Central Hotel where he was registered as George Richards. He requested that Rothstein come over right away.
The conversation and events that took place after Rothstein arrived are still a mystery. Shortly after Rothstein entered room 349, he was shot once in the lower abdomen. The revolver was then tossed out the window where it bounced off the hood of a parked taxi and landed in the street. Employees later found Rothstein walking down the service stairs, holding his stomach and asking for a cab to take him home.
A police officer arrived, summoned an ambulance, and Rothstein was taken to New York’s Polyclinic Hospital where he was operated on. The bullet, which was removed, had entered just above the groin and traveled downward severing an artery. Rothstein had sustained tremendous internal bleeding. When he left the operating room, he was in a coma.
Rothstein’s two brothers, Jack and Edgar, were summoned to the hospital along with Carolyn. Rothstein was given a blood transfusion and morphine for his pain. He regained consciousness Monday morning and told his wife he wanted to go home. During the day, Rothstein signed a will prepared by his attorney and talked with several friends. When questioned by police as to who shot him, he replied, “I’ll take care of it myself.”
Late on Monday afternoon, Carolyn was permitted to see him again. He repeated his request to go home and told her, “Don’t go away. I don’t want to be alone. I can’t stand being alone.” As he tried to raise himself he fell back and into unconsciousness. Rothstein would not regain consciousness and died the following morning at approximately 10:20, Election Day, November 6th, 1928.
Rothstein had bet heavily on the election that year. Had he lived, he would have collected $570,000. His death negated the wagers. In the Jewish tradition, Rothstein was buried the following day in Union Field Cemetery in Queens. Inside the closed casket he was dressed in a white skullcap with a purple-striped prayer shawl over a muslin shroud.
After shooting Rothstein, McManus contacted Jimmy Hines who sent Dutch Schultz associate, Abe “Bo” Weinberg, to pick him up and hide him. Three weeks later, McManus arranged for his own arrest in a Broadway barbershop. Although a Chesterfield coat with his name sewn in it was found in room 349, no witness could place him in the room at the time of the shooting and he was acquitted. He walked out of the courtroom wearing the overcoat which only minutes before had been tagged as a prosecutor’s exhibit. The gamblers who had taken part in the marathon poker game were also arrested. However, they all had ironclad alibis for the night of November 4 and were soon released.
Rothstein’s murder remains officially unsolved. There has been some speculation over the years that there was more to the murder plot than just the unpaid gambling debts, that other organized crime members wanted to take over Rothstein’s lucrative rackets and political connections. It’s unlikely, if this were the case, that Rothstein would have only taken one bullet and that in the stomach instead of the head. It is entirely possible that when Rothstein arrived in room 349 he was confronted by a drunken, angry McManus who may have threatened him. When police searched the room they found several empty whiskey bottles. If this were the case Rothstein could even have been shot accidentally during a struggle with McManus.
The organizer of organized crime was gone. In the end Lucky Luciano, Meyer Lansky, Frank Costello and Lepke Buchalter took over the Rothstein empire…and the legend.
New York Herald Tribune
New York Times
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