Rothstein: The Life, Times, and Murder of the Criminal Genius Who Fixed the 1919 World Series

by David Pietrusza

  Growing businesses add employees, and Arnold's business was growing. He needed friends to collect for him because when people owed you money, they avoided you. He hired big, hard, ruthless friends like Monk Eastman, men he had long cultivated. "It was always the biggest, toughest boys whom he treated [to favors]," brother Edgar recalled of Arnold's school days. "I guess he wanted to get them on his side."

  So some of the players in Rothstein's story were starting to come together. It's instructive to present a physical description of the main character in the drama. One of the best physical descriptions of Arnold Rothstein appeared in Donald Henderson Clarke's biography, In the Reign of Rothstein. Written shortly after A. R.'s death, it describes him very near to this point in time:

  When he first appeared in the news [c. 1908], Rothstein was a slim, young man of twenty-six, with dark hair, a complexion remarkable for its smooth pallor as if he never had to worry about razors-white, skilful 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 very expressive face.

  He laughed a great deal. He looked worried when it suited him to appear worried. A casual observer might have said that Rothstein's face was an open book. It certainly was far from the ordinary concept of a "poker" face. In the course of an evening at table, or at play, it ran the whole gamut of expressions. But, mostly, it was a smiling, a laughing face....

  He was about five feet seven inches tall, slim of figure, most meticulously garbed, not in the garish style of Broadway, but in the more subdued method of Fifth Avenue, and was extremely quick in his movements. In his later years, although most abstemious in eating, he gained weight, but he never lost anything of that pantherish quickness, which was more like the catlike suavity of muscular coordination that is Jack Dempsey's than anything else.

  Rothstein put on a little paunch in later years, but never changed greatly from Henderson's description of the young man. He retained his unhealthy pallor, his grace, his charm, and a quality that Henderson did not here describe: an overarching ego that manifested itself in a cutting remark, an arched eyebrow, in cruelty and in toying with those unfortunate enough to need his cash or protection. As he grew wealthier and more powerful, his ego and cruelty grew: particularly in regard to money. When he died, a reporter for the New York World wrote:

  He loved, almost viciously, to collect, and he hated, almost viciously, to pay. He took an almost perverted delight in postponing the payment of losses. There was something cruelly satisfactory to his senses in tantalizing and teasing the persons to whom he owed money. This perverted pleasure grew on him in his later years.

  As Rothstein increased in confidence and in what passed for stature in Times Square, his supercilious manner grated upon those who considered themselves at least as crafty, and perhaps more so. One such group of wits congregated at "the big white room" at Jack's. A decade later, a similar clique formed at the Algonquin Hotel. The Algonquin Circle's members-poetess Dorothy Parker, humorist Robert Benchley, playwrights George S. Kaufman, Edna Ferber, and Robert Sherwood, critic Alexander Woollcott, columnists Franklin Pierce Adams and Heywood Broun, comedian Harpo Marx, and New Yorker founder Harold Ross-are remembered today. But back around 1907, the group that gathered at Jack's proved just as clever, and just as cutting and witty-and rising young gambler Arnold Rothstein settled comfortably in their midst.

  Rothstein didn't patronize Jack's just for conversation. He wanted customers for his new card games and for his primitive Water Street gambling house. But his already-large ego demanded he match wits with Broadway's cleverest lads. He found them at Jack's-newspapermen like "Spanish" O'Brien, Frank Ward O'Malley, Ben de Cas- sares, and Bruno Lessing; songwriter Grant Clarke, cartoonists Hype Igoe and "Tad" Dorgan; and all-around scamp Wilson Mizner.

  In their time they more than had their followings. Despite his nickname and surname, editor "Spanish" O'Brien was born in Paris. Donald Henderson Clark pegged him as "a handsome, irresponsible Irishman ... who worked at editing newspapers as a sideline to his vocation of indulging in Homeric conversations with his friends."

  New York Sun reporter Frank Ward O'Malley was too nice for the Broadway crowd. "There was never a man on Park Row," the Times later wrote, "who was more friendly or more sensitive to human nature." H. L. Mencken called O'Malley "one of the best reporters America has ever known." When O'Malley wasn't reporting, he was phrasemaking, providing us with the observation, "Life is just one damned thing after another"-and the term "brunch." O'Malley didn't enter journalism until age thirty-one after having "flopped," as he put it, in art ("Commercial illustrator ... for four years, drawing full-length portraits of vacuum cleaners and canned soup"). He described his newspaper career:

  Reporter, New York Morning Sun, for fourteen years, thirteen of which were spent in Jack's restaurant.

  Ben de Cassares, a collateral descendent of the philosopher Spinoza, worked for the Herald having just returned from Mexico City, where he founded El Diario. De Cassares, wrote Rothstein biographer Leo Katcher, would "balance a Seidel of Pilsner on his head and take the solar system by the oratorical tail and whirl it around the room to the dazzled delight of all and sundry."

  When Rothstein wasn't listening to these gentlemen, he met songwriters like Clarke Grant and other newspaper people like Bruno Lessing. Grant wrote Fanny Brice's signature song "Second Hand Rose" and Ethel Waters's "Am I Blue?" Lessing wrote a daily column for William Randolph Hearst's newspapers, but that wasn't his real value to the journalistic empire. He edited-not news, opinion, theatrical reviews, or sports-but something of far more important to Mr. Hearst's readers: the Sunday comics.

  Hype Igoe and Thomas A. "Tad" Dorgan were two friends who migrated east together from San Francisco and were now immensely talented cartoonists for Hearst's Evening Journal. Igoe dabbled at sportswriting among any number of odd activities. Playing the ukulele at Jack's was one. Refusing to wear an overcoat in even the coldest weather was another. This foible hospitalized him several times with pneumonia. Hype loved the cold, even refrigerating his ukulele to improve its sound.

  Tad Dorgan was master of the early-twentieth century catchphrase. "Hot dog," "cat's pajamas," "yes, we have no bananas," "twentythree skidoo," "dumbbell," "drug-store cowboy," and "skimmer" are all Dorganisms.

  Wilson Mizner proved to be a more memorable wordsmith than Igoe, Dorgan, or the entire bunch put together. But beyond that, he was simply a great character. Consider this description of Mizner, provided by his biographer, Alva Johnson:

  Mizner had a vast firsthand criminal erudition, which he commercialized as a dramatist on Broadway and a screenwriter in Hollywood. At various times during his life, he had been a miner, confidence man, ballad singer, medical lecturer, man of letters, general utility man in a segregated district, cardsharp, hotel man, songwriter, dealer in imitation masterpieces of art, prizefighter, prizefight manager, Florida promoter, and roulettewheel fixer. He was an idol of low society and a pet of high. He knew women, as his brother Addison said, from the best homes and houses.

  That's a lot to say about any one person in any one paragraph, but (and this is no criticism of its author), nonetheless, it shortchanges its subject. The 6'4", 250-pound Mizner was the son of Benjamin Harrison's minister plenipotentiary to Central America and the brother of an Episcopalian clergyman, but those were the last respectable facts about him. He soon took up opium smoking, and participated in the Klondike gold rush, operating badger games; robbing a restaurant to obtain chocolate for girlfriend "Nellie the Pig" Lamore; and grubstaking fellow prospector Sid Grauman (of Grauman's Chinese Theatre Fame).

  Returning state side in 1905, the twenty-nine-year-old Mizner married forty-eight-year-old Mary Adelaide Yerkes, widow of traction magnate Charles Tyson Yerkes. The new Mrs. Mizner was worth between $2 million and $7.5 million. Mr. Mizner was penniless. They had been introduced by
his brother Addison at Madison Square Garden, at the National Horse Show. When Addison asked Wilson where he was staying, he replied, "In a house of ill fame on FortyEighth Street." Mary Yerkes thought this amusing, but it was more amusing to be introduced to such a fellow than to be married to one. Mizner hired an artist to produce copies of the Yerkes mansion's artistic masterpieces and proceeded to sell them as originals. Pickings proved slim. At auction, a fake Last Supper was fetching just $6.00. "Six dollars!" Mizner exclaimed. "Can't I get at least one dollar a plate for this banquet?"

  Mizner was next seen supervising the hauling of debris from the San Francisco earthquake. Returning to New York, he managed a sleazy Times Square hotel called the Rand, posting signs about the place with such mottos as "No opium-smoking in the elevators" and "Carry out your own dead." From there he moved to fight promotion and playwriting. Critics found his plays trashy.

  Had Wilson Mizner bothered to write better plays, we would remember him at least as well that other great aphorist, Oscar Wilde. That may seem hyperbole, but the list of Mizner bon mots is lengthy. If his name is not particularly remembered, his witticisms are:

  Always be nice to people on the way up; because you'll meet the same people on the way down.

  Copy from one, it's plagiarism; copy from two, it's research.

  The best way to keep your friends is not to give them away.

  I respect faith, but doubt is what gets you an education.

  I can usually judge a fellow by what he laughs at.

  The worst-tempered people I've ever met were the people who knew they were wrong.

  A fellow who is always declaring he's no fool usually has his suspicions.

  Don't talk about yourself; it will be done when you leave.

  Life is a tough proposition and the first hundred years are the hardest.

  A good listener is not only popular everywhere, but after a while he gets to know something.

  For an aspiring young gambler like Arnold Rothstein to hold his own against Mizner, Dorgan, Igoe, and their acquaintances was no mean feat. A. R. could. Although both quick-witted and charming enough to gain admittance to this informal society, he was not well-liked. Some found him too cute, too cutting with his remarks, too full of himself-and, yes, a bit too Jewish. Mizner, for one, wanted to teach this "smart-aleck sheenie" a lesson. So did Dorgan and Igoe and a well-heeled gambler named Jack Francis.

  They decided to put A. R. in his place, early on in their relationship, and turn a profit in the bargain. Among Rothstein's many strengths was his skill with the pool cue. Among his weaknesses was his ego. Mizner's friends imported wealthy, young Philadelphia stockbroker Jack Conaway to set Rothstein up. Conaway played pool, played just about anything actually, just for the thrill of it. He was an expert amateur jockey and just as expert a pool player, the champion of Philadelphia's elegant Racquet Club.

  Mizner's crowd sprung their trap on Thursday night, November 18, 1909. With Conaway in tow, they took their regular table at Jack's. When A. R. arrived, the conversation centered on the usual athletic and theatrical subjects. Jack Francis very generally broached the topic of pool, discussing the merits of pocket-billiard and threecushion champ, the Cuban Alfredo De Oro, and other fine players such as Jake Schaefer and Willie Hoppe. Finally, Francis mentioned casually that young Mr. Conaway here was most likely the best amateur billiardist nationwide. Then they baited the hook: A. R., they said, you aren't nearly as good as you think you are; Conaway can take you easily.

  It was the Times Square equivalent of calling out a gunfighter. Rothstein couldn't afford to have his skills or courage denigrated and snapped at the bait. Later, some Times Square observers thought he was suckered. Others thought he knew precisely what he was doing. A. R. peeled off a roll of bills, saying, "I'll bet $500 I can beat Mr. Conaway."

  A. R. chose the venue, John McGraw's pool hall, just a few blocks south on Herald Square. John "The Little Napoleon" McGraw was one of the biggest men in baseball-actually, in all of sport. In the 1890s he played a hardscrabble third base for the rough-and-tumble Baltimore club, the immortal "Old Orioles," and was the toughest, savviest man on baseball's toughest, savviest team. As a manager, he transformed the hitherto-woebegone New York Giants franchise into baseball's powerhouse, establishing himself as baseball's greatest field general.

  Most ballplayers and ex-ballplayers dreamt of running their own saloon. McGraw settled for a pool hall on Herald Square. In February 1906, with Willie Hoppe on hand, McGraw opened an establishment boasting fifteen of the most expensive tables "ever placed in a billiard room in the world." McGraw's partners were Jack Doyle, a prominent local gambler, and Tod Sloan, once one of the world's greatest jockeys. Sloan pioneered the upright or "monkey-on-a-stick" stance for jockeys, and served as the model for George M. Cohan's character "Little Johnny Jones," Cohan's ode to "Yankee Doodle Dandy." Sloan's betting habits got him banned from racing in 1900. He now supported himself as a bookmaker and actor.

  In October 1908 McGraw moved across Herald Square, to the brand-new Marbridge Building, next door to the New York Herald. McGraw had some new partners, including Hoppe and Giants club secretary Fred Knowles. There were rumors of silent partners, among them young Arnold Rothstein. Business had picked up for Rothstein by 1908. He could swing a piece of McGraw's place and bring more than money to a partnership. His friends at Tammany Hall (some said A. R. had the gambling concession at Big Tim Sullivan's Metropole) had influence. Police protection for pool halls cost $300 a month, and even the great John McGraw had to pay it. A fellow with Rothstein's connections could prevent "misunderstandings."

  Rothstein and Conaway started that Thursday night at 8:00 P.M. Their first match was for 50 points. Conaway squeaked by. The second match went to 100. Conaway led again, but Rothstein staged a spectacular run to win by a single ball. Betting now reached extremely serious levels. The rivals continued, playing game after game. At 2:00 A.M., McGraw's normal closing time, Rothstein seized a clear lead, but Conaway jeered that his foe was merely lucky. Rothstein knew better. They kept playing.

  At dawn they were still at it. Friday came and went. The crowd kept betting, and A. R. kept winning. As evening arrived, with both participants exhausted, the game no longer featured championship quality play-only grueling tenacity. Conaway won occasionally, but couldn't quite catch up. Closing time came and went once more. By 2:00 A.M. McGraw had had enough. "I'll have you dead on my hands," he growled at the two weary combatants. "And if you don't want to sleep, some of the rest of us do."

  Rothstein and Conaway begged McGraw to relent. But two hours later-at 4:00 A.M., thirty-two hours after play started-the Little Napoleon finally shut down. "You'd better get to a Turkish bath-the two of you. You can continue your little game some other time." And that's just what they did. Some said Arnold won $4,000 from the game at McGraw's. All in all, A. R.'s "friends" lost $10,000 backing Conaway.

  On the way to the baths, Conaway and Rothstein agreed to meet in Philadelphia for $5,000. One can't be sure their rematch occurred, although those claiming it did say Rothstein won again.

  More important than winning or losing, however, was the sheer notoriety of the match. Its marathon nature attracted major interest. The newspapers-and Manhattan boasted a dozen dailies at the time-picked up the story and reported the match as the longest continuously played game in history. They lionized the daring of the participants; the stakes wagered by them and their frenzied supporters; that it was all played out at the great John McGraw's.

  When the match began, Arnold Rothstein was just one of the horde of gamblers infesting Times Square, when it concluded he was not just $4,000 wealthier, he was Broadway's newest celebrity.

  AT SARATOGA SPRINGS Arnold Rothstein further honed his skills as a professional gambler, operated a casino, ran his own stable of racehorses, plotted a World Series fix.

  And took a bride.

  In 1904, when A. R. first discovered Saratoga, he was somewhat late to the game. New Yorkers had traveled t
o the upstate New York spa for decades. Some visited the baths and imbibed Saratoga's pungently healthful mineral waters. Most, however, came to play the horses. Saratoga first discovered the races in 1847, to be as exact as one can be about such things. In 1863 professional gambler and member of Congress John "Smoke" Morrisey opened a new track, the grand racecourse that attracted the rich and famous of the Gilded Age, including President Ulysses S. Grant, presidential hopefuls James G. Blaine and Samuel J. Tilden, Civil War heroes Philip Sheridan and William Tecumseh Sherman, and financiers Jim Fisk and August Belmont I.

  The town featured more than the track and the baths. The Grand Union Hotel, America's largest, cost $3 million to build in 1864, and featured a block-long banquet hall and a solid mahogany bar much favored by President Grant. The United States Hotel, built a decade later, boasted 768 rooms, 65 suites, and 1,000 wicker rocking chairs upon its front porch. Elegant restaurants abounded. Nearby lake houses, such as Riley's and Moon's, provided equally fabulous cuisine as well as upscale gambling.

  Saratoga's racing season runs just one month-August. And each August New York City's preeminent bookmakers arrived by the carload. Many traveled aboard a special rail excursion, known as the "Cavanagh Special" after organizer, bookmaker John C. "Irish John" Cavanagh. First run in 1901, the "Special" proved instantly successful, packing Cavanaugh's fellow bookies into as many as eight cars bound for Saratoga. Bookmaking was then legal, and the best people patronized the best bookmakers. And the best bookmakers even organized their own trade organization, the Metropolitan Turf Association (members known as "Mets"), also headed by Cavanagh. Even in 1888 membership cost $7,000-more than membership in a stock exchange. Mets wore distinctive buttons, and the sight of a Metropolitan Turf Association button almost guaranteed a better class of bet and bettor for its wearer.

  Arnold Rothstein wasn't invited to join. Maybe he was slow to pay. Maybe he was already a "sure-thing gambler," not above manipulating events to dramatically increase his chances. He rubbed fellow gamblers the wrong way. He was just a little slicker than the other fellow-and, one way or another, he let you know it. John Cavanagh wouldn't allow Rothstein into the club, but he let him on the train. Starting in 1904 Arnold rode the Cavanagh Special.