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

by David Pietrusza

  A. R. asked Belmont to reconsider. When persuasion failed, he employed threats: "If I am molested in any way I will spend $1,000,000 [perhaps the equivalent of $10,000,000 today] to shut down the New York race tracks."

  Arnold's threat scared Belmont. The New York Legislature had re-opened state tracks only recently. The combination of reform movement moral outrage and hundreds of thousands of dollars in well-placed bribes could shut them again. Even if A. R. didn't win, defeating him could prove expensive and embarrassing.

  Belmont offered a compromise: "If you want to visit the track with, or without your family or friends occasionally-a Saturday or a holiday, or any day if you don't make it too often-we will not object. But under no circumstances will we tolerate any more plunging and spectacular betting by you. The first thing you must do is to fire all of those betting commissioners you have in your employ, and we don't want you to engage new ones if, and when, you decide to accept our terms and make an occasional visit."

  A. R. promised to abide by Belmont's wishes-to limit bets, to avoid the track except for holidays. He soon broke those promises.

  "What are you doing here today?" Belmont asked one day as he spotted Arnold at the track.

  "It's a holiday."

  "A holiday?"

  "Why yes, you ought to know, Mr. Belmont. It's Rosh Hashanah."

  Rothstein not only continued visiting Belmont, he was betting heavily through his usual network of agents. Belmont again approached Carolyn Rothstein: "Mrs. Rothstein, I know you love horses for their own sake, and that your enjoyment of the race track is based on true sportsmanship. Won't you try to control that husband of yours; make him be reasonable?"

  "I'll do the best I can, Mr. Belmont."

  Her best wasn't good enough. But Belmont's determination only grew. To counteract Belmont, A. R. used his own social standing.

  Rothstein's old pal, Herbert Bayard Swope, had risen as far in his world as Rothstein had in his-further, actually. Swope not only edited the World (and established a reputation as the one of the best newspapermen in the country), he was now prominent in politics, finance, and even the best elements of society. In fact, he counted August Belmont as among his acquaintances, and had long known Belmont's wife, former Broadway star Eleanor Robson. On September 12, 1917, Swope wrote Belmont:

  While [Rothstein] is a sporting man, he comes of a decent, respectable Jewish family, and I am inclined to think that once his word is given he will offer no further cause for complaint.

  Swope's effort bore no effect in rescuing Rothstein from Belmont's edict. But it did affect his friendship with A. R. The newsman's friends, fearing Belmont's wrath, warned him to avoid A. R. Now, as the pressure grew, Swope finally agreed with Rothstein's critics. "You're too much of a liability, Arnold," Swope told him, as their friendship came to an end.

  In 1918, World War I closed Belmont. Perhaps August Belmont let bygones be bygones when it reopened. Perhaps A. R. renewed his threats to have Albany close the place. Perhaps New York's new governor, Tammany's Al Smith, intervened. We shall never know why what happened happened, all we know is it did: A. R. was not permanently removed from Belmont. He remained at that track until his death. Winning sometimes, losing sometimes. But still remaining at the track.

  A. R. did fix races. At one point in his career, the practice of "horse sponging" was fairly common. A small sponge would be inserted in a horse's nostrils, impairing its breathing and destroying any chance of finishing in the money.

  A horse sponger approached A. R. once, claiming access to a given horse, and claiming that for a given amount, the horse could be sponged. A. R. had an entry he liked in the race in question. He gave the go-ahead to the sponger-and to his betting agent. "But don't be clumsy," he warned. "Don't go from 4 to 5 up to even-money. Be gentle and make the first rise in price 9 to 10. Ease the suckers into the trap."

  The sponger carelessly sponged the wrong horse-costing Rothstein a bundle and causing great fear and nervousness on the part of the incompetent sponger. "Please believe me, Arnold," he begged. "I swear on my mother's soul it was an honest mistake."

  Surprisingly, Rothstein let him off unharmed.

  A. R. once proposed to a fellow owner, a vaudeville magnate with a horse entered against a Redstone Stable entry: Switch jockeys, your horse will lose, my horse will win, and we'll clean up. Instead, after the switch, the vaudevillian's horse won. Arnold bet on it and cleaned up, while his erstwhile partner-in-crime lost. "See," he said innocently, "you can't trust these double-crossing jockeys."

  On another occasion, he tampered with Wooden Shoes, a favorite owned by Tammany-connected trash hauler Joe Marrone, who then vowed revenge: "I kill-a that somin-a-bitch-a Rothastein." Only the intervention of West Harlem Tammany leader Jimmy Hines prevented Marrone from making good his threat.

  Stories circulated of A. R. fixing not just races-but bets. Once he was receiving his usual shave and haircut from a barber known to history as "John the Barber," perhaps John Reisler, an early manager of Jack Dempsey. As usual, talk turned to racing, and someone mentioned a specific race. Another party commented: It's just being run now.

  In fact, it had already been run. A. R. interjected, "Well, I'll bet you that such and such a horse wins." It did, but rumors spread that The Big Bankroll had again practiced sure-thing betting, arranging to have another party enter the shop and convey to him the results by prearranged signal, such as by ordering a "close" shave.

  The Broadway gossip mill held that another such incident occurred as A. R. once drove to the Polo Grounds to see John McGraw's Giants. En route he bet heavily, and successfully, on a race with a traveling companion. A. R.'s detractors contended he'd been tipped off by an associate placed along the route.

  Rothstein even made money betting on how to get to the track. In 1916 he purchased a new Cadillac and before heading for Belmont for the Metropolitan Handicap he stopped in Times Square to meet friends, including George Considine and George Bauchle, who knew A. R. couldn't drive. "Ha! Ha!" they jeered. "You'll never drive that thing, Arnold." Arnold countered with his own challenge: "What will you bet that I don't drive it down to Belmont Park today?" Odds reached ten-to-one that he'd never make it. After four hours of nervous practice and three-and-half hours of white-knuckle driving, the rookie arrived at Belmont and collected his money. The bet didn't require driving back, but he did, repeating the same horrendous process returning to Manhattan.

  He never drove again.

  Getting to the races was one thing. Returning safely with your winnings was another. Even then, A. R. worked an angle, inviting one sports editor to ride with him in Rothstein's chauffeur-driven limousine to and from Yonkers' Empire City track. That editor recalled:

  And every time he had a fairly large roll, and counted it on the way to town. One day it was eighteen thousand and something. Another it was twenty-two thousand, and the last day I rode with him it was a lot more than that.

  I noticed he never stopped to let me off until he had gone into a bank and made a deposit. And suddenly I thought that maybe he was just having me ride home with him so that I would be some sort of protection. He knew that the underworld knew that if I were killed, my paper would move heaven and earth to catch and punish the murderer. I never rode with him after that.

  Though he loved the live action, Rothstein wasn't opposed to betting on the ponies when he was away from the track-or trying to work whatever advantage he could. Once A. R.-very near to post timecalled a bookie in New Jersey, asking if he could handle a $10,000 bet on a certain horse. The bookie wasn't sure and said he'd call back. A. R.'s mind went to work and he kept his phone off the hook. His reasoning was this: If his horse lost, he'd refuse to pay, claiming that the bookmaker never verified the transaction; if he won, he'd hold him to it. The horse, won, paying 5-to-2. Rothstein collected.

  He didn't always win on the horses. Sometimes he lost fabulous sums of money. At Belmont he bet $300,000 against $100,000 on a horse called Snob II. He lost. In 1922,
he put $120,000 against $40,000 on Harry Sinclair's Morvich, that year's Kentucky Derby winner. Again, he lost. In both cases, wrote the New York Sun, he took the reversal "without batting an eye."

  Because of such setbacks (and rest assured that despite any outward equanimity, he was indeed upset) and because he fancied himself a "sure-thing" operator, A. R. took pains to reduce risk, including working with the most scientific handicappers. At one time he employed the team of Ben Silverman and William Collins. Collins, a tall, pale, dark-eyed, scholarly man, was expert on matters of horse racing itself, discerning the capabilities of each animal, jockey, and trainer and how track conditions and weather effected outcomes. Silverman was a genius at numbers and odds. Each approached Rothstein separately, wishing to enter into his service. He respected their talents, but realized they were much more valuable working in tandem.

  Starting one spring meet in Maryland, Rothstein employed Silverman and Collins to select his bets. The duo worked long hours, honing their predictions late each evening and early each morning. "Their findings," Carolyn Rothstein noted:

  were so exact that they would foretell that a chosen horse would win by a length and one half, or two lengths. And usually they were right.

  However, their computations were so delicate, that if an unexpected weather condition arose, such as a light wind when they were figuring for no wind, or a moist track, when they had made their estimates for a dry track, they would throw out all their work, and not bet at all that day.

  Many factors entered into their figuring of form and percentages. If Mr. Collins figured a horse had a good chance to win, but Mr. Silverman figured that the odds weren't favorable, they didn't bet.

  Early each afternoon they traveled to A. R.'s West 84th Street threestory stone and brick town house to work with Carolyn on the actual placement of bets. (Arnold couldn't be bothered to be awakened or to diverge from his late-night schedule.) Rothstein provided Carolyn with simple instructions: Bet ten times whatever Collins wagered on a race; when both Collins and Silverman waxed enthusiastic about a certain horse, bet even more. A bookie once told her: "Mrs. Rothstein, your voice is the one I hate most to hear over a telephone."

  A. R.'s experiences with Silverman and Collins were fairly straightforward. His experience with handicapper Will Davis was not.

  One early morning Carolyn Rothstein heard her husband downstairs, talking with someone. She didn't recognize the other voice. She found A. R. in the kitchen, munching on milk and cookies with a tall, pale, painfully thin, beetle-browed stranger. "Carolyn," Arnold began, "this is-" halting because he actually didn't know the man's name.

  "Will Davis," interrupted the stranger.

  "Will Davis," A. R. continued, as if such things happened all the time. "He wants to borrow $1,000."

  That wasn't exactly true. As A. R. spoke, he pulled a revolver from his pocket, adding. "I've got his collateral."

  That was it. Davis had tried robbing Rothstein in his own home, but A. R. had miraculously talked his way out of it.

  "I was desperate," Will explained. He told Carolyn that he had left home in California with life savings of $1,000, but arriving in New York, he himself had been robbed. He stole a gun, and heard about The Big Bankroll, a man who carried thousands on his person and prowled the dark streets of Manhattan alone. Robbing A. R. would set Davis on his feet again.

  "Tell her why you wanted the money," Rothstein commanded the would-be robber.

  "To play the races," Davis responded haltingly. "I know I can beat them. My figures prove it." A. R. met a lot of people with betting systems. Most ended up turning their revolvers on themselves.

  "No one can beat the races," A. R. scoffed. "Not with figures."

  Davis screwed up his courage. "I can," he said, not exactly matter- of-factly, but something in his manner said he was telling the truth.

  In between sips of milk, A. R. played with Davis's gun, clicking the chamber open. It was empty. "That's like your figures," Arnold mocked Davis.

  "Please, Mr. Rothstein," the intruder begged, "give me a chance. I'm not a holdup man. I'm a schoolteacher. At least, I used to be. I've got a wife and kid in California. It's like I told you. I saved up a stake to come here and bet the horses. Someone picked my pocket."

  A. R. saw something in Davis. "I was desperate," Davis continued. "I didn't think. All I wanted was a loan. I would have paid you back."

  Carolyn intervened. "My God, Arnold, can't you see he's telling you the truth?"

  "I'll give you a chance, Davis," Rothstein promised. "You give me your figures for ten days. If they're good, then I'll back your play. Meanwhile-meanwhile, here's eating money."

  Each day Davis gave A. R. at least one pick-but never more than three. Rothstein made money and decided to keep him, promising him 15 percent of his winnings at season's end.

  Davis needed money for his family, and Arnold promised them $50 a week as long as Davis's picks remained profitable. Davis worked twenty-hour days, refining his choices up to the last minute if even the smallest variable changed. At season's end A. R. earned $160,000 from Davis' selections and he owed Davis $24,000, which Davis wanted as soon as possible so he could return to his family. He was willing to settle for $5,000 if he could just go home.

  Rothstein didn't want him to leave. The fall Maryland racing season was still on, and he took Davis with him. The trip earned A. R. another $90,000. Still he delayed paying Davis, and still Davis said he'd settle for just $5,000. A. R. said that wasn't the point and eventually gave him $4,000 in cash and $30,000 in Liberty Bonds-plus a cash bonus of $5,000. "For your kid," as he put it.

  Davis promised to return, but never did. Rothstein had his agents scour California but without luck. The mystery irritated A. R. He complained to Carolyn: "There's something fishy about it. Did he play me for a dub?"

  "Maybe he has all the money he wants?"

  "Nobody ever has that much. Do you think he was a detective or a government man?"

  "Isn't that silly?"

  "Then why doesn't he come back? Or at least write?"

  "I don't know."

  There the matter ended, but after A. R.'s death, Carolyn Rothstein received a letter from San Francisco. The brief handwritten note read:

  I'm awfully sorry.

  Will Davis

  Sometime around 1920, A. R. started his own racing stable, Redstone (Rothstein=Redstone) Stables, with six yearlings purchased for an average of $3,500 each: Sidereal, Gladiator, Sporting Blood, Georgie, Wrecker, and Devastation.

  Herbert Bayard Swope named each horse. Sidereal, a two-year-old chestnut colt by Star Shoot out of Milky Way, was not "Side-reel," but rather a more esoteric word. "Almost everyone called the horse Side Reel," Swope complained. "Even a cultured bookmaker like Maxie Blumenthal. I had a difficult task trying to explain it was sydee-ree-al, that the nomenclature was quite simple: it had been obtained through the name of the horse's sire, Star Shoot. Sy-dee-reeal, of or pertaining to the stars."

  Algie Dangerfield, secretary of the Jockey Club, selected the colors. Some thought Redstone Stable's were crimson and gold. Carolyn Rothstein called them primrose (more of a violet) and gold-a gold horse upon a primrose jacket and hated the design-"a primrose jacket and a gold running horse, which looked more like a greyhound than a horse. You couldn't distinguish it. I don't think any one has ever seen anything so dreadful on a race track...."

  Rothstein had his highest hopes set for Gladiator, by Superman, out of Lotawanna. Observers thought the powerful horse might have become a second Roseben, the greatest sprinter of its time. In 1921 Gladiator, with Hall of Fame jockey Clarence Kummer aboard, captured Belmont's Toboggan Stakes, with a 1:08 4/5 pace, a record until 1956. A. R. set his sights on the $40,000 Latonia Derby, a race comparable to the Kentucky Derby. Rothstein couldn't secure the jockey he wanted, but his second choice, Edwin Johnston, rode Gladiator to a photo finish. For two minutes judges haggled, before awarding the victory to the opposition. Johnston was reduced to tears, and
nobody felt much better. "I think this was the greatest disappointment of my racing experiences," Carolyn Rothstein wrote. "I felt a real affection for Gladiator, and I believed at the time that Gladiator himself was brokenhearted over losing the race, which all of us who knew him believed he should have won."

  Shortly thereafter, Gladiator contracted a severe cold. Veterinarians inserted a tube in the animal's throat. It caused chronic breathing problems, destroying the horse's effectiveness after six furlongs. After one particularly poor showing by the horse, A. R. saw his chance to recoup. Entering Gladiator at a claiming race at Aqueduct, he placed $120,000 on the animal-and won.

  Rothstein's-indeed, anybody's-biggest killing at the racescame at Aqueduct on a blisteringly hot Monday, July 4, 1921.

  A. R. entered Sidereal in the day's sixth and last race. For most of the afternoon it appeared he would not even run. Why not? The horse wasn't even at the track; he was three miles away at Belmont. And though seven other horses had scratched, competition remained formidable. Carpet manufacturer John Sanford's Slieveconard, a beautiful animal, was favored at 3-to-1. Charles Stoneham's Ultimo and traction magnate Thomas Fortune Ryan's Northcliffe each went off at 7-to-2. Even Harry Payne Whitney's Brainstorm at 10-to-1 drew more attention then Sidereal. With the horse still at Belmont, it wasn't hard to conclude that he'd be scratched. As the day began, Sidereal languished at 50-to-1.

  Not that anyone much cared. The sixth was for maidens-horses without a win to their credit-and featured a mere $1,672 purse. Most bettors focused on the fourth race, the Carter Handicap and its $4,000 purse.

  Twenty thousand patrons jammed Aqueduct despite overcast skies, 94-degree heat, and stifling humidity. A. R. hatched a plan. "What a great day for an oldtime killing!" he exclaimed. "Those bums on the lawn [the bookmakers] won't know what they are doing when this crowd begins to push and shove them around."