You Good at Math?
I'd followed Big Tom Foley here before, but that had been pure security work—I hadn't paid the gambling hall itself any real attention.
Down the stairs into the basement, another door waited; beyond it stretched a long corridor. The right side looked as if it had been partitioned off with temporary walls. A hallway like this had to be for buying time if the cops ever came crashing in.
"Boss isn't in, so the manager'll see you. Pay's not bad here—just ask for any work they've got."
"Appreciate the thought."
Salvatore snorted. He led me by the arm into a private meeting with the manager of The Big Bankroll—a stocky man in his mid-thirties named George McManus.
"Age?"
"Seventeen."
"Heard your mother's Irish. No Orientals on the payroll, but if you've got the goods, race and nationality don't mean a damn. Meyer and Irving recommended you. Limbs intact, quick on the uptake—no reason not to hire you."
McManus asked what I was good at. When he wanted to know if I was fast with numbers, I nodded without hesitation.
"Say you're in a poker game with five other players. You've got the king of diamonds and the queen of spades. Dealer turns three cards: ten of diamonds, nine of clubs, two of hearts. What are the odds you complete a straight?"
"…"
What kind of calculation was that? The bastard was messing with me.
Fifteen cents an hour. Nine at night till seven in the morning. Ten hours flat for a dollar-fifty.
"New blood—table five."
On the tray: Old Overholt whiskey and a plate of fried potatoes and corn fritters. I carried it from the kitchen toward the tables. Midway I locked eyes with Meyer Lansky dealing cards at a poker table. He was the one who was supposed to be good at math. After the brief glance he went right back to dealing with those flashy hands of his.
As a lifelong math dropout, I was convinced everyone had their own talent. No need to feel inferior. Look at Irving—he was circulating with a big board strapped over his shoulders, loaded with snacks, sniffing around the customers. When the head's no good, the body suffers. Eternal truth, that.
"Watch where you're going."
"Sorry."
I set the drinks and food at table five and planted myself in a corner. The place was sizable, split roughly half saloon and half gambling floor. Even with the managers paid off, a raid could still drop out of the blue any day—hence the camouflage, I figured.
Catering to high society meant the interior was polished. Soft light from a gold chandelier overhead, walls finished in walnut, green velvet curtains lending the room a refined air. Thick Persian carpets swallowed every footfall so each step felt cushioned. Tuxedoed gentlemen clustered around the craps and poker tables; the roulette wheels drew women glittering with diamonds. Waiters like me were stationed between the tables, taking orders and serving.
In the tense silence just before a decision, you could hear the roulette wheel spinning, dice tumbling, cards shuffling—then the sounds vanished under cheers and groans. The densest crowd packed in from midnight to three. When the place finally emptied like a receding tide, we got a chance to breathe.
Only to be thrown straight into another job.
"Truck's here! Get downstairs and take the load!"
We thundered up the stairs. Out front on the first floor sat an RMCT truck—Reliance Motor Car and Truck Company—stacked high with wooden crates.
"Easy with 'em—don't break anything!"
The crates held bottles of liquor, goods that had come through a brewery or middleman. Prohibition hadn't started yet, so the pipeline was still legal.
"Hey, rookie! Quit daydreaming and move, you bastard."
Irving gave me a shove. The two of us hauled the unloaded crates down into the basement storeroom. With enough hands the work finished fast—about fifteen of us swarming the truck. The dealers were nowhere in sight. Only waiters like me and muscle like Salvatore got stuck with the loading.
In this place I was a machine that worked. The damn boss filled every gap between jobs with more jobs. Plenty to learn from that. Even a machine needs oiling now and then.
When a brief lull finally opened, Irving struck up conversation.
"First day—head spinning?"
"Manageable enough."
"Beats shining shoes, right? Pay's not half bad either."
Irving was satisfied with the job. He envied Meyer for looking sharper and earning more, but he knew his place—or maybe just sold himself short.
"Meyer's smart. Lightning with numbers. Not like a dumbass like me."
"You just haven't found it yet. You've got something you're good at too. Speaking of which—"
How was I supposed to read them hiring me on the word of a couple of regular employees? And I was the only Oriental in the joint.
"Why'd they hire me?"
"Boss didn't tell you? Oh right—only Manager McManus was around today."
Irving parroted McManus's line almost word for word: the boss liked keeping young, capable kids close.
"Blacks work here too. They don't care about race or where you're from."
There used to be a Black community tucked into one corner of the Tenderloin. As more of them drifted north into Harlem, the ones who stayed found work as musicians or staff in jazz clubs and amusement houses.
"Rothstein only looks at ability. Stick around and do well—you might land a real spot."
That name rang a bell. A gambling house, and the owner was named Rothstein? The recognition hit at once.
"The boss wouldn't happen to be Arnold Rothstein, would he?"
"That's him. Real big name in the business, they say."
Famous was putting it mildly. He was going to get a whole lot more famous. Arnold Rothstein would mentor Meyer Lansky and Charles "Lucky" Luciano—the man who raised future mafia legends.
In that case, I needed a direct line to the boss. Arnold Rothstein was worth the effort. I was still turning over who could make the introduction when Meyer Lansky himself appeared.
"Welcome, Kieran. Wouldn't listen when I asked you, but one little nudge from Salvatore and you fold right away."
"Circumstances lined up, that's all. Anyway—you any good at math?"
"Why?"
I told him the problem McManus had thrown at me.
"Say you're in a poker game with five other players. You've got the king of diamonds and the queen of spades. Dealer turns three cards: ten of diamonds, nine of clubs, two of hearts. What are the odds you complete a straight?"
Meyer thought for a moment, then spoke.
"McManus went with a poker problem, huh. Straight doesn't care about suits. Your hole cards are nine and ten. Board shows twelve, thirteen, two. To make the straight you need the jack—eleven—and an eight."
Fifty-two cards in the deck. Dealer had already put three out; six players each held two, so subtract another twelve.
"Fifty-two minus fifteen leaves thirty-seven. The eights and jacks you need—spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs—eight cards total. So eight out of the remaining thirty-seven. Odds of completing the straight: 21.6 percent."
"That's Meyer for you. Math genius."
Irving made a big show of it. Neither of us even knew if the answer was right. No way to check, so I decided to call it correct. I'd heard casinos adjusted odds according to the betting; it took someone like Meyer to make that possible. And the boss who had spotted him—Arnold Rothstein—was supposed to be strong with numbers himself, at least according to the books.
While we talked, a group drifted over.
"Hey, rookies. What are you doing standing around?"
Internal bouncers—the ones who handled trouble inside the house. Outside security was Italian like Salvatore; inside was Jewish.
"Meyer, these your friends?"
"Shoe-shine kids from the Lower East Side."
As always, plenty of people were curious about my bloodline. After some empty talk, a latecomer joined the cluster and recognized me.
"Ain't you the one who ran with the Marginals? That right?"
"The Hell's Kitchen Marginals?"
They treated me like a lunatic for living on the Lower East Side yet hanging around a Hell's Kitchen gang. Meyer's favor with the boss kept them from crossing the line, though.
"Rookie. We'll be watching. Do good."
"When the older guys give an order, you jump. Got it?"
Territorial hazing. I'd take it as experience that would thicken the blood and bone.
When the shift ended I rode the streetcar home. Mother was making breakfast; the younger ones were getting ready for school. Roa, still half-dressed, spotted me and came scampering over.
"Big brother, is our house hard?"
"Hmm?"
"Working day and night—what's going on? Roa doesn't need meat. I'll hurry and grow up and buy it with my own money."
Her eyes were glistening. Mother, stirring the potatoes, shook her head.
"I keep telling her nothing's wrong and she won't believe a word. Kieran, talk some sense into her."
I bent to Roa's level and stroked her hair.
"It's not because we're broke. I'm working to learn. Just for a little while."
"Sit down and tell me. How long is a little while? For Roa a little while is really little. Even chewing meat takes longer."
"…Well. Longer than chewing meat, that's for sure. Anyway, I'll buy the meat for now. When you grow up, you buy it for me. Deal?"
Roa nodded, then leaned in close and whispered.
"I might skip little brother, but big brother gets meat for sure. Roa's gonna cook it herself too. I've been watching everything."
"Oh, now I'm looking forward to it. Better grow up fast."
"But Roa needs meat to grow. This never ends."
She rubbed her temples and shook her head, looking stuck in a dilemma. That was when Liam asked,
"Hey, hyung—where are you working, anyway?"
"Tenderloin."
Liam sucked in a sharp breath. At his age he had to know what kind of place the Tenderloin was.
"Some kids at school say they work there. From what I hear it's real…"
"Real what?"
"Never mind. You don't need to know."
"Little brother, Roa told you—if you start talking and stop midway…"
"What?"
"See? Now you're curious. All day long—curious, curious."
I could guess the rest. He wanted to say the Tenderloin was dangerous and full of temptation. Temporary. Just temporary.
After the meal the family scattered. Alone in the house I drew the curtains, lay down, and tried to sleep. I mapped the gambling hall's layout and staff positions in my head. Only one day, but I'd learned plenty. For starters, you couldn't open an operation that size overnight. You needed seasoned dealers and people who knew the business cold.
I slept until late afternoon, then stopped by Mother's company for a meeting. Once evening came I boarded the streetcar again and rode the three kilometers down Broadway into the Tenderloin. Subtle discrimination came with the job. Even among waiters there was a pecking order; they dumped extra work on me or tried to use me as their errand boy. Now and then some bastard would throw "chink" around and pick a fight. I kept updating the list in my head, name by name.
On the fourth night at the gambling hall, I finally met the man who had hired me. Mid-to-late thirties, hawk-nosed, short hair combed back. Arnold Rothstein, owner of The Big Bankroll, came looking for me right outside the kitchen.
"The new one—Kieran Graves."
"I know. McManus and his math problems again, I see."
Rothstein eyed the tray in my hands and gave a wry smile. The staff around us all wore the same puzzled look. What he did next left them even more bewildered.
"Putting a tray in your hands… no eye for people at all. Come with me a moment."
The biggest gambler and businessman in America—the one they called the Brain. Arnold Rothstein understood better than anyone that growing a business meant needing talent. That was how he would become mentor to Meyer Lansky, Charles "Lucky" Luciano, Bugsy Siegel, Dutch Schultz, and the rest of the legendary mafiosi.
I figured I ought to get a spoon in that pot too.
When I followed him into the office, a familiar face was waiting. Big Tom Foley of Tammany Hall. Whether it was my uniform or something else, the smile on Tom Foley's face melted into pure shock.
"You said you were working here—and you're a waiter? My savior, reduced to serving tables…"
"It happened while I was away. Caught me off guard as well."
Rothstein glanced sideways at Tom Foley, gauging his reaction.
"So why are you deliberately waiting tables here?"
A few days earlier I had told Tom Foley I was working at this place—precisely so a question like this would come up.
"To gain experience."
"Experience?"
"I've developed an interest in gambling halls myself."
"That explains it. I thought as much."
Tom Foley nodded as if it all made sense, then looked at Rothstein.
"Give the boy a hand."
"A capable friend is always welcome."
Today I added Arnold Rothstein to my network—a powerful connection indeed.