Shall We Stop by Somewhere?
Columbia University, New York University, the City College of New York.
They were among the most famous schools in Manhattan. Columbia sat among the Ivy League, one of the finest institutions in America; NYU carried a formidable reputation of its own. Both charged tuition steep enough that their halls belonged mostly to the children of wealth.
City College was different. Called the “poor man’s Harvard,” it offered free education and drew ambitious immigrants whose grades were sharp even if their pockets were empty. Those students still had to eat, so they worked part-time jobs not only through the summer but right through the semester. The greedier ones drifted into illegal work. Dealing cards in a gambling den was one option. The risk of expulsion was real, but the hourly pay was hard to beat.
“Did you fall into gambling and become a dealer, or did you become a dealer and then fall into gambling?”
“I became a dealer and then learned about gambling…”
Marcello had landed the job through a classmate roughly six months earlier.
“Once I learned the rules of the different games and started dealing, winning money started looking easy.”
“Dealers know better than anyone that the house can fix the outcome.”
“They usually just shave the odds a little. You can see those tricks coming a mile away.”
So he had convinced himself he would never be the one getting taken.
“How much have you lost?”
“…”
“Want me to take your hand and walk you over to your mother?”
“Thirty dollars.”
“Not just today.”
“Fifty. I won a fair amount in between. Overall it’s only that much.”
Still not getting it. A month and a half of wages gone to the tables, and he called it “only that much.” I cursed him for a fool, then found myself thinking about the dealers I would need for my own house.
“You got a lot of dealer friends?”
“Not a lot. A few.”
A few. That was enough. I dragged Marcello to the butcher shop. When I told him to come inside he shook his head.
“You know how I’m fixed. Where would I get money for meat?”
“And you’ve never bought meat with winnings?”
“…”
“Just come watch me spend money.”
I scowled; Marcello followed me in wearing the face of a man chewing gravel. When I ordered two kilograms of steak, he stared at the floor looking wretched. A moment later the Jewish butcher handed over the package with a friendly smile.
“On the house—plenty of organ meat thrown in.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you. Take care on the way home.”
Outside, Marcello asked, “You a regular here?”
“I come often enough.”
“Factory pay can’t stretch that far. Where’s the money coming from?”
“If you don’t gamble like an idiot, you can eat meat even on small wages.”
Marcello chewed his lip and dropped his gaze. I held out half the meat; he froze and stared at me.
“Take it home and eat it with your family.”
“…Fuck, don’t pity me. I’ll work a few days and buy my own.”
“Pity’s got nothing to do with it. And who said I only work at the factory? Just take it.”
He accepted the paper-wrapped package with a complicated expression. A debt of gratitude now existed; time to collect.
“There’s a gambling house opening around October. We need dealers.”
“That’s right in the middle of the semester.”
“You don’t work during the semester?”
“I tried last term. Staying up all night wrecked my grades. So not just me—dealers only work vacations.”
“Hm. Hand the meat back.”
The same Marcello who had just told me not to pity him now clutched the package to his chest and called me cheap. I let my face harden.
“Something given should bring something in return. The world isn’t a card table. You get what you put in.”
I reached for the club at my belt; Marcello spoke fast.
“There’s one. A guy who took leave from school and is dealing full-time.”
The catch, he said, was that the kid was good and would want real money.
“Math genius—top of the class. He doesn’t just deal; he runs numbers too.”
“Numbers?”
I had heard of it. An illegal lottery, a little like sports betting, where you put money on a set of digits and collected the payout if they hit. It thrived in the Black and Italian working-class neighborhoods because the minimum bet was a single penny—anyone could play. Later people would call it the Italian lottery, the Mafia lottery, or the daily number, names that stuck once Prohibition ended and cash-strapped mobs poured into the racket. In short, numbers paid.
“Where is he now?”
“Dealing at an Italian house on Forsyth Street.”
What were the odds. The same Italians who had shaken down my mother’s company for protection money. I had heard Sicily was muscling Naples out of its rackets lately; maybe Hester Street was still holding out.
We walked side by side into the tenement and parted on the stairs.
“I’m asking again—keep this from my mother. Absolute secret.”
“If you don’t bring that friend to me, you’d better run. I’ll paper the neighborhood with notices about Marcello the gambling junkie. Enjoy the meat.”
“Fuck, you think I can enjoy it now?”
“Watch that mouth.”
Marcello went to the second floor; I climbed to the third. When I opened the door the family was already at supper.
“Big brother, you said you had the day off—where were you that you’re this late ohhhh, stop! Surprise!”
Roa dropped her spoon, scampered over, and snatched the paper package from my hands.
“Big brother, it isn’t even Friday—what is thissss? Roa already finished dinner; why would you gamble like this?”
“…We can eat it tomorrow morning.”
“Aunt Mary says never put off till tomorrow what you can do today. Roa, should I heat the pan?”
I realized then that ever since I started working the Tenderloin I had not brought meat home. That was probably why she had not grown.
“Eat plenty and grow big and strong.”
“Okay. On days Roa eats meat she doesn’t even poop. Where else could the food go?”
She tapped her own head.
“So tonight you’ll grow a whole centimeter?”
“Yep. I’ll catch Jake soon. He keeps looking at Roa.”
“Isn’t Jake just fat rather than tall?”
“…Wow, big brother is shocking Roa twice in one day. Sit down.”
Was this the new fashion? Whenever something happened, Roa slapped the floor beside her.
“So Roa is fat? If I eat meat tonight will I get one centimeter wider?”
“Of course not. Come to think of it, Jake is tall. I was mixing him up with the cake.”
“See? Jake is tall. Roa can eat meat without worrying.”
That night the smell of cooking meat filled two apartments in the tenement.
The next morning at the company, Mrs. Monica would not stop boasting about her son.
“Studying, working—and in the middle of all that he still brings home meat. I may not have had luck with a husband, but I hit the jackpot with a son.”
“True enough. Marcello would make a fine son-in-law. Not just anyone gets into City College. He’s been sharp since he was small.”
“Monica’s lucky. A good, clever boy like that.”
The chorus of agreement only poured more fuel on the bragging. If I told them the real price of that meat they would all faint. Or maybe not. Maybe City College still outranked it.
My eyes met Mother’s. She gave me a strained smile that said I was still the best, yet the expression was complicated, full of thoughts she did not voice.
Yes, Mother. I was wrong. Put your hopes on Liam and Roa.
Talking with Marcello made me realize how little time remained until October.
October brought one thing immediately to mind: the October Revolution that followed Russia’s February Revolution. Vladimir Lenin’s Bolsheviks were about to stage the world’s first successful communist uprising. It had nothing to do with me, of course, but it was a historical event perfect for showing off a little foresight. I decided to write another letter.
My earlier letter about the Spanish flu pandemic had never appeared anywhere in the pages of the News World, just as I expected. In that light, a second letter about the Russian October Revolution would be closer at hand and a cleaner demonstration of predictive power.
I wrote the letter that morning and sealed the envelope. This was a long-term project; I could not afford to leave a trail. I never used the same post office twice. The first letter had gone out from Hell’s Kitchen; this one I mailed on the way to work in the Tenderloin.
The Big Bankroll.
Arnold Rothstein was a very busy businessman. As a gambler he traveled to distant card rooms, racetracks, and even baseball games to place his bets; as a businessman he courted politicians and industrialists to expand his empire.
I was doing the usual rounds, moving between the gambling floor and the saloon, sorting out the more disorderly drunks, when word arrived that the police were raiding the Tenderloin. Chaos erupted at once.
“They’re headed this way!”
“Everybody clean it up.”
Manager MacManus quietly informed the customers while the staff moved with a speed that would have done a spy film proud. One wall swung open to reveal a hidden passage; some of the guests slipped through it. Dealers swept chips, cards, and dice into false bottoms under the tables. Empty tables rotated so their tops became the undersides. Roulette wheels that could not spin away received a fitted cover, then a scatter of whiskey bottles and glasses, turning them into ordinary drinking tables.
In under a minute the gambling house had become a perfect saloon. And then—
“The police turned and went somewhere else!”
“All clear!”
MacManus snorted and clapped his hands. Restoring the floor took almost no time at all. Guests who had vanished down the secret passage drifted back. I watched their faces and clicked my tongue. They looked less offended than entertained, as if they had just enjoyed a small, thrilling deviation—children finished with an adventure, laughing among themselves.
When the dust settled, Meyer offered an interesting analysis of the evening’s events.
“The real targets were always the houses that don’t pay bribes or that have fallen out with the cops. So why pretend they were coming here?”
“To squeeze for bigger bribes?”
“Exactly. And MacManus almost certainly knew they were never going to walk through the door.”
“Then why the whole circus?”
“Sometimes you need it. When the police get too greedy, the customers themselves put them in their place.”
Clients with real power and connections hated having their private vices interrupted. They also liked to compete quietly, to show off whose influence ran deeper. Prod them the right way and they would lean on the police themselves…
“Is that your guess, Meyer, or did you hear it somewhere?”
“About half guess. Rothstein once said that the higher the class of your clientele, the safer the business becomes.”
Arnold Rothstein, “the Brain.” Meyer Lansky, the man who would later take that gambling empire global. What did it matter if I had once bluffed him with a wrong answer? Charles “Lucky” Luciano would climb to the top of the Mafia only because he had partners like Rothstein and Meyer. I needed the same thing.
Capable people.
Marcello brought news of his dealer friend three days later. Our schedules were similar, so he slept the day away and only knocked in the afternoon. I took him up to the roof.
“Looks like that friend of yours is in a bad spot.”
“Yeah, and now your spot’s about to get bad too.”
“No, I’m serious. I went to see him. He can’t even leave the place, and he can’t quit even though he wants to.”
“Being threatened?”
Marcello nodded carefully.
“Seems that way. He was watching the other guys inside like a hawk. We barely got to talk.”
“Why would a dealer get threatened?”
“It happens. Sometimes they order you to force the odds harder, or to straight-up fix the game.”
“Force or fix—what’s the difference? And why is that a problem? Don’t give me the conscience speech.”
If they tell you to do it, you do it. But Marcello’s answer was not the one I expected.
“It’s not the bosses. If the customers catch you cheating they kill you. They get worked up, pull a gun, and just start shooting. I’ve heard plenty of those stories.”
“Ah… now I get it.”
An angry player might pull a knife or bring an axe down on a hand at any moment. The smaller the house, the more often it happened. A dealer who wanted to keep his fingers had to cheat only within safe limits.
“They must have pushed him too hard. The place he works is a Neapolitan gang outfit, and they’re hurting.”
“City College kids sure know a lot.”
“You hear things dealing. Word is a Neapolitan warehouse got cleaned out and they’re short on cash. Sicily’s completely overrunning them. The place I used to work switched from Neapolitan to Sicilian owners too.”
Four Italian gambling houses on Hester Street; three of them already Sicilian. I had never imagined I would get that kind of intelligence from Marcello.
“I’ll look around for other friends. No point getting mixed up in that—it’s dangerous.”
“You said the kid’s good.”
“He is. But once you tangle with a gang it’s a different world from what you read in the papers. You have no idea how scary—”
Right then four grim-looking men climbed onto the roof. Marcello flinched and pressed himself against the wall.
“Don’t think I’ve seen this one before.”
“N-neighbor.”
“Ah.”
Gavin nodded and stepped closer. Union men—recruits bound for the Hell’s Kitchen shooting detail, headed for the training camp.
“Before we leave, shall we stop by somewhere for a bit?”
“Anywhere. Just not the training camp.”