Rothstein Read Online Free PDF Page A

again, `Who shot you?’ He just says, `Don’t ask questions. Get me a cab.’ ” At 11:55 P.M. an ambulance, containing Dr. Malcolm J. McGovern arrived at the Park Central. “While the doc is looking at him,” Davis continued. “I am getting the names of all the witnesses. By the time I am finished, they are taking him away.”
    In his pockets, Arnold Rothstein, possessed “only” $6,500-just $1,025 in cash.
    North of Manhattan, in suburban Westchester County, Gotham’s Mayor “Gentleman Jimmy” Walker and his girlfriend, showgirl Betty Compton, dined at Joe Pani’s fashionable suburban nightclub, the Woodmansten Inn, the sort of place where gangsters and businessmen and politicians rubbed elbows, the type of establishment that stopped the entertainment on election night-just two days hence-to announce each district’s returns.
    That Sunday night, bandleader Vincent Lopez, a Walker friend, was the nightclub’s featured entertainment. Walker had a table reserved near Lopez’s orchestra. Shortly after midnight, Compton cajoled the still very-married mayor onto the dance floor, kicked off her new slippers, and giddily asked Lopez to autograph them. Lopez borrowed a pen from one of the chorus members, a beauty named Starr Faithfull, to oblige.
    A few tables away, a group of gangsters also celebrated. New York’s underworld often partied at the Woodmansten. One approached the mayor, whispered in his ear, and suddenly Walker’s gaiety stopped. His Honor threw some money down for the check, and told Betty Compton. “Come on, Monk. We’re leaving.”
    Vincent Lopez knew something was wrong. “Are you all right, Jim?” he asked Walker.
    “Not exactly.”
    A band member took over the orchestra, and Lopez followed Walker and Compton to the cloakroom. While Betty freshened up, Lopez remarked, “Something’s happened, Jim. I noticed the `boys’ were acting funny.”
    Walker just stood there, holding his girlfriend’s fur wrap. “Rothstein has just been shot, Vince,” he said. “And that means trouble from here on in.”
    ABRAHAM ROTHSTEIN HEARD SOBBING.
    It came from a closet in his East 79th Street home. He opened the door. Inside was his fiveyear-old son Arnold. He tried comforting him, cradling him in his arms. The boy pushed him away.
    “You hate me,” he said. “She hates me and you hate me, but you all love Harry. Nobody loves me.”
    Harry. Abraham knew of his son Arnold’s insecurities, of the jealousy, even the hatred Arnold felt for his older brother. “You are our son,” he said. “We love all of you alike.”
    “It’s a lie,” Arnold shot back. “If she loved me, she wouldn’t leave me. She’d take me and leave Harry here.”
    Harry. Esther Rothstein had left for San Francisco, her first visit home since her marriage, the first since her father’s death. She took with her, her oldest son, Harry, and Edith, the baby of the family. She left behind Arnold and his younger brother Edgar.
    Many a fiveyear-old has reacted as Arnold Rothstein did that night: a flare-up, a temper tantrum that would pass. But this was no isolated incident. Arnold was a deeply disturbed child, filled with pathological hatred for his older brother. And the child would be father to the man. True, he would gradually move from shyness to confidence, holding forth at various Broadway haunts, mixing with show people and socialites and politicians, with writers and celebrities. But Arnold Rothstein could never quite overcome the pain he felt as a child, an ache worse than any gambling loss.
    There was no real reason for A. R. to have felt this way, none for his insecurity, nor for his fear of his older brother. No real reason, actually, to eventually become what he did: a gambler, a cheat, a rumrunner. No reason to become a drug smuggler, or a political fixer. No reason to become any of those things. Not if ancestry or upbringing counts. For Arnold Rothstein came from very good stock. Not Lower East Side stock. Not