Eight Men Out: The Black Sox and the 1919 World Series (5 page)

Immediately Burns asked: was it true? Was there a plan to fix the Series? Cicotte laughed and replied there was always that kind of talk floating around.

But Burns had a very low kindling point, and Cicotte's whole attitude indicated something was up. It was all Burns needed. He decided that he was the perfect man for the organisation job: clean record, well liked by the ballplayers, quick-witted and clever enough, and above all, eager. He pumped Cicotte file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html for details. And in time, the great pitcher admitted that there was a plan; it was just a matter of getting up the money to finance it.

Burns begged Cicotte not to make any commitments. At least not yet. He promised to work fast. It was the kind of operation that needed an associate, but the best Burns could come up with was a third-rate character named Billy Maharg, an ex-fighter now living in Philadelphia. Burns wired him to come to New York immediately. Maharg obediently hopped a train to New York and the two thrashed out the possibilities. If Maharg found it all vague and far fetched, his skepticism did not stop him from joining Burns and Cicotte at the Ansonia on the following day. Cicotte, this time, was accompanied by Gandil, who finally laid it on the line. Gandil was no piker. This competition for his services delighted him. Now he could up the ante. He told Burns they would arrange to throw the Series for $100,000!

Like Sport Sullivan, Burns had to go scouting for the money. He was due in Montreal on the following day, ostensibly on oil business. He would, however, spend some time on both projects. Meanwhile, he sent Billy Maharg back to Philadelphia with instructions to contact every bigtime gambler and money-man in town. On such a magnificent proposition, surely somebody would come through for him!

Between them, they didn't raise a dollar. Maharg returned only with some advice: they should try the number one gambler-sportsman in America, the man most likely to accede.

His name was Arnold Rothstein.

Arnold Rothstein was an extremely well-heeled man. How rich, nobody really knew except Rothstein himself. He was referred to as a sportsman by the newspapers, as a professional gambler by the Broadway crowd, and as a hoodlum by his father. The truth was, he was all of these things, though he saw himself merely as a man who wanted money. He recognized the corruption in American society and made it his own. Whatever could be turned into money, he used. He applied his genius only for making money.

A psychiatrist might attribute this to his rebellion against his father. Abraham Rothstein had been a devout man. He had wrestled with the poverty of New York's Lower East Side, and quit school to support his mother, brother, sisters. He had worked in a clothing factory, later operated a dry-goods store, then had gone into the cotton-converting business. In time, he became prosperous. But always he was loved and respected for his piety. In 1919, a testimonial dinner was held to praise his arbitration of a garment-industry dispute. Alfred E. Smith, Governor of New York, and Louis D. Brandeis, Justice of the United States Supreme Court, were there to honor him. "Abe the Just," they all called him.

They called his son, Arnold, "The Big Bankroll."

The father had never understood the son. When Arnold was barely three, his father, awakened by a strange noise, had gone to the boy's room to find Arnold standing over his older brother Harry, a knife poised in his hand, "I hate him," Arnold cried. Harry was a bright, cheerful, well-liked, all-around boy.

file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html Arnold was not. "You hate me, but you all love Harry!" he cried and retreated from his father, into a dark closet.

He was a poor student, except in arithmetic. He was not stupid, just deliberately indifferent. He began cutting school, found his way into street crap games. The more the pious father objected, the more the son gambled. At fourteen, he was gambling seriously. He was good at it. He understood about odds and was calculating enough never to bet against percentages. All he needed was a decent bank roll and he could break any game.

His father, unwittingly, supplied it for him. Every Friday night, the orthodox Jew empties his pockets of money and jewelry and goes to Temple for prayer. Arnold would help himself to the cash and pawn the old man's gold watch to supplement his own growing bank roll. He could gamble with this for twenty-four hours, until Shabbos ended on Saturday evening. He always got the cash and the watch back on time.

Gradually, always taking his time, never pushing his luck, he amassed a few thousand dollars. He found he could make that work for him in different ways. He used money to make money. He began lending it

—at 25 per cent interest. If he had any trouble collecting, he got Monk Eastman, a moronic brute whom he met through political contacts, to get it back for him. He was still a kid when Big Tim Sullivan of Tammany Hall took a liking to him. It was Arnold's first real contact with political life. Immediately, he sensed its benefits; he never let go.

He hung around pool rooms a lot, especially one owned by John McGraw, manager and part owner of the New York Giants. He liked it there because it was a meeting place for several great men of the sporting world. Stan Ketchel, a champion fighter. Ted Sloan, a bigtime jockey. Arnold wanted to be like them, to be known as the best.

But only money would give him status. He saved. He lived frugally. He got a job selling cigars wholesale. He never spent money on girls. By their nature, gamblers tend to be celibate, and the young Rothstein was no exception.

And all the time, he stayed clear of his father.

Arnold Rothstein, the man, was wiser, richer, and just as ambitious. He had amassed a fortune at two gambling dens in the West Forties, artfully protected by Tammany police. He was ready for bigger games. Saratoga, New York, the summer home of the Eastern wealthy, was where the horses ran in the afternoon and the roulette wheels spun all night. Rothstein bought a mansion there, spent $100,000

converting it to a luxurious gambling house, cabaret, restaurant. It was the talk of the millionaire sporting crowd. The finest foods were served to its fabulous guests, without any prices listed. They paid

—especially at the gambling tables. Joshua Cosden, oil magnate, dropped $300,000 in one night, $20,000 the next. Harry F. Sinclair, another oil king, was a liberal contributor. Millionaire Charles Stoneham, owner of race horses and the New York Giants. Sam Rosoff…Nick Dandolis, known as Nick file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html the Greek…a host of others. By the end of summer, 1919, Rothstein could have retired and lived like a king. He need never place another bet.

But it was not in him to stop.

On the afternoon of September 23, 1919, Rothstein was enjoying a routine session at the Jamaica Race Track. Sometime after the third race, two strangers worked their way to his box.

Billy Maharg presented a message of introduction from a mutual acquaintance in Philadelphia. He then introduced his partner, Bill Burns. Rothstein nodded politely, asked what they wished of him. Maharg indicated he had a proposition he thought Rothstein would find interesting. But the gambler sloughed them off. He was busy, he told them. He had some careful betting he wanted to attend to. He suggested they wait in the track restaurant. Perhaps he could get to them later.

The two visitors swallowed their eagerness and left for the restaurant. There was nothing else for them to do.

In Rothstein's entourage, there was a unique little man. Raised in San Francisco, with the name of Albert Knoehr, he later changed it to Abe Attell. For twelve years, this little man had held the featherweight championship of the world. His reputation as a fighter had been unmatched in his time. He fought 365

professional fights, was beaten only 6 times. He was never knocked out. He weighed no more than 116

pounds, yet he defeated first-rate fighters in heavier divisions. The Little Champ, they called him. He had a right to be proud of the title.

Attell was, in fact, so great a fighter that when he failed to win quickly, there was reason to believe he was holding up his rival past a certain predetermined round. And when he lost, it was said that Attell was "doing business." In his later years, he grew careless. More than one boxing commission made charges against him. In January, 1912, he fought K.O. Brown at the National Sporting Club of New York

—and lost. The fight looked so shady, the New York Boxing Commission held a hearing which resulted in Attell's suspension.

A few months later, he lost the championship to Johnny Kilbane and finally quit the ring.

Attell had met Rothstein back in 1905. Rothstein, the big sportsman, appreciated a real pro in any field, and the two became friends. When Attell was through as a fighter, he started seeing a lot of Rothstein.

They'd meet at the popular hangout for the sporting-gambling-theater crowd, the Metropole Hotel on Times Square, home of some of the biggest crap games in New York history.

Attell spent his time making contacts. He was cheerful and willing to do favors. He dressed nattily, in the finest tradition of the Broadway crowd. He wanted to be liked and went out of his way to achieve this, especially with important people. He was quick to see the rising power of a man like Rothstein, and carefully cultivated his friendship.

file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html As for Rothstein, he liked Abe, and it flattered his ego to have a champion as a hanger-on. Besides, he always had use for a man like Attell.

After the fourth race, Rothstein asked the Little Champ to find out what Maharg and Burns had in mind.

Attell dutifully left for the track restaurant, delivered Rothstein's message and waited for a reply. This wasn't the way Burns wanted it to work out. But again, it appeared that they had no choice.

Burns outlined the proposition: eight ballplayers on the Chicago White Sox were willing to throw the World Series. They wanted $100,000 cash. Rothstein was the only man around with that kind of money.

Attell made no comment. He told them he would relay this to Rothstein and get back to them. Burns said he could be reached at the Ansonia Hotel.

Attell returned to his thirty-seven-year-old mentor but thought better of discussing the matter in the presence of others. He arranged to meet with Rothstein that night.

Reuben's Restaurant, in 1919, was located on Broadway at 74th street, directly across from the Ansonia.

It was a convenient eatery for Rothstein who lived on Riverside Drive and 84th street. It was his custom to dine around seven, in a small back room, away from the noisy crowd out front. On this night, Attell was there waiting for him. Assured of privacy, Attell recounted Burns's proposition.

Rothstein listened as he ate, and was quick with his reply. He didn't think it could work.

When Attell passed this negative piece of information on to Burns, the ex-pitcher had no reason to doubt its reliability. He did, however, question its finality. This was too big a proposition to give up on. He would simply expand his operation and make new contacts.

Enter now, Hal Chase, that noted master of the fixed ball game. Burns had no trouble finding him (or was it the other way around?) since the Hotel Ansonia was a popular gathering place for the New York baseball crowd. Chase, as it turned out, had ears every bit as long as Burns's and had heard the fix rumors from their inception. Burns was not surprised: after all, this was Chase's chosen profession.

The great first baseman of the New York Giants was highly encouraging. He assured Burns that the whole scheme was a solid one, and who in the history of baseball knew better than Chase? Chase advised him to pursue Rothstein personally. The famous gambler would be at the Astor Hotel in Times Square later that night. Burns should confront him there.

Burns thanked him, then asked Chase what he wanted out of this deal. Chase grinned with typical pleasantness. He didn't want anything—except the right to bet.

The sleepy Texan rounded up his partner, Billy Maharg, and sat down in the Astor lobby to wait. When file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html Rothstein entered, accompanied by a friend, Val O'Farrell, head of a detective agency, Burns approached him with typical brashness. Did Mr. Rothstein have a minute to spare?

Rothstein nodded, recognizing him from the race track that afternoon. Burns told him that he believed his proposition to be much too promising to be abandoned. He knew those ballplayers. They were close friends, even. They would go through with this if the money was available to back it.

But Rothstein shook his head. In his opinion, "whatever that was worth," he added modestly, Burns ought to forget it.

That seemed the end of it. Maharg returned to Philadelphia, and Burns went about his oil business, trying to forget this pipe dream.

Not so, Attell.

The Little Champ had not been in Rothstein's company for all these years without soaking up some of his
modus operandi
. One ingredient always stood out: guts. The ex-fighter could admire that most of all.

Rothstein could size up a proposition, and if it seemed promising, he would plunge in as if it were a sure thing. Attell speculated: maybe this time A.R. had doped it out wrong. What was so impossible about such a fix? Why was he so certain it would not work? With eight ballplayers working for you? Hadn't A.

R. once told him that anything could be fixed, from a checker game to a World War!

The thought began to prey on him, keeping him awake nights. Assuming that it was feasible to fix the Series with Rothstein's backing, why couldn't it be fixed without him? And if Rothstein refused to participate, why should Attell have to kick away a possible gold mine? And, most significantly of all, if it was Rothstein's backing they needed so badly, why shouldn't Attell merely pretend that he had it?