*Includes pictures
*Includes online resources and a bibliography for further reading
"Look out for Number One. If you don't, no one else will. If a man is dumb, someone is going to get the best of him, so why not you? If you don't, you're as dumb as he is." - Arnold Rothstein
Sprightly swing music spills across the dimly lit club. The grayish curtains of cigarette smoke part every once in a while to reveal a sparkling stage and tables upon tables of patrons, some incurably inebriated and others high on the fast-paced nightlife. Fabulous flappers in shimmery cocktail dresses and stylish feather headbands throw their hands up and stomp their feet to the addictive beat on the dance floor. Smartly dressed men, their hair neatly parted and slicked back, toss fistfuls of dice onto the plush green baize of the craps tables. Some hover over roulette wheels, staring intently at the spinning flashes of silver, while others finger their playing cards as they sip on tumblers of whiskey, eyeing both the river and the tower of tokens next to them. Frisky tunes, chic fashion, and American gambling are nostalgic, rose-tinted images most choose to project when visualizing the Roaring Twenties, but the other side of the coin brought an uninviting, much harsher reality that most would prefer to sweep under the rug. The first real estate bubble was on the brink of bursting, and progress was evident, but painfully slow, which gave way to yet another era of violent riots, lynchings, and other forms of oppression imposed on minorities.
Then, of course, there were mobsters. Remove the silk three-piece suits, burnished Tommy guns, and obscene stacks of cash from the equation, and one would be left with limp, bullet-ridden bodies either slumped over their steering wheels or sprawled out like broken rag dolls on the floors of public establishments, the walls painted with blood spatters and shattered glass littered about. These, they say, are the lucky ones, for their corpses, though laid out as a public message, provide the deceased's loved ones with some form of closure. Over the decades, dozens involved in this deadly game disappeared altogether, never again to see the light of day.
One of the most integral members of that criminal underworld was Arnold Rothstein, the archetype of the old school mobster. He was intelligent, charming, well-spoken, grotesquely wealthy, and a sharp dresser, often pictured with a patterned bowtie and a flat-top fedora snugly fit over his receding hairline. And yet, he was nothing like the stereotypical mobster; Arnold was not a drinker or smoker, and he was not one to be tempted by illicit substances. He was a notorious high roller, with pockets holding wads of $100 bills, but to the casual eye, he was just another dapper, well-mannered gentleman who frequented the tracks and casinos after a long day at the office.
In addition to his aversion to the aforementioned vices, Rothstein never chewed gum or cursed (at least in public). He snacked on figs and fruits, and he was equipped with an insatiable sweet tooth. Affectionately nicknamed the "Cookie Monster" by his loved ones, Rothstein adored cookies of all kinds - which he washed down with a glass of milk every evening before bed - and constantly ate cakes, pies, and all sorts of desserts.
Perhaps not surprisingly given his vocation, Rothstein was a man of routine, and while he was firmly entrenched in the seamy underbelly of society, he was a lone wolf, more of a mentor and an adviser than he was a vicious thug who wreaked havoc in the streets. Moreover, he was not particularly aggressive, to the extent that he was only alleged to have committed physical assault a handful of times, if that.
Arnold Rothstein: The Life and Legacy of the Notorious Mob Kingpin Accused of Fixing the World Series profiles how Rothstein rose to the top of the criminal underworld, and all the controversies that ensued.