Chapter 55 - Who Are You to Set My Limits?
In the novel The Great Gatsby, there's a character named Meyer Wolfsheim.
He was Gatsby's bootlegging partner and a gang boss—created as a character inspired by Arnold Rostein.
After meeting Rostein, I quit waiting tables.
Instead, I became a bouncer who kept order inside the casino, dealing with unruly customers. When a drunk caused a scene or someone shouted about cheating at the tables, I'd throw them out.
"Good job, rookie. You handled yourself well, didn't get rattled."
"You can be rougher if you want. If someone starts trouble, don't go easy on them."
I can handle this on my own, you idiots.
Even the staff who used to give me a hard time became friendly. Maybe word had gotten around about my good relationship with the boss—no one messed with me after that.
As I blended into The Big Bankroll, I learned how the casino really worked.
I also got a sense of Arnold Rostein's personality. He took talented, ambitious young men under his wing and made sure they flourished. Whenever he saw a chance, he'd gather people together to share his business knowledge.
Sometimes it was just three or four of us, other times even more.
"People obsessed with gambling tend to fall for two big misconceptions. First, they think they're lucky. They think that, even if they've lost for days, today will be different."
Second, they believe they're smarter than everyone else. They convince themselves they can win it back with clever calculations and cling to that foolish hope.
Here, it's usually the wealthy upper class that comes and goes, but in smaller casinos, a lot of college students show up for the same reason—they're under the illusion that they're smarter than everyone else.
"Almost everyone plays with their emotions, yet each one thinks of themselves as cold and rational. So what's our job here? We root for them."
We genuinely console those who lose, and sincerely congratulate those who win. Sometimes, even the dealer has to show signs of being emotionally shaken.
"Of course, we operate based on logic and thorough calculation, not emotion. But if customers ever realize that, they'll go somewhere else. That's why it's crucial to let them win now and then, get them to come back for more."
Winning customer loyalty is simple. Treat them special, play along with their need to feel important and a little boastful.
And if you plant the illusion that 'they could win even more,' they'll always come back, bringing even more money with them.
Arnold Rostein also shared his views about the organization's network, not just gambling.
"Reduce your enemies and increase your allies. But approach this carefully and cautiously. Why? Because alliances only work when you need each other. If you can't find shared interests, remember, an ally can turn into an enemy at any time."
Business expansion and strategy can be summed up in three key points.
First, those who try to make money quickly will fall just as quickly. Money comes from steady, stable flows, so you need to build a business model that can last.
Second, connect legitimate businesses to illegal profits. That's how you can avoid prying eyes.
Third, you can't do everything alone. Find talented people and make them the backbone of your organization. You must always be vigilant so that they never set their sights on your position.
This wasn't just the idle boasting of a boss who became a millionaire by age thirty.
Rostein's true goal was to pick out friends with real talent who could put his mentoring into practice. That's why he said the same thing over and over.
"Staying here for a long time won't do you much good. Instead of being a bouncer, waiter, kitchen staff, or dealer, find something you can do even better."
While working at the casino, I realized that quite a few of the dealers were college students. Even more came during school breaks, but Rostein didn't trust them.
"They don't belong in this world anyway. I'm not interested in guys who are just here to earn tuition money. I want people willing to risk everything to succeed."
So if you've learned the tricks of the trade, take them outside and put them to use.
You can see this from the secret instructions Rostein gave to Salvatore.
Though I still don't know what those instructions were.
Salvatore got involved in some sort of crime and hasn't shown up at the casino since.
According to Meyer, who was close to Salvatore, he went back to the Five Points Gang. If there's anything different now—
"From now on, Rostein will be supporting Salvatore from behind the scenes. He passed the test."
All things considered, Rostein wasn't just keeping promising people as subordinates—he was raising them as business partners.
He wasn't aiming to be the boss of a gang, but rather to create an empire by controlling and supporting those bosses from the shadows. That was Rostein's way.
One time, he asked me this question.
"I once worked for a company as a salesman, but I couldn't stand how boring it was, so I couldn't stick with it. Then I poked around the gangs, but it was just as unbearable. Do you know why?"
I might not be great at math, but I can read people. This was the kind of question people like Rostein—quick-witted and business-savvy—wanted to ask. You just had to think from his perspective to find the answer. Of course, I tried to recall what I'd read in books as I responded.
"Gangs are frustrating and inefficient."
He took the bait. With an intrigued look, Rostein asked a follow-up question.
"Why do you think that?"
"Gangs are obsessed with fighting instead of focusing on profitable business. It's not normal to risk your life over a few blocks of territory."
"Exactly, you nailed it. That's why I'm not very interested in running a gang. That's a job for guys who are better suited to it."
Apparently satisfied with my answer, Rostein's eyes sparkled with anticipation.
But it didn't last long, and soon he looked at me with a hint of regret.
"Honestly, saving Mr. Foley's life was an impressive feat, but I didn't expect much beyond that. If you weren't Asian, you would've had much bigger opportunities."
"Thank you for thinking so highly of me."
"I truly mean it."
Rostein was Jewish.
Even if someone claims not to care about background or race, loyalty tends to stay close to home—most of those he nurtured were Jewish or Italian.
That's how Rostein set and enforced my limitations as an Asian.
"Even with Tom Foley's backing, running your own casino would be impossible. The money, the manpower, the enemies all around you—you'd have a hard time on every front. And how would you even recruit dealers? You can't exactly run a public job ad for that."
He then advised me to make use of my strengths instead.
"You're a good shot, aren't you? Then there's another path for you to consider. Think about it."
The "other path" Rostein mentioned was as a gunslinger—in other words, an assassin.
To put it differently, he was suggesting I stick to something I could handle on my own.
Why? Because I'm Asian.
It wasn't racism—it was Rostein's cold, pragmatic analysis.
"I'll take your words to heart."
"Good. Reality is what it is."
I decided I would prove myself to Rostein before he died. If I could break through my limitations and rise high above, he'd eventually realize it—realize that he was wrong.
About two weeks after I started working at The Big Bankroll, I finally had my first day off.
That afternoon, Gunsmith and Hazel showed up on Allen Street, their faces bundled up and hidden. Of course, I was also covering my face with a scarf.
"Did you buy this building? Are you a landlord now?"
"Do I look different?"
"Yeah. It's for real."
Hazel's eyes sparkled as she looked at me. In contrast, Gunsmith inspected the building's exterior and entrance.
"If you combine these two split buildings into one, there are a total of six entrances to the basement. Let's head down for now."
Gunsmith compared the blueprints I had acquired ahead of time to the actual structure, tapping on walls and checking which ones could be knocked down.
When we reached the second basement level, Hazel asked,
"If we knock down this wall, it's perfect for a shooting range. But what was this place used for originally?"
"A brothel."
Hazel didn't seem fazed. Instead, as if something came to mind, she snapped her fingers.
"So this is the brothel run by the prime suspect in Rosie Hertz's murder?"
"That's right. So you read the newspapers too."
"As soon as I wake up, I read the New York Times and New York World without fail. But—"
Hazel stopped talking, suddenly folded her arms, and stared at me intently.
"What is it?"
"I just wondered if you were involved in the Rosie Hertz case."
"What do you think?"
"Well, I'm not sure. And honestly, I don't really want to know."
After that, Hazel became noticeably quieter. But maybe because she couldn't stand the silence, she spoke up again.
"So, what are you planning to build here?"
"The first basement will be a dance hall, the second basement will have a salon and a casino."
"You're not making a shooting range?"
"It doesn't bring in money."
Hazel let out a deep sigh and fell silent again.
About thirty minutes later, the Gunsmith, who had been sketching separate blueprints, started outlining his plans for the renovations.
"The regular stuff, we'll leave to a local construction crew. Once they wrap that up, I'll be able to build the hidden passages and secret rooms separately
"Oh, and when the time comes, I'll need five workers I can trust."
"That's not a problem."
Right now, I have seven loafers just hanging around with nothing to do.
"I'll tally up the costs separately and let you know. You should expect it to be at least two thousand dollars."
"I understand. Ah, and a few days from now, I'd like to use the shooting range. Would it be possible for a group of four?"
"Absolutely not."
"They're draftees about to enlist, though."
Gunsmith hesitated for a moment, then spoke in a reluctant tone.
"…If anything goes wrong, you'll have to take responsibility."
"Of course."
Once we finished up, we exited through the entrance connected to the back of the building from the basement.
Outside, evening had fallen.
Just as I was about to hail a carriage on Allen Street, Hazel quietly approached and asked,
"When exactly is 'a few days from now'?"
"Huh?"
"When you're coming for shooting practice."
"Oh, about four days from now?"
"Yeah. See you then."
Hazel hummed a tune as she climbed into the carriage. Gunsmith shot her a look, then knocked on the coachman's seat.
"To Hell's Kitchen, please."
Once the carriage drove off, I left Allen Street and headed home.
But since it was my rare day off and I found myself thinking of Roa, I decided to stop by my usual butcher shop in Little Italy.
I was walking along Hester Street when I suddenly heard a dull thud and someone groaning from a nearby alley.
"You bastard, if you lost your money, just get lost."
"Non tornare mai più! (Don't ever come back again!)"
"You cheats! You think nobody knows you rigged it? I'll report you—"
Wham! Wham!
"Go ahead and report us, idiot."
"If you don't want to get killed, get lost right now!"
Shouts in English and Italian mixed in the air as the beating continued. But the voice of the man getting beaten sounded familiar.
This kind of thing happened several times a day in the alleys of the Lower East Side.
Normally, I would have just walked on by, but the mention of gambling and hearing Italian caught my interest.
I walked slowly past the alley.
As I discreetly turned my head to look in, the guys inside glared back at me.
"What are you looking at, punk?"
"Keep your eyes down, yeah?"
I kept my gaze straight ahead and walked past the alley.
Then I stopped and waited for whoever was inside to come out.
A moment later, a man emerged, shoulders slumped and face bruised.
He was so focused on the ground that he bumped right into me. When our eyes met, his pupils shook violently, like someone caught doing something wrong.
The man was Marcello, the second son of Mrs. Monica, who works at my mother's company.
He was twenty-two, a college student at City College of New York (CCNY)—a rare sight in this neighborhood.
Why did I know all that?
It's all because Mrs. Monica can't stop bragging about her sons.
Whether I wanted to or not, that information kept getting drilled into my head.
On top of that, we sometimes ran into each other at the Tenement House, so we at least knew who the other was.
But we weren't on good terms.
He always looked down on me, acting all superior just because he went to college. Nothing had changed now.
"What are you staring at? Get out of my way."
"Wipe the blood off your face before you talk to me."
"Damn it."
Marcello wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. When he saw the blood, he winced in disgust. Then he tried to threaten me.
"If you go around blabbing about this, you're dead."
I stared hard at Marcello for a moment.
Then I slapped him across the face.
"Who do you think you're threatening?"
"You little—"
Smack!
I slapped him a couple more times in quick succession, grabbed him by the collar, and kicked his leg out from under him at the same time. Marcello's knees buckled, and he ended up hanging onto my arm for support.
"Your mother's breaking her back working all day in the Underground Workshop, and her son's busy gambling his life away, huh?"
I'd heard there were quite a few like that in the Tenement House where I lived—fathers and sons both ruined by gambling.
Marcello's eyes turned bright red, and soon tears welled up and dropped onto my hand.
I recoiled in shock and shook him off.
"What are you doing, a grown man crying?"
"Please… keep this a secret. I'm begging you. And the money—I earned it myself."
Oh right, it's summer break now.
Anyway, Marcello, sniffling and weeping, started pleading with me. I dragged him into a quiet alley and asked,
"What did you say your major was again?"
"Math…"
"Oh, so you really thought you'd win. Didn't even realize you were easy prey?"
"I—I had a hand that was mathematically impossible to lose. If those guys hadn't rigged it, I would've won for sure."
They say people who think they're smart are the ones who get hooked on gambling.
Just like Rostein said.
Anyway.
"You went to a casino run by the Italians, right?"
"I'm from that area too."
"Are there a few more Italian-run casinos on Hester Street?"
"Four…"
How does he know that so well?
It's not his first or second time at a casino.
Unless…
"Are you working part-time as a dealer at one of those places?"
Marcello's eyes twitched nervously.
So I asked,
"Let's say there are six people playing poker. You have the king of diamonds and the queen of spades, and the dealer has flipped the ten of diamonds, nine of clubs, and two of hearts. What are the odds that you'll complete a straight?"
"What is this about…"
"If you get it wrong, I'm taking you by the hand straight to your mother."
Marcello's eyes darted wildly as he calculated.
And then,
"10.8%."
"…Not 21.6?"
"In a K-Q-10-9 situation, the only cards that can complete the straight are the four Jacks. Out of the 37 cards left, only 4 help you, so the odds are 4 out of 37. That's 10.8%."
He must really be a math major.
Meyer tried to bluff.