Chapter 56 - Should We Make a Quick Stop Somewhere?
Columbia University, New York University, and the City College of New York.
These are some of the most prestigious universities in Manhattan, New York.
Among them, Columbia is part of the Ivy League and is considered one of the top elite schools in America.
NYU also enjoys a strong reputation, and both schools have high tuition fees, attracting mostly wealthy students.
On the other hand, City College of New York, known as the "Harvard of the poor," offers free education, making it a popular choice for talented, but financially struggling immigrants.
Because of that, these students often had to work part-time, not just during breaks but also throughout the semester, just to make ends meet.
Those who were even more ambitious sometimes turned to illegal jobs—like working as a casino dealer. There was always the risk of being expelled if they got caught, but the pay was high.
"Did you become a dealer because you were addicted to gambling, or did you get hooked after you became a dealer?"
"I became a dealer, and that's how I learned about gambling…"
Marcello said he became a casino dealer after a classmate introduced him to the job, and that was about six months ago.
"As I learned the rules of all sorts of games and started dealing, it really started to look easy to win money."
"But as a dealer, you'd know better than anyone how the outcomes can be manipulated, right?"
"Usually, they mess with the odds to lower the chances of winning, but even that's pretty obvious once you know what to look for."
That's why he thought he wouldn't fall for it.
"How much did you lose?"
"..."
"Should I drag you to your mother right now?"
"Thirty dollars."
"Not just today."
"Fifty dollars. I actually won quite a bit in the middle, too. So if you look at the overall total, it's not that much."
He still hadn't come to his senses.
He'd blown away a month and a half's wages on gambling, and he called that "not much"?
I felt like cursing him for being pathetic, but at the same time, I couldn't help thinking about the dealer at my own casino.
"Do you have a lot of friends who are dealers?"
"Not a lot. Just a few."
Oh sure, "just a few," huh.
I dragged Marcello toward the butcher shop.
When I told him to come inside, he shook his head.
"You know my situation. Where would I get the money to buy meat?"
"So have you ever won enough to go buy some steak?"
"..."
"Then just watch me spend it. Come on."
When I scowled, Marcello followed me into the shop, looking like he'd just bitten into something rotten. When I ordered 2 kilograms of steak meat, Marcello just stared at the floor with a troubled look on his face.
A little while later, The Jewish butcher shop owner handed me the meat with a friendly smile.
"As a bonus, I tossed in plenty of trimmings."
"Thank you."
"No, thank you. Take care on your way home."
As soon as we stepped outside, Marcello asked,
"Are you a regular here?"
"I come pretty often."
"With what you make at the factory, that must be pretty tight. Where do you get the money?"
"If you don't gamble like an idiot, you can still eat meat, even if you don't make much."
Marcello bit his lip and hung his head. When I held out half the meat to him, he looked at me in surprise, as if frozen.
"Take it and eat with your family."
"…Don't… don't pity me. I'll work a few days and buy it myself."
"Pity? Please. And do you really think I only work at the factory? Just take it."
Marcello took the meat wrapped in paper, his expression complicated. Now that he owed me, he couldn't refuse, right?
"Around October, there's a casino opening up that'll need dealers."
"But that's during the semester."
"You don't work during the semester?"
"I tried last semester, but working all night completely ruined my grades. So not just me—the other dealers only work during breaks."
"I see. Hand the meat back, then."
The same Marcello who had just told me not to pity him now clutched the meat to his chest, accusing me of being petty.
I put on a serious face.
"If you take something, you should give something back. Life isn't a casino—you only get what you put in."
As I reached for my baton at my waist, Marcello hurried to speak up.
"I know someone. There's a guy who took a leave from school to work as a dealer."
But he added that this guy was really skilled, so he'd want more money.
"He's a math genius—top of the class."
"He doesn't just work as a dealer, he runs the lottery too."
"The lottery?"
I'd heard of it.
It was an illegal lottery, sort of like sports betting, where you picked certain numbers and won payouts if they hit.
It was especially popular in working-class Black and Italian communities, mainly because anyone could place a bet as small as a penny.
Later, people called it the Italian Lottery, the Mafia Lottery, or the Daily Numbers, since after the Prohibition ended and profits dropped, the Mafia moved aggressively into the lottery business.
So, in other words, the lottery was a real money-maker.
"Where's your friend now?"
"He's working as a dealer at a casino on Forsyth Street run by Italians."
What a coincidence.
That's the same place those Italian guys who extorted protection money from my mother's company run.
I'd heard Sicily was starting to take over Naples' territory, but I guess that hasn't reached the Hester Street area yet.
As we walked side by side into the entrance of the tenement house and were about to part ways at the stairs—
"One more time, I'm begging you. Please don't tell my mom."
"If you can't bring your friend to see me, you'd better run. I'll put up signs everywhere saying Marcello's lost his mind to gambling. And enjoy the meat."
"Screw you, how am I supposed to enjoy this?"
"I'll shut your mouth for you."
Marcello went up to the second floor, while I climbed to the third.
When I opened the front door, my family was having dinner.
"Big Brother, you said you had the day off—where did you go, coming home this late—oh, stop! It's a surprise!"
Roa put down her spoon and hurried over to grab the paper bundle I was holding.
"Big Brother, it's not even Friday—what's this? Roa, what were you thinking, taking such a gamble before you even finished your dinner?"
"...I can just eat it for breakfast tomorrow."
"Aunt Mary says never put off today's work until tomorrow. Should Roa just put the frying pan on?"
Now that I think about it, ever since I started working at Tenderloin, I haven't been able to feed them any meat.
Maybe that's why she hasn't grown taller.
"Eat up and grow big and strong."
"Okay. When Roa eats meat, she doesn't even poop that day. Where else would it go?"
Roa tapped her head.
"So you'll grow about a centimeter today, huh?"
"Yep. I think I'll catch up to Jake soon."
"He keeps looking over at Roa."
"Isn't Jake just fat, not tall?"
"Oh my, Big Brother has surprised Roa twice in one day. Sit down."
Is this the new trend or something? Whatever it was, Roa kept patting the spot on the floor next to her.
"So, are you saying Roa is fat now? If I eat meat today, will I grow a centimeter sideways instead?"
"No way, of course not. Actually, now that I think about it, Jake was just tall. I got him mixed up with Cake."
"See? Jake is tall. Now Roa can eat meat without worrying."
That day, the smell of meat wafted from both apartments in the Tenement House.
***
The next day, when I arrived at work in the morning, Mrs. Monica was already boasting about her son.
"With all that studying and working—somehow, in the middle of his busy day, he still brought home meat. I may not be lucky with my husband, but I sure am lucky with my son."
"Well, Marcello is definitely more than good enough to be anyone's son-in-law. Not just anyone can get into the City College of New York. He's been so bright ever since he was little."
"Monica, you must be so happy to have such a smart and kind son."
With everyone agreeing like that, her bragging about her son just never stops.
If I mentioned how much meat I bought, I bet they'd all be stunned.
Or maybe not.
Maybe even that wouldn't measure up to the City College of New York.
My mother and I made eye contact.
She smiled awkwardly at me as if to say I was the best, but her smile was complex, full of thoughts.
You're right.
I'm sorry, Mom, this is who I am.
Look forward to Liam and Roa instead.
After talking with Marcello, I suddenly realized that October was just around the corner.
And what comes to mind with October?
After Russia's February Revolution came the October Revolution.
The Bolsheviks, led by Vladimir Lenin, were about to launch the world's first Communist Revolution.
Of course, it doesn't have much to do with me. However, it's the perfect historical event to show off what I know, so I decide to write a letter about it.
As expected, not a single newspaper, including News World, covered anything about the Spanish flu pandemic.
In that sense, the second letter—about Russia's October Revolution—would be the closest and most certain case where I could demonstrate real foresight.
That morning, I wrote the letter and sealed it in an envelope.
These letters are a long-term project, and I can't afford to leave any trace.
So, I never use the same post office in any particular neighborhood. The first time, I used Hell's Kitchen; this time, I mailed it on my way to work in the Tenderloin.
***
The Big Bankroll Casino.
Arnold Rostein is an extremely busy businessman.
As a gambler, he traveled to other cities to visit casinos, horse races, and even bet on baseball games. As a businessman, he expanded his empire by meeting key players in politics and finance.
As usual, I was moving between the casino and the salon, keeping drunk troublemakers in check, when a commotion suddenly broke out—a police raid had started in the Tenderloin.
"They're headed this way!"
"Everyone, clean up."
The Manager, McManus, alerted the customers to the situation, and the employees moved with the coordination of a spy film.
Their speed was genuinely impressive.
One wall slid open to reveal a hidden passage, and some guests were ushered through.
Dealers quickly stashed the chips, cards, and dice from the gaming tables into a double drawer underneath.
The now-empty tables were designed to rotate, flipping the playing surface out of sight.
For roulette tables, where that wasn't possible, a perfectly fitted cover was placed on top; whiskey bottles and glasses were arranged, instantly turning it into a drinking table.
In less than a minute, the casino was perfectly disguised as a bar, a salon.
But then—
"The police changed direction and went somewhere else!"
"Stand down!"
McManus chuckled and clapped his hands.
Restoring everything to normal was just as quick.
Guests who'd disappeared into the secret passage slowly returned to the main floor.
Watching their faces, I couldn't help but click my tongue inwardly.
Rather than being upset, they wore expressions as if they'd just enjoyed a bit of harmless mischief and excitement.
Like kids after an adventure, they laughed among themselves.
When things had finally settled down, Meyer offered an interesting analysis of what happened that day.
"The real targets of these raids are usually casinos that don't pay bribes, or those that have fallen out with the police. But why did the police pretend they were coming here?"
"To squeeze out more bribes?"
"Exactly. And I'm sure McManus knew full well the police wouldn't actually show up."
"Then why cause such a commotion?"
"Sometimes, that's necessary. When the police start asking for too much, it's often the customers themselves who push back and keep them in check."
Powerful and well-connected guests dislike having their little misdeeds interrupted. There's also a subtle competition among them—a desire to show off their influence.
When agitated at times like this, these customers will personally pressure the police themselves...
"Meyer, is that your own theory, or did you hear it from somewhere?"
"It's about half my own thinking. Boss Rostein told me once—the higher the caliber of your clientele, the safer your business will be."
Arnold Rostein, 'The Brain.' Meyer Lansky, who took over after him and expanded the Gambling Empire around the world.
What does it matter if they occasionally told brazen lies to pull off a scam?
The reason Charles 'Lucky' Luciano could reach the top of the Mafia was because he had partners like Rostein and Meyer.
I needed the same thing.
Talented, capable people.
It was three days later when Marcello brought news about his dealer friend.
Since his daily routine was similar to mine, he slept all day and only knocked on my door in the afternoon.
I dragged him up to the rooftop.
"Sounds like your friend's in trouble."
"Yeah, and pretty soon you will be too."
"No, I'm serious. When I went to see him, he said he couldn't even step outside, and couldn't quit his job even if he wanted to.
"Is someone threatening him?"
Marcello nodded cautiously.
"I think so. He seemed really on edge around the people in the casino. That's why we couldn't even have a proper conversation."
"But why would a dealer get threatened?"
"It happens sometimes. They're told to rig the odds or cheat on the games."
"Rigging or cheating—so what? Don't tell me he's just feeling guilty or has a conscience."
If you're told to do something, you just do as you're told. But Marcello gave an answer I hadn't expected at all.
"It's not the staff—they're afraid the customers will kill them if they get caught cheating. When people get riled up, they pull a gun and just shoot. I've heard a lot of stories like that."
"Ah… I get it."
You'd never know when an angry guest might stab you with a knife or come down on your hand with an axe. Things like that tend to happen more often in smaller casinos.
Dealers have to cheat just enough to avoid getting caught in those situations.
"They must have made some unreasonable demands. The casino my friend works at is run by the Naples gang, and things aren't looking good over there."
"A City College of New York student sure knows a lot."
"You hear things when you're a dealer. I heard a Naples warehouse got hit, so they're short on cash. They've completely lost ground to the Sicilians. That's why the place I worked at changed owners—from Naples to Sicily."
There are four Italian-run casinos on Hester Street. Three of them are controlled by the Sicilians. I never imagined Marcello would be the one to tell me things like this.
"I'll ask around with other friends. Don't get involved unless you have to—it could be dangerous."
"You said your friend's got talent."
"That's true, but… things get really dangerous if you're tied up with gangs. It's nothing like the stories you see in the papers. You have no idea how scary it is…"
Just then, four gloomy-looking men came up onto the rooftop. Marcello flinched and pressed himself against the wall.
"Don't recognize you. New around here?"
"He's… my neighbor."
"Aha."
Gavin nodded as he walked closer.
Union Gang.
They were members about to enlist, assigned to shoot things up in Hell's Kitchen.
"Before we go, how about we make a little stop somewhere?"
"Anywhere's fine. As long as it's not boot camp."