Joe Bruno's Mobsters - Six Volume Set (82 page)

“Lieut. Charles Becker was picked to be in command of the Strong Arm Squad. He looks the part, standing over six feet in his socks, tipping the scale over 200 pounds, broad-shouldered, with eyes, jaw, and fists of a fighter.”

The Strong Arm Squad was right up Becker’s alley, because it gave him and his boys carte blanche to crack heads whenever they deemed it necessary, and that was often. The Strong Arm Squad was comprised of, according to the
Times
, “twenty huskies whose sole duty is to travel around the city and hand out generous doses of strong-arm medicine to any and all who showed unmistakable signs of being in need of it.”

The Strong Arm Squad wore no police uniforms, nor did they dress like police detectives. The Strong Arm Squad wore the attire of the times associated with ruffians, longshoremen, and the rabble in the streets who were committing mayhem on the general public. In other words, the Strong Arm Squad dressed to blend in with the crowd they were looking to beat up, then arrest; in either order, as they saw fit. These 20 men were plucked from various precincts because “they had earned the reputation for their fighting capacity, for their judgment in making arrests, and for their ability to back up their arrests.”

In fact, the last two criteria had nothing to do with the selection of the Strong Arm Squad. The first criteria was all that was required to be given the opportunity to legally crack heads.

According to the
Times
article,

“The Strong Arm Squad consisted of such thugs as Alex Whitman, the ‘strong man’ of the Police Department, and his brother Nathan Whitman, who has been dubbed the ‘Yiddish Irishman.’ Then there was Conlon, the ‘strong arm dude.’  ‘Old Sleuth’ Faubel, Joe McLaughlin, known as ‘Eat ‘Em Up Alive,’ and finally ‘Boots Trojan,’ who knows all the gangs and whom Becker described as ‘good as four ordinary men to go into a muss with.’”

Becker’s squad of thugs knew what Waldo wanted, and they provided it in spades. Waldo was interested in arrests all right, but that was secondary to beating the crap out of whomever Becker deemed worthy of such actions. Waldo’s thinking was - strike fear in the hearts of the underworld element and they will stop doing whatever they are doing. Of course, this tactic never works and only makes the hard men harder when they finally are released from prison.

Whenever arrests were made, the New York City’s Magistrates were regaled by the prisoner’s tales of  “cruel and abusive” treatment by Becker and his gang. However, Becker always denied these claims, and thanks to the interference of Police Commissioner Waldo, no charges were ever brought against Becker and his thugs.

With his ruthless reputation flaunted frequently in the press, Becker was in an even better position than he was before to do what he did best: shake down prostitutes and known New York City gamblers, especially in the Tenderloin. In fact, Becker was such a commanding presence in the Tenderloin; he was christened “The Czar of the Tenderloin.”

With his squad of goons behind him, Becker went on a rampage, closing down 100 gambling joints in the period of nine months. Of course, Becker took care of those who took care of him. If the proprietor of a gambling house came across with the proper amount of cash, Becker would ignore the gambling house’s existence. And if that were not possible – if Waldo came down with a direct order to close down that particular dive – Becker would tip off the gambling house owners in advance, so that when Becker finally did axe down the front door of the gambling den, all of the establishment’s best gambling paraphernalia had been secreted away, and only decrepit tables and gambling wheels would be axed or confiscated.  Big-shot gamblers were also tipped off, so when Becker’s men made their arrests in their favored gambling houses, the arrestees were nonentities, with no bucks to back up their play with Becker.

According to Mike Dash’s fine tome
Satan’s Circus
, Becker was raking in so much cash that he personally banked, between October 1911 and July 1912, an average of $10,000 a month. Becker had 15 bank accounts dotted throughout the five boroughs of New York City. Some were solely in his name; some in joint accounts with his wife, and others under fictitious names. Becker also had safety deposit boxes in several banks filed with cold, hard cash; sometimes as much as $2,000 in one such box.

This brings us back to Herman Rosenthal.

A
PARTNERSHIP MADE IN HELL

In November of 1911
, after Inspector Cornelius Hayes led his raid on Rosenthal’s West Forty-Fifth Street gambling house, Rosenthal was basically broke, and he needed a partner to reopen his gambling house. Since Becker was in the newspapers so often and was such a big shot when it came to destroying or allowing gambling houses to prosper, Rosenthal thought Becker would be a perfect mate to partner with.

Rosenthal said in the July 14, 1912 edition of the
New York World
, “The first time I met Charles Becker was at a ball given by the Order of the Elks on 43
rd
Street near Sixth Avenue, and we had a very good evening, and drank freely, and became very good friends. Our next meeting was by appointment on New Year’s Eve, 1912, at the Elks Club.

“We drank a lot of champagne that night and later in the morning we were all pretty under the weather. Becker put his arms around me and kissed me. He said, ‘Anything in the world for you Herman. I’ll get up at three o’clock in the morning to do you a favor. You can have anything I’ve got.’”

Knowing Becker’s reputation as a cad, it’s hard to believe Becker used exactly those words. But

Rosenthal was a well-known bullshit artist. So it’s safe to presume they probably met for the first time at the Elks Club, and at their second meeting at the Elks Club’s New Year’s Eve celebration, they most likely came to an agreement as to how much cash Rosenthal needed to cough up not to have his joint raided on a regular basis (Rosenthal said he had to give 20 percent of his profits to Becker).

Rosenthal also claimed, as one of the conditions for taking in Becker as a partner, Becker had to loan Rosenthal $1,500 for operating expenses and to spruce up the gambling hall. Rosenthal said that to receive the $1,500, Rosenthal had to sign legal papers putting up Rosenthal’s house furniture, or chattel, as collateral in case Rosenthal reneged on the loan.

However, Becker denied he had any financial arrangements with Rosenthal.

On July 13, 1912, Becker told the
New York Times
, “I have never been connected with him in any way, either in business, or friendship. He tried hard to make it seem I was by inviting me to dinner in public places, but I always declined.”

So it’s clear, one of them was lying; or they both were lying. The latter seems most likely.

What we do know is this: Becker and Rosenthal came to some sort of agreement that either Rosenthal would pay Becker a flat sum per week to keep his joint open, or a percentage of the profits (most likely a flat sum, since Becker could not prevent Rosenthal from cooking the books). That was all well and good for Becker; he was shaking down so many gambling establishments in town, one more trophy in his case could do him no harm.

Or could it?

The problem was that Police Commissioner Waldo was getting letters complaining about Rosenthal’s establishment being allowed to operate. The rumor was that old archenemy Bridgey Webber, whose gambling joint was just down the block from Rosenthal’s, was the author of these letters. As a result, Waldo put the pressure on Becker to raid Rosenthal’s place, and Becker told his “partner” Rosenthal that he had no choice but to follow the police commissioner’s demands.

Becker told Rosenthal something like, “What’s the big deal? I’ll give you advance notice of the raid so that you can hide all your valuable equipment. Plus, you can make yourself scarce on the night of the raid so you won’t have to spend the night in jail. Then in a few days, you’ll put your best stuff back in the joint and we’ll be back in business like before.”

Rosenthal told Becker something like, “Go spit in your hat! You’re my partner and if my joint gets axed, I’ll make your life miserable!”

It was not such a great idea for a little nobody like Rosenthal to dictate to big, bad Lieutenant Becker what he could do and what he could not do.

At around 10 p.m., April 17, 1912, Becker, along with his Special (Strong Arm) Squad plus a battalion of policemen, raided Rosenthal’s 45
th
  Street “sporting club.” As a favor, Becker did warn Rosenthal in advance, so little Herman hid in a hallway down the block and waited for the raid to reach its conclusion.

             
Rosenthal said Becker contacted him the next day and told him not to worry; that Becker himself would fork over the money caused by his men’s action.

“Five hundred bucks should do the trick,” Becker allegedly told Rosenthal.

There is no proof this money actually changed hands. But what is known is that Rosenthal’s club remained closed for weeks, and that one of the people arrested in the raid was Rosenthal’s favorite nephew, Herbert Hull, a 17-year-old with no criminal record.

When Rosenthal’s nephew was indicted a few weeks later, Rosenthal demanded and received a private summit with Becker. The two men, acting like Russian spies, held a clandestine meeting; reportedly in a New York City taxi cab. Nothing was accomplished at this meeting, and according to Rosenthal, the two men left on very bad terms.

R
OSENTHAL BECOMES A RAT

Feeling like he was
the odd man out, and being persecuted by the police, especially Lieutenant Becker, Rosenthal decided to take his case directly to Mayor William J. Gaynor. A man of Gaynor’s exalted stature wouldn’t be caught dead in the same room with a weasel like Rosenthal, so Gaynor’s secretary told Rosenthal’s to take a hike, or something similar.

Rosenthal then figured, “If the Mayor won’t see me, I’ll go straight to Police Commissioner Waldo.”

This was not a very bright idea, since it was Waldo who had ordered Becker to raid Rosenthal’s joint in the first place. It was no surprise that Waldo also refused to see Rosenthal.

Two strikes against him and tired of whiffing, Rosenthal took another swing, and he wound up in the office of New York City District Attorney Charles S. Whitman, a confirmed alcoholic, who was often drunk on the job and sometimes even in court. Despite his frequently inebriated condition, Whitman had ambitions to become Governor of New York State, which he accomplished in 1914. Presumably sober at the time of their meeting, Whitman gave the pudgy gambler an extended audience, where Rosenthal laid out his terrible tale concerning the conduct of Lieutenant Becker towards Rosenthal.

However, after hearing Rosenthal’s account, Whitman told Rosenthal there was nothing he could do on Rosenthal’s word alone. Whitman said he would need corroboration from someone else; someone who could verify Becker was indeed shaking down gambling halls.

“Find me another gambling-house owner who would squeal on Becker,” Whitman told Rosenthal. “Then I can pursue a case against him.”

Rosenthal knew getting corroborating evidence against Becker was impossible, since all the gambling-house owners, who were paying Becker and knew Rosenthal was paying Becker, hated Rosenthal more than they hated Becker. So, Rosenthal played his final card, his ace in the hole. He decided to bring his story to the New York City press.

Enter
New York World
columnist Herbert Bayard Swope.

Swope was a tall, red-headed whirlwind, whose ambition matched that of Whitman’s, a New York City District Attorney, who loved seeing his name in the newspapers, preferably on the front page. Swope and Whitman made a perfect team. The boozy Whitman made and sometimes contrived headline news, and Swope reported Whitman’s achievements in his columns with a flourish. It was a win-win situation for both men.

After being shot down by Mayor Gaynor, Police Commissioner Waldo, and D.A. Whitman, Rosenthal asked around as to who might listen to his terrible tale of woe. With Big Tim Sullivan now in a mental institution and in no condition to help anyone, including himself, Rosenthal decided on Swope, who was known for throwing huge amounts of shit against the wall and hoping some of it stuck.

Knowing the ways of the Tenderloin, Swope bought Rosenthal’s story, and he figured the best way to make Becker’s actions known publically was to have Rosenthal write up two lengthy affidavits (with Swope’s help of course), and run the affidavits verbatim in the Saturday and Sunday editions (July 14 and 15) of the
New York World.
And that’s what that two men did, which immediately thrust smoke out of Lieutenant Charles Becker’s ears.

In the affidavits, Rosenthal said because Becker was his partner and had a piece of the joint, Becker had warned him about the impending the raid on the gambling house (Police Commissioner Waldo had insisted on the raid, Becker had told Rosenthal). In addition, since they were partners, Becker had the good grace to tip off Rosenthal in advance about the impending raid, so that Rosenthal could make himself scarce and not spend the night in the slammer. And, there was the also the little problem of the squad of policemen Rosenthal claimed were now basically living in Rosenthal’s house since the raid (the gambling house and Rosenthal’s home were in the same building).