Ponzi's Scheme by Mitchell Zuckoff

graft and scandal, with Curley larding the public payroll and dipping his fingers in every slice of municipal pie. The club’s mascot was a crouching tiger. The public treasury was its prey.
    To raise money for its activities, the Tammany Club sponsored all sorts of promotions at its summer festivals, known as “powwows.” Men would struggle to catch greased pigs for a prize, vie for the title of “ugliest man,” and pay ten cents to take an ax to a piano, with a five-dollar reward to the man with the mightiest swing. Only a few years had passed since Massachusetts was atwitter over the trial of Fall River’s Lizzie Borden, so the ax-swinging spectacle was certain to send shivers down spines. Speakers at the powwows included local celebrities, including Curley’s pal John L. Sullivan, the former heavyweight champion known as “the Boston Strong Boy.” In spirit, Curley borrowed Sullivan’s familiar cry, “I can lick any man!”
    From the Common Council, Curley rose to a seat in the Massachusetts legislature. But in 1903 his rise was nearly derailed when he became the first member of that body arrested for a crime. He and a fellow leader of the Tammany Club had taken civil service exams for two Irish immigrants who wanted jobs as letter carriers. Curley and his cohort were charged with “combining, conspiring, confederating and agreeing together to defraud the United States.” The maximum penalty for each was two years in prison and a ten-thousand-dollar fine. Curley admitted to the scheme in the face of overwhelming evidence. He was convicted of the charges and sentenced to two months in jail.
    Refusing to slink away quietly, he appealed the conviction and sought a seat on the Boston Board of Aldermen, a step up from the state legislature in the pecking order of Massachusetts politics. Incredibly, he won. The state supreme court ultimately declined to hear his appeal, and Curley was sent to the Charles Street Jail, where his friend the warden made sure he had an extra-large cell, good food, salt baths, a steady stream of visitors, and a ready supply of books.
    Instead of destroying his career, the jail term invigorated it. He was renominated as the Democratic candidate for alderman while still behind bars, then boasted of his criminal record in a campaign slogan that appealed to the us-against-authority culture of the famine Irish: “He did it for a friend!” Soon he was back to his old tricks—a few months after his release Curley was accused of selling his aldermanic vote to a shipping company that wanted to build a rail line through the streets of East Boston. A grand jury refused to issue indictments, but that luck would not hold. In 1907 Curley was indicted for pressuring New England Telephone and Telegraph to hire phantom workers as an apparent cover for the payment of bribes. Fearing that his ambitions would not survive a second conviction, Curley hired lawyer Daniel Coakley, a thoroughly unscrupulous ex-reporter and boxing referee who relied more heavily on blackmail than legal briefs. Coakley worked his magic, and the indictments were dropped.
    In 1909 Curley rose to the newly formed Boston City Council, which replaced the Board of Aldermen as well as the Common Council. From that perch he won a seat in the U.S. Congress in 1910, was reelected two years later, and set his sights on the plum job of Boston mayor. His main obstacle was a fellow Irish-American: John “Honey Fitz” Fitzgerald, who was enjoying his second term as mayor and considering running for a third. Fitzgerald had come up in a fashion similar to Curley’s, from ward politics to the Boston Common Council to the Massachusetts senate to Congress, where he’d served three terms and won a reputation as a staunch supporter of immigrants. His nickname was a tribute to his honeyed rendition of “Sweet Adeline” at every public event save wakes. Fitzgerald’s