Rothstein by David Pietrusza

at others’ expense, particularly when he was too big for anyone to do anything about it.
    Peggy Hopkins Joyce-like Lillian Lorraine-now barely remem bered, was in her day famed not so much for her talent upon the stage, but for numerous affairs, marriages, and divorces, all financially profitable for a once-poor blonde from Virginia. When A. R. met Peggy, she was neither Mrs. Joyce (Chicago lumber baron James Stanley Joyce, who would leave her a settlement of $1,000,000, was her third husband) nor a Ziegfeld Follies star. She would attain both statuses later, but was still young, beautiful, and charming and, in the early 1910s, on the make for gentlemen with large yachts and bank accounts. Rothstein recognized her potential as a steerer, but was loath to raise so crass a subject without proper preparation.
    Instead, he escorted her to the track, and informed her he was betting with his money but in her name, and she could keep the winnings. Arnold wouldn’t say which bets were hers, but when the afternoon ended, he announced Peggy was $1,000 ahead. He advised her to let it ride. In other words, he wasn’t handing over any cash.
    Peggy Hopkins was born greedy, and she blindly let A. R. continue. The next afternoon she “won” another $1,000. Again, Rothstein counseled her not to cash out. Each day her bankroll increased by another grand, until it reached $5,000.
    By now, Peggy really wanted her winnings. But A. R. was persuasive: wait, you’ve got nothing to lose. I’ll put it all down on one race today.
    She agreed. Through the first three races, A. R. made no indication that a bet had been placed. As the fourth race began, Peggy asked again. This was it, said A. R. She wanted to know which horse was hers.
    “The one in the lead,” A. R. responded, knowing something she didn’t. This horse had a history of breaking strong but fading.
    Past performance held true. “Her” horse lost. Peggy was disconsolate, angry, bitter. Rothstein had squandered “her” money. Ah, he said, I know how to regain that $5,000. Simply escort a certain rich friend to my gambling house. If things go well, he will lose far more than $5,000, and I’ll present you with a percentage from my winnings.
    Peggy Hopkins was blond but not dumb, and had this day grown perceptibly smarter in her dealings with Rothstein. “Suppose he wins?” she wanted to know.
    “Then it will be up to you to see that he pays you off.”
    History doesn’t record the profitability of that first episode of the Rothstein-Hopkins partnership, but it does record that Peggy made a habit of bringing her new gentlemen friends to A. R.‘s various gambling establishments.
    One evening in 1913 Peggy steered a new sucker to Rothstein, a big one: Percival S. Hill. The year before, Percival’s papa had bestowed upon him the presidency of the American Tobacco Company, and he was still feeling his oats. At Rothstein’s faro table he dropped $60,000, and A. R. did his best to maintain his composure. This was a very good night, Arnold’s best yet. But Hill wasn’t through playing or losing. He wanted his credit raised. A. R. could have quit while ahead, way ahead. He didn’t. “Of course,” he said, doing his best to appear nonchalant. “Give Mr. Hill his chips and he can name his own limit.” Hill lost $250,000 and calmly handed A. R. his I. O. U.
    A. R. went upstairs to see Carolyn and let his composure drop. This was it, the big payoff he dreamed of, sweated for, connived and cheated for. He was the new Canfield. This was also the night of Carolyn’s dreams. Her husband could quit, walk away from the risk and the danger. They could live a normal life.
    Arnold became expansive. “I’ll buy you the biggest diamond in New York,” he promised. “I’ll buy you the best fur coat. Whatever you want I’ll buy it for you.” She didn’t want a fur coat: she wanted a husband. If that meant giving up gambling, he wasn’t interested. He made excuses. Suddenly, $250,000