About two o’clock one afternoon, three men, two of them well-known owners of a place in West 35th Street,[241] were standing in West 30th Street, 100 feet from the station house; when a few moments later the plain clothes men started to go on duty, one[242] of them beckoned to two of the officers[243] and engaged them in prolonged conversation. Its purport was subsequently summarized to his friends: “Don’t worry!”
At times a “collector” is said to be the intermediary in transactions similar to those implied in the foregoing incidents. Among the best known of these is a saloonkeeper[244] once enjoying the reputation of protecting the entire Red Light district, at that time situated in Allen Street. His saloon[245] is now a hangout for thieves, gamblers and the like. Two patrolmen and an officer[246] are named as coming to his resort to “fix” pimp cases. The “lookout”[247] for a Sixth Avenue[248] establishment remarked, in describing the financial operations of the place, that he receives 10 percent of the profits monthly, that $200 a month go to inspector and captain, and that the patrolman[249] is paid nightly. An individual who has been publicly accused of being a vice graft collector[250] entered a disorderly flat in West 58th Street[251] on June 15, 1912, for the purpose of perfecting arrangements in regard to protection. The madame[252] expressed herself as satisfied with the way in which she was being treated.[253] She stated, however, that her neighbor downstairs “had a scrap with the collector for the police[254] over protection and that he had refused to take her money any more. The result is that every one of the ‘underdogs’ (i. e., plain clothes men) comes running to her every night with a different complaint and you know what that means. She has ‘to see them’ every time they come. In the long run, it costs three or four times as much; and she got a ‘collar’ (i. e., arrest) in the bargain.” One of our agents witnessed, on the evening of June 1, 1912, a settlement between a well-known collector for the police in New York City and the owners of 15 different establishments, situated between West 18th Street and West 36th Street. At one o’clock in the morning, they sat around a large table[255] on which four piles of money, the smallest denomination being $5 bills, were heaped up. It had been paid to the police collector, who carried it away in a violin case.
The foregoing incidents explain why a district such as Seventh Avenue is called a “money post.”[256]
The employment of pressure, in order to bring about a certain kind of differentiation of neighborhoods, is exemplified in the following instance: A notorious madame informed our agent that she was going to open a house in West 40th Street,[257] but admitted that she would have to be careful, because cheaper resorts would not be permitted in that vicinity. Through the good graces of a high official[258] whom she named, she claimed that she had succeeded in maintaining and quietly conducting a low grade establishment there.
The peaceful operation of disorderly resorts is disturbed from time to time by raids, as in the instance above noted, in which one madame “got a collar,” while her competitor on the floor above remained unmolested. Raids are variously accounted for by those who suffer: now on the score of punishment or revenge, as in the case last mentioned; again, for the purpose of “covering the captain on the blotter,” i. e., that he may make a good showing in his report to the Inspector; sometimes—so it is alleged—in order to keep the owners and their madames in line so that they will be sure to pay the protection money. The police know who the owner or madame is without even entering the house, and warrants are declared to be sworn out in many instances without any evidence at all. It is understood between operators and real estate agents that when a house is opened the owner must “stand for” an occasional “collar,” though the latter sometimes protests vehemently. For instance, March 14, 1912, the indignant owner[259] of a place on Sixth Avenue[260] declared his house had been raided the night before for no reason. “If they don’t stop that, I’ll holler,” he added; “they have to discharge that case or I’ll know the reason why.” Usually when houses are raided, the real culprits escape arrest. It was reported on August 15th that 18 disorderly resorts had been entered by the authorities. Only a few housekeepers and colored maid servants were arrested.
Frequent reports deal with the presence of police officers in and about disorderly saloons and hotels. On January 25, an officer was drinking in the rear room of a disorderly saloon on St. Nicholas Avenue.[261] On February 1 two officers were served with beer and cigars in the rear room of a similar resort on Columbus Avenue.[262] On March 9 a man, accompanied by a street walker, entered a hotel in West 35th Street.[263] In the hall, a police officer[264] in full uniform, was standing with a bottle of beer in his hand. His number is in our possession. On March 4, a street walker was arrested in Sixth Avenue in front of a well-known café.[265] Thereupon a lighthouse called the owner of his establishment[266] who induced the plain clothes man[267] to release the woman.
The entire situation as respecting alleged police relations was described by all our investigators as radically altered by the events following the Rosenthal murder. Thirty houses were reported as closed in September. In one case closure was so sudden that the girls were not paid off.[268] They exhibited their punched cards and threatened vengeance unless reimbursed—one to the extent of $5.50, another to the extent of $4. The madame[269] of a house in West 28th Street[270] described herself on September 29 as “down and out.” In early October, the proprietor was himself more optimistic: “It’s only a question of two or three days,” he declared, “and we’ve got to expect these things.” The owners therefore continued in many instances to pay rent for their now empty houses. Early in October, the impression got abroad that conditions were once more propitious: About 2 P. M., October 4, a group of owners held a meeting on Second Avenue,[271] later adjourning to Sixth Avenue,[272] where they again went into “executive session.” Several important persons were present.[273] On the strength of a report that the houses could open slowly it was decided at this meeting that certain houses would commence “business” at 8 o’clock that evening, a few more the next day, and a few the next. Accordingly, at the appointed hour, the owners turned on the lights in eight houses situated in West 24th Street,[274] Sixth Avenue,[275] West 31st Street,[276] and West 28th Street.[277] Things however miscarried and the houses were again closed. The chief owner[278] was indignant: on November 10, 1912, he admitted[279] that it was a “lousy tip” he had got, though it “looked good” at the time. He named the source—a practicing lawyer.[280]
Since the close of this investigation on November 15, 1912, in consequence of the activity of the police growing out of the Rosenthal murder, and the investigations conducted by the Aldermanic and Legislative Committees, the method of conducting the business of prostitution in houses has changed materially. For instance, in the more expensive houses, the $5 and $10 resorts, madames do not allow actual violations of the law on the premises, but have the women sit in the parlor awaiting calls. One such resort is located in an apartment in West 43rd Street,[281] where twenty women were found sitting in the parlor on March 10, 1913. The madame, who has a large personal acquaintance with patrons of a better class, simply awaits telephone calls requesting a lady companion. Knowing the tastes of her customers, she sends one of the women to an appointed place. Thus there is no violation of the law on the premises, and the police are unable to “cover” the situation. But a number of low-priced houses have opened in the old way on a smaller scale: March 12, 1913, three resorts, one each in Sixth Avenue,[282] West 28th Street[283] and West 40th[284] were operating with two or three inmates each, all wearing street clothes. The third inspection district was at this time declared to be free from police molestation. Current talk in the district explains this immunity on the ground that police and owners were so involved with each other, that effective action on the part of the former was prevented by fear that the latter would turn on the light. “They are all opening up,” remarked one owner, while chatting with sympathizers in a cigar store[285] in West 116th Street, as recently as March 15, 1913. One owner[286] then had six houses going. “God pity the police if they interfere!” Of a well-known inspector,[287] it has been said, that “having taken money, he can’t well step on anybody’s corns.” A former wardman,[288] now wearing a uniform in the service of the West 125th Street station house, remarked hardly a fortnight ago to two men, one an owner, the other a former associate: “Sit tight; you’re getting a little; you’re making expenses; squealing seems to be a fad nowadays.” Among places now quietly running under changed ownership may be mentioned one each in West 26th Street, West 28th, West 29th, West 31st, West 34th; two in Sixth Avenue and three in West 40th Street.[289]
Confidence is strong in the underworld that “hard times” will not last; the police who are reputed to have worked in collusion with the exploiters of prostitution share the same view. “It will all blow over”—that is the refrain to every discussion. History is quoted to support this hopeful interpretation of present conditions. A similar repressive policy was instituted in 1907. Houses were closed; some owners with their madames and girls left the city and others betook themselves to flats and hotels. For three years, the business was timid, quiet, unobtrusive, gradually feeling its way back. By January, 1911, the promoters had all returned, keen to recoup; by the succeeding year, they had restored their former prosperity. Now once more their schemes have been disorganized. The tide is turning against them. But they have seen that happen before and they are confident that, as in the past, the “good old days” will return. A prominent madame[290] was on September 18 still paying rent for two houses, one in West 25th Street,[291] one in West 31st Street.[292] “We outlive all those dogs,” declared an old-timer,[293] who had lived through all the spasmodic efforts at suppression undertaken in the last fifteen or twenty years.
Talk in the underworld does not stop with the police department: it involves the judiciary and prosecutors as well. There is no misunderstanding the prevalent feeling: these men and women are hurt,—wounded to the quick—because, as they constantly assert, having kept their part of the bargain by paying for protection, the officials do not so regularly “deliver the goods.” Our investigators report many interviews to this effect. The owner of a house in West 35th Street has been keenly worried by a three-months’ sentence meted out to his madame.[294] “He had understood that judges were not giving ‘prison,’ as several such cases had been lately discharged.” He instanced one from West 28th Street,[295] another from West 25th Street.[296] “You know what it costs to discharge a case,” he added feelingly. On August 30, 1912, three men met at Eighth Avenue and 28th Street; one of them bitterly reviled an official in the criminal court building. “He has no right to do this. Why, didn’t we once pay him $4,000,—$150 for each house, to keep out of the district? There were no more raids then,—but now!”[297] On the 17th of October, 1912, several disorderly house cases from the Tenderloin were tried in special sessions: the places were notorious,—involving among others the madames of houses in West 31st and West 36th Streets. The disposition made of them represents the characteristic uncertainty of the action of the court of special sessions. Two of the defendants were acquitted, two were convicted, but received suspended sentences, two were fined fifty dollars apiece, and one pleaded guilty, receiving a penalty of imprisonment for thirty days.