“That’s[“That’s] all right,” answered Allriver, “but what’s to prevent us from being pulled the very first night?”
“I’ve inquired into that,[that,]” replied the gambler, “and am assured on high authority that we will be guaranteed police protection for exactly $25 a week. The usual price is from $25 up $100; we are getting off cheap.”
Mr. Allriver is still thinking about this offer and the remarkable statement with it. There is food for thought in it for the tax-payers. But the charge that police officials are bribed by gamblers is—as the old English Judge said about the charge of assault on women—“most easy to make and most difficult to disprove.” It has the advantage, however, of being even more difficult to prove.
Suppose a police captain or lieutenant were paid $25 a week by the proprietor of a gambling house for protection or advance notice of raids, no papers, or writing, or receipt, or voucher of any kind will pass between them. The proprietor and the police officer will not meet, nor will they be seen or known to communicate with each other in any way except through trusted intermediaries. Through them, one representing the “sports” and the other the “boss cops,” the agreement will be made and the money will be paid. They may meet each other and slide a “wad” from fist to fist as they shake hands on Broadway of a fine afternoon, or they may do their business over a friendly glass of beer at a Sixth avenue saloon table about 2 A. M. If either of these agents tries to squeal, his principal promptly denounces and disavows all knowledge of him. Then who is believed, the poor, unknown, characterless go-between or the “reputable business man” and “faithful police official?”
The elaborate system of bolts, bars, chains, double doors, and the like, which confronts one—either stranger in search of sport, or officer in search of prey—at the entrance of an established gambling house is not intended as a direct barrier to the admission of those in authority. Unauthorized raiders are of course kept out by this means. But no proprietor of a gambling house in New York would dare to maintain that system of defense in the face of known police or detective authority. It would “get the force down on him” forever. When an opening is demanded “in the name of the law,” the bolts are shot back, the chains loosened, the big nail-studded doors are unlocked. But all this undoing, and unloosening and unfastening takes so much time that the proprietor has had an opportunity before the police get into the “hell” itself to put away that which he wishes to conceal, and to put it away so securely that all the police in town couldn’t find it unless they tore down the walls and pulled up the flooring. It is quite needless to say that the players, if they choose, may also utilize this interval by escaping over the roof or down the back stairs.
That some of the New York gambling houses are, or have been, directly connected with Police Headquarters by means of a private wire, or at least with the nearest station house from which a raid would be most likely to be made, is firmly believed by some sporting men. But how prove it? Quien Sabe? Certain it is that there are no “slicker” citizens nor more artful dodgers, no more long-headed law breakers in this great city of “slick” citizens and artful dodgers, than are the professional gamblers. Not so very long ago, when the notoriety of John Daly’s, as a first-class gambling house, almost across the street from the Gilsey was becoming a little too loud, a stranger who in the language of the street, thought he was “fly” and who had found out—he thought—just what door to knock at to find Daly’s and a game, hammered at the door in question vociferously and was surprised to have the door opened in his face by a neat maid-servant, who asked him what his business was, assured him the place was an apartment house for gentlemen and offered to show him the rooms. He was dumfounded and retreated in good order.
Next door, all the while, was an innocent-looking millinery shop. He watched out of the hotel window hour after hour the next day, until he saw a gambler, with whom he was acquainted, come down the steps from “the apartment house.” He sauntered over, joined his friend whom he had known in Denver, and asked him to show him a game, and was taken into “the apartment house.” A large and massive-looking hat rack adorned the back hall. Seizing it by two of the hat pegs, the gambler gave it a slight twist and turned it on its well-oiled axis, disclosing a door into the rear of the first floor of the next house. Here, back of the “millinery store,” the festive roulette ball was clicking and the tiger was bucking and being bucked vigorously. Such is life in a large city!
GAMBLERS COMING HOME FROM THE RACES.
It is on the parlor cars returning from Monmouth and Brighton Beach that the New York gamester is seen in little groups of three or four in the gayest of his mid-summer aspects. No matter if he hasn’t won a single bet all day, the gambler is “blooded” and must ride home in a parlor car. There is a group composed of three of the typical Gothamite race gamblers. The car has hardly started from the track before the porter has slipped into its nickel-plated sockets the tidy little table, which may serve either for cards or lunch. A crisp white napkin is deftly spread over it and a “cold bottle” produced, with three glasses, on a silver tray, from the porter’s larder. A cold chicken is brought out with some slices of white bread and a pot or two of golden butter. No Rothschild or Vanderbilt could order or eat a better meal under the circumstances, or sit down after a day of “sport” to a more inviting-looking board while whirling homeward on the rail in an easy chair. Yet these three men are plain, ordinary, common, badly-dressed, thick-fingered, blear-eyed and uncouth-looking “gams.” There is no “gentleman John Oakhurst” about them. Many New Yorkers recognize them and some nod as they pass on.
The big-boned man, with the ruddy, clean-shaven face, short, stiff gray hair and puffy eye-lids, eats the food earnestly and laughs, and talks in an even coarse voice. At present he is the life of the party. He wears a grayish-brown check suit, not very “loud,” a faded derby, and his fingers need a manicure. They are thick at the ends and do not look capable of deft manipulation. No doubt their owner can deal off the bottom of the pack if he wants to, without detection. He looks about fifty-two. His companions are younger. One of them wears an outlandish-looking round-crowned straw hat and a shabby suit of clothes. He has a pert, feverish-looking, but insignificant face, a red mustache and a tilted nose. The third is good-looking, dark and quiet. They talk eagerly and simultaneously, and not at all quietly of the races and of the bets, and their winnings and losings. By and by the table is cleared away and the “cold bottle” put on and big cigars are brought by the steward, who is told to “fetch the best he’s got.” Nobody has any more fun coming home from the races than professional gamblers have. They are not half bad at heart, perhaps. Before lighting the biggest cigars the steward’s got, they take off their hats and ask the only two ladies in this parlor car full of men if they have any “objection to smoke.”