Rothstein_ The Life, Times, And Murder Of The Criminal Genius Part 18

They got as far as Times Square on a rainy Sunday night in November.

CHAPTER 19 * "Will I Pull Through?"

ELEVEN PM, SUNDAY NIGHT, November 5, 1928.

Nearly forty hotel employees gathered round the stricken man in the Park Central service corridor. Patrolman William M. Davis and Dr. Malcolm McGovern bent down to examine him.

Arnold Rothstein had a bullet in his lower-right abdomen but insisted on going home, telling McGovern he lived on West 72nd Street. He wanted a cab. He just wanted to go home.

McGovern had other ideas. He had to get Rothstein to the nearest hospital. "You take me to the Polyclinic Hospital then," Arnold Rothstein responded, finally acknowledging the danger of his situation but still harboring ideas of his own-"and get my own doctor for me."

Patrolman Robert J. Rush arrived on the scene. He already possessed a very important clue. Rush was on ordinary patrol duty when cabbie Abe Bender spotted him. Bender told the officer a strange story. Sitting in his parked cab near the Park Central-at Seventh Avenue near West 55th-Bender suddenly saw an object skidding across the Seventh Avenue trolley tracks. He walked up the street and found a Colt .38 caliber "Detective Special," a gun featuring a very short barrel, just two inches in length-a weapon small enough to be concealed in a man's hand.

Bender first thought it had been thrown from a pa.s.sing sedan-a sedan carrying three men. "Something was thrown out of it," he said. "I stopped my cab and picked it out of the curb. It was a .38 caliber revolver, still warm, with one cartridge fired."

But it came from someplace else. The gun itself was badly damaged from being tossed out a nearby window at the Park Central. Its gutta-percha stock was cracked. Its hammer jammed. Just one cartridge, the one fired at Rothstein, remained in the chamber. Rush ordered Bender to take him to where he'd found the weapon. There, on the street, they found five unexploded sh.e.l.ls.

It was valuable evidence. Unfortunately, while retrieving it, Bender obliterated any fingerprints the a.s.sailant left on it. "A time like this, who thinks of fingerprints," he shot back. "I am a hackie, not Sherlock Holmes. So, do me something."

Meanwhile A. R. arrived at Polyclinic Hospital. Doctors anesthetized him and probed for the bullet, not finding it at first. Removing it was crucial-for the longer it lay inside, the more sepsis-infection-spread within. The initial prognosis wasn't good. The bullet ruptured Rothstein's bladder and cut through his intestines, resulting in tremendous internal bleeding. Polyclinic Hospital director Dr. Abraham A. faller pessimistically told reporters that the only thing giving doctors any hope was the relatively clean life the nondrinking, nonsmoking, well-rested patient had led. Otherwise, he'd be dead already.

Some puzzled how Rothstein had been able to drag himself from the Park Central's Room 349 to street level. For a man wounded so seriously, the trek seemed impossible-75 feet down the third-floor corridor, down two long flights of stairs, pus.h.i.+ng open a pair of heavy fire doors to reach the spot where elevator operator Vince Kelly first discovered him.

Broadway was a very small town with very bright lights. Word spread immediately that its most powerful denizen lay near death. Reporters, friends, enemies, and curiosity seekers-nearly thirty in all-poured into the hospital. Among the first was a twenty-five-year acquaintance of Rothstein, Edward "Butch" Lindenbaum of the Bronx, who begged to provide blood for a transfusion. Doctors accepted his offer, but hospital administrators finally had police clear the place of Rothstein's other cronies.

"The patient is resting quietly after the blood transfusion," Dr. Jailer announced to reporters. "His pulse is of good quality but rapid. He is putting up a good fight. He has regained consciousness but is in no condition to be questioned."

Detective Patrick Flood's job, however, was to question the victim. He'd known Rothstein for years. He bent over A. R.'s bed and asked who did it. A. R. always said that if he was shot, he'd take his a.s.sailant down with him. No underworld code of silence for him. But something had changed. "You know me better than that, Paddy," he rasped. Maybe A. R. thought he'd live. He wouldn't squeal, wouldn't tell Flood what he wanted to know, wouldn't tell Paddy anything. When the detective asked if A. R. had been shot inside or outside the hotel, Rothstein wouldn't even help with that, merely forcing a grim little smile and placing a finger over his lips in one last playful gesture.

A. R. did want to see his lawyer, Maurice F. Cantor, the machine Democrat a.s.semblyman from West Harlem's 11th District. When Officer William M. Davis first spoke to Rothstein at the Park Central, Rothstein said "Call Academy 9410-call my lawyer and tell him to bring down the will."

This will superseded one that A. R. drew up on March 1, but A. R. had never signed this new doc.u.ment. In Cantor's hurry to reach Polyclinic Hospital, he forgot to bring this new doc.u.ment. A. R. asked him for it two or three times. Cantor rushed back to his West 57th Street offices to retrieve it.

Meanwhile, Carolyn Rothstein had returned home from dinner at the Plaza Hotel, reaching 912 Fifth Avenue at about 10:30. She read the day's newspapers before turning in at 11:00. A half hour later her maid came into the room and prepared for bed. Oddly enough, the maid slept in Carolyn's room.

As her maid turned off the lights, Carolyn lit up a cigarette, smoking in bed in the dark.

"Mrs. Rothstein, do you want me to turn on the light?" the maid asked.

"No," Mrs. Rothstein responded. "I am very nervous."

She had a premonition of trouble. "I had been generally nervous for a long time," she would later write, "but it always seemed to me that on the occasions when I became acutely nervous Arnold was in some difficulty. This had happened to me before."

Not long afterward, the phone rang. It was Rothstein's exbodyguard, Fats Walsh. Carolyn recognized his voice immediately.

"Rothstein has been in an accident," said Walsh, calling from Rothstein's 57th Street office.

"Where is he?"

"At the Polyclinic Hospital," Fats said. "I'll call for you right away."

Carolyn dressed hurriedly and dashed downstairs. It didn't take Walsh long to make the three-block trip. He dropped her off at a side entrance to the hospital. Two photographers wanted to snap her picture. Fats threatened them with a revolver.

Rothstein lay on the operating table. Carolyn waited in the hallway. She didn't know for how long. It seemed like forever, but finally at 2:15 A.M. she saw them wheel her husband to a private room on the floor below.

Dr. Philip H. Grausmann, Arnold's and Carolyn's longtime personal physician, advised her to return home-there was nothing she could do here. "I didn't want to go, but he was so urgent that I returned to my room."

Others came and went. Walter Howey, editor of the Daily Mirror, hired a man to impersonate a priest, "Father Considine of Long Island City," and gain entrance to Rothstein's room for a story-on the pretext that the still-Catholic Mrs. Rothstein had requested his presence. Unfortunately. "Father Considine" reeked so much of speakeasy gin that hospital authorities wouldn't let him in the building.

Arnold's immediate family soon arrived: his father, who had p.r.o.nounced A. R. dead when he married a Catholic; his brother Jack, who changed his name out of shame for the life his older brother led. After all, death brings people together. "Arnold has always been an excellent son," Abraham Rothstein told reporters, and perhaps at this moment he actually meant it. "I am so perturbed over this affair I cannot think clearly enough to say anything to you except that he has been a good son. I could not ask for a better one. He was not the kind who neglects his parents."

Maurice Cantor returned to the Polyclinic with the will, but when he arrived, A. R. still lay on the operating table. He left again, then returned again, but Arnold remained so weakened that doctors refused Cantor access. Finally, at 3:50 A.M., with will in hand, he entered Rothstein's room. A. R. was awake, but too enfeebled to open his eyes.

"Arnold," Cantor told him, "this is your will, your will." A. R.'s eyes remained shut. Cantor repeated himself, trying to get through. Finally Arnold rasped a weak, barely audible word: "Will." That was enough for Cantor, who responded. "This is your will, Arnold. I made it this morning, just as you asked me." Placing a pen in A. R.'s left hand, Cantor moved it twice across the paper, forming a shaky "X." The vultures were beginning to pick Arnold's estate clean.

This new will would soon enrage Carolyn Rothstein and the Rothstein family, as it provided generous shares for his mistress and his cronies. The first four provisions were straightforward: * ONE. Payment of A. R.'s funeral and legal expenses.

* Two. $50,000 to brother Edgar Rothstein.

* THREE. $50,000 to brother Jack Rothstein.

* FOUR. $15,000 to A. R.'s longtime black servant Tom Farley.

But after these provisions, the will grew increasingly labyrinthine and beneficial to Cantor and to his two coexecutors, Rothstein property manager Bill Wellman and A. R.'s confidential a.s.sistant Samuel Brown: * FIVE. One-third of the remaining amount to set up a trust fund for Carolyn Rothstein. She would derive the income from this amount, but could not touch the princ.i.p.al. On her death, the trust fund would be donated to charity.

* Six. One-third of the remaining amount to set up a trust fund for Inez Norton. She too would enjoy the income from this amount, but could not touch the princ.i.p.al. After ten years the trust would revert to Cantor, Wellman, and Brown.

* SEVEN. $75,000 to set up a trust fund for Sidney Stajer. He too could not touch the princ.i.p.al. It too reverted to Cantor, Wellman, and Brown after ten years.

The remainder would be divided four ways: * EIGHT. 40 percent each to trust funds for Edgar and Jack Rothstein. After ten years they or their estates would receive the princ.i.p.al.

* NINE. 10 percent each to trust funds for Wellman and Brown. After 10 years they or their estates would receive the princ.i.p.al.

A tangled, complex doc.u.ment-and one A. R. certainly could not comprehend at that time, and perhaps one he never read at all. Two nurses were present: Elizabeth E Love and Margaret Goerdel. Cantor pressured them to witness Arnold's signature. Love curtly told Cantor she'd "sign anything to get him [Cantor] out of the room." Cantor advised both to keep quiet about what they had seen. Miss Love refused, saying she'd "tell everything, the truth, if I have to go to court." Six weeks later, she did, testifying in Surrogate's Court that A. R.'s "hand was limp and never moved" as Cantor "wiggled" it across his will. She testified further: Daniel J. Madigan [attorney for Cantor]: In your opinion, was Mr. Rothstein of sound mind when the will was executed? Love: He was irrational most of the time. Madigan: How about the rest of the time? Love: He seldom spoke a thing that had any sense to it.

Carolyn Rothstein had no knowledge of Maurice Cantor's activities, but she had enough to worry about. She retained some feelings for her dying husband and could not rest. Almost immediately after arriving home, she returned to the hospital. A. R. fell back into unconsciousness after Cantor departed, but awoke fitfully at 4:30 A.M. Through eyes that barely saw, he stared up at his wife. The sight pleased him. "I knew you'd be here," he said as strongly as he could, adding. "When will they operate?"

"Dr. Grausmann says there is no need of an operation," Carolyn lied.

"Will I pull through?" A. R. asked without much confidence.

"Sure you will," she lied again. Then, knowing that money was never far from her husband's mind-no matter what the circ.u.mstances-she added, "and I'll take care of the banks in the morning."

That didn't seem to register with him. He wanted to go home. "Well, if I don't need an operation, then we'll go home."

That was all he had in him. A doctor sedated him with a hypodermic, and he lapsed into a sleep from which he never awoke.

By now police possessed an outline of a case, and the desk sergeant at the 47th Street Precinct House wrote in his case blotter: Arnold Rothstein, male, 46 years, 912 Fifth Avenue, gunshot wound in abdomen, found in employees' entrance, Park Central Hotel, 200 West Fifty-sixth Street. Attended by Dr. McGovern, City Hospital. Removed to Polyclinic Hospital. Reported by Patrolman William M. Davis, s.h.i.+eld #2493, Ninth Precinct.

They also had a suspect in George McMa.n.u.s. Out went an all-points bulletin: "Age, 42. Six feet, 210 pounds. Dark hair and fair complexion. Wanted for questioning. Pick up on sight."

Why McMa.n.u.s? Not only had Jimmy Meehan testified that A. R. had told him he was going to meet with the gambler, but detectives searching Room 349 found one very important clue. Hanging neatly in the closet of the otherwise-disheveled two-room suite's closet was an expensive hand-tailored dark blue chesterfield overcoat with a velvet collar. Its owner's name was embroidered in the lining: "GEORGE MCMa.n.u.s".

There were also handkerchiefs with McMa.n.u.s's "G A M" monogram in the room. But not much more. The room reeked of cigar smoke, was filled with littered ashtrays, empty liquor bottles and flasks, and dirty drinking gla.s.ses. Some of the gla.s.ses bore traces of lipstick. But there was no sign that Arnold Rothstein had visited the room or that it had recently been the scene of violence. No gun, no spent sh.e.l.ls, and, most mysteriously, no blood.

There was no murder weapon-at least, not there. The revolver had found its way to a Seventh Avenue gutter and to Al Bender. But there was an open window and a torn screen through which it might have been thrown. Unless somebody talked, prosecutors would have their work cut out for them.

As A. R. lay dying, something mysterious happened: He became a hero to the traditional Jewish community he had worked so hard to distance himself from. The Yiddish press lavished praise upon their wayward son. The Morgen Zhurnal praised A. R. as possessing "the manners of an aristocrat and a rare and beautiful vocal inflection..." Forwerts approvingly called him "a gentleman gambler [who] made his living by the old tradition of honest gambling." Der Tog called Rothstein's shooting "tragic," claimed that he had been "totally absolved" of blame in the Black Sox scandal, and concluded remarkably: "And so it seems that there he lies, not like one who belongs to an inferior cla.s.s, but a sort of saint."

Later in those early-morning hours, Rothstein worsened. Doctors conferred, pondering what, if anything, to do next. Another transfusion might be necessary, and they kept a professional blood donor-Walter W. Brown of 1437 Parker Street, the Bronx-in readiness. Dr. Edward L. Kellogg told the press: "Rothstein has at least a chance for his life."

He didn't. Arnold Rothstein died at 10:50 A.M. on Monday, November 6, 1928. They carried his body out of Polyclinic Hospital in a plain open pine box, past a handful of onlookers, and into a waiting ambulance bound for the Bellevue Hospital morgue. Dr. Charles Norton, M.D., the city's chief medical examiner, signed the death certificate, noting that the "chief and determining cause of death was bullet wound of belly, large gut, urinary bladder, prostate & pelvis-homicidal."

That may have well been true, but, as in his life, and as he would have wanted it, nothing else about A. R. on the certificate was recorded truthfully: MARITAL STATUS: "Married."

Not exactly.

RESIDENCE: "912 Fifth Avenue."

Not for a while.

OCCUPATION: "Real Estate."

Clearly not.

Undertakers at Riverside Memorial Chapel, at Amsterdam Avenue and West 72nd Street, just two blocks west of the Fairfield, outfitted A. R. in a simple dark suit but also a purple-striped prayer shawl and a white skullcap, burying him as a proper Orthodox Jew. It was not a large funeral by gangland standards, a little over two hundred onlookers.

Inside, his widow mourned. So did his parents, his brothers, his sister Edith. The family sat apart from other mourners. Rabbi Leo Jung led the services. Cantor J. Ja.s.sinowski sang Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. Periodically, a woman-history doesn't record her ident.i.ty-would break down, and her grief triggered a wave of sobbing through the fifty-or-so women present. Few people approached A. R.'s $25,000 bronze and mahogany casket, to gaze upon Arnold through its thick gla.s.s lid. Again, by gangland standards, the floral displays were modest. Broadway producer George White sent flowers. So did Sidney Staler and his a.s.sociate in overseeing A. R.'s bookmaking operations, gambler Frank Erickson. But it was that casket that impressed reporters. In life Arnold Rothstein had never been flashy or ostentatious-but that casket now attracted attention. Not even Chicago gangsters had caskets so expensive.

When services concluded, they took A. R., filed past the 500 or 600 curiosity seekers who outside patiently waited for a glimpse of the show. His body traveled to Union Field Cemetery in Queens, where they lowered his magnificent casket into the ground, next to ... his brother Harry.

CHAPTER 20 * Cover-up: "A Decenter, Kinder Man.

ARNOLD ROTHSTEIN LAY IN HIS GRAVE, but the inevitable questions remained: Who killed him? Why? And what, if anything, were New York's duly elected authorities going to do about it?

George "Hump" McMa.n.u.s, having rented Room 349 and summoned A. R. to it, remained suspect number one. But no witnesses placed A. R. in the room, said Big George fired the shot, or connected him to the murder weapon.

McMa.n.u.s remained in hiding, as did his bagman, Hyman Biller, and his chauffeur, Willie Essenheim. District Attorney Banton rounded up what supporting characters he could, Sidney Stajer and Jimmy Meehan, the Boston brothers, and Nate Raymond. They didn't know a thing.

Or so they said.

On Friday night, November 17, cops arrested three hoodlums a.s.sociated with the dead man: Fats Walsh, Charles Lucania (Lucky Luciano), and Charles Uffner. Detained in connection to an October 1928 payroll robbery, the charges were mere pretext. Police focused their questions on A. R.'s murder. Luciano and Uffner were prominent narcotics dealers, Walsh, Arnold's former bodyguard. Walsh pled ignorance regarding Rothstein. He didn't know a thing about A. R.'s losing money at cards. Hadn't seen him since the Thursday before the shooting. "Rothstein," he said with a straight face, "never was the a.s.sociate of gangsters, as has been reported. It is silly to say that he was connected with any drug smuggling ring."

A few days later, A. R.'s old crony, judge Francis X. McQuade, dismissed all of the robbery charges against the trio.

Another early suspect was Broadway character Willie "Tough Willie" McCabe, alternately nicknamed "The Handsomest Man on Broadway." Nate Raymond told investigators that he had "let McCabe in" on a share of his $300,000 winnings from Rothstein, and the district attorney's office suspected that McCabe had threatened A. R. to pay up. It was believed that shortly after the game at Meehan's, McCabe twice visited A. R.'s West 57th Street offices, staying the last time for an hour and a half.

McCabe denied everything. Raymond hadn't promised him anything. Providing an airtight alibi, he hadn't even been in New York between September and Election Day. He had been in Savannah, Georgia, trying to start a dog track.

"It's Raymond's word against McCabe's," said District Attorney Banton to the press, "-which are you going to believe." He believed McCabe.

Cops searched everywhere for Rothstein's killer, everywhere except where George McMa.n.u.s hid. Detroit authorities questioned two men originally held on robbery charges. The reason: They drove a car with New York plates. The duo had actually been in Detroit for the past two months. In Philadelphia cops arrested a Frankie Corbo, wanted for a 1924 New York pool-hall murder, and seriously pondered whether to grill him in regard to Rothstein's death. Briefly, New York police suspected Legs Diamond's involvement; but, like Willie McGee, Diamond possessed an airtight alibi: he was in California in early November.

While police grilled the wrong people and pursued their slow motion search for Hump McMa.n.u.s, Banton's office began building a circ.u.mstantial case against him. Their strongest evidence was beautiful in its simplicity. Sunday night, November 4, 1928, was cold and damp. Arnold Rothstein walked from Lindy's to the Park Central, clad in a blue chesterfield overcoat. When he appeared in the hotel's service corridor, he had none. It was never found. In the closet of Room 349, detectives discovered another overcoat-not Rothstein's, but remarkably similar to it. Same color. Same fabric. Even the same tailor. But it belonged to George McMa.n.u.s; his name was sewn into its lining. The following conclusion appeared inescapably: A. R. went to Room 349, removed his coat, was shot and, in the ensuing confusion, a drunk and panic-stricken George McMa.n.u.s grabbed the wrong overcoat-Arnold Rothstein's-and fled.

But police possessed little else. No one saw Arnold Rothstein in Room 349, or entering it, or even entering the hotel itself. He had lost a significant amount of blood-but, remarkably, none externally. Thus, no blood could be found in Room 349, in the third-floor corridor, or in the stairwell.

Police possessed the murder weapon but couldn't connect it to McMa.n.u.s, his bagman, Hyman Biller, his chauffeur, Willie Essenheim, or indeed, any living human being. They possessed no fingerprints of value. Most had been obliterated. What few prints existed failed to match any on file. However, the official investigation reported that police had compared the prints to those of hotel or police department personnel only. It did not mention comparing them to those of the actual suspects.

Of course, police might also have compared Rothstein's fingerprints to the one pristine print they possessed, thus placing A. R. in the room. They didn't. Said the official police report on the investigation: The only fingerprint which was not compared with the impression found upon the [drinking] gla.s.s was that of Arnold Rothstein, which might have resulted in definitely establis.h.i.+ng that he had been in Room 349. During his lifetime, the fingerprints of Rothstein were not obtained [despite shooting three policemen!]. After his death, it was the duty of the Homicide Squad, under the regulations of the department, to have obtained these fingerprints. This, however, was not done and the body of Rothstein was buried, without his fingerprints ever having been secured.

And, of course, the victim had not talked-or if he had, those he confided in maintained their own discreet silence.

On Monday, November 19, a mystery witness appeared before the grand jury that District Attorney Joab Banton had a.s.sembled to investigate A. R.'s death, the best sort of witness as far as the city's newspapers were concerned-a blonde. "She appears to be a natural blonde," Banton observed, "about twenty-five years old, maybe less. She has light blue eyes."

Ruth Keyes was a twenty-three-year-old "freelance clothing model" married to an Illinois Central Railroad brakeman, visiting Manhattan on a "shopping trip," and registered in Room 330 of the Park Central. Husband Floyd conveniently remained in Chicago.

On Sat.u.r.day, November 3 she made new friends. "Sat.u.r.day night," she told Chicago reporters, "the night before the shooting. I went into the hall to find a maid. In the hall I met a man who had a room on the same floor. He seemed to be quite nice and, I suppose, I flirted with him a little. His name was Jack, he said, and he wore a blue suit.

"Along about 4:30 Sunday afternoon Jack called my room and asked me to join him and another man in his room, No. 349, and have a drink. I don't seem to remember what the other man looked like. At about 6 o'clock I left them there."

Nothing about Mrs. Keyes's new acquaintances indicated they planned anything significant-or fatal. "Jack" (i.e., McMa.n.u.s) repeatedly begged her to stay and peeled $50 bills off his bankroll to encourage her. He did what he could to please-dancing, singing, catching ice cubes in his drinking gla.s.s. "It was," giggled Ruth, "all quite silly." She checked out of her room at approximately 7:00 P.M. on Sunday night, November 4, 1928-about three-and-a-half hours before Arnold Rothstein's arrival.

Mrs. Keyes promised investigators she'd do all she could to help, though positive identifications were difficult. "Everyone had had a lot of drinks," she said, "and that makes them look different." She was sure Arnold Rothstein had not been among her new acquaintances. She met a lot of men in her line of work; A. R. was never among them.

Meanwhile, police had proceeded in slipshod fas.h.i.+on from the beginning of their work. When detectives arrived in Room 349 on the night of the evening, the phone rang. They allowed house detective Burdette N. Divers to answer-and to obliterate any fingerprints upon the instrument. Leaving the room, they posted no guard, potentially allowing anyone to enter, remove evidence, or wipe clean any remaining prints. Detectives delayed searching McMa.n.u.s' twelve-room apartment at 51 Riverside Drive until November 16-almost a full eleven days after the shooting. On arrival, they found it stripped of every photograph of the suspect. They also learned that sometime after 11:00 P.M. on November 4, McMa.n.u.s and his chauffeur, Willie Essenheim, had stopped by the apartment. Essenheim ran upstairs-and returned with a heavy winter overcoat for his boss.

While police halfheartedly sought A. R.'s murderer, others scrambled for his cash. The last will and testament Maurice Cantor placed under Arnold's feeble hand amply provided for Cantor and coadministrators Bill Wellman, and Samuel Brown, but was less generous to Rothstein's family or his widow. On March 1, 1928 a still-very-coherent Arnold Rothstein had employed attorney Abraham H. Brown to draw up a will leaving half his estate to his wife. The will he signed as he lay dying reduced Carolyn's share to one-third-and left the income from one-sixth of the estate for a ten-year period to Inez Norton. After ten years, Inez's one-sixth reverted to Cantor, Wellman, and Brown. The idea pleased neither Inez nor Carolyn. Inez wanted more, wailing: "He said everything would be mine!" Carolyn wanted Inez shut out completely. "We will find no trouble ... in cutting Miss Norton off without a penny," her attorney Abraham I. Smolens threatened. "She got enough from him when he was alive, without trying to horn in on a widow's share."

Abraham and Esther Rothstein, and Arnold's surviving sister, Edith l.u.s.tig, got nothing. Brothers Edgar and Jack received just $50,000 each. On November 14, 1928, Abraham Rothstein pet.i.tioned Surrogate Court Judge John P. O'Brien to overturn Rothstein's deathbed will.

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Left * Heavyeight champion Gene Tunney (center) with his manager Billy Gibson (left) and legendary boxing promoter Tex Rickard. Rothstein won $500,000 on the first Dempsey-Tunney fight. Did he and Abe Attell plot to make it a "sure thing"?

Below * Lindy's Restaurant on Broadway served as A. R.'s unofficial office. On the night of Sunday, November 4, 1928, a call to Lindy's summoned Rothstein to the Park Central Hotel and his death.