The Wrong Man: Who Ordered the Murder of Gambler Herman Rosenthal and Why. By Joe Bruno PUBLISHED BY: Joseph Bruno Literary Services EDITED BY: Marc A. Maturo COVER BY: Nitro Covers Copyright 2012 -- Joseph Bruno Literary Services ********************************************** Introduction 2012 is the 100-year anniversary of the murder of small-time gambler Herman Rosenthal - the most celebrated murder of its time. Make no mistake, there are no good guys here, no innocent victims. The fact is an offensive and offensive-looking well-known criminal framed a crooked New York City police lieutenant for the killing of an odious stool pigeon. People in the underworld cheered the death of Herman Rosenthal; he was that much disliked. But that doesn‟t negate the fact that the wrong man sat in Sing Sing‟s electric chair for ordering Rosenthal‟s murder, while the man who framed him - and actually ordered the murder of Herman Rosenthal - walked away scot free, content in the knowledge that he was able to fool so many prominent law enforcement officials so easily. This is how it all happened. HERMAN ROSENTHAL He was thoroughly unlikeable; mean and snarky, and he would swindle his own mother if it would earn him a few bucks. Yet the murder of small-time gambler Herman Rosenthal ignited a firestorm in the New York City press, which resulted in New York City Police Lieut. Charles Becker being unjustly fried in Sing Sing‟s electric chair. Herman Rosenthal was a runt of a man who was born in Russia and immigrated to the United States with his parents when he was 5 years old. They settled in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, which, in the late 1800s, was a conglomeration of hard-working immigrants, featuring the lowest common denominator of thieves, crooks, cheats, gamblers, and murderers. Rosenthal‟s parents were Jewish, but there is no evidence that Rosenthal ever set foot in a Jewish temple after his tumultuous teenage years began. At the age of 14, Rosenthal eschewed school, and began running with one of the many local street gangs. He stole from pushcarts and picked the pockets of drunks, and performed whatever schemes corruptible kids from that era did to amuse themselves. Despite his size (he was 5-foot-3-inches), Rosenthal was a competent street fighter, and gained a reputation as someone who could handle himself in a pinch. (A friend once said of Rosenthal, “He was mighty fast on his feet and he could hit hard.”) To earn a meager living, Rosenthal sold newspapers on the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge. However, the money he earned selling newspapers was peanuts compared to what Rosenthal envisioned as proper remuneration for a man of his guile, and what he considered to be – his superior intellect. Invariably, Rosenthal gravitated to the money and in the Lower East Side of Manhattan at the turn of the century that usually led to a poolroom. That‟s where Rosenthal met Big Tim Sullivan – the Political Prince of the Lower East Side, who had as many scruples as a bald-headed eagle has hair. Because of his spunk and willingness to mix it up when necessary - and also because Sullivan knew that “smart Jew boys” like Rosenthal represented a huge voting block on the Lower East Side - Big Tim got Little Herman Rosenthal a job of sorts as a numbers runner for a downtown poolroom. Rosenthal soon graduated to working from a back room in the poolroom - taking bets, both in person, and by code over the phone. In 1897, Rosenthal married the lovely Dora Gilbert and they became partners in the profession of Dora‟s choice: the business of prostitution. Quite simply, Dora did her best work on her back in their West 40th Street apartment bedroom, while Rosenthal stood guard outside the bedroom door to make sure the visitors behaved themselves and didn‟t quibble over the price, or the performance. In time, Dora, to give her customers a choice, employed two other girls and Rosenthal became their pimp, too. Things were going quite well for Rosenthal in the early 1900s when Dora decided to give Rosenthal the gate. Dora divorced Herman, and she used the money she had saved from her sex business to open up a legitimate boardinghouse: no johns need apply. This, in effect, left Rosenthal without a job, and since unemployment insurance had not yet been invented, Rosenthal went back to Big Tim Sullivan with his hat in his hand. Big Tim, still fond of Little Herman, got Rosenthal a job as the proprietor of a small Lower East Side craps game. Rosenthal did so well for Sullivan in the endeavor, Big Tim procured Rosenthal a prestigious gig as a bookmaker in a storefront in Far Rockaway, Queens, which was the last stop on the New York City subway transit system. Riding the subway daily gave Rosenthal plenty of time to think, and he thought about the day when he would become a big shot himself. As a result of Rosenthal‟s guile and Big Tim‟s connections, Rosenthal moved up the underworld gambling ladder one step at a time. He eventually became the manager of the prestigious Hesper Club, located on 111 Second Avenue and owned by Big Tim Sullivan‟s brother, Patrick. The private Hesper Club was famous for its full casino: roulette wheel and craps tables and also a back- room poker game which attracted some of the most illustrious gamblers in town. The gamblers included respected judges, assistant district attorneys and a few mid-to-high-level government employees. The Hesper Club was a club where you obtained membership only by the recommendation of other members. Big Tim was so intent on his brother Patrick‟s private club thriving, Big Tim even penned a flowery letter, which was framed and placed inside the club next to the front door. The letter, dated April 30, 1903, and addressed to then-Hesper president Sam Harris, read: “Dear Sir: Regarding my election as a life member of the Hesper Club, I keenly appreciate the compliment you pay me, and should it be possible for me at any time to serve you, or any of the members, I would be glad to do so. A simple word from you will command me – Yours truly, TIMOTHY D. SULLIVAN.” This framed letter said reams about the strong connection between the elected politicians of the time and the illegal gambling crowd. Everyone knew Big Tim Sullivan ran the Lower East Side with an iron fist, fitted with a velvet glove. They also knew that Big Tim could provide well-paying jobs, some of them “no-show” jobs, to anyone he desired. But the implication of the Hesper Club letter was even more sinister than that. Big Tim basically said in the letter that a simple word from the president of the Hesper Club, and Sullivan would pull whatever strings necessary to keep illegal gambling thriving in the Hesper Club; not to mention giving jobs to whomever the bigwigs at the Hesper Club said needed jobs; a classic case of one dirty hand washing the other. Being the manager of the Hesper club catapulted Rosenthal into the big time. He was raking in so much cash, he was able to rent of suite of rooms at the illustrious Broadway Hotel, which set Rosenthal back more than $1,200 a month; a tidy sum in the first decade of the Twentieth Century. With his newfound celebrity, Rosenthal decided to take himself a second wife - a chubby bleach- bottled redhead named Lillian, who did not, like Rosenthal‟s first wife, do business on her back. In fact, Herman was so flush with cash, Lillian had no need, nor any desire, to work at all. The problem with Rosenthal was that he was not very good at making friends, but quite competent at making enemies; especially those in the New York City police department. While he was manager of the Hesper Club, Rosenthal opened his own gambling operation, with the blessing of Big Tim Sullivan, of course, at 123 Second Avenue, called The Red Raven Club. The Red Raven Club had formerly been a poolroom run by Rosenthal. It was common knowledge at the time, if you wanted to run an illegal gambling establishment in New York City, you had to pay off the police and pay them off good. But giving graft to cops was adverse to Rosenthal‟s nature. Instead of making his weekly contributions to the “Police Benevolent Association,” Rosenthal used that money instead to fortify his gambling houses from unwanted invasion. He installed extra-sturdy doors and employed the most competent doormen, who were experts at sniffing out an undercover cop, or someone from the city who might want to serve the club with a warrant. This made the New York City police department all the more eager to shut Rosenthal down. In 1903, New York City Police Capt. Charles Kemp spent considerable time devising a way to put Rosenthal out of business. According to Rose Keefe‟s book, The Starker, Kemp used a dubious “letter of instruction” to gain admittance for one of his operatives to 123 Second Avenue, when it was a tightly run Rosenthal poolroom/illegal gambling house. The letter read: Herman Rosenthal Esq. This is to introduce my friend, Mr. Ketcham. He is all right. H. Morgan The undercover cop gave the letter to the doorman, who in turn, gave the letter to Rosenthal. For some unknown reason, Rosenthal gave the thumbs-up for the visitor to enter. The undercover did so and in the course of an hour, he was able to place bets on several horse races.