Atlantic City

‘Midst all the preachments and postures of American morality, there has always been an underside to what is presumably the acceptable standard by which we live in this country. I’m not talking about something as extreme as the grudging and hidden pride in a powerful criminal organization, and I witnessed first hand the seeming pride with which “The Godfather” was greeted. I’m talking about the acceptance of the unsavory, the almost criminal.

Years ago a New York City cop had a double standard regarding accepting money or merchandise. From the precinct captains on down the money flowed. It was fine to accept a gratuity at the holidays. I saw one precinct with a solid wall of booze at Christmas. There would often be a bonus for assuring the messenger safety as he went to make a deposit at a bank. Meals were usually “on the arm” and, truth be told, most merchants were happy to oblige. They liked the “blue” presence.

But if you “put the arm” on a drug dealer, extorted money, or threatened “muscle,” you strayed over the line and put your partners in a tough spot. One of the most outrageous examples of police chicanery happened in Atlantic City during the mid-fifties, when all seemed right with the world.

I had worked the late shift at Captain Starn’s gigantic restaurant, located in The Inlet, and was hanging up my apron as was “Frenchy,” a “Quebecois,” the other bartender. We were wiped, and spent an hour talking to those who wished to linger until the dawn, mostly hookers from the local fun house. They were always good to us, generous with tips. They, too, depended on gratuities and we were looked upon as part of the action scene. It is often this way with “bar people,” those that ignore the doppelganger behind them for the release, the booze and a couple of laughs in a gin mill. I owned a night club, The “Press Club,” in Huntington, Long Island, many years later, and my perspective changed. I found the “hangers-on” the loneliest people on earth.

Anyway, we packed it in as dawn broke and headed for Atlantic Avenue. There was some kind of “beef” going on at a local joint and a big, obviously shit-faced, guy was unceremoniously thrown out, landing on his dignity. Frenchy and I stopped to watch this bit of Americana when this gentlemen picked himself up, proceeded to his car with his legs going two directions at the same time. He started the car, made a great loop and then piled it right into the front door of the saloon.

We watched in high amusement as he climbed over the front seat and exited the big Buick through a back door. The front doors were blocked by the bar door frame. There was hollering and screaming from within and he sat on the curb and told them what they could go do to themselves if they had unusually limber anatomies.

By this time Frenchy and I were hooked, and it wasn’t five minutes before a radio car pulled up and they grabbed the miscreant. There was a lot of talking and gesturing and finally this dude reached into his pocket, withdrew a fat wallet and proceeded to throw money at the cops and over the roof of his car into the bar room. We edged closer and noticed they were twenties he was throwing around. In those days an $8,000 a year salary wasn’t bad, so this guy was flush. The cops were stuffing the money into their pockets and one went to the radio car to make a couple of phone calls.

Within fifteen minutes a tow truck showed up and pulled the offending Buick from between the door frames to the street. Our protagonist proceed to re-enter the car, started it up, and careened down the broad avenue as one cop started handing the owner a handful of bills. Within minutes peace was restored, the cops were gone and Frenchy and I looked at each and nodded.

Atlantic City was a helluva town.

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