Boardwalk Empire: The Birth, High Times, and Corruption of Atlantic City

In July 1911, newspaperman Harvey Thomas arranged a meeting between Attorney General Wilson and private detective William J. Burns. Long before criminal lawyers would debate the concept of entrapment, Burns hit upon an idea to smoke out Atlantic City’s elected officials, which the attorney general endorsed. Burns had one of his operatives, Frank Smiley, pose as “Mr. Franklin,” a successful New York City contractor. Mr. Franklin rented an elaborate suite of rooms at one of the fancy Boardwalk hotels and made a splash around town as a big spender. Mr. Franklin got the ear of the city councilmen and proposed to each of them that what the resort needed was a concrete Boardwalk. He persuaded five council members to adopt an ordinance appropriating $1,000,000 for the project and paid each of them $500 for their vote. The entire transaction with each council member was recorded by the newly invented dictograph. When confronted with the stenographic transcript of their conversations with Mr. Franklin, each of the councilmen confessed.

The other area scrutinized was the Commodore’s personal business interests. In addition to the Atlantic City Brewery, Kuehnle was a shareholder in the United Paving Company. It was one of many firms Kuehnle had formed over the years to obtain government contracts. United Paving was successful from its inception and in a short time had contracts totaling $600,000. It was successful on every municipal project it competed for. There might have been lower bidders, but they were never able to comply with the bid specifications, so United Paving got the jobs.

In 1909, the city council let out for bid a contract to install new timber water mains from the mainland to Absecon Island. It was known as the Woodstave Project. Then, as now, Atlantic City received its drinking water from artesian wells on the mainland seven miles over the meadows. For years, the water had been pumped into the city in small pipes. To accommodate Atlantic City’s growth, it was necessary to install one large water main. United Paving hadn’t bid on the project because Kuehnle was a member of the Water Commission and there was an obvious conflict of interest. Instead, a dummy bidder, Frank S. Lockwood, a clerk in United Paving, was awarded the contract at a bid price of $224,000. On the same day the bid was awarded Lockwood assigned his contract rights to a firm called Cherry and Lockwood, Cherry being William I. Cherry, the Commodore’s partner in United Paving. The Woodstave Project only partially involved paving, but Kuehnle and Cherry wanted the entire contract. Their greed caused the contract price to increase beyond $300,000 with all of the extras being approved by Kuehnle as chairman of the Water Commission. The commission’s records showed that of the 15 vouchers submitted for payment, 12 had been personally approved by Kuehnle.

This was all Attorney General Wilson needed. The jury had no choice but to return a guilty verdict. The Commodore’s conviction and the success at exposing the widespread corruption in the resort made a valuable trophy for Woodrow Wilson on his march to the White House.

The Commodore appealed his conviction and by the time the final ruling came down upholding the verdict, Woodrow Wilson had gone on to become president. Kuehnle was sentenced to a year of hard labor and $1,000 fine. His sentence began in December 1913 and before going to jail, he made arrangements for Christmas gifts of food and clothing to be given to Atlantic City’s poor. Surrogate Emmanual Shaner and Louis Donnelly saw to it that several thousand gifts were given out in the Northside.

The Commodore served his time without complaint. Upon his release from jail, he went to Bermuda for a lengthy vacation and then for an extended visit to Germany, his parents’ homeland. Nearly a year later he returned to the resort tanned and rested, to a warm but quiet reception from his many friends. He soon learned things had changed during his absence. A new leader, Enoch “Nucky” Johnson, had emerged as the boss of Atlantic City’s Republican Party. The Commodore had known Nucky as Smith Johnson’s son, and after the elder Johnson’s death, the two became close. Kuehnle confided in him as he had his father. Nucky was seen by many as the Commodore’s protégé and with his acquittal at the election fraud trial, he was the heir apparent when Kuehnle went off to jail.

After the Commodore’s return, he and Nucky had several skirmishes, but there was no doubt about who was in control. Finally, they reached an accommodation with Johnson agreeing to support the Commodore for city commissioner. Kuehnle was elected in 1920 and re-elected each time his four-year term ended, until his death in 1934. A tribute to his popularity was the naming of a local street in his honor. Kuehnle had the undying affection of the public, but Nucky Johnson had the power, and he used it in a way that made the Commodore look like a choirboy.

5

The Golden Age of Nucky

Joe Hamilton was the back-up driver. Louie Kessel didn’t leave town often but when he did, Joe was first choice to drive the boss around. This night the stops were a baseball game, a wake, and a Fourth Ward Republican Club meeting, followed by dinner at Babette’s.

A few innings of the ball game was enough and he was ready to leave. When Joe returned with the limousine there was a young woman with the boss. Joe got out to open the door and was told to drive out of town to Absecon before heading to the wake. The rest is better told by Hamilton. “There I am driving along talking to Mr. Johnson with a pretty little tart seated next to him. The next thing I knew she’s got her head in his lap and Mr. Johnson’s grinnin’ from ear to ear.” The boss never missed a chance to mix pleasure with business.

For nearly 30 years, Enoch “Nucky” Johnson lived the life of a decadent monarch, with the power to satisfy his every want. Tall (6 feet 4 inches), trim, and broad-shouldered, Nucky Johnson was a ruggedly handsome man with large, powerful hands, a glistening bald head, a devilish grin, friendly gray eyes, and a booming voice. In his prime, he strode the Boardwalk in evening clothes complete with spats, patent leather shoes, a walking stick, and a red carnation in his lapel. Nucky rode around town in a chauffeur-driven, powder blue Rolls Royce limousine, maintained several residences, hosted lavish parties for hundreds of guests, used the local police as his private gendarmes, had a retinue of servants to satisfy his every want, and an untaxed income of more than $500,000 per year. His antics were reported widely and at the height of his reign he was a national phenomenon, hailed as “the Czar of the Ritz.” Despite his notoriety, Johnson was a product of Atlantic City who couldn’t have flourished anywhere else.

Enoch Lewis Johnson was born on January 20, 1883, in Smithville, a small bayside farming village several miles north of Atlantic City. The son of Kuehnle ally Sheriff Smith Johnson, Nucky spent his childhood moving between Atlantic City and Mays Landing according to his father’s rotation as sheriff. During the years as sheriff, Johnson and his family lived in the sheriff’s residence next to the county jail. The years as undersheriff, the Johnsons lived in a rambling frame home in the resort so the sheriff and his wife could enjoy the social life of a booming vacation center.

Nucky’s parents, Smith and Virginia Johnson, had used politics to escape the backbreaking work of farming. Election to sheriff was the ticket to an easy life and status in the growing resort. Smith Johnson was a broad-chested bear of a man with a thick black mustache. Standing six-foot-two, weighing 250 pounds, and having paws for hands, he had the strength to lift a wagon. “No one ever gave Sheriff Johnson a hard time.” Virginia was a tall, slender, beautiful woman with long, auburn hair, and hands with fingers meant to play the piano. She was always exquisitely dressed and was “the kind of woman that comes to mind when you think of an elegant Victorian lady.” Virginia was every bit the politician in her own right. “She was big on charity, organizing fundraisers and whatnot, for the poor people, but she always made sure they knew the help came from the Republican Party.”

Through his parents, Nucky was immersed in politics long before he was old enough to vote. As a child and a young man, Nucky watched his father make a plaything of government. The law forbidding the re-election of a sheriff was supposed to prevent an individual from accumulating too much power. But the cozy relationship between Smith Johnson and Sam Kirby made a mockery of the reelection ban contained in the state constitution. The sheriff’s employees were handpicked solely on the basis of patronage and the fees his office collected were reviewed by no one. Smith Johnson’s tactics and the success he attained taught his son early on that government and the electoral process were no more than a game to be mastered for personal power. Nucky also learned that in Atlantic City, a politician would only have power so long as he was prepared to bend the law when needed to help the resort’s economy. Smith Johnson and Louis Kuehnle were close friends and the sheriff’s favorite hangout was “the Commodore’s” hotel. There were many evenings when, while still a boy, Nucky sat quietly next to his father at the Corner and listened to the stories and strategies of Kuehnle and his cohorts. Kuehnle’s hotel was the hub of Republican politics in Atlantic City and the place where important political decisions were made. Nucky may not have understood all he heard, but he was there, and while still in his teens began to learn the rules of the game. By age 19, Johnson made his first political speech, and as soon as he was old enough to vote at age 21, his father appointed him undersheriff. He completed high school, attended a year at a teacher’s college, and put in a stint at reading law in the office of a local attorney, but it was politics he wanted.

Nucky also wanted the hand of a tall, slender, graceful girl with whom he fell in love at first sight as a teenager. Beautiful and soft-spoken, “Mabel Jeffries was the daughter of the Postmaster in Mays Landing and they knew each other from childhood—Nucky just adored her.”

Nucky and Mabel lived in an era when teenage sweethearts married and remained faithful to one another until death. It was Mabel’s enrollment at the Trenton Normal School (a teaching college for girls; now the College of New Jersey) that had prompted Nucky to go to college himself. Their schools were near one another and they met each day after class at a campus ice cream parlor where they made plans for their future together. A year of college—away from Atlantic City—was all Nucky could handle. They agreed he should return home and begin his career in politics. Mabel stayed on at school and earned her teaching certificate. After her graduation in June 1906, they were married and moved into an apartment in Atlantic City. By the time of his marriage, Nucky had replaced Sam Kirby as his father’s undersheriff. At the next election in 1908, Nucky was elected to sheriff, with his father as undersheriff, at the age of 25, making him the youngest person in New Jersey to hold the post. Like many other locals of their social standing, Nucky and Mabel speculated in the booming Atlantic City real estate market and did well for themselves. They were on their way to a comfortable life together until tragedy destroyed their plans.

Mabel had always been a fragile person, but in the winter of 1913 she came down with a cough she couldn’t shake. At Nucky’s insistence, she went to a local physician who diagnosed her illness—tuberculosis. The disease was fairly common in the resort, but only the strong or wealthy survived it. On the advice of Johnson’s family doctor, he traveled with Mabel to a sanitarium in Colorado. Despite his duties as Atlantic City’s new boss, he was prepared to stay until she was well. But it was no use. Three weeks later, Nucky rode home in a railway baggage car, seated next to Mabel’s coffin. At the age of 28, she was gone. “My father said that Nucky mourned Mabel for months. Her death, like it was, broke his heart. After she was gone, he was a changed man.”

With Mabel’s death, politics became his life. While Nucky’s term as sheriff was marked by his indictment for election fraud, his acquittal made him a local hero and generated support among the resort’s politicians. Instead of smashing the Commodore’s machine, Woodrow Wilson helped to make room for a new boss. Rather than continuing in the sheriff’s office, Nucky went in another direction—control of the organization. With Kuehnle’s blessing and the help of his father, Nucky became secretary to the Republican County Committee. It didn’t have a salary, but it was more powerful than being chairman. It was the secretary who called meetings, established the agenda, and made the final call on who was eligible to participate in the organization.

He made his next move in 1913, shortly after Mabel’s death. Again with his father’s backing, Nucky was appointed county treasurer, one of the offices designated by Kuehnle for funneling graft payments on public contracts. The treasurer’s office gave him access to money and, in turn, power over the organization and the selection of candidates. The position paid the same salary as sheriff but was easier to manage. An interesting note to Nucky’s selection as treasurer is the fact that there was a minority faction who opposed him. They demanded, as a condition to his assuming this new position, that Nucky be compelled to reconcile the sheriff’s account. He had mishandled the funds received by his office and his critics knew he owed thousands of dollars to the county for overcharges. Rather than consent to an accounting, Nucky proposed a single lump sum payment of $10,000, which was paid in cash four days later.

County treasurer was the only political position Nucky held for the next 30 years. As with the Commodore while he was boss, Nucky chose not to seek elected office. He believed that a boss should never be a candidate. Nucky had learned much from Kuehnle and he believed, “Running for election was beneath a real boss.”

Crucial to his power and the control of the Republican organization, he learned how to manipulate Atlantic City’s Black population. He continued the Commodore’s private welfare system, but the assistance he gave Blacks went beyond what Kuehnle had done; come the winter he was their savior. Long stretches of unemployment in the off-season could be devastating. Johnson saw to it that the Northside had food, clothing, coal, and medical care. “If your kid needed a winter coat, all you had to do was ask—maybe it wouldn’t fit but it was warm. If the grocer cut off your credit, the ward leader told you where to shop on the party’s tab. The same was true if someone needed a doctor or a prescription filled.” In return, he was loved by the Black community and looked on as a “White god.” Nucky Johnson “owned” the Black vote and when a large turnout was needed to produce the right election results, they never failed him.

Johnson understood the need for controlling the flow of money to the candidates. With a stranglehold on the money there was no fear of reformers getting into office. To remain boss, he needed an uninterrupted flow of cash. He transformed the system of bribes that existed at the time. Under the Commodore, bribes had been paid in line with a “gentleman’s agreement” between the Republican Party and the vice industry. Under Nucky, protection money paid by Atlantic City’s racketeers became a major source of revenue for the business of politics. “With Nucky, the payments weren’t voluntary. You paid or he shut you down.”

The gambling rooms, whorehouses, and illegal saloons were vital to Nucky and his town. Without a flourishing vice industry, Atlantic City would lose an important competitive edge for attracting visitors, and the local Republican Party would lose the money needed to continue its dominance. An important lesson Nucky learned through witnessing Kuehnle’s destruction at the hands of Woodrow Wilson also required large amounts of cash. Nucky knew he’d never be safe remaining a local boss. He had to become a force statewide if he and the resort were to avoid future attacks from Trenton. His opportunity came in 1916.

In the gubernatorial election of 1916, Nucky supported the candidacy of Walter Edge. An Atlantic City resident and product of the Kuehnle machine, Edge had served in the state assembly and was elected senator from Atlantic County in the election of 1910: the election made infamous by the Macksey Commission. Edge was as honest as could be hoped for from the Atlantic City organization. He was a capable legislator and in 1912 was selected majority leader of the state senate, having gained the respect of the state Republican organization.

Walter Edge was Atlantic City’s answer to Horatio Alger. Born in Philadelphia, he moved to Atlantic City as a child when his father’s position with the railroad was transferred. Like other self-made men of his day, Edge pulled himself up by the bootstraps to acquire his wealth through the ownership of a local newspaper and a public relations firm. Edge continued his business success into politics and went on to hold more influential positions than any resort politician, becoming Governor, U.S. Senator, and Ambassador to France. He was an intimate of Warren G. Harding and narrowly missed becoming his vice president. While Edge later disavowed his ties to Kuehnle and Johnson, he needed their support. Despite his personal wealth, he couldn’t have been elected from Atlantic County unless he was loyal to the Commodore and his Atlantic City machine; proof is Edge’s choice of Nucky as his campaign manager for governor. “Edge was a stuffed shirt, but he knew where to go when he needed something done in politics—Nucky Johnson.”

Edge’s opponent in the Republican primary was the wealthy Austin Colgate, heir to the toothpaste fortune. The primary was hotly contested and, in a time when there were no campaign finance reports, Colgate spent his money freely. Nucky helped Edge by raising the funds needed to wage a statewide campaign and by using his skill as a powerbroker to gain support for Edge from an unexpected source.

There was no contest in the Democratic primary; the candidate was Jersey City Mayor Otto Wittpenn. A reform mayor, Wittpenn was a headache for Hudson County Democratic boss Frank “I am the Law” Hague, who decided it was time for Wittpenn to move up and out—out of Hague’s way. Frank Hague was becoming a force in Democratic politics at about the same time Nucky was making his move to prominence as a Republican. Hague was the son of immigrant Irish parents, born in the “Horseshoe Section” of Jersey City in 1871. Despite having neither an education (he was expelled from school in the sixth grade) nor a family name to bolster him in local politics, Hague became a leader while still a young man. One step at a time, he amassed power as he went from constable to custodian of City Hill to the office of street and water commissioner. Like Nucky, Frank Hague branched out into state politics not because he wanted statewide power, but rather because it was useful to have the influence of state government to safeguard his city’s interests.

When the election of 1916 rolled around, there weren’t any Democrats whom Hague trusted enough to support for governor, making him ripe for an overture by Nucky. Prior to the 1947 State Constitution, a governor couldn’t succeed himself and when Wilson left Trenton for Washington, he was succeeded by James Fiedler, a party hack from Jersey City who happened to be president of the Senate at the right time. Hague controlled Fiedler and supported him in the election of 1913; however, come 1916, Hague could find no one to support. At Nucky’s prompting and with a pledge of cooperation from Edge, Hague instructed his people to “crossover” and support Nucky’s candidate in the primary. Hague then abandoned Wittpenn in the general election. Wittpenn was a pawn in Hague’s and Nucky’s game, and Walter Edge became governor. This was the first of many occasions when Nucky and Hague put aside party differences to work for their mutual interests.

As governor, Edge dutifully rewarded Nucky by appointing him clerk of the State Supreme Court. “Can you imagine that, a character like Nucky Johnson, the head clerk to New Jersey’s judiciary.” Johnson continued serving as Atlantic County Treasurer despite the fact that both jobs were supposed to be full-time. The position of clerk meant little to Nucky, but it gave him an excuse to be in Trenton and to begin making contacts in the state Republican organization. At the age of 33, having a close ally in the governor’s chair and the power to dispense favors beyond Atlantic City, Nucky had arrived as a force in statewide politics.

At about the same time Atlantic City was striving to move beyond being merely Philadelphia’s Playground into a national resort, the city’s popularity and, with it, Johnson’s power, were given an enormous boost. In 1919, with Woodrow Wilson in the White House, Victorian morality won a major victory with the adoption of the 18th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, the Volstead Act. Woodrow Wilson, the reformer, was again unwittingly advancing the career of Nucky Johnson along with hundreds of other racketeers. “Prohibition” banned the manufacture, sale, and transportation of intoxicating liquors—it was doomed to failure. For decades, the Anti-saloon League, and before it, the National Prohibition Party, had been waging a single-minded campaign to shut down the liquor industry. With Wilson as president, the Prohibitionists finally had someone who would listen to them. The 18th Amendment was adopted by the required three-fourths of the states within a single year. The Amendment had been written into the Constitution and scheduled to go into effect in a few months when Hague’s candidate, Edward I. Edwards, was elected governor. During the campaign, Edwards pledged, “I intend to interfere with the enforcement of Prohibition in this State.” Thanks to Edwards, New Jersey was the last state to ratify the Amendment, doing so after it had been in effect for two years.

That so many people in power could take leave of their senses by supporting a law so utterly unenforceable stands as a monument to the ignorance of single-issue politics. It’s the classic example of the “law of unintended consequences.” While Prohibition reduced the general availability of alcohol, it greatly increased the money available for political corruption and organized crime. Otherwise law-abiding citizens refused to give up the pleasure of an occasional drink and got their booze from illegal suppliers. An authority on Prohibition, Al Capone once said:I make my money by supplying a public demand. If I break the law, my customers, who number hundreds of the best people in Chicago, are as guilty as I am. The only difference between us is that I sell and they buy. Everybody calls me a racketeer. I call myself a businessman. When I sell liquor, it’s bootlegging. When my patrons serve it on a silver tray on Lake Shore Drive, it’s hospitality.

Selling liquor unlawfully was nothing new in Atlantic City. Resort tavern owners had violated the state’s Bishops’ Law for years by serving drinks on Sunday. If they could get away with it one day a week, why not seven? “Prohibition didn’t happen in Atlantic City.” As far as Atlantic City was concerned, the 18th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution never existed. While other cities had speakeasies and private clubs, the sale of alcohol in the resort continued as usual in taverns, restaurants, hotels, and nightclubs. You could buy liquor in drugstores, the corner grocery, and the local farmer’s market. The resort was more than an outlet for illegal booze, it was a major port of entry for foreign-produced liquor. Large “mother ships,” bearing thousands of cases of whiskey and rum, anchored off the coast where they were greeted by speedboats, which were little more than empty hulls with twin motors. Cases of liquor were unloaded all along the island, with speedboats pulling into the bay near a city firehouse where they were greeted by the local firemen who helped unload the booze. “Everybody helped out. If you worked for the city you could count on one time or another working a night shift and being told to go to such and such place and help unload a boat. You weren’t supposed to know what it was but everybody did.”

It was the Coast Guard’s job to stop the flow of imported whiskey. More often than not, it was unsuccessful. In one incident, four coast guards were arrested on charges of assault with intent to kill for shooting at a rumrunner. Daniel Conover had refused to stop his boat in the Inlet at 2:00 A.M. on a May evening in 1924 when ordered to do so by Chief Petty Officer Edward Robert. Shots were fired and Conover was caught with 75 cases of liquor in the captured boat. Atlantic County Prosecutor Louis Repetto arrested Chief Robert and his three crewmates charging them with abuse of their authority for using firearms. “To my mind” he said, “the Federal men are as guilty as is the individual who uses a pistol without provocation. An officer may fire only in pursuit of persons guilty of felony. Rum smuggling comes under the designation of a misdemeanor.” This wasn’t an isolated incident. There were dozens of reported occurrences during the 1920s when local law enforcement authorities were used to obstruct federal officials attempting to secure compliance with Prohibition.

The uninterrupted flow of booze enhanced the resort’s standing among vacationing businessmen. “You gotta understand, nobody did it the way we did here. Sure you could get booze in New York or Philly, but it was always in a speakeasy you know, hush, hush. Here it was right out in the open, and that made us real attractive to businessmen looking for a place to hold a convention.”

As Nucky himself once said, “We have whiskey, wine, women, song, and slot machines. I won’t deny it and I won’t apologize for it. If the majority of the people didn’t want them, they wouldn’t be profitable and wouldn’t exist. The fact that they do exist proves to me that the people want them.”

Because of its willingness to ignore Prohibition, conventioneers flocked to Atlantic City and the resort became the premier convention center of the nation. This enormous success in attracting conventions resulted in the decision to build the present day Boardwalk Convention Center. Architecturally, the old Convention Hall isn’t much to look at, but when it opened in May 1929, it was the largest and only building of its kind in the world. For the people of its day, it was one of the wonders of the world. It was hailed across the nation as “the” modern convention facility. The hall was constructed without roof posts and pillars; the building’s trusses had a span of 350 feet and at the time were the largest ever used anywhere. The construction materials consisted of 12 million tons of steel, 42,000 cubic yards of concrete covering more than seven acres. Its subbasement is more than 26 feet below high tide level and is anchored with 12,000 30-foot-long pilings. In its day, it was an engineering marvel.

The construction of Convention Hall was Nucky’s commitment to a 12-month economy through conventions. Nucky didn’t need a market study to know it would be a success. Under Nucky’s direction and that of his handpicked mayor, Edward Bader, Convention Hall was constructed at a cost of $15 million. Such an expenditure in 1929, by a city of some 65,000 residents, could not have been made without the stimulation to the resort’s popularity caused by Prohibition. And as the resort grew in popularity, so, too, did Nucky’s power.

Prohibition raised the political ante in Atlantic City. When a community is thriving, everyone wants power. This was especially true in the resort where the political spoils system was woven into the fabric of the community. With the prosperity stimulated by Prohibition, the competition for local office became intense. One such contest was the city commission election in 1924. It was a pivotal election that affected resort politics for nearly two generations.

The 1924 campaign was a bitter one. It featured two Republican slates: one headed by former Mayor Harry Bacharach and the other by incumbent Edward Bader. Bacharach had been a popular mayor serving from 1916 to 1920. At the end of his second term, he chose not to seek re-election, and Bader became mayor. Bader made thousands of friends while in office and when Bacharach decided to make a comeback, the contest put Nucky on the spot. The hostility between Bader and Bacharach divided the community, and there was nothing Nucky could do to prevent them from clashing. Johnson withheld his support, playing cat and mouse with both candidates; he liked both men and could have worked with either of them. Finally, he struck a deal with Bader and agreed to back him.

Nucky knew the election would be close and went looking for votes outside of the Republican Party. The local Democratic Party had its start with the election of Woodrow Wilson as governor, but it never amounted to much. In the ’24 election, the Democratic slate didn’t have a chance; their candidates could attract little more than 2,000 votes. Nucky went to the local Democratic leader, Charles Lafferty, and offered to put a Democratic candidate on Bader’s slate. At Nucky’s prompting, Lafferty chose Harry Headly and the first fusion ticket was formed. Headly was not really a Democrat; he had been a Republican ward worker prior to switching parties to become a candidate. Lafferty and the Democrats turned out for Bader amid Election Day brawling and charges of election fraud. Receiving more than 1,000 illegitimate votes, cast by floaters brought in by train from Philadelphia, the Bader slate was victorious.

The arrangement between Johnson and Lafferty became a permanent fixture in resort politics with Nucky and his successor controlling the Democratic Party for the next 40 years. Headly was in time replaced by William Casey, who likewise was a former Republican having worked as an aide to Harry Bacharach when he was mayor. In later years a second Democrat was added to the city commission slates, but the Republican Party remained firmly in control. The deal between Nucky and Lafferty ensured there would never be a legitimate Democratic Party. As one old time pol has noted, “There never really was a second political party in Atlantic City, just different lineups of players who ran under different banners. But underneath the uniforms everyone was on the same team.”

The “Roaring ’20s” were golden years for both Nucky and his town. It was a gay place that reveled in its ability to show its visitors a good time. The liquor flowed and the party seemed as though it would go on forever. In the days before television and widespread home radio, the Boardwalk rivaled New York City’s Great White Way as a national showcase for promoting consumer products and introducing new entertainment figures and productions. During the decade between 1920 and 1930, the Boardwalk became known as the “Second Broadway” of the nation. A production didn’t go to New York until it first showed in Atlantic City. There were hundreds of Boardwalk theatrical tryouts with famous stage names that drew wealthy playgoers from throughout the entire northeast, many of them arriving in their own private railroad cars.

Typical of the ’20s was the year 1920, which saw a total of 168 shows open at the three main theatres: the Apollo, Globe, and Woods. Victor Herbert started off the year on New Year’s Day with his presentation of My Golden Girl, followed by Willie Collier in The Hottentot and John Drew in The Catbird. In March, there was Marie Dresler in Tillie’s Nightmare with other performances throughout the year featuring the likes of Chauncey Olcott, Helen Hayes, David Warfield, Thurston the Magician, and “Mr. Show Business,” George M. Cohan. Also, regulars during the ’20s were the prestigious University of Pennsylvania Mask and Wig Club and the Ziegfeld Follies.

The most memorable performance staged during this era was the premier of The Student Prince at the Apollo Theatre in 1924. It was a national theatrical event and was the largest production ever staged on the Boardwalk with a cast of 150 players. The resort was more than a try-out town for theatrical productions; it was a showcase for comics, singers, musicians, and dancers. Among those who received their first big break in Atlantic City on the road to stardom were W. C. Fields, Abbott and Costello, Jimmy Durante, Red Skelton, Milton Berle, Martha Ray, Guy Lombardo, Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Ed Sullivan, Jackie Gleason, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, and on and on.

By 1925, Atlantic City had:

More than 1,200 hotels and boardinghouses capable of accommodating nearly 400,000 visitors at a time.

Ninety-nine trains in and out daily in the summer, and 65 daily in the winter. Of the 16 fastest trains in the world at the time, 11 were in service to Atlantic City.

A Boardwalk lined with hundreds of businesses, extending seven miles.

Five ocean piers with amusements.

Twenty-one theatres.

Four newspapers: two daily, one Sunday, and one weekly.

Three country clubs.

Three airports—two for seaplanes and one for land planes.

The Easter Parade and the Miss America Pageant.

The Miss America Pageant got its start in 1921 as the “Intercity Beauty Contest.” Conceived as a gimmick for extending the summer season, it was scheduled for the week after Labor Day. In all, eight young girls hailing from the likes of Newark, Pittsburgh, Ocean City, and Harrisburg made up the field. Surprisingly, it was a success and the following year 58 beauties showed. The New York Times covered the second pageant during its final two days and reported: “The nation’s picked beauties swept along three miles of Boardwalk this afternoon and in the most spectacular rolling-chair parade ever staged here. Crowds packed the borders of the walk, squeezed in the windows of the flanking hotels and stores, and kept up a continuous cheering from the time that King Neptune and his flower-bedecked retinue got underway. Airplanes swooped down and showered the bowered beauties with roses and confetti. Cannons roared and even the breakers boomed forth their tribute to America’s prettiest girls.” Where else but Atlantic City?

The first host of the City by the Sea throughout this period was Nucky. He wasn’t just Atlantic City’s boss, he was the town’s leading party person. Nucky enjoyed beautiful women and was often in the company of the starlets and showgirls who performed in the many stage productions. When a well-known entertainer was in town he usually threw a party in his or her honor at the Ritz. Throughout his career, there were few parties of any significance held in the resort where Nucky wasn’t in attendance.

Damon Runyon would have had a hard time creating a more flamboyant character. His typical day began at 3:00 in the afternoon; awakened at the usual time by his bodyguard and valet, Louis Kessel. Resembling the trunk of a tree, Kessel stood five-foot-five, weighed 260 pounds, and sported a moustache with waxed tips. He had been a wrestler, a bartender, and a cab driver, in that order, before meeting up with Nucky. In his days as a cab driver he often waited outside nightclubs for Nucky and, when he emerged, took him home, undressed him, and put him to bed. Louie was an uncomplicated person looking for a master to serve. Nucky made him his personal servant and their relationship lasted nearly 20 years.

Routinely, Louie started off his boss’s day with a rubdown; pounding muscles, snapping loose flesh, and rubbing Nucky with sweet ointments and oil of wintergreen. After Louie had rubbed Nucky’s skin pink, he draped his body with a silk robe and escorted him to the breakfast table overlooking the ocean from his view on the ninth floor of the Ritz Carlton. Nucky had leased the entire floor from where he reigned as the “Czar.” During Nucky’s residence, the Ritz Carlton out dazzled every other hotel on the Boardwalk. Nucky’s presence set a standard of unbridled hedonism; it was a “lavish temple of pleasure.”

Once the Czar was fully awake, a Negro maid brought in the breakfast tray, which consisted of a quart of freshly squeezed orange juice, half a dozen eggs, and a ham steak. During breakfast Nucky would read the newspaper and receive reports from local politicos and racketeers. After the boss finished breakfast, Louie picked out one of more than 100 hand-tailored suits and pinned a fresh red carnation to the lapel. In the summer months, Nucky had a weakness for lavender and chocolate-colored suits. If the weather was cold, Louie fetched the boss’s full-length raccoon coat. Once dressed and ready to go, it was a dusk-to-dawn performance. Nucky and Louie would leave the Ritz Carlton and walk to the Boardwalk, where the Czar leaned against the railing and held court. Panhandlers begged for, and got, dollar bills and sometimes more; political underlings sought advice and favors; part business, part social, this daily routine lasted an hour or two. Nucky would then go for a long ride in a rollingchair on the Boardwalk or for a stroll on Atlantic Avenue, stopping all along the way to hand out dollar bills to any poor person that looked his way.

Johnson had a passion for Atlantic City’s poor people, especially the children. There wasn’t a shoeshine boy, flower girl, or paperboy whom Nucky didn’t pat on the head and give a dollar or two. If there was a sporting event or another affair at Convention Hall that Nucky thought might excite the children, he saw to it they were permitted in without charge. One lesson Nucky learned well from the Commodore was that the poor have votes just as well as the rich, and if you took care of the poor, you could count on their votes.

Upon completing his daily rounds, Louie then drove the boss in his Rolls Royce to a nightclub, dinner party, an indoor hotel pool—Nucky stayed fit by swimming—a political meeting, and a gambling room or whorehouse, depending on his agenda for the evening. It was common for Nucky to have one of the local call girls accompany him as he made his rounds in the evening, permitting lustful interludes in the back seat of his Rolls.

The Czar of the Ritz was every bit the celebrity on New York’s Broadway as he was on the Boardwalk. Despite the fact that there was “never any snow on the Boardwalk,” Atlantic City’s winter months were longer than Nucky could handle. To cope with the winter doldrums, Nucky rented a large apartment in an exclusive section of Manhattan overlooking Central Park. The rent for his apartment alone nearly equaled his annual salary as treasurer. Evidence of his reputation as a “man about town” is an article by a New York gossip columnist who wrote admiringly that Nucky and oil millionaire Guy Loomis were “among the most liberal and careless spenders of the present day.” The reporter noted that when in New York, Nucky was always accompanied by a group of hangers-on, mostly female, whom he took from one nightclub to another, picking up the tabs. On numerous occasions, he’d give a waiter a $20 bill for handing him an extra napkin; tips of $100 were common. Nucky was so popular with restaurant and nightclub help everywhere he went that the waiters’ union made him an honorary member—Union card #508— Atlantic City Local.

In addition to fancy nightspots, Nucky loved to be part of major events. He could always be found ringside during a championship boxing match accompanied by a group of friends, and bought whole blocks of tickets for the World Series, inviting dozens of guests. On several occasions, he enjoyed a Broadway play so much that he brought the entire cast to Atlantic City for a weekend at his expense. As an old-time local lawyer recalled, “I went to my first World Series with Nucky. The game was just the beginning of the evening. He sure knew how to have a good time.”

Nucky’s audacious generosity had no limits. He deliberately made himself a mark for charity solicitors, and when approached by one with a book of tickets to sell, he’d take his silk hat and fill it with tickets; however many it held was what he bought. He was also obliging with the use of his several automobiles. In addition to his Rolls Royce, Nucky owned two 16-cylinder Cadillacs, a Lincoln, and a Ford. This fleet was always available to visiting notables, whether politicians, entertainers, or mobsters. Nucky’s lifestyle was the personification of his town’s golden years. He was the most colorful player in the World’s Playground and was idolized by Atlantic City residents.

The closing years of the Roaring ’20s saw Atlantic City’s boss attain prestige and power in two different worlds. And as his stature rose, so did his town’s. In his own inimitable way, Nucky worked himself into a position in which he was at once the kingmaker in New Jersey Republican politics and a major player in the national family of organized crime.

By the mid-1920s everyone on the public payroll in both Atlantic City and the County owed his job to Nucky. He personally interviewed and okayed every person hired. There wasn’t a single employee who wasn’t beholden to the boss. He established a practice that was continued by his successor for 30 years more after Nucky was gone. Every successful applicant, regardless of the job’s importance and whether the decision to hire had already been made, was required to first meet with the boss to pledge their loyalty and receive instructions on their political duties.

The selection of police officers was most important to Nucky, and he personally screened every applicant to ensure that the police department cooperated in the smooth operation of the vice industry. The elite corps of the department was the vice squad; it was Nucky’s right arm for protecting Atlantic City’s rackets and collecting the payoffs from bars, gambling rooms, and brothels. A retired detective talked about his hiring. “I was told I had the job but had to go see Nucky before starting work. Nucky was very friendly. He asked me about my folks and said the ward leader liked my family. He told me to just follow my superiors’ orders and I’d enjoy being a policeman.”

There was no civil service or any type of job security other than to be in the good graces of the organization. In order to keep their jobs, city and county workers had to kick back from one to seven percent of their salary to the local Republican Party, depending on the amount of their wages. This “macing” was done on each of the 26 paydays throughout the year. Every department supervisor was required to keep records of these payments on mimeographed forms that Nucky had distributed. The form listed the scale of payments to be made and provided space for checking them off. Kicking back wasn’t an employee’s only duty to Nucky. They were also responsible for seeing to it that an assigned number of voters got to the polls on Election Day. Some of those voters were dead, others were out-of-town summer help who weren’t in town in November—no matter, they voted, even if it meant a city employee had to vote two or three times in different districts.

In addition to the revenue from macing, Nucky held a tight grip on every contract for public construction jobs and for supplying public institutions with coal, vegetables, milk, and so on. He saw to it that everything had its price and he and his organization profited handsomely. Nucky’s organization had become a finely tuned instrument; every part had a function and purpose. There was no one in city or county government or among the contractors, retailers, or professionals who did business with local government—along with the vice industry—who did not have a role to play in keeping the Republican machine running smoothly.

Nucky went beyond what the Commodore had achieved in terms of constructing a formal organization. Kuehnle relied upon his personal popularity and the ability to dispense handouts to the poor, financed through graft and extortion. Unlike the Commodore, Nucky was an organizer. His flamboyant lifestyle camouflaged a calculating mind, figuring angles and planning his moves constantly. Nucky was always talking politics and strategy. He understood human nature and what motivated people, especially the residents of Atlantic City. Under his direction a rigid political spoils system was established. Its hierarchy was based on the four voting wards of Atlantic City. This ward system was the basis for his machine’s election victories and cranked out votes, year after year.

Machine politics was the inevitable product of Atlantic City’s development. The predominance of a single political party for several generations after the Civil War and Atlantic City’s uniquely singular purpose produced a mentality that discouraged pluralistic politics. Atlantic City depended totally on the visitor for its survival. The illicit thrills enjoyed by tourists were a cornerstone of the local economy. Reformers or critics of the status quo couldn’t be tolerated. They were bad for business. The resort’s singular purpose demanded a single mentality to manage its affairs, a mentality unburdened by political ideologies. The philosophies of the national political parties were irrelevant in resort politics. Success of the local tourist economy was the only ideology.

Nucky seized the opportunity created by such a mentality. He was a professional politician who took his business seriously and understood that the only test he’d ever have to pass was to keep the local economy profitable. One means to that end, the protected violation of vice laws, became the accepted way of doing business. He was able to identify himself with the success of the resort’s economy and by doing so elevated himself and the political ward system to the status of a sacred institution.

Nucky’s ward politicians were social workers required to keep an eye out for the personal needs of their neighbors; not just at campaign time, but every day of the year. The four wards of Atlantic City were divided into precincts, blocks, and streets with every constituent accounted for. When someone hit upon hard times, Nucky learned about it from one of his lieutenants. More often than not, assistance was offered before it was requested. Whatever the problem, Nucky’s organization worked to find a solution. When necessary, Nucky’s machine was an employment office, providing a government job of some type or exerting personal influence with private employers.

At Thanksgiving and Christmas everyone in need received a turkey and a basket of vegetables from the Republican Party. During the winter months truck loads of coal were dumped in vacant lots in various neighborhoods and the people in the area were free to take what they needed to keep their homes warm. Should there be a death in the family, the wake was always attended by the block leader and precinct captain, usually by the ward leader, and very often Nucky himself. Nucky was a master at holding the hand of a widow and whispering gently what a fine man her husband was. Always, one of Nucky’s several Cadillacs, complete with an obliging uniformed driver, was available to the grieving family should transportation be needed on the day of the funeral. “Remember, there aren’t any cemeteries in Atlantic City—it’s an island. A ride in a fancy car to the mainland for the funeral made poor people mighty grateful.” Funerals were part of the business of politics and Nucky and all who worked with him dedicated themselves to this business every day of the year. By satisfying the personal needs of his constituents, Nucky was able to perpetuate his machine. He had won the hearts of Atlantic City’s voters, and they were loyal to him.

Nucky’s political clout reached its zenith in the election of 1928. In that year, he supported Morgan Larson for governor and Hamilton Kean for U.S. Senator, both of whom were elected. After the election, a U.S. Senate Committee conducted a formal investigation into a charge that before the primary, Kean had given Nucky a signed blank check, which was cashed for $200,000, with the money used as a slush fund to buy votes. The check was never found but the primary was noteworthy because it was another in which the Democrats in Hudson County crossed over into the Republican primary. The orders went out from Frank Hague and thousands of Democrats invaded the Republican primary to vote for Larson and Kean. Even Democratic election officials themselves voted in the Republican primary. The investigating committee estimated that nearly 22,000 Hudson County Democrats had crossed over. This would never have occurred but for Nucky’s relationship with Hague. Kean discounted such talk and attributed his victory to Nucky’s magnetism, describing campaign rallies he had attended by saying, “Every speaker began his talk by declaring that he was devoted to God and Enoch Johnson.” The following year Larson and Kean offered Nucky the state chairmanship of the Republican Party, but he turned it down. His power was beyond positions and titles.

A vivid illustration of Nucky’s power and the manner in which he flaunted it was his encounter with a reformist group known as “the Committee of One Hundred.” The committee was an idealistic group of crusaders trying to dismantle the resort’s vice industry. Nucky made fools of them.

The Committee of One Hundred was chaired by Samuel Comly, a local attorney. Comly had tried for years to clean up the resort by applying pressure to Atlantic County’s criminal justice system. He was frustrated at every turn. Comly and Walter Thompson worked their way through the entire system without making a dent in Nucky’s empire. They began by hiring their own private investigators who secured sworn statements of eye witnesses to prostitution, gambling, and the sale of liquor. These affidavits were then submitted to Atlantic County Prosecutor Louis Repetto. This was the same prosecutor who had indicted the Coast Guard officers. Repetto found the committee’s proofs lacking and rejected them.

Comly then went to Common Pleas Court Judge William Smathers and asked him to order the closing of a well-known gambling casino, the Golden Inn, on Missouri Avenue. Judge Smathers told Comly, “I’m no reformer. I earn my salary as a judge.” Handpicked by Nucky, the judge wasn’t about to interfere with the resort’s major attractions. Comly then approached State Attorney General E. L. Katzenbach, who refused to get involved. He said, “I’m not going down to Atlantic City unless summoned there by the Supreme Court.” Comly made that stop, too, and got the same reception, being advised by Justice Luther Campbell, “I think you’re all right legally, but I don’t think the community wants anything done.” Nucky had influence with all these people, but it was more than his power that accounted for the reception they gave Comly; the people of Atlantic City were happy with the way their town was being run. Vice as an adjunct to tourism had grown into the resort’s major industry and no one was about to tamper with success.

The final humiliation for Comly and the Committee of One Hundred came on January 31, 1930. That night there were two gatherings held in Atlantic City. Comly, Thompson, and several clergymen had organized a rally at the Odd Fellows Hall on New York Avenue. It was the largest meeting of reformers ever held in the resort. There were nearly 600 persons in attendance—mostly religious leaders from out of town—and Nucky and his lieutenants were denounced royally. The resort was likened to Sodom and Gomorrah and the blame for laxity in law enforcement was laid at Nucky’s feet. Nucky was unperturbed. He was busy hosting an affair of his own. This was the evening for the gala known as “Nucky’s Nocturne.”

While the crusaders were condemning the Czar, he was at the Ritz Carlton entertaining the governor, his cabinet, and the entire state legislature, Republican and Democrat alike. Nucky’s Nocturne was Johnson’s way of once a year showing his appreciation to all his friends in Trenton. Governor Larson had been invited to the Committee of One Hundred’s rally and the meeting was rescheduled several times for his convenience, with phony scheduling problems arising each time. A good party was more to Larson’s liking than speeches by Prohibitionists and muckrakers, and Nucky’s Nocturne was a party no guest could turn down. It was a 12-course meal, beginning around midnight. Nucky served up the best in food, drink, and women the resort had to offer. The state’s political leaders were Nucky’s playthings and his critics could expect no help from them. But Nucky’s political influence was merely a means to an end.

The real business of Atlantic City’s boss was protection money from the local rackets. And it was big business, with Nucky personally receiving more than $500,000 per year as his share of the take from Atlantic City’s vice industry. The primary source of Nucky’s income from the rackets were “tribute” of $6 per case on all liquor brought into Atlantic City during Prohibition, “inspection fees” paid by the proprietors of brothels, “wire service charges” paid by horse race betting rooms, and a percentage of the profits from every gambling room and the numbers writers syndicate.

Nucky’s involvement in the rackets extended beyond Atlantic City. In the late 1920s he was taken into the inner circle of Charles “Lucky” Luciano, becoming a trusted member of his family. At about the time Nucky had attained the height of his power, Luciano was a young, ruthless mobster on his way to the top of organized crime. Two of the major forces with whom Luciano had to contend were the Maranzano and Masseria families. Both of them wanted Luciano to join forces with them, and refusing either meant trouble. Luciano eventually sided with Masseria, but interference from Maranzano remained a concern. To strengthen his position, Luciano, on the advice of Meyer Lansky, forged a new interstate crime syndicate comprised of those racketeers he considered his strongest allies. This merger was limited to seven outfits by Luciano, who had a superstition about that number.

The “Seven Group,” as it was called, was an infamous bunch that gave the FBI fits and included the following members: the Bug and Meyer gang (Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky), which covered New York City and functioned as prime protectors, enforcers, and shippers of bootleg liquors; Joe Adonis of Brooklyn; Longie Zwillman and Willie Moretti, whose territory consisted of Long Island and Northern New Jersey; King Solomon of Boston, who controlled New England; Harry “Nig” Rosen from Philadelphia; Luciano himself; and, lastly, Nucky Johnson, “the ruler of the South Jersey Coast.” The Seven Group was an instant success and by 1929 it had struck cooperative alliances for buying, selling, distilling, shipping, and protecting with 22 different mobs from Maine to Florida and west to the Mississippi River.

In the same year in which Nucky had orchestrated the election of a governor and U.S. Senator and turned down his party’s state chairmanship, he became a major player in organized crime. Smith Johnson’s son had come a long way from his days as his father’s undersheriff.

Lucky Luciano wasn’t satisfied with the success of the Seven Group. He wanted to extend his network further. Under Meyer Lansky’s tutelage, Luciano encouraged theories and techniques of doing business never before practiced in the world of crime. Luciano promoted the idea of a national convention of the major racket bosses. It took months to make the necessary contacts and establish an agenda, but the selection of the convention site was never in question. Everyone agreed this first underworld conference would be held in Atlantic City. The reasons were simple. Nucky ran the type of town other mobsters envied; his was a wide-open operation, with the rackets immune from the police and courts because Nucky controlled them. In Atlantic City the delegates could come and go as they pleased without attracting attention, knowing their every need would be catered to by Johnson and his people.

The second week in May 1929 was chosen as the date for Luciano’s meeting. It was a memorable event. Long, black limousines carrying mobsters arrived in town from all over the country. Al Capone arrived from Chicago, bringing with him Jake “Greasy Thumb” Guzik; Max “Boo Boo” Hoff, Waxy Gordon, and Nig Rosen came in from Philadelphia; from Cleveland came Moe Dalitz and his partners, Lou Rothkopf and Charles Polizzi; King Solomon drove down from Boston; and Abe Bernstein, leader of the Purple Gang of Detroit who was unable to attend, sent a delegate in his stead. Boss Tom Pendergast of Kansas City likewise sent a surrogate, John Lazia; Longie Zwillman and Willie Moretti represented Long Island and Northern New Jersey. Aside from Nucky, who had his entire organization in town, the largest delegation was from New York City led by Luciano, Meyer Lansky (who was honeymooning at the time), Costello, Lepke, and Dutch Schultz.

The original plans for the convention called for the delegates to stay at the Breakers Hotel. At the time, it was one of the most exclusive hotels along the Boardwalk, and Nucky had reserved suites for his guests. Much to Nucky’s embarrassment, it was a mistake. Because the Breakers was restricted to WASPs only, the reservations were made in Anglo-Saxon aliases. When the front desk staff took one look at Al Capone and Nig Rosen they refused to admit them. Nucky wasn’t present and the manager of the Breakers didn’t know who his guests were. What happened after that is best related by Luciano himself (no doubt, with the help of his biographers):A hurried call to Nucky Johnson, a quick call by him, and then the fleet of limousines pulled out of the Breakers driveway and headed for the President Hotel. Before they arrived, Nucky Johnson, resplendent as usual with a red carnation in his lapel, joined the cavalcade. When Capone spotted him, he brought the parade to a halt in the middle of the street. Nucky and Al had it out right there in the open. Johnson was about a foot taller than Capone and both of ’em had voices like foghorns. I think you could’ve heard them in Philadelphia, and there wasn’t a decent word passed between ’em. Johnson had a rep for four-letter words that wasn’t even invented, and Capone is screamin’ at him that he had made bad arrangements so Nucky picks Al up under one arm and throws him into his car and yells out, “All you fuckers follow me!”

Once the delegates were settled in their rooms, the first order of business was a lavish party hosted by Nucky. There was liquor, food, and women in abundance. For those delegates who had brought their wives or girlfriends, Nucky had presents of fur capes. The party lasted a full day before they got down to serious business. After breakfast in their rooms, the delegates wandered out onto the Boardwalk where they were taken for a ride in rollingchairs. At the undeveloped end of the Boardwalk, the mobsters abandoned their rollingchairs and headed for the beach. Once they reached the sand, they took off their shoes and socks, rolled their pant legs to their knees, and strolled along the water’s edge discussing their business in complete privacy.

All of the decisions involved in the birth of a national network of crime organizations, operating jointly with decisions made by equals at the top, were made out in the open on the sand during those daily walks along the beach. The main topics of the convention were the need to halt senseless warring of one family with another, nonviolent alliances against over-zealous police and their informers, and peaceful cooperation among gangs in the same business in order to minimize competition and maximize profits. The significance of this convention was later detailed by Al Capone:I told them there was business enough to make us all rich and it was time to stop all the killings and look on our business as other men look on theirs, as something to work at and forget when we go home at night. It wasn’t an easy matter for men who had been fighting for years to agree on a peaceful business program. But we finally decided to forget the past and begin all over again—and we drew up a written agreement and each man signed on the dotted line.

Atlantic City was the birthplace of the first nationwide crime syndicate, and Nucky Johnson was the proud host.

Not all of Nucky’s encounters with the mob were as cordial as his relationship with Lucky Luciano. One winter evening in 1932 Nucky was “doing the town” in Manhattan. He was giving one of his usual princely parties in a speakeasy with a showgirl for every one of his guests. Flanked by beautiful women, glutted on rich food, and submerged in champagne, Nucky was having one of the many times of his life when a stranger entered the room and asked to speak with him in private. Nucky thought it was just another person seeking a favor and agreed to step into the next room. The stranger was Tony “The Stinger” Cugino, a hit man from South Philadelphia. The next thing Nucky knew there was a gun in his ribs and he was being whisked away to a dingy tenement in Brooklyn. His lieutenants were notified that he was being held for ransom. Nig Rosen initiated negotiations with Cugino and a ransom of $100,000 was raised and paid within several days, with Nucky released unharmed. There were those who believed Cugino was hired by Rosen so he could pay a phony ransom and win Nucky’s gratitude. Regardless of the true reason behind the kidnapping, Nucky rewarded Rosen by giving him a portion of the Atlantic City numbers operation and granted him permission to operate a gambling casino on Iowa Avenue.

Nucky’s career as a racketeer and politician sheds light on the complexity of his personality and the town he ruled. Conceived and created as a resort, with the sole purpose of dispensing pleasure, Atlantic City and its residents had no qualms about “ripping off” an out-of-towner. The trick was to keep the visitor smiling as he parted with his money. Johnson was the master of this scheme and local residents loved and admired him. Nucky and his cronies were the idealization of what the resort was all about. During his reign, local racketeers attained a status and prestige they could never find in another city. The easy money from corruption created a perverse sense of community morality. Speakeasy owners, gambling room operators, numbers writers, pimps, whores, policemen on the take, and corrupt politicians who elsewhere would be viewed as lowlifes and crooks were respected members of the community. The more successful ones were heroes and role models. This was the foundation of Nucky’s empire: Atlantic City was corrupt to its core.

Photographs from the set of the HBO® Original Series, Boardwalk Empire

Steve Buscemi as Nucky Thompson, based on the real-life Enoch “Nucky” Johnson

Paz de la Huerta as Lucy Danziger, Nucky's sometime girlfriend

Michael Pitt as Nucky's protégé Jimmy Darmody

Stephen Graham as the young Al Capone

Steve Buscemi as Nucky

Kelly Macdonald as Margaret Schroeder, a local woman whom Nucky befriends

Michael K. Williams as Chalky White, the self-styled mayor of Atlantic City's African-American community

Michael Stuhlbarg as Arnold Rothstein

Vincent Piazza as Lucky Luciano

Gretchen Mol as Gillian, a showgirl who is a longtime acquaintance of Nucky's

Anthony Laciura as Nucky's valet Eddie Kessler

Steve Buscemi as Nucky

Shea Whigham as Nucky's brother Sheriff Eli Thompson (L) with Steve Buscemi as Nucky and Michael Pitt as Jimmy Darmody

Stephen Graham as Al Capone

Kelly Macdonald as Margaret Schroeder

Aleksa Palladino as Angela Darmody

Michael Stuhlbarg as Arnold Rothstein (L) with Vincent Piazza as Lucky Luciano

Steve Buscemi as Nucky with Dabney Coleman as his mentor Louis “Commodore” Kaestner, based on the real-life Louis Kuehnle

Michael K. Williams as Chalky White

Michael Pitt as Jimmy Darmody (L) with Stephen Graham as Al Capone

Michael Shannon as Federal Agent Van Alden

Kelly Macdonald as Margaret Schroeder

Paz de la Huerta as Lucy Danziger

A party at Babette's nightclub

Michael Pitt and Aleksa Palladino as Jimmy and Angela Darmody

Steve Buscemi as Nucky addressing a meeting of the Women's Temperance League

Vincent Piazza as Lucky Luciano

Executive Producer, Writer, and Series Creator Terence Winter

Executive Producer Martin Scorsese, directing a scene from the pilot episode

Michael Pitt with Terence Winter

Martin Scorsese with Steve Buscemi

Dabney Coleman as Commodore Kaestner

Michael Shannon as Agent Van Alden

Michael Pitt as Jimmy Darmody with Steve Buscemi as Nucky

6

Hard Times for Nucky and His Town

Ralph Weloff and Nucky Johnson entered the lobby of the Ritz Carlton at the same time; Weloff from the street entrance, Johnson from the elevator. Neither expected to see the other. Weloff was on his way to the ninth floor in search of the boss and Johnson was leaving the hotel for his afternoon stroll after breakfast. Nucky had planned to see Weloff later that evening, but Weloff couldn’t wait and came by earlier than usual. Nucky could see he was agitated but took the envelope Weloff handed him without a word. Johnson shushed him while he counted the money; it was the regular weekly payment of $1,200. Then he asked Weloff what was bothering him. Weloff wanted to go up to Nucky’s suite but Johnson told him that whatever it was, it could be discussed in the lobby.

Weloff was irritated and let Nucky know it. He raised his voice several times and Nucky barked right back at him. Anyone within earshot could hear the conversation. Weloff had been sent to see Johnson by the other members of the local numbers syndicate. An independent numbers writer had opened up without the syndicate’s approval and the vice squad had done nothing. Johnson assured him it had to be a mistake. The vice squad members knew their job and kept a list of who was paid up. Johnson asked if he had spoken to Ralph Gold and Weloff said he hadn’t. Johnson told him to see Detective Gold and he would straighten things out. Weloff was relieved and shook hands with Nucky. As they parted, Nucky told Weloff to get back to him if Gold didn’t take care of the matter.

Nucky’s riotous lifestyle and brazen defiance of the law in running his empire should have made him a target for someone’s criminal investigation; however, after 20 years as a major powerbroker he intimidated New Jersey’s criminal justice system. Not since Woodrow Wilson was there anyone to take him on. As far as state government was concerned, Johnson and the resort’s vice industry were above the law. But things changed for Nucky in the 1930s.

The Great Depression brought hard times to Atlantic City as it did for the rest of the nation. Vacations were one of the first things to go when the American economy collapsed. Atlantic City was no longer a national resort. Philadelphia’s working class continued coming, but most were day-trippers, with many visiting solely to gamble. The Boardwalk merchants had to scrounge to survive and scores of long-established businesses went under. Nearly all of the major hotels along the Boardwalk were operating in the red and 10 of the 14 local banks were forced to close, bringing financial ruin to many local investors. Real estate assessments had shrunk to one-third of their 1930 high of $317 million and the tax rate was one of the highest in the state, causing many residents to lose their homes at tax sale. By the end of the ’30s, Atlantic City’s per capita debt was not only the highest for its class of 30,000 to 100,000, but was higher than that of any other city in the country.

The repeal of Prohibition in 1933 made things worse. What was intended as a boost to portions of the nation’s economy deepened the resort’s financial problems. “Losin’ Prohibition really hurt. We lost a lot of our regular customers from Philly.” The end of Prohibition stripped Atlantic City of its competitive advantage in attracting conventions that it had enjoyed for 14 years. But through it all Nucky and the local vice industry prospered.

The contrast of the sickly condition of the resort’s municipal finances and hotel/recreation industry with the vitality of Atlantic City’s rackets became the focal point of criticism by out-of-town newspapers. It was a favorite target of the Hearst newspaper chain, which enjoyed denouncing Atlantic City’s corruption. Newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst had been a regular visitor during Prohibition and he was every bit the lady’s man Nucky was. Hearst’s steady date during his visits was a showgirl at the Silver Slipper Saloon, a popular local nightclub. Nucky became a little too friendly with her and when Hearst learned of it he made an ugly scene, threatening to destroy Johnson. “A bartender I knew said that Hearst swore he’d get Nucky if it was the last thing he did. Think of it—all that trouble over a broad.”

As revenge, Hearst’s newspapers ran several exposés of corruption in Atlantic City, which portrayed Nucky as a ruthless dictator. Johnson retaliated by banning Hearst’s newspapers from the resort, making an enemy for life. According to intimates of Johnson, Hearst used his influence with the Roosevelt administration to prod the federal government into investigating Nucky’s empire. “Hearst was tight with FDR, and when the Feds came to town everyone knew he was the one behind it.”

In November 1936, agents of the IRS and FBI led by Special Agent William Frank, who was a lawyer, began undercover operations in Atlantic City. Working out of a furnished apartment, the agents began by locating the gambling casinos, horse race betting rooms, numbers headquarters, and brothels. By making bets in the horse rooms and purchasing numbers slips they determined the odds paid. By observing these activities firsthand and speaking with local residents, the agents learned the names of the key figures in Atlantic City’s vice industry.

William Frank and his men found that the resort’s underworld was part of the community and made no effort to conceal its business. “These rackets were absolutely wide open.” The horse rooms were located on the two busiest streets, Atlantic and Pacific avenues, and their doors were open to whomever walked in off the street. The houses of prostitution were known by everyone and there was no pretense of hiding their activities. The numbers game or lottery, based upon results from several horse races, was played everywhere, similar to the prevalence of today’s state-sponsored lottery. “It was difficult to find a store in which numbers weren’t written.” Finally, the agents confirmed that not only did the police department know about these things, it was involved in regulating and protecting them from outside interference. The results of Agent Frank’s preliminary investigation provided Treasury Secretary Robert Morgenthau with justification to launch a full-scale probe of Johnson and his city. The investigation proved to be anything but routine.

Nucky had experience with tax audits from having been audited by the IRS in the past. He developed a practice of managing his money that left behind few footprints. He kept no books or records, maintained no bank or brokerage accounts, and held no assets in his own name—he did everything in cash. Nucky made it impossible for the agents to make a direct investigation of his tax liability. For each of the years preceding the investigation, Nucky had filed timely tax returns and listed his gross income at approximately $36,000. The County Treasurer’s salary accounted for $6,000 and the remainder was described as “other commissions,” for which neither Nucky, his secretary, nor his accountant would explain the source when questioned under oath. Nucky had created a situation where the government had to prove unreported income in excess of $30,000 per year. By making the entry “commissions,” which was permitted by the tax laws of the time, Nucky was able, should the agents prove a single graft payment, to argue that it was included in the amount reported under commissions.

Nucky instructed his lieutenants to handle their taxes the same way. Each year the people of Johnson’s inner circle filed timely income tax returns. The politicians stated their positions of lawful employment, while the racketeers referred to themselves as commission agents. They computed the amount needed to cover their verifiable expenditures and savings and used that amount as their gross income in their tax returns. Any unlawful income was included under the undefined heading of “other commissions.” This practice forced the government to construct tax liabilities from outside sources.

Another problem for the investigation was the surveillance of the agents themselves. During the first several months of the investigation, while their numbers were small, the agents went undetected. However, as William Frank’s investigative team increased in size and intensified their questioning, the agents soon found their every move was being watched. The city police department with its patrolmen, and the county prosecutor’s office, with its detectives, were loyal soldiers in Nucky’s empire. Once the FBI agents’ presence became known, they were placed under strict observation and Nucky received daily reports of whom the investigators were questioning. He kept closer tabs on them than they could on him. In addition to the police, Nucky saw to it that the entire community knew the agents were in town. Anyone who cooperated with them was blacklisted.

One of the first areas examined by Frank and his agents was municipal graft. It was common knowledge that every contract with city hall had its price. Since the time of the Commodore and before, graft was part of every contract let by city and county government. The typical price of doing business was to kickback anywhere from 5 to 33⅓ percent of the contract profits depending on the quantity and nature of the contract involved. This cost of doing business was factored into the contract price, and anyone who refused to play by the rules watched the work go to others. The agents knew they would find unreported income in this area; it was merely a question of whether any of it could be traced to Johnson.

Certain types of public work contracts were more likely sources of graft than others; one was highway construction. John Tomlin had been a local Republican leader for more than 20 years and had served as a member of the county governing body, the Board of Freeholders, where he was chairman of the road committee. With a dual position of authority in the city and county power structure, Tomlin was a prime suspect. He had encouraged his son, Morrell Tomlin, to begin a general contracting firm. Between the years 1929 and 1936, Morrell Tomlin had a virtual monopoly of the road construction and paving contracts let out by the county. In addition to the county work, Tomlin received a large contract from the state for the construction of a portion of the Black Horse Pike, a new major highway linking Atlantic City to Philadelphia. Johnson had obtained federal funding for the road from the Harding Administration. Nucky was a favorite of President Harding, having delivered the Jersey delegation at the Republican Convention. To show his gratitude, Harding invited Nucky to the White House to sleep in President Lincoln’s bed. In exchange, Johnson had an Atlantic County portion of a federal highway named in honor of Harding. With his influence in Washington and Trenton, Johnson was able to pick the contractors for his new road, the Black Horse Pike. It was John Tomlin’s son.

When subpoenaed by the treasury agents, Morrell Tomlin’s records were in shambles; however, he had a checking account for his contracting firm and the agents reviewed the ledger sheets and deposit tickets. But finding these records wasn’t easy. Tomlin’s bank went under during the Depression, and investigators were forced to spend several weeks in the summer of 1937 holed up in a steamy warehouse going through thousands of closed files and records until they reconstructed his accounts. When finally assembled, the checking account records showed total deposits for Morrell Tomlin for the years 1928 through 1935 of more than $1.6 million. As for John Tomlin, the deposits totaled in excess of $500,000. Morrell Tomlin never bothered to file an income tax return, while his father filed returns showing a nominal income below the taxable minimum.

The money in John Tomlin’s account was easily traced from his son’s business account. When first summoned to a meeting with the FBI agents to explain their unreported income, the Tomlins came dressed in rags and stated they were prepared to take a pauper’s oath. One of the agents confronted John Tomlin with a photograph from a recent newspaper where he was shown in attendance at one of Nucky’s gala political dinners dressed in formal evening clothes. When the agents made it clear they intended to prosecute them, the Tomlins hired lawyers and spent whatever was needed on their defense. Both father and son were indicted and eventually convicted. Despite offers of immunity for their testimony, neither Tomlin would admit that Nucky had shared with them in the profits.

Another public contract scrutinized by Agent Frank’s team of investigators was the city garbage contract for the years 1933 through 1935. The individuals involved were Charles Bader, brother of Mayor Edward Bader; James Donahue, a Republican ward leader from Philadelphia; and Edward Graham. The three of them traded under the name Charles L. Bader and Company. This was the simplest case the agents handled. Bader’s records proved an obvious case of tax evasion—it was there among the firm’s books, banking statements, and canceled checks. The records also showed bribes to Nucky. Bader’s daughter, who was the bookkeeper, had carefully made notations of Nucky’s initials, “E. L. J.,” on the check stubs for the withdrawals of cash made by Bader and Donahue who passed cash totaling $10,000 on to Nucky.

The payments to Nucky were confirmed by the court records of a lawsuit. Bader, Donahue, and Graham had quarreled over the division of the profits from the garbage contract. Their dispute wound up in the Atlantic County Chancery Court. The court ordered an accounting, which, among other things, disclosed the $10,000 bribe paid to Nucky as part of the firm’s expenses. The judge hearing the case, as well as the lawyers trying it, all knew a bribe had been paid to secure a municipal contract, yet none of them did anything about it. Nucky’s influence was so dominant and Atlantic County’s judicial system so corrupt that an extortion payment was a routine business expense. Bader, Donahue, and Graham were all convicted, but a single $10,000 bribe wasn’t enough for a case of tax evasion against Nucky.

Special Agent William Frank was obsessed with obtaining more evidence against Johnson. The investigation had taken on a personal flavor, with Frank openly contemptuous of Nucky. He ordered his men to continue looking into public contracts. One project that couldn’t be overlooked was the construction of the new railway station for Atlantic City. In 1933 the two railroads that had been servicing Atlantic City were ordered by the New Jersey Public Utilities Commission (PUC) to consolidate into the Pennsylvania Reading Seashore Line. As part of the state’s ruling, a new railroad station was to be constructed.

At a time during the Depression when there was little work available for contractors, Johnson secured a $2.4 million contract for A. P. Miller, Inc., the construction company of an ally, Tony Miller. Nucky had control over the key figures who made decisions and was able to handpick the contractor for this project. Under state law the railroad was mandated to pay one-half the construction costs and the PUC the remainder. Mayor Harry Bacharach sat on the PUC as the city’s representative, and he followed Nucky’s orders to the letter. There was also the need for special legislation from Trenton and approval of the location by city commission. Nucky took care of all the details. As for the railroad, members of the commission were practical people and agreed to go along with Nucky’s choice, provided a competent firm did the work. Nucky put together all the pieces and the contract was awarded to A. P. Miller, Inc.

In examining the books of the Miller company, the agents discovered that in 1935, the final year of the contract, the company paid a $60,000 legal fee to a local attorney, Joseph A. Corio. The stated profit on the entire contract amounted to approximately $240,000. The corporation’s tax return showed another figure for legal fees for that year, in the amount of $1,150. The $60,000 item was buried among the construction costs of the station. Several checks totaling $60,000 were paid to Corio but weren’t deposited in his bank account. He cashed them personally.

Joe Corio was a close friend and political ally of Nucky. He was valuable in delivering the vote in the resort’s Italian-American neighborhood of “Duck Town.” Over the years, Corio performed many chores for Nucky and was always rewarded. In exchange for his loyalty and success at getting out the vote, Nucky referred clients to Corio, had him elected state assemblyman, county recorder, and finally appointed Judge of the Common Pleas Court. One of the firms that Corio represented prior to going on the bench was A. P. Miller, Inc.

A review of Corio’s income tax return for 1935 showed he had reported a gross income of $20,800. Judge Corio agreed to meet with the agents in his chambers. When confronted with the $60,000 legal fee vs. his reported gross income, Corio explained that more than $40,000 of the fee had gone to expenses; however, he had nothing to back them up. When the agents began grilling him asking for proof, Corio donned his robes and stomped around his chambers demanding what right they had to question his integrity. Corio’s pompous attitude provoked William Frank, and he instructed his agents to dig into his financial records. Fortunately for the agents, the bank Corio dealt with was one that kept a photographic record of all its customers’ checks.

Several days after reviewing Corio’s attorney account records, the agents confronted him with proof he hadn’t spent anywhere near $40,000 on legal expenses in 1935, whereupon, Corio’s judicial dignity collapsed. He admitted his tax return didn’t tell the whole story and offered to pay any additional taxes and penalties, which the agents might assess. He told the agents he wanted “to settle the case” and “get it off his mind.” But the FBI refused to make a deal. They demanded a full explanation of the $60,000 legal fee and warned Corio that if he didn’t cooperate they would seek an indictment for income tax evasion.

Corio refused to talk, and between October 1937 and April 1938 he did everything possible to settle his tax liability and to prevent prosecution. Nucky saw to it that high-powered lawyers were retained, and a personal appeal was made directly to U.S. Attorney General Robert H. Jackson. Despite these efforts, the case against Corio went forward. In May 1938, a federal grand jury indicted him on charges of tax evasion and making false statements to Treasury Agents. With that, Judge Corio reportedly had a nervous breakdown and was hospitalized in a sanitarium the remainder of the year.

Corio’s case was set down for trial in January 1939. When he finally realized he wasn’t going to escape prosecution, he decided to talk. In exchange for a grant of immunity, he gave a statement to the FBI, which disclosed that the $60,000 he received wasn’t a legal fee but rather a distribution of a portion of the profit on the railroad station contract to Miller, Corio, and Nucky. “Joe Corio surprised everybody. We all thought he’d keep his mouth shut and go to jail.”

According to Corio, Miller had agreed to give Nucky three-fifths of the net profit after taxes in exchange for receiving the contract. Corio and Miller, who were related, had a side agreement of their own, which called for an equal split of the remaining profits. Nucky didn’t trust Miller and insisted their agreement be reduced to writing. Corio represented Miller and Nucky was represented by Atlantic County Judge Lindley Jeffers in the preparation of the agreement. Corio believed the written agreement was destroyed in 1935 when the three of them changed the plan for dividing the profits in order to evade taxes; however, the agents learned that the secretary who prepared the document had kept her steno notes and was able to reproduce a true copy.

Corio gave a statement admitting that in September 1935, when Tony Miller received his first profit payment of $70,000, he suggested a scheme of paying a $60,000 legal fee to Corio. This would permit the corporation to deduct that sum as an expense and avoid taxes on that amount. As originally planned, the corporation would have paid a tax on the profits before declaring dividends to Miller. Tony Miller’s scheme called for Corio to report the $60,000 as a fee on his individual return and Miller gave him $13,200 to pay the taxes on the $60,000. This left $46,800 to be distributed among the three of them; of this amount, Miller received $9,400, Corio $9,400, and Nucky received the balance of $28,000. Corio stated that he saw the cash change hands from Miller to Nucky. The total tax saving on the corporation’s and Miller’s individual return amounted to approximately $25,000.

Corio’s greed foiled Miller’s scheme. Instead of reporting the full $60,000 fee on his income tax return, Corio took a chance by omitting it and pocketed the $13,200, which Miller had given him to pay the taxes. Corio claimed he did this because Miller had welched on their side agreement. When he learned prior to filing time in 1936 that Miller was holding out on him, Corio decided to keep the $13,200 instead of applying it toward the taxes. He sabotaged the agreed-upon plan without informing Miller or Nucky. The agents made a thorough investigation of Corio’s statement and concluded it was reliable. However, they couldn’t trace any other payments to Nucky. Although the agreement negotiated by Corio and Jeffers provided that Nucky was to receive one-third of the entire railroad station profit, which totaled more than $240,000, the $28,000 payment was all they could prove.

Despite this major break in their investigation, William Frank wasn’t satisfied with the case against Nucky. The $28,000 payment by itself didn’t establish a case for tax evasion as Nucky had reported a new loss of $56,000 on his 1935 income tax return. As a result, Frank was forced to recommend a single charge of conspiracy to evade the corporate income taxes of A. P. Miller, Inc.

The federal grand jury returned an indictment against Nucky and Miller on May 10, 1939. But William Frank was far from pleased; after 2½ years of work, Corio’s statement was all he had. Frank knew the power Nucky wielded and feared he might find a way to escape prosecution. All he had to do was to silence Corio—that alone would destroy the government’s case. Neither Frank nor the U.S. Attorney’s office was confident the conspiracy charge would stand up, especially when one of the co-conspirators was the main witness. If they were to be sure of a conviction, they needed more.

Along with the probe into graft, Frank’s agents pursued tax evasion cases against the principals of Atlantic City’s rackets. Their strategy was to apply pressure on as many racketeers as possible in an attempt to find someone to admit to paying protection money to Nucky. The two main attractions of Atlantic City’s vice industry were prostitution and gambling. During the preliminary phase of their investigation, the FBI found eight large houses of prostitution (there were scores of smaller ones, all of which were doing a flourishing business); 25 horse betting rooms and gambling casinos; nine numbers banks; and more than 800 businesses where one could play the numbers. Atlantic City was fertile soil for prosecution of tax evasion. Finding prospective defendants wasn’t the problem; the evidence uncovered revealed violations of the law by so many people that hundreds of indictments could have been filed. The agents’ task was one of going after the right defendants who might talk under pressure. They began with the madams.

In the summer of 1937, the federal government launched a two-pronged attack on the resort’s prostitution business. At about the same time Frank’s men began their probe of the madams, a new team of federal investigators appeared in town in response to complaints that large numbers of women were being transported from out-of-state to the resort for purposes of prostitution. On August 30, 1937, the FBI raided all of the brothels, arresting the proprietors, “inmates,” and customers. The arrests totaled more than 200, of whom 140 were prostitutes.

The prostitutes were held as material witnesses at various county jails throughout the state. As a result of the testimony, all of the madams and about 30 pimps were indicted for violation of the Mann Act, commonly known as the White Slavery Law. Also indicted were Ray Born, undersheriff of Atlantic County; Leo Levy, special assistant to the Mayor of Atlantic City; and Louie Kessel, Nucky’s bodyguard and valet. Born was the bagman to whom the madams paid protection money each week. Levy and Kessel were involved in the initial arrangements for establishing several brothels. Nearly 40 ranking members of Atlantic City’s prostitution business were convicted for Mann Act violations, but none of them would cooperate with Frank and his agents. The investigators then proceeded with tax evasion charges for a second series of indictments.

The madams ran their houses on the same exclusively cash basis as everyone else in Atlantic City’s vice industry. Because of this the agents were forced to be creative. From interviews with the individual prostitutes who had been held as material witnesses, the agents secured affidavits as to their earnings, which, according to established practice in Atlantic City, represented one-half of the 50–50 split between madams and prostitutes. This estimate of earnings was further refined by a review of the records of local doctors who routinely examined the girls and laundry records, which were a rough reflection of each house’s volume of business. By piecing together these bits of evidence, the FBI established fairly accurate figures for the gross income of each brothel. The madams were indicted and convicted a second time for income tax evasion, but they all remained silent. “The whores hung in there—they were tough old girls.”

While prostitution turned a profit, it was only entertainment. Gambling was Atlantic City’s serious business. Gambling of every type, and at stakes to suit every class of player, had been part of the resort’s economy for several generations. The people who profited from gambling were firmly entrenched in the community and were a force to be reckoned with by anyone who sought political power. While Nucky was a cunning politician, it required more to remain boss for 30 years. “Nucky was Boss because he delivered. He made it possible for everybody to make a buck without a hassle. That’s why he was Boss so long.” If he hadn’t protected the racketeers they would have replaced him long before William Frank and the FBI came to town.

What the agents found were gambling rooms operated out of storefronts and as part of restaurants and nightclubs. They were run as if gambling was legal and open to anyone who walked in off the street. The furnishings of the rooms varied from those rooms that were quite austere, with rows of crude benches, to others that were elegantly furnished salons. Some of these casinos operated on two floors; the street floor being cheaply furnished for the $.50 and $1 players, while the upstairs was luxuriously equipped for $5 and $10 players. Complimentary food and beverages were served, and the management of the casinos paid round-trip railroad fare to any player producing a ticket showing they had come to town that day to gamble.

Indicative of the volume of gamblers was that Atlantic City’s horse rooms paid “track prices.” This meant they paid the same odds as those paid at the racetracks. Without a routinely heavy volume of bets there wouldn’t have been enough of a “spread” to justify paying the prevailing odds. Nucky had total control over the horse rooms. He had gone to Chicago in 1935 and made arrangements with the underworld Nationwide News Service for the exclusive agency in Atlantic City for racing results. Each room paid $200 per week for this service. The price charged by Nationwide News was $40 per week with the difference going to Nucky.

Most of the gambling rooms were involved with everything from horse races and numbers to casino games such as blackjack, poker, craps, and roulette. The rooms that emphasized horse races usually provided craps tables or a game of poker so there would be a second chance to grab the money lost on the horses. The higher priced casinos were usually connected with nightclubs, and the accommodations—food, booze, or broads—were equal to any casino in the world. The smaller rooms had average daily winnings of $500 to $1,000 per day, while the larger rooms grossed $5,000 to $6,000 per day.

Those nightclubs/casinos, which flourished under Nucky’s reign, were the 500 Club, Paradise Café, Club Harlem, Little Belmont, the Bath and Turf Club, the Cliquot Club, and Babette’s, which was one of the most chic gambling casinos of that era, attracting patrons from around the country. “Only the very best people went to Babette’s. They had the best steaks and mixed drinks in town, and great entertainment. I saw Milton Berle there when he was first startin’ out.”

These nightclubs were nationally advertised and well known, featuring name bands and Broadway or Hollywood stars as entertainers. The owners didn’t care if they turned a profit on the nightclubs; the main reason for having them was to attract business to their gambling casinos. The owners of Atlantic City’s gambling rooms were all underworld figures, most of whom had arrest records and lived a fast life. Many of them used aliases or were known by nicknames: there was William Kanowitz, who was known as “Wallpaper Willie”; Lou Khoury went by “Lou Kid Curry”; Michael Curcio aka “Doc Cootch”; and Martin Michael, known as “Jack Southern.” Had Nucky gone by “Enoch” he would have been considered an oddball.

The most prevalent gambling racket in Atlantic City was the “numbers” game. In a city of 66,000 year-round residents and in a game where the average bets ranged from $.05 to $.10, the enormous volume of play is revealed by the fact that the daily winnings for the number syndicate averaged between $5,000–$6,000, or $1.5 to $2 million per year. The numbers game became so popular there were two plays per day, one for daytime and one for evening. As part of their probe, the agents surveyed nearly 1,500 local retail businesses, interviewing the individual owners. Of these, 830 signed affidavits admitting under oath that their place of business was used to sell numbers. Another 200 to 300 admitted to writing numbers but were afraid to sign affidavits. “If you went to the corner store to buy a quart of milk, you could get your change or play a number. Nearly everybody who had a business wrote numbers.” Nucky had succeeded in making the entire community a partner with the rackets.

By the spring of 1939 the investigation had produced more than 40 indictments. The first indictment of the racketeers was against William Kanowitz and David Fischer, who were horse room operators. Following them were the indictments of the principals of the numbers syndicates. In approximately the same period, charges were filed on the county highway contracts and the city garbage contracts. In all, nearly 30 of Nucky’s lieutenants were awaiting trial. They were continually pressured by the agents and repeatedly called before the federal grand jury in Camden. But there were no cracks in the wall. Rather than testify against Nucky, Atlantic City’s racketeers accepted contempt citations and perjury indictments.

The first tax evasion defendant to go to trial was Austin Clark, a numbers banker. With the exception of the judge having to remove three of Nucky’s strong-arm men who were sitting in seats directly in front of the witnesses, the trial was uneventful. Clark was found guilty and sentenced to three years in jail but still refused to cooperate. The government had hoped Clark’s conviction would cause the other members of the numbers syndicate to reconsider their silence. But the agents had underestimated the resistance of Nucky’s lieutenants.

With the conviction of Austin Clark, Nucky and his people began to obstruct the government in the preparation of its cases. Witnesses for upcoming trials were requested to appear at the FBI’s office on the second floor in the new Post Office Building on Pacific Avenue. Most of them never showed. Those who did were, immediately after meeting with the government’s lawyers, whisked to the offices of the attorneys for the defendants where they were questioned on what they had discussed with the FBI. William Frank was beside himself at the resistance Nucky was putting up. It’s best to let Special Agent Frank speak for himself:It now became perfectly clear the opposition was well-organized. It was not a case of individuals committing perjury, but the perjury was the result of a gigantic conspiracy and must have been planned by lawyers. Every day that the grand jury sat a group of lawyers hung around in the corridor of the Post Office Building ready to step in and defend anyone who was either cited for contempt or indicted. There is no question but that these lawyers were engaged by the organization and were not representing individual defendants. One Bondsman was always present, and always posted bond, no matter who was indicted.

As Frank learned, his battle with Nucky was only beginning.

The Austin Clark verdict was followed by several guilty pleas and convictions of minor defendants, all who refused to cooperate with the government. The first major trial hitting at the core of Nucky’s empire was that of the numbers bankers, totaling 14 defendants. They were charged with conspiracy to commit perjury and income tax evasion in connection with the numbers syndicate.

The government began its case on April 29, 1940, with high hopes of convicting all 14 defendants. In addition to the testimony of the agents, the prosecution was forced to use as witnesses employees of the defendants. These witnesses didn’t know enough to incriminate Nucky and weren’t making enough money to risk imprisonment. They gave the government the same statements they made to the grand jury; nevertheless, on cross-examination by the defense they answered “yes” to any leading question put to them. This destroyed the value of their testimony and the government had to rely on telephone records and statements made by the defendants to prove its case. But the jury wasn’t convinced, and after two days of deliberating the court declared a hopeless stalemate. William Frank and his agents weren’t about to quit and requested the U.S. Attorney’s office to move for a re-trial, which was scheduled in July.

Several weeks after the first trial, the judge who heard the case received a letter informing him one of the defense lawyers had bribed several jurors. While the agents were unable to prove a bribe had actually been paid, they later obtained convictions against several of the defendants and one of their lawyers for jury tampering. The lawyer was Isadore Worth, a former Assistant U.S. Attorney. Worth was convicted and disbarred the following year.

A second trial on conspiracy charges against the same 14 numbers bankers began on July 8, 1940. The government’s case went in much stronger than the first time and the prosecutors were certain of a conviction. Despite the prosecutors’ confidence, the defendants didn’t appear the least bit concerned. This time only two of them took the stand in their defense. Their lawyers put up little resistance, almost as if they were conceding the case. The agents, prosecutors, and judge were baffled when the jury returned a verdict of not guilty.

William Frank feared his investigation was at an end and knew Nucky Johnson was behind the acquittal. Judge Biggs, who heard the trial, was troubled by the jury’s verdict and urged Frank to have his agents question the jurors. The result was startling. One of the jurors, Joseph Furhman, was a plant, some think, by friends of Nucky’s in the Federal Clerk’s office. He was personally acquainted with two of the defense lawyers, Carl Kisselman and Scott Cherchesky. Furhman’s brother was an attorney associated with Kisselman. It was common for Kisselman and Cherchesky to meet Furhman socially for lunch and to shoot pool together at the Walt Whitman Hotel in Camden. Neither Kisselman nor Cherchesky advised the court of their relationship with Furhman at the time the jury was selected.

Upon questioning the jurors, William Frank learned the prosecution never had a chance. From the first day of trial, Furhman ridiculed the government’s case to the jurors and mocked the judge and the prosecuting attorneys. When the deliberations began, the ballot was eight to four for conviction; however, Furhman was a strong personality and badgered the other eight jurors until he succeeded in getting them all to change their votes. The defendants were tried again—on the substantive crimes as opposed to conspiracy—in March 1941, but only after the panel of jurors had been carefully screened and lectured to by the court. This time there was a conviction.

With Austin Clark and several other defendants sitting in jail and a conviction of all 14 numbers bankers in hand, William Frank and his people turned on the pressure. Frank had the U.S. Attorney subpoena the convicted defendants before the grand jury and questioned them concerning the payment of protection money to Nucky. In response to their perjury, Frank threatened them with a second indictment and, if convicted, a second jail term. The pressure was more than they could handle. It wasn’t possible for all 14 to remain silent, and several of them agreed to testify in exchange for leniency on their sentences. A critical witness who came forward was Ralph Weloff, one of the partners in the numbers syndicate. Weloff admitted that from 1935 through 1940 he and others personally delivered to Nucky a minimum of $1,200 per week in protection money. That was all the agents needed. The government obtained a second indictment and pressed for trial on both of them, which was scheduled in July 1941.

The tampering with the first two juries to hear the trial of the numbers syndicate haunted William Frank and the prosecutors. Albert Marino, the judge who presided at Nucky’s trial, ordered a careful check of the entire jury panel to prevent any meddling by Johnson. Sure enough, several days before Nucky’s trial was scheduled to begin, the agents uncovered a third conspiracy to tamper with a jury.

In May 1941, Zendel Friedman, who was a partner in the nighttime numbers game, went to trial and was convicted of income tax evasion. One of the people from the group of prospective jurors for Nucky’s trial had sat on Friedman’s case. When questioned by the agents, this juror revealed that Zendel Friedman and Barney Marion had offered him a bribe. Two days later a second and a third juror gave statements that they too had been offered bribes and that one of the persons who made the offer was employed with the Atlantic County Sheriff’s office (Nucky’s brother, Alf, was sheriff). This person, Joseph Testa, admitted that Nucky’s bodyguard, Louie Kessel, had asked him to approach the juror.

The government assumed the publicity given to the other jury tampering matters would discourage Nucky’s people from trying it again, but they were wrong. The contempt citations, convictions, and jail sentences of the people involved in jury tampering hadn’t deterred Friedman at all. If Nucky went to such lengths to protect a single numbers racketeer, what would he do to save himself? With the trial only a week away, the prosecution was on the verge of panic.

On July 14, 1941, after 4½ years of exhaustive work by William Frank and his team of investigators, Nucky’s case finally went to trial. The courtroom was standing room only and had a carnival atmosphere.

Nucky was a national phenomenon and lived up to his reputation, appearing the first day in a vanilla-colored suit, red carnation, and lavender tie, sporting a straw hat and brass-handled cane. His case received so much advance publicity that special press tables had to be set up in the courtroom to accommodate the more than 30 reporters from throughout the nation who attended the trial each day. Hawkers and vendors of all kinds set up shop outside the courthouse to make a buck off the crowds. Despite having the testimony of Corio on the railroad contract and Weloff on the protection money, the prosecutors were ill at ease as the trial began. In preparation for one of Nucky’s rumored defenses, the government summoned 125 persons prior to trial whom they believed the defense might call as witnesses to support Nucky’s alleged “political expenses.” Frank wanted to explain to them the meaning of perjury. Most of the people summoned never showed. Nucky posted one of his goons in the lobby of the Post Office Building where the agents had their office. Those witnesses who did show were told to go home.

Joseph Corio, who had resigned his judgeship, was the main witness in the first half of the government’s case. It had been rumored for years that Nucky was Tony Miller’s silent partner and A. P. Miller, Inc. was a front by which Nucky profited on government contracts. Corio’s testimony confirmed the rumors and provided the details. According to Corio, Nucky had received 50 percent of all Miller’s profits since he was in business, but the kickback on the railway station was 60 percent. There were numerous delays in the final awarding of the contract and Miller became so nervous he might lose it he agreed to increase Nucky’s share of the profits.

Miller’s contract with the railroad was a “cost plus” agreement. Under the terms of the contract, Miller submitted bills periodically and received payments for the sums expended plus a small portion of the profit to pay for his overhead. The remainder of the profits was retained by the railroad until the job was entirely completed. Should Miller fail to live up to the terms of the contract, the amount retained could be forfeited as a penalty.

When Miller received his first check, Nucky demanded his share of the profits. Miller explained that his money had to wait until the end of the job, but Nucky’s greed was too great. In January 1934 the written contract was prepared. Judge Jeffers asked Corio’s secretary to destroy her shorthand notes, but without telling anyone, she hadn’t. The only two copies that Nucky knew of were his and Miller’s, and both of them were destroyed.

Nucky’s lawyer, former U.S. Attorney Walter Winne, made repeated inquiries to learn if the government had a copy of the contract, but each time the prosecution denied him. The court rules at the time permitted this and Winne went to the Department of Justice in Washington and offered to plead Nucky guilty if the government would show him the contract. The U.S. Attorney’s office refused, and it wasn’t until the trial when Corio’s secretary produced a copy of the document that Miller and Nucky had signed. Nucky testified to the contrary, but there was no way the jury could believe his denials.

As to the second half of the government’s case, the protection money, the government eventually had more witnesses than they needed. Once Ralph Weloff made the decision to testify, he encouraged other members of the numbers syndicate to do the same so that he wasn’t alone. Weloff testified that the numbers syndicate began making weekly payments to Nucky in 1933. The purpose of these protection payments was to ensure there were no raids and that no out-of-towners competed with them. Should there be a problem with the police or a renegade numbers operator, the syndicate’s contact person was Atlantic City Police Detective Ralph Gold, who was in charge of the vice squad.

Weloff and others testified that between 1935 and 1940, they personally delivered $1,200 in cash to Nucky each week. In all, a total of 12 numbers racketeers testified that protection money had been paid to Nucky. Despite tough cross-examination, their stories held up.

Nucky’s lawyer, Walter Winne, began the defense by conceding that his client had received the money. “We admit that we received money from the numbers racket in Atlantic City. We are not too proud of that source, but we deny that we ever received as income any money that we did not report for taxes.”

Winne then proceeded to outline his defense. He began by declaring that the numbers operators had approached Nucky and asked for his help. The numbers game was looked on in Atlantic City as something that should be legalized. Weloff and other numbers people had filed a petition with the City Commission containing the signatures of more than 7,000 local residents in which the petitioners requested city government to recognize the numbers game as legitimate. Nucky was just following the wishes of his constituents, and the money he received was used to support his political organization. According to Winne, Nucky’s sole profession was that of a politician. All the payments he received were political contributions, which were spent to finance the Republican machine. As Winne stated, his client needed “plenty of oil to run his political machine.”

Proof of the money spent was a shoebox filled with more than 800 receipts, which were presented to the court through the testimony of James Boyd, Clerk to the County Freeholder Board. According to the testimony of Boyd and Rupert Chase, a messenger in Nucky’s treasurer’s office, Nucky had spent more than $78,000 on political expenses during the several years involved on the tax evasion charge. The remainder of the income that the government could prove was included in Nucky’s tax return under “commissions.”

Nucky took the stand and testified he had taken the money from the numbers syndicate and spent it “to elect candidates that were friendly to my policies and to carry on throughout the year the building up of my organization—taking care of the poor, paying rent, buying coal.” Further testimony in support of the defense that all the money had been used for politics came from the mouths of three local newspaper publishers. The newspapermen testified they had received money for the purpose of publicizing Nucky’s organization and that their editorial policy was favorable to his candidates.

Finally, Winne produced a legion of character witnesses on behalf of his client. They were led by former Governor Harold G. Hoffman and retired U.S. Senator David Baird, Jr., but it was to no avail. At the age of 58 Nucky suffered his first defeat. He was found guilty of tax evasion. On August 1, 1941, he was sentenced to 10 years in jail and a fine of $20,000.

If Nucky was humiliated, he never showed it. Johnson handled his conviction with the composure of a deposed monarch, maintaining his poise through it all. With his usual flamboyant style, he had one last jolt for Atlantic City before going off to jail. He decided to take a bride.

During the nearly 30 years following the death of his childhood sweetheart, Mabel Jeffries, Nucky never even hinted at a second marriage. He had known Florence “Flossie” Osbeck, a showgirl/actress, for several years and they had become an item, but no one ever imagined they would marry. On July 31, 1941, the day before he was imprisoned, Nucky and Flossie took their vows at the First Presbyterian Church. Following the ceremony in which the groom was attired in a cream-colored mohair suit with a yellow tie and white shoes, the newlyweds were greeted outside the church by thousands of well-wishers. The wedding was followed by a gay party for hundreds of guests at the Ritz Carlton and went on late into the evening. “Nucky sure knew how to throw a party. You’d never know he was leaving for jail the next day.” Nucky and Flossie were devoted to one another until his death, but people who knew Nucky intimately believed the only reason he married her was to ensure a regular and safe communication link with his associates in Atlantic City.

Upon his release from jail, four years later, he led a quiet life and took a pauper’s oath when pressed by the government for payment of his tax fines. While his name was suggested several times as a candidate for city commission, Nucky shunned any opportunities to return to power. If he couldn’t be the boss, it was better to remain on the sidelines. He remembered the humiliation the Commodore had experienced when he tried to regain control of the Republican Party and refused to expose himself to another defeat.

For the next 20 years, Nucky strolled the Boardwalk and escorted children home from school. He went to charity dinners and, occasionally, political fundraisers. Most years his many friends staged a large birthday party in his honor. The local leaders visited him often, soliciting advice, and in a critical election he aided the Republican ticket in a way only he could. But never again did Nucky Johnson wield the power that had made him Czar of the Ritz.

Gradually, Nucky’s health deteriorated. He was placed in the county nursing home in Northfield, where he spent his final days holding court and drinking Scotch with his cronies who visited him regularly. Quietly, on December 9, 1968, Nucky died at the age of 85. They say he died smiling. His career personifies the greed, corruption, and high times that were Atlantic City in its days of glory.

7

Hap

As the elevator came to a stop its lone passenger waited impatiently for it to open. When the doors parted, Frank Farley was through them like a shot. At a near run, he was on his way down the hall. Awaiting him daily in the reception area of his office were 14 chairs, each one filled with someone seeking a favor. As he entered the office, Farley greeted everyone and asked his secretary who was first. Then it was into his office where he met with one person after another until they all had a chance to speak with the senator.

Atlantic City’s residents had come to expect favors that went beyond politics. Farley’s duties were like those of a feudal lord. The calls for help ranged from jobs, licenses, and contracts coming out of city hall to advice with legal or personal problems and pleas for financial aid. No one was turned away without hope. Sometimes it was a telephone call while the person sat there. Often it took the form of a letter that Farley dictated to his secretary, Dorothy Berry, while the person waited. Occasionally there was no solution, but Farley never let on. Instead, he referred them to someone else who gave the bad news. Regardless of the outcome, everyone who left Farley’s office was grateful for his help. He was the town’s new boss.

The transfer of power from Nucky Johnson to Frank Farley is revealing of both Farley and the organization Nucky had built. The type of control exercised by Johnson wasn’t something he could simply pass to another. The cogs in the machine had a say about whom they’d follow. Nor could Nucky’s kind of authority be grabbed by sheer force—there were too many competitors, and no one had an edge.

The power structure Nucky Johnson left behind was more complex than the one he inherited from Louis Kuehnle. While the Commodore had cooperated with the local vice industry and used protection money from the rackets to build his political organization, they remained separate spheres of power. Under Nucky the hierarchy of the local crime syndicate was linked to the chain of command of the city’s Republican Party. The local power structure was a single, integrated unit comprised of politicians and criminals. The two spheres of power became one. Nucky presided over what had become a perfect partnership, and the person who took his place had to have the respect of the politicians and racketeers alike.

By 1940, several years into the FBI’s investigation, Johnson’s inner circle knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be in jail. William Frank and his agents weren’t going to leave town until they got him. Once Nucky was indicted and awaiting trial, several of his lieutenants began jockeying for position. The two main competitors were Frank Farley and the mayor, Thomas D. Taggart, Jr.

Tommy Taggart was born in Philadelphia in 1903, and his family moved to Atlantic City when he was six. The Taggarts were one of hundreds of Philadelphia families who relocated to the resort at the turn of the 20th century. Thomas, Sr. was chief surgeon at the Atlantic City Hospital for 25 years and was one of the most respected members of the community. Taggart’s mother came from old wealth and boasted that her ancestors had arrived in America on the Mayflower. If Atlantic City had an upper class, the Taggarts were part of it.

Tommy Taggart attended Atlantic City High School and then Dickinson Law School. He was admitted to practice in 1927 and with his family’s backing opened his own law office. Taggart immediately gravitated toward politics, joining the Third Ward Republican Club, serving the organization faithfully as a campaign worker in several elections. He did everything from writing campaign literature and printing copies, to personally handing them out on the streets. Despite his advantage in education and family wealth Tommy Taggart worked side-by-side with the other ward heelers. But he wasn’t “one of the boys.” A little known fact about his personal life was that Taggart was a closet homosexual. One well-connected tavern owner spoke of Taggart this way: “What can I say? He liked boys, young boys. Several times I even fixed him up with good-looking young fags. But he was a hell of a politician, even though he was queer.”

Taggart was more fascinated with political power than the attraction of handsome young men. He was devoted to the organization. His commitment and loyalty impressed Nucky, and in 1934 Johnson passed over several other people with more seniority and made him a candidate for State Assembly. Upon his election, Taggart was married to Atlantic City politics. “What you had was a solid organization man. Tommy Taggart moved up because he played by the rules of the ward system.”

Once elected, Taggart found the campaign never ended. He was expected to devote himself full-time serving the people; however, an Assemblyman’s annual salary of $500 didn’t begin to pay for the time spent on politics. Nucky supplemented his income with a second office. The position was police recorder. Comparable to today’s municipal court judge, Taggart handled minor criminal complaints, disorderly persons offenses, and traffic violations.

The local municipal court was a sensitive part of the political ward system and its judge had to be a team player. “If your uncle got locked up for being drunk, the ward leader would get him out. If your boy happened to get picked up because he was caught in the wrong place, the ward leader would get him off. If your brother was involved in a fight, the ward leader would make sure he wasn’t convicted.” The ward leader or his precinct captains needed direct access to the court. They had to be able to fix things whenever one of their constituents had a run-in with the law. If the ward leader couldn’t deliver, he would lose the loyalty of the voters. The police recorder had to be someone who could be counted on to bend the law when necessary. He had to know what to do when a ward leader walked into his office and dropped several summonses on his desk and said, “Here, take care of these.”

Tommy Taggart knew how to take care of things as police recorder. He understood his new position could be a powerful tool in advancing his career and seized the opportunity. Serving in the municipal court brought him daily contact with the ward leaders and precinct captains throughout the city. His position enabled him to build up hundreds of political IOUs among Atlantic City’s residents. He was re-elected to the assembly in 1936 and in 1937 won a three-year term as state senator. Taggart was the most popular Republican candidate in town and considered himself the rightful heir to Nucky’s power. When the FBI’s investigation began to intensify and key people were indicted and convicted, Taggart thought “everything was up for grabs” and began positioning himself to become boss.

Taggart made his move in 1940. That year he ran for yet another office. He was part of the machine-endorsed slate for City Commission. It was understood that after the election he would be chosen mayor by his fellow commissioners. During the selection of the slate Taggart made a miscue. He resisted, unsuccessfully, the party’s choice of one of his running mates, Al Shahadi. Taggart feared Shahadi might support another candidate for mayor rather than him. Shahadi became the candidate and after the election supported Taggart for mayor along with the other commissioners. But Taggart had damaged his standing with the organization. He was a little too ambitious. He had shown that he had “plans of his own” and that disturbed Nucky and his key lieutenants. Despite his personal popularity, Taggart began his term as mayor in May 1940, in an atmosphere of resentment.

Taggart’s moves didn’t go unnoticed by Assemblyman Frank Farley. A young local attorney with none of Taggart’s social advantages, Farley was elected to the assembly in 1937 when Taggart moved up to state senator.

Francis Sherman Farley (Hap) was born in Atlantic City on December 1, 1901. He was the last of 10 children born to Jim and Maria (Clowney) Farley in a family that struggled to keep everyone fed and clothed. Farley’s family lived on Pennsylvania Avenue in an area that was fast becoming part of the Northside. Only poor Whites lived next to Blacks. And the whores were there, too. The Farley home was around the corner from “Chalfonte Alley,” the local red light district. The prostitutes and their neighbors accepted one another, and Chalfonte Alley was part of the neighborhood. As a boy, Hap delivered newspapers and while in high school worked nights as a proofreader for a local newspaper, the Press-Union.

Jim Farley was secretary to the local fire department and one of the leaders in the change from volunteers to full-time firefighters. Through being a leader in the movement for a paid fire department and his efforts as a ward worker in the Kuehnle organization, Jim was appointed secretary in 1904. It didn’t pay well, but it was secure and provided income 12 months of the year, something most local residents didn’t have. The steady income meant a lot to a man with 10 kids. Secretary of the fire department was also a focal point for patronage, and Jim Farley used his power to make friends. Over the years, he helped several of his sons obtain jobs in the city’s fire and police departments. The Farleys were an organization family that marched to the music of the Republican Party. In return they were rewarded by the Kuehnle and Johnson machines. Hap learned from his father and brothers that the local political ward system was the most important institution in town.

The most important person in young Frank Farley’s life was his sister Jean. There was a 20-year spread between the 10 Farley children. Typical of large families where children oftentimes pair off and become closer to one sibling than the rest, Frank was inseparable from his sister Jean. She was his closest friend, confidant, and supporter his entire life. Jean saw potential in her younger brother and encouraged him to go to college. She sacrificed and did without to help her brother get through college and law school. Throughout his career Hap visited with Jean every morning to seek her counsel. When an important decision had to be made, Hap didn’t act until he first spoke with his older sister.

Farley had none of Nucky’s flamboyance. “Monastic” best describes his devotion to Atlantic City’s politics. He lived for his town. Hap was a big man with an athletic build and large, powerful hands. He combed his thinning hair straight back and wore nothing but double-breasted suits and wing-tipped shoes. His posture was almost stooped shouldered, his gray eyes focused straight ahead, and he walked nearly at a run every place he went. He had the earnestness of a demanding parish priest. Not a gifted public speaker, he was, nevertheless, a persuasive communicator one-on-one. Unlike Nucky and the Commodore, Farley was Irish and Catholic, the first of his ethnicity to rise to a position of power in Atlantic City.

Frank Farley was a joiner and a doer. As a youth, he developed a passion for sports, which he had until his death. In high school, he played fullback in football, catcher in baseball, and forward in basketball. He was an outstanding athlete, exceling in basketball. While in law school, he was a starting player on the Georgetown University basketball team. Farley loved the competition and thrill of athletics, but, more importantly, he reveled in the camaraderie. He was the spark plug who got things moving whether it was practice or a game. His teammates dubbed him “Happy,” which became “Hap” when he left his teens.

Farley had a special trait—some might say need—when it came to maintaining friendships. He remained close with every friend he made throughout his life. New acquaintances found themselves part of Farley’s network and would discover they had someone who remembered their birthday, dropped them a note when they were ill, or telephoned unexpectedly just to chat.

One such friendship was struck in 1921 during the summer between Farley’s years at the University of Pennsylvania and Georgetown Law School. That summer Hap became acquainted with another Georgetown law student who was working as a night clerk in an Atlantic City hotel. That student was John Sirica, who years later gained fame as the judge of the Nixon/Watergate trials. Farley and Sirica maintained their friendship until his death. Judge Sirica spoke of Farley with great warmth and humor, remembering him as “one of the friendliest fellows I ever met. … We met one summer in Atlantic City and became great friends in law school. After that he would call me at different times and we’d talk and talk. I’d never know when I might hear from him. Once we talked about the Watergate defendants and how stupid they all were to think they could get away with perjury. Hell, any first year law student would have known to plead the 5th Amendment before lying under oath. Despite his politics, Hap thought that Nixon crowd were fools.” But there was more to Farley than his genial personality.

Hap Farley was a no-nonsense competitor. He thought of everything in terms of “the team.” You were either part of his team or you weren’t. He approached everything he did, whether work or play, with a fierce determination to succeed. If he couldn’t do a thing well, he’d rather not get involved. “Whatever you do, do it thoroughly or don’t touch it.” Farley lived by this rule. A lifelong friend recalls, “Hap was one of those kind, when you’re gonna do something, you’re gonna do that and nothing else.”

Upon returning home after graduation from law school, Farley was more interested in sports than law and politics. He was active in baseball and basketball, playing semi-professional baseball with the Melrose Club and forward for the Morris Guards. He also coached the Atlantic City Catholic Club and Schmidt Brewers basketball teams, both of which won several league championships. Farley’s involvement in athletics continued for more than 10 years after his graduation from law school. While other young lawyers were sharpening their skills and establishing a law practice, Hap Farley was playing ball and building a network of friends who became the base for his career in politics. Years after he was gone from politics, there were peers of his who remembered him first as an athlete rather than as a politician. However, Farley’s teammates weren’t the kind of clients who paid large retainers and the little legal work he picked up through sports was hardly the basis for a successful law practice.

Years later Farley would tell “the story” of how he got involved in politics. He always said he had taken up the cause of his basketball team, which had been locked out of the school gym. It’s true Hap did lead a movement for better facilities for his young athletes, but that wasn’t the impetus for his political career. What really influenced him were years of going nowhere in his law practice and struggling to survive. In contrast, several of the Farley brothers, who had no formal education, had risen through the ranks of the Johnson organization and had well-paying, secure jobs as officers in the fire and police departments. During the Great Depression, these jobs looked good to a lawyer having a hard time paying his rent. Farley realized the political ward system was the road he’d have to follow if he was to make a place for himself in Atlantic City.

At about the same time Farley became involved in politics, he married his high school sweetheart, Marie “Honey” Feyl. Hap and Honey had met when they were teenagers. The Feyl family was socially prominent in the resort, and they discouraged their daughter’s relationship with Hap. In their eyes the Farleys were Shanty Irish, proud but poor and common people. “Hap’s people were poor, and the Feyls always thought their daughter was too good for him.”

For the first several years of their courtship they communicated with one another by exchanging letters, which were delivered by one of Honey’s girlfriends. Hap went off to college and Honey went to work as a secretary at a local realtor’s office. Their bond was strong, and the correspondence continued while Hap was away at school. After his graduation from law school, they continued dating for another five years, finally marrying in 1929. But Marie Feyl had an illness that plagued her throughout her marriage to Hap. “Honey was an alcoholic for as long as I knew her. I remember the first night after their honeymoon—my apartment was just below theirs—Hap carried her up the stairs, and it wasn’t because they just got married. She was too drunk to walk. It was like that most nights.” They never had children and Hap was devoted to Honey until his death. Not even his closest friends detected a hint of infidelity.

Honey’s job at Fox Realty brought her into contact with Herman “Stumpy” Orman. Stumpy Orman was a real estate salesman and through his association with Honey, he and Farley became acquainted. Orman had little formal education but was as shrewd and streetwise as anyone in Atlantic City. He had done well during Prohibition and was one of Nucky’s key lieutenants. Orman knew a comer when he saw one. He became friends with Farley and treated Hap and Honey to dinner frequently. Through his relationship with Orman and observing Nucky Johnson, Farley learned the mechanics of the partnership between the racketeers and politicians. When Farley was given the nod to run for state assembly in 1937, Stumpy Orman was there to support him, providing Farley the money needed to wage his campaign. This investment was the beginning of an alliance that generated benefits to both of them for the next 25 years.

The network of friends that Farley had made over the years showed itself in the 1937 election results. In his first political contest Farley ran ahead of the ticket and came within 127 votes of out-polling the leading candidate, Tommy Taggart. This was Taggart’s fourth election, and prior to Farley he was recognized as the Republican’s most popular candidate. With his strong showing in the election of ’37 Farley became a force in the Republican Party. Farley and his running mate, Vincent Haneman, a popular local lawyer and mayor of neighboring Brigantine, set about making names for themselves as public servants throughout Atlantic County and in the State House. Farley and Haneman meshed well and quickly became a powerful team, re-elected by large majorities in 1938 and 1939.

Taggart, Farley, and Haneman: They were the most obvious contenders to replace Nucky Johnson. Besides them, there were three others who had standing in the party: James Carmack, a local dentist, well connected socially and politically; Walt Jeffries, a former U.S. Congressman and county sheriff; and Joe Altman, city commissioner and former assemblyman and police recorder. Farley studied the strengths, weaknesses, and ambitions of each contender and crafted a strategy for each of them. He began with Haneman.

When Taggart became mayor, the party leaders wouldn’t permit him to seek re-election to the state senate. Either Farley or Haneman could have been the candidate to replace Taggart. Haneman was popular and more respected for his intellect as an attorney. Had he pushed for the nomination, Haneman probably would have been successful. Farley knew his friend loved the law more than politics and that he’d prefer a career as a judge rather than a politician. He also believed Haneman didn’t have the stomach for a struggle to replace Nucky. Farley knew Haneman’s backing would give him the edge over any other rival who might jump into the fray. In exchange for Haneman’s support for senator and party chairman Farley agreed to push Haneman’s name for an appointment to the bench. Haneman was appointed to the Common Pleas Court in 1940 and was eventually elevated to the State Supreme Court in 1960 where he had an outstanding career as a jurist. Next was Carmack.

James Carmack was never a serious contender to replace Nucky, but he thought he was, and his money and social ties were a force to be reckoned with. Farley sensed Carmack wanted only to hold an office with prestige. That would satisfy Carmack and keep him out of the race to succeed Nucky. Farley and Haneman supported Carmack for county sheriff in 1941 and the new sheriff closed ranks behind Farley. Then there was Jeffries.

Walt Jeffries was a long-time, loyal Republican and a popular vote-getter in every campaign. He had worked his way up from local office in the down beach community of Margate, to U.S. Congress. Jeffries didn’t want power so much as a decent paying position to round out his career. The quid pro quo for backing Farley’s bid to become party chairman was Hap’s pledge to permit Jeffries to seek the job of county treasurer without competition, after Johnson was forced out. Farley’s Senate salary wasn’t enough to live on, and he wanted to be treasurer himself. Haneman counseled him to be patient. Jeffries replaced Nucky for a single three-year term when he went to jail in 1941. Three years later, in 1944, Farley had the votes he needed among the county board of freeholders and ousted Jeffries, remaining treasurer until 1970. Finally, there was Altman.

Joe Altman was a clever and experienced politician. “He was as smooth a glad-hander as ever lived” and was popular among the party leaders and the general public. But, Altman wasn’t ambitious. He was quite comfortable following Nucky’s lead. While the support may have been there, he wasn’t about to try to become boss himself. That would have been too much work. Joe Altman preferred playing cards every afternoon at the Lion’s Club. Farley could see what Altman wanted was a safe job with prestige. Mayor was what he wanted, provided someone else was the boss. Farley assured Altman he would back him for mayor once Taggart was out of the way. Altman became mayor in 1944 and remained there, following Farley’s lead all the while, for the next 25 years.

Another player, without whose support Farley couldn’t have risen to power, was James Boyd, clerk of the board of freeholders. Boyd was Nucky Johnson’s political right arm and leader of the powerful Fourth Ward. Boyd recognized that of the contenders for Nucky’s title, Farley was the only one with whom he could continue to exercise the same control over the organization he had under Nucky. Boyd had no choice but to back Farley. Finally, as for Johnson’s support, there were no deals Farley could make. Nucky was preoccupied with trying to keep out of jail, and as he countered the moves of the FBI, his presence faded. Farley had nothing to offer Johnson except a sympathetic ear and quiet support for a job in city government for Nucky’s new bride, Flossie. The trick was to remain loyal but still keep his distance.

As the key players in the Republican machine were lining up behind Farley, Taggart set upon the course that led to his ruin. In addition to being elected mayor, Taggart insisted on being named the director of public safety, giving him direct control over the police department. Taggart believed he could use this power to bludgeon the local vice industry into line. He began sporting pearl-handled six shooters on this hips and was tagged by the local media, “Two Gun Tommy.” In the summer 1940, while Johnson was awaiting trial, Taggart began making raids on various gambling rooms throughout town. He had a police radio installed in his car and personally took charge of the raids.

Through his raids on the gambling rooms Two Gun Tommy was sending out the message he was now the boss, and that the racketeers had to deal with him or he’d shut them down. Taggart’s raids attracted sensational coverage in both the local and national media. Never before had an Atlantic City politician declared war on the rackets. When the vice industry refused to support him, he increased the raids and cast himself as a crusader cleaning up the town. Tommy Taggart, “the solid organization man” who as police recorder had bent the law to advance his political career, was now a reformer.

It may have made good headlines in out-of-town newspapers, but politically, Taggart’s actions were a disaster. Two Gun Tommy’s power grab failed. Farley’s supporters got the word out that in addition to being a grandstanding troublemaker, Taggart was a homosexual. His position was severely damaged and by April 1941 the Republican ward leaders formed a “War Board,” making plans to have Taggart removed from office. That May, only one year after Taggart had been sworn into office, the precinct captains were gathering signatures to have Two Gun Tommy removed at a recall election.

There never was a recall election. Instead Frank Farley engineered a coup, which eliminated any chance of the voters doing something unpredictable. At Farley’s prompting, the city commissioners adopted two “Ripper Resolutions” that made Taggart a figurehead. While Taggart was out of town, the other four commissioners stripped him of the Mayor’s supervision of the police department, municipal court, the building department, and public relations office. Taggart was mayor in name only. The four commissioners issued a joint statement claiming, “We have restrained every effort” to aid the mayor, they said, but “he has been unable to properly discharge the duties of his departments.” This was their only public statement. Farley instructed everyone to duck any questions from the media. Farley and his allies followed the political adage of Calvin Coolidge, “I’ve never had to explain something I didn’t say.”

Taggart knew who had masterminded the coup, but there was nothing he could do. By May 1942, with Nucky in jail, everyone of any importance had closed ranks behind Farley. Taggart sued his fellow commissioners to regain his powers and lost, being replaced as mayor by Joe Altman in 1944. Later Taggart attacked Farley and harassed him by every means he could, but it was no use. Consumed and frustrated to the end, Tommy Taggart died, most say from nervous exhaustion, in September 1950. He was crushed by a system he only partly understood.

A telling footnote to the transition from Nucky to Frank Farley is Farley’s service as legal counsel to one George Goodman. While Taggart was leading his gambling raids and grabbing headlines, Farley was quietly using his talents as a lawyer to assist the local vice industry.

George Goodman was the operator of the horse race information service for the Atlantic City gambling rooms. He had a private wire to his place of business, originating there and going to 23 other places in Atlantic City. In 1940 New Jersey Bell notified Goodman it intended to cut off his telephone service. The telephone company worried it might be prosecuted for giving service to an illegal enterprise. Farley interceded on behalf of Goodman and met with Frankland Briggs, Bell’s general counsel. Briggs later testified in a legal proceeding that “He [Farley] told me Goodman frankly admitted he was in the scratch sheet business but that he [Goodman] was neither a bookmaker or gambler but was merely conducting an information service. Mr. Farley argued that his client could legally furnish such information and was no more liable to arrest than newspapers or radios which dispensed racing news.” Farley won several extensions of Goodman’s service, but the telephone company prevailed in the end. By representing Goodman Farley gained the respect of Atlantic City’s gangsters, which was essential to becoming boss. While he valued the racketeers’ support, it was the respect of the state’s political leaders that Farley wanted most.

His several years as an assemblyman had made a lasting impression and with his election to the state senate in 1940, Hap Farley was where he wanted to be. The overwhelming majorities delivered by Atlantic County in Republican primaries guaranteed Nucky’s successor a prominent position in Republican politics statewide. Farley’s dual role as boss and senator brought him into regular contact with the leaders of both parties. At the time, South Jersey was overwhelmingly Republican and Atlantic County was the leading Republican county. It wasn’t long before Hap was the acknowledged spokesman for the seven senators from South Jersey.

Farley loved being State Senator and worked tirelessly to become an effective legislator. He studied his 20 colleagues and always knew what issues were important to them. His relationship with his fellow senators was marked by “unfailing courtesy, personal warmth, and complete integrity to every commitment made.” As Senator Wayne Dumont, a colleague of 20 years, recalled, “He never made a commitment lightly, but you could always rely upon his word—it was totally good. I knew if I got a commitment out of him I never had to worry because he would keep it.” And he expected everyone else to do likewise. “Once you reneged on a deal with Hap Farley, that was it. He had nothing more to do with you.”

Frank Farley had a gift for the legislative process: He never forgot the terms of any alliance, he avoided conflicting obligations with remarkable finesse, and always knew where he had to be on a piece of legislation at any given time. “He would remember if he shook your hand and said to you that he was going to do something. You could count on it. Hap remembered every horse he ever traded, nothing got by him.” He had a parochial view of the legislative process—Atlantic City and County were his only interests. Provided it wasn’t harmful to Atlantic County, Farley would support any legislation devised to help another senator’s county. He never became involved in statewide issues per se, except for the impact on Atlantic County; then he was out front taking control of the situation. If Hap couldn’t help a colleague on legislation important to him, he’d never hurt him, letting someone else deliver the blow.

Unlike most politicians who are forever looking to the next election for another position, Farley had no aspirations for higher office. He could have run for congress, governor, or U.S. Senator on any one of several occasions, but chose not to. He knew the Atlantic City Republican organization was perceived as one of the most corrupt political machines in the state, matched only by the Democratic Hague-Kenny regime in Jersey City. “Hap knew better than to try to be anything more than the boss of Atlantic County.” To run for statewide office would have exposed Farley and his organization to scrutiny he’d rather not have. With that in mind, being senator from Atlantic County satisfied his political ego. Farley had attained all he wanted or could safely aspire to from electoral politics. Politically, he was a competitor to no one in Trenton and his fellow senators never suspected his motives, trusting him completely.

Equally important as his relationship with the other senators were his work habits. In 34 years in the legislature, Farley missed a total of three sessions; on each occasion he was in the hospital. He dedicated himself to being on the job and was a full-time legislator who didn’t believe in vacations. His work was his relaxation. Hap believed that “If you’re going to get things done you have to be there and apply all your energies to the work at hand.” He focused his intensity on learning the ropes of the state bureaucracy, mastering the function of every agency, acquiring a thorough knowledge of their budgets. He understood how valuable the administrative branch could be to an elected official in providing constituent services. He cultivated his relationship with the bureaucrats at every level in much the same way he did with his fellow legislators. His commitment to his duties could serve as a role model for any elected official.

Reminiscent of “Nucky’s Nocturne,” Hap formed the “21 Club,” a social organization dedicated to promoting informal gatherings of all 21 senators, Republican and Democrat. The group got together at the close of each legislative session with Hap always hosting the affair. Each year Hap invited his fellow senators, together with their families, for a weekend of entertainment, food, and relaxation in Atlantic City. The senators and their families were put up in style in one of the Boardwalk hotels. While not as lavish as Nucky’s parties, Hap saw to it every need of his guests was satisfied without expense. The 21 Club lasted for nearly 25 years and was valuable public relations for both Farley and the resort.

Farley’s relationship with his fellow senators wasn’t the only one he nurtured. He had daily contact with the ward leaders and precinct captains. He made himself accessible to the public and had his hand on the pulse of the community. When someone was sick, he would send flowers or a get well card; if there was a death, he went to the wake; should a voter be down on his luck and too proud for welfare, Farley arranged an anonymous gift or a loan. Sometimes it was necessary for him to perform free legal services. Hap was doing “pro bono” legal work before the phrase was coined.

For the first 20 years of his legislative career Farley spent every Monday morning representing constituents who had been threatened with loss of their driver’s license before the Division of Motor Vehicles in Trenton. He represented six to eight people each morning before reporting to the Senate and never took a fee; the only thing he ever asked for was their vote for the Republican ticket come election time. Hap was the point person in an elaborate social service program, namely, Republican ward politics, and everyone did his or her part. Whatever the problem, Hap’s lieutenants had orders that he was to know about it.

During the early years of Hap’s reign, there were other “lieutenants” in town. They had nothing to do with ward politics, but they were important, too. The United States Army had come to town. Throughout most of World War II, Atlantic City was used as a training center for tens of thousands of American GIs. It was a boon to the resort economy.

The large hotels and Convention Hall were ideal temporary facilities—they were mostly empty anyway because of the war—and Atlantic City became a Basic Training Center for the Army Air Corps. The Army leased Convention Hall and its main arena and meeting rooms were transformed into a training facility. Thousands of recruits did calisthenics, received briefings daily at the Hall, and trained for maneuvers on the beach. While many of the troops partied on their time off, there was no gambling. The Army brass made it clear that they didn’t want their men losing money in the resort’s gambling rooms. For the first time in nearly 50 years “the slough was on” for more than several days. The “slough” was the term used by locals when the presence of someone in town, or the occurrence of an event, would temporarily force the closure of gambling rooms. It never lasted any longer than necessary. Even during the FBI’s investigation of Nucky the “slough” was only intermittent, weeks at a time at most. With World War II, it lasted for years and created hard times for the people operating gambling rooms that weren’t part of a nightclub or restaurant.

The war may not have been a good thing for the local racketeers, but it was great for the resort’s economy. Many hotels and boarding-houses throughout the resort were converted into barracks and offices. By 1943, the Army had moved into such places as the Traymore, Breakers, Brighton, Shelburne, and Dennis. For many servicemen, basic training in Atlantic City was a pleasant surprise. Their accommodations were far better than the average GI who trained in places like Fort Dix. Many of the soldiers enjoyed their stay so much they returned with their families after the war. For Boardwalk merchants, shopkeepers, barbers, bartenders, and restaurant owners, the Army and its seven-day per week visitors were a blessing. The Army’s presence helped many businesses survive the hard times that followed the repeal of Prohibition and the further loss of vacationers and conventioneers caused by the war. World War II was good to Atlantic City and times were very good for Hap Farley, who saw his power enhanced considerably.

In the election of 1943 Farley’s career received an unexpected boost. He was transformed from one of the more influential legislators to the dominant force in the New Jersey Senate. At the age of 70, after being away from Trenton for nearly 25 years, Walter Edge, Atlantic City’s most distinguished self-made man ever, made a political comeback and was elected governor. Following the term as governor engineered by Nucky Johnson, Edge went on to serve as U.S. Senator and Ambassador to France. From Hap Farley’s perspective, the timing of Edge’s return to politics could not have been better. As the political boss of the governor’s home county, Farley’s stock with the politicians in Trenton rose dramatically. With Walter Edge in the governor’s office, political leaders from the entire state, not just South Jersey, treated Farley with respect and sought his support. Hap exploited it for all it was worth. In Edge’s first year in office Farley was chosen majority leader; the following year he was elected senate president, becoming the undisputed leader of his party’s caucus. In terms of statewide power, Hap Farley never looked back.

Hap ruled the Republican Caucus in the state senate the same way a strong-willed coach runs his team. He called all the plays. At the time, the Republican Caucus was the senate, and in short order, Farley was the caucus. The GOP maintained sizable majorities, consistently controlling 13 to 17 of the 21 counties. The seven southern counties were nearly always represented by Republican senators; these were Farley’s votes. As leader of the caucus, Farley set the ground rules for how legislation was handled. He imposed a rule that no bill could be voted on in the full senate unless it had the support of at least 11 senators in the Republican Caucus. Once 11 votes were secured the other senators were expected to follow the rule of the majority and vote for the bill when it reached the senate floor. But 11 votes it had to be. Even if a majority of the Caucus, comprised of, say, seven to nine North Jersey senators, supported a particular bill, it would never see the light of day if Farley opposed it.

Farley’s dominance made the senate’s committee system meaningless. With Hap in control, the committees had no function except for political window-dressing. The only senate committee of any real importance was Judiciary, which passed upon nominations of the governor. Farley was either chairman of that committee or its dominant member during most of his career. For the next 25 years, Hap Farley was an insurmountable reality with whom every governor, regardless of party, had to contend. He could not be ignored. Farley controlled the senate so totally that it was political suicide to oppose him. “I can remember sitting in on more than one meeting between Hap and a governor. Hap’s agenda was always first.” The governors either dealt with Hap Farley or had their programs frustrated.

One bill that passed into law in 1945 demonstrates the power that Farley had attained after four years as senator. In September 1944 the Boardwalk was severely damaged by a hurricane. Whole portions of it had been washed away. It was wartime and Atlantic City’s government didn’t have the finances for the necessary repairs. Farley and Atlantic County Assemblyman Leon Leonard sponsored legislation to create the Municipal Improvement Tax or “Luxury Tax.” The Luxury Tax was special legislation designed to permit Atlantic City to levy a sales tax, something neither state government nor any other city in New Jersey had the power to do. The bill would permit a 5 percent tax on all retail sales, including food and drink in public restaurants, hotel rooms, and other services and entertainment. The idea was popular in the resort as the bulk of the revenue raised would come from tourists. It was estimated that the Luxury Tax would gross $500,000 to $800,000 per year and was to expire after a single summer season.

Securing the necessary votes in the senate was routine. Despite the opposition of a lone Republican Senator from Essex County, Farley had 15 votes, four more than required. The problem was in the assembly, where 31 votes were needed, and again the opposition came from the Republicans of Essex County. The Essex County Republicans had campaigned for election the previous year by running against new taxes of any kind. Without the four Republican votes from Essex County, there were only 28 Republican votes available. Farley tried every tactic he could think of, but the Essex County Assemblymen wouldn’t budge. Rather than see his bill go down to defeat, Farley turned to Nucky Johnson’s old ally, Jersey City Mayor Frank Hague.

Hudson County Democratic boss Frank Hague controlled four votes in the assembly, and Farley had something he wanted. There were two Republican bills aimed at Hague’s machine, both of which had the support of Governor Edge. One bill limited the jurisdiction of the Hudson County Traffic Court, reducing the authority of Hague’s handpicked magistrates. The other was designed to make the Hudson County Boulevard Commission a bipartisan agency—the commission was a major source of patronage. Hague wanted both bills killed, and only Farley could do that. Farley defied the governor and promised Hague the bills would never reach the floor of the senate. In exchange, Hague delivered his four votes and Farley got what he wanted. More than 50 years later the Luxury Tax is still in effect, generating millions of dollars in revenue.

With each re-election Farley’s presence loomed larger in the state house. In 10 years as senator he had become the most respected, and feared, powerbroker in New Jersey. To get anything done in Trenton, you had to see Hap. His power brought attention, and between 1946 and 1950 Farley was subjected to one investigation after another. His role as attorney for both the Atlantic City Race Track and a local contracting firm, Massett Construction Company, were scrutinized, as were the finances of Atlantic City’s government and the county Republican organization. In each instance Farley came away unscathed. Rather than tarnish his image, these investigations increased his stature.

One inquiry into Farley’s empire that attracted nationwide publicity was the U.S. Senate’s investigation into organized crime. In 1951 Estes Kefauver, U.S. Senator from Tennessee, was gearing up to run for President. As part of his campaign he had declared war on organized crime and the rackets. Using his position as chairman of a Senate Committee, Kefauver went from one city to another holding public hearings, exposing the local crime syndicates. During the preceding year there was a rebellion by several Atlantic City police officers, which attracted national attention and placed Farley and his organization high on Kefauver’s list.

In the summer of 1950 a group of police officers and firefighters organized themselves in an effort to secure a wage increase. The average police officer received an annual salary of less than $3,000; they were seeking a pay increase of $400 per year. The wage demands weren’t taken to Mayor Altman or the city commission but rather to Farley. City hall was filled with people handpicked by Farley. He was the puppeteer, and city government moved as he pulled the strings. When the city commission held its weekly caucus, Farley was always on hand for key decisions. No public contract, tax assessment, fire inspection, liquor license, or Boardwalk concession received approval if Hap said no. The leaders of this group knew they could never get a pay raise without his support.

Farley met with a delegation of employees and heard their requests. As usual he was cordial and assured them he’d “work something out.” The employees took this to mean they’d receive a raise. Several city commission meetings came and went with no action taken or any mention of their request. When approached a second time, Farley told the group’s leaders they’d have to be patient a while longer. Rather than wait, the group began a petition drive. Their game plan was to force a public question for their pay raise onto the ballot at the November election of 1950. Circulating their petition door-to-door, they gathered more than 16,000 signatures. With that type of public support, they believed Farley and the city commissioners would have no choice but to support them. They were wrong.

Farley went to a mass meeting of police officers and fire fighters and asked them to withdraw their request for the referendum. The leaders of the petition drive refused. Farley responded by having a loyalty oath circulated. The oath amounted to a counterpetition for police and fire fighters to renounce the referendum and to accept a future wage ordinance to be approved by the city commission. City employees who had signed the loyalty oath were expected to show their paper ballots (the election was pre-machine voting) to the poll workers. The intimidation worked. The referendum proceeded as scheduled and was soundly defeated. The question received the support of less than half the number of voters who had signed the petition, humiliating the group’s leaders.

Three of the movement’s spokesmen were policemen Jack Portock, Fred Warlich, and Francis Gribbin. They were bitter at their defeat and determined to get revenge. They retaliated by hitting Farley’s organization where it hurt.

After Nucky Johnson went to jail, and during World War II, the “slough” had been on more often than not. The slough was the term used to describe the closing of the gambling rooms because of outside pressure, first the federal investigators and then the U.S. Army, which stationed thousands of recruits in the resort’s hotels during World War II. By 1950 things had returned to normal. While Farley’s people were less brazen than Nucky Johnson, the rackets flourished under Hap. Protection money continued to be paid to the organization with Stumpy Orman tending to such matters, keeping Farley one step removed from handling payoffs.

Portock, Warlich, and Gribbin knew the card games, horse rooms, and numbers syndicate were able to exist because the police officer on the beat looked the other way. The rackets were something individual patrol officers had nothing to do with. If there were problems with an operator who didn’t have the okay from Stumpy Orman, or if someone failed to pay protection money, then either Lou Arnheim or Arch Witham of the vice squad would be sent out by Orman to apply pressure by either collecting the money or shutting them down.

Several weeks after defeat of the referendum, Portock and company tried to subdue the organization by attacking it head-on. As Tommy Taggart had done 10 years earlier, they began making arrests for violation of the state gambling laws. Atlantic City’s racketeers were stupefied. No one could believe what was happening. Farley responded cautiously. Each of the patrol officers were summoned first to their ward leaders and then to Orman and Jimmy Boyd. According to a ward leader at the time, Portock and the others were told they were “creating a lot of bad publicity for Atlantic City” and were ordered to stop the raids. “What are you doing this for? It won’t do you any good, and you know you can’t fight the organization. Keep it up and you’ll be out of a job.”

In winter 1951 one of Farley’s lieutenants, Richard Jackson, assistant to the commissioner of public safety, arranged a meeting between Farley and the rebel police officers in an attempt to make peace. At the last moment, Jimmy Boyd killed the meeting. Boyd viewed the police officers’ willingness to meet as a sign of weakness and advised Farley he could wipe them out. Nevertheless, the arrests continued and Portock and his cohorts became celebrities, of sorts. Between November 1950 and May 1951 Portock and company wreaked havoc on the rackets. Their raids spared no one and enraged Orman, Boyd, and Farley. They were dubbed by the national media as the “Four Horsemen,” portrayed as heroes crusading against crime and political corruption. (There never really was a fourth “horseman” per se; William Shepperson and others occasionally accompanied Portock, Warlich, and Gribbin.) When Farley refused to compromise on the wage increase they found they had backed themselves into a corner. The Four Horsemen had no choice but to continue the raids. The best they could hope for was to embarrass Farley.

But the organization had the last say. The Four Horsemen were given remote duty assignments, at odd hours, patrolling on foot areas of the city where police officers didn’t usually patrol. They were assigned deserted potions of the Boardwalk during the winter months and to guard the public water mains coming from the mainland reservoir on the outskirts of town. A special traffic squad was created and Portock and friends were ordered to remain in the middle of the street prohibited from moving farther than 20 feet from their post. The traffic squad’s hours were from 10:30 A.M. to 6:30 P.M., the hours during which numbers runners and bookies collected and paid off. The rebels persisted by making raids on their own time and found themselves suspended without pay for five days at a time, the maximum then permitted under Civil Service without a hearing. Eventually each of the Four Horsemen was brought up on charges for misconduct and fired from their positions.

Before they were crushed, the Four Horsemen had their day in the sun as witnesses before the Kefauver Committee. Portock and his supporters appeared before the committee and named the key politicians and racketeers who profited from gambling. They produced a card index file listing more than 300 racketeers. They told how the numbers barons parlayed the nickels and dimes of local residents and tourists into yearly incomes of $150,000. Their testimony detailed the corrupt workings of the police department. Chief of Police Harry Saunders was at best a figurehead and the city commissioner in charge of the public safety department, William Cuthbert, was exposed as a senile old man. Testimony revealed that Cuthbert was routinely driven around town in his city car by a fireman, delivering eggs from a farm he owned on the mainland. The police department was really run by Stumpy Orman and Jimmy Boyd. Orman, the city’s leading racketeer, made sure everybody paid up. Boyd was the political enforcer who kept everyone in line. Kefauver’s Committee report concluded that it was “inescapable that Stumpy Orman has controlled the Atlantic City Police Department in the interest of the underworld gambling fraternity.”

Orman was subpoenaed to the hearings, but the committee learned nothing from him. He alternated between refusing to answer the questions put to him, and taking refuge in what he called “my very bad memory.” Farley had given him such free rein of the rackets that Stumpy Orman wasn’t used to answering to anyone.

Supporters of the Four Horsemen, such as former Judge Paul Warke and Jack Wolfe, appeared before the committee and told of the punishment meted out to anyone who bucked the system. As a county judge, Warke had given stiff sentences to several gambling operators arrested by state investigators. When he came up for reappointment he found himself out of a job. Farley denied Warke’s sentencing practices were the reason he wasn’t reappointed, but the denials were hollow. Jack Wolfe, who was not a Lafferty Democrat, had run for state assembly on the Democratic slate and was fiercely critical of the organization. He received increased assessments on the taxes and municipal utilities at his place of business.

The committee’s hearings stripped Farley’s organization bare. The testimony elicited by Kefauver’s Committee produced the following revelations: The traditional alliance between the racketeers and politicians was alive and well with the local Republican Party financed through protection money; Stumpy Orman periodically issued a list of approved gambling operations and had the vice squad close down anyone who didn’t have his blessing; Lester Burdick, a Farley lieutenant who served as Executive Clerk of the New Jersey Senate, was also the bagman for racing results payments from horse-room operators; Vincent Lane, an Atlantic County Probation Officer, moonlighted during his off hours as a gambling room operator; those racketeers arrested by the Four Horsemen were routinely charged with a disorderly persons offense, and, if convicted, sentenced to the county jail from which they were promptly released. In one such instance Austin Johnson, a convicted bookmaker, was driven home on weekends during his sentence by Sheriff Gerald Gormley’s chauffeur. In response to all the negative publicity Farley made changes in city government, mostly shuffling the players. In time a grand jury was convened but no one of any consequence, other than the Four Horsemen themselves, was prosecuted.

The impact of the Kefauver hearings was felt on two fronts. The first was in the rackets. Post-Kefauver, Atlantic City’s gambling operations could no longer be run wide open. Farley and Orman agreed things had to be done at a lower profile and gambling became a minor industry in the resort’s economy. There was also political fallout from the Kefauver investigation. Farley’s enemies were emboldened by the negative publicity and decided to make a contest of the city commission election held in the May following the hearings.

The 1952 commission election featured Farley’s handpicked slate of incumbents headed by Mayor Joe Altman, minus Public Safety Director William Cuthbert, who was forced to step down. An opposition slate headed by former Atlantic County Sheriff James Carmack ran as the “Fusion-for-Freedom Ticket.” Jimmy Carmack had fallen out with the organization shortly after becoming sheriff in 1941. As sheriff, Carmack had failed to clear his patronage appointments through Jimmy Boyd. For refusing to be a team player, he was dropped from the organization. Carmack was joined by Marvin Perskie, a pugnacious former Marine officer and brilliant young attorney who had represented the Four Horsemen in their problems with the organization.

With Perskie firing most of the salvos, the Fusion Ticket made one blistering attack after another against Farley and the Republican machine. Portions of the Kefauver Committee transcripts were reprinted, as were articles from the national media condemning corruption in Atlantic City. Cozy relationships between local contractors and city government were exposed. The payment of insurance premiums and vendors’ contracts to local politicians were revealed. The details of the lawyer fees paid for a municipal finance bond ordinance were also made public. Of the nearly $100,000 in fees paid by the taxpayers, only $21,000 went to the New York law firm that actually did the legal work for the bond issue. The remaining $79,000 was divided between Farley and 11 of his cronies, with Hap himself receiving $9,500 for having done nothing. Perskie and Carmack named names and criticized the Republican organization like never before. For the first time since becoming boss, Frank Farley had a fight on his hands.

There were the obligatory denials of the charges made by Perskie and Carmack, but there was no counteroffensive or debate on the campaign issues raised by the Fusion slate. Instead, Farley’s strategy was to go to his strength. He appealed to the ward leaders and precinct captains in terms they understood: If the Fusion slate won, the ward workers would lose their access to political patronage.

Farley also brought Nucky Johnson out of retirement and turned him loose in the Northside. Hap had no choice but to rely on Nucky. Despite his imprisonment and the passing of time, Nucky remained popular in Atlantic City’s Black community. “Farley could never cultivate the Blacks the way Johnson had. When Nucky went to jail everyone in the Black community assumed he’d eventually come back as the Boss. They never really accepted Farley.” Nucky stumped for the slate in every Black precinct, being introduced as “the champion of ’em all.” The strategy worked. The machine slate carried 49 of the 64 voting precincts. Carmack, the “high man” for the Fusion Ticket, trailed Tom Wooten, the machine’s “low man,” by nearly 3,000 votes. The revolt had been quelled. The political ward system constructed by Nucky Johnson more than 30 years earlier was still able to crank out the votes when it had to.

Without the political ward system, Farley’s slate would have gone down to defeat. Ward politics was the mortar that held things together; its influence was woven into the fabric of the community. The players in the ward system had a devotion bordering on religious fervor. Atlantic City’s ward politicians were streetwise foot soldiers, as disciplined and loyal a group as could be found in a well-trained army. And everyone was a soldier. A move up in the Republican machine meant not only more power but responsibility. From the lowliest ward heeler on up to Farley, every member of the organization had a job to do. The ward system was not a monolith headed by a dictator but rather a network of savvy politicians who worked at their craft daily. Farley was boss because he was the one at the top of the pyramid, and remained there only because he delivered to those under him. The pressure to deliver was constant. Hap Farley either performed as expected or he would have been replaced.

Farley was boss, but he wasn’t the day-to-day ruler of the political ward system. Just as he had insulated himself from the rackets by delegating authority to Stumpy Orman, he did the same with political matters. Farley enjoyed his role as a legislator, manipulating the state senate, more than anything. He couldn’t immerse himself into local politics to the extent Nucky had and still have time for his duties in Trenton. Orman’s counterpart was James Boyd, Clerk of the County Board of Freeholders.

Jimmy Boyd or “Boydie” had been a protégé of Nucky Johnson. He and Johnson met in the 1920s when Nucky was becoming involved with Luciano and the Seven Group. Johnson needed someone to whom he could assign a portion of his political chores. Boyd was a bellhop at the Ritz Carlton where Nucky lived, and they took to one another almost immediately. Boyd had a knack for politics and manipulating people, whether by charm or intimidation. Johnson recognized his talent and groomed Boyd to take care of political details for him. Starting out as an assistant to Nucky’s personal secretary, Mae Paxson, and then, with the boss’s help, moving quickly through the ranks to become freeholder clerk and Fourth Ward leader, Boyd was one of Johnson’s most trusted lieutenants. Hap Farley inherited Jimmy Boyd. He couldn’t have replaced him if he wanted to.

Jimmy Boyd was “the guy where you ran into the NO.” Every political leader who relies on the voters for his power needs someone to be the heavy. Letting a supporter know his request can’t be granted is dangerous business for a candidate. There has to be a thick-skinned S.O.B. to take the heat when there is bad news to be delivered. “Hap, and Nucky before him, couldn’t come right out and tell you NO. He needed someone to do it for him and Boyd was the one.” Farley never told anyone no, and rarely gave someone an unconditional yes. More often than not, no matter what the request, Farley would say, “It’s okay with me, but you’d better go over and see Boydie. He’ll work out the details.”

Working out the details could be an unsettling experience. When he wanted to, Boyd had a “personality like a piece of ice.” He knew most people were intimidated by the power Farley let him exercise and exploited their relationship for all it was worth. He usually started out by telling the favor-seeker that what he wanted couldn’t be done, or to list all the problems granting the request would create. He did this as a matter of routine even when the answer was clearly yes. Boyd knew how to capitalize for political gain on every opportunity. The more difficult it was to grant a favor, the more indebted the constituent would be to the organization.

As the day-to-day leader of Atlantic City’s four political wards, Jimmy Boyd was the enforcer, the one who imposed discipline and kept things running smoothly. Boyd arranged all the meetings and scheduled candidates’ appearances. He made the ward workers jump to their assignments. If anyone complained that their task couldn’t be done, Boyd would say sarcastically, “Sure, that’s okay, we’ll just postpone the election.” But the sarcasm was the only warning. If the job didn’t get done, the worker was replaced and quickly found himself an observer with no access to the organization or its patronage. Jimmy Boyd “had the ability to pull things together with an iron hand.” Boyd learned well from Nucky and understood that to remain in control, the Republican machine had to be run like a business.

The organization survived on “services provided.” Boyd had a disciplined network of political workers who were in daily contact with the community. Every lost job, arrest, illness, death, request for financial assistance, or new resident in the neighborhood was reported to the precinct captain. If the matter was important enough, it would be brought to the ward leader and possibly Boyd or Farley. No matter what the problem, the ward workers had orders to make an effort to solve it. Nothing could be left to chance. Every voter had to be accounted for, especially someone new to the neighborhood, “You had better not let anybody move into your precinct without registering them to vote or you would hear about it.” Under Jimmy Boyd, “politics was a business, an absolute business.”

The business of politics produced more than votes. It could generate money, and not all of it was from the obvious sources of graft and extortion. A classic example was Jimmy Boyd’s ice cream monopoly. During the summer seasons of the ’50s and ’60s a combine consisting of Boyd, Edward Nappen, and Reuben Perr had a corner on the sale of ice cream on the Atlantic City beach. There wasn’t a popsicle or ice cream cone sold from which Boyd and company didn’t profit.

The ice cream combine was a natural. Each of the principals brought a special talent to the project. After World War II the state adopted legislation giving veterans priority for the right to peddle goods in public; however, it was a right subject to local licensing and Boyd had absolute control over who received a license. Despite the fact that as clerk to the freeholder board Boyd had no official tie with city hall, his relationship with Farley gave him the undisputed jurisdiction over such matters. During his reign as Fourth Ward leader there wasn’t a business license for anything that didn’t require Boyd’s approval. Ever the conniver, it took Jimmy Boyd no time to see the potential in the situation.

Boyd recruited Ed Nappen because of his ties with the veterans groups. Nappen had been Fourth Ward leader and local magistrate and was active among Atlantic City’s veterans. Nappen chose people who could be trusted to play ball with the combine by kicking back a portion of their profits. Perr was a lawyer who had contacts with the Philadelphia ice cream manufacturers. He saw to it no independents were supplied and set up the mechanics for distributing the ice cream. There were more than a few people who knew of Boyd’s scheme, but no one ever complained or cried foul. Only in Atlantic City could you find someone like Jimmy Boyd profiting from the sale of popsicles.

Sweetheart setups to line politicians’ pockets such as Boyd’s ice cream monopoly were accepted as common practice by the community. Corruption was routine. Atlantic City’s residents didn’t care that their government was dishonest. What mattered was that government, through the ward politicians, responded to their needs. Quite often that need was for a patronage job with city or county government. The Farley and Boyd regime continued Nucky Johnson’s practice of doling out hundreds of part-time and no-show jobs. The organization controlled thousands of positions such as lifeguards, health inspectors, couriers, maintenance men, clerks, ticket collectors at Convention Hall, and groundskeepers at the racetrack.

Obtaining one of these jobs began by making contact with your precinct captain. You didn’t just drop by city hall and ask for an application. The precinct captain where you lived had to “sponsor” you or you’d never even receive an application. Every position was allocated and filled on a ward-by-ward basis. Appointments to fill vacancies by resignation, death, or dismissal were always done on a ward basis. If a person who resigned or died was working in city or county government and came from the Second Ward, then his replacement came from the Second Ward. It was possible for ward leaders to make trades for one position or another, but the rule was that when a vacancy arose the first question asked was where did the person live? “It was a strict system and was absolute law in the Atlantic City political organization. If there wasn’t an opening available for your ward you’d have to wait until there was.”

Atlantic City’s seasonal economy made year-round, full-time employment a precious thing. If you were lucky enough to land a full-time job, such as a police officer, firefighter, or office worker, you were indebted to the Republican Party. As part of your employment, you were required to become active in ward politics and to contribute a percentage of your salary to the party. This usually took the form of buying tickets to political fundraisers. More importantly, any promotions at work were generally dependant on how well you performed as a political worker.

The incentive to work for the party was the chance of upward mobility. The person ahead of you had been where you were and he had worked his way to that position by being loyal to the party. If you did the same, you could move up, too. If you were to amount to anything, either in government or the political organization, you had to get an education in politics. The system guaranteed that, “If you were going to move up politically, you had to know what you were doing in terms of street politics. If you didn’t, you simply didn’t move up.” The ward system was continually renewing itself by breeding new politicians.

An example of a political leader bred by the Atlantic City ward system is demonstrated in the career of Richard “Dick” Jackson. In 1928, at the age of 20, Dick Jackson moved from the Fourth Ward of Atlantic City to the Second Ward. He had two reasons for his move. He was unhappy and poorly paid with his job as a bank teller and was looking for permanent employment as a fireman with the city. The number of applicants ahead of him on the waiting list in the Fourth Ward made any chance of getting a job hopeless. Dick’s brother, Howard, was a veteran fireman and encouraged his younger brother to move, because the likelihood of winning an appointment to the fire department would be better in the Second Ward. Howard also had plans of his own. He wanted to become a captain in the fire department but knew it would never happen until he first became a precinct captain. Dick had an engaging personality and Howard recruited his brother to help in expanding his power base. As a precinct captain, Howard would then command the respect of the organization and have the “political standing” needed to become a captain in the fire department.

Although Dick joined the Second Ward Republican Club promptly after moving, he had to wait more than a year for an opening with the fire department. Immediately after moving to the Second Ward he immersed himself in ward politics. “I knew that if I was ever going to advance myself, I’d have to do like my brother, Howard, did. I went to all the political meetings, made sandwiches, served beer, waited on tables and cleaned up after rallies. I handed out political literature, ran errands, drove people to the polls and registered new voters. Whatever my precinct captain or ward leader asked me to do—I jumped to it.”

Jackson made himself known by participating in sports and circulating in the community, getting to know everyone in his neighborhood on a first name basis. One of the people he met through sports was Hap Farley, and they became friends and political allies immediately.

At election time, Jackson went door-to-door urging support for the Republican slate. The standard pitch was, “You don’t know the candidate, but I do, and he is the one I have to go to when there’s something that you need and you come to me for. So if you expect me to be able to help you, you have to vote for this person.” Jackson was selling himself and the system more than he was selling a particular candidate. Through their efforts, one election after another, Dick and Howard Jackson paid their dues to the Republican organization. They finally got their opportunity to break into the hierarchy five years later in 1933. The precinct captain where the Jacksons lived was ill and near death when he decided to step down. The person presumed to be his successor was John Lewis, a freeholder. However, the Jacksons demanded a vote on who would be the next precinct captain. According to party rules every registered Republican in the precinct was permitted to vote, not just dues-paying club members. Dick and Howard Jackson called in all their favors and packed the meeting place with their supporters. Howard won easily and within a year’s time became a captain in the fire department.

Dick Jackson had to wait five more years to make his move. In 1938 Howard moved from the Second Ward to the Fourth Ward, leaving a vacancy for precinct captain. Jackson succeeded to his brother’s job and remained there until 1941 when he found himself in the middle of Hap Farley’s maneuvering to become boss. Jackson respected Farley and had committed himself to support Hap as Nucky’s replacement. The Second Ward leader, at that time, was Sam Weekly, who was also chief of police. Weekly had ties with both Taggart and Farley and was reluctant to choose between them, trying to remain neutral. To Farley that was the same as being an enemy. By 1941 Farley was gaining control in city and county governments. He began putting out the word in the Second Ward that the person to see for patronage was Jackson. When Weekly was cut out of the spoils system, the ward workers knew he had fallen and wanted no part of his leadership. In ward politics, “everyone is waiting for the person ahead of them to stumble.” When the election of ward leader came up the following year, Weekly resigned rather than be humiliated by Jackson.

Shortly after being chosen Second Ward leader, Jackson was appointed secretary to the fire department. During his years as a fireman Jackson had gone back to school and obtained his high school diploma. He had also taken business college courses in bookkeeping, typing, and accounting. He was better prepared to serve as secretary than anyone realized and he did an outstanding job, receiving National Fire Board commendations for his indexing system of logging fires.

As both Second Ward leader and secretary to the fire department, Jackson had clout in the Atlantic City power structure. But Jackson didn’t relax. “I never let myself forget that Secretary of the Fire Department is made with the stroke of a pen and can be taken away with a stroke of a pen. I protected my position by taking the tests for captain and Battalion Chief and passed them both.” However, at Farley’s request Dick Jackson remained secretary until 1950, when Farley had Public Safety Director William Cuthbert appoint Jackson his Executive Secretary. Cuthbert was growing senile and in no time Jackson was performing his duties.

The Kefauver hearings made Cuthbert look like a fool, and in 1952 Farley wouldn’t permit him to seek reelection. Much to Jackson’s disappointment, he was passed over to run for city commissioner. The candidate chosen was Tom Wooten (a favorite of Jimmy Boyd), who replaced Cuthbert as public safety director and retained Jackson as his executive secretary. Wooten knew nothing about his new job and had to rely entirely upon Jackson. The following year Commissioner Phil Gravatt resigned and Farley saw to it Jackson was appointed to his seat. Jackson was elected and re-elected to city commission in ’56, ’60, ’64, and ’68, each time the high vote getter. From 1963 to ’67 Jackson served unofficially as acting mayor, assisting Joe Altman who was ill after a serious auto accident. When Altman finally retired in 1967, Jackson became mayor. He had climbed every rung on the ladder.

Despite a federal conviction for extortion in 1972 as one of the “Atlantic City Seven,” Dick Jackson is remembered as one of the more effective mayors Atlantic City has had. That his administration was corrupt doesn’t diminish his stature. In Atlantic City corruption was the norm; Jackson just happened to be the one in office when the FBI came to town.

While in federal prison, Jackson was offered his freedom in exchange for fingering Hap Farley. “I wasn’t there a week when who do you think shows up—the same guys who handled my investigation. They tell me, ‘Give us Farley and you can leave now.’ I told them, ‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’” Jackson remained silent and served his time. Upon his release he was received well by the community and earned income as a “consultant” to businesspeople needing access to city hall. Jackson often said, “You really do meet the same people on the way down. You had better be good to them on your way up.”

Until the time of his death in 1988, Jackson remained a force in city politics and was admired by everyone, greeted by locals as “Mayor.” It was loyal foot soldiers such as Dick Jackson who helped make Hap Farley one of the most powerful political bosses in New Jersey’s history. Farley’s career shows he was worthy of Jackson’s loyalty. Hap’s success, and with him that of the Republican organization, was the product of a team effort in which every player knew instinctively that true glory is losing yourself in a common good.

8

The Painful Ride Down

It was late afternoon in winter. The office was dark and still, save for one room. Hap Farley and his partner, Frank Ferry, were seated in Ferry’s office. They’d both had a hectic day and were catching up with one another before going home. Frank Ferry was more than Farley’s law partner; he was like a son. Ferry’s father and Hap were lifelong friends. When Farley made his first run for office in 1937, Ferry’s father loaned him his car for the entire campaign so the young candidate could get around to see the voters. Over the years, Farley and Ferry’s relationship became special and Farley confided in him as he did with few people. They were discussing something that had Farley troubled, and they both knew the problem was beyond their control.

In its prime, Atlantic City had four newspapers: two dailies, a Sunday, and a weekly. Now the resort was a one-newspaper town, and the Atlantic City Press had turned on Farley. He was no longer the fair-haired boy who brought home the bacon from Trenton. He was an aging political boss in an era when bossism had become a favorite target for the media. Farley’s political machine was also aging, and his presence no longer inspired fear and trembling among his detractors. Week after week there was one negative story after another. The articles ranged from exposés on payroll padding in city hall to front-page headlines every time a critic of Farley attacked him. Farley’s enemies now had a sympathetic ear willing to print their complaints. The latest incident wasn’t much by itself, but taken together with everything else, Farley knew there was no hope of making peace with the Press.

Earlier in the week Farley had been asked to present a ribbon to a prize-winning entry in a dog show at Convention Hall. When the picture was printed in the paper, Farley was left out of the photo and only the dog appeared. The Press had decided Farley would receive no more favorable exposure. Hap Farley could dictate to the officials in city hall and manipulate the state senate, but he couldn’t control the Press. As he spoke about this incident he made light of it, but Farley and Ferry both realized his public image was being eroded.

As Hap Farley’s stature was being whittled away, so too was the resort’s stature as a resort. With the repeal of Prohibition the resort lost its special position as a “wet town.” From then on it was a slow but steady ride downhill. By the time Farley was in a position to influence events, the resort’s economic base had already begun to diminish and the trend was irreversible. Things picked up during World War II when there were thousands of soldiers stationed in town, but by the mid-’50s everything had to be perfect throughout the year for local merchants to survive. A canceled convention during the winter or several rainy weekends during the summer could destroy a business. Owning a restaurant, a boardinghouse in the beach block, or a shop along the Boardwalk no longer guaranteed a secure income.

Atlantic City was the victim of postwar modernization. The changes that occurred in American society were subtle, but they were devastating to Atlantic City. The development of air conditioning and swimming pools made it possible for people to enjoy themselves at home rather than travel to the seashore. They also created more competition by Southern resorts. Air travel was now affordable to the masses, and people were willing to save their money for a single vacation to a faraway place, rather than weekend trips to Atlantic City. Finally there was the automobile.

The family car wreaked havoc on the resort. Atlantic City was a creature of the railroad and for three generations rail service to the resort was second to no other vacation spot. The railroad industry had tied the nation together, linking every state from coast to coast. In the process, the American railroad left behind an important legacy. The urge, almost need, for movement was planted firmly into our nation’s character. Working with federal and state governments, the railroad magnates established the concept in the American psyche that mobility was paramount. With the increasing affordability of cars, the working person no longer had to worry about train schedules and routes. The American family could simply pile into the car and go where it wished. It was freedom on a scale the middle class had never known. Between 1920 and 1960, with the exception of World War II, the annual production of new cars exceeded the national birth rate. With the widening use of the automobile, Atlantic City’s patrons could choose to go elsewhere, and they did just that.

Improvement in personal transportation turned the leisure industry into big business. All across the country new vacation centers sprang up, competing for tourists’ dollars. In contrast, Atlantic City wasn’t accustomed to competing for visitors and was anything but modern. The Boardwalk, hotels, shops, restaurants, and the city itself were all showing signs of aging and being dated. Atlantic City had lost its appeal, and its patrons were lured away to newer attractions. As one national news magazine observed, “Today, aside from the conventioneers, the typical Atlantic City tourist is either poor, Black, elderly, or all three—and the change has depressed almost every aspect of the city’s economy … the picture which emerges is one of steady physical, economic, and social deterioration.”