the concrete overcoat and the deep swim. But Keegan, touched with the luck of the Irish, always proved equal to the challenge. Each time the Dutchman failed, his assassins felt the sting of his Irish vengeance in strange, sometimes almost supernatural ways. One of his attempted assassins was kicked to death by a racehorse in a stable at Belmont Park. Another choked to death on a chicken bone during a birthday celebration in Reuben’s Restaurant in Manhattan.
“Listen, pal, I never lifted a finger against anybody, “Keegan once told Albert A at a meeting in Providence, Rhode Island, where Anastasia had been sent to put Frankie Kee in a box and Dutch Shultz out of his misery. “It just that bad things seem to befall people I particularly don’t like. And Albert, I particularly don’t like you as much as anybody I know.”
Anastasia, probably the New York mob’s top killer and a man unaccustomed to insults, was so astounded he didn‘t say anything in response. At first he didn‘t even tell anybody that this smartass mackerel snapper from Boston had insulted him. Then his anger got the best of him. When he decided to start his own Boston Tea Party, Arnold Rothstein stepped in.
A few days after the Anastasia meeting, Keegan was in The Rose for dinner, his Uncle Ned serving the best Kansas City sirloin east of the town itself Ned slid into the booth opposite him.
“I heard this rumor that you put the double hex on Albert A,” he whispered in his Irish lilt. “Tell me it a lie. Tell me yer not mixin’ it up with them Guineas. Jesus, Francis, they’ll cut off yer jewels n’ have ‘em fer breakfast.”
“Now why would I do a silly thing like that, Unc?”
“But you talked to him, didn’t ye. Ye had a conversation with Albert A.”
“He wanted to buy my Rolls.”
“So what ‘d you tell ‘im?”
“I told him no dice. Told him it wouldn‘t fit him.”
“You told Albert A that? That it wouldn’t fit ‘im?”
“Yeah. I told him he was too small for it. He shrank another two inches when it sank in.”
“Why ye do things like that, Frankie? Ye better watch yer step, son, them dagos have a short fuse.”
“Been tried, Unc. “He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’ve got a meeting to go to.”
“What ‘re ye gonna do, sell a bottle a scotch to the mayor? “Ned said with a snicker.
“I’m going uptown to Central Park.”
“Central Park is it?”
“A meeting with A. R.”
“Rothstein himself’ Are ye crazy, then?” Ned shook his head. “I ‘II tell ye this, boy, when I die they’s gonna be hell t ‘pay. When I get to heaven yer old man’s gonna kick my ass to Baltimore and back fer lettin ‘you go astray.”
“And well he should,” Keegan answered with his cockeyed smile.
Arnold Rothstein, who had been known as A. R. since his teens, was a democrat in the true sense of the word. Every day he held court on the same bench in the southwest corner of Central Park just of 59th Street, listening to deals, requests for loans, entertaining favors. Want to shack up with a chorus girl? Ask A. R. Want to buy a load of whiskey and willing to pay the interest? Ask A. R. Want to fix a cop, bribe a judge, dispose of a witness, fix the 1919 World Series? Ask A. R. Want to lose a bundle in a poker game? Sit across the table from A.R.
Keegan had leaned on the stone wall on Central Park South watching him for about ten minutes. Not as trim as his pictures showed him to be, Keegan thought. Getting bald. But you could sense the power in the man, sitting with his back ramrod straight in his gray pinstripe and polka dot bow tie. All brains, thought Keegan. There sits the most powerful gangster in the world. More powerful than Capone, Luciano, Costello, any of them. Just sitting there in the sun feeding the pigeons. It s a crazy world.
Finally he strolled down the path and stood in front of the big man. Rothstein looked up at him for a moment through narrowed eyes, then held out his hand.
“You must be Frankie Kee,’ he said.
A little cross-eyed, Keegan thought. He took the hand.
“Francis Keegan, Mr. Rothstein,” he answered.
“Call me A. R. Everybody calls me A. R. Take a load off “He patted the bench. Keegan sat down.
“Where’s Jimmy Noland?” Keegan asked, using Legs Diamond’s real name.
“Know Legs, do you?”
“Never met the man. I’ve always heard you want to meet Legs Diamond, find Arnold Rothstein.”
Rothstein laughed. “That c a kick in the ass, “ he said. “The way I heard it, you wanna meet A. R., find Legs
