LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER 2

       CHICANERY IN CHICAGO

      I had been away from Jessie, my fiance, for several months and was anxious to see her. She and her family welcomed me back, and that winter, I saw her often. She thought I was a traveling salesman for a reputable firm, but I told her that I was tired of the road and intended to set up my own business in Chicago.

      In those days, a woman seldom questioned a man’s work. Her place was strictly in the home. Jessie didn’t ask me about the sort of salesmanship I was engaged in. It was many years, long after we were married, before she found out that I was anything but a respectable business man.

      She and her mother were devout members of the Sacramento Congregational Church in Chicago. With them I attended services every Sunday. The minister had a forceful delivery, using a clever choice of words to sway his audience.

      This set me to thinking. I said to myself, “Joe, you are not capable of hard physical work. You’re too frail. Whatever you accomplish in life must be done through words. You have that ability. You can make words beautiful and scenic. What marble is to sculpture, what canvas is to painting, words can be to you. You can use them to influence others. You can make them earn your living for you.”

      As I have said, that minister made a deep impression on me. I wondered would he help me enter a good theological seminary where I could study to be a pulpiteer. I broached the subject to Jessie and her mother. They were overjoyed.

      One Sunday evening we waited after services and approached the minister. His advice was realistic.

      “First,” he said, “you must give your soul and your whole life to God. Have you done that?”

      “Not yet,” I admitted.

      “Are you familiar with the Scriptures?”

      “Some of them. Not all.”

      “You’ve got to make up your mind that you will give yourself to the work,” he urged. “Then you will have to be able to pay your way through school.”

      “I can pay part of it,” I said. “And I imagine I can work to pay the rest of it.”

      “Yes, that can be done,” declared the minister, “if your heart is in it. Here is what I advise you. First read some religious texts. Study religion for a while in your own way. Then if you are ready to give your life to God, come back to me and I will tell you how and where to enroll.”

      That minister must have been psychic. He must have realized that my heart had not been given over to God, but that I was seeking a career to further my own ends. However, he gave me a list of books to read.

      First was the Bible. I read through it, then the other volumes he had recommended. I supplemented these with books of my own choice. I studied the lives of Moses, Buddha, and Mohammed. I secured a copy of the Catholic Encyclopedia and read that.

      The net result was that I lost all desire to become a pulpiteer. There were so many inconsistencies I could not reconcile that I became an iconoclast. I arrived at these conclusions: Man has all the bestiality of the animal, but is cloaked with a thin veneer of civilization; he is inherently dishonest and selfish; the honest man is a rare specimen indeed.

      However, my reading firmly convinced me of the power of words. I felt that its proper use could lead me to fortune. In that I was to be right. The use of words led me to many fortunes.

      When I told Jessie that I had decided that I was not cut out to be a preacher she accepted my judgment. She continued, however, as organist at the Sacramento Church and retained her faith. Though I became an iconoclast, I attended the services because of my great love for her. And I still have a high regard for that minister and his power with words.

      In those days, the police were not like our police of today. The force was not so large, and the Detective Bureau had not yet been organized. The Municipal Court was not a big organization. Most of the courts were operated by justices of the peace. We called them “Justice Shops.” Each justice had his own constables, who were the detectives of that period.

      There was practically no restriction on either gambling or vice. A man could earn money by his wits without any interference from the constables or the police. There was none of this pickup business, where a man is locked up and held indefinitely in a cell without a charge being placed against him.

      Both civil and criminal cases were tried in the Justice Shops. I knew one of the magistrates quite well - Judge Aldo. He used to send me out to select jurors. Juries were composed of six men. When I was assigned to get a jury, I was, first of all, told which way the case was to be decided.

      Naturally I went into the saloons. I’d tap a man on the shoulder and say: “How would you like to make a couple of easy dollars?”

      If he was interested, I explained to him that he would have to vote right - to earn his money. In this way, I picked up half-a-dozen men, led them into Judge Aldo’s court, and saw them sworn in as jurors. The trial of course, was a farce - the verdict had been decided before the jury had even been assembled.

      I picked up money in various ways, hanging around the saloons and hotels - always by persuasive words, playing upon the gullibility of some sucker who was anxious to make easy money at someone else’s expense.

      But most of my time was spent at the race tracks. There was no pari-mutuel system then. Bets were accepted by bookmakers and betting commissioners who determined their own odds. I pretended to be in the confidence of owners of race horses and sold inside tips to other bettors.

      I made no bets myself, because I soon learned that there is no such thing as smart money at a racecourse. I yearned to be an owner of race horses myself, but the time for that was not yet.

      I had sold the plug I had acquired from the farmer,

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