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1912 Manhattan. A cold rain slicks the
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cobblestones of a city that never
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sleeps. Even then, gas lamps hiss,
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casting pools of yellow light on the
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imposing facade of the hotel metropole.
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A gray Packard automobile sits at the
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curb, silent. Out of the shadows, four
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figures approach a well-dressed man. The
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late night theater crowd scatters a
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frozen tableau of dawning horror.
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This is the moment before violence.
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These are the faces of the men who deal
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in it. Jewish gangsters dressed in dark
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suits and bowler hats. Their expressions
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cold, professional. They are the product
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of a world far from these fancy Midtown
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streets. Their story and the story of so
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many like them begins decades earlier.
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It begins with a steam and iron and
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desperate hope of Ellis Island. Ciatoned
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photographs show us their faces,
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exhausted families, clutching bundles
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and children, a mixture of hope and
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terror as they face the new world. They
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fled poverty and persecution in Europe
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only to find a new kind of struggle in
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the promised land. They poured into New
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York's Lower East Side, a neighborhood
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packed beyond belief. The streets were a
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chaotic symphony of pushkarts, towering
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tenement buildings draped in laundry,
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and the constant hum of a 100,000 lives
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squeezed into a few square blocks.
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Yiddish signs hung over storefronts in a
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world that was both a sanctuary and a
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cage. Inside these tenementss, the
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pressure intensified. A single room
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might hold a family of eight. A mother
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hunches over a sewing machine. A father
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is often absent and children learn the
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harsh realities of life on the floor of
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their crowded home. This intimate
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poverty, this constant struggle for a
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sliver of light from a single window was
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the crucible. For the children,
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childhood was a luxury. Many were sent
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to work in garment factories, their
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small hands guiding fabric under the
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needle's relentless stitch. Lewis Hina's
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haunting photographs capture their
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exhausted expressions under the harsh
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factory lights. This was the reality
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that bred resentment. On the street
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corners, a different path was taking
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shape. Groups of teenage boys, shabby
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but defiant, learned the rules of a
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different game. A roll of the dice, a
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hand in a pocket, suggesting a concealed
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weapon. This was the first step away
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from the factory and towards the life.
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Out of this crucible rose the first
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king, Monk Eastman, a powerfully built
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man with a broken nose and a face
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scarred by countless brawls. His
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three-piece suit strained over a boxer's
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frame, yet he was known to hold a small
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cat with surprising tenderness. This was
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Monk Eastman, a contradiction of brute
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force and unexpected gentleness. His
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territory was the Lower East Side. His
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enforcers gathered on corners, and
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ordinary people knew to give them a wide
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birth. His power was raw, physical, and
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it got the attention of the city's real
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rulers. In smoke-filled back rooms, a
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corrupt partnership was forged between
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gangsters like Eastman and the
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politicians of Tam Hall. For a price,
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crime was allowed to flourish.
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But this world was violent. Gang battles
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erupted on the streets like the infamous
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shootout on Rivington Street. A chaotic
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ballet of gunfire and fleeing civilians.
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The era of the fist and the club was
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bloody and ultimately unsustainabl. When
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monk Eastman was finally arrested, his
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defiant glare captured by press
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photographers, it marked the end of an
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era. The fall of the first king taught a
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valuable lesson. Brun wasn't enough. A
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new model was emerging. A young man
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named Arnold Rothstein. He was only 23.
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But his intelligent, calculating eyes
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saw the world differently. Impeccably
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dressed, Rothstein was the brain to
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Eastman's brawn. He didn't run a street
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gang. He ran a criminal enterprise. From
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his regular booth at Lindy's restaurant,
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surrounded by subordinates hanging on
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his every word. Rothstein operated like
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a shadow banker for the entire
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underworld. He was the man you went to
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for financing, for fixing problems, for
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rigging the biggest game of all. His
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reach became national. on a map in his
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office. Pins and strings connected
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cities, visualizing the first true
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organized crime network. His influence
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was so vast he could corrupt the great
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American pastime itself, fixing the 1919
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World Series, a scandal that shook the
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nation. Rothstein was a professor of
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crime, and his students were paying
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close attention. Among them were two
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teenagers from the Lower East Side, a
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shrewd Jewish kid named Meer Lansky and
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a tough Italian named Lucky Luciano.
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Standing side by side, they represented
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the future. They saw the limitations of
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the old ethnic rivalries. They learned
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from Rothstein that the real money, the
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real power was an organization. But even
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the professor's time runs out. In 1928,
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Arnold Rothstein was found slumped in a
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hotel corridor, shot in the stomach. His
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death created a power vacuum, but it
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also graduated his students. The old
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ways, the bloody street wars between
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Italian and Jewish factions had to end.
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In 1931, in a smoke-filled hotel suite,
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the future was decided. The bosses,
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Italian and Jewish, sat around a large
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table and formed the National Crime
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Commission. This was the birth of modern
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organized crime as a coast to coast
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corporation. And at that table, a small
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unimposing man held a position of
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immense power. Meer he was the
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accountant among warriors. The financial
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genius who understood that profit was
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the ultimate goal. The commission needed
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an enforcement arm, a way to handle
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disputes permanently and professionally.
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This led to the creation of Murder
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Incorporated. From the backroom of a
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humble candy store in Brownsville,
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Brooklyn, a team of killers waited by
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the phone for contracts. It was the
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industrialization of murder run like a
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business. The CEO of this deadly
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corporation was Louis Lep. He looked
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more like a corporate executive than a
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killer. A respectable looking man who
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was for a time the most feared man in
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America. Of course, not everyone fit
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neatly into this new corporate
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structure. Men like Dutch Schulz, a
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brilliant but dangerously volatile beer
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baron from the Bronx, were a problem.
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His restless energy and unpredictable
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nature made him a threat to the
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commission's stability. He was a
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cautionary tale. In this new world, a
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lack of control was a fatal weakness.
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The commission eventually had him
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killed. Others dreamed of a different
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kind of legitimacy. Benjamin Bugsy
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Seahill, movie star, handsome and
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charismatic, went west to Hollywood. He
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saw the future not in the grimy streets
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of New York. But in the desert sands of
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Nevada, he envisioned a palace of
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glamour and gambling, a place where the
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mob's money could be washed clean under
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the bright neon lights. He stood in the
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desert, surveying the skeletal structure
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of his Flamingo Hotel, a dream rising
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from the sand. But Seagull's dream was
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built on the commission's money. And
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when he went over budget, they collected
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the debt. He was assassinated in his
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Beverly Hills home. A brutal end to a
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beautiful dream. Yet his vision survived
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him. The Las Vegas strip with the
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Flamingo as its crown jewel became the
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mob's greatest monument. A glittering
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empire built on Seagull's ambition and
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Lansky's financial genius. At the peak
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of his power, Meer Lansky could be found
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in the casinos of Havana, Kuba,
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overseeing a vast international empire.
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The kid from the Lower East Side had
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become a king. But Empire's fall, the
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forces of law, personified by determined
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investigators and plain government suits
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were playing a long game. The break came
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when one of murder incorporated own
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killers, Abriel's became an informant.
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His testimony began to bring the whole
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structure down. The corporate killer Lep
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Kabukar became the only major mob boss
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ever to be executed by the state. His
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death in Singh's electric chair marked
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the end of murder incorporated. The
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world changed. The alliances frayed. The
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old neighborhood was disappearing. Meer
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Lansky, the great survivor, watched it
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all fade. He outlasted them all. Living
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into old age in Miami Beach, a modest
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figure walking his dog. But even he
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couldn't escape the past. In a final
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bitter irony, he sought to retire to
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Israel, the Jewish homeland, under the
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law of return. He was rejected. The
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gangster had no home. He died in Miami,
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the last of the kings. His vast hidden
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fortune, a subject of legend. Today, if
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you walk through the Lower East Side,
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you'll see luxury condos where
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tenementss once stood. A chained
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restaurant sits where Lindy's once
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buzzed with the whispers of Arnold
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Rothstein and his crew. The physical
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world has been scrubbed clean of their
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memory. The story exists now, mostly in
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aging photographs, their edges
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deteriorating, being swallowed by time.
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But the past is never truly gone. If you
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look closely, you can almost see them
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ghostly figures and derby hats and
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tailored suits walking these same
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streets. The Ghosts of the Jewish
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Gangsters. A brutal, brilliant, and
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uniquely American story waiting to be
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remembered. Thank you for watching.
9:37
Don't forget to like and subscribe for
9:39
more hidden histories.
