BOOTLEGGING AND GRAFT
Prohibition, being a phenomenon, has inevitably bred other
phenomena. The most ardent fighters for a dry United States are the
Prohibitionists themselves--and the bootleggers. A new industry, which
flourishes every day, despite the honest attempts of the Government
to suppress it, has arisen. It brings in a fat profit to those who
enter it. An incredible army of active workers is marching--or rather
driving in motor-cars--through the land, doing a prosperous business.
They do not deposit their earnings in our banks; for if they did so,
the federal authorities could force them to pay an income tax. Instead,
they put them in the proverbial stocking; and after a sufficient number
of bank-notes--for it is usually a cash business that is carried
on--are available many of the bootleggers, who are mostly foreigners,
sail for parts unknown. There they intend to spend the rest of their
days in peace and comfort and opulence. Why not?
I am writing of the evils of bootlegging not only as they apply
to a great city like New York. In a certain western city of some
250,000 inhabitants--a city in a State which went dry long before the
constitutional amendment--a woman told me that all she had to do was
to ring up her favorite bootlegger when she was giving a dinner-party,
and practically anything she desired would be delivered at her door
within fifteen minutes. It is very difficult to get evidence against
these diligent business men, and I have encountered only a few people
who have conscientious scruples about dealing with them. It is hard to
be consistent concerning Volsteadism. If the Act itself plays merry
pranks on sea and shore, why should not human beings likewise forget
their dignity once in a while?
The bootlegging evil has begotten another evil. Graft is stalking
through the land, hand in hand with it. They are boon companions. They
are inseparable. Where one is, there you will always find the other.
Brothers in sin; Siamese twins. Damon and Pythias, Ruth and Naomi, were
not more devoted. But their unholy alliance has none of the virtues of
those ardent and ancient friendships.
There is always, in any illicit transaction, a man higher up who must
reap his share of the illegal profits. Usually, the American public
rebels at the middleman, resents his grasping proclivities; but
nowadays, being humanly thirsty, it has no time to quibble; and so
long as it gets its modicum of spirits, it has little fault to find
with the humanly fallible protector of the bootlegger who must receive
some attention. It is willing to pay almost anything for whiskey
or gin, and, used to being “done,” it good-naturedly recognizes
the authorities along the way who are in a position to open stores
of the desired stuff, and see that it is delivered to the crowding
bootleggers. It is an endless chain; and to become wealthy overnight
has always been the dream of the average American. With Prohibition,
he sees an opportunity such as never existed before, and thousands are
taking advantage of the situation.
When one considers the amount of revenue which formerly poured into the
coffers of the United States treasury because of the tax on alcohol,
and what the loss of that money must mean today to the Government, one
realizes that in some manner the deficit must be made up. The good
old genial public is again the goat, to fall into the vernacular.
Prices have risen since the passing of the Eighteenth Amendment. Hotel
proprietors, who formerly counted upon a considerable income through
their bars, now find themselves forced to charge higher prices for
food. Time was when, if one failed to order wine with one’s meals, an
extra twenty-five cents was asked. It was taken for granted that red or
white wine was a part of one’s ration, as it were; and those who failed
to indulge in the luxury were looked upon as rather curious specimens
of humanity. A table d’hôte, with _vin rouge_, was the regular thing;
and the wine was included in the price of the dinner. With the going
out of all forms of drinks, naturally there had to be a readjustment
of menu-cards. There is a tax now almost everywhere for bread and
butter; and a cover charge is made in practically all the metropolitan
restaurants. Gradually, one notes, these “extras” are creeping in. One
cannot blame the hotel-keepers. Rents and wages have increased since
the War; therefore they must ask more for their rooms, as well as for
their dining-room service. And where one formerly tipped in moderation,
the average waiter scorns anything less than fifteen or twenty per
cent of the amount of one’s check. The good-natured and long-suffering
American people are imposed upon at every turn. And, denied the
privilege of consuming liquor openly, they give dinners in their homes,
where at least there can be a semblance of harmless gayety. This causes
fewer people to go to the smart restaurants in a city like New York;
and generally there is no supper crowd at all. Lights are dimmed early;
and while I am holding no brief for late hours, I do think that human
beings should be permitted to organize their own lives, and decide for
themselves whether a supper-dance after the theater or the Opera is
harmful. At luncheon time the hotels present another aspect. They still
do a thriving business; but, as I have said in a previous chapter, for
many and many a year there had been little drinking in the middle of
the day.
With fewer people to serve, and fewer meals to serve, hotel men have
been driven to ask more for that service which they continue to render.
The one bright thought in this painful readjustment is the fact that
the Prohibitionists must help the rest of us to make up the loss of
revenue. Their checks, hitherto much less than ours, are now quite the
same. But, then, I imagine few of them have ever cared for brilliant
lights and smart napery, preferring to dine in the dim sanctity of
basements and back rooms at an hour so early that daylight has hardly
gone when the “supper bell” rings. The color and joy of the Ritz or the
Plaza would scarcely appeal to a fanatic.
But to get back to the bootleggers. There are many degrees of them.
Some are honest; others are not. Once in a while a gin bottle will
contain nothing but water; and sometimes whiskey will have been
diluted, and near-beer sold as the regular thing. Yet with an
established trade, and recognized business, conditions are improving.
Even as there is honor among thieves, the latest model of bootlegger
must play the game squarely; and those of the better class frown upon
chicanery, and are disgusted when spurious material is sold. They
realize that if inferior liquor is delivered, sales may soon cease
altogether. Therefore those who have their best interests at heart--and
their name is legion--are cautious and painstaking, and will honestly
tell a customer whether he is buying synthetic gin or pre-Volstead
stuff.
I do not pretend to know the workings of this nefarious trade; but
I do know this: that many Italians and Germans and Frenchmen, among
others, are doing a thriving business, and are only too glad to donate
part of their enormous commissions to the local ring who, in return,
offer them complete protection. And from talks which I have had with
various restaurant proprietors who likewise pay graft regularly, I
know that our Government has lost the respect of practically every
foreigner; for he sees not only his own people defying the law, but
the Americans disobeying it under his nose. He says that so long as
there are grapes on vines and apples on trees; so long as fermentation
is a natural process, there will be drinking in the world; and he
cannot understand why it is against the law to take a sip of red wine
with one’s spaghetti, or a nip of brandy with one’s coffee. It is all
incomprehensible to him. His children grow up, seeing him have no
reverence for the laws of the country he has adopted.
Of course the Prohibitionist will say that there is a very simple
solution of this. These foreigners within our gates should succumb to
the inevitable, and obey the law. True. I wish that everyone would
obey the law. The way for children not to be punished at school is for
them to behave themselves. But it is difficult to force people to do
something which it is inherently distasteful for them to do. We invite
immigration. We welcome hordes of people to our shores--people who, we
know, are accustomed to taking wine and beer with their meals; and then
we impose strict measures upon them, suddenly, and expect them to fall
into line. We should educate them first. We should let them know what
the Constitution means, what it stands for. We should insist that they
learn our language, study the history of the United States, absorb the
meaning of America before they attain citizenship. We are loose with
them; why should they not be loose with us? They see that we are none
too careful when we allow them to cross our threshold; why should they
help us tidy up the house after they are safely within it?
The truth is, if we would but face it, that we are thorough in
few things. We make a great pretense at civic virtue and national
righteousness, and we neglect the fundamentals. To the core of things
we seldom wish to go.
The bootlegger, laughing in his sleeve at the boasted and vainglorious
spiritual integrity of America, is but the natural result of our own
folly. He is as inevitable a part of so-called Prohibition as feathers
are a part of birds. As time goes on, his business now conducted in
secret may be conducted openly. He may become a recognized figure
in society, since we can never suppress him utterly. He is like the
bounder in every club, the _nouveau-riche_ in every drawing-room.
He has come to stay, more’s the pity. For an enormous percentage of
Americans approve of him, the while they disapprove of him. They know
his faults; but they say to themselves that even Congressmen have
faults; and they know down deep in their hearts that many a Congressman
and many an exalted Judge patronize the bootlegger, receive social
calls from him, and even speak to him on the telephone when they are
“out” to others. The bootleggers know all this. Why should they,
therefore, venerate a system which is not treated seriously by those in
the highest places? We are asking of them something superhuman. And the
latest development is that the bootleggers are now paying income taxes,
openly stating the source of their earnings, with no fear of getting
into trouble.
Meanwhile, the propaganda of the Anti-Saloon League goes on in the
newspapers, with this and that report of how a “ring of bootleggers”
has been wiped out. We read of sensational raids in the big cities; and
there is a cry that federal officers have “broken” the whole system to
pieces. Thousands of quarts of Scotch have been confiscated--where it
is placed, no one seems to know. Dry agents, in their zeal, even search
hearses, and make the undertakers--to say nothing of the bereaved
relatives of the deceased--quite angry. The time may come when X-rays
may be taken of innocent citizens, to discover whether they have been
drinking liquor. Do not smile. Anything is possible when a great
country allows itself to be governed by an organization of fanatics
who have intimidated Congress and seem bent upon ruining our shipping
industry.
But it would appear almost impossible to get honest men to act in
the capacity of spies. There is an everlasting “shake-up” of federal
officials who are supposed to see that the Volstead Act is enforced.
Here again the human element enters--that element which the fanatics
never recognize. The temptations are too great for the average man.
He knows that bootleggers are getting rich. And soon he sees that if
he closes his eyes and opens his hand, he too can become a Crœsus. At
first, it may be that he hesitates. There is danger of being caught.
Well, why not take a chance? he says to himself. Others are doing it.
After all, one has to live, and a six-cylinder car _would_ be nice.
Thus is the voice of conscience quieted; and soon it ceases to whisper
at all. That little Italian restaurant in his district--ah, yes! they
dispense drinks to the favored few who know the ring the bell must be
given. It would be so easy to pretend that he does not know of its
existence; and Tony, after all, is not such a bad sort. He’ll hand over
the kale, without a question, without a murmur.
And so one more federal official goes to the dogs, a man who until
yesterday was honest. Knowing that his lucrative career may be brief,
he has determined to make hay while the sun shines. And Prohibition has
created another crook in the wicked city, though of course it has cured
a drunkard in the virtuous country. And the Anti-Saloon people are
perfectly satisfied.
Are you?