Nelson Johnson - Boardwalk Empire - The Birth, High Times, and Corruption of Atlantic City

To the resort’s leaders, Martindell’s comments read like something out of a fantasy. They understood their town’s singular purpose. If the resort didn’t have a gimmick to revive vacationers’ interest, all would be lost. Unfortunately, Martindell’s pitch appealed to voters throughout the state, especially those in New Jersey’s decaying urban areas. Many politicians from other cities could see no reason why Atlantic City should be the lone beneficiary of a Constitutional Amendment.

The opposition found the media sympathetic to their views and despite the lack of resources—the pro-gaming effort outspent them 20 to 1—Goldstein, Martindell, and others were able to spread their message without the need of financing. An example of the message sent to the voters by the New Jersey’s media is an editorial of the Vineland Times Journal , which was reprinted in newspapers throughout the state:Once again the public is being conned, though this one must rank as one of the great con jobs of all time. What we’re being asked to believe is that by making it easier for farmers, wage earners, business owners, housewives, and retirees to lose their shirts at the crap table, the roulette wheels, the blackjack games, or slot machines (now, one must fly all the way to Nevada) this will be a stronger, healthier state, a better place in which to live.The big promotion of this colossal swindle comes from Atlantic City, whose politicians assert with a straight face that a century of racism, political and police corruption, exploitation of the poor, prostitution, and general sleaziness all will be reversed by the installation of gambling. Why, the finest folks in the country will all flock to Atlantic City, and Absecon Island will be restored to the ranks of the noble and the pure and well-fed.

Ignoring such vocal opposition, the supporters of gambling squandered the first six months of the campaign. Despite the tinsel and glitter, and the hype and hustle of Atlantic City’s past, it was still a laid-back town. Seventy years of corrupt one-party rule had produced a complacent mentality; whatever the problem, the Republican machine, in partnership with the racketeers and hotel owners, would solve it.

Grassroots-level social activism was nonexistent in Atlantic City. As far as resort voters were concerned, politics was the work of professionals like Kuehnle, Johnson, and Farley. With the disintegration of the Republican political ward system, there was nothing to hold things together. With no one to take charge, Atlantic City couldn’t find its way.

When things finally did get organized in mid-July, it was a feeble effort. A pollster hired by the campaign organization warned that the election would be close, but no one was listening. The initial fund-raising goal of $1 million was never reached; half that amount was spent. A first-rate public relations firm to sell the issue wasn’t retained and, more importantly, a statewide, county-by-county organization was never formed. Steve Perskie, Joe McGahn, and others criss-crossed the state debating Goldstein and the ministers, like a traveling vaudeville show, but there was no follow-up. The audiences who attended the debates received no mailings or phone calls from the supporters of gambling. No doors were knocked on and there was no coordinated effort to get out the vote. The pro-casino forces didn’t establish a single campaign headquarters outside of Atlantic County. Finally, the campaign had no soul, no theme, no rallying cry. There was nothing to grab the voters to make them vote YES.

The referendum failed miserably. It was defeated by a margin of more than 400,000 votes, carrying only two counties, Atlantic and Hudson. The question was crushed everyplace else. It was like a kick in the ass to a tired old whore who had lost her charm. A wave of despair washed over the city. For many area residents it was hard to imagine a future for their town.

There were brave statements of how the resort would have to move onto other ideas, but for many of Atlantic City’s residents, the defeat loomed as the final chapter of their town’s history. Those who could afford to relocate their businesses and homes out of the area were making plans to do just that. It seemed all was lost. In the weeks that followed, a bumper sticker summing up the town’s plight became popular. It read, “Last one off the island, turn out the lights.”

10

A Second Bite at the Apple

It began to rain as she was getting off the bus, and her umbrella was at home. The walk was only two blocks, but her hip slowed her down and by the time she reached city hall she was drenched. Lea Finkler was a transplant from New York City, but everyone knew her and respected her commitment to Atlantic City’s senior population. Hunched over by age yet slender, almost petite, she was a frail, bespectacled, shabbily dressed woman with an ashen complexion and short gray hair. Despite her appearance Lea’s eyes gave her away; she was no one to mess with.

Lea Finkler was a “gray panther” long before the term was coined or senior citizens organized into interest groups. Her contempt for politicians was notorious, and Atlantic City’s elected officials cringed at the thought of confronting her. She had come to the city commission meeting and, as usual, bullied her way onto the agenda demanding to be heard. She was there to complain about street crime. Two days earlier, one of her friends was beaten and robbed outside her apartment house at mid-afternoon by several teenage thugs. Lea was in a rage. “We’re prisoners. It’s been years since we’ve been able to walk the street or stroll the Boardwalk after dark. Now we can’t even leave our homes to buy bread and milk. What are you bums going to do about it?”

They heard her, but no one was listening. They were used to Lea and tuned her out the instant she opened her mouth. When she was finished one of the commissioners asked her to be patient and promised he’d speak with the police. He told her there were no easy answers but that the long-term solution was to rebuild the resort’s economy through casino gambling. A second referendum was being prepared, and after it passed, the streets would be safe for everyone. Rather than hurling insults, she was told to organize her friends to support gambling. Lea was unimpressed and left grumbling in disgust.

For those people serious about rebuilding Atlantic City, there never was a thought of abandoning the quest for casino gambling. While the first referendum was a debacle, it was a valuable learning experience for the pro-casino forces. The months following the 1974 defeat were spent analyzing the campaign, and in a short time most people realized what had gone wrong. Joe McGahn and Steve Perskie had misread the voters’ fears about gambling. They were overly sensitive to the public’s perception of Atlantic City, concerned that singling out the resort as the only community to be permitted gambling would appear to be greedy. Nevertheless, polls taken shortly after the election revealed that was what the voters feared most, namely, the potential of gambling everywhere. The voters had visions of slot machines in drugstores and gas stations in every community and they were turned off to the idea. They wanted gambling restricted to Atlantic City.

Another misconception dealt with the private ownership of casinos. It was thought that by proposing state-owned and -operated casinos, voters would have more confidence that they’d be run honestly and efficiently. But the voters knew better. They didn’t want bureaucrats running casinos and believed the only people who would invest any serious money in Atlantic City were private developers. Thus, by narrowing the focus of their new question to Atlantic City alone, and permitting private development of casinos, it was felt that the resort would be able to face the state’s voters a second time on more favorable terms. But McGahn and Perskie knew these changes weren’t enough.