The visitor introduced himself as Harry Heller. The name wasn't important—but his position was. He was a senator from the state of Nevada. At the moment, he didn't have time for an extended conversation with Charlie Luciano, but he could meet with him after dinner tonight—at nine o'clock. The specific address was known by the broker.
After a brief exchange, Heller turned and left, and another political broker approached. After a few quick muttered sentences, he introduced a liquor merchant. The discussion was nothing more than the usual about Nevada's repeal of liquor prohibition and what the final situation might turn out to be.
The corridor next to the legislative chamber wasn't exactly a marketplace, but it might as well have been. This was the colorful and much-discussed part of American democracy known as "corridor deals," "under-the-gallery deals," or the "ten-minute deal."
Political brokers, often part of what were called "outside lobbying groups," used promises and influence to reach legislators—sometimes even meddling directly in legislation. Because early brokers typically caught legislators in the ten-minute breaks before a vote to strike quick deals in the corridor, these arrangements became known as "corridor deals."
Why not talk things out earlier or in private? That had to do with how legislation was passed in the U.S.—through a process called "section-by-section voting." Many important bills weren't passed all at once but in parts.
Interest groups wanted favorable clauses passed and unfavorable ones stalled, so they had to fight tooth and nail in the corridors—pulling every trick to sway the lawmakers.
After all, politicians are known for their flexible moral standards. And with votes being anonymous, no one could be sure they wouldn't suddenly change their stance.
That was exactly the situation now. Nevada's legislation was about to be voted on. Dozens of legislators, the governor, and the secretary of state were all present. It was a battleground for various political forces and organizations. No one would know the final result until the last vote was counted.
That meant now was the moment—the last ten minutes—for a final sprint.
Once granted permission, the political broker handed Charlie Luciano a note that had been prepared ahead of time. The short meeting concluded—this too was a form of transaction.
Normally, meeting a senator in person was nearly impossible. These dignitaries only showed up before the people during election campaigns. The rest of the time, who knew whether they were in their holiday villas or luxury hotels?
The three left the Nevada State Capitol. Charlie Luciano and Meyer Lansky were in good spirits. With their years of experience, they knew that the hardest part was always getting to the politicians themselves. Once you had access, throwing enough money around usually did the trick. By that measure, today's trip had definitely been worth it.
Of course, not every American politician was corrupt. There were likely a few upright ones who kept their hands clean and wouldn't touch dirty money. But such "clean officials" were rare.
Speaking of which, in Yes, Minister, Humphrey appeared to never accept bribes. But if you looked closer, he was just relatively clean. For example, the oil companies would buy out entire rows of seats at the Royal Theatre and invite senior civil servants to attend—free of charge. This gave them the joy of cultural events while keeping them away from what they deemed vulgar: movies, football, and other "low-class" entertainment.
Or take Arnold, who before his retirement requested to be chairman of the Caribbean Association. What he really wanted was to go on an all-expense-paid vacation to the Caribbean every winter.
They looked squeaky clean on the surface, but they were just exploiting the rules and taxpayers for their own benefit. How was that any different from corruption?
Anyway, time to worry about their own problems. Mobilizing five million in clean money was no small feat. Large-scale cash movement would instantly attract the attention of the IRS. In fact, any major cash transaction in the U.S. would be flagged.
Even Charlie Luciano and his crew found it difficult to raise such a large sum. All Neal knew was that they brought three big suitcases from Chicago, and those definitely didn't hold five million. They'd have to pull funds from elsewhere—which was troublesome enough.
Back at the hotel, Neal sat anxiously alone. This was his first time acting as a behind-the-scenes advisor, and he was understandably nervous. He paced around until past eleven, when Charlie Luciano and Meyer Lansky finally returned, their faces beaming.
There was no need to ask—it was clear they had mostly succeeded. They casually threw off their jackets, flung their ties aside, and shouted for drinks.
"Neal! That idea of yours about the Indian Reservation was genius!" Meyer Lansky was visibly excited.
"Hahahaha... the guy was hesitant at first, but once we dropped that idea, he agreed on the spot." Charlie Luciano downed his drink in one go.