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The sensation was even more pleasurable than sex, another pastime he was introduced to at Pendleton’s. Soon, gambling became an obsession. It was all he could think about or wanted to do. At every second, he felt the uncontrollable urge to bet. He had no willpower, no control over his actions; the desire had taken hold of him, like a puppeteer manipulating the wires of a marionette.
    At Pendleton’s, George met James T. Kent. They took an instant liking to each other. Kent was one of George’s own, a rich, dashing figure with a great deal of charm and intelligence. And the man knew how to enjoy himself.
    If Pendleton’s was the apogee of pleasure houses, however, below it swam a multitude of grimy, low-life establishments. Along the Bowery and Broadway were sleazy dance halls, whorehouses, and gambling dens that catered to the scum of the earth. In addition to games of chance like keno, dice, and craps, they offered wagers on cockfights, prizefights, dogfights, ratting, and horse racing. In addition to its opium dens, Chinatown had its own native gambling called fan-tan and pai gow.
    George discovered these places by pure accident. A Harvard professor persuaded him to volunteer in the industrial school of the Children’s Aid Society, and to George’s delight, he discovered he had a gift for teaching. He loved working with children. But the mission was located in one of the city’s vilest neighborhoods—the Lower East Side, which averaged four gambling dens per block. Like a little boy in a confectioner’s shop, George couldn’t help himself. And he could never walk away from the table when he was ahead—he had to keep playing.
    In the fall of ’85, his luck turned. A long losing streak began, one he couldn’t pull himself out of. George found himself deep in debt, constantly chasing his losses. He drained his inheritance from his grandfather, which was meant to pay for his graduate studies at Columbia. It felt like he was running on an endless railroad track, trying to catch up with the last car of the train. He’d reach out and almost grab on, but then the train would accelerate at the last second and pull away, leaving him deep in debt again.
    After a particularly catastrophic loss on a horse named Gray Ghost, George approached Kent for credit. That day began his fatal descent. Kent gladly extended loans and credit to him. For a while, some of George’s luck returned, allowing him to repay Kent. This opened the door to more loans, and more again. Then the losing streak returned with a vengeance. It had continued until the day of George’s reckoning at Delmonico’s.
    A knock sounded at the door.
    â€œDamn you, Mary Morse. I don’t want to go on a walk,” George growled.
    â€œMaybe they want that drink,” Flannigan said, moving to open the door. Then, “Christ Almighty, Pretty Kitty McGowan, what the hell are you doing here?”
    In the doorway stood a ravishingly beautiful woman with jet-black hair, a dark complexion, and large brown eyes. George thought she could have been described as Creole.
    â€œOn special assignment, Tommy. Here, take this double eagle and sample the goods in the bar.” She deftly flipped up a coin. With equal dexterity, Flannigan snapped it out of the air and left the room.
    â€œKitty,” gasped George. “Oh, Kitty.” He ran over to her and took her in his arms. “Oh God, it’s good to see you.”
    Kitty held George for a long time, burying her head against his chest. Finally, George took a step back and looked at her. Even amid all the fashionable ladies in the lobby, she was by far the most beautiful and elegant. No one would’ve suspected she was among the most desirable whores in New York, the darling of every scion, captain of industry, bank president, and Wall Street stockbroker.
    George had met Kitty at Miss Jennie’s, a discreet and handsomely furnished brothel that