Ponzi's Scheme by Mitchell Zuckoff Page B

against him, Curley persevered in his bid for a second mayoral term. The
Post
endorsed Congressman James A. Gallivan of South Boston for mayor, enabling Gallivan to take a big enough chunk of Curley’s core constituency to deny him reelection. With Gallivan and Curley splitting the Irish vote, the winner was Andrew J. Peters, a thoroughly forgettable Yankee. Peters’s only lasting mark on the city would be a dark one: his debauchery with an eleven-year-old girl who had been placed in his care.
    From the moment Curley lost the 1917 election, no one doubted he would engineer a return to the political stage. But the lesson was clear, and it applied to every ambitious man in the city: Boston would tolerate, even celebrate, a rogue who made his own rules and lined his own pockets, as long as he knew the limits. If he grew too bold or too flashy, or if his spoils became too big to ignore, he would be made to pay.
    P onzi arrived in Boston just in time to watch the Curley house scandal play itself out in the newspapers and the streets. Ponzi found himself rooting for Curley, whom he admired for his moxie and sense of style, and whom he considered a “likeable chap.”
    While the mayor was fighting for his political life, Ponzi went dutifully to work as a clerk and stenographer at the J. R. Poole Company, named for its owner, John R. Poole. Ponzi’s workplace was on South Market Street, in the shadow of the new Custom House Tower, a thirty-story, peaked-roof wonder of Italian renaissance architecture that was Boston’s first skyscraper. All around the area were bright colors and the wafting smells from the stalls of produce vendors, dairy merchants, and fishmongers. On his way to work Ponzi could hear the screams of gulls and see the masts of ships along Central and Long Wharfs. If he listened hard enough, he might hear his mother tongue carried on the wind from T Wharf, where the Italian fishermen congregated. A few steps away was Faneuil Hall, the Revolutionary War meeting place where Sam Adams had inflamed his compatriots upstairs and merchants sold their wares in a marketplace downstairs.
    For months Ponzi toiled to keep track of Poole’s extensive foreign businesses, only to be disappointed by his pay of sixteen dollars a week. At first, Ponzi considered the job a gamble in the futures market—the company was doing well and lavished its employees with promises of eventual rewards. He won a raise to twenty-five dollars a week, but still he struggled. “By starving one day and eating a little less the next one,” he complained, “we employees always managed, more or less, to keep handsomely in debt.”
    His only consolation was his certainty that he had established a firm foothold on the ladder up from manual labor. He had painted his last sign, washed his last dish, begged his last bowl of macaroni. Never again would he seek a menial job. But he was far from satisfied. It remained a long, unsteady climb to the top rung, and at thirty-five Ponzi was impatient about getting there. His impatience grew exponentially at the end of May 1917.
    On Memorial Day weekend, Ponzi accompanied his landlady, Myrtle Lombard, to a Boston Pops concert. Ponzi played mandolin and considered himself an aficionado of fine music, and Mrs. Lombard taught piano to neighborhood children. Afterward, music still in their ears, they made their way to the Boylston Street station to catch an electric streetcar to Mrs. Lombard’s house on Highland Avenue in nearby Somerville, home to a growing colony of Italian immigrants.
    As midnight approached, they stood on the platform waiting for the train. Looking around at the postconcert crowd, Ponzi noticed a lovely young woman. She was tiny, at four foot eleven just the right size for him, with rounded curves that defied the stick-figure fashions of the day. She had luxurious brown hair, lively dark eyes, and skin as smooth as Gianduja cream. An oil portrait painted of