Up in New York City, Rothstein treats the D'Alessios and Doyle to another of his life lessons. He says stock tickers, newswires, and radios are ushering in an age of information, and information is what causes businessmen live or die. He asks the ever oblivious Doyle why he (Rothstein) is a successful gambler. Doyle ventures foolishly, "Because you're lucky?" Rothstein points to Mr. Luciano on his left and snarks, "No, he's Lucky," then sets the galumph straight. Rothstein says he's successful because he never really gambles -- if he doesn't know the outcome of something, he doesn't bet. Leo immediately takes this as a reference that Rothstein put in the fixed on the World Series. Rothstein takes an exasperated pause and steers the conversation where he wants it to go -- to Nucky. He says that gambled on the hit against Nucky because Doyle promised he knew everything about him. Doyle cries ignorance that Kessler carried a gun, which proves Rothstein's point exactly. This goon's incompetence not only killed an innocent tourist but also managed to set the New York-Atlantic City war officially in motion by telling Nucky that Rothstein's gunning for him. One of the goons says they thought such a public assassination would send a message. The key ingredient here, of course, is not fucking it up. Lucky points out as much when he snaps, "You sent a message all right -- that you're idiots." Leo and Matteo hope that boldness will redeem them as they swear to bring Rothstein Nucky's head. Rothstein deadpans that he's "less than convinced." Leo asks how they can make it up to them. Returns Rothstein, "Nothing says I'm sorry like money." Cut back to Doyle who himself seem less than convinced.
Chicago. Al and one of Torrio's other underlings laugh like school boys as the boss talks business with some neighborhood heavies. As Torrio castigates them for their childishness, a local beer baron walks in for the meeting. He hands over an envelope full of money, and Torrio says he wants to talk about expanding on the North side. Al interrupts to hand Torrio a "Turkish" cigarette, which promptly blows up in Torrio's face when lit. Al belly laughs at his boss's expense and makes the mistake of thinking Torrio might be amused, too. Instead, he sweeps his espresso cup off the table and reads Al the riot act. Al looks like he just got slapped across his wrists with a ruler the size of a tree. Torrio embarrassedly reschedules the meeting for that Saturday when the beer baron's son has his bar mitzvah. Torrio gives Al a fiery look, spitting, "This ain't no fuckin' grade school."