Meanwhile in NEW YORK CITY, your diligent recapper just spent the last ten minutes staring at the establishing shot of the Times Square of 1920 -- the lack of skyscrapers is obviously most striking, but I'm also struck by how the flattened base of the "V" where Broadway and 7th Ave. cross each other still looks remarkably of itself. (Also of note: the Hotel Astor, which was demolished in 1967.) ANYWAY, Rothstein is playing pool in a finely appointed billiards room when Luciano shows up with Frankie Yale, who we all recognize as the guy who popped Big Jim last week. Seems words gets around, because Arnold and Lucky know too. I'm still in love with the Rothstein/Luciano dynamic, which sometimes (like now) comes across like the yappy little pup begging the bigger, calmer dog to let him tear into this guy. But Rothstein knows what he wants (in this case: who ordered the hit on Colosimo) and how to get it, so he opts for a more steady handed intimidation tactic: he tells Frankie a story, about a pool-hall braggart who used to be able to swallow billiard balls halfway down his gullet, then regurgitate it back up. He made his living wagering on his ability to do just this. So one evening, Rothstein challenged him to do it with a ball of Arnold's choosing. "Now, he knew I'd seen him do this a thousand times," Rothstein says, "so I can only surmise that he thought I was stupid." I like that wrinkle, too. You get the feeling Rothstein made a lot of money off of people who underestimated him, to their peril. Like this poor bastard in the story, who tried to swallow the cue ball Rothstein picked out for him. Only Arnold knew cue ball was 1/16th of an inch bigger than the rest, and the guy choked to death. The moral of this story, according to Rothstein? If he'd make a guy choke to death just 'cause, what does Frankie think he'll do to him if he doesn't say who ordered the hit? We don't see what happens next, but it looks like Frankie got the message.
Meanwhile, Jimmy and Angela are catching some afternoon delight while Tommy sleeps -- in the SAME ROOM, mind you. Poor people are PERVS, yo. Jimmy's surprisingly tender for a war-scarred junior mafia (no, not that one) type who just 'sploded some guy's head a few days prior. But Angela puts on the brake lights when he starts reaching downward, as it's "not a good time." Jimmy says he doesn't mind (trooper!), but Angela suggests doing "something else." Jimmy's intrigued: "Maybe we could do it the French way." Um ... okay, now I'M intrigued. To a guy just recently back from WWI, what IS "the French way"? ...Oh, he just means in the mouth. Ange is game, god bless 'er, even though she warily looks over at sleeping Tommy. She goes to town, though, but just as they're getting to the good part, Tommy wakes up, all "Mama, where are you? I can't find you!" Mama's a little busy under the covers there, Oedipus Q. Cockblock, damn. Coitus having been officially interrupted, Angela instead offers to cook Jimmy a steak. Wow, a blowjob AND a steak? This scene must've given Ann Coulter such a giant boner.