MANNERS & MORALS: I Never Sold Any Bibles


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The scarred and swarming tenements along Harlem's East 108th Street have changed little since Gambler Frank Costello was a boy. The towers of the Triborough Bridge now float in the sky just beyond their chimneys, and a snare-drum roll of traffic drifts up from the modern East River Drive. Negroes and Puerto Ricans choke the slums to west and north. But the old neighborhood is still Italian. Its sidewalk garbage cans (each with its cover chained to prevent theft), its great, voracious rats, its smells, its endless noise, are...

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