Man Without Influence

One of the nation's humblest men is New York's Frank Costello, who doesn't want anyone to think that he is as influential as everybody says he is. When California's Commission on Organized Crime recently identified him as the probable head of a nationwide slot-machine syndicate, the Tammany judgemaker wrote to Earl Warreri: "Governor, the truth is that I have so little influence . . . that I can't square a traffic ticket for myself."

There was evidence last week of the palest smidgen of truth in what he said. It appeared that Frankie was unable to square his own dentist for a federal job. The gentleman, Dr. Charles L. Singer, had been nominated to run the U.S. Assay Office in New York City, a $7,432.20-a year job traditionally earmarked for Tammany. Dr. Singer was deserving: he had twice been an elector for Franklin Roosevelt. He also knew what gold was; he had filled teeth with it. He was elated: "Imagine! A presidential appointment announced at the White House. It is quite an honor."

The new assayer was all set for speedy Senate confirmation when anonymous letters began to trickle into Washington. All called attention to his prominent patient. New York's Republican Irving Ives suggested that the good dentist be looked into, after which point Dr. Singer announced that he was a very sick man, and didn't any longer want the job. Quietly, Harry Truman withdrew the nomination.

That was not the final indignity heaped upon patient Frankie Costello. Last week came word that Costello had been barred from the Turkish bath in Manhattan's Hotel Biltmore, across the street from Tammany headquarters. Some of the customers, said a hotel spokesman, preferred not to perspire in his presence.

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