ATLANTIC CITY, N.J. � While Enoch "Nucky" Johnson was running things in Prohibition-era Atlantic City � including booze, hookers and gambling dens � a teenager named Ed Devlin was getting a taste of Johnson's real-life "Boardwalk Empire" from the periphery.
Johnson, who will be played by Steve Buscemi in the HBO series that begins Sunday, was the unquestioned boss of the resort, and Devlin won enough of his trust to run some small-time numbers. He also heard the most powerful man in Atlantic City talk about his plans to control the resort, its police force and the state police.
Before he finished high school, Devlin had already learned how to take bets from people and deliver money � on time � to the bookies, how much northside hookers charged for an encounter and, most of all, the one rule in Atlantic City: never cross Nucky.
"In my world, he was a god," said Devlin, now 89 years old. "Atlantic City was my kingdom, and he was the king."
His high school yearbook lists his name as Edward "Nucky" Devlin � a nickname he earned because everyone knew Devlin had the ear of the biggest man in town.
For 30 years, until he was finally sent to prison for tax evasion, Johnson dominated Atlantic City � then one of the nation's leading resorts. He controlled not only the Republican political machine that had a stranglehold on government, but also made sure it was what Devlin called "a wide-open town, with gambling, prostitution and booze right out in the open."
Johnson did this by controlling not only the local police department, but by currying enough favor with state authorities so that when the state police had to conduct an obligatory raid from time to time, Nucky would get advance warning. The liquor and gambling equipment were hustled into boats that sped offshore. Hookers were either moved or told to lay low.
It was in this world that Devlin came of age. His father was a local eye doctor who knew most people in town, including Johnson. He introduced his son to the boss, who took a liking to the boy and unfailingly referred to him as "kid."
"Hiya doing, kid? How's things, kid?" Johnson would say every time they met, which Devlin estimated was every other day for at least 10 years.
One night in 1926 when Devlin and his father were waiting for a boxing match to start at the Million Dollar Pier, they saw Johnson stroll in with Harry Moore, the leading candidate for governor of New Jersey.
"I turned to my dad and said, `What's Nucky doing with Harry Moore?'" Devlin recalled. A few days later, Devlin recalled, he asked Johnson, "I saw you at the fights. You were with Harry Moore. He's a Democrat; you're a Republican."
"He says, `Kid, I want to talk to you,'" Devlin said. "So we went into his private office, first door on the left, and he says, `This is a small county. It doesn't have enough votes to control anything. We have to control the Statehouse in order to control the state police. That way they won't come in and raid a place.'"
Like most other Atlantic City residents, young Devlin fell under Johnson's sway, admiring his power, charm and the way he took care of poor or out-of-work families. A household having trouble keeping warm would suddenly find their coal bin filled. A jobless father would be hired for a week or two cleaning up the beach or sweeping streets. Gifts of clothing or food were common � and there was no doubting where they came from.
"He took care of people," said Allen "Boo" Pergament, an Atlantic City history buff who was 12 when he met Johnson. "He could have been a thug and demanded things, and people would have responded out of fear. But he was loved and respected because of the way he took care of people. It bought their loyalty."
Pinky Kravitz, an Atlantic City radio host, also knew Johnson, and confirmed that Devlin and the boss were pals. The 83-year-old Kravitz recalled watching Johnson at a community meeting in an African-American neighborhood, where he dispensed largesse.
"He said, `Mrs. Johnson, you need coal? You're going to have a ton of coal tomorrow. Mr. Smith, you need a job?'" Kravitz recalled. "He went around the room calling out the names of people, asking what they needed."
Devlin ran numbers for local bookmakers, taking care to get the picks and the cash to the storefront boss on Kentucky Avenue by 12:15 p.m. � 12:30 at the absolute latest � before the winning number was announced at 1 p.m. The payoff: 500-to-1. His take as a street-level runner was 15 percent.
"One day, I made 12 dollars," he said. "At that time, the Works Progress Administration was paying $9 a week, $12 if you were politically connected. We had an apartment where the rent was $7 a month.
"I came home on cloud nine that day, a big shot," he recalled. "I had made $12 in a few hours by running numbers."
Devlin also lined up a messenger job with a brothel on North Michigan Avenue.
"If they wanted a blonde or a redhead, I would take the key to the house where they were," Devlin said. "I did very well."
One day, Devlin worked up enough courage to tell one of the hookers he was interested in her services.
"I don't have much money," he told her. "She said, `It's 25 cents.' Those were the days!"
Devlin had no qualms about what he was doing, because everyone else seemed to be doing it, too.
"I accepted that way of life," he said. "I had no chance to think that this was illegal or unconstitutional or against the law; it was part of the community I was raised with from the time I could walk and think."
Devlin went on to own two gift shops on the Atlantic City Boardwalk that remain to this day, with his wife taking care of day-to-day matters.
In Nucky's day, Devlin's uncle, "an ex-Marine who believed in doing things strictly by the book," was an Atlantic City police officer. One day when the two were out together, his uncle saw a car stop and make a U-turn in the middle of the street. Ticket book in hand, he flagged down the offending vehicle, and told the driver he had broken the law.
"You know who I am?" the driver said.
"Yes, Nucky," his uncle said.
Devlin went pale watching his uncle write a ticket to the most powerful man in town.
"Ten days later, I saw my uncle again," Devlin said. "He was no longer a police officer. He had been relieved of his office. My relatives were all mad at him. They said, `What were you thinking, giving a ticket to Nucky Johnson?'"
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Online:
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