The Policy Kings of the Sixth Ward

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Old Policy Wheel, by Walter Ellison (1935). A depiction of a Chicago policy game. 

(Photo from chicagomodern.org)

In July 1948, Milwaukee Journal scribe Doyle Getter published a shocking series of articles detailing the inner workings of the “policy” racket in Milwaukee ’s largely-African American Sixth Ward. He accused the Milwaukee Police Department of not only being aware of the prevalence of the illegal lottery, but also of being complicit in its operation by accepting gifts and bribes from the Sixth’s policy kings. Getter wrote that the top men in Milwaukee policy were virtually above the law and that the enterprise generated nearly $1 million annually.

Policy – also known as the numbers – was first introduced to Milwaukee around 1870. The concept of the game is very similar to the variety of state lottery games that exist today. Players chose a series of numbers from between 1 and 78 and placed a bet on those numbers being drawn on the local “wheel.” Payouts were based on the amount of money bet and the length of the series of numbers.

Frank Dalzell was the city’s first numbers boss. Dalzell oversaw a small army of “writers” – men who collected bets – stationed in saloons and barber shops across the city. He was a part of a national circuit of policy bosses, who each received the winning numbers via telegraph from daily drawings in Covington , Kentucky . Dalzell found loyal players among many of Milwaukee ’s ethnic groups, particularly the city’s small African American population. “[ Milwaukee ’s] Negroes,” The Sentinel wrote in 1882, “are inveterate policy players.”

Indeed, policy flourished in minority communities across the nation. In cities like Harlem, Chicago , and Detroit , some of most powerful and wealthy members of the African American community were the local policy kings. Local control over the racket in Milwaukee ’s black community, per the Getter article, dated back to the 1920s. The first big money operator was Burt “Trilby” Caldwell, who ran the “Uptown” wheel. Other players soon got into the mix, including tavern operator Thomas Clinton “Joe” Harris and smoke shop owner Charles “Smoky” Gooden.

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The Gooden and Ard Smoke Shop, 1426 N. 6th Street, known policy headquarters in the Sixth Ward and alleged site of pay-offs to vice police. Gooden is at the far right. (Milwaukee Journal, July 18, 1948)

Policy had evolved by the time Caldwell, Harris, and Gooden began operating. The prevalence of rigged number drawings caused many operators to simplify their games. Winning numbers were by then often three digit combinations, pulled from public sources such as the last three numbers of the US Treasury’s end-of-day balance or of a local newspaper’s published circulation number.

But the Milwaukee game stuck with the 78 number format. Players picked three numbers and placed a bet, usually between five and twenty-five cents. Policy writers took these bets, recording the numbers, money played, and player names in coded language. In Milwaukee , writers were independent operators, taking bets for competing wheels. Drawings were conducted in saloon back rooms, covert apartments, or even – if an operator felt police pressure was too great – in the back seat of a moving car. Seventy-eight pieces of rubber hose – each stuffed with a numbered slip of paper – were placed into a small drum. Twelve numbers were drawn, recorded, and dumped back into the drum. This process was repeated two more times, once with 12 numbers drawn and once with six. The wheel’s “printer” ran off a few dozen “returns” – slips of paper with the drawing’s results. If a player’s three numbers appeared in either of the two series of 12, the wheel paid out 100-1. If the series of six – known as the “cyclone” – contained all three of a player’s numbers, it paid out at 845-1.

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Players took the selection of their numbers very seriously. Many played the same series endlessly, confident the odds tilted to their favor with every loss. Others felt that their dreams held the secret to winning numbers. “Dream books” had been popular with policy players since the 1800s. These guides assigned number combinations to a variety of things that a player might dream about. For example, a dream about Quaker Oats was said to indicate a series of 3-5-6. Dreaming about taxes meant that a series of 10-11-15 would soon hit. A dream of “race disturbances” meant a player should bank on 7-12-22. One of the most popular combinations was 3-6-9. It was so popular, in fact, that many wheel operators were terrified of drawing it, as it could result in multiple wins and bankrupt their operations.

Pictured Left: A policy return from the Delamar wheel. If a player’s series of three numbers could be found in the far right or left columns, their bet paid off 100-1. If the series was found in the six numbers in the center, it paid 845-1. The number at the top indicates the date. >

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Fictional policy gurus, like Madam Fu-Fu, promised to translate a player’s dreams into winning combinations. Dozens of such books were published in the mid-Twentieth Century.

Policy in the Sixth Ward exploded in the late 1940s, expanding from six wheels to eleven. The cause of this, per the Sentinel (which conducted its own investigation in the matter after the Journal broke the story), was due to a falling out between Joe Harris and several of his former allies. Men who once worked for Harris broke away and started their own games. Hundreds of policy returns circulated the Sixth every day, stamped with wheel “brands” like Delmar, Fast Mail, Green Hornet, and Pelican. Trilby Caldwell ’s old Uptown wheel became known as the Keystone and brought in hundreds of dollars per day in bets. It was thought that the Sixth’s top wheels could generate more than $100,000 per year.

Of course, the most stunning of the Getter’s allegations was his claim that Milwaukee police officers were “on the take.” Getter claimed that the Sixth’s policy wheels channeled bribes of cash, cigarettes, and liquor through the Gooden smoke shop to the ward’s morals officers and vice detectives. The police, he claimed, did almost nothing to prevent the game and limited arrests for violations of anti-gambling laws to low-level writers and players. The claims were so sensational that District Judge Harvey Neelen ordered an investigation into the matter. The case dragged on for months as the Journal and Sentinel devoted yards of newsprint to policy and alleged police corruption. They also took the requisite potshots at each other’s coverage, with the Journal insisting it had brought to light one of the great scandals in city history, while the Sentinel vociferously defended the police against the slanders of its afternoon rival.

Smoky Gooden in court. (Milwaukee Journal July 18, 1948)

 During the investigation, policy action in the Sixth either shut down or went so far underground that only the most devoted players were still involved. Wheel operators like John “Good Kid” Allen and “Radio Bob” Johnson were even rumored to have skipped town. The allegations of police corruption eventually garnered national attention, as Newsweek and Collier’s both reported on the Doe investigation. The papers also reported, without irony, on the number of known downtown spots in which white Milwaukeeans played cards, roulette, and dice, and bet on ballgames, prize fights, and horse races. The overall take of these games was certainly much higher than the neighborhood policy wheels of the Sixth Ward, but panic over the influence these white gaming kings might have had on law enforcement was not to be found.

In January 1949, Judge Neelen declared there was no evidence to suggest that the policy  men of the Sixth had any influence over the police department. After the Joe Doe case closed, the newspapers turned their attention to other issues, and the policy wheels of the Sixth began to tumble yet again. Joe Harris, who emerged from the investigation as black Milwaukee ’s widely-acknowledged “king” of gambling, died in 1960. He left behind a mixed legacy. Eulogizing Harris, Milwaukee ’s Rev. C.A. Fisher said that nearly every black church in the city “enjoyed the benefaction of his hand.” An argument can be made, however, that Harris and the Sixth’s other policy men were preying on the weakness of their community, enriching themselves at the cost of often desperate people. It could also be said that they were merely responding to a demand within the community, keeping black money in the community that might otherwise have gone to white gaming operators offering a similar product.

Since 1988, the State of Wisconsin has been the city’s undisputed policy king.

Whatever the true legacy of Harris and his ilk, the demand for games of chance has certainly not gone away. In 1987, a bill was passed by the state that allowed for the creation of the Wisconsin Lottery the following year. The now-legal enterprise offered games incredibly similar to the numbers and policy in a state-wide network so well-devised and with odds stacked so heavily against the player that had it been the enterprise of a man like Smoky Gooden or Joe Harris in the 1940s, no expense would have been spared by authorities in shutting it down.

For more on Frank Dalzell, illegal gambling in Milwaukee , and all types of mischief and chaos, buy Matthew J. Prigge’s new book, MILWAUKEE MAYHEM. To meet the author, visit Books & Company in Ocomomowoc this Tuesday, Nov 17^th at 7 pm. Follow me on Twitter!