"I shouldn't think he would with a wonder like you around," said the
young Irishman with a certain quality of admiration in his voice.

Nucky's thin chest swelled and he paid the waiter with an air that
exactly duplicated the café manner of Marty, the Dude. Then, with a
casual nod at Frank, he started back toward Luigi's, for his evening's
work.

It began to snow about ten o'clock that night. The piles of dirty ice
and rubbish on MacDougal Street turned to fairy mountains. The dead
horse in Minetta Lane might have been an Indian mound in miniature. An
occasional drunken man or woman, exuding loathsome, broken sentences,
reeled past Officer Foley who stood in the shadows opposite Luigi's
house. He was joined silently and one at a time by half a dozen other
men. Just before midnight, a woman slipped in at the front door. And
on the stroke of twelve, Foley gave a whispered order. The group of
officers crossed the street and one of them put a shoulder against the
door which yielded with a groan.

When the door of the large room on the second floor burst open, Nucky
threw down his playing cards and sprang for the window. But Foley
forestalled him and slipped handcuffs on him, while Nucky cursed and
fought with all the venom that did the eight or ten other occupants of
the room. Tables were kicked over. A small roulette board smashed
into the sealed fire-place. Brown Liz broke a bottle of whiskey on an
officer's helmet and the reek of alcohol merged with that of cigarette
smoke and snow-wet clothes. Luigi freed himself for a moment and
turned off the gas light roaring as he did so.