Revisiting the days when the mob controlled the jukeboxes

My first job was at a place called Frosty’s, the only real hangout in my small prairie town. The front third of the building was dedicated to cheeseburgers and soft ice cream; further back in the middle was a modest pinball arcade, while in the rear was a pool hall. Many God-fearing townsfolk considered this to be three levels of Hell, descending from evil, dinner-spoiling sweets to money-sucking coin-operated amusements, to the domain of smokers, ne’er-do-wells, and hooligans.In the middle of it all was a commercial jukebox, a beat-up thing with terrible audio, and about 50 records. A quarter got you three plays. Rob, one of the pool-playing regulars, would begin his hustling by changing a 10-dollar bill into quarters (the equivalent of almost $50 today), all of which were spent on the same song. If Rob was in the back, everyone else was guaranteed 75 plays of Elvis Presley’s Burnin’ Love. Story continues below advertisement Those of a certain age might remember jukeboxes with suspicion, too. My grandparents certainly did. These machines not only stole dimes and quarters in exchange for fleeting plays of the Devil’s Music (“You can listen for free on the radio!”), but the machines themselves