by Charles Rammelkamp Isaac Lind “We called it a ‘Brooklyn roll,’” my friend Bob, who grew up in Flatbush, tells me, “channeling the B-movie gangsters,” when I mention the guy we ran into on his way to the Indian casino near Battle Creek, white shoes, white belt girding a bulging middle-aged tummy, hair in a careful combover, sporting a roll of bills, a Benjamin on top of a lump of ones and fives. We were on our way north after visiting my disabled mother in the small town wh