“Man, am I glad to see you.”
In my mind’s eye, Blinky is clad in blue, astride a horse and blowing a bugle.
My partner and I speed from Kennedy Airport, over the Triborough Bridge and up the Major Deegan to the Westchester detention center.
We bail Dominick out, and he gives us his version of what happened the night of the bust.
***
Dom and Frankie Pazzo drive to the designated park in Westchester to pick up the money.
Karl, the deadbeat, waits outside his car in the parking lot. When Dom and Pazzo show up, he tells them there’s no money. He doesn’t have one dollar. Nada. Zip.
Then, Karl rants, “Now you’re going to kill me, aren’t you?
“Aren’t you? You’re going to kill me. Say it. Say you’re going to kill me.”
Dom says, “What the f*** are you talking about, kill you?
“Why did you drag us all the way up here if we’re not going to get paid? No one’s going to kill you. We want our money.”
Karl says, “Just tell me you’re going to kill me. I know you’re going to kill me.”
Dom says, “Shut the f*** up, No one’s going to kill you. We want to get paid. You need a f***ing beating, but no one’s going to kill you.”
Bingo. It’s like he tripped an alarm in hell.
The parking lot lights up like Yankee Stadium. Hordes of Westchester police and troopers charge out of the woods wielding shotguns and assaul”t rifles.
A voice roars over a bullhorn, “Put your hands in the air. You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.”
***
Months later at the trial, we find out Karl stumbled on one of life’s legal rackets.
He busts bookmaking operations. It’s a Godsend for a compulsive gambler. He sends it in, and when he wins, he collects.
When he loses, “Go f*** yourself. I’m not paying.”
Then, off he trots to the D.A.
Karl’s a real citizen.
n n n
Now, Karl’s soliloquy makes sense.
“You’re going to kill me. Aren’t you?”
If Dom was packing a piece, he and Frankie would be facing attempted murder charges now. The Senate-seeking D.A. would have more fodder to feed the Westchester papers.
This cheese-eater, Karl, was a gambler who came up short. Rather than work out a payment plan, he ran to John Law with this scheme.
Nice racket. This rat picks up about $20-large per week until he loses.
After he loses, Karl baits and provokes whoever collects. Although this “to catch a thief” method of law enforcement works, I doubt it’s standard procedure. Only an ambitious D.A. would put it in play.
Ironically, years later, the D.A.’s Senate plans are squashed because of her husband’s ties to organized crime.
n n n
The tab on Dom and Pazzo’s legal fees comes to $120-large, which we split $40,000 each. We are also out the $50,000 this weasel beat us for before the arrest, plus the $40,000 he lost and refused to pay.
This economic disaster, combined with our near pinch and a new mayoral election in New York, convinces us it’s the time to bequeath bookmaking back to the gangsters.
When we started five years ago, David Dinkins was mayor of New York. Dinkins played tennis and mopped his brow frequently at press conferences but couldn’t find shit on the bottom of his shoe.
New York’s new Mayor, Rudy Giuliani, a former D.A., made his reputation as a crime buster. He vows to break the back of organized crime. His re-election depends on it.
So, I change identities. I go from “Guido the gangster” to “back-of-the-line Fred.”
No longer strutting, I melt into the huddled masses.
n n n
In five years of bookmaking, I never addressed my gambling problem.
I used bookmaking to stop losing, not to stop gambling. The more I won, the more juice I needed.
Half a decade of fear and futility convinces me that bookmaking belongs in my rearview mirror. I’ll drive in a new direction.
The road ahead will be anything but smooth. I’ll carry all my old friends: alcoholism, drugs, gambling and manic depression.
Then, an unexpected hitchhiker comes along to add more confusion to the tempest.
n n n
My mania’s optimistic. Despite being laid, re-laid and parlayed, I’m down but not disgusted.
Slippery slopes are one thing, but I was halfway over Niagara Falls.
I’m not in jail.
My sickness stares at the sunny road ahead and spurs a scheme.
Maybe I don’t have to give up my lifestyle.
Maybe I can give up bookmaking, yet still make piles of money.
Oddly enough, lightning strikes.
I have a brainstorm.
Bill O’Connor is a Vietnam veteran, former Bronx firefighter and pub and restaurant owner. He is currently a journalism major at UF and a standup comic. The highly irreverent and acerbic O’Connor performs free standup in various locations around Gainesville.
