Three years ago, NBA referee Tim Donaghy was busted for betting.
Although fished from a coal mine of corruption, this “canary” never sang.
Donaghy said, “I’m alone in this.”
He got 11 months because he “cooperated.”
Huh?
* * *
If I wrote 20 years ago what I’m writing now, someone would have put “two behind my ear.”
If this tale is true, I couldn’t have written it back then. If the story’s a fable, then it’s a damn fine fairy tale.
A caricature, straight from central casting of “Jersey Shore,” reported to my firehouse.
Frankie had the whole package: gold chains, thin black mustache and a Brooklyn accent too thick for “Goodfellas.”
NY firefighters tend to generalize, to categorize, to paint with a broad brush — nothing’s sacred.
I figured Frankie for a “Polly-O Mozzarella.” Polly-O’s a brand name cheese. Not the genuine mozzarella cheese sold in good Italian delicatessens. It’s phony, a poor imitation wrapped in plastic and marketed for mass consumption.
Street guys use this idiom to describe bullshit gangsters: “wannabes.” (Guys who act like they’re connected.)
After working with Frankie for a month, I discovered he was a good firefighter and a decent guy. A little much with the “wise guy” shit — but an alright guy.
Because I had owned two saloons, he asked me to help him set up a bar he had bought by Belmont race track. I said sure.
Two months later,
“Hey Billy, I’m stuck for a bartender Friday and Saturday night. You think you can do me a solid and fill in?”
I said, “Frankie, I’d help you out, but it’s not my kind of joint. I work Irish Pubs. Your place is a wise-guy joint.”
“Hey man, I’m really stuck. You gotta bail me out.”
* * *
I have a full bar, but nothing I can’t handle. Because I set up the joint, I know my way around. Most of my customers are dressed in suits and accompanied by fine-looking women. I’m wearing a white shirt and tie — class joint. No problems.
A well-dressed, heavyset guy walks in and plants himself in the middle of the bar.
I toss a bev-nap casually in front of him,
“What’ya having pal?”
He decorates the mahogany with a C-note.
“Give me a Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks with a water side, and give everyone at the bar a drink. Put whatever’s left in your tip cup.”
Wow, I think, this guy’s a sport.
Extending my hand, I say, “I’ll tell the customers the drinks are on who? My name’s Bill.”
He grabs my mitt and says, “I’m Tommy.”
I build his cocktail and do the honors up and down the bar.
I work my way down, continually pointing to the hulk sitting at the middle of the bar, “That’s on Tommy, that’s on Tommy.”
I snatch the hundred and tell him the tariff’s $77.
He says, “Throw the rest in your cup.”
“Thanks a lot, Tommy.”
I’ve got $500 on the Lakers game, so as I work the stick, I keep glancing up at the TV screen.
Tommy says, “Ya got a bet on the game?”
“Yeah, a nickel on the Lakers.”
“What’s the spread?”
“Four and a half.”
“Watch the last two minutes of the game. I guarantee you Magic has the ball in his hands the whole time.”
I say, “Yeah, well that’s why Johnson gets the big bread. He’s the best player on the team.”
“Magic gets big bread because he does what Jerry Buss wants him to do with the ball in the last two minutes,” Tommy says, “and he makes it look good.”
Buss owns the Lakers and the L.A. Forum. I’ve seen him at the World Series of Poker, so I know he gambles.
Tommy continues, “Buss bets huge on, or against, the Lakers, and Magic brings it home for him.”
I nod my head politely. But, I figure, what does this guy know?
When the game’s over, it’s pushing 2 a.m. The bar’s thinning out, and Tommy’s had six healthy pops of scotch.
“Let me tell you a story,” he says. “Three years ago, Vegas was losing a ton of money on totals in the NBA. They were getting killed on overs and unders. The casinos demanded that David Stern, the NBA commissioner, investigate.
“Stern said, ‘Nothing’s going on.’
“The CEOs said, ‘Fine. We’re pulling the NBA off the board because something’s going on.’”
He leans closer to me, “Stern decides to investigate. Because if Vegas pulls the NBA games, who’s gonna watch? They find out someone’s gotten to the timekeepers. In six major cities, the timekeepers are quick or slow with the clock depending on whether they want to add or subtract minutes from the game. Think about it. There are so many fouls that even a two-second clock difference could add four or five minutes to an NBA game.”
“How come I never heard anything about that?”
“Why would you?” he says. “The league doesn’t want that coming out.”
“What do you do for a living, Tommy?”
“I tend bar.”
“You’re a bartender. Just like me. So, why do you know so much?”
“I just know.”
The next few minutes, I wash glasses and wipe down the remnants of the night.
I say, “So listen, thanks for the splash tonight. I appreciate your patronage. Where do you work? I’ll come and make a stop.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says.
“No, man. You came to see me. Let me reciprocate. I want to do the right thing. Where do you work? I’ll come see you.”
He says, “Well, you really can’t. I work in a private club.”
“A private club?”
“Yeah, I tend bar in the ‘Ravenite Social Club.’”
I start laughing, “Jesus Christ. You work for John Gotti. How the hell do you get that job? You must have to be deaf, dumb and blind.”
He laughs. “Just about.”
Suddenly, his story has more credibility. That’s exactly how those guys operate.
They don’t buy off guys at the top. They wave big money in front of guys that can’t resist temptation — low-level earners that can be bought.
* * *
Two months later, I’m drinking a cup of coffee in the firehouse and I grab a copy of the New York Daily News. Plastered across the front page is a picture of my buddy Frankie opening the Cadillac door for John Gotti. He had driven “The Teflon Don” to his trial in Manhattan.
Holy shit. Frankie’s not a “Polly-O.” Frankie’s the real deal.
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 comedy in various locations in Gainesville.
