“Christ, hurry. Brendan just bet Michigan plus-4.”
For half a decade, our phones rang off the hook. Other bookies even called. Not to lay off action, but to bet “hot games.”
We’d let wise guys rob us of a dime, so we had access to information. Brendan, a Brooklyn bookie, might bet 10 games Saturday.
He’d win nine.
We’d write his slip then bet $5,000 each on his game. Besides booking $30,000 or so on games across the board, I’m gambling again.
When Brendan calls, the three of us tie up our business phones. Before kickoff, we’ll hang up on customers to place bets.
“I can’t get out. Every time I pick up the phone, someone’s on it,” Blinky screams. “We’ve got to do something. The customers are ruining the business.”
I’m not taking action. I’m mainlining it.
Any sickness progresses if left unaddressed. We excel at excess. The result is predictable. The games cool; our cash burns.
I’m not the Christmas club type. After Dominick’s bust, all I have left is an idea.
*****
“Hello, ‘Jolly Tinker,’ how can I help you?”
The burly New York City fireman behind the bar answers the phone.
Brian says, “Which Bob? We got six.”
The caller says, “Crazy Bob.”
Brian laughs, “Are you kidding? Which crazy Bob? We’ve got three.
“No, Menderhoffer’s not here. Call back in about six months. He’s doing a bit.”
Bronx translation: He’s a guest of N.Y. State.
After Brian hangs up, he tells Ray, “I never thought about it, but how many joints can boast three crazy Bobs?”
“All Day Ray” earned his nickname pounding vodka from sunrise to sundown.
The rye-drinker’s wrist shakes like an epileptic crapshooter trying to spill whiskey into a toothless mouth.
Brian lifts the trap door to the cellar, “Hey, Mike, we’re out of Johnny Walker Black.”
Ray snickers, “The Tinker’s downstairs? Johnny Walker Black, that’s rich. This joint ain’t seen real Black since Christ was a corporal.”
Brian laughs, “The Tinker’s some chemist. Even money says any minute now, he’ll be asking for the empty Black bottles.”
*****
It’s 6 p.m. I park my oversized blue Caddy outside the pizza shop next door to the “Jolly Tinker.”
My 10-year-old “Jew Canoe” is safe enough while I trot inside to do a little larceny.
I’m a bookie. Saturday night, I drop off and pick up envelopes.
Mostly, I collect.
The Tinker is the first stop of a long night. I do a quick inventory.
Marlboros in top left shirt pocket. Vial of coke in the small change pocket of my jeans. Stack of 20s in my left front pocket. Small notebook in back left. Envelopes in back right.
Yeah, I’m ready for work.
I turn through familiar doors. My old man drank here in 1953, when I was 5. At 42, this gin mill is as familiar to me as my own reflection.
I enter to a chorus of hellos and belly up to the bar. I toss three 20s across the mahogany.
I’m holding court with Mike and four or five regulars. I turn and yell one of my hundred stock lines.
“Hey, this would be a nice place to open a bar. Any chance of getting a drink around here?”
Usually, the bartender is an off-duty fireman, a Fordham University student or just a neighborhood screwball down on his luck.
I’m pleasantly surprised. The emerald eyes that greet me belong to a wild-haired gypsy beauty straight from the mists of Irish mythology.
I alter my tone.
“Hi. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting a lady. Could you pour me a pint of Guinness and do the honors up and down the bar please.”
Her eyes sparkle. Her smile beams. But her tongue plays a silent tune. Mechanically, she places cardboard coasters up and down the bar, interrupting her tempo only to take the air out of glasses that need refilling. I glue my eyes to her.
“Who’s the new talent?” I ask.
“Colleen’s been working Saturdays two weeks.”
I’m divorced twice already.
Gambling, drinking and drugs are selfish, full-time endeavors. Vices don’t strengthen relationships.
My brain solidifies Colleen’s image like cement.
*****
Two months later, I’m back in the Tinker and no longer a bookie. Scarred by the bust, I need revenue.
Over a couple of belts, “Hey, anyone want to open a bar?”
Skeptics avert their eyes and hoist their pints.
“No, really. Who has a pair of balls and wants to take a shot? I worked in the busiest bar in the world, Pat O’Brien’s in New Orleans. I can do this.”
Mike, the owner, a witty Waterford man who loves action, perks up. If they raced roaches, the Tinker would bet on them.
“Where are you thinking about opening, Billy O?”
“In Queens, not far from where Buffalo tends bar.”
“Can we get Buffalo involved?”
“You want Buffalo involved?”
He says, “Jesus, you’re right. We’ll discuss this over a squirt.”
Mike calls another round, and I glance above the bar. Front pages of old Daily News issues hang in dusty frames: “Bobby Sands Dead,” “Nixon Says ‘I Won’t Resign,’” “Nixon Resigns,” “Man Lands on Moon.”
The headlines testify to the Tinker’s stability. Despite the madness he thrives on, Mike is as dependable as gravity. We discuss Buffalo.
The “Fat Man” comes with enormous baggage, but those trunks are packed with talent — a 320-pound gentle giant so smooth he wouldn’t leave footprints in snow.
He embodies the Irish adage: “He can tell a man to go to hell in a way that he looks forward to the trip.”
When the “Fat Man” throws you through a door, you tip him on the way out.
*****
Opening a bar sounds impulsive, but the horses in my head left the gate already. My disease assures me my credentials are impeccable:
“You’re an excellent bartender, you’re single and you’re a drunk. Owning a bar’s the best way to meet broads. You’re too lazy to learn guitar and too old to join a band. You can stay loaded. Imagine never having to hear last call.”
The voices win. I shoot for a big joint. Better to sink in 100 feet of water than two.
Because of Dom’s trouble, I’ve banged out $50,000 in credit cards. I have access to another $20,000. I sell what customers I have left for $20,000.
If I borrow 10 large from four close friends, I can pull this off.
*****
One year later, we open and 300 people crowd P.O.E.T.S. The name’s an acronym for “Piss On Everything Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
The problem is, like a groom at a wedding, I know everyone.
Friday night, I know half.
Saturday night, we’re packed. I know no one. Touchdown.
In less than two months, my creditors are paid.
I’m back in action.
Bill O’Connor is a Vietnam veteran, former Bronx firefighter and pub and restaurant owner. He is a journalism major at UF and a standup comic. The irreverent and acerbic O’Connor performs free standup in Gainesville.
