Читать книгу "Yellow Kid" Weil - J.R. Weil - Страница 12

CHAPTER 5

TWO UNWARY STRANGERS

Bob Collins was a tout who worked with me on several occasions. He helped in the case of Mr. Kahn, which was amusing, profitable, and in some ways pathetic.

Mr. Kahn was a tall, thick-set German, as industrious a man as I ever met. He had a delicatessen and food shop on LaSalle Street. Old Man Kahn took great pride in the fact that his shop had the finest food in town. He carried only the best imported cheese and frankfurters, as well as other meats and fish.

When I first went into his shop I had no designs on the old fellow. I went there because I liked his food. I had made three or four visits before the old man’s curiosity got the best of him.

In those days, I dressed flashily. I wore a five-carat diamond ring, a big diamond pin in my ascot tie, and a vest chain locket with a diamond horseshoe.

Every time I was in his shop Old Man Kahn eyed the diamonds. Finally, one day, he said: “Young man, I see you like fine food. And I see you’re rich, too. I know most of my customers, but I don’t know who you are. What business are you in?”

I knew he had been thinking about the diamonds. “Why, I own stock in the racecourses,” I told him, giving him one of my favorite stories. I still had no designs on him.

“Where they race horses?” he asked.

“Yes. Haven’t you ever been to the races?”

“No,” he replied. “I have been too busy. But I would like to go sometime.”

“Then come as my guest,” I said. “Would you like a complimentary ticket for next Saturday?”

“No. Saturday is my busy day. But I could go next Tuesday.”

“Fine. Here’s your ticket. I’ll drop in and you can go with me.”

The old man beamed and said he would be ready.

The following Tuesday I escorted him to the track. He asked endless questions. I took him to the betting ring and showed him how bets were made.

He was especially intrigued by the concession where red hots were sold. His eyes shone in amazement as he watched people coming up to pay ten cents for a hot dog.

“That fellow over there,” he said. “He sure does a good business.”

“Sure,” I replied, and a vague scheme began to form in my mind. “You know, people at a racecourse don’t watch their money - they spend it freely.”

“I can see that,” said Kahn. “How much do you suppose he takes in every day?”

“I don’t know. But it ought to be easy to find out. Why don’t you watch for a while? I’ve got to see a fellow on some business. I’ll leave you here and meet you again in fifteen minutes.”

“Yah, sure,” said Kahn. He was so fascinated that he hardly noticed that I was gone.

I looked for Bob Collins. I found him, stated my proposition, and got him to work with me on the deal. Then I returned to where the old fellow was still standing in front of the red-hot stand, counting the dimes that poured in.

“Well,” I asked, “have you estimated how much he takes in?”

“Yah. It must be a hundred dollars a day.”

“Oh, I think it’s more than that. I believe he takes in around two hundred dollars a day.”

“Two hundred dollars a day!” Kahn repeated. “Why, on that he must make a big profit. How much does he have to pay for the lease?”

“Oh, he doesn’t have a lease,” I replied. “It’s what we call a concession. He doesn’t have to pay us anything, as long as he satisfies the patrons.”

“My, I would like to have a business like that. The customers would like my fine imported frankfurters.”

“They certainly would,” I agreed. “And you could get more for them, too. Maybe twenty-five cents. Money means nothing to people at a race track.”

“No,” said Kahn, “I wouldn’t charge a quarter. I could put up a fine frankfurter sandwich and make a good profit for fifteen cents.”

“And you could sell roast beef sandwiches, too. Would you be interested in having the concession?”

“Do you think I could get it?”

“With my help, you can,” I replied. “Remember I own stock in this track.”

“Yah, I remember,” said Kahn.

“Come into the office with me,” I invited him. “We’ll talk to the secretary. He has charge of the concessions.”

I led him into the office of Sheridan Clark, who was secretary of the Association that operated the track. Clark, of course, did have charge of the concessions. But there was one thing about his office that Kahn did not know. It was always open. Jockeys, trainers, and owners were constantly going in and out on routine matters. And I happened to know that, at that particular time, Clark was not in the office.

When we walked in, a man was seated behind Clark’s desk. It was Bob Collins, my confederate.

“Mr. Clark,” I called, “this is Mr. Kahn. I’d like you to see what you can do about getting the red-hot concession for him.”

Collins stood up and shook hands. “Glad to know you, Mr. Kahn,” he said. “Any friend of Joe’s is a friend of mine.” He walked out from behind the desk. “Let’s go have a glass of beer and discuss this further.” That was a pretext to get us out of the office. We didn’t know when Sheridan Clark might return.

Kahn had not the slightest suspicion - only a warm glow in his heart - as we strolled to the bar.

Collins asked for more details, and Kahn told him what wonderful meats he prepared and how certain he was that he could satisfy the customers. At the right moment I added words of praise for both Kahn’s products and his character. Finally Collins was convinced that the concession should be turned over to Kahn.

“But I’ll have to give the other man a few days’ notice,” he said. “Suppose you begin next Monday, Mr. Kahn.”

“Yah,” replied the German. “That will be good.”

“Fine.” Collins ordered another round of beer. Then as if the concession matter had been settled and was of no further concern: “Joe, isn’t it about time to make the killing?”

“Yes,” I returned. “We’ve decided on next Saturday.”

“What’s a killing?” asked Kahn.

Collins hesitated.

“It’s all right to tell him, Sheridan,” I nodded. “He’s one of us now, you know.”

So Collins told him. “We have bad days, when attendance isn’t very high. If it’s raining or we have other bad weather, people don’t come to the track. At the end of the season, we’d be in the hole if we didn’t do something to make up for our losses. So we have a fixed race once every season. We take some of the Association’s money and bet it on this race. That way we even up the losses.”

“You mean it costs so much to run a race track?”

“It wouldn’t except for the purses we give. The purses, combined with the expenses, exceed the receipts, and we have to do something to make up for it.”

“I understand,” said Kahn brightly.

After we had left Collins and were driving back to Chicago, I suggested to Kahn that it was a good opportunity for him to clean up. I explained that it was arranged for the winner to be a horse on which the odds would he long. But to prevent the bookmakers from getting suspicious, the money was spread around the country in various cities, including Milwaukee.

He seemed interested. The following day I dropped in at his shop.

“I’m going to Milwaukee on Friday,” I told him, “to place $10,000 for the Association. Would you like to come along and get in on the killing?”

Kahn was cautious. He was eager to make money but at the same time he didn’t want to take any risk.

“How much would I make?” he asked.

“The horse will probably pay about 5 to 1.”

“I could bet maybe $500,” he muttered.

“Don’t be foolish!” I scoffed. “This is your chance to make a fortune. Why, $500 is only a drop in the bucket.”

After some additional persuading he decided he might as well make it worth while, since it was a sure thing anyway. He went to the National Bank of the Republic and withdrew $5,000. The following Friday, we were in Milwaukee.

I had arranged a poolroom setup to take his money. I bet my $10,000 and he put down his $5,000. Then I asked him to wait for me at the poolroom.

“I have some business downtown. I won’t be long. I’m expecting a phone call from Sheridan Clark in Chicago and if it comes while I’m gone, take the message, will you, Mr. Kahn?”

My only purpose in leaving was to permit Bob Collins to make the call. He called and told Kahn to tell me to “Bet as much as possible!”

When I returned and he gave me the message, I said: “I’m going to bet a marker for $10,000. Why don’t you bet some more?”

“I haven’t got any more money.”

“You can bet a marker as I did.”

“What is a marker?”

“You tell ’em how much you want to bet. They give you a ticket and they’ll hold your bet until noon tomorrow. That’s to give you time to wire the money.”

As usual he was cautious. But he finally decided to bet a marker for $2,500, the money to be wired from Chicago the following morning.

We returned to Chicago and the next day, Saturday, the day of the supposedly fixed race, I was at Kahn’s place. He gave me the $2,500 and I went over to the Western Union office. I wired $25.00 and got a receipt. It was no trick at all to alter this to $2,500. I took the receipt back to Kahn, and that’s the last I ever saw of him.

I later learned the sequel, which I had intended to prevent. I had arranged to have Bob Collins call him on Monday and tell him the concession deal was off. But I had not reckoned with his German thoroughness. When Collins called Mr. Kahn had left for the track.

He had a wagon loaded with frankfurters, roast beef, and the trimmings. He arrived at the track just after dawn and began to move his stuff in. When the Superintendent of the grounds questioned him, he told of having made the deal with Sheridan Clark. The Superintendent did not question his story.

Rather he pitched in and helped Kahn unload and set up his stand. The old fellow had bought a new sign: “Now UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. BETTER FOOD WILL BE SERVED.” It was put up and he was ready to do business. Then the regular concession man came in.

Seeing the sign and the excellent food Kahn had brought, this man too thought the deal was on the level and that the concession had really been taken from him. He was about to depart when Sheridan Clark appeared.

Eventually, the old man got the drift. He packed up his things and sadly returned to Chicago. He made no complaint, and as far as I know never told the story to anyone. He has passed on, but the fine food shop that bears his name has continued to prosper.

A somewhat similar deal was made with a man named Bolton, a Dutchman with a beard, who owned a business block known as Bolton’s Opera House, where public dances were held twice a week.

Patsy King, who controlled the policy game in Chicago and owned a string of poolrooms, had set Billy Skidmore up in business in Bolton’s building. Skid had a cigar store, with a little gambling in the back room. A lot of us used to hang out at his place.

Mr. Bolton had a paint store in the same building. He also was a contractor and employed a crew of painters. He had seen me around.

One day he asked me what my business was. I told him that I worked for the Racing Association. I arranged for him to visit the track with me.

He too had a great curiosity. But his particular interest was focused on the grandstand, which was badly in need of paint. I contacted Collins. We went through the routine, and ended with a promise to Bolton that he could have the contract to paint the grandstand and stable the following week.

Meanwhile, I worked the “killing” game on him, and he wagered $2,500 - or thought he did. The following Monday morning, bright and early, his painters were at the track with their materials. They set up their scaffolds and were busy at work on the front of the grandstand when the track manager came to work and discovered them.

“What are you doing up there?” he demanded.

“We’re painting the grandstand,” replied the painters’ foreman. “And when we finish that, we’re going to paint the stables.”

“Is that so?” The track manager had a vicious temper. “Well, nobody told me about it. You get those scaffolds down and get out of here.”

“Not until we’ve finished this job.”

“You’re not going to finish the job,” the other retorted hotly. “Come down!”

“Suppose you come up and get me!” growled the painter.

“I’ll be glad to accommodate you.” The manager started to ascend the scaffold.

The foreman had been mixing a huge bucket of paint. He took careful aim, slowly overturned it, and dropped it. The track manager was soaked with paint from head to foot. The painters roared.

The man yanked the bucket off his head and dug the paint out of his eyes. Then he let out a bellow of rage that was heard all over the grounds. The entire track staff came to his assistance and the painters were forcibly ejected after a wild mélee amid splashing paint.

Bolton immediately contacted the track officials and learned that he had been duped. However, it was a fact that they were considering a paint job for the grandstand and stables. I later learned that Bolton very likely would have had the job since his men had already started, had not the track manager interfered.

Bolton soon learned that the race he had supposedly bet on was not fixed. But what irked him even more was that he had been misled about the grandstand contract.

He went to Skid. “Where is that little slicker?” he demanded.

Skid pretended ignorance, and Bolton poured out the whole story. “He took advantage of me, he led me on and then swindled me.”

Nor did Bolton let the matter drop. He swore out a warrant charging me with operating a confidence game. I was arrested and the case came before Judge Shott in his Justice Shop. As it happened, Skid knew Judge Shott and had a private talk with him.

Over Bolton’s protests, Judge Shott ruled that he was not “an unwary stranger,” that he had entered the betting deal, believing he would make money on a dishonest race, and that, as a businessman, he should have obtained a written contract before he started painting the grandstand. The case was dismissed and I was released.

I saw Bolton many times after that, at Skidmore’s cigar store. His rancor eventually disappeared and we became friends, though I never tried to take him again.

“You’re a slick duck,” he used to say, and there was grudging admiration in his voice.

The odium of the confidence-game charge did not help my standing at the track, and I decided to take a short rest until the affair had blown over. I went to the lake-resort region of Illinois, northwest of Chicago.

I soon learned of a man I shall call Van Essen, who was by far the wealthiest man in those parts. He had an estate on Gray’s Lake and was a heavy investor in the bank. I had heard there was to be a big Fourth of July picnic at Gray’s Lake, and decided to attend. But first I returned to Chicago to prepare my “props.”

Dan Canary ran a livery service on Wabash Avenue. From him I hired a car and liveried chauffeur. All cars in those days were one-cylinder affairs and were rarities even in a big city like Chicago.

With my chauffeur, I motored to Gray’s Lake and attended the picnic. During the height of the festivities there was a plea for contributions to some charitable institution. The justice of the peace, a onearmed man, made a strong exhortation for funds; then the hat was passed. I contributed twenty-five dollars.

Of course, everybody wanted to see the man who had given twenty-five dollars-a considerable sum in the rural areas. Word got around that I was the man who had driven the car to Gray’s Lake. The car alone aroused considerable excitement.

My main object was to meet Mr. Van Essen, and that was no trick at all. He came forward to see the man with the philanthropic streak.

He was very cordial. I could see that he was deeply impressed by my display of affluence.

“Mr. Van Essen,” I said, “perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for a farm. I want to breed horses.”

“I’ll certainly be happy to help you, Mr. Weil,” he replied. “It must be fascinating to be a breeder of blooded horses and see them race and win and have your own colors.”

“It is,” I replied. “You seem to have a great interest in horse racing yourself, Mr. Van Essen.”

“Yes,” he declared, with a show of modesty. “I happen to own the poolroom here in Gray’s Lake, and we do some wagering.”

“Is that so?” This was shaping up better than I had hoped. “Now, about that farm-”

Mr. Van Essen owned a great deal of the land around Gray’s Lake. He showed me the property and I chose 350 acres, with a few buildings.

Van Essen was very happy because of the prospective deal.

“Of course, I’ll have to go over this with my architect,” I pointed out. “Meanwhile, why don’t you come up to Chicago with me and be my guest at the races?”

He accepted eagerly, and we motored back to Chicago. The Harlem season had opened and we went to that track. First, I took Mr. Van Essen to my fine tack room. He was greatly impressed by this window dressing - another display of affluence.

“How about a tip, Mr. Weil?” he asked. “As long as I’m free and in the city, I might as well take a flyer.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, “but I have no tips. I bet only on certainties. I have to be certain a horse is going to win before I lay out my money.” Then to throw him off his guard: “Mr. Van Essen, when we have become better acquainted - that is, when I have purchased the farm and remodeled it - I’ll take you into my confidence.”

“That’s perfectly all right, Mr. Weil,” he returned. His voice fairly sang with elation. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have met you.”

I showed him around the track. We watched a few races, and then I took him to the station. I promised to see him soon.

A week later I motored again to Gray’s Lake, accompanied by a supposed architect who was, in fact, my stooge Winterbill. Guided by Mr. Van Essen, we went over the ground. Winterbill, as I have said, was very impressive looking. He carried a sketch book and pencil and from time to time made notes and drew diagrams of proposed buildings.

When we had completed our preliminary survey of the property, Winterbill returned to Chicago. I stayed on as Mr. Van Essen’s guest.

The following morning a telegram came for me. I had arranged for it beforehand.

“I came away and forgot my glasses,” I said. (As a matter of fact, I didn’t even wear glasses at the time.) “Would you be good enough to read this message for me?”

Mr. Van Essen was only too happy to do so. He read it aloud:

EVENTS HAVE SHAPED UP ALL IS SATISFACTORY

RETURN IMMEDIATELY.

“That means we can close the deal very shortly,” I said, smiling.

I then unfolded to Van Essen the story of a race that was fixed for my horse to win.

“Inasmuch as you have been so gracious to me,” I added, “even neglecting your own affairs to aid mine, I’d like to do something for you. I will, provided you don’t tell anyone about it nor how much you win - not even your wife.”

Mr. Van Essen was so delighted that he vowed eternal secrecy. He obtained a draft on the First National Bank of Chicago and we left for the city. He stopped at the bank and cashed his draft. When he came out he displayed a big wad of bills.

I said, “You’ll have to get those small bills changed into $1,000 bills. When we make the bet, it will be just before post time and speed will be essential. The bookmaker wouldn’t have time to count so many bills. And if we go too much ahead of time, the odds on the horse will come down when they see the vast sums that are being wagered on it.”

My purpose in telling him to change the bills was that I thought he’d hand me the money and ask me to go back into the bank. But it didn’t work out that way. Van Essen went himself, returning with ten $1,000 bills. I had told him that I was wagering $100,000 on the race.

On the way to the track, we stopped at several roadhouses for drinks. When we arrived at The Gardens-a popular roadhouse of that day - it was nearly time for the race to begin. The Harlem racecourse was located not much more than about six blocks away.

“Perhaps it would be a better plan,” I told Mr. Van Essen, “if I handled the whole thing through my betting commissioners. You might get confused.”

But Van Essen was reluctant to part with his money. So I had to use a psychological touch. I was wearing a light English-whipcord topcoat.

“It’s almost time,” I muttered, looking at my watch. “I’ll have to hurry to make it.” I took off my topcoat and handed it to him. “Here, hold my coat and give me the money. I can make better time without the coat.”

He took the coat and handed over the money. For some reason, he seemed to feel that, as long as he had my coat, he was holding security for his money. Actually he was holding the bag. I did not return for my coat. Eventually Van Essen went to look for me. While he was gone my chauffeur disappeared. Mr. Van Essen returned to Gray’s Lake a sadder but a much wiser man.

At the track I had taken one precaution. Alderman John A. Rogers was then making book at the Harlem course. He was a good friend of mine, so I went to him.

“Johnny,” I said, “do me a favor. I have a deal on with a man. I’d like you to enter $10,000 in your book on Black Fonso.”

“Sure, Joe.” Rogers made the entry, though no actual money was wagered.

I felt rather good about the Van Essen deal, but I hadn’t heard the last of it. A former Chicago policeman had a summer home in Gray’s Lake. My victim told him the story. On the advice of the policeman, Van Essen had me arrested and charged me with swindling him. But the case didn’t get very far. Alderman Rogers brought his books into court and the $10,000 entry sufficed as proof that Van Essen’s money had been wagered.

The case was dropped because he could hardly do anything to me for failing to fix a race!

Why did I get away with all these deals - why didn’t the racing authorities do something? As a matter of fact Sheridan Clark was reluctant to press a charge against me. For one day when police had raided Hawthorne for some alleged illegal activities, I was on hand, and helped Clark to escape in my carriage. He never forgot the favor.

Most of the people connected with racing in those days - jockeys, trainers, stable boys, even owners - were touts. Many of them had no hesitation about selling a tip to a stranger.

Indeed, some of them made quite a business of it.

The only people who had any grounds for complaint were the bookmakers. If the “inside tips” had really been on the level, the bookmakers would have been heavy losers. However, they knew that when money was turned over to me to be bet on a race they had nothing to worry about.

I was a member of the American Turf Association in good standing. Because of this one fact the track officials would have hesitated to make a complaint. They had no sympathy for men like Van Essen, whose only objective was to clean up on a supposedly fixed race.

The fact that the race hadn’t been fixed helped rather than hindered the reputation of the track.

But I was not yet finished with Van Essen. Little did I suspect that, as a result of that episode, I would soon be accused of murder.