.I’m
not sure of the genre of this paper, but for want of a more precise
characterization I call it creative non-fiction. That is the incidents in the
story happened as far as my aging memory can vouch, but the names of some
characters are fictitious, so as to protect the identity of the guilty.
This is a story about
how I became involved in the machinations of my friend, Harry Hardy. It starts
in 1965 when I was a graduate student in English at Loyola. My wife, Carolyn,
and I lived in an apartment with our four daughters on the South Side of
Chicago. Harry and his wife, Ann, lived in an apartment about a mile away. I
had graduated from high school with Harry fifteen years earlier, but we had not
had much contact since I was offer a job in
It was good for me to
be back in
Harry Hardy was
personable, articulate, and honest, but he had an impediment that blocked his
path to steady employment. He was an addicted horseplayer and spent most of his
time reading racing forms and frequenting racetracks. After college, he came
back to work in Chicago for his father selling live cattle at the Chicago
stockyards, but that job evaporated when the stockyards closed.
After trying other
jobs ill suited to his talents, he lucked into a position that suited his
background, particularly his gambling habit. Joe Bornholt, an old friend,
offered him a job as a runner at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. But he
couldn’t support his wife and three children on a runner's wage. Since he knew
many people associated with harness racing and spent much time at the track, he
landed a part-time job as assistant to Leo Huff, the Director of Special Events
at Sportsman’s Park. Harry helped Leo arrange parties for various groups, such
as the Knights of Columbus, B'nai B'rith, the Elks and the Moose. He worked two
jobs, not because he was an ambitious workaholic but because he owed money to a
lot of bookmakers.
Shortly after our return to
Harry resisted my
argument but finally admitted he had a problem and agreed to go with me to a
Gamblers Anonymous meeting at the YMCA at 8th and
Harry's night job at
Sportsman’s Park brought him into contact with a number of high rollers in the
VIP lounge, a redoubt set high above the grandstands at the finish wire. His
affable presence among the regulars in the lounge attracted the attention of
Vic Stockman, a wealthy entrepreneur. As a Republican committeeman in Glenco,
Vic’s connections gave him clout and status. He, even more so than Harry, was
grievously addicted to horse playing.
Harry liked Vic
because he made friends easily, especially high-rolling horseplayers. Vic
respected Harry's horse knowledge, if not his horse sense, but rarely followed
his advice. Vic had been developing his own handicapping system for over 35
years and considered himself superior to the perennial losers who frequented
the track.
Vic's
system was anything if not complicated; he had to play every day, or the
elaborate structure would break down. A missed sure-fire winner would seriously
impair the averages. Vic saw in Harry a conduit to a stream of money. Since
Harry attended the track every night and had access to the phone in the VIP
lounge, Vic could bet on every race every night. In the days before off-track
betting, a man in Vic's position could not risk calling a bookmaker from home
with such regularity. Except for the track business office, only the VIP lounge
had phone contact with the outside world.
Not long after their initial contact, Vic
made an irresistible proposition. He would pay Harry $20 per night for simply
betting his horses at the pari-mutuel window, whether the horses won or lost.
Harry readily agreed to the proposition. Discretely out of sight of other
regulars in the lounge, Vic handed Harry a wad of bills amounting to a couple
thousand dollars. With a gentlemanly
handshake, Harry agreed to be ready at the phone every night.
But soon Harry
realized that Vic’s funds would not last at the extrapolated rate of loss. He
divined that he could listen to Vic's selections without placing his bets. With
Harry's superior handicapping, he would decide on every race whether Vic's
horse had a chance of winning. Only on rare occasions he would go to bet at the
window with the cash.
After each race, Harry
would call Vic and artfully describe his invariable losses, and even with more
gusto, his occasional wins. Harry's vivid description of each race gave Vic a
vicarious rush. He recreated the excitement of the races in a lucid narrative
style. But greed inevitably infects all compulsive gamblers. Not content to
take his $20 in addition to his profits from booking Vic's bets, Harry gave
back his winnings to the track. He would pick his own losers and put his own
money through the window. But Vic's
consistent losses sustained Harry's own inept handicapping. The first summer of
their partnership, Vic lost about $5,000, and Harry contributed a like amount
to Sportsman’s Park.
When the racing schedule moved to
We
again had a heart-to-heart discussion. I insisted that we could both save money
by acting as Vic's couriers without booking his bets. I preached with
Jesuitical intensity. “Harry, if I am to be your partner, we must agree to put
all Vic’s plays through the window.”
After an anguished discussion, he reluctantly acquiesced to my
self-righteous and sanctimonious conditions.
Vic, of course, would
have to approve my being cut in on the deal. Harry arranged for us to meet Vic
in the bar of a nondescript Holiday Inn, a safe distance from Vic's home in
Glenco. Vic arrived, conspicuous by his designer sunglasses and a loud Hawaiian
sport shirt. Over drinks we discussed the unlimited opportunities to make money
once Vic perfected his system. He then pulled a wad of bills from his pocket
and handed them to Harry. “I expect this to be the last time I’ll have to feed
the kitty,” he said.
I was excited to have
passed muster with Vic and expressed my appreciation. Vic kept in regular
contact with us by phone and occasionally by letter. I vowed to help him lift
his metaphorical boat, because with his boat sailing high in the water, our
boats too would surely rise. Vic understood Reagan’s economic theory, even
before it became politically fashionable.
When on duty, every
other night, I would patiently wait for his phone call for the night's action.
He would usually bet on three or four races. With precise instructions, he
would give alternative plays should there be a change in the program. He would,
for example, tell me to bet $50 on High Stepper in the third race only if it
were a fast track. But a substitution of Hylkema, the understudy, for O'Brien,
the scheduled driver, would nix the action.
Vic had no patience
with those who claimed that the races were fixed; he favored no government
regulations interfering with the racing industry. “Free markets for free men,”
was his mantra. He revealed the quality of his mind and his devotion to the
sport in his correspondence. These were
long discursive letters explaining his rationale for his choices with specific
instructions. Here is an example:
“Some final notes out
of my systems. Note reference to last rule at bottom of the page to change of drivers. Within one week, I ran
across two solid plays which were created by O'Brien but which were switched to
his training driver. While this is an
unusual situation, we want to be alert to these conditions. Therefore, any
switch from O'Brien to Hylkema, would automatically kill any action.
I am not interested in
how many plays we can make but how many winners we can get, and the last 2
weeks have brought me closer to my ultimate accomplishment.
By September 1st, I
should have things pretty well under control, and my final phase of testing
should be well along. Your cooperation will be appreciated.
Sincerely yours,
Vic”
As the letter reveals,
Vic took racing seriously, a business with infinite possibilities. He would
call every night from wherever he happened to be. One weekend he made a trip to
He relied on various
sources of information for his research, especially the Racing Form. But he was not pleased with the editing of the paper
and made his views known to the General Manager. Here is an excerpt from one of
his letters:
For thirty-five years
now I have been a reader of the Daily Racing Form. Being in the publishing
business I am well aware of what it takes to put a publication together,
particularly one that is put out daily and carries as much information of
importance as the Daily Racing Form.
Being a busy
businessman I am prone to look over the evening program more frequently than
the daily programs and therefore the harness races in
It is important to
your consistent readers that they do not lose out on the opportunities that are
few and far between. I was obliged in too many cases to check back into my past
files in order to be able to pick up the additional two or three races in many
of the entries in order to determine and evaluate them properly.
I hope that you and
your staff will realize that this is not a crank letter and will continue your
best efforts to provide your readers with all the essential information that is
possible in order to promote this sport properly, interestingly and to some
profitably.
Very truly yours,
PROGRESSIVE RESEARCH
INSTITUTE
Vic Stockman,
President
I read the caveat in
his letter that "this is not a crank letter," with a grain of salt.
On the phone when I talked to him his convoluted explanation of his system
seemed mad, but it had a bit of method in it. To be brought to perfection his
system had to be followed with the precision of a mission plan for a space
trip.
I reasoned that going
to the races every other night was good therapy for me, a graduate student with
four small daughters. Since Vic would customarily bet on only three or four
races stretched out over a three or four-hour period, I had a lot of time to
spare between races. I would not succumb to Harry's habit of making my own bets
with my $20 earnings. Generally I would have a beer and read for my classes.
One night before a race in which Vic had instructed me to bet on a horse named
Rocky Hanover, I became engrossed in the luminous insights of Aristotle's Ethics. I particularly liked what the
old Greek’s said about aiming at the golden mean—to avoid excess in all things.
The final warning buzzer alerted me to
place $50 across the board. Too late. When the starting bell rang, I stood
second in the line shuffling my feet nervously. My imagination carried me ahead
to the finish line with the vision of Rocky Hanover charging to the wire as a
$10.00 winner. I roughly calculated a $600 loss. I couldn’t bear to watch the
race, but I could not shut out the public address announcer. In the next agonizing two minutes my palms
sweat, my heart pounded and my mind flashed ahead to my inevitable
confrontation with Carolyn. How would I explain to her that the kids would have
to go without snowsuits and boots for the winter? In addition my conscience
intruded the image of Gianni Schicchi howling in pain in the 8th
circle of Dante’s Inferno for his sin
of fraud.
I listened with
dreadful anxiety as the favorite, Proper Stallion, pulled ahead out of the
number one postposition to take the early lead. Steady Eddie ensconced himself
in second position, and three other horses vied for the third slot as the
horses completed the first half-mile. Rocky
But then the track
announcer’s cadence quickened. He relayed the unwelcome news that Rocky Hanover
had pulled out of the pack and was streaking ahead to challenge Proper
Stallion. As they crossed the finish line, the announcer boomed over the loud
speaker, “A photo finish! A photo finish: It appears to be Rocky Hanover by a
nose. Please hold all pari-mutuel tickets.”
“Why had I not been
paying attention?” I thought. “Why did Aristotle seduce me?” I tucked the
book under my arm and slouched to the bar. “A shot of Old Fitzgerald and a
bottle of Blatz,” I mumbled to the bartender. I hurled down the shot and gulped
a chaser of beer and cursed Lady Fortuna.
While waiting for the
results of the photo, I calculated my worst/best scenarios. If Rocky Hanover
won, I would have to add $600 to Vic’s account and about $350 if he placed
second. Considering that my graduate school stipend paid $3000 a year, I would
have a lot to explain to Carolyn. As the shot and beer began to lend me a
charge of false courage, the announcer came over the speaker with an
announcement. “Attention, ladies and gentlemen. The officials have posted the
inquiry sign. Hold all pari-mutuel tickets.”
Now the news could not
be worse than my worse case imagining. I waited with firm hope for a reprieve
from my careless inattention. After an interminable delay, the sober voice in a
serious modulated tone announced the incredible news that Proper Stallion was
the winner, and that Rocky Hanover was placed fourth.
I could hardly believe
my good fortune. I ebulliently shouted at the bartender. “Give me a double shot
of Old Fitz and a Blatz.” The bourbon and beer now curbed my usual reticence.
“Why did they disqualify Rocky Hanover?” I asked a gloomy player standing next
to me at the bar.
“That jerk, Hylkema,
bumped three horses coming out of the far turn,” he said with the bitter
disgust of a loser. “Let me tell ya. Whenever Hylkema substitutes for O’Brien,
bet any other horse.”
I couldn’t believe my
reversal of fortune and vowed to pay more attention to my responsibilities. I
not only got shut out at the window, but I also failed to pay attention to the
change of driver. Had I bet the $50 across the board with Hylkema as driver, I
would have broken one of Vic’s iron clad rules. I would have lost $150 or would
have had to explain to Vic that I hadn’t noticed the change in drivers.
I
learned more than one lesson that night. Perhaps, I thought, it was my bad
angel that caused my lapsed attention.
The $150 saved by my stupid oversight prompted me to reconsider Harry's
original scam of booking Vic’s bets.
After going through the first $1000 of the $3000 Vic had given us in the
Holiday Inn, I had an epiphany. I came
to see the irrefutable logic, if not the ethical probity, of Harry's original
risk management plan. I admitted to
myself that my previous admonitions to Harry not to fade Vic’s bets were
financially unsound and a bit puritanical. I worried about the legal
ramifications of our scam but easily dismissed this concern as inconsequential
and cowardly.
The ethical considerations were a bit
more complicated. Aristotle did not provide much help with a practical question
of this kind. As a graduate student at a
Harry and I sailed through our first
year of the racing schedule, pretending to bet Vic's selections. In addition,
during the off-season Harry landed us another part-time job. Leo Huff had a
plan to promote good will for the track. Numerous organizations regularly held
parties at Sportsman’s Park. Leo offered their chairpersons a scheme that
raised thousands of dollars for their organizations.
He ingeniously
arranged for Harry and me to attend fundraisers for the Knights of Columbus,
B'nai B'rith, and the like, as well as Democratic and Republican ward
organizations. Good charity, politics and good PR for Sportsman’s Park. Harry
and I attended the meetings as benevolent consultants, which meant we carried a
movie projector, a screen and films of the races that had been taken at
Sportsman’s Park the previous summer. We alternated almost every night of the
week for which we received $25 for showing the racing movies and running an
ersatz pari-mutuel window.
With plenty of beer
and spirits flowing, the members and patrons in attendance would buy tickets
and bet on the races as they did at the track. The sponsoring organization took
all the proceeds except for the pay off to the winning tickets. We knew in
advance who had won each race, as did a few of the regular horse players in the
crowd, but it did not seem to dampen the enthusiasm for most of those in
attendance.
Even though the movie
reruns tided us over the winter months, working for Vic was more
lucrative. It was also less labor
intensive and boring than watching the same races every night. No reading
Aristotle’s Ethics for me between
races at a Knights of Columbus bash. We
welcomed the regular racing season and fell into our familiar schedule. Vic
hardly ever had a winning week, which is to say we hardly ever had a losing
week. It could have been precarious if he had hit on a big winner, but that was
unlikely, because he almost always bet the favorites. Whenever the odds became
a bit chancy, we agreed to put the bet through the window.
Harry kept a strict
accounting of the money in Norm's account. And Norm usually had a good idea of
his balance, but sometimes he would become distracted by his other business
affairs. Toward the end of the Sportsman’s Park season, the account was almost
depleted, and Harry had to remind him to make a deposit. He no longer felt it
necessary to meet for clandestine appointments to replenish the money supply.
He would send a check in the mail, laundered as a business expense:
from the desk of
Vic
Stockman
September
26, 1967
Mr. Harry Hardy
Dear Mr. Hardy:
Following up our
telephone conversation, enclosed you will find our check in the amount of
$1,000. 00, as advance fee covering the research services. Once I get a better
picture of how we are having a meeting of the minds, I'll be able to go into
the matter with you further.
Thank you very much
for your cooperation.
Kindest personal
regards.
Sincerely yours,
READER'S CLUB, INC.
Victor Stockman, Pres.
Enc. Check for $1,
000.00
Vic had come to trust
us, and we liked him. After a year of running his bets to the track, his name
became familiar in our household. He was like a mysterious benefactor in a
Dickens novel. One evening Vic was late calling with his selections for the
night's card. Preparing the children for bed, Carolyn noticed that they were
more restive than usual. Our oldest daughter, then about six years old, voiced
the fears of her younger sisters: "Mommy, why hasn't Vic called with the
action?" Carolyn gave her reassurance: “Sweetheart, don’t you worry about
Vic. He is a busy man and will call when he has time.”
Vic
and I had become friendly from our frequent telephone conversations. He took
great pains to explain the rationale for his nightly plays, but I couldn’t follow
the logic of his system. On my way home from the track after the races, I would
pull my 1951 Buick tank off the freeway to a telephone booth to call with the
unvarying bad results. Because I lacked Harry's narrative talent, I could sense
Vic’s disappointment with my recaps of the races. But he was always upbeat and
would sign off with the hopeful bromide: "We'll get em tomorrow."
Despite my obvious deficiencies as a horseplayer, Vic liked me. I think it gave
him a feeling of class to have a graduate student run his bets to the track.
From the beginning of our
relationship, Vic had been promising to explain his system in detail when the
time was ripe. One day I called him for the action a little earlier than usual,
about 5 P.M. He
answered the phone with his usual upbeat response, “I haven’t studied the card yet, but I like
the morning line; a couple of standouts in the later races.”
“Well,
I’ll call you back a little later,” I answered.
“No
need to do that. This might be a good opportunity for you to come out here and
become familiar with the system. If we have time, I’ll go with you to the
track.”
This
news hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. It had been our practice to split
the cash in Vic's account as soon as he sent it to Harry. I nervously called
for instructions. “Harry. We got a big problem. Vic wants me to come out to his
house to show me how the system works.”
“That’s all right,” he
answered. “Means he wants to give us more responsibility and more action.”
“But he also says he
might go out to
“That would be a
problem,” Harry responded with some concern.
”According to my reckoning, he has $350 in the
account”.
“That sounds right,” I
answered, “but I only have $20 in my pocket”
This gave Harry pause,
for he only had $30 in the house, far short of being enough to cover Vic’s
plays for the night's action.
“Let’s not worry about
it now. By the time you drive to Glenco, and go over the race card with him,
there will be no time to go to
I was not reassured.
Driving with deliberation to Glenco I had time to imagine some fearsome
scenarios. Arriving at his palatial home I trembled in anticipation. I felt
ludicrous driving my rusty Buick up the manicured driveway to his Gatsby-like
mansion surrounded by several acres of woods. As the valet took my car, the
knot in my stomach tightened. A condescending servant escorted me into Vic’s
office.
The
spacious suite dwarfed the kitchen and dining rooms combined in our apartment
on the South Side. I had never seen such a peculiarly appointed office. Racing
forms and programs going back several decades filled every bookshelf. No books
about anything other than horses and racing. But I was too nervous to pay
strict attention. Vic had been going over the program when I arrived. He
signaled me to pull up a chair to the huge, executive style desk. He reviewed his Byzantine spreadsheets and
immediately settled on three plays for the night. None of his cabalistic explanations
made sense to me, but I feigned an interest in the beautiful simplicity and
profundity of his reasoning. I wanted to engage him in conversation that might
distract him from his inclination to go to the track. “I can’t get over the
research and the incredible depth of your understanding of horses and odds. You
remind me of Cardano.”
Norm looked puzzled.
“Who’s he?”
“Giralamo Cardano. He
was an Italian genius, who lived around the time of Michelangelo and Leonardo.
Like those guys, he dabbled in a lot of arts and science. He was the first
mathematician and philosopher who really took gambling seriously. He wrote a
book on gambling in the 16th century called Book on Game of Chance,” I said.
“That’s interesting,
Norm said. “Like to have that book. Can you buy me a copy?” Norm said.
“No,” I said. “Cardano
wrote in Latin. It has never been translated into English. If you could find a
first edition in Latin, though, it would cost you several thousand dollars.”
Norm seemed intrigued by Cardano. But I could
not distract him for long from the immediate subject. My flattery apparently
inspired him. “Now that you have an inkling of how the system works, I’m going
to show you some of the finer points. Let’s go to the track together, and we
can continue our discussion in some depth.” He called his wife in the other
room, “I’m going to the track with Gus. I’ll need $1000.” He then turned to me
and said, "According to my records, you should have $350. Is that
right?"
Vic
was inspired by my flattery. “Now that you see how the system works, I’m going
to show you some of the finer points. I’ll go with you to the track, and we can
continue our discussion.” He called his wife in the other room, “Lucille, we’re
going to the track. Gimme a $1000.” He
then turned to me and said, "According to my records, you should have
$350. Is that right?"
I gulped and lied
agreement, fingering nervously the three fives and five singles in my pocket.
“I’ve picked out three
horses who look like sure winners, especially Easy Duper in the 7th.
Bet $50 across the board on him.”
“Is that the only race
you want me to bet?”
“Yes,” said Vic, “I’ll
make my own bets on the others. You follow me. I want to get to
The valet pull Vic’s
gold 1967 Cadillac around to the front of the mansion while I got in my Buick
and waited in the driveway. Stepping behind the wheel, Vic motioned me to
follow and smoothly accelerated out of the driveway. Dazed by the swift turn of
events, I reflexively gunned the motor. The old tank lurched forward, belching
oil fumes, tailing the Cadillac. After a breakneck scamper down the expressway,
Vic pulled into the parking lot at the track at 8:30 with me dutifully behind
him. We emerged from our cars in agitated conditions, Vic anxious to catch the
3rd race, and me distraught about how to bet $150 on Easy Duper with
only $20 in my pocket. I had approximately two hours to figure out how to come
up with $150, or concoct a big lie that would convince Vic that my lack of
funds was not due to chicanery or incompetence.
The
parking lot was about two blocks from the entrance to the track. To my
momentary relief I spied a telephone booth at the exit. There were no phones
inside the track; this would be my last chance to make a call. I begged off
Vic's insistence that we hurry to make the 3rd race and promised to
meet him inside the clubhouse. I frantically dialed Harry's number. My hand
trembling uncontrollably, I could hardly steady my finger to insert it in the
slot of the dialer.
“Hello,”
answered Harry in a surly voice. I guessed from his unusual gruff tone that I
had aroused him from the sack, an unaccustomed place for him to be at 8:30. I
particularly regretted disturbing him, because I surmised that he had been
enjoying one of the infrequent opportunities to have pleasure with his patient
and beauteous wife, Ann.
“We got big trouble,”
I blurted in the phone. “I’m at the track with Vic. He wants me to make a bet,
and I’m short by $130.”
Harry started to pump
for the facts, “Where’s Vic now? Where you calling from?
“I’m in a booth in the
parking lot. I have to meet him in the clubhouse,” I said.
Harry continued his
interrogation: “What are the names of the horses and number of the races?”
“He wants me to bet
$50 across the board on Easy Duper in the 7th. “
Harry paused for a
moment, “Well, I think I can make it out there by the 7th. It will
go off about 10:40 , but I only have about $50
in the house.”
My heart sank. “Oh! My
God,” I said. “What should I tell Vic?”
“Don’t say anything.
I’ll be there for the 7th race. You meet me at the bottom of the
escalator from the clubhouse to the main floor in front of the $50 window. I’ll
be there by ten minutes before post time.”
“How you going to do
that?” I asked.
“Let me worry about
that. Just don’t let Vic make a bet in one of the earlier races.”
While Harry planned
his strategy Ann advised him that all would be well because I was a graduate
student who could outsmart Vic. Her sweet naiveté did not reassure Harry.
I exited the phone booth with some
hope, but with the added fear that Vic might want me to bet a horse in an
earlier race. I met Vic at our prearranged location in the clubhouse after the
4th race. As we sat down with our drinks and racing cards, Vic
queried, “Where you been?” I fretted at the question but came up with a
plausible lie. “Had to call my wife. She didn’t know I was going to the track.
We had a few words about it.” I then feigned interest in Vic’s betting strategy
for the night’s card. “How did your do in the 3rd?”
Vic cleared his
throat. “I knew Tiny Alice was all the best. She led all the way into the back
stretch, but then she broke stride and finished out of the money.”
“I’m sorry about that,
Vic.”
“Don’t worry about it.
The perfect is the enemy of the good.” I didn’t see the immediate relevance to
this response, but I let it pass. He explained, “my big plays will come in the
5th and the 7th races.” Trying to act interested in Vic’s
arcane theories of handicapping, I could not sit quietly. But he continued his
monologue. He wanted to talk about how profitable the night would turn out. He
waxed eloquent about the future opportunities for Harry and me. It was only a
matter of time before he would pass on to us the mysteries of the system that
had taken him 35 years to perfect.
My
distracted responses disappointed Vic, but he gave no negative signals. He
talked about horses and the past killings he had made at the track, how easy it
would be for him if he could devote all his time to studying past performances
and attending the track every night. Because of my agitated and barely coherent
responses, he no doubt wondered about me, out of my depth in the art and
science of handicapping. I could barely concentrate on the names of the horses,
much less Vic’s convoluted explanation of which horse would win and why.
After the 6th race Vic became
noticeably more attentive and animated. He rehearsed again all the reasons for
his selection of Easy Duper and why it was surely the best bet of the night.
Seeing the regal stallion saunter onto the track for a couple of easy scores
around the circuit, Vic became ecstatic. “Look at his gait; smooth as a Swiss
watch.” About ten minutes to post time,
he arose from his seat and announced, “Let’s make our bets.”
The dreaded moment had
arrived. I reminded myself of a fall guy in a B movie. The escalator downstairs
to the $50 window loomed in my imagination as the last mile to the electric
chair at Statesville Pen. Walking to the escalator, I thought, “Only the Governor
could commute my sentence”. As I alighted off the last step and turned the
corner to the $50 window, not the Governor, but Happy Harry Hardy appeared in
the appointed place, smiling like a
With only a few
minutes remaining until post time, Harry briefly described his frantic ride to
Tony Casto’s saloon to put the bite on the proprietor. Tony was Harry's most
reliable bookmaker. He could always be counted on in a pinch, even though Harry
had strained his credit rating many times over the years. But the grim, cigar-chomping
Tony came forward with $200 on the barrelhead. This was a considerable act of
generosity and/or a remarkable feat of diplomacy by Harry. Tony wasn't a guy to
be easily bamboozled by lowlife hoods. He could be relied upon never to let
down a friend and good customer. And Harry qualified in both categories, even
though he had at the time a sizable debt in Tony's mental ledger book.
Grasping
Harry to my bosom I was reminded of my Irish mother's most adulatory compliment
in gratitude for a genuine act of charity. "Harry, old buddy, you're
working in the shadow of the cross." I then raced up the escalator to the
clubhouse and flashed the tickets at Vic. Sitting down next to him, I said with
a broad grin. “Now, let’s watch Easy Duper run over those nags and make our
night. Too bad the odds have dropped to even money!”
Vic marveled at my
changed, relaxed, and ebullient demeanor. “Don’t worry about the odds falling.
It only means that the $2 betters are following the smart money.”
I responded, “I appreciate
your taking the time to explain the system. I learned a lot tonight.”
Vic felt proud that he
had made such an impression. “I like your enthusiasm. That’s the attitude that
will make you a winner.”
The bell sounded, and
the horses were off. Easy Duper pulled out of the nine hole and was parked on
the outside for most of the race. Trailing the field turning into the stretch,
he made a valiant run for the money, but he didn’t have the speed. He placed
fourth in a 10-horse field. I tried to bolster Vic’s spirits. “I know you had a
lot of confidence in Easy Duper. You got to give him credit for the grit he
showed at the finish.”
Vic took the results
with the same positive attitude I had known him to have on the phone. “He was
by far the best in the race. Would have won by four lengths if Banks hadn’t
parked him on the outside. If the race had been a quarter mile longer, he would
be in the winner’s circle now.”
“I admire your
attitude,” I replied.
“You got to take one
race at a time,” answered Vic. “Next time he runs, the odds will be right, and
we’ll get it all back with interest.”
After the race Vic got
up to leave. “Good night. A pleasure showing you a bit about handicapping. I’ll
call you on Thursday.”
We shook hands and
parted. I went to the bar on the lower level where Harry was waiting. We
replayed the whole drama and conjured up the dark imaginings of what could have
happened to our respective futures. Harry had saved his job as well as his
reputation among the regulars in the VIP lounge. I continued to use my
part-time income from Vic to continue my graduate studies. With relief and
gratitude I raised my glass of Blatz beer and intoned a toast: “Here’s to Vic
Stockman, truly a philanthropic handicapper!”
My partnership with
Harry and our courier service for Vic continued for another year until we left
Now almost forty years later I recall
Vic's largess with fond affection. Kate, our pediatrician daughter, reminded me
of him just recently. She noticed that the gigantic wing of the
Paper read to a joint meeting of the Chicago
Literary Club and the Cliff Dwellers, April 17, 2006
Ed Quattrocchi