Book Joint for Sale: Memoirs of a Bookie

By Anthony Serritella

Book Jacket:


From taking $2 horse bets at his uncles newsstand in Chicagos downtown district as a nine-year-old in the 1940s, to taking $20,000 Super Bowl bets from traders on the floor at one of Chicagos Exchanges , Anthony Serrano has seen every bet and every character that comes with themsome loved, and some who wield machine guns.
Serrano, a lifelong resident of Chicagos Chinatown, takes readers on a story about his childhood experience with a book-maker, in the army, as an options clerk and broker and as a railroad clerk. Where it seemed everyone just couldnt resist the thrill of a good (or bad) bet.
Told first-hand, Serrano walks us through light-hearted tales that often lead to funny yet sometimes serious circumstances.
After taking steep bets from what appeared to be a wealthy businessman, Serrano is exposed to what turns out to be a drug-crazed, bankrupt husband who will stop at nothing to get his ex-wife back and suffers a brutal fate in his pursuit. Meanwhile, Serrano is swept into this drama after the husband cannot pay back a bet.
Serrano also explains how his experience as a bookie gave him an advantage while in the army, giving him job opportunities that few other reserves had.
He tells how his investment in a Lounge in Cicero, Illinois, welcomes some threatening and dangerous company, and how his neighborhood connections may have saved his life.
From being shaken down by Chicago Police for their share of the action from a bookie on the railroads to trying to rescue a dear friend from financial ruins in the commodity markets in 1980s, we see a self-made man who has an unusual grace in pressure situations and an affinity for forging friendships with the most unlikely of characters, resulting in some fascinating tales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456743338

Anthony Serritella

Tony Serritella, a lifetime Chicago resident, grew up in a near-south side Italian neighborhood. He is a first-time author in the September of his years who has a gift of incorporating humor in his story-telling. His vivid memories will resonate with others growing up in these ‘simpler years’, and he hopes his story- telling will bring the reader a smile and renewed memories of their own. In writing this, he realizes how much he appreciated his youth, friends and family, and how he wouldn’t trade the events in his life with anyone else.

Book preview

Book Joint For Sale:

Memoirs of a Bookie

by

Anthony Serritella

missing image file

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

Names, characters, places and incidents may be exaggerated. Any resemblance to events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2011 Anthony Serritella. All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 04/6/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4333-8 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4334-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4335-2 (sc)

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

For Corrine, my daughter, for making this book possible.

For Tina, Tony and Gail for making this life possible.

For Billy Lombardo for making some kind of

sense of all this.

Contents

CHAPTER 1 The Bust

CHAPTER 2 Sid – An Aura of Darkness

CHAPTER 3 Are You Anthony Serrano?

CHAPTER 4 World War II Ends

CHAPTER 5 How It All Began

CHAPTER 6 Laughing All the Way

CHAPTER 7 Show Time – How Much?

CHAPTER 8 Contempt of Court?

CHAPTER 9 Time to Reflect

CHAPTER 10 The Marriage – The Army

CHAPTER 11 Cousin Danny to the Rescue

CHAPTER 12 The Divorce – Sorry And Sad

CHAPTER 13 Growing Up Bogie

CHAPTER 14 Things Always Happen for the Best

CHAPTER 15 Pitfalls of the Exchange

CHAPTER 16 Characters on the Way to Nowhere

CHAPTER 17 The Winning Season

CHAPTER 18 Good Characters that Entered My Life

CHAPTER 19 Women in My Immediate Life

CHAPTER 20 The End? Nah, No Such Thing

CHAPTER 21 The Changing of My World

PREFACE

What is a Book Joint?

Much to my surprise, when this book was finished, I was anxious to get some response to what people thought, so I gave the book to people from different walks of life. Men who gambled, men who didn’t gamble, women, my daughters, the educated, people who couldn’t read, even strangers whom I met briefly, just to get a reaction.

I wanted some feedback, to see if my book was entertaining, boring, whatever, to see if I was being egotistical to think people would read a book about my life. And I must add that I owe a lot to Mike Mitchell for helping edit this, and for summing up my life on the jacket cover. Billy Lombardo for cleaning it up and making it enjoyable. And don’t forget Frankie Bertone.

Anyway, I was surprised to find out how many people didn’t know what a Book Joint even was….. Slang for Library?? No… So…

BOOK JOINT - back in the day it was a place where someone can place an illegal wager. It could be a storefront, back alley or just about anywhere. Back when I was growing up, just about all the newsstands in Chicago’s downtown area were ‘Book Joints’ and the newsmen were ‘bookies’.

The title of the book, ‘Book Joint for Sale’ means… I quit the business.

Chapter 1

THE BUST

The Late 70’s

It was a perfect December Saturday. The weather was almost balmy, about 48 degrees at 10:30 in the morning. Everything was running its normal course. I had my coffee, said hello and goodbyes to all the guys at the coffee house, headed home, read the papers and was ready to start work.

The phones would start ringing any minute now. Action time.

Feeling a little lazy, I decided to take bets at home, which was something I rarely did. It was early and nothing much was happening. Five hundred dollars worth of bets came my way without much effort and I was yelling at my daughter, Corrine, to stay off the phone.

My two teen-aged daughters didn’t like it when I stayed home for the action. It got a little irritating for them, which I could understand, but hey, it was my job.

During my ‘working hours’ they weren’t supposed to make or receive any phone calls, but you know the way girls are. The first thing they did on Saturdays was to get some super glue, put it on their ear, put the phone to it, and leave it there. But like I always said, from the words of the great father: "Too bad!"

When I was home working on Saturdays, my teenage daughter, Christie, left the house early. It frustrated her if a phone was in front of her that she couldn’t use. It was like an unreachable fix.

My daughters had their orders, now if only the dogs would catch on and stop trying to climb on my lap. The phone rang. It was my fifty year old cousin, Lucy, she was my Aunt Mary’s oldest daughter, who lived downstairs from me in our two-flat brick building.

Anthony, Anthony, some men are coming up the front and the back stairs! she screamed. They have axes and sledge hammers!

Within seconds the cops were pounding on the door, so I grabbed the few bets I had and flung them into the gangway from the second floor window where two vice cops were just waiting for me to do something stupid like that.

Hey, look, it’s snowing, one of them said.

They had been watching me for weeks, just waiting for the chance to catch me taking bets at home. I opened the back door only a second before they raised their tools of the trade to break it in. Corrine was terrified. I didn’t want to show it, but I was too. The cops came in and ordered her to sit still. They threw me against the wall and frisked me, spread-eagled. They didn’t read me my rights or produce a search warrant. I didn’t want to press my luck though, so I kept my mouth shut. Maybe this could work to my advantage later. My dogs started barking and biting the cop’s leg.

Get these mangy mutts away from me, before I shoot ‘em, the cop yelled.

I also have a room full of cats, the seven strays that I took in one winter when they were kittens. They were huddled in a hole in my back yard starving, and I guess I felt sorry for them. I didn’t have the heart to split them up into separate homes. They’re a family, so I kept them in an empty back room where they wouldn’t confront the dogs - because they would fight like cats and dogs.

The cops went to the cat room door and I tried to stop them. "No, please don’t open that door." A brilliant thing to say to cops during a raid.

One of them rolled his eyes, shook his head, and flung the door open.

In a matter of seconds the cats went flying out of the room. They were the kind of felines that frighten easily - scaredy cats I guess you’d call them. The vice detectives didn’t know what `the hell was going on. They never expected this nutty scene taking place. The dogs chased the cats, I chased the dogs, and the police chased me. It was a real three-ring circus. Barnum & Bailey would have offered me and my animal act a contract.

I was ordered to get back on the couch. How? Cats and dogs were flying all over and were barking, hissing, and leaping in all directions. I finally grabbed the dogs and put them in another room. To this day, I’m still looking for the cats. One thing about cats - when they hide, they hide.

When things calmed down, the cops started a massive hunt but not for the cats.

"Before we start tearing this house apart, if you have any drugs, you better get them out now. If we find even a smoke, the whole house goes," they roughly explained.

Drugs? What are you, crazy? I don’t do drugs. I have two daughters living with me. I’d never do drugs.

Everyone who knows me knows this is true, but no matter how truthfully you speak, you’re still kinda surprised when the cops believe you. But they did. I must have been pretty convincing. They must have seen the sincerity in my emotion. I had to make another plea.

"Officer, please let my daughter go. She doesn’t know what the hell is going on and you’re scaring her," I pleaded.

Not just yet, the cop said. We’re not finished cleaning house. You won’t need the cleaning lady this week. You’re in a lot more trouble than you realize.

I heard the word trouble and spelled it S-I-D. Somehow I could just feel it he was behind this, and I started to sweat all over. A black aura engulfed me and the smell of brimstone was surfacing. But I’ll get to Sid later.

I tried communicating with my daughter Corrine, non-verbally, through some kind of signing. She had some kind of ‘Huh?’ look on her face so.

Cor, go downstairs by Aunt Mary. Tell my brother to call the bookie and tell him what’s happening, I whispered.

With clever hand gestures, I signaled out the phone number.

Chicago’s finest left Corrine in the house when they escorted me to their car. Corrine followed my instructions and informed my brother.

The Vice were nice enough to escort me without hand cuffs so family and nosey neighbors that were hanging out their windows wouldn’t get curious and start a chain reaction of gossip.

I was given straight-to-the-heart advice, a little late, but they seemed to almost care. After all, it was only gambling, which was no big deal back then.

"Look, we‘re only doing our job. You should know better than to take all these bets in your house. Stupid move, we could have done a lot of damage. If the other crew would have come here, they would have broken down your door, wrecked your house, busted your daughter, shot your dogs and cats and then they would have showed you their badges," the vice cop said.

I knew this was true. I had a friend who was busted in his basement. They destroyed his piano, broke all of his mirrors, and even ripped his wedding pictures, just because they could.

I usually worked out of a high-rise and we used rice paper to write down our bets. Rice paper dissolves as soon as it touches water and if anyone tries to grab it, it shreds apart and melts. Probably discovered by a Chinese bookie.

Here’s how we normally worked handling the bets. We’d have two large buckets of water and put one on each side of a table. Then we’d put a cell phone on the table with worksheets in the center. It was a fool-proof method. The phones couldn’t be traced to any address. This was back in the 70’s and cell phones were a little more complicated to trace. We rented a high-rise apartment by the month and put the doorman on the payroll. His instructions were to ring us if anyone suspicious came in the lobby. It really is easy to spot the vice. If we got a call, we turned the television on, and left the door open so that they wouldn’t cause any damage breaking in. We tried to get on the highest floor we could, so that we had enough time to call the bets into the office, and then submerge anything written in the buckets of water, destroying all the evidence. Then we would break up the phones and throw them and the buckets of water out the window so there’d be no record of any incoming calls made to us. Just a couple of guys enjoying the beautiful view of the city.

The only way for the vice to hinder us or stop the operation for the day was to follow us, and that also was almost fool proof. We took two cars, left about twenty minutes apart, and timed it so we had three hours before the games began. We took a different route every week. And every week we even used different cars. A normal thirty minute drive took us an hour or more. It would be a real pain in the ass if the weather was bad, but worth every minute. It was trouble that we were trying to prevent.

We met at a coffee shop, never acknowledged that we knew each other, and if the second party was detained or saw something suspicious, they were to call the coffee shop and ask for a phony name that was decided on beforehand. When they would yell out the name from the call, we would leave. That would be the sign something was wrong or they were being followed. That’s how we usually handled the action, and that’s how I should have always handled it.

Well, anyway, if I did, I wouldn’t be writing my memoirs. So there. Here I am. Busted.

I respected the fact that the vice cops didn’t want to embarrass me, probably because of my daughter and her genuine fear. One of them probably had a daughter Corrine’s age. Whatever the reason, it was nice of them. Two cops walked in front of me and one along side, talking to me as if we were old friends.

My other daughter, Christie, was in tears, pretending to be hysterical so that maybe they would let me go. I think they caught on, but they did let me talk to her in private. I told her I probably would be home that night, so to wipe away those tears. She winked.

The cops led me to an old Chevy parked about a block away. I hesitated.

Do I have to get in? Isn’t there some other way? Somehow like it never happened? I’ll give you my dogs? cats? money?

Can’t. Somebody dropped a call on you, and the Captain’s expecting you now, the vice cop said.

All I could think of was Sid. I was sure then, and I’m still sure now, that he and his wife Vicki made some kind of deal. With all the crazy things Sid had been into, somehow he managed never to spend a night in jail. He knew how to stay out of trouble and this time I was his way out. It didn’t make any sense to me. It was going to be a long night. Plenty of time to think about Sid, who was probably an informer. He did seem to have a lot of leeway with the law.

After that bust, my betting action had to be called in directly by my players. I didn’t want to get personally involved anymore. My player’s bets were called directly to a part of The Office who only took care of my bettors. Once I started working at the Exchange, the action was five or ten thousand a week in bets and needed special care. I would get a percentage of all the total winnings from my player’s losing bets, and we’d settle at the end of the football season. All sports bets were settled at the end of that particular season.

Every player was assigned a number. No names were ever given. My group of numbers identified that they were with me. Let’s say my group started at number 500 and went as high as whatever, all these players were mine. And that’s how it went. I personally communicated with the Office each day of action to make sure everyone was in line. Each action night I screened all the bets that were made. My job? I got the list of winners and losers, paid the winners, and collected from the losers. I was financially responsible for their bets. I was on top of everything. I called the Office two or three times a day. I wanted to make sure everyone stood in their financial ballpark.

Maybe in Sid’s case I was impressed with all his possessions. Impressed with his car, his condo (that ended up not being his), his expensive watch, his heavy tipping, and all the beautiful women that surrounded him. I probably did not keep as close a watch on him as I should have. I guess he had me fooled. Too many distractions.

CHAPTER 2

SID - AN AURA OF DARKNESS

Late 70’s

The devil laughed when Sid and I crossed paths. Along with many other negative traits, Sidney Cohen was a gambler extraordinaire who lived well above his means. As I think back, I can’t remember anything positive about him. That black aura I mentioned earlier belonged to Sid and if you got too close, damn if some didn’t rub off.

He was in his mid-thirties and living on borrowed time. Don’t ask me how he survived that long, but somehow he managed. He was a burly type and strong, a black-belt in karate, and a college wrestler who finished second in the United States, at least that’s what he told me. If you saw him you would believe it. He was a balding man, with plugs in his head. (this was before grafting) Which made him look more menacing. Like his head was sewn on.

He was very physical and dangerously emotional, ready to erupt without warning. He seemed quiet enough, but in his case, quiet meant…. well…. It could mean anything. If Sid got mad at you, there was no limit to what he would do to get even. He would never hurt you physically that can heal, but instead delve into your life until he found something incriminating. Then he’d try to use that information for revenge, usually through a third party.

I met Sidney the way I met most of my customers, through a mutual friend. In this case, a friend named Vinnie. He met Sid at some disco that was throwing a costume party and fell madly in love with Sid’s date.

Sid was dressed in a cowboy outfit and his gorgeous girlfriend, Vicki, was dressed as a cheerleader for the Dallas Cowboys. From that moment on, Vinnie was a Dallas Cowboy fan.

Vinnie struck up a conversation with Sid only to meet his girl. He was always out to impress, so the conversation turned to gambling. The Chicago Bears were the main topic for a while, and then it turned to bookies. Sid was looking for a good bookie.

You have to be very careful when a gambler looks for a good bookie halfway through the season. It usually means something went wrong-not that the bookie went broke.

Vinnie relayed my philosophy to him.

Most all bookies are good. It’s the gamblers, the losers, that try to make bookies look bad.

It’s like my Uncle Biz always said "You’ll never see a book joint for sale,"

For a bookie, gambling is a no-lose situation.

Vinnie bragged that his bookie (me) would take any amount on any game. He said he would talk to me to set up a meeting.

Sid was interested and Vinnie gave him my number. He called me shortly after the costume party.

Hi, this is Sid Cohen, a friend of Vinnie’s. Could we meet? I’d like to talk over some business.

I’ve been expecting your call, Vinnie told me first about your beautiful girlfriend, then about you. I hear she’s a knock-out. Listen, Sid, give me your number and I’ll call you back in a few minutes. I’m on another call.

This was something I did to get potential client’s phone numbers before I began taking any action from them. This was before caller ID was popular. I would run a check to learn if they were legit or not – my precautionary measure.

I called Sid back from a pay phone.

Sid, Anthony. Can we talk now?

Yeah, sure. Vinnie tells me we could do business. I’d like to meet you.

Same here. I hear we have something in common. Let’s get together and talk about it.

We made arrangements to meet at a coffee house on ‘Rush.’ Rush Street in Chicago was a hot area, known as the city’s night life district - a place where celebrities and some of the city’s more beautiful women would be seen. Sid was out to impress, letting me know he was familiar and comfortable there.

Sid arrived first. I described myself and told him what I would be wearing.

He was impressive enough, sported a black sweater, trimmed with black leather, black leather pants and black leather boots. He stood about 5’8" and weighed close to 215 pounds, he was athletic looking, and definitely worked out. He wore a Piaget watch worth about ten thousand, or so he said. We went through the usual get-acquainted bullshit.

Vinnie tells me your people are pretty big and there’d be no limit to what I can bet, he said. And I bet big, Anthony. Sometimes very big.

"What’s big? And what’s ‘very’ big?" I asked him just to see how big his big is.

"About three dimes a game," he replied.

Three dimes a game is big. Very big. I hope we don’t have any problems along the way. I don’t want this road to have any bumps, It was some kind of warning to him.

He assured me money was no problem. He tried to assure me. Gamblers don’t come with resumes, so I had to take his word for it. After coffee he picked up the tab, and left a hefty tip…another attempt to impress me. We went out into the street and he asked me to walk him to his car. I thought this was a strange request, surely he wasn’t afraid, but he actually wanted me to see his Rolls Royce. He proceeded to tell me it was only a couple of years old; they all looked alike to me. (It was actually ten years old, but more on this later). I was very impressed.

Hey, Tony, you want to drive it? he asked.

I nodded no, so he invited to take me for a ride instead. (he did more than just give me a car ride, but more on this later)

Come on, jump in, I’ll show you my condo. You can meet Vicki. She’s a part-time model; I also run a modeling agency, he boasted.

Vamanos, let’s go, I answered anxiously.

We jumped into the Rolls and drove to his condo. I couldn’t believe my eyes. An honest-to- goodness million dollar condo on Lake Shore Drive and this was in the early 80’s. His name was on the registrar, and all the security called him by his first name. The condo had a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, gold plated handles on the shower, and a great view of Lake Michigan. Very impressive, so I didn’t foresee any problems with the man or the myth. He was spinning his web and I was the fly.

He started out small, betting three games at $500 a game, a total of fifteen hundred for the weekend. I preferred this kind of action, not too big, but big enough to make this worth my while. He caught two winners and won $450. Nice action, but no big deal. I met with him, paid him his money, and shook hands.

See you next week, I said.

The next week he bet $3,000 a game. I quaked a little. Welcome to the big time, I thought. Over a weekend it could add up to classical money and I started to get nervous. This could be a roller coaster ride and I’m afraid of heights.

Sid won $9,000 that weekend and we met again for his payoff.

I got real lucky this week, the Bears game was real exciting. Spoken like a winner.

I paid him, he offered me a few hundred, and I refused. I knew in a couple of weeks he would need all the money he had. Sid was reckless, and it was just a matter of time before the moment of truth would come.

We continued meeting for three weeks with small exchanges. He lost some of it back, but he was still up about seven grand. Still, there wasn’t a real test of his true worth yet.

Two weeks later the moment that I