Advantage Disadvantage by Yale Jaffe

with the gambling losses Frank incurred on football
betting.

Chapter Thirteen. St. Marlin’s Locker Room

    In the parking lot, the St. Marlin coach climbed
into Bobby G.’s BMW. He was there to conduct a little commerce. He
had given Bobby G. two thousand dollars to ensure that a couple
seventh grade basketball prodigies would attend St Marlin’s camp
next week. It was unseemly for the coach, but Bobby G. suffered no
guilt.
    High schools and colleges regularly exploited
athletes. Coaches, trainers, and AD’s had made money off athletic
events and teams. Why shouldn’t the bookie jump on the pay train
too? By selling street agent favors to recruiting coaches, he
developed quite a complimentary business to his high school
bookmaking business. He also began to shake down players and
families who wanted introductions to college programs. He took
bets, and sold flesh.
    After paying Bobby G., the coach ran into the school
from the BMW as fast as he could. Bobby G. noticed that two police
officers in an unmarked car were watching him. They probably
observed the coach coming into his car and passing over the dough.
Bobby G. started to panic. He was on court imposed probation and
although his mouthpiece was well connected inside the courthouse,
being busted was always a hassle and usually expensive.
    He called his cousin, Davis Fryer, his friend and
cousin from childhood and mate in the disbanded gang.
    “Hey Davis, I’m in a fix here and I think I’m
fucked. I need your help.”
    “ ’Sup Bobby? Where you at?”
    “I’m near your crib, just outside of St Marlin High
School. I think the PoPo watched me do a transaction with a
guy in the parking lot. He’s watching me with binoc’s. You’re still
my Ace, right?”
    “I got your back bro. Are you loaded ?” Davis
asked.
    “I’ve got a dime bag, eight grand and my old
Cobalt . ”
    Bobby G. had shaken down a few coaches that day and
did not want to have to explain the money to the police. The dime
bag of pot was just part of his trouble. The unregistered pistol
had sentimental value to Bobby G. It reminded him of the gang he
willingly joined many years ago with Davis, and although saddened
by its infiltrated demise, he cherished this illegal gun with the
deep blue handle.
    “Don’t get caught with any of that, Bro. You can’t
leave that shit in your car – they’re going to search your BMW. You
know that, right? OK, here’s the deal. Take that with you into the
school. Flush the hooch down the toilet. Put the piece and
the dough in a locker when no one is looking. Tell me the locker
number. The pigs are gonna rummage through your car, so play it
cool. While they are hassling you, I’ll get your stuff and meet up
with you at your crib.”
    “I’m putting the Cobalt and cash in my pouch. Hold
on…I’ll tell you which locker once I get inside.”
    Bobby G. dashed into the empty boy’s locker room
next to the gym. He was panting from running, but had work to do.
The place reeked of rusted metal, decaying walls and over taxed
plumbing. He looked at the row of wall-mounted urinals. He quickly
made a pass in front of the stalls and looked under the doors but
saw no feet. Bobby G. opened the plastic bag, dumped the pot into
the urinal, and pulled the flush handle. He hurried down an aisle,
placed his fanny pack inside a locker and slammed it shut.
    “Davis, you there?” he hollered into the phone. “Ok
bro, I put my money pouch in the second row on your left when you
walk in the boys locker room at St. Marlin’s. It’s next to the main
gym where they’re ballin’ tonight. Locker 14. Get over here quick,
and if you don’t hear from me, call the heeb. Don’t forget man,
number 14.”
    The door thumped open. Two Chicago police officers
burst into the locker room. The water was running inside the
urinal. Bobby G. was zipping up his pants. They ordered him to
stand against the wall and spread his legs.
    “Can’t a guy take a whiz? Why are you