hustlers who were paid by the day and travelled the gambling circuit from Newport, Ky., down to Miami in the winter and back up to Saratoga for August. Most of them were educated in Steubenville, O., where the penny-ante games were trade schools for the industry.
They were drifters and most of them had no talent for mussing up a welsher. They were clerks of the underworld and they packed up and left as soon as any heat was turned their way. Most of them have settled down in Las Vegas and Reno where their old bosses have taken charge with licences hanging on the walls.
Their employers were not gamblers in the tradition of old Col. E. R. Bradley who was a stately man of courteous deportment. But there are those who tell me that his gambling bazaar at Palm Beach would go along with a mark until his score piled up too high.
Then, according to those who have gone against Bradley’s games, mechanics took over and used any device that would keep the house solvent. It delights those who recollect Bradley when they read his canonization as a philanthropist whose hobby was giving the rich a little divertissement denied them by the state of Florida. But, compared to the lice who controlled Saratoga, Col. Bradley is entitled to all the praise he gets in the remembrances of the sentimentalists.
The track at Saratoga is a ramshackle pile of kindling wood and the climate is hot and humid. There are some, such as Al Vanderbilt and Jock Whitney, who are sportsmen in the obsolete sense of the identification. Horse-racing is their game and they are too good for it. So are such trainers as Bill Winfrey, who sent ‘Native Dancer’ to the races. There are jockeys who would bust you in the nose if you propositioned them to pull a horse.
They enjoy Saratoga and they must be glad that the likes of Lucky Luciano are gone from the rube town that flourished because it allowed tough guys to fleece the drop-ins. The bookmakers were yegged as they left the track in the era of the hand-books. There was one called Kid Tatters who was relieved of $50,000 in the parking lot. The heist guys told him they intended to kidnap him if he didn’t come up with more.
Kid Tatters knew Lucky had a piece of most of the gambling spots and appealed to him to settle his trouble. Lucky said it was a simple matter. No one would bother the bookie if he did as he was told. Kid Tatters had a permit to book at the track and his reputation was clean, but there was only one way he could protect himself.
‘Make me your partner,’ Lucky informed him and the conversation was repeated for me by a man who was present. ‘No one would stick up a partner of Lucky’s.’
Kid Tatters thought of himself as an honourable guy in business sanctioned by the state, but he gave in and Lucky was his partner until he died. I asked a guy if Lucky put up any money or worked for his end of the bookmaker’s profit.
‘All Lucky did was collect,’ the fellow said. ‘But in those days, Kid Tatters made himself a good bargain. He was never bothered again.’
It was a stinking town, but all gambling towns are.
Bond folded the cutting and put it in his pocket.
‘It certainly sounds a long way from Lily Langtry,’ he said after a pause.
‘Sure,’ said Leiter indifferently. ‘And Jimmy Cannon doesn’t let on he knows the big boys are back again, or their successors. But nowadays they’re owners, like our friends the Spangs, running their horses against the Whitneys and the Vanderbilts and the Woodwards, and now and again putting over a fast fix like “Shy Smile”. They aim to net fifty Grand on that job, and that’s better than knocking off a bookie for a few C’s. Sure, some of the names have changed around Saratoga. So’s the mud in the mud baths there.’
A big road sign loomed up on the right. It said:
STOP AT THE SAGAMORE.
AIR-CONDITIONED. SLUMBERITE BEDS TELEVISION.
FIVE MILES TO SARATOGA SPRINGS, AND THE SAGAMORE
– FOR GRACIOUS LIVING
‘That means we get our
They were drifters and most of them had no talent for mussing up a welsher. They were clerks of the underworld and they packed up and left as soon as any heat was turned their way. Most of them have settled down in Las Vegas and Reno where their old bosses have taken charge with licences hanging on the walls.
Their employers were not gamblers in the tradition of old Col. E. R. Bradley who was a stately man of courteous deportment. But there are those who tell me that his gambling bazaar at Palm Beach would go along with a mark until his score piled up too high.
Then, according to those who have gone against Bradley’s games, mechanics took over and used any device that would keep the house solvent. It delights those who recollect Bradley when they read his canonization as a philanthropist whose hobby was giving the rich a little divertissement denied them by the state of Florida. But, compared to the lice who controlled Saratoga, Col. Bradley is entitled to all the praise he gets in the remembrances of the sentimentalists.
The track at Saratoga is a ramshackle pile of kindling wood and the climate is hot and humid. There are some, such as Al Vanderbilt and Jock Whitney, who are sportsmen in the obsolete sense of the identification. Horse-racing is their game and they are too good for it. So are such trainers as Bill Winfrey, who sent ‘Native Dancer’ to the races. There are jockeys who would bust you in the nose if you propositioned them to pull a horse.
They enjoy Saratoga and they must be glad that the likes of Lucky Luciano are gone from the rube town that flourished because it allowed tough guys to fleece the drop-ins. The bookmakers were yegged as they left the track in the era of the hand-books. There was one called Kid Tatters who was relieved of $50,000 in the parking lot. The heist guys told him they intended to kidnap him if he didn’t come up with more.
Kid Tatters knew Lucky had a piece of most of the gambling spots and appealed to him to settle his trouble. Lucky said it was a simple matter. No one would bother the bookie if he did as he was told. Kid Tatters had a permit to book at the track and his reputation was clean, but there was only one way he could protect himself.
‘Make me your partner,’ Lucky informed him and the conversation was repeated for me by a man who was present. ‘No one would stick up a partner of Lucky’s.’
Kid Tatters thought of himself as an honourable guy in business sanctioned by the state, but he gave in and Lucky was his partner until he died. I asked a guy if Lucky put up any money or worked for his end of the bookmaker’s profit.
‘All Lucky did was collect,’ the fellow said. ‘But in those days, Kid Tatters made himself a good bargain. He was never bothered again.’
It was a stinking town, but all gambling towns are.
Bond folded the cutting and put it in his pocket.
‘It certainly sounds a long way from Lily Langtry,’ he said after a pause.
‘Sure,’ said Leiter indifferently. ‘And Jimmy Cannon doesn’t let on he knows the big boys are back again, or their successors. But nowadays they’re owners, like our friends the Spangs, running their horses against the Whitneys and the Vanderbilts and the Woodwards, and now and again putting over a fast fix like “Shy Smile”. They aim to net fifty Grand on that job, and that’s better than knocking off a bookie for a few C’s. Sure, some of the names have changed around Saratoga. So’s the mud in the mud baths there.’
A big road sign loomed up on the right. It said:
STOP AT THE SAGAMORE.
AIR-CONDITIONED. SLUMBERITE BEDS TELEVISION.
FIVE MILES TO SARATOGA SPRINGS, AND THE SAGAMORE
– FOR GRACIOUS LIVING
‘That means we get our
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