the wire, he broke his leg. He swore he would never go to the track again (Dink later saw him at the track). Another man produced sports for television. He borrowed money and stole money, bet millions on football and baseball games, and finally lost his job. “I produce sports!” he said during one meeting. “If I can’t win, how can anybody else win?”
All these people thought that they were smart. Then they lost all of their money, and decided they were sick. Dink wondered why they didn’t decide that they were just stupid.
After GA, Dink would stop by the condo to shower. He enjoyedseeing Tulip. They talked about the track, her AA meetings, movies she had seen. Tulip looked forward to Dink’s shower visits. He always made her laugh. It didn’t surprise her one bit, the evening she found herself on her tiptoes, giving Dink a kiss.
First Diane, now Tulip. Dink had more women while he was in the halfway house than ever before. What was it about night jail that women found so sexy? The answer was easy: the eight o’clock curfew. Put a time limit on anything and life gets exciting. At a small table in the back of Yogi’s Sports Bar, the new couple ate dinner together nearly every night. Once the dishes were cleared, Tulip sat on Dink’s lap and rooted for the teams he needed to win.
It was at the Furlough, belly down on his top bunk, transistor radio against his shoulder, that Dink honed his gambling skills. With such an early curfew there was little else to do but listen to games and study sports. His bookmaker lifestyle may have seemed very far away, but Tijuana wasn’t. And the sports books there took bets ten minutes after kickoff as long as no one had scored. A team could have the ball on the 10-yard line and you could bet on that team, or the total. It was sports betting’s best-kept secret. Dink employed Ira, his oldest, most trustworthy friend, as his runner.
“Avoid customs. Park the car and walk over,” Dink instructed, handing Ira twenty grand.
His blue jeans stuffed with cash, Ira walked across the San Ysidro border. Immediately, he was besieged by contagious-looking three-year-olds begging for money. Past the kids and the cabstands and the Chavez fight posters tacked to plywood shacks, the Caliente hotel and casino rose in the distance.
Back at Roscoe’s deli, Dink was busy making the square world suit his needs. Directly across from the cash register, the newly installed sports ticker was just as glorious as Dink had imagined. The teenage employees Dink worked with every day stood by and watched as he stared up, slack-jawed, beholding the in-game updates that flashed in red, green, and gold, like sun-dappled stained glass.
“Why do you work here?” one of them asked.
“I’m interested in opening my own deli, one day,” Dink said.
He turned his attention back to the ticker:
Welcome to Sub-Marina! Mets 3 Cubs 2, bottom of the eighth
.
During his year of rehabilitation, Dink gambled—and won—more than he had ever won bookmaking in Queens. He beat the Tijuana sports books and because he was in good standing with the bookmakers back east, they gave him high limits and took his bets. It was all on the books and when his sentence was over he collected his winnings.
Arty owes me $80,000, I owe you $60,000. Can you pick it up? You’ll owe me $20,000. Louie owes me $90,000, I owe you $100,000, pick it up and I’ll give you the other $10,000 next week. You know how it is
.
With his debt to society paid in full, and a four-hundred-thousand-dollar bankroll, Dink and Tulip headed to Vegas and launched Dink Inc. Tulip, enticed by something new and exciting, became Dink’s first casino runner, stationed at Caesars Palace. Seven years had passed since their first date when Tulip finally asked, “Honey, are we
ever
gonna get married?”
“You have an open invitation,” Dink said.
They flew to New York and bought an engagement ring from Dink’s friend Cathy at her jewelry store in
All these people thought that they were smart. Then they lost all of their money, and decided they were sick. Dink wondered why they didn’t decide that they were just stupid.
After GA, Dink would stop by the condo to shower. He enjoyedseeing Tulip. They talked about the track, her AA meetings, movies she had seen. Tulip looked forward to Dink’s shower visits. He always made her laugh. It didn’t surprise her one bit, the evening she found herself on her tiptoes, giving Dink a kiss.
First Diane, now Tulip. Dink had more women while he was in the halfway house than ever before. What was it about night jail that women found so sexy? The answer was easy: the eight o’clock curfew. Put a time limit on anything and life gets exciting. At a small table in the back of Yogi’s Sports Bar, the new couple ate dinner together nearly every night. Once the dishes were cleared, Tulip sat on Dink’s lap and rooted for the teams he needed to win.
It was at the Furlough, belly down on his top bunk, transistor radio against his shoulder, that Dink honed his gambling skills. With such an early curfew there was little else to do but listen to games and study sports. His bookmaker lifestyle may have seemed very far away, but Tijuana wasn’t. And the sports books there took bets ten minutes after kickoff as long as no one had scored. A team could have the ball on the 10-yard line and you could bet on that team, or the total. It was sports betting’s best-kept secret. Dink employed Ira, his oldest, most trustworthy friend, as his runner.
“Avoid customs. Park the car and walk over,” Dink instructed, handing Ira twenty grand.
His blue jeans stuffed with cash, Ira walked across the San Ysidro border. Immediately, he was besieged by contagious-looking three-year-olds begging for money. Past the kids and the cabstands and the Chavez fight posters tacked to plywood shacks, the Caliente hotel and casino rose in the distance.
Back at Roscoe’s deli, Dink was busy making the square world suit his needs. Directly across from the cash register, the newly installed sports ticker was just as glorious as Dink had imagined. The teenage employees Dink worked with every day stood by and watched as he stared up, slack-jawed, beholding the in-game updates that flashed in red, green, and gold, like sun-dappled stained glass.
“Why do you work here?” one of them asked.
“I’m interested in opening my own deli, one day,” Dink said.
He turned his attention back to the ticker:
Welcome to Sub-Marina! Mets 3 Cubs 2, bottom of the eighth
.
During his year of rehabilitation, Dink gambled—and won—more than he had ever won bookmaking in Queens. He beat the Tijuana sports books and because he was in good standing with the bookmakers back east, they gave him high limits and took his bets. It was all on the books and when his sentence was over he collected his winnings.
Arty owes me $80,000, I owe you $60,000. Can you pick it up? You’ll owe me $20,000. Louie owes me $90,000, I owe you $100,000, pick it up and I’ll give you the other $10,000 next week. You know how it is
.
With his debt to society paid in full, and a four-hundred-thousand-dollar bankroll, Dink and Tulip headed to Vegas and launched Dink Inc. Tulip, enticed by something new and exciting, became Dink’s first casino runner, stationed at Caesars Palace. Seven years had passed since their first date when Tulip finally asked, “Honey, are we
ever
gonna get married?”
“You have an open invitation,” Dink said.
They flew to New York and bought an engagement ring from Dink’s friend Cathy at her jewelry store in
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