by Joe Corso
The men in the room knew better than to ask Red questions. He said they’d know what he was talking about when it happened and that was good enough for them.
Red discussed his plans for expanding the family with his men, and when there were no further questions he closed the meeting. Red’s captains were hard men, and harder yet to please, but they knew they had the right guy in charge of the family, and they liked the direction he was taking them. They trusted his judgment. They knew that even when Yip was running the family—and Yip was generous to a fault—they had never made as much money as they were making now with Big Red. Yip never wanted more than his Queens operation, which he ruled with an iron fist. Maybe that was why the heads of the other families never bothered with Queens. They knew that Yip would never venture into their territories. Big Red, on the other hand, was eager to venture into other businesses, such as the movie industry and the possibility of a casino in Vegas. His men knew that the larger the family grew, the more money would be coming into their coffers, and the more they earned the more the other families would resent them. Even so, all his captains knew they were in the right family. They saw the difference. Yip and Red were not greedy like Profaci or Genovese. It seemed the more they spread the money around, the more the family grew, and the more it grew the richer they became. Big Red was a millionaire many times over, and no one knew the extent of his wealth. Some in the family thought he might be worth hundreds of millions. But Red made sure all the guys shared in the profits from his various legitimate and illegitimate businesses. Profaci had re-instated an old Sicilian mafia rule whereby every member of the family donated twenty-five dollars a week to a prison fund. The fund was created for the purpose of taking care of the families of the men who were sent to prison. Only Profaci kept the money for himself, which bred resentment amongst his crew. Other bosses cheated their men in different ways, but not Big Red. His men made a thousand a week when the average working guy worked for less than a hundred bucks a week. In return, he demanded complete loyalty. Red knew how strong was the lure of the white powder, but he made it clear to his captains what would happen if any of his men ventured into the forbidden areas. The penalty for selling drugs, or using women for the purposes of prostitution, or thievery among the family, was death, with no chance of a reprieve.
Big Red’s focus was to convert the family’s business into exclusively legitimate businesses. He would never skim off the top like Chicken Wings. That’s why the IRS could never get anything on him. He paid his taxes, and every business he owned was 100 percent legitimate, except, of course, for the numbers and bookmaking parlors. He considered this quiet money from harmless side businesses. He had a lot of old time bookmakers still on the books who, when Yip approached them, agreed to become part of his family. Yip gave them the protection they needed and the security they lacked and, with him bankrolling them, the smaller bookmakers who had been limited to handling small bets could now handle the larger significant action the bigger players required. The police turned a blind eye to Red because he stayed away from drugs and prostitution and he kept crime in the borough to a minimum. Criminals knew that if they committed a crime in Red’s territory they would most likely pay with their lives. Red played a rough game but a fair one, and he expected the men in his organization to do the same; but if one of his men betrayed him and did what Sally Chicken Wings had done, the penalty was death.
When the meeting was over and the captains had left, Red, Tarzan and Shooter discussed what little was left of Sally Chicken Wing’s future, and Red’s two men knew what the boss would order them to do.
“I checked to make sure Sally was off today. Tarzan, take Shooter and the two of you handle this today.” Red swiveled the chair in Shooter’s direction and pointed his finger at him. “Follow Tarzan’s lead and do what he tells you. Remember, he’s in charge. Understand?”
Shooter looked like he was hit in the gut. “Red, I’m not losing my cherry on this job. This isn’t the first time I whacked a guy, so don’t go treating me like I’m an amateur.”
Red nodded, acknowledging Shooter’s remark. “Sorry, Shooter, you’re right. I just don’t want anything to go wrong and I really don’t need any more of this shit that’s happening.” Red softened his tone and told both his men, “Yip used to tell me that you can’t fight the forces of destiny. Take me, for example. I’m trying to fly out to California and it’s as if destiny is keeping me from leaving. What the hell can happen next?”
CHAPTER 5
Shortly after the two men left there was a knock on the open door to Red’s office. He looked up at the smiling face of Herb Weiss, one of his bookmakers.
“Come on in, Herb, and take a seat. Now what brings you here?”
Herb was a little guy who stood five feet six inches, slim, sixty-two years of age with a prominent nose and thinning hair. He was chewing on his ever present cigar which over the years had stained his teeth a musty color.
“I’m waiting, Herb?”
Herbie reached up, took the cigar from his mouth and cleared his throat. “Red, you know who I bumped into this morning?”
“No, but I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me.”
Herb smiled. “Warren Poscumo, that’s who. Warren asked me if I had any loose change.”
“Loose change?”
“Yeah loose change—to the tune of ten grand.”
Red was interested now. He knew Warren was one of the best horse trainers in the country and he wouldn’t be asking Herb for money if it wasn’t for a good reason. Herb was about to light his stogie when Red waved his hand in dismissal.
“Here, try one of these.”
Herb’s eyes lit up as Red handed him one of his Cubans. Red took his gold Ronson lighter, lit up his cigar, leaned back in his plush chair and motioned for Herb to continue.
“Warren told me he needs the money for a claims race for a horse running Saturday at Bellmont.”
“Jesus, that’s a lot of dough to put on a horse in a claims race.”
Herbie nodded. “You’re right, Boss. That’s why I thought you’d like to come to the track with me on Saturday to see this nag run.”
Red thought for a moment. “Do you have Warren’s number?”
“Yeah I do.”
“Give him a call and tell him to get his ass down to the Starlight Club. I want him to explain to me why this horse is worth that much dough, and if it sounds good then maybe I’ll loan him the money.”
“Can I use your phone, Red?”
Red slid the phone across the desk. “Sure.”
Within the hour Warren and a short black man were sitting in Red’s office.
“Thanks for seeing us, Red. This is Cadillac, my groomer.”
“What’s the horse’s name you want to bet on? And tell me why you think he’s a good investment.”
“Well for one thing he’s a she. She’s a little filly by the name of Fillytonga and she runs like greased lightning.”
Red stopped him. He didn’t question her name because he knew horses sometimes had the whackiest names, but he did have other questions.
“What’s her track record?”
Warren shook his head. “Not good at all. In every race she’s in she leads the pack until she gets to the final lap and then she quits and loses every race.”
Red knew there was more to this story or else Warren wouldn’t be sitting there.
“What’s the catch, Warren? What is it you know that everyone else doesn’t?”
Warren looked at Cadillac. “Why don’t you tell him, Cadillac.”
Cadillac was the best groomer in the business. That’s why Warren and Cadillac had worked together for years. It was as if they were attached at the hip. Cadillac could see things that other groomers couldn’t. Cadillac was a weather-beaten old black man who spoke with a thick, slow, southern drawl, but there was an intelligence in his eyes that made a person want to listen to what he had to say.
“Well, Missa Red. I knows exactly why da horse
quits running. I studied her and I know she a good horse. Only ah couldn’t figger out why she done quit near da end when she run so good most of tha race. Then it come to me. She afraid of the crowd, Missa Red and tha’s why she quits runnin’.”
Red raised his hand. “Whoa. What do you mean she’s afraid of the crowd?”
“It’s the noise, Missa Red. She afraid of the noise cummin’ from da crowd.”
Red pondered what he said. “So what do you suggest we do to fix that problem, Cadillac?”
Cadillac smiled broadly, showing a few missing teeth. “Da’s simple, Missa Red. I’s gonna plug her ears up with some wax so she won’t hear no noise from da crowd.”
Red liked what Cadillac said and smiled and pointed his cigar at Warren. “I’ll give you the ten thousand but I want a piece of the horse; and if we do good with her, I want to put aside a little of our winnings for Herb as a finder’s fee. Or maybe we can place a bet for him on one of the races. Do you guys agree?”
Both Warren and Cadillac nodded, which brought a smile of satisfaction from Herb. Red continued speaking after seeing Herb’s broad smile. “I miss my Wednesday horse action and I like the thought of getting back into it again. Maybe with this horse I can, even if it’s not on Wednesdays, at least for a little while. Tell you what. Stop by on Saturday and me and a couple of the boys will join you at Aqueduct.”
Warren put the $10,000 on Fillytonga in the claims race. Predictably, the horse led the pack until the final turn, then slowed down and dropped back heading around the turn to the home stretch. She came in third, and Warren claimed the horse. The original owner won the show money for her running third. Warren instructed Cadillac to take care of Fillytonga while he and Red talked business.
“What are your plans for the horse?”
Warren, who was serious most of the time, usually because he found very little to smile about, smiled broadly at Red, showing a lot of pearly whites. “I figure the next time she runs, based on her past losing performances the odds will be heavily against her. So I suggest we bet heavy on her. If Cadillac figured right and the noise of the crowd frightens the horse, then we should have a winner in Fillytonga. The way I see this string playing out is, we run her for six or eight races in both Bellmont and Aqueduct and if she performs like I think she will, then we put her in a claims race for $100,000. According to my calculations, we should clear well over $1 million on her, and maybe even two million.”
“Whew,” Red sighed. “Jesus Christ! If you’re right, that’s a helluva lot of dough we’ll be winning.”
Two weeks later Red, Warren and Cadillac were at Bellmont for Fillytonga’s next race, hoping Cadillac was correct in his assessment of the horse.
“What are the odds on her for this race?”
“She’s a long shot, going off at twelve to one. How much do you want me to bet on her?”
“Okay, here’s what I want you to do. Place fifty thousand on her to win, then place another fifty thousand, twenty-five each to place and to show. We might as well hedge our bets just in case Cadillac is wrong.” Red pulled out a large envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Warren. “Here’s $100,000, Warren. Don’t worry about counting it now. Count it at the window. I had Tarzan count it and he’s my numbers man. If he says it’s all there, then it’s all there. Now you better go and place the bet before the race starts and the window closes. Listen up. After you place the bet go and see Cadillac and make sure he stuffed the wax in the horse’s ears. I don’t want to lose a hundred grand over something stupid.”
When the gate opened the odds on Fillytonga had dropped down to eight to one, and as the moment of truth was fast approaching Red watched her increase her lead on the pack by five lengths heading into the home stretch. He crossed his fingers as Fillytonga made the turn, racing towards the finish line and, to his utter surprise and delight, Fillytonga increased her lead even further and finished the race eight paces ahead of Jersey Boy, the second placed horse. Now Red wished he’d placed the entire one hundred on Fillytonga’s nose; but he couldn’t complain because, between the win, place and show payout, Warren handed Red $700,000 in winnings. Not bad for a filly that couldn’t finish a race.
“Take care of the horse and when you’re finished both you and Cadillac meet me at the Starlight Club.
“We won $745,000 so here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m taking my ten grand off the top, which leaves us with $735,000. We’ll each take $75,000 and I’ll put the remaining half a million on her the next time she races. Do you guys agree?”
Both Warren and Cadillac nodded in agreement as they took their share of the winnings.
“I can’t wait for the next race, Red,” Warren gushed.
Cadillac kept looking at his wad of cash, shaking his head. “My oh my, but it do feel like Christmas.”
Red laughed. “If we’re lucky, and she runs like she did today, we’ll be seeing a lot more paydays like this.”
Over the next two weeks Warren and Cadillac spent a lot of time with the horse. The following Saturday, while Cadillac was busy brushing Fillytonga down, a horse trailer drove slowly in and stopped in front of their stall. Both men knew that Aqueduct only had enough stalls to house six hundred horses and the carryovers were put in stalls at Bellmont race track, which could hold eighteen hundred horses. That meant that the horses which were scheduled to run at Aqueduct had to be brought in by truck from Bellmont. As the horses were led off the truck, both men noticed that all six horses were all lathered up. The men looked at one another with the realization that they were just handed a gift. Warren jotted down the names of the other two horses in the race.
“How much do you want to bet?” Warren asked Cadillac.
“All I has with me is $500.”
“Quick, give it to me. We’ll bet heavy on these two horses. With the way the other six horses are all lathered up they’ve already run their race.”
Warren and Cadillac had just stumbled upon something that the average guy in the stands had no idea about; but they were old pros in the racing game and weren’t complaining about the surprise gift they were given. They knew the two remaining horses that weren’t in the truck and weren’t lathered up were going to win the next race, so they bet accordingly and won a small fortune. But the money they received from this race was just a raindrop in the lake of money that Fillytonga was about to win for her new owners.
Fillytonga ran her next race at Bellmont race track, and she left the gate at five to one odds. The odds makers figured she ran a lucky race and thought that this time she’d get beat bad, but that didn’t happen. Red bet four hundred thousand on the nose, seventy-five thousand for place and twenty-five thousand for show. Fillytonga won by a length, but only because Red instructed Warren to tell the popular jockey, Angel Cordero, to win but keep it close at the finish line. That’s exactly what he did. The horse was so powerful she could have won by five lengths.
Warren handed Red $2,750,000 and in return Red handed the two men a quarter of a million dollars each. Not bad for two guys who were looking to borrow $10,000 from Herb for the claims race.
“We’re gonna put two million on her to win in her next race,” said Red.
Warren gulped. “I need a drink.”
Red snapped his fingers twice and Piss Clam rushed to the bar and came back with three drinks of a very expensive Canadian Rye.
Not only did Red win, but to all the guys in his crew it was like old times, because they were getting in on the action too. But because of the sudden heavy betting by the mob guys on Fillytonga the odds for the third race dropped to two to three. It was time to unload her. The spunky little filly ran another five allowance races before moving up in the claim standings and being claimed in a $100,000 claims race. No one told the new owner to put wax in the horse’s ears, so the next time she ran, Red, Warren, Cadillac and the rest of the boys bet heavily against her and they won another fortune. It seemed as though the little filly was the gift that kept on giving. Red and th
e boys bet against her for the next four races until the owner put her up for a claims race at $5,000. Warren claimed her again and ran her another seven times in stakes races. She always performed like a champion.
CHAPTER 6
“Do you want to grab him now while we have the chance?” Piss Clam asked.
“No! There are too many people on the street,” Shooter said. “Someone may see us. We’ll follow him. Sooner or later he’ll come home and when he opens his front door we’ll come in behind him, convince him to sign the letter and then drill him.”
Piss Clam smiled. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
The Greek drove away in a battered old Nash Rambler. He had no reason to think he was being followed. Nevertheless the boys were cautious, making sure a few cars were always between them and The Greek, making it difficult for him to spot a tail. The Greek pulled over to the curb in front of a laundry to drop off some clothes. A large clock above the entrance showed the time as 11:45 a.m. The hands of the clock reached 11:52 a.m. as The Greek walked out of the store, got in his car and guided it back onto Roosevelt Avenue. The boys thought he might be heading toward the city but they were wrong, because when he got to 46th Street he pulled over and parked under the Bliss Street EL exit. Shooter parked his car on the opposite side of Roosevelt Avenue and watched The Greek leave his car with a package under his arm. He walked the few short steps across the concrete sidewalk to Paddy’s Bar and Grill. He stopped before the large plate glass window with the name of the bar written on it in faded gold leaf letters. He hesitated for a moment, peering through the window. It was difficult to see through the glass because of the accumulation of street dirt and the lack of light in the bar, but apparently The Greek was satisfied by what he saw and entered the dark bar.