by John McEvoy
Moe had certainly accumulated enough “gravy” in the monetary sense, Matt reflected as he was ushered into the executive suite by one of the glossy receptionists Kellman employed. The offices were one side of a floor-length corridor. On the other side was an elegantly appointed showroom for the wares Kellman sold: ultra-expensive furs for the women of Chicago’s primary movers and shakers, a segment of society that PETA had failed to penetrate. Kellman’s financially select clientele included wives and mistresses of the men who ran the Outfit in Chicago; indeed, it was believed that “the boys” had initially set up Kellman in the fur business when, casting about for something to try and make him dim his memories of Korea, he agreed to handle some sensitive dealings for a distant relative on his mother’s side named Meyer Lansky. If asked about this, Kellman always smiled and changed the subject.
Matt had first met Kellman four years earlier when one of Kellman’s horses was named the top sprinter in thoroughbred racing for that racing season. Assigned to interview Kellman for the special Racing Daily issue devoted to champions, Matt agreed to a luncheon meeting at a Rush Street restaurant called Dino’s. The restaurant was Kellman’s choice. When Matt arrived the maître d’ ushered him to a booth shielded from the loud bustle of the crowd. In the booth, Matt saw a diminutive, older man with a white, Don King-like electrification hair cut. He was issuing instructions to an attentive waiter. When he saw Matt approach, he rose to his full height and extended his hand. “Mr. O’Connor,” he said, “glad to meet you. Sit down. I’ve ordered for us—I eat here regularly. If you don’t like what you get, we can revise. Now, let’s talk horses.”
And that they did, for the next three hours. The excellent lunch was followed by a series of grappas so powerful that Matt had put away his notepad and just sat back to enjoy the conversation. He found Kellman to be knowledgeable about horses, vague about his past, and—surprisingly to Matt, who almost always found his interview subjects to be primarily interested only in themselves—curious about Matt’s background and career.
Their lengthy, libation-rich conversation was interrupted only once, by a call Kellman took on his cell phone. He smiled warmly when he recognized the voice on the other end. Several minutes of talk followed before Kellman said “Goodbye, honey. Take care. It won’t be long now.”
Kellman was still smiling as he put the phone away. “That was my granddaughter, Leah. My only grandchild. She’s overdue with her second baby. Getting a little anxious. So am I.”
Kellman signaled for another pot of coffee. “Leah’s married to a nice young lawyer, Nat Lepp. Unfortunately, she and Nat have a name already picked out for this child, which will be a boy, they know that. Ian Lepp, mind you. Their first child is a daughter they named Maeve, if you can believe that.
“They’ve got friends,” Kellman continued, “with children named Leah Gottleib. Sinead Lieberman. Sean Applebaum. Thank God my parents didn’t live to see this.
“You think they’re busy over in Ireland baptizing Isadore O’Learys? Shimon Healys? Arie Donaghues?” he snorted. “I don’t think so.”
Matt could not control his laughter. Kellman, startled at first, quickly joined him. And a solid friendship was born that day.
***
After Matt’s lengthy profile of Kellman appeared in print, he received a call from his subject, who was both grateful and complimentary. “For an Irishman you’re a real mensch,” Kellman said. “How about we have lunch next week?”
As their friendship flourished, Matt consulted with one of his former journalism school classmates, Jim Draeger, a crime reporting specialist for the Chicago Leader.
“Moe Kellman?” Draeger said with a knowing smile. “Sharp little bastard—knows everybody. Is he mobbed up? Let’s say he’s connected but he’s not connected, if you know what I mean. There’s never been anything official tying him to the Outfit. Moe is way too smart for that. But you’ve always got to keep in mind that he’s on very, very familiar terms with people you would never want to notice in your rearview mirror late at night. Capice?”
This report from his friend intrigued Matt, as did Draeger’s concluding assessment of Kellman: “You can’t help but like the guy. And if he likes you, he’s a helluva news source for a lot of things that go on in this city.”
When Matt walked into Kellman’s spacious office, the little man waved a greeting while continuing a phone conversation. As usual, he was elegantly attired, white linen shirt agleam under a gray silk suit and gray tie, diamond cufflinks sparkling as he shifted the phone from one hand to another.
Kellman perched on the arm of a chair beside his desk. There was no furniture in front of the desk, for Kellman preferred doing in-person business on the enormous, soft, beige leather couch near the expanse of tall windows overlooking Lake Michigan; from there he could easily reach over and give an encouraging pat to a customer’s hand or knee.
The late afternoon sun behind Kellman served to back light and further emphasize the startling head of frizzed white hair, like a Brillo pad, Matt thought. Gesturing, Kellman urged O’Connor to help himself to the enormous platter of fresh fruit on the table near the couch. Responding in pantomime, Matt waved off Kellman’s offer of something to drink.
This was Matt’s third visit to Kellman’s place of business, and he was again impressed by the prestigious Michigan avenue address, the knockout-looking female help, the impressive display of modern art gracing the walls of the tastefully furnished room.
Finally hanging up the phone, Kellman said in explanation and disgust, “Fifi Bonadio.” He shook his head. “Cheapest son of a bitch in the Outfit. Every time he buys a coat from me for one of his punches, it’s like negotiating the fucking Louisiana Purchase. And with all the money he’s stolen and hidden…”
Crossing the room to join Matt on the couch, Kellman said, “But I didn’t ask you to come in today to talk about Fifi, that tight ass.” Kellman tapped a finger on a newspaper clipping that lay on the coffee table. “Matt, do you remember seeing this story back near the end of February?” The headline read Death of an Aged Bookmaker.
Matt said, “Yeah, I do. I remember thinking how astounding it was that the guy was still making book at what, ninety-some years old.”
“Bernie Glockner was ninety-eight,” Kellman said. “He was also my uncle, my mother’s only brother.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Not in the least. And I’m also not kidding when I tell you that I don’t think Bernie killed himself by jumping out of his window.”
Matt sat back in the couch before responding. “Moe, let’s face it, quite a few elderly people decide to check out on their own terms. And you can’t blame them. Could be caused by illness, depression, loneliness…it happens.”
Kellman shook his head. “I know that. But I also know this thing with Bernie doesn’t compute. It’s been gnawing at me. You didn’t know him, or how he lived. The man was in amazing physical shape for his age. Never sick a day in his life. I talked to his personal physician after the service. He told me Bernie had had a complete physical two weeks earlier. ‘He had the heart of a sixty-year-old,’ the doc said, ‘blood pressure and cholesterol numbers a kid would envy.’
“I know for a fact he was still engaged in an active sex life with a fifty-five-year-old widow who lived in his building. Bernie walked four miles a day and ate like a triathlete. He loved living, believe me.
“The coroner ruled it death by suicide. Bullshit. I think Bernie was overpowered and then thrown out of that window.”
Kellman’s eyes were bright with conviction. “And the suicide note they found was complete bullshit. Written on his own computer? Give me a break. The man never committed anything to paper. Not in his line of work. He stored betting records in his head. The only thing he used that computer for was to download racing results from around the country.
“People say to me, ‘You got to expect this might happen with a man of that age.’ But I don’t. Matt, yo
u’ve got to understand—Bernie was no so-called man of that age. He was a fuckin’ medical marvel. We used to laugh about how he wanted to live when he ‘got old.’ He had a routine he loved.
“‘Promise never to put me in some cut-rate codger warehouse,’ he’d say, ‘where I can see your Jaguar parked outside on one of your rare visits…
“‘Make sure it’s a place where I can do internet betting…
“‘Promise to pay the attendants to clip my ear hair on a regular basis. I don’t want to be slumped over in a wheelchair in some hallway with bushes growing out of my ears. That’s how poor Howie Solomon looks when I visit him.’”
Kellman paused and looked out the window. “You had to laugh, listening to him. Bernie was one of those rare people that just naturally brighten you up when you talk to them. Last call I had from him, two days before he died, he says, ‘Mosey, you know how to summarize Jewish holidays?’ No, I say. Bernie says, ‘Here’s how: They tried to kill us. We won. Let’s eat.’ He was still laughing when he hung up.”
Noticing the skeptical expression that remained on Matt’s face, Kellman pressed on. “There are things, Matt, that look to be one thing but are very much another. Just take a story in today’s paper. It’s about how the murder rate in the city has stayed the same for two years even while the number of serious assault cases have shot through the roof. They make this out to be a big deal.
“Know what the deal really is? Victims are getting better medical help. The paramedics, the trauma unit workers, emergency room surgeons—they’ve been saving the lives of people who before this would have gone right into the murder column. Now they go into the assault list—people with gaping gunshot wounds, knives sticking out of their chests. Last week at Cook County they saved the life of a guy who staggered in the front door with an ax blade in his forehead.
“So the murder rate may be down, but the number of jerks trying to commit murder hasn’t dropped off any. They’re just not as lucky as it as they used to be. Like I said, Matt, things often aren’t what they seem. As far as I’m concerned, Bernie’s death falls into that category.”
Matt picked up the news story and read it again. “Moe,” he said, “okay, let’s say for the sake of argument that you’re right about this. Let’s say Uncle Bernie didn’t voluntarily decide to take a flyer. So, why would someone kill him? And who?”
“Exactly,” said Kellman enthusiastically, leaning forward to pat Matt’s knee. “That’s where you come into it. I want you to try and find out ‘who’ for me.”
Moe went to his desk and lifted a folder out of the middle drawer. “I’ve made some notes on the last few conversations I had with Bernie,” he said. “I had dinner with him two weeks before he died, lunch five days before it happened. Both those times, he was excited about some project he had going involving horse racing and a professor who had come to him as a ‘research source,’ as Bernie put it. When I asked him who the professor was, and how he came to locate him, Bernie clammed up. He wouldn’t give me any details other than the fact that the professor was going to quote him in some book he was writing. Bernie was very proud of that. I don’t know if you know this, but Bernie was an educated man himself. He was looking forward to the book being published. He was excited about it—not like a guy getting set to kill himself.”
Matt said, “Moe, let’s say you’re right. Where do I come into it?”
“At the racetrack,” Kellman replied. “I think some people tossed Bernie out that window, phonied up a suicide note, and eliminated a problem. The question is, what kind of problem could this old man pose? I’ve checked with a lot of people I know in this town”—he paused to let that sink in, letting Matt know that the people he checked with were people that Matt never wanted to start checking with—“and they’ve heard nothing. Nothing. Bernie was kind of like a hero from the old days for them, you know? He went back beyond any of them, knew guys that were local Outfit legends. If they’d heard anything, they’d tell me. But nothing.
“My thinking is that this is connected to this professor. It could be tied to horse racing, which Bernie said was the guy’s big interest. I think the reason for Bernie’s murder, my friend, is somewhere in your racing world. I can’t think of any other place to start looking. And with your background, your contacts, you could help me on this, Matt.”
Kellman leaned over to Matt, his look fiercely intent.
“You can count on this, kid,” Kellman said. “I will find out who did Bernie. And even if God drops everything else he won’t be able to help who did it when I find him. Are you in?”
Matt said yes.
Chapter Four
Bernie Glockner’s death had made the news sections of Chicago’s major newspapers. Television newscasts also featured the story of the “Wizard of Odds,” a police spokesperson describing the note found next to Bernie’s computer and then labeling the old bookie’s demise as “an apparent suicide.”
People who had known Bernie understood that their departed friend, who had assiduously avoided the public spotlight during his lengthy career, would have been appalled at this torrent of public notice. What his friends and acquaintances could not have known was that it was an another news story out of Chicago, dated the previous September, that led directly to Bernie’s death.
CHICAGO——A federal judge here today sentenced three jockeys to five years in prison for race-fixing. Another three riders each were given two-year sentences by Judge John P. Hoban. Avoiding punishment were two fellow jockeys who were unindicted co-conspirators in this case, one of the most publicized in U. S. horse racing history.
Drawing the lengthier sentences were jockeys Jesse Wright, Bobby Walsh and Lonnie Stafford, convicted as ringleaders in the scheme to manipulate the outcome of the seventh race at downstate Devon Downs last May 1. Jockeys Pat Marchant, Basil Teague and Eduardo Lopez, who confessed to participating in the scheme, drew the lesser terms.
The six men were convicted of race-fixing under the RICO statute by a federal court jury on August 2. They were found guilty of conspiring to make their mounts finish out of the money (first three positions). A 32-1 long shot won the race, keying a $194,400 trifecta payoff—highest in Illinois horse racing history. Only three tickets were sold on the winning 3-2-8 combination. All three were cashed by confederates of the convicted riders who eventually testified against them.
Suspicions concerning the May 1 race arose immediately after its finish. Officials reviewing the videotape of the race raised questions, but issued no rulings. The scheme began to fall apart three weeks later when Wright, the alleged ringleader, purchased a luxury automobile in Belleville, IL, paying cash, and word of this transaction reached local law enforcement officials. They then alerted federal authorities. In the course of the ensuing investigation, Wright confessed to his role—his mount, the second favorite in the field of twelve horses, finished seventh—and implicated the others.
The other four jockeys who rode in the race were investigated thoroughly but none were charged with any wrongdoing, including Robby Kieckhefer, pilot of the winning horse.
Prosecutors said the case might never have been brought had it not been for an anonymous tip regarding Wright’s car purchase. According to lead prosecutor Barbara Bierman, this was one of the few times in U. S. history that professional athletes received prison sentences for conspiring to fix a sporting event.
Defense attorney Bart England, who represented the men drawing the heavier sentences, argued that they acted because they were riding “at a minor track where purses are pitifully small, where they have to struggle to make a living.”
Judge Hoban responded by saying that the convicted men “should have struggled harder to make an honest living, like the majority of their contemporaries.”
All six jockeys also were banned from ever being licensed to ride again by the state racing board.
One of the readers of this newspaper story sat back in his chair in the periodicals ro
om of the University of Wisconsin-Madison library, a site he visited every day. Claude Bledsoe had been following the jockey scandal story with great interest. This is like a putsch that failed because of too many generals, he thought. For a moment, his gaze drifted across the large room, lingering on the most attractive of the several female readers—“this year’s crop of lovelies,” as he termed them. The forty-nine-year-old Bledsoe had been a student using this facility for the past thirty-one years, happily enmeshed in a worry-free life of continual study and modest but satisfactory physical comfort, some of that comfort provided by women who had a taste for the eccentric. Now, that carefree segment of Bledsoe’s life was threatening to end, unless he did something about it very soon. That’s why Bledsoe’s interest had been drawn to the story of the crooked jockeys and their failed attempt to get away with a big score.
Bledsoe, who had never committed such a crime in his life, sat in the periodicals room for the next forty-five minutes thinking about his situation. It was apparent to him that there was money to be made if you could figure out how to fix horse races. But, he thought, not as ineptly as that failed exercise. And not a dinky little track like Devon Downs. I need a bigger score than that. Later, as he walked down the library steps into the warm welcome of an Indian summer afternoon in Madison, he said to himself, “All I’ve got to do is find a way. And I will.”
Two sophomore boys coming up the library steps turned as they overheard Bledsoe. One of the boys smiled, then said to the other, “You know about him? That’s that weirdo who’s been going to school here forever. Everybody calls him the Professor. He’s got dozens of degrees, but he never leaves.” The boy added, laughing, “He was going to school here when my mom was here! Strange, man. I guess he’s started to talk to himself, too.”