Six Years Inside the Mafias: how I worked my way through college: a true story

by Yari Stern

  “Still, we must seek,” the professor insisted. “That is in man’s genes. He is a curious creature.”

  “People are terrified of uncertainty. They can’t live and not know. Yet most of their actions are based on incomplete knowledge and they really don't know what it is all about, or what the purpose of the world is.”

  “And you do?” the professor asked haughtily.

  “People occupy themselves with trivialities, and are indifferent to the grandest phenomena,” Yari responded. “They don’t care to understand the architecture of the universe, but are deeply interested in some controversy about the intrigues of movie stars. They don’t know the Greek odes, and pass by great work without a glance or an awareness of its connection to their lives and their lives to the universe.”

  “In truth, Mr. Stern,” the professor began. “Since you are so smart, why are you here? I hear tell your expertise is in business…of the most nefarious kind.”

  “I already know how to make money. Now I want to know how the rest of the world works. Money isn’t the answer. It never made anyone happy…at least not for very long. There’s a bigger picture that I’m not getting. I think physics is part of that equation.”

  “Oh, so you are not omnipotent, all-knowing after all?”

  “No, sir. There is a Plank length between where I am and eternal wisdom.”

  “I was under the mistaken impression that your heart was like a black hole - so dense that there's no room for light,” the professor challenged.

  “Only my adversaries say that…if they can say anything at all after a face to face meeting.”

  “When you hurt someone,” the professor began, “it initiates a chemical reaction in that person’s body that changes his/her mental condition. That means you are disturbing the arrangement of subatomic particles like protons and neutrons. These particles are the part of grid that holds all the particles of the Universe. To reset this disturbance of grid caused by any individual and according to laws of nature, the universe will go to source and destroy it.”

  Before Yari had a chance to respond, the bell rang and a sigh of relief passed between an instructor trying to bridge the gap between science and every day existence, and Yari, trying to maintain a precarious balance between the street and prison.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Liberty Bell Race Track. Phila. Pa

  “Keep the rubber bands around the money until the last minute.” Yari gave final instructions to Annie in the far reaches of the racetrack parking lot.

  “Why?”

  “So no one will be able to reach in and pull out the dough without it catching on your clothes,” he explained, as if for the thousandth time.

  “How could someone put their hand inside my coat and under my sweater without me knowing it?”

  “The problem is, nothing you’ve learned in high school means anything on the street. There’re guys so good working the tracks they could take your socks without removing your shoes.”

  “Well I don’ think--”

  “There isn’t time for Pick-Pocketing One-O-One. Just listen…once more. When you go in, walk down to the far east corner of the grandstand on the first floor. The fifty and one hundred windows are separated by partitions. As soon as the bell sounds making the fifth race official, go over to the one hundred dollar window with the first bundle and bet it on Bay Bomber. What do you say to the teller?”

  “I want the eight-horse in the sixth race ten times.” Annie seemed bored with the redundancy but captivated by the bright lights of the harness track illuminating the night

  sky half a mile away.

  “Right. Then what?”

  “I go to the next one hundred dollar teller on the same floor.”

  “Wrong.”

  “But I’m sure that’s--”

  “We haven’t even started yet and they already got you.”

  “How?”

  “You count the tickets while you’re at the window and look at each one to see if they’re for the eight horse, sixth race. I don’t give a fuck how many people are behind you or what they’re screaming, you look at every one.

  “Those tellers are the slickest bastards you’ll ever come across. They’ll try to stuff tickets from previous races on amateurs. Once you walk away, you own them. Got it?”

  Annie nodded her head in submission.

  “Then what?” Yari asked, drilling her with his hazel eyes.

  “I move down the floor till I hit all three one hundred dollar tellers. Then I go up to the second floor and do the same thing. When I finish with the third floor in the grandstand, I pay the two dollars and move over to the clubhouse. But why can’t I just give it all to one teller? Wouldn’t it be--?”

  “I thought I explained it. Bettors look for large movements of dollars. They think big money is smart money. Even those who don’t watch you bet can see it on the tote board. Math is one of your best subjects. Do you at least remember how to figure the odds?” Yari was moving swiftly from eternal patience to premeditated murder.

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Forget pretty sure. If the crowd bets $100,000 on the race and there’s a seventeen percent take and three percent for breakage, and the winner has $40,000 bet on him, what are his odds? What does he pay to win?” Yari was drumming his fingers on the hood of the station wagon a millisecond after asking the question.

  “Let me see,” Annie said, trying to gather herself before beginning cautiously. $100,000 minus $17,000 for the track and state take and $3,000 for the even money breakage, that leaves $80,000 for pay out. $40,000 divided into $80,000 is two. That’s two to one odds, which means $4.00 in winnings on a $2.00 ticket. $6.00 total for a winning ticket!” Annie answered proudly.

  “So, if there is $25,000 in the early win pool and Bay Bomber is 10 to 1, how much money is on him?”

  “$25,000 less twenty percent for the take and breakage leaves $20,000. So, Bay Bomber would have $2,000 on him?” Annie shook her head, trying to entice Yari into agreement.

  “And what happens if you bet the whole $5,000 right then?”

  “That would increase the win pool to $30,000, less twenty percent for the take and breakage, leaves $24,000. With a total of $7,000 on Bay Bomber, that would make his odds four point three to one.”

  “And what would Denny and his people do when they saw the odds drop from ten to one to four to one?”

  “Make sure he lost.”

  “Exactly. They’d break him slowly or pull him to the outside without cover so he’d suck air and lose ground. Everyone would see the horse running hard and no one would suspect they threw the race. Now you’ve got the whole picture.

  “As soon as the starting bell for the sixth race goes off, I’ll run up and meet you right in front of the hundred dollar window on the third floor of the club house. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t smile at anyone. Don’t walk into the crowds near the big screen TV’s. Just wait.” Yari kissed Annie on the cheek and pushed her protruding buttocks toward the grand-stand entrance silhouetted in the distance. A moment later, he followed the same path but at a painfully slow pace, to avoid being noticed by the trainer or his entourage before the bet was down.

  When he entered the racetrack, Yari noted the crowds of people scurrying in every direction. Some waved money in the face of vendors selling programs, while others rushed up the escalator or tossed losing tickets to the ground on the way out. When the track announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker system Yari picked up his pace.

  “And they’re off!” The announcer called the start of the sixth race for the eight pacers as well as for Yari who broke quickly and cleanly from his position at the entrance to the clubhouse. He sprinted up the stairs as the Cadillac carrying the starting gate sped away from the standardbreds, allowing the horses to vie for position around the first turn. Yari tossed spectators aside as he jumped across the connecting area for the escalator to the third floor.

  Through the din of commiserating patrons and cons
piracy-minded bettors, he could barely hear the track announcer calling the race. Yari pushed forward through a dark sea of humanity, stepping over the trash-strewn floor where waste cans were purposely disregarded by losers taking revenge against a track surely fixing races against them. He stopped for a moment, directly under one of the large speakers.

  “That’s Adios Amigo away first. Albert’s Son tucks in second with Victorio’s Secret moving quickly into third from the six hole. Minor’s Crown settles into fourth position, two back of the leader. Cosmic Andy is first over on the outside but making the slow move, trying to draw cover. They cut the quarter in fast 29 and 3/5th seconds.”

  “How’d you make out?” Yari was out of breath as he squeezed in next to Annie.

  “God, you scared me. I didn’t expect you so--”

  “Show me the tickets!” Yari fumbled with the buttons holding her sweater.

  Passersby stared like they thought the two of them were going to have sex right on the concrete floor, but his cold glare turned them away.

  “Here. It’s all right.” Annie gratefully handed over the tickets. “I double checked everything.”

  “The horses have reached the half mile mark in a minute and a fifth. Albert’s Son retakes the lead, Adios Amigo back to second. Victorio’s Secret is third on the rail but only two lengths off the pace and getting a perfect trip. Minor’s Crown is now fourth on the outside, followed by Cosmic Andy getting cover. then it’s Toby’s Kin, Eight Ball and far back, trailing the field, Bay Bomber.”

  Yari listened indifferently to an announcer who had already written off the five-year-old gelding trailing the front-runners by ten lengths.

  “Did you hear that? We’re going to lose!” Annie screamed, standing right under a speaker hanging precariously by thin chains. She grasped Yari’s arm but he ignored her, too busy counting and checking tickets.

  Then, Yari did look up, drawn by the energy of a magnetic stare. It was Ken Kimball peering around the partitions and columns separating the large denomination windows from the crowd. The banker swung back at the first opening and was about to pat Yari on the shoulder when he saw the stack of tickets two inches high. His smile evaporated, then turned into a harsh wince, like he was hit by a shotgun blast.

  Ken’s radiating glare forced Yari to temporarily disregard his counting. “Hey, Mr. Kimball, how’s biz?” Yari observed the banker’s eyes glued to the tickets. He spread them out like a gambler fanning a deck of cards to ensure the clever loan officer grasped the whole picture and its implications.

  “But you said the loan would be used to begin an investment practice.”

  “Ken, Ken. An astute entrepreneur keeps his eyes open for new opportunities. Isn’t that good business, and the philosophy of your bank, maximizing your returns at any cost, including loyal old customers?” As Yari spoke, Ken Kimball was changing colors faster than a Hawaiian rainbow.

  “Well, Mr. Kimball, I’d love to stay and chat but I need to see if you’re going to have a job tomorrow, or not.”

  Responding to Yari’s words, Ken began perspiring, as if his life was flashing before his eyes.

  “They’re turning for home. The three quarters in a sizzling 1.29.2. Albert’s Son is through. Victorio’s Secret is trying to find room on the rail but there’s nowhere to go. Minor’s Crown is trapped between horses. Adios Amigo goes on a break. Cosmic Andy can’t veer out of the way in time and clips heels on Miles Lagrange’s sulky. Toby’s Kin and Eight Ball skirt by, avoiding the spill. They’re making their move in the middle of the track with Bay Bomber still far back.”

  Yari slipped over and joined the stunned executive wandering aimlessly toward the exit. He slid an arm around Ken’s shoulder and, in a cynical effort to cheer up his companion, he said, “Give my regards to the bank examiners.”

  Annie tugged on Yari’s jacket as he bid farewell to a man who represented all he held in contempt.

  “I’ve got to see the finish,” she insisted, with an excitement matching that of the previous night.

  “There’s nothing to see. Get in line to collect.”

  “But it’s not over yet. He’s--”

  “At the sixteenth pole it’s Toby’s Kin with Eight Ball on the inside and on the far outside, Bay Bomber! Denny Terrio goes to the whip right-handed. He’s almost out of the sulky trying to get more from the five-year-old gelding who’s running the race of his life.

  “In deep stretch it’s Toby’s Kin, Eight Ball, Bay Bomber. The three of them neck and neck, nose and nose. And at the wire…it’s Bay Bomber!”

  “Let’s go over and tell the banker who we bet on!” In her excitement Annie reflected, “I can’t forget the look on his face.”

  Yari cringed. “Fuck him in his ass. He and his bank played games with my dad and then me. This is payback.”

  Yari’s words brought Annie back to the new reality.

  “We won! Jesus Christ, we won! Fifty thousand dollars!” Annie was bouncing up and down like a child attached to a runaway jackhammer.

  “Somebody would think you were Jewish by the way you’re reacting,” he said.

  “Doesn’t this affect you?” Annie stood on her tiptoes to observe the official results.

  “This is only a means to an end, not an end in itself.” Yari looked at the tickets like they were a passage to some far away place.

  “Why can’t we stick with the track? Why take all those risks when we can make money right here?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “People only get to keep what they’re not attached to.”

  Annie reflexively raised her brow at an unfamiliar concept.

  “Did you ever wonder why some people get rich and others don’t?”

  “Sure.”

  “People who achieve success do it because they have a passion for their work. Money is more like a fever. It doesn’t provide freedom; it only distorts thinking. All you can do is become greedy or jealous trying to get it and hold onto it. But it’s too thin. There’s no substance to grasp.”

  “I still don’t see.”

  “Did you ever hear of beginner’s luck?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s not beginner’s luck. First time players don’t connect their picking ability to making money. For them, it’s using their talent or intuition to beat the game. But once they realize that choosing the right horse can mean the end of a nine-to-five job they get nervous and start making mistakes.

  “Look,” Yari continued, seeing the confusion in Annie’s expression. “Tell me what happens when you worry about your car getting scratched?”

  “You drive real careful.”

  “Too careful. You flinch at every movement. You’re almost guaranteed to have an accident. It’s the same with a job. If you’re worried about getting fired, you’ll focus on not making a mistake rather than being creative. Instead of insuring your position, you’re bound to lose it.”

  “Does that happen to you when you bet?”

  “I’ve never met anyone who isn’t affected by big money.” With a wave of the hand, Yari shooed Annie away. “Now go collect, the same way you bet it, one bundle per teller. Don’t smile at the cashiers. Don’t even look up. We may be back again. It’s better to be a ghost around here than a memorable face. And make it quick. I’ve got to meet someone.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Delaware River Waterfront. Phila, Pa.

  Slim and Yari stood outside a huge old building, eyeing one-another as heavy traffic slowly moved by.

  “What do you think of the warehouse?” Yari asked.

  “Yeah, it’s perfect,” Slim replied dismissively. “Now let’s do business. I’ve been dealing with small-timers, taking big risks. You got the dough?”

  “After I see the merchandise.”

  “I’ve got to pay my people before they’ll release all the stuff. Half now, half on delivery.”

  “So I’m supposed to trust you after the scam you ran
down on my brother?”

  A car full of gang-bangers cruised past slowly. The car backfired; Slim ducked, Yari reached for his gun. They both quickly recovered when they sensed that the danger was passed.

  “Scams only work on people lookin’ for somethin’ for nothin’,” Slim replied. “I just gave him what he asked for. It was greed trippin’ him up.”

  “Yeah, well I’ve been burned by the best.”

  “You gotta realize something. People from the ghetto, they got no bank accounts, no big houses, no fancy job titles, no lawyers to protect them. All they got is their word. You screw that up, you ain’t worth shit.”

  “All right,” Yari agreed, pulling out a huge wad of cash. “Here’s the dough. Now, when do I see the merchandise?”

  “Monday. 10:00 p.m. And you won’t have to come looking for me. I’ll be right here.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Drexel University. Statistics class. Phila. Pa.

  For a change, Yari was seated before the professor walked in.

  Dr. Marcus looked at Yari, surprised. Then looked at his watch and shook his head. Something didn’t jive, but he attributed that to a broken Timex.

  The professor spoke to the class but was looking at Yari when he said, “Well, it seems that previous results cannot always predict future behavior.”

  The class got a laugh out of that.

  “Please tell us the difference between a fact and a statistic, Mr. Stern,” the professor suggested.

  “Mark Twain said, ‘Facts are stubborn things, but statistics are pliable.”

  “And was it Joseph Stain who said--.”

  “’A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic’,” Yari completed the quote.

  “Very good, Mr. Stern. Now that we have entered the computer age, let us look at the flaw in such machines.”

  “But is the flaw in the machine, sir,” a student suggested. “Or is the flaw is in the men who run them?”