by Daniel Kamen
“Where are we going?” Rings asked as he helped himself to one of Benny’s expensive cigars he found in the glove compartment.
“We’re going to bet the ponies,” Benny said as he turned onto I-94. “That is, if you want to go.”
Rings bit the end off the big cigar and grabbed the Cub’s lighter from Benny’s front pocket, then lit the Presidente. They were buds now.
“Of course I want to go!” Rings said. “Are you buying?”
Benny took the lighter from Rings and lit the remainder of his nearly depleted heater.
“I’m buying,” Benny assured as he puffed while pulling a wad of Benjies from his left pants pocket. “I got a couple of good tips tonight. We’re going to make a lot of money.”
There was a short period of silence, maybe a minute or two. Benny had to ask Rings to do him not one, but two big favors. This first one was to lie to the cops if he was questioned about them knowing one another. The other favor was bigger: Benny had to use Rings’ car to carry out the rest of the plan. Rings was driving a later 70s model white GMC Suburban which was perfect since it featured a covered bed. He planned on asking him after the races.
It took a little over a half hour to drive the twenty miles to Balmoral Park on South Dixie Highway in Crete, Illinois. Benny and Rings talked the whole way. It was the first time they really got acquainted. Benny told Rings the story about how Eddy once got him out of a difficult situation while hustling chess one night in Chicago.
“Your father only had his driver’s license a few months before his junior year at Wirt,” Benny said as Rings intently listened to every word. “He borrowed his neighbor’s big old beat up 1959 Pontiac Catalina. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen one of those. It was a long coupe with really gaudy looking tail fins. This one was gray and rusty with a loud broken muffler. There was no way to roll into town unnoticed.”
Rings smiled and relit his cold stogie as Benny continued with the story.
“Your father loved that car and borrowed it often. That was the year he got that lifeguard job. Those were happier times--until later that summer. And you know what happened.”
“Okay,” Rings interrupted, not wanting to rehash the disturbing details of his father’s beating. “So where did he take you?”
“To the LaSalle Hotel in Chicago. In the Loop! What did I know? I told him I really wanted to go there. Your father was almost three years older than I was and I thought he knew what he was doing when he headed for the Dan Ryan Expressway during rush hour. He was way out of his league. He never drove past Lake Street until then.”
Rings let out a little snort, laughing at the irony. This is something he himself would do.
“But I wasn’t scared,” Benny continued. “Eddy dodged and wove through traffic like he was riding a bumper car at a carnival. He was fearless. And what did he care? The car was old and rusted anyway. And we managed to get there. How? I don’t know. But the biggest problem we had was parking. Every metered spot was taken and the garages charged a fortune--something we weren’t willing to pay for. So you know what your father did?”
“I can only imagine!” Rings exclaimed, desperately wanting to hear everything about his crazy dad.
“He parked at the police station across the street!”
“Ha! That’s fucking great!” said Rings. “That took balls.”
“Sure did,” said Benny. “He figured no one would tow his car in a police lot. And he was right. So then we got out of the car and entered the old musty LaSalle Hotel. It’s no longer there. They tore that down sometime in the mid 70s. Anyway, the Chicago chess club met at the LaSalle every Tuesday evening from 5:30 to 9:55 p.m. The management closed the playing room by 10:00 p.m. and used that extra five minutes to clear the place.”
“Did my father play chess too?”
“He did,” said Benny. “But he mainly was doing me a favor. I was getting pretty good, but just around school. There weren’t many club players around and I wanted to really see how good I was by playing some veterans. So we sat down at a table and set up our own chess board and clock that we brought with us. There were only a dozen or so people playing that evening. No tournament. They were just playing skittles.”
“What’s skittles?” Rings asked.
“Casual chess, usually five minutes a game timed on the clock,” explained Benny. “I heard of the club and since it was in the city I thought it was big time. It really wasn’t--just ordinary people playing chess. I don’t remember seeing any masters. So there we were--just playing for fun. Then I had an idea. I quietly asked Eddy if he wanted to play for ten dollars a game. Not real money. And no one had to pay if they lost. But I wanted to show off like I was some kind of hustler who just blew into town. Yes, I was a cocky kid. Eddy agreed. He and I put a ten spot under the clock like we were playing for real. The game started and I lost right away.”
“My dad was better than you?” Rings asked excitedly.
“No, he wasn’t a serious player. He didn’t waste his life like I did playing chess all the time. We planned it that way. So after I lost I acted like your father got lucky and I put up a stink. I kept saying ‘double or nothing’ but he wouldn’t rematch and he said, ‘I don’t want to take any more of your money.’ I kept pleading with him and he kept refusing. But another guy in the room, a forty-something-year-old truck driver challenged me. ‘I’ll play you,’ he said. And I said no, telling him I didn’t want to take his money. This pissed him off. And he said, ‘I see you can’t back up your big mouth.’ Eddy tried not to smile the whole time.”
“So did you play him?” asked Rings.
“Yes, but wait. I finally agreed to play him, but only for a dollar a game.”
“I can see what’s coming, Sox,” added Rings. “You’re a hustler.”
“Maybe, but not a good one,” admitted Benny. “So I played him a game of five-minute speed chess and lost the dollar.”
“On purpose?”
“Yes, on purpose! The guy was talking out of his ass. He couldn’t play. So then I said ‘double or nothing.’ He agreed. We played. I won. So I was up a buck.”
“Then what?”
“Then I said I had to go, even though we just got there. But the guy wouldn’t have any of that. He wanted to play double or nothing. We did and I beat him again. And then again and again. Soon I was up a hundred and twenty-eight bucks! That was real money in those days. And then I really wanted to go--with the cash!”
“Did he pay you?”
“Not at first. I asked for it, but he kept wanting to play to win it back and wouldn’t show me the cash. So there I was, barely fourteen years old, trying to collect a bet from a guy as old as my father.”
“So tell me, did you get the money?”
“Your dad got it for me! Your father picked up the clock and tucked it under his arm. I folded up the chess set, ready to go home. Your father was wearing a light jacket and slowly slid his hand in the inside pocket, like he had a gun or something. And there was a bulge over the pocket--something big. ‘ARE YOU GOING TO PAY MY FRIEND?’ he shouted, keeping his hand in the jacket. Everyone in the club was scared to death. The grossly obese club director, Richard Weber, shuffled his way to the door, probably to call the cops. Then the truck driver reached in his wallet and pulled out exactly a hundred and twenty-eight bucks and set it on the table.”
“My dad was the man!” Rings blurted, relishing every word.
“He was. Then after I picked up the money from the table, Eddy pulled a banana out from that pocket, peeled it and took a bite--then offered some to the truck driver who refused. ‘Don’t worry,’ your father said. ‘It isn’t loaded!’ I wanted to laugh but I was getting nervous myself and wanted to get the hell out of there. Richard Weber sat down and resumed his game. The truck driver stormed out of the room. Your father and I waited until the truck driver was good and gone. Then we left.”
“What did you do with the money?” Rings asked.
“We split it. I kept fo
rty bucks and gave your father the rest. He had more expenses than I did, driving and all. I also knew he had a date with your mother the next day. Plus without him I never would have collected a cent.”
“I wish I had known him. He sounds like a cool dude.”
“Oh, I forgot one thing: When we went to get our car there were two cops standing next to it, examining the license plates and trying to figure out who it belonged to. So without them asking, Eddy pulled out his newly minted driver’s license and showed it to them. One of the officers quickly glanced at it then nodded. Then Eddy pulled out his keys and we got in the car like we belonged in the police parking lot. As we pulled out onto LaSalle Street, your father opened the window and said, ‘Thanks for looking after my car,’ to one of the cops. Yes, he was the best.”
Benny and Rings arrived at Balmoral around 6:15 p.m. The harness track was also running live that night, not just the simulcasts from other tracks around the country. The live heats didn’t begin until seven that evening. Benny was only interested in the fourth race at Balmoral which was due to go off at around 8:20 p.m. A harness trainer, Stan Gardino, was one of Benny’s patients and gave him a tip: Gerald’s Pal, a five-year-old Standardbred gelding out of the Mark Winters stable, which was well known in harness racing circles. Benny couldn’t resist the name, Gerald. How fitting--one of the two doomed bullies left that he had to kill--his way.
The track wasn’t new to Rings. J.J. took him there on a few occasions starting when Rings was about nine. But Rings never bet much. He never had extra money to gamble. Most of what he and J.J. made went to necessities like paying for Twila’s medical bills including tons of medication.
It was a pleasant spring evening that night, about sixty degrees with a soft breeze coming from the east. Benny paid four dollars for both admissions and bought a racing form. Rings was busy checking out the people at the betting windows and sucking on the remainder of his cigar.
“I wonder how many are winners,” Rings said, impressed as he watched an old man stash a bunch of bills in his left front pocket.
“Not many,” Benny said. “Losing is how they keep the horses fed.”
“Oh shit,” cried Rings. “Look!”
There was a stack of Post Tribunes next to the snack bar. The evening headline changed to: POLICE ARE CLOSING IN ON LAKESIDE MURDER SUSPECT. And there were more security officers and regular cops around the track.
“Hey Rings, let’s switch hats, quick.”
“But you’re wearing a Sox cap. Mine says Public Enemy.”
“Okay, forget the hat,” Benny said. “Just stay close to me and I’ll keep my head down.”
“What are we going to do until the fourth race?” Rings asked like he didn’t want to be bored.
“First thing I’m going to do is buy one of those papers. I wonder who they think it is.”
Benny walked over to the snack bar, picked up a paper and put fifty cents on the counter, not waiting for his fifteen cents change. He scanned the story.
“Oh Jesus!” Benny exclaimed, the look of relief emanating from his face. “Fucking Jesus!”
Rings rushed to his side.
“What? What?” Rings asked. “What happened?”
“They think it’s a drug dealer but they don’t say who. Can you believe it?”
“Hey Sox, I hate to burst your bubble, but I think it’s a trick--intended for you,” Rings said, spoken like the streetwise youth he was.
“You think so? You believe that?”
“Sure I do,” Rings continued. “Why would they print a story like that with no name? If they had someone, they’d say something like ‘alleged drug dealer’ then mention his name.”
“Not necessarily,” Benny said. “If they haven’t charged him with anything, then he’s not a suspect. It’s a legal thing.”
There were a lot of people at the track that night. Many were waiting to bet on the ninth race, a $50,000.00 stakes race that featured the top performers from around the country. Benny didn’t plan on staying that long. He needed to talk to Rings then leave after the fourth race.
“Let’s bet on that Houston track,” Rings said while watching the myriad of simulcasts on the overhead monitors.
“Sure, we can do that,” Benny said with the intent on teaching this kid a lesson. “That is, if you want to throw away your money and just play numbers. You have no idea what’s going to happen.”
Rings grabbed Benny’s racing form from his hand.
“We’ve got it right here,” said Rings, pointing to the Texas Thoroughbred card. “They list Sam Houston too.”
Benny shook his head. “Yeah, and they also list every other track as well. But you’ve got to have inside information, man. I wouldn’t come here without it. Those other tracks could be fixed.”
“They still do that?” Rings asked in amazement. It was an astonishing question from someone who should know a little about bending the rules. “So you’re saying this track isn’t?”
Benny snatched back his program. “I’m not saying it is or isn’t. But I do know one thing--you can’t handicap larceny.”
Benny parentally handed Rings a twenty and a five. “Here, bet a trifecta. Box four horses for twenty-four bucks. That’s a one dollar box. Bet…..I don’t know. Bet your birth year.”
“I can’t bet my birth year with four numbers. I was born in ’71. I can’t use two ‘ones’.”
“Then change the last ‘one’ to a ‘two’,” Benny suggested. “You only need to get three numbers right.”
Rings happily took the bills and walked to a betting window. “Sam Houston, third race, one dollar trifecta box, 1-9-7-2,” he said to the teller as he handed him the twenty-five dollars, got his one dollar change and took the ticket.
Rings hurried back to Benny who was sitting by himself at a table away from the action.
“Well, I got it!” Rings optimistically stated while showing Benny the ticket. “See? I bet 1-9-7-2. That’s a winner.”
Benny glanced up at the TV monitors and noticed the third race at Sam Houston was about to start.
“You may as well tear it up now,” Benny said, assuring Rings he just bought a losing ticket. “The ‘1’ horse is 5-1. The ‘9’ horse is 15-1. And the ‘2’ and ‘7’ are both 30-1. Good luck!”
“Fine,” Rings said. “But like you said, only three of them have to come in.”
The race went off and Benny got up to pee--didn’t even wait for the race to finish. When he got back he saw Rings with a shit-eating grin on his baby face.
“What now?” Benny asked. “You shit in your pants?”
“No, but you will,” Rings said as he stuck the nub of his now disgusting cigar in the corner of his mouth, like a toothpick, then waved the ticket above his own head like a flag.
“What?” Benny asked. “You won? Get out!”
Rings could hardly contain his excitement as he rechecked the monitor. Plain as day it said 9-2-7. The ‘1’ horse, which had the shortest odds, didn’t even run in the money. All long shots came in.
“Let me see that,” Benny demanded.
Rings handed him the ticket. He wasn’t lying. Now all there was left to do was wait for the payoffs.
“No one gets this lucky!” Benny jealously remarked, handing the ticket back to Rings. “My guess is you won at least two grand.” Benny was actually very happy for Rings.
Rings tucked the ticket in his front shirt pocket then sat down to wait. It seemed like forever, but the trifecta price finally appeared on the screen--$6,340.40! Rings had a one dollar ticket which meant he had half of that.
“HOLY FUCK!” Rings screamed. “HOLY, HOLY FUCK!!”
“Shhhhh--not so loud,” Benny scolded. “You’re attracting attention. The last thing you want to do is let others know you won. Keep it to yourself.”
Rings put his hands to his face and fidgeted with his cap. “I won over thirty-one hundred bucks!”
“Yeah, you did. But not so fast,” Benny said like he knew somethin
g bad would come of this.
“What do you mean?” Ring asked, smelling trouble.
“You’re going to have to sign for that and fill out a tax form.”
“Why?”
“Anytime you win when the odds are 300-1 or greater, they make you fill out a tax form. You have to show your driver’s license and everything. Or……”
“Or what?”
“Or you can get someone else to cash your ticket who doesn’t care what he declares on his taxes. There’s a lot of guys out here who make a living doing that.”
“I don’t know anybody here,” Rings said. “Do you?”
“I do, but I don’t want to ask anyone I know. Not now. You’re going to have to take the ticket home with you and maybe ask J.J. to cash it. Or your mother, Twila.”
Rings finally composed himself long enough to think clearly.
“Momma could sure use the money,” said Rings. “And I’ll be glad to give it to her. But I don’t think she could cash it either. It might interfere with her disability benefits.”
“That’s right,” Benny said as he motioned for Rings to follow him outside to the grandstands where they could talk alone before the live races started.
Benny and Rings sat on a bleacher, up twenty rows in a remote corner of the stands. It was getting cooler with the wind blowing slightly harder than when they first arrived. Benny took out a small notebook and quickly jotted down his plan for the rest of the night. Rings patted his front pocket, reassuring himself his huge windfall was safe. It was.
“We still have an hour and a half wait until the fourth race,” Benny said. “We can’t stick around that long. I’ve got something to do and I’d like you to come with me.”
“But what about my ticket,” Rings said. “Why can’t I cash it? J.J. doesn’t pay me that much where it would make a difference in my taxes.”
Benny lowered the bill of his Sox cap down to his eyebrows. He fished a fresh cigar from the inside pocket of his spring jacket then raised the racing form, concealing his face.