But to an awful lot of people, this small-time racing he was around was not a good thing. Through nearly all of its history, and particularly in this era of the 1890s and early 1900s, racing has had to make caution its trademark. Professional world-savers, from the hustler with a store-front church to the influential legislator, always have attempted to use racing as a good example of evil. This is because racing is conducted in public and our custom in this country is to sin in private. In December of 1891, the top turf men of the day formed the Jockey Club, whose main job was to keep racing from spreading out and making too much of a target for do-gooders. The Jockey Club was against all small tracks of the Gloucester-Guttenburg variety. The thinking was that there is only so much money which the public can afford to bet and if there are too many tracks around for them to bet it at, trouble from the outside would be inevitable. The Jockey Club passed a rule that anybody riding, training or owning horses at such as Gloucester or Guttenburg would be banned from appearing at any major track under the club’s jurisdiction. Jimmy Fitz had no time to figure out what all this meant. He was making his living at these small tracks and he had horses like Capt. Hammer or Calcium to ride and he stayed at it when the ruling was made. And he stayed for the next eight years, too. The Jockey Club called it Outlaw Racing. To Jimmy Fitz, it was a way to make a living. An honest living, too.
“I’ll take an oath,” he was saying one night, “that I was only asked twice in my life to do something wrong with a horse. There was one day at Gloucester they had a fella ready to ride this horse called Lancaster and the stewards took him off. They thought something was going on or something and they ordered me to ride him. They knew I gave a hundred per cent all the time. The owner was stuck with me, so before the race he came up and said, ‘Listen, we got $800 bet against this horse. There’s no way out. If you get beat on this horse I’ll give you half the $800.’ Well, I told him no. I don’t do things like that. I felt bad about it. Was none of my business to ride the horse. The stewards made me. Well, I went out and did all I could and I won the race. It must of hurt them fellas bad. But I couldn’t do anything.”
“The other time, an owner had a horse I was going to ride and he came to me and said if I won with the horse the bidding would go too high. He had the horse in a selling race—like a claiming race is today—and you had to give five dollars more than the highest bid if you wanted to get him back. Well, he thought the price would get too stiff and he must of wanted the horse. ‘Let’s get beat this time,’ he said. ‘I don’t do that,’ I told him. He was a pretty good fella, you know. He didn’t say anything except ‘OK.’ I forget the name of the horse, but I know how the race went, all right. I win by a head. Incidentally I rode for that owner for many years afterward.
“Now, I been around seventy-six years and these are the only times anybody ever asked me to try something. And for seventy-six years all I been hearing is stories, stories, stories about this and that. It’s all nonsense. They make 90 per cent of them up on a rumor. Anyplace I ever was at, they had the best racing they could have and that was about all there was to it.”
In several instances, conscientious citizens took it upon themselves to go to work on the race tracks. But it was not an easy thing to do. For wherever there is money, with politicians in the vicinity, many things can be done.
Which was what the Reverend John A. Scudder found one bright February morning in 1891 when he walked into the room used by the Hudson County Special Grand Jury for Gambling in Jersey City. He sat down and awaited his turn to testify. The Reverend Scudder was a man of the Lord and in doing this work he was of the opinion that an anti-gambling law was something that ran coupled with the seventh commandment. So, a year and a half before, he joined an outfit known as the Committee for Law and Order, an outfit of dogooders who spent most of their time burning because race tracks were running in New Jersey and people were betting at them, in flagrant violation of old state laws.
The Reverend Scudder did not come to make sermons to the Law and Order boys. He was one of those tall, thin, knobby-boned people who surprise you. One afternoon the week before his grand jury appearance, he put on a sweater, pulled a cap down over his eyes to look as vicious as possible, then, a prayer on his lips, headed for the Guttenburg race track. The Reverend walked into the grounds at Guttenburg, just like a sinner, pulled out a dollar and went over to the nearest bookmaker and put it on the Number 3 horse in the first race. Then he fled the place. That night, at a triumphant meeting of his group, he waved the bookmaker’s betting slip in his hand. He had enough evidence, he figured, to turn Guttenburg into a good spot for strawberry festivals.
The grand jury filed in and sat down rather stiffly. For a good reason. They were being delivered to the Reverend Scudder direct from barside at a place called Nungesser’s, where chief clerk of the court Dennis McLaughlin had bought all the rye and beer chasers needed to rid the byes of any morning shakes that happened to be present. The grand jurors all were stand-up citizens who could be expected to do exactly what the situation called for. Any situation. McLaughlin, who just happened to have a side job as full partner of the Guttenburg track, could vouch for this personally. He had spent a week going over names of people he knew well until he came up with enough of them to form a jury. Public indignation over race-track gambling had been so high that he had been ordered to round up a special jury to look into the situation. It cost the race track like hell to help McLaughlin carry out the order, but by the time he reached the Haytches on his rolls he had a jury.
The Reverend Scudder began his testimony by producing the betting slip and then recounting how he had obtained it.
“Did the horse win?” a juror asked him.
“I didn’t stay long enough to find out,” he said.
“That’s not enough evidence to prove anything,” another juror said. “You’re bringin’ us hearsay.”
A third juror, who unfortunately went into the records nameless, wouldn’t stand for this. “It’s gamblin’ we’re after,” he snapped. “It seems to me we have evidence of it right here. The Reverend has on his person a bettin’ slip. I think he should be indicted for gamin’ within the county limits.”
The jury voted on the indictment and it took a split decision to get the Reverend Scudder back to his preaching without first having to raise bail. He never bothered to see how the Number 3 horse did.
But this couldn’t go on forever. And trouble was coming down on Gloucester, too. Owner Thompson, who lived in an $85,000 palace along the Delaware, was arrested for running gambling late in 1891. Thompson was distressed that his political connections did not make him immune from the pinch. Oh, he was able to handle the charge easily, showing up in court a full year later to plead non vult and pay a $50 fine. But if these Law and Order committees were strong enough to have him arrested, even on a minor charge, it meant that trouble was on the horizon.
But at times, the law came to the track’s aid even in sticky circumstances. At Gloucester one day, a Mrs. John J. Tobin, Jr., umbrella held demurely in one hand, sashayed into the betting ring.
“No women here,” one of the bookmakers told her.
“I’m going to bet a race horse and I’m going to do it myself,” she said.
A track official hurried onto the scene, took her by the arm and began to lead her away. He was explaining that there was a rule against ladies in the betting ring when Mrs. Tobin tightened her grip on the umbrella, then clocked him in the eye with it. The police were called and Mrs. Tobin was brought into court. The judge pondered the case, then said that as far as he was concerned she had every right to be in there betting her money. This gave the track a legal way to allow women to bet—something it never would have tried without plenty of backing.
When you look into these tracks, you get an idea of why people yelled so much about them. For while Jimmy Fitz and the horsemen like him were busy trying to make their small living out of what they thought of as a sport, larceny became the major occupati
on of many connected with running the places.
A man named Gus Waldbaum owned Guttenburg, for example. For partners he took in not only court clerk McLaughlin, but also one Richard Croker, whose mustache and goatee had become nationally famous since he had taken over Tammany Hall in New York. Croker was the man who was supposed to make everybody forget about the bad things his predecessor, Boss Tweed, had done. After a short time, it was obvious all Croker wanted to do was make Tweed look like an amateur. After running Tammany for five years, for example, Croker was able to put up $750,000 to buy race horses and breeding farms, including a half interest in the famed Belle Meade Stud Farm of General W. H. Jackson. Croker gave the general a quarter of a million in cash on that deal.
Newspapers promptly said that tongues were wagging. How can Mr. Croker, a poor man only five years ago, now afford to invest such huge money so readily? The Tribune asked. But the tongues never seemed to wag in Croker’s presence. He was a man who believed firmly in violence.
Croker’s attachment with Guttenburg was for a simple reason. At this time, poolrooms were the main source of gambling revenue in the nation. Many of the places had bookmakers for horse bets and leased wires tapped out results from every track in the country. At Guttenburg, Waldbaum received most of his income from some 320 poolrooms around the East which paid Guttenburg for wired results, plus overnight entries so they could properly book action on the next day’s card. The poolrooms paid $10 a day for the service. This gave Waldbaum $3200 a day profit before he even opened the gates. Croker saw to it that New York City poolrooms, which made up the bulk of Guttenburg trade, were solidly lined up with the $10 a day. He was most certainly not an inactive partner. And McLaughlin, aside from murdering any complaints in court, was in charge of seeing that customers had transportation from Jersey City to the track. He hired horse wagons, piled hay across the hard boards, suckers on top of the hay and sent them on their way.
The track seemed to be open for chicanery. There were smart men who sat up nights in Jersey City trying to figure out ways to make some fast money with the Guttenburg operation. Others were doing the same thing in New York. One night, two men appeared at Guttenburg after the day’s racing. After identifying themselves as Western Union repairmen, they went to work on the Morse code bugs in the track office. Then one of them went out to the telephone pole which carried the wires out of the track, climbed it and spent the next couple of hours splicing and rearranging things.
It was snowing heavily in St. Paul, Minnesota, the next day, which was January 5, 1892. But at a poolroom known as the Tremont Exchange, John Driscoll, the bookmaker’s clerk, was handed a note from his Western Union man. The note said Guttenburg was operating as usual, six races and never mind the snow.
Driscoll went over to a big blackboard and began to chalk in the odds on the day’s card at Guttenburg. A horse named Congress in the first race was to go off at 15-1, the Guttenburg overnight entries said.
Then Driscoll started to accept bets. A couple of strangers came into the steamy poolroom, kicked the snow off their boots, then came across the wet floor and put money down in front of Driscoll.
Congress in the first at Guttenburg, one of them said. He was betting $100. The man behind him had a $50 bet on the same horse.
Driscoll turned around and wiped out the 15-1 next to Congress’ name and made it 12-1. When he turned around again, two more strangers were there to bet him. Before he knew it, he had a rush on Congress and the price had to be dropped with every bet. The other Guttenburg starters received little play, although form seemed to dictate a bet on Insight, 8-1, or Flambeau, 5-2.
When the ticker tapped out the result of the first at Guttenburg, it said Congress had won. Driscoll paid off the strangers —who promptly started to bet him on a thing called Mabel, 5-1, in the third race. When the result came in, this horse had won, too. And the strangers were right there to collect and bet it back on Rose G, 18-1, in the fifth.
That night, after closing shop, Driscoll went to get a drink. He stopped into a place called Gleason’s, which also had a race wire, and started to knock over double ryes.
“One more day like this,” he told the bartender, “and my boss is out shoveling snow. And I’m ringing doorbells to get him the work.”
“Bad day?” the bartender said.
“We get ruined by that place in Jersey. Guttenburg. Who the hell out here can pick them at a track like that? I mean, there was guys in today who murdered us on that place.”
“What were they playing?”
“Congress,” Driscoll said. “That was the one that hurt the most. They are on him at 15-1.”
“Congress?” the bartender said. His eyebrows came together. “He was in the first race, wasn’t he?”
“Uh huh.”
“Hell, he don’t win it. Insight win that race. That’s what we got on the ticker.”
At first Driscoll figured the guy was wrong. He went over and checked the wire. First race, Insight, it said. Driscoll felt weak. Then he looked at the third race. Ma Belle, the winner. The wire notes said Brooklyn took the fifth. Driscoll was a thin fellow who spent his time either in a smoky poolroom or saloon. But he still had plenty of natural strength. You could see that. He did not faint.
In poolrooms around the country, at the Nicolett in Minneapolis and at Malty’s in Kansas City, guns were being cleaned and oiled and clerks were being asked to remember faces of those who had bet them on Guttenburg horses that day. The wires, track officials and all else knew by now, had been fiddled with the night before and certain places around the country were hit with phony results from Guttenburg. Bookmakers howled for months. The story reached the papers and more people called for action against the track.
Jimmy Fitz just kept riding horses. He didn’t bother with the tales going around. He kept looking for mounts on which he could ride for money.
Another outlaw track of these times opened at Maspeth, Long Island.
Maspeth was built on a picnic grounds owned by a man named Feldman, who had it rigged with lights for the first night horse racing in the country. The big overhead arc lamps were barely enough to lift some of the blackness from the track. More care was given to the lighting of the betting ring, where bookmakers were busy accepting bets on anything that moved anyplace in the country. It was called a Foreign Book in those days and the crowd at Maspeth had as much interest in that as they did in the action on hand. But to keep the crowd informed as to who was leading in the backstretch, Maspeth had a big spotlight rigged up which would hit the leader and stay with him around the track. If the man operating the light happened to be a bit slow, this could raise the devil with the boys riding the horses.
One night, for example, Jimmy Fitz was hustling down the backstretch aboard a horse called Fagan. He was in total darkness. The spotlight man was off the mark at the moment, and Jimmy pushed Fagan onto the lead without any light on him. When the guy in the tower swung the light on Fagan, Jimmy jumped. He saw the shadow of another horse coming up alongside, at a good clip. He gave Fagan a tap with the whip to hustle him up, then he started pumping. He had Fagan under a good drive when he snuck a look out of the corner of the eye to see the horse challenging him. It was his own shadow. To his credit, Jimmy Fitz was keeping a full head in front of it down the stretch. The guy always tried.
In another race, he was aboard a thing called William Penn and the horse stumbled and went down. Jimmy Fitz was thrown off and landed flat on his back. A gray horse named Tommy Lally was striding right at him and one moment there was a flash of the horse’s heaving, gray-white stomach, then of his black hind feet skimming past Jimmy Fitz’s and then clouds of dirt. The horse had gone over him without touching him. But he still couldn’t move. His back had been badly sprained in the fall and they had to carry him back to the stable. The stable area was dark. Grooms carried lanterns as they took horses to and from the paddock and people were too busy to make a big thing of a jockey who fell. Particularly if he had no broken bones. H
e was out for a couple of days, then got back in action. But his back never was the same after that and through the rest of his life he always remembered William Penn falling and throwing him onto his back. He felt certain, as his back began to bow and his head lowered, that William Penn was the start of his trouble.
While he was at Maspeth, he took the train one fall day to a place called Ozone Park where a new small-time track, called Aqueduct, was opening, Jimmy Fitz didn’t have any horses with him that day, but everybody wanted to get a look at the place to see if there was a chance of making money at it. Aqueduct was a wooden place with planks put over the dirt lawn to keep people from sinking into the mud. The track did not look like it was here to stay. He went back to Maspeth.
At this time, around Jersey, the Committee for Law and Order was making a big move against race tracks—it had staged a successful vigilante raid against Monmouth Park the summer before—and things did not look good. However, the two people for whom Frank Weir was training horses did not seem to mind. They were two quiet guys from the West who had, Jimmy Fitz noticed, better manners than most of the horsemen. You’d think they was choir boys, he says now. They did not look anything like they did in pictures which federal authorities used to place in post offices around the country. One was Frank James, the other Dick Little, and between these two, and Frank’s brother Jesse, they had killed more people than pneumonia.
Finally, time ran out in Jersey. The better people could not be held off forever. The Daughters of the American Revolution were incensed. The WCTU was fighting mad. The ASPCA was howling. And, of course, there were the churches. To any minister or priest not lending his weight against the tracks, it was suggested that Sunday collections were dwindling in areas near the tracks and, given time, the thing could spread. The churches quickly joined the campaign.
Sunny Jim Page 11