- ah-I was just figuring up how much I would win today.”
“What makes you so sure you’ll win anything?” Harper asked.
I glanced about furtively, and lowered my voice. “I know I’m going to win. You gentlemen look like you can be trusted. I’ll tell you the truth, but it must be strictly confidential. The boss is going to make a killing today. So he let me in on it.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell us the name of the horse?” said Winterbill.
“No,” I replied. “I couldn’t do that. I promised the boss that I wouldn’t. And if it got around, the odds would go down on the horse. My boss is going to spread his bets. He’ll wire them around the country just before post time, so that nobody will get suspicious.”
“Too bad,” grunted Harper, obviously disappointed. “We hoped you might give us a tip,”
“I’ll tell you what,” offered Winterbill, as if an idea had suddenly struck him. “If you won’t give us a tip, maybe you’ll make our bets for us.”
I considered this a moment. “Yes, I guess I could do that. But I still can’t tell you the name of the horse.”
“I don’t care,” said Winterbill, “just so I clean up. Here’s $2,500. Put it on the nose for me,”
Harper had already dug into his pocket. “Here’s $1,500 for me.”
“All right,” I agreed, taking their money. “I’ll meet you gentlemen right here after the fifth race.”
Winterbill was enthusiastic and Harper seemed well pleased. They left me and went into the grandstand, chatting and speculating on what horse in the fifth race was to make the killing. Winterbill later excused himself from Harper on some pretext. He met me a short time later and we worked the same game on as many suckers as we could find.
But by the time the fifth race had been run, we were far away from the track. Mr. Harper and the others who kept the rendezvous were doomed to a long wait and to a sad disappointment.
CHAPTER 5
TWO UNWARY STRANGERS
Bob Collins was a tout who worked with me on several occasions. He helped in the case of Mr. Kahn, which was amusing, profitable, and in some ways pathetic.
Mr. Kahn was a tall, thick-set German, as industrious a man as I ever met. He had a delicatessen and food shop on LaSalle Street. Old Man Kahn took great pride in the fact that his shop had the finest food in town. He carried only the best imported cheese and frankfurters, as well as other meats and fish.
When I first went into his shop I had no designs on the old fellow. I went there because I liked his food. I had made three or four visits before the old man’s curiosity got the best of him.
In those days, I dressed flashily. I wore a five-carat diamond ring, a big diamond pin in my ascot tie, and a vest chain locket with a diamond horseshoe.
Every time I was in his shop Old Man Kahn eyed the diamonds. Finally, one day, he said: “Young man, I see you like fine food. And I see you’re rich, too. I know most of my customers, but I don’t know who you are. What business are you in?”
I knew he had been thinking about the diamonds. “Why, I own stock in the racecourses,” I told him, giving him one of my favorite stories. I still had no designs on him.
“Where they race horses?” he asked.
“Yes. Haven’t you ever been to the races?”
“No,” he replied. “I have been too busy. But I would like to go sometime.”
“Then come as my guest,” I said. “Would you like a complimentary ticket for next Saturday?”
“No. Saturday is my busy day. But I could go next Tuesday.”
“Fine. Here’s your ticket. I’ll drop in and you can go with me.”
The old man beamed and said he would be ready.
The following Tuesday I escorted him to the track. He asked endless questions. I took him to the betting ring and showed him how bets were made.
He was especially intrigued by the concession where red hots were sold. His eyes shone in amazement as he watched people coming up to pay ten cents for a hot dog.
“That fellow over there,” he said. “He sure does a good business.”
“Sure,” I replied, and a vague scheme began to form in my mind. “You know, people at a racecourse don’t watch their money - they spend it freely.”
“I can see that,” said Kahn. “How much do you suppose he takes in every day?”
“I don’t know. But it ought to be easy to find out. Why don’t you watch for a while? I’ve got to see a fellow on some business. I’ll leave you here and meet you again in fifteen minutes.”
“Yah, sure,” said Kahn. He was so fascinated that he hardly noticed that I was gone.
I looked for Bob Collins. I found him, stated my proposition, and got him to work with me on the deal. Then I returned to where the old fellow was still standing in front of the red-hot stand, counting the dimes that poured in.
“Well,” I asked, “have you estimated how much he takes in?”
“Yah. It must be a hundred dollars a day.”
“Oh, I think it’s more than that. I believe he takes in around two hundred dollars a day.”
“Two hundred dollars a day!” Kahn repeated. “Why, on that he must make a big profit. How much does he have to pay for the lease?”
“Oh, he doesn’t have a lease,” I replied. “It’s what we call a concession. He doesn’t have to pay us anything, as long as he satisfies the patrons.”
“My, I would like to have a business like that. The customers would like my fine imported frankfurters.”
“They certainly would,” I agreed. “And you could get more for them, too. Maybe twenty-five cents. Money means nothing to people at a race track.”
“No,” said Kahn, “I wouldn’t charge a quarter. I could put up a fine frankfurter sandwich and make a good profit for fifteen cents.”
“And you could sell roast beef sandwiches, too. Would you be interested in having the concession?”
“Do you think I could get it?”
“With my help, you can,” I replied. “Remember I own stock in this track.”
“Yah, I remember,” said Kahn.
“Come into the office with me,” I invited him. “We’ll talk to the secretary. He has charge of the concessions.”
I led him into the office of Sheridan Clark, who was secretary of the Association that operated the track. Clark, of course, did have charge of the concessions. But there was one thing about his office that Kahn did not know. It was always open. Jockeys, trainers, and owners were constantly going in and out on routine matters. And I happened to know that, at that particular time, Clark was not in the office.
When we walked in, a man was seated behind Clark’s desk. It was Bob Collins, my confederate.
“Mr. Clark,” I called, “this is Mr. Kahn. I’d like you to see what you can do about getting the red-hot concession for him.”
Collins stood up and shook hands. “Glad to know you, Mr. Kahn,” he said. “Any friend of Joe’s is a friend of mine.” He walked out from behind the desk. “Let’s go have a glass of beer and discuss this further.” That was a pretext to get us out of the office. We didn’t know when Sheridan Clark might return.
Kahn