Abestia

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I am lucky to know that I have the greatest father in the world.  Not for the obvious reasons, like, he is the most humble person I’ve ever met.  Or because he has spent his entire life giving selflessly. Or because I think I am a decent human being because he was my model of what it means to be a good person.  These reasons, although true, are not what I am thinking about today.

I remember the exhilaration of throwing a fast ball with an egg at a moving bus on South Orange Avenue in Newark on the night before Halloween, when I was somewhere around 7 years old, with my Dad and brother at my side.

“Not at the cars,”  he said.

Then soaping car windows with multi-colored animal shaped bars of soap along the dark sidewalks of Smith street in the Vailsburg section.

In my teen years, it was all out war, 1st Avenue versus 9th St, crates of eggs in the trunk of my Duster, by the end of the night covered head to toe in yolk, bodies bloody, black and blue, one particular year, pumped full of mescalin and beer.

Older kids opened fire hydrants and nailed passing cars on Bloomfield Avenue with heavy streams of water, by using hands and arms to manipulate the water’s flow.  Nicky Dinardo blowing out car windows with a sling shot, at passerbys who dared look his way.  They’d never stop to challenge a group of enraged, wilding Newark teenagers.

My Dad would not have approved of where his good-time-with-my-sons on Mischief Night eventually led.

Tonight I am one of the organizers of a multi-media poetry/social activism event at the historic Symphony Hall in downtown Newark.  And I am wondering if my teenage kharma will break my windshield in the city of my youth on this Mischief Night.

Gino got a job at The Pabst Brewery on South Orange Avenue because of his old man’s seniority status. Once there, the relatively well paying job with health care, vacation and union security, was not enough for his character and ambition.  So he ran numbers, and as far as I know, kicked back to noone.  One guy, lets call him Little Mickey, was on a bad losing streak and couldn’t pay.  Gino waited a few weeks, like bookies often hafta do.  And he listened to the stories that bookies often hafta hear from their addicted clients.

“I got an insurance check coming, gimme a few more days.”

“Tomorrow I’m gonna shy it from Nicky Boots.”

“My wife wants to send the kids to St Joes so they don’t hafta go to school with the blacks at Lincoln - Gimme another week Gino.”

Gino decides to give the guy a free bet.  “You win, you’re even.  You lose, you don’t owe me double, just what you already owe me.  But Mickey, if you lose, I want the money tomorrow.”

The guy bets the Knicks favored by 6 that night at the Garden. They lose outright to The Lakers.  Mickey shows up the next day to work and doesn’t have the money.

My friend’s dad, Al V, who also worked the brewery tells the story like this:

“I’m workin in the brew house and your uncle and Nick M. grab Little Mickey and hold him upside down over the beer vat, each holding an arm and a leg.  The beer’s boilin.  If he goes in he’s fuckin dead.”

Gino: “He paid the next day.”

This journal entry was written 1-29-05, on a bus from San Jose, Costa Rica on the way to the grandely notorious, ghetto fishing hub of Puntarenas, a few days after  my Uncle Gino died.

Gino Cappelletti.  The obit said 69 years old.  It lied I think.  Gino and his 2 sisters were put in an orphanage run by nasty nuns when he was around 5 years old.  He tried to run away often and got flogged repeatedly.  My mom said the nuns hit them for any little thing.  After about 2 years, one of his aunts got him out, and their grandmother got my aunt and mom out.  It was that Italian side of the family that dominated their identities and cultures for the rest of their lives.

Gino was one of the smartest kids in school - sharp at math, which would benefit him in his future life as a bookie and career scam artist.

Born Eugene Kuebler, the son of an eccentric, cheap-ass German father, and an even more eccentric, sticky fingered Italian mother, who wasn’t much for cleanliness.  

His dad lived in the ghetto of Newark on Bergen Street most of his adult life, in the only building on his block not burned down in the riots - He stayed there almost to the end through all of Newark’s tragic changes - Eugene senior was a tough old fucker, who tried out for the legendary semi-pro baseball team, The Newark Bears, that flourished in the 1930’s.  His older brother Duke pitched for them. 

Senior carried around a little 22 caliber pistol for protection.  On his final day, he used it to put himself down with a shot to the heart.  His apartment was packed with 30 year old magazines and newspapers that he couldn’t throw away.  Roaches and mildewy old newspapers, filth and grime all around him as he stashed around $220,000 in the bank over a 30 year career at The Pabst Blue Ribbon brewery.  He wouldnt spend it -wouldnt share it, and his daughters resented him for it.

Gino acted like he didn’t resent him, but when the shit hit, and he needed money, #2 felt no guilt when he scammed 10 grand out of #1 before he ran off to Vegas. Owing money to several bookies and sharks, he left Newark with his temporary partner in crime, Nick M, arrived in Vegas and changed his name to Cappelletti.  Within weeks the Stardust casino became his place of employment, and provided a never ending flow of stolen cash.  

In his teens he ran with a gang called the Pontiacs.  He claimed to have been a great street athlete, but never bothered with organized sports.  He opted for organized crime - gambling and the track - women and the party.  Unlike his dad, Gino spent money faster than it came in.  That two hundred and twenty grand that his dad saved over a career slaving away at Pabst, would be stolen over a month of heists in Vegas, then given away, spent and gambled in a week or two.  His ex wife, who he met when she was 21 and him 41, said that he was the most exciting man in Las Vegas.  Winning or losing ten thousand at a crap table was routine. 

In his heyday, his suits were colorful and tailored perfectly. He had more character, brains and wit then any gangster on either coast and he didnt give a fuck about any Cosa Nostra.  But he knew how to work his way into the mob’s inner circle, make his friends, make his money, then move in and out of those circles, while keeping himself alive.  Gangsters trusted him to the point that, although he was a big player in the Stardust casino heist of the 1970’s, when shit got serious and bodies were getting buried in the desert regularly, Gino, in spite of being under indictment, for whatever reason, got a pass from the Chicago mob, who took their chances and let him live.  Then he played the FBI agent who was assigned to him like a maestro.  Months of conversations and a real friendship developed with the fed who would eventually get nothing from him.  At least thats what Gino told me.  No trial for Gino, no indictments on others based on his lack of information.

He walked without ratting, in one of his most masterful uses of personality, time and bullshit - Evenutally enough people died, enough got pinched, and Gino’s stories to the fed were based enough in truth to be believable, yet didnt provide enough info to bring anyone down.  So although his casino career was over (an indictment in Vegas is a lifetime condemnation) he walked away from millions stolen without ever spending a day in the joint.

Coming soon: The Scams

The fall of 1987.  I’m taking action for a good friend who was raised in a family of bookies.  Lets call him Vinny.  He’s paying me 300 bucks a week to answer the phone on Saturdays and Sundays to take bets on college and pro football games, from his steady flow of gamblers.  On a good week he throws me some extra cash, 50, sometimes a hundred on a real good week. 

On weekends I use the bedroom that my parents keep for me at their house in West Orange as a book-making office to answer the phone and watch the games.  They don’t know this is going on, and I figure they’ll freak the fuck out if they figure it out. The parents don’t see much of me back then, unless I need a few days away from the bars, or too much trouble has recently come my way and I need a break. 

Or, as in this case, to take action in a safe place.  I stop in, say my hellos, lie and say I’ve been looking for a job, butter a bagel, then bolt up to the room, lock the door, and put the TV volume on high so the family can’t hear my conversations. 

The calls start coming in at 11am.

I work off the NFL lines in the NY Post, then Vinny makes adjustments and calls me.  The gamblers call first for the lines, then repeatedly over the next two hours, making bets, changing bets, making more bets.

“Yeah its Fred, How ya doin?”

“Good, Whattaya need?”

“Dallas still 7?”

“Yep, Its gonna move soon, everyone’s on them.”

“Aight, gimme a 50 time parlay Dallas and the over.”

“Dallas minus 7, and Dallas over 49, fifty times. That’s it?”

“For now, I’ll get back to ya in a few. And tell that creep cousin of mine to go fuck himself.”

“You got it.”

The phone rings continuously, always someone on the call-waiting hold, until kickoff of the 1pm game.  Then it slows down and starts back up again around 230pm for the 4 o’clock game.  During the in-between hours I lounge around the room, nursing Saturday night’s hangover, occasionally running down to the kitchen to grab some food, a bowl of macaroni or a cold-cut sandwich on an Italian roll, then back to the room and bullshit on the phone with Vinny about who to bet, who everyone else is betting, and gossip about the night before.

I write the bets in a notebook.  Then, before leaving, rewrite them in code on a little piece of paper in microscopic letters and numbers, to give to Vinny later.  Then I rip up into tiny pieces and throw in the garbage, the written-in pages of the notebook.

On this particular October Sunday, someone knocks hard on my bedroom door. “Fuck.”  Its gotta be either my mother or father.  Dad is in between night shifts at the firehouse, working on this and that around the house, watching some football in between. 

I scramble to tuck my notebook and tiny scraps of paper under the pillow.

“I’ll callya back, someone’s at my door.”

Unlock the door and my dad is standing there casually holding and munching on a sandwich.  With a mouthful of food he says,

“What’s the line on the Dallas game.”

Fuck I’m busted.  I don’t know what to say.

“Dallas minus 7.”

“How about the Giants,” he adds.

“Are you serious?” I inquire.

“Yeah,” he says with wide eyes and still chewing.

“Giants minus 6.”

“Gimme a three time parlay Dallas and Tampa Bay.” 

He turns and walks back downstairs.  I call Vinny back and tell him what just happened.  He roars with laughter.

Needless to say I never took bets in the West Orange house again.  But I paid Sheldon Smith his 42 bucks the following Thursday afternoon.

Happy Birthday Dad!

I never gambled much years ago because I had no money.  My first gambling experience was around 1964.  My girlfriend Bobbi and her husband used to call in horse bets to a bookie. One day she called me to see if I wanted to make a bet and I told her no way, I had no money. She told me I could make some money.  I couldn’t take the chance. The next day she called me to tell me she won, did I want to make a bet?  I told her the same thing as the day before.  The 3rd day same thing.  She won money, did I want to make a bet?  They were on fire and had another hot tip. 

I learned that day there is no such thing as a hot tip.  I said ok and bet $10.00 on a horse.  Now $10.00 in those days was like $300.00.  WELL I LOST.  I was sick all day and night. There wasn’t even anywhere I could get the money.  I couldn’t tell Shell.  He wasn’t even betting the horses at the time.  So I had to go to my mother.  I had to tell her the truth so she wouldnt say anything in front of Shell. 

Well she pitched a fit but gave me the money. It was some years before I ever bet a horse again. I lived on Smith St in Vailsburg then.

My second experience with gambling was a few years later.  Still lived on Smith St.  The pick 3 lottery was fairly new.  Shell bought his first new car.  1970 Valiant.  The license plate was 775.  Well that only cost 50 cents, so I could afford that.  I wheeled it for $1.50.  Aunt Norma, who lived across the street, heard me say I was gonna play the new license plate so she gave me $1.50 for her.

When I get to the store, I thought to myself, with my luck 774 or 776 will come out, so I played both of them wheeled for another $3.00.  Well lo and behold 776 came out and I won something like $150.00 which was like $1,000 at the time.  Shell was so excited.

Well Aunt Norma heard I won and thought she won also.  When I told her what I did, she was so mad and said why didn’t I tell her I was playing the other numbers, she would have played them also.  I told her I did it the last minute at the store.

So now I thought this was great, so easy to win the numbers. So for a week I played and lost about $20.00. I was sick.  It was many years before I played the numbers again.

Elaine Smith

Shell and I went to Delaware Park .  It was the first time we had ever gone there. Lost 4 or 5 races, was being cheap now.  The next race was Arabian horses and a very long race. There was a horse named Lucky Tess (Tessie, my aunt’s name). I bet $5.00 to win and an exacta. 

Race starts and Tess is in the back, the other horse is laying 3rd or 4th. Coming around the last turn, the other horse starts makng it’s move and takes first at the top of the stretch.  By now I cannot see who is who, but I hear the announcer say “And here comes Lucky Tess!” I began screaming, “Comeon Aunt Tessie, comeon Aunt Tessie!”

Aunt Tessie.  The backbone of the family women.  Great daughter, mother, grandmother, sister and aunt.  When she died everyone was fighting for her old pots, pans, & recipes.

Well, she won.  I had forgotten about the other horse.  I’m jumping up and down, the only person doing so, because she was a long shot.  Everyone was looking at me.  Then I remembered I had an exacta, and asked Shell what the number of the second horse was and when he told me I started screaming, “Oh my God, I have the exacta,” and started jumping and screaming again. Both were long shots. Shell said later that everyone must have been saying, how the hell do you pick out two long shots like that.  The reason I did was because of the Tess horse (like an anniversary or birthday), don’t remember what numbers they were.  I felt like Mrs. Rockefeller when we left the track.

Elaine Smith

I got a taste for livin’

My name is Ole Blue Ribbon

I got Pabst Blue Ribbon on my mind

Uncle Gino worked the brewery on the Ave

Got the job from his dad a union man

He ran numbers at the shake house

Banged the chic who wrote the checks out

And together they robbed Pabst for 20 grande

They robbed PBR for 20 grande

They robbed PBR for 20 grande

They robbed Pabst Blue Ribbon

They were screwin’ and a skimmin’

They robbed PBR for 20 grande

The cops and the mob made out his scam

So he took off to Vegas on the lamb

But first he duped his father for a couple thousand dollars

then he swindled some guy Jerry for a grande

He took off to Vegas on the lamb

He took off to Vegas on the lamb

He beat half the hoods in Newark

Then he loaded up his Buick

And took off to Vegas on the lamb

Didn’t take long to make a name

Stardust Casino he ran the game

Gold suits, hot broads, and Johnny Walker Blue

He went from Pabst to Johnny Walker Blue

He went from Pabst to Johnny Walker Blue

He went from Pabst Blue Ribbon

To robbin’ Vegas for a livin’

He went from Pabst to Johnny Walker Blue

I got Pabst Blue Ribbon on my mind

I got Pabst Blue Ribbon on my mind

I got Pabst Blue Ribbon

I got Pabst Blue Ribbon

I got Pabst Blue Ribbon on my mind  (twice)

The day my father was buried, we went back to my sister’s house, we had the food catered.  While we were eating Gino went to the corner store and bought lottery ruboffs. That took almost 2 hours.  Everytime someone won money, Gino took the tickets and bought more.  On and on this went.  Early evening we all decided to go to the Pegasus restaurant at the Meadowlands racetrack.  We had a table of about 20 (all from the funeral).  My father must have been turning in his grave because we were already spending his money.  We were all drinking and everytime Gino had a drink he would lift it into the air and say, “Here’s to you Dad.”

The last race everyone was buying trifecta tickets, so many tickets on the table.  When the race was over, everyone was throwing their tickets all over the table cursing.  From the corner of the table came a small voice saying “I won.”  It was Shell.  He had the trifecta.  Everyone was cheering and yelling.  Gino asked him how much he had on it, and he said $1.00 box trifecta, it cost him $6.00.  We were all losing our shirts and he had his first $1.00 box trifecta ever. 

WELL, Gino started yelling all over the place.  “Son of a bitch has the only trifecta and he’s got a fucking dollar box.”

Everyone started laughing and Shell said, “Well I had the winner, I didn’t lose.”

Gino never forgot that one.

Elaine Kuebler Smith