SQUILLANTE BETS HIS LIFE

So far the Squillante job had more problems than it was worth. Between wondering if Squillante was the guilty party, or if the thing was planned just to set me up, and now, if he had seen me, my concentration was shot to shit. All the time I spent wondering I should have been working out a plan. I had been on Squillante almost a full business week and still hadn’t picked out a prime location. Usually I do that in the first few days, yet here I was still wavering between a number of places, really thrilled by none of them. Worse, in my own mind, I still had not resolved the two problems.

If Squillante was betting heavily he was doing it very quietly. All the time I had been with him I hadn’t seen him pick up a racing form or go anywhere near the track. He might have been betting from his girlfriend’s or even from his own living room, but that I doubted. He wouldn’t have bet without studying the sheets and I never saw him buy one. And his betting was the key. If I could catch him getting down I would know for sure that he was the right target. And that I wasn’t.

On Saturday night I decided to find out once and for all.

I called a friend of mine named Reg who is a phone mechanic. This means he can do anything that can be done with telephones, from running a backstrap for a bookie operation—that is two phones in two different locations hooked together on one number—to putting in a Princess phone with a lighted dial and low ring for my wife.

We exchanged pleasantries. “Whattya doing tomorrow morning?” I asked.

“I’m going to church. What do you think I do on Sunday mornings?”

I know Reg well enough to know that he hasn’t been to church since the last Monte Carlo night. “You’re probably sleeping in, you fucking lazy bum.”

He sighed. “Do me a favor? Don’t tell God.”

“Don’t worry,” I laughed, “we ain’t on speaking terms. Anyway I got my own problems. How’d you like to make a hundred bucks?”

“That’s what I been praying for.”

“Fine. I need some of your expert help. Bring your telephone tools and meet me outside Johnny Dee’s place at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Whattya need?”

I don’t like to discuss my business on the telephone under any circumstances. There was no way I was going to tell him now, particularly when I considered him to be the F.B.I. (finest bugging individual) I’ve ever known. “I want to tap a confessional,” I told him. “I think I got a line on some priest trying to pass saltines off as wafers. What the fuck difference does it make why I want you there, just be there.”

“What kind of place is it?” he asked in his best professional tone.

I told him, “An apartment house.”

There was a short pause while he considered the job. “Alright,” he finally agreed, “but I want to be home in time for the football game.”

“You’ll be home for the kickoff,” I lied.

I picked him up in front of Johnny Dee’s because I didn’t want him to know where we were going. Reg is a Manhattanite and knows the Bronx like I know Buckingham Palace. At best he’s heard of it. As long as I was driving I knew he would never remember where we were going. He had his tools in one hand and the New York Times in the other. “What’s the newspaper for?” I asked him.

“To read,” he said simply. You ask a stupid question …

I realized I was taking a big gamble going into Squillante’s building, but I knew the odds against Squillante coming down into the basement on a Sunday morning were about the same as Francis the Talking Mule winning the Kentucky Derby. And if anyone else came down, Reg was carrying more telephone company identification than Alexander Graham Bell himself. Besides, this was a case where the ends justified any means. I simply had to find out.

We had absolutely no problem walking in the back entrance and going down into the cellar. Just to be on the safe side though, Reg thoughtfully gave me a telephone company hardhat to wear.

Reg found the terminal box immediately. The box itself was approximately 12 inches high and 8 inches wide. It opened up to reveal at least 25 different wires in a multitude of colors. “Which apartment does this guy live in?” Reg asked.

I told him and he began searching through the wires. Finally he found what he was looking for and he took two metal clips and hooked them onto the wire. Then he hooked the other end of the wires into a pair of earphones and handed them to me. I put them on and heard a dial tone.

“That’s the apartment.” I always thought Reg was wasting his time working for people in the organization. With talent like his he definitely should have been in politics.

I leaned against the wall and waited for something to happen. Reg sat down next to me and picked up the Times. He pointed at the paper and mouthed the words, “To read,” and began doing so. Sometimes you get a stupid answer twice.

We were sitting down there for maybe a half-hour with absolutely no action. Then someone picked up the phone. Here we go, I thought, he’s going to call his bookie and get down on some gridiron classics.

It was Cindy Squillante. She called some other woman and they gabbed a few minutes and then she invited this other broad and her husband for dinner during the week. Sure, I thought, them she invites over, but us she has to come to our place. We’ll see about that! They kept talking.

Reg pointed to his watch. It was 70 minutes to kick-off time. The pregame show would be going on the air shortly. Get off the damn phone, I thought, get off the damn phone. Eventually they did, but before they finished I picked up a new recipe for chocolate icing.

Nothing happened for another 10 or 15 minutes. Reg was through with the sports and entertainment section and was deep into the book reviews when the phone rang. No matter how much he bet no bookie was going to call him to solicit his action. It was a wrong number. The earphones were hurting my ears and I took them off. “Hey Reg, is it possible they have two phones?”

He turned around and very quickly checked the box. I figured that was the problem, we had the wrong phone. While Squillante must have been busy betting, I was getting a chocolate icing recipe. Reg turned around. “One phone.” He resumed his reading.

The time shot by and I was really getting uptight. If the man does not bet horses then he is betting football or he is simply not betting. That’s it. And so far Squillante was not betting. It was one-half hour to kickoff.

Fifteen minutes later someone picked up the telephone. I recognized Squillante’s voice. This was the call I was waiting for.

He starts betting football and I mean really betting. He makes six games, $5000 a game. Then he hangs up and calls another bookie and goes through the same routine again, this time at $2500 per game. This is my answer. This is where his money is going. I could not believe my ears. I was stunned. This stupid motherfucker was getting himself buried even worse than he had been. It really fractured me. He was on the boards for $45,000 and who knew how long it had been going on.

The bookies obviously let him go because they knew he was a good earner, and when you’re earning they don’t care how deeply you go into the hole. As long as he kept handing in $2000 a week or so I’d let him keep betting too. The odds are that he is never going to get even. You know what it takes to get out when you’re down to something reasonable, even $50,000? I own you, don’t I? And as long as I know you’re capable of earning I’ll let you go on forever. Very rarely is an individual who is consistently making payments shut down even though he has no hope of ever getting even: It’s when he starts missing payments that he is cut off. The one thing bookies don’t want to do is make desperadoes out of their customers. Squillante had become a desperado.

I didn’t have to hear any more. I don’t even know if he made any more phone calls. People like him will start making cover bets at halftime, trying to win both halves of a game or at least break even. Sometimes they just go deeper in the hole. I tapped Reg on the shoulder and nodded. “I got him,” I said, “let’s go.”

He carefully folded up his New York Times, took the clips off the wires and wrapped up his equipment. I drove him back to Johnny’s place, pulled out my wallet and peeled off two hundred-dollar bills. I handed them both to him. “Thank you doctor,” I told him. I could depend on Reg to keep his mouth shut simply out of friendship, but with friendship and money I knew I could depend a little more.

Neither me nor Reg got home in time for kickoff, but I got back in plenty of time to get down on some of the games outside the Eastern Standard Time Zone. Then I sat and watched the television action. I’m sure my old friend Squillante was doing exactly the same thing. And sweating.

I broke about even for the day but Squillante did not do so well. He got what we in the organization call buried. He lost five games and won one. Assuming he didn’t make any more bets than those I heard, and that is an unlikely assumption, he dropped $33,750 for the day. This is because each $5000 bet came to $5500 and each $2500 bet was really $2750 when you add in the 10 percent vig, or service charge, that bookies include. His total winnings for the day were $7,500 and his losings were $41,500, a total of $33,750 in the hole. This is not chopped liver.

I took my wife to Chinatown for dinner that night, but my mind was not on chop suey. I focused squarely on Joseph Squillante. One of the problems had been answered: He was indeed the heavy bettor Sweetlips told me about. I began to feel a little safer knowing he was a legitimate target. But I was gonna keep checking my rear-view mirror.

One thing I do remember about this particular evening in Chinatown was the fortune I got in my cookie. In fact, I saved it and carry it in my wallet because it was so unusual, so silly and so accurate at the same time. “Do not make any decisions until you are quite certain.”

Now I was quite certain. And I had made my decision.

Monday I decided to go through the whole morning thing with him one more time just to make sure he hadn’t made any changes, and to make sure I hadn’t overlooked any potential spots. I packed my pen, notepad, maps, portable radio, army blanket and wrist-watch in my car and waited for him to get started. He came out a few minutes late and gunned the Buick trying to make up for lost time.

Nothing changed at all. He went from the restaurant at the end of Westchester Avenue to the coffee shop without missing a beat. He made all his stops, met all his runners, collected his due, and made up for the lost few minutes.

Once again I wasted a half hour sitting outside the coffee shop watching him warm up. I began to wonder strange things about Squillante. Like, how come he drinks so much coffee and never seems to go to the bathroom? I sniff the stuff and I’m pissing for half an hour. Or, with all the money he had, how come he was living in a small apartment? Or would his Puerto Rican broad know what happened when he stopped showing up? Or how pissed are his bookies going to be when they read about his untimely end in the Daily News? With such wonderful thoughts I passed the waiting time.

He left the restaurant and hit the funeral-home bank for awhile. From there back up to the cab garages on Jackson Avenue and then on to the Grand Concourse. Zoom—back to the bank and right on time. Finished for the day.

While I was waiting for him I made myself a list of places he might head for. But he fooled me again, he went to a beauty parlor.

It was just another strange twist I couldn’t figure out. He drove directly from the bank down into Lower Manhattan and he stopped in front of a beauty parlor on Eighth Avenue in the 20s. He walked right in. I’ve had guys go to all sorts of places on me. Real rank whorehouses, baseball games, deserted warehouses, bus depots, VFW meetings. I even had a guy go to a queer bar once, which really threw me, especially when he came out with another guy, but I have never had a guy go to a beauty parlor on me before.

At first I figured this must be one of the places that were just opening up around that time that catered to men and women. In fact, two guys went into the place a little after Squillante arrived, but no more. And there was no sign outside to indicate that men were welcome. I was curious, but I didn’t really try to guess. There was no reason to. I knew the fact: He went there. He was in there almost an hour and he came out looking no prettier than he did when he went in.

Something that doesn’t happen that often was starting to happen: I was picking up more than Squillante’s movements; I was picking up his rhythm. There is really no way to explain exactly what I mean by that. It was just that I was beginning to feel in tune with his movements. We were together. I knew his physical movements, but somehow I was feeling his mental movements. This is an intangible that I never get on most hits. Usually it’s just trace, track and shoot. This wasn’t true with Squillante. We were operating on the same tracks, but going in opposite directions. Of course, only one of us knew there was going to be a collision. At least, that’s what I believed.

From the beauty parlor he went back up to the Bronx and right to the social club on Arthur Avenue. He usually locked his car only when he was going to be parked for awhile. When he stopped at the social club he locked the Buick. He was here to stay. I settled back and turned on the portable radio.

Squillante must have been playing cards in the club because he did not come out until later in the afternoon. And he did not come out alone, which in itself did not surprise me. I didn’t know the guy he was with but it’s not unusual for one individual to give a lift home to another individual so I didn’t give it a thought. They were in a deep discussion and Squillante’s friend was waving his arms and gabbing away a mile a minute. For a few seconds he looked so angry I thought he might pull a piece and do my job for me. But eventually they both were laughing and got into Squillante’s car. I started following.

We headed uptown, toward the Bronx. I hadn’t been checking to see if I was being followed, as I promised myself I would. Now, with nothing else to do except listen to the “number seven hit in New York land!” I started paying attention to what was behind me.

And I got very itchy. A 1965 Chevy sedan with two men in it was about four car lengths behind me. Nothing unusual about that. But when I speeded up they speeded up, they stayed four car lengths behind me. Nothing particularly unusual about that. And when I moved from the left lane into the center lane, they too moved over one lane. Nothing particularly unusual about that. Finally I put my blinker on, like I was getting off at the next exit, and moved over to the right lane. Their blinker went on. Nothing particularly unusual about that. But when the exit came I sailed right past it.

They did too! Now I’ve found something unusual. I’m beginning to believe I got myself some partners.

I dropped Squillante at the next exit and got off. The Chevy sedan followed. I drove a few blocks straight ahead and started making turns. The car followed for the first four, then dropped off. If they were trailing me, and I was sure they were, they must have realized I picked them up. In a way I was sorry about that. I would have liked to get close enough to see who these people were. I might have recognized one of them.

I pulled over to the side and waited. I watched the rear-view mirror and looked straight ahead, seeing if they were trying to circle around and pick me up again. I waited 20 minutes but they never reappeared. It didn’t make any difference. Someone was trailing me. The only question was who.

I figured two possible choices. Maybe old Joe Squillante was not as stupid as he seemed to be. Perhaps the reason he wasn’t looking over his shoulder was that he didn’t have to—he had some people doing the looking for him. Or maybe Jackie Sweetlips is taking advantage of a good situation and making it better—for himself. I was going to burn Squillante, as instructed by the Fat Man, and then Jackie was going to burn me.

Neither possibility filled me with great joy.

If the tail was sponsored by Squillante, then the hit was in jeopardy. If his boys had been tailing me long enough to see that I was following him, my cover was blown. He would have no doubts about what a tail meant, and he would either have to fight or run, and do it quickly.

If the tail came from Sweetlips the problem would not be as great. I doubt he would give me credit for being smart enough to realize he set it up. But he certainly would be more careful in the future.

There was nothing more I could do about it at this point anyway. I closed my notepad for the day and went home.

By the time I found a place to park, checked to see that no one had followed me home, and walked over to my building, it was past seven o’clock. I figured I would call the office and see how we did, then stay home all night and read my notes. The time had come for me to start making some serious decisions about Squillante’s future, or lack of same. It was going to be a quiet, thoughtful night at the old Joey apartment.

Wrong! Usually I have a pretty good memory for things my wife tells me, but I was surprised to hear a lot of noise when I opened my front door. It took me a second, then I realized this was the girls’ night at my place. Each Monday night my wife meets these five ladies at one of their places and they play canasta or poker or Mah-jongg or go to a movie or just gossip. This week it was my lucky turn. This was exactly what I needed. I’ve got to sit down and plan a murder and these girls are busy driving me insane.

I’m never sure if they’re glad to see me or not. They know I’m in the business but they don’t know exactly what I do. Sometimes I like to put on a tough-guy act for them, I overdo it on purpose, which they seem to love. We get along all right. Whenever I get some panty hose or some double-knits I’ll give them first shot. And whenever I’m sending a truck down for some cigarettes I let them know about it and they spread the word at their offices or to their friends. Between the five of them they can usually get rid of anywhere between 250 and 500 cartons.

“Who wants cigarettes?” I asked as I sat down and grabbed some of the cold chicken my old lady was feeding them. With the exception of Phyllis, whose husband is a dentist and who refuses to buy from me because she believes she is financing organized crime and therefore paying for every possible evil, they started screaming and shouting. I assume they were making a couple of dollars on cigarettes for themselves and I didn’t care. I told them to call my wife before Friday and give her their orders.

I was deep into a chicken leg when Patti, who looks like an opera singer and has a high, squeaky voice that just irritates the hell out of me, demanded, “Have you got anything else?”

“What do I look like, a goddam department store?” They all laughed. I had to be a little careful in front of these ladies because my wife doesn’t like me to curse. But they loved the whole act. Their husbands were just normal husbands. Patti’s husband ran a drug store. Diane’s was a mailman and I don’t know what Barbara’s or Betty’s husbands did. But for the ladies I was better than going to the movies, I was the “real thing.” “Yeah, I got sumthin’ else,” I told them, in dialect. “I got me twenty reel sets of skin flicks. I can let you have them for seven dollars apiece or a hundred for the whole set. Who wants a set?” They laughed some more. Actually I did have access to the movies but none of the girls wanted any. Besides, my old lady would have killed me.

I finished my chicken and got up to retire to the bedroom. “Where’re you going?” my old lady asked.

“I got to go inside and plan a killing,” I said in a loud voice. The girls loved it, and went back to their playing and dining.

Actually what I did first was find out whether I was rich or poor. There had been a number of point upsets in the pro games Sunday—most of the favorites won but only a few covered the point spread—so I didn’t figure we had done too badly. The office confirmed my beliefs, we were in the black by approximately $7500. For me $7500 is a big week because I don’t have many very big bettors. Nobody like Squillante, for example. I don’t need them or want them because eventually they’re going to either break you or you’ll break them. It’s the inevitable result. I wrote down my winners and losers and set aside a good portion of Tuesday to settle up.

I started to take out my notes on Squillante but I knew there would be no way I would be able to concentrate with the racket these ladies were making. They had taken out the Mah-jongg set and were two-bam and three-cracking me to death. And, since I had to get started arranging the cigarette haul sooner or later, I figured this was now sooner. I got on the phone and located Joe Cheese who was my usual banker on these journeys. He had a singles restaurant on the Upper East Side, a western-style place that was usually packed with tight-breasted chicks and horny guys. And, on occasion, Joey. Cheese told me to come over and grab a snack and a snatch.

I sang one quick chorus of “Good Night Ladies,” and was out the door.