Nine

The Wild Frontier

It’s early in the 1998 football season and I’m trying desperately to get my limits raised back to where they belong, where both the Brain Trust and I can make a big score every weekend. No matter how I cajole, implore, and plead, I’m not getting anywhere. Stevie the Pencil is as cordial as ever. But he can’t give me an answer until he talks to Gino the Suit, who can’t give him an answer until he talks to his boss, a newly installed hotel man trying to run a casino. “I’m gonna tell you right now, Mike,” Stevie says, glumly, “it don’t look good.” He says the Caesars Palace sportsbook could earn more than ever before if the executives would just let him run the shop the way it ought to be run. They could set a new standard for volume. But the accountants don’t want them to. “And I gotta follow orders, you know what I mean?”

When I check back with him a few days later, from O’Hare Airport, between airplane transfers, the Pencil is cheerful and charming and friendly. He’s the nicest guy in the world. But his news is terrible. I started out with a $50,000 limit on pros and college. Then $30,000 on pros and $20,000 on college. Now? “All right, Mike this is all I’m gonna be able to give you. Now, keep in mind, if we need more on a game, it could change. But for now, this is all I can offer,” he says. “Twenty-five on NFL. Ten on college. Sorry. That’s all they’re letting me do.”

We agree that with numbers like these the only bookies getting rich this season are going to be situated somewhere in the Caribbean. We’re both disappointed. I make a reservation for next weekend but understand that there’s a good chance I won’t be coming.

“We’d love to have you, Mike,” he says. And I almost believe him.

When I report the news to Big Daddy, he’s disgusted. “Ain’t that basically what they give to any guy off the street?” he asks rhetorically.

“Pretty much,” I say glumly. Any Guy Off the Street limits render me expendable.

“Nothing against you, pards, but you can understand, if they’re not gonna go any higher, it doesn’t make any economic sense for me to use you. I’d love to work with you, 44, but at those numbers, I can’t give any piece up. There’s nothing left over for you. I need all of it and more.”

I understand. I’m being downsized, as they say in the corporate world.

“Now, if you can find any other outlets, we can still work together,” Big Daddy says.

“Like the bookies here in Hollywood, the ones who cater to the entertainment business?”

“Well, there’s a million offshore guys.”

“England?” I wonder aloud, having seen betting shops in towns throughout Great Britain.

“Yes. And Australia and Costa Rica, and a bunch of islands in the Caribbean I ain’t smart enough to pronounce. Maybe you want to investigate some of these shops. I can put you in touch with an offshore expert who handles that sort of thing. As long as he doesn’t already bet with the same people you have, there might be something we can use. I’ll have him call you if you like.”

“And this is all legal?”

“Yes, according to the best lawyers on gambling law. Some of these shops are even publicly traded companies, listed on the London Stock Exchange. Of course, after we get done with ’em you might want to short their stock.”

“All right, Rick, I’ll investigate. I just don’t want to try to build a whole bunch of relationships and find out I’m duplicating what your offshore deputy has got already.”

“I’ll give him your phone number. You two can talk about it. And if anything good happens here in town, we can still do something.”

“Yeah, Stevie said the limits might change at Caesars,” I say hopefully.

“Well, you let me know.”

“Good luck for the rest of this season, Big Daddy,” I say, stifling my disappointment. “Go get ’em.”

“Thanks, 44,” he says. “We’ll try to get lucky again.”

I hang up the phone and wonder if this will be the last time I talk to the world’s biggest sports bettor.

 

Three hours later, the offshore guy calls me.

It’s Brother Herbie. College basketball Herbie. Extraordinarily nice Herbie.

“Hey, 44, I understand from a little birdie that Caesars got tired of you beating them,” he says in his gentle drawl. He asks me if I’ve got any other outs lined up.

“I may have a couple of small Vegas casinos that might collectively amount to maybe ten thousand of action,” I say. “But what about the offshore places?”

“We’ve used a couple in the past. Maybe you should look into that. You know, find three or four outs, even for a few thousand, and it starts to add up.” We talk for thirty minutes. He’s easy and affable. I would be delighted to do business with him instead of Rick Matthews. And I wouldn’t have to fly to Vegas every weekend, which would probably thrill my increasingly disgruntled girlfriend.

“Let me see what I can find and I’ll report back to you,” I tell the former monk.

“Good luck,” he says. “It’s a jungle out there.”

 

My bodybuilder-actor-model-dancer next-door neighbor, Rex, knows a guy who knows a guy. He’ll introduce me. Like, immediately.

We drive to a trendy nightclub on the Sunset Strip, where Rex’s friend, Jon, is a doorman. A rather large doorman. Rex, a onetime Chippendales dancer turned club bouncer, explains my situation: I’m a heavy gambler ($10,000 a game, sometimes more) who usually goes to Vegas every weekend. New girlfriend doesn’t want that. Looking to bet from home. Whazzup?

Doorman Jon sizes me up as though I’m a teenager trying to pass off a fake ID. As long as Neighbor Rex will vouch for me, he says, we can do some business. Seems Jon is an “agent” for another guy, the “head agent,” who works for a big organization down in Costa Rica. He’ll arrange an introduction. Like, immediately.

We exchange phone numbers and agree to meet the next day.

I spend the morning trolling Web sites on the Internet, compiling a database of potential offshore outlets. There are dozens. And though I’ve written on the subject previously in gambling columns, I’ve never been confronted with the predicament of trying to place $50,000 bets over the phone. Obviously, I need referrals. But how many people can you ask, “Hey, do you know a reliable place to bet fifty large?”

After several calls to the Caribbean, I identify two cyberbooks that, according to zealous sales representatives, will let me bet whatever I have on deposit in my account. And, as a welcome gift, they’ll add a 10 percent bonus on top of the funds I deposit. Or, if I like, deal me an 8-cent line: $1.08 to win $1.00, instead of the usual $1.10. Very interesting—except that this would involve wiring hundreds of thousands of dollars to a stranger in San Jose, Costa Rica. Which I’m fairly sure Big Daddy will be loath to do. But it’s good to know such opportunities exist in the world beyond Las Vegas.

The next day I meet Doorman Jon and two “agents” representing another Costa Rican sportsbook in Hollywood at the same Sunset Strip café where I lunched with Stevie the Pencil in the spring. Jon sits quietly as Seth and Derek, both of whom wear expensive designer sunglasses and gold necklaces, ask me a few questions to “get comfortable.” What’s my betting history? How did I hear about them?—and then they settle into a well-rehearsed pitch. After sizing me up as a world-class moron, they tell me I can bet as much as I like on anything. “I’m not going to limit your wagers,” Seth assures me. “As long as you’ve got the coin, you can bet it. Our operation has like nine thousand customers. We can handle anything.”

Seth owns a small casting agency. Derek choreographs nightclub stage shows featuring strippers in cages. They work as agents on the side, herding losers into the offshore pen—and collecting a commission on the revenue they produce. In their eyes I could be a gloriously fruitful contributor. They almost finish each other’s sentences trying to sell me on what a wonderful home their sportsbook operation will be for a gentleman like me. The shop they represent, known as Nautica, is based in Costa Rica and can be reached twenty-four hours a day by telephone at a handy 800 number. Seth and Derek are curious, though, about how a writer has so much “coin.” And they wonder out loud how we’re going to find a mutually acceptable way to put the money on deposit. (Maybe a safe-deposit box that requires two keys, Derek suggests.) But of one thing they’re sure: Sign up this chump immediately!

My utterly-impressed-with-how-smart-I-am-
while-appearing-to-know-nothing act is by now so polished that by the end of our meeting Seth can barely contain his exasperation as he explains to me the difference between squares and sharps. There’s one guy in Vegas who basically controls the bets, he tells me. This guy, Seth says, has like 180 people under him, who get out his bets as soon as the guy “comes” on a play.

“Wow,” I say, impressed. “Who is this guy? What does he know?”

“I don’t know his name,” Seth admits, fiddling with his necklace. “He’s like a phantom. But he definitely exists. Absolutely. He’s the source for all the information. He creates it. That’s what we mean by ‘sharp.’ The guys who have access to this information are sharp.”

I look perplexed. “How would someone get this information? And what is this information?”

“Listen, it’s out there,” Seth says. He leans across the table paternally. “Once we get to know each other a little better, I’ll tell you how this all works.”

“You know,” I say, “I don’t want to brag too much. But there were lots of times last year when I made a bet and all sorts of people started betting on the same team as me, and they moved the line like you’re talking about. So I guess I’m the sharp guy.”

“Yeah, probably,” Seth says, nodding. “You’re gonna be tough to beat.”

“I guarantee it,” I promise.

Everyone chuckles solicitously and heads for his expensive car.

After our meeting, Doorman Jon just wants to make sure about one thing. “Your friend,” he asks Rex, the one who vouched for me, “you sure he’s not an undercover cop?”

I have misgivings of my own.

A professional gambler friend in Vegas tells me that Nautica used to have an online casino, a virtual gambling den where players could enjoy all the games usually found at a brick-and-mortar casino without leaving their homes. And before Nautica shut it down, they stiffed some video poker professionals he knows out of $220,000. He’s not sure exactly what happened, but he’ll look into it. While this revelation does not speak well of Nautica’s business ethics, it gives me some quiet incentive to beat the shop out of as much money as Big Daddy will allow.

Actually, this time I’m desperate to stay employed. I’ve won tens of thousands of dollars on football games and would prefer to continue doing so without interruption. As another Sunday of NFL games unfolds, I’m on the sidelines. I look at the lines halfheartedly, trying to guess which games Big Daddy might be playing. And I make a few mental picks myself. (Predictably, I go about 50–50 for the day.) The adrenal charge, however, is gone.

I’m just another forlorn gambler dreaming of big scores in Vegas. And I’m determined that by the following weekend this will change.

Three days later, both Seth and Derek make calls to encourage me to get everything up and running. They tell me that their organization can offer me a 5 percent bonus on my initial deposit. And unparalleled customer service. And whatever else I want. Everything will be great!

I tell them I’m still doing my research.

I hang up and call Brother Herbie. He’s encouraged but says he’ll have to talk to “the other guy” to see if we want to play with Seth and his Costa Rican people. An hour later, Big Daddy rings. After having me repeat the safe-deposit box scenario—“And what happens if one of you dies?” he asks nonchalantly—and deciding he can bear the risk vs. reward, he says, “Well, I think we better give these boys some business. How soon can you get here to pick up some money?”

Four hours later, I’m on a plane to Las Vegas.

Big Daddy and I have agreed to meet in the morning so I can proceed directly from his office to the airport to my bank, where the money can be safely deposited in the box. “I’ll see you when you get here, pardsy,” he promises. At which point I’ll officially be back in the game.

After a sleepless night in a downtown Vegas hotel, I hail a taxi to meet Rick and the cash. “Big Daddy is expecting you,” the security guard says as my cab pulls up to Big Daddy Enterprises headquarters. “Right this way, please.”

Big Daddy Rick’s office, housed on the second floor of the flagship restaurant in his burgeoning chain, is the kind of grand marble-and-mahogany place that has the proprietor’s name wrought in some kind of precious metal behind the reception desk. The kind of place where you have to go through three secretaries to see someone.

“He’ll be with you in a moment,” secretary one tells me.

The anteroom reeks of success: framed commendations; gilt-edged photographs; leather and lacquer.

Big Daddy bounds through the doorway. “Hiya, 44, come on in.” He looks tanned and handsome, dressed in a golf shirt and slacks. The man radiates charisma. “How’s life treating you, pards?” he says, escorting me into his office suite, outfitted with a cooler stocked with his beloved Diet Dr Pepper. “Have a seat, have a seat.” His desk is covered with phones. Cell phones, radio phones, old-fashioned phones that actually plug into the wall. This is a man who clearly spends much of his time barking orders over a wire. “So, we can bet this guy, what, up to twenty-five percent of what’s on deposit?”

“No,” I say. “Whatever we have on deposit.”

Big Daddy chuckles. “Yeah, I guess we’re gonna have to give this boy some business.” He bends down and pulls a white canvas sack from underneath his desk. “Here you go,” he says, handing me two $100,000 bricks. Holding another brick, he thinks for a moment. “Here’s fifty more. Two fifty.”

“So with our five percent bonus that’s, let’s see…,” I say, calculating.

“Another twelve five. You got two sixty-two five to play with. Now get outta here. Go get your plane.”

No papers to sign. No dire warnings. No cautionary tales. Just take this quarter million and skedaddle. I think it’s fair to say at this point that Big Daddy trusts me like a brother. Maybe more. “See you later, alligator,” Big Daddy says as I leave. I briefly consider chirping, “In a while, crocodile,” but it doesn’t feel right when you’re holding a bag containing $250,000.

My return trip is blissfully uneventful. I feel like most couriers must on their inbound journey: a dull and constant dread. Just let me get there. Sitting in the airplane, with the bag between my feet, I have visions of some sort of scheme out of an Elmore Leonard novel awaiting me in Los Angeles, some sort of airport fiasco, in which I end up either dead or relieved of my cargo. Guys posing as DEA agents or something. A traffic cop looks at me as I exit the baggage claim, but that’s my only brush with someone packing a gun.

I drive directly (and rather quickly) to my bank on Sunset Boulevard, arriving fifteen minutes before my scheduled rendezvous with Derek, who has agreed to cosign the safe-deposit box with me. This gives me enough time to remove the paper wrappers from the bills—the ones that identify them as coming from a bank in Las Vegas—and replace them with generic Bank of America bracelets. Derek doesn’t strike me as smart or experienced enough to check for something like this, but you can never be too cautious when you’re attempting to pass yourself off as a Hollywood square. Even though I’m using my real name, these guys don’t read. They would have never seen my byline.

Nightclub Derek arrives a few minutes late, wearing his usual attire of baggy muscle shirt and baggy workout pants. It must have been a few days since he last shaved, since I can see the stubble growing—on his chest. He’s one of these guys who use phrases like “Whazzup, man?” and “Howya doin’, G?” like a regular badass homeboy. I’m in a jacket and tie, so I feel like a legitimate businessman executing a transaction with a hoodlum. I stifle a giggle as Derek explains to me his system for betting on sports, generously offering some of his hot picks to me, his best new customer.

After completing the paperwork for our box, Derek and I retire to a cubicle, where he painstakingly counts every one of the 2,500 hundred-dollar bills. “Cool-cool,” he says as the last bundle goes into the box. “I didn’t think you were going to bring so much.”

“I couldn’t resist the bonus,” I say. “I would have put a million in here if I could have come up with it.”

After exchanging driver’s license information and home addresses, Derek asks if he can follow me home to see where I live. “Sure,” I say, hoping my modest bungalow won’t trigger suspicious thoughts, reasonable doubts along the lines of “Why doesn’t the quarter-million-dollar-cash man live in a Beverly Hills mansion?” And then I remember: Derek wouldn’t know a sharp bet from a square one anyway. It’s the bookie down in Costa Rica I’ve got to worry about.

Viv says all the right things about her gambling boyfriend—“I’ll miss the gourmet meals at Caesars, but it’ll be good to have my high roller home on the weekends”—and Derek gives me my 800 number and password. “You’re good to go, G.”

Seconds after Derek walks out my front door, the phone rings in my office. It’s Big Daddy. “I called once before. Everything all right?” I tell him the money is safely deposited and that the agent has just this very moment left. We’re in business.

“All right, pardsy-wardsy, Brother Herbie will be calling you in a few minutes. We’ve got a play for tonight on the Navy game. Might as well get the lines, 44.”

I want to say something like, “Let’s not burn this one out too quickly,” but I know better. Big Daddy is the expert. Still, I’m flabbergasted that the first play he and Herbie want me to make, my first bet with this new bookie, is for $50,000.

Herbie orders, “Go bet ’em Navy plus the points to win fifty dimes.” Apparently he and Big Daddy are not concerned about waking anyone up.

The only problem, I discover, is that although Casting Director Seth promised me unlimited wagering—no ceiling other than what I have posted to my account—this message was not communicated to the bookie in Costa Rica. When I tell the clerk on the phone I want to bet $50,000, he says, “How much?!” And when I repeat my order, he tells me he’s not sure he can do that. “Can you hold for a second?” he asks. I can hear him conferring with his boss. “Okay, sir,” he says, returning to the phone, “you’ve got fifty thousand on Navy.”

Just as I’m completing my accounting with Brother Herbie, my other line rings. It’s Costa Rica calling. Seems there’s been a mistake. Seems the clerk shouldn’t have taken $50,000 after all. Seems $10,000 is the maximum.

“I tell you what I can do,” the manager on duty suggests. “I can approve twenty thousand.”

“This is outrageous!” I scream. “Go listen to your tape. I had a bet. Since when can you back out of a bet?” The manager apologizes profusely, telling me it’s going to be his ass on the line if he takes more than he’s supposed to. When the big boss comes in—tomorrow morning—the situation might well change. But for now…

Seth, the agent, calls on the other line. I tell him I’m furious. “Imagine this happening in Vegas!” I yell at him. “I had a bet and then they tell me I don’t? This doesn’t give me much confidence in your service.”

“I understand,” he says, trying to mollify me. “It was miscommunication. I’m doing everything I can to straighten it out. Look, I work with another shop. I’ll get them to take thirty thousand, so you’ll have your total of fifty, only it will be split up in two places. I’m really, really sorry about this. I’ll do what I can. Just give me a few minutes to get this all figured out, all right?” He’s highly motivated. He and the other agents collect 10 percent of my losses.

Brother Herbie calls on the other line. I tell him what has just transpired. “Oh, shit,” he grumbles. It is the first time I’ve heard him swear, the first time I’ve heard him sound anything but courtly. I apologize and tell him about Seth’s promise to find the necessary outs. “Call me right away,” he says solemnly.

I know this turn of events has caused enormous consternation for the Brain Trust. Timing is everything in getting down wagers of this size, since, inevitably, the line starts moving all over the world. While Seth is checking into what he can do, the bookie in Costa Rica will be able to see that my innocent $50,000 wager was a precursor to an avalanche of money pouring down on bookies around America, and everywhere else bets are placed. This is not good.

Seth calls. “All right, here’s the deal,” he says breathlessly. “The first place, Rio Sports, will take up to twenty thousand a game with you. I got another place, Nautica. They’ll take thirty thousand. I’ve told them you’re good for it. So please don’t fuck me, all right? Call them right now”—he gives me another toll-free number—“and confirm your bet.”

I’m sick with anger. “Seth, you told me all along that I was betting with Nautica, not Rio. You never mentioned this Rio shop. I don’t know anything about them. Now I’ve got twenty grand of my money sitting in their hands? What kind of con man are you?”

“Relax, relax. I work with both shops. They’re both great places. It’s just a little mix-up, that’s all. Rio, Nautica—they’re both safe places for you to bet. You have my word. Now, please, Mike, call Nautica and confirm that you want the other thirty dimes with them. They’re holding the point spread for you. I guess it’s starting to move.”

I don’t have time to mull my options. I follow Seth’s new instructions. And then I call Herbie. And while I’m telling him that our bets are down. Big Daddy calls, wanting to know what the hell is going on. I explain as best I can, and he mutters. “I don’t want them sumbitches moving my money around.” But then he relents. “Let’s just see how this works out. We can always bet ’em twenty and thirty, I guess. But the more places you give the bets to, the more chance you’re taking that they’ll leak it out and start messing with the number.”

During the game, Casting Seth, who I’m quickly realizing is a man of constantly shifting words, told me that despite the $250,000 I have on deposit, he’s only willing to let me bet up to $100,000 of it. “I can’t take the risk,” he whines. “I’m not going to let you get on the hook for over a hundred grand. I’ve got to cover it if you stiff us and, believe me, it’s happened before, so I gotta put a limit—”

I interrupt him. “If I lose this game, I want Derek to meet me first thing in the morning at the bank. I’ll pay you your fifty-five thousand. And then either I close down my account or it’s the last time you ever bring up this bullshit about getting paid. If the money, my money, is in the box, I’m good for it. That was the agreement. And I expect you to honor it. Or I’ll find someplace else to do business.”

He wants me to let him think about it.

“Take it or leave it, Seth. I’m serious.” If Seth insisted on limiting my bets, I’m certain Big Daddy would order me to close down my offshore account.

He took it.

This is one night where, in retrospect, I wish I hadn’t gotten things straightened out. Navy loses a last-minute heartbreaker. The Brains lose $55,000. Five minutes after the game is over, I call both agents. “Man, you got unlucky in that game,” Seth says insincerely.

Does he think I believe he wants me to win? Does he think I don’t know that I must lose for him to make money? “Yeah, it happens,” I say, reinforcing the idea that the money truly means nothing to me. “Listen, meet me at nine o’clock at the bank,” I say. “I’m going to pay you guys six days early, way before our agreed-upon pay-up date.”

I haven’t authorized this with Big Daddy. I don’t know if he would approve. But I think it’s the right move. I believe it will buy us the kind of goodwill and longevity that returning the overpaid $10,000 to Caesars produced with the Pencil and the Suit. And besides, I’m tired of being called a potential potshot artist by a couple of punks who don’t know me from Jimmy the Greek.

Casting Seth arrives at the bank in his silver Porsche Boxter a few minutes late, cell phone attached to his ear. He parks near the entrance and I get in the passenger seat.

“Hey, man, I got it all worked out,” Seth says, smiling contentedly. “You’re up for a hundred thousand at one place and a hundred thousand at the other. So it’s all in play. You just split your bets twenty and thirty, assuming you want to bet that much. And if you want to bet less, it’s up to you. Play wherever you feel lucky.”

This is a relief. My money, it seems, is good.

Derek arrives in his Lexus, empty briefcase in hand. We go to the box. I give him $55,000 like it’s no big deal, and we leave. “Thanks, man,” he says. “You’re cool, bro. Sorry about all the hassle. It was way out of line.”

“I understand. Let’s not have any more problems in the future,” I say.

“No, there won’t be any problems,” Derek says. “See you later, man. Good luck this weekend!”

The instant I return to my office, Brother Herbie calls. I wonder for a second if he’s had me followed. No, I discover, he just wants some updated lines. “Good morning, Herbie,” I say cheerfully.

“I guess you could say that,” he replies glumly. “That was tough last night.” He sounds pained. “But, like they say, I’m on the right side of the ground.”

“And you’ve got your eyesight and hearing and all your limbs,” I say unhelpfully. I’m not used to giving a pep talk to my teammates. We’re almost always winning.

“Well, we got some more business today,” Herbie tells me. After I read the lines to him, he instructs me to make three plays, each for fifty thousand. Minutes after I get my bets down, Seth calls.

“Man, that was a great move you pulled this morning,” he says, laughing forcefully.

Oh, no. A “move” in gambling parlance is a gaffe, a trick, a shady play. I figure he’s going to tell me I made a great move by passing myself off as an earnest square—and then turning around and sticking them with three super sharp bets. Instead, Seth says, “I just talked to Larry down at Nautica. He loves you. He thought it was totally class that you paid off so fast. And he’s mad at me. He wants to know why I’m letting you split your bets. He wants all of it. All fifty.”

“Well, let’s see how it goes this weekend,” I say, trying to conceal my glee.

“Yeah, sure. Just wanted you to know that was a good thing you did, bro.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I hope you guys show as much class when it’s time to pay.”

“Oh, we will. You can bet on it,” Seth assures me. “Let me know if you need anything, man. And have a good weekend.”

When I call to confirm my bet with Brother Herbie, he shares the kind of information that Big Daddy has seldom bothered dispensing to a minion like me. The first play, on UCLA, will look like the squarest bet in the world. Another team of wiseguys moved a bunch of money on the other side, Texas, and the number shifted by a point. We’re on the wrong side. The second wager, on an anonymous team called Northeast Louisiana State, getting 44 points from powerhouse Florida, is another no-heat play. “You’re the only guy in the world betting on it,” Herbie reveals. And the last one, on UNLV, well, that one’s had a little action on it from our team of sharpies. “So there’s a mix of bets there, nothing your bookie can figure out.”

Herbie’s right. The bets draw no heat. In fact, Rio Sports likes my action so much that when I inquire how much I can bet on “overs and unders,” Rio tells me the usual limit is a few thousand. But in my special case it would be happy to let me bet my standard $20,000. On college totals.

I report this to Big Daddy. “Perfect,” he purrs. “Perfect.”

 

As in most of America, a typical Saturday morning in the Konik household would include hours of lying around in weekend languor, getting out of bed late to let the dog out and bring in the newspaper. But this isn’t a typical Saturday. It’s late September. Big Daddy and Herbie usually start their workday around 7:30 a.m. I’ve already been up for an hour, eagerly anticipating their calls. I’ve been waiting six months for this day, my first Saturday of college football action offshore.

The bosses don’t disappoint. Herbie’s got a game for me, and Rio is the only sportsbook that has it at the price he’s looking for. I pounce while he holds on the other line. “Got it,” I report.

“Good job, partner,” he drawls. “I’ll talk to you later.”

I don’t hear from him for the rest of the day, a day I spend watching a small loser and a big ($54,000) winner with particularly keen interest. Which is another way of saying I swear much more vehemently when we lose and dance much more like a retarded stripper when we win.

Viv sometimes catches me in a celebratory shimmy. “Stop that, you fool,” she says, laughing.

“Yeah, baby,” I sing and dance. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

She shakes her head and returns to reading her pagan witchcraft book. Vivian reads omnivorously, whatever someone she likes recommends. Her manicurist, the one who specializes in French tips and psychic predictions, suggested this latest title, The Witch Within. (I asked Viv to get the manicurist’s predictions on a few games, but football point spreads, apparently, aren’t her area of expertise.) After only a few hours of the new routine, I realize how much I like working out of my home instead of a Las Vegas hotel room. I can give my doggie a bath in the backyard. I can sit on my front porch and read.

And bet tens of thousands of dollars on football games.

Late in the afternoon, a few minutes before the end of the UCLA game, Big Daddy calls. “Hey, pards, how much money you got left?”

It’s only a few thousand at each joint. But as soon as the UCLA game concludes, it’ll be close to $125,000.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait then, right, pards?”

I suggest making an “if” bet. If the UCLA game is a winner—and it surely looks like a winner—then my new bets are on. If I somehow lose the UCLA game, the bets are off. “Yeah, try that,” Big Daddy says, giving me three hot plays. Two of them are total bets, of which the bookies are typically frightened. He tells me to bet as much as I can but not to “shove ’em down their throats.”

Per his instructions, I bet every dollar I have on account at Rio, where the manager, Dave, kindly credits my account before the UCLA game is officially over: two $20,000 bets on college totals. Business hasn’t been this good since the miraculous welcome I had at Harrah’s.

At Nautica, Larry Houston, the manager, is wary of total bets. He tells me he usually takes only a few thousand, since there’s a professional syndicate that’s been beating totals for the past couple of years, and everyone, even his oldest customers, jumps on its plays, “If you’re not following them, if you’re making your own plays, I might let you bet ten grand on totals. Let’s start with five for now.”

“Sure,” I say breezily. “Five is fine. Just make sure you tell me what those hot team plays are so I can get on board!”

He laughs. “Well, they don’t always win.” Before I hang up, Mr. Houston graciously offers me a $50,000 limit on the pros for tomorrow.

“Let’s see how I do tonight,” I say.

When I report back to Big Daddy, he’s purring again. “Perfect. Thank you, 44. Talk to you later, pal.” From his tone I know he’s pleased with how I handled the situation. I know he’s pleased at how cool I’m remaining. And I’m pleased that Big Daddy seems to be doing his damnedest not to heat me up. It’s a challenge to look like anything but a smart-money wizard when, for instance, you bet over 41 in the Notre Dame–Michigan State game and the teams eclipse the target halfway through the second quarter.

One of Rick’s methods is simple. “That Rio place, I’ve been betting directly with them—on the other side! They take two thousand a game from me,” he chortles. “So, yeah, they’re real comfortable with you right now.” And as far as Larry Houston goes, “He used to move money for me. He used to be another 44. Damn right he’s scared of taking big bets on totals,” Big Daddy crows. “Them guys would shit their pants if they knew where these bets were coming from.”

Rick encourages me to continue researching other outlets, even though we’re currently getting three times as much as Caesars would allow. “We’re in pretty good shape right now, brother,” Big Daddy says. “But we could always use more.” Our day ends with two depressing losses that transform a hugely profitable day into a marginally profitable ($30,000) one.

Yes, we could always use more.

 

Herbie has two NFL plays, both of which, he predicts, won’t become available until shortly before game time. “These games are going to move in our favor.” He wants me to “oversleep” and groggily ring up my boys in Costa Rica ten minutes before kickoff and see where all the lines are. The game I’m looking for—St. Louis Rams getting 8 from the Vikings—will be available then, he assures me.

I end up making a total play as well, and after my business has concluded for the morning, Herbie and I chat. He’s slightly irked about a pattern he’s noticed.

“One thing that’s bugging me,” he says, “is that every time we make a bet with the Rio outfit, the Excalibur moves their number. It’s happened a few times.” Herbie figures the manager at the Excalibur casino in Vegas has access to the Rio’s lines via an instant odds computer, just as Herbie does, and for some reason feels compelled to match the Rio’s line moves. The motive, for now, is a mystery. But I know one thing: I’ve got nothing to do with the leak. All I do is wait by the phone, bet up to $100,000 a game, and revel in the results. We go 3–0 for the day, winning about $110,000. It’s a five-figure weekend for 44, Inc.

God, it’s good to be back.

 

Monday morning, Big Daddy calls to get the Costa Rican opening lines.

Seth the casting director/agent calls to “congratulate” me on my successful weekend. He also wants me to know that the money will be delivered, as promised, on Wednesday.

Derek the nightclub producer/agent calls to confirm that he’ll meet me Wednesday. He also wants me to know he’ll be going out of town next month for four days on a cruise, and he wanted me to have the courtesy of advance notice.

Dave, the manager of Rio Sports, calls to confirm my ending balance for the week—and to thank me for my business.

Everyone, it seems, is happy. And that’s the way I like it.

Then Big Daddy calls back with some hot Brain Trust plays. “We’re gonna light ’em up down there, pards. Give ’em a whole rope of bets.” I can hear him looking over his notes as he talks. Could he possibly be making his betting choices as he chitchats with me? “Let’s see here…hmm…give ’em game three-thirty-six…no, no, scratch that. We’ll wait on that…give ’em, let’s see…” This goes on for a few minutes until Big Daddy makes up his mind on a couple of early plays he wants me to make with “those cats.”

And then he does something he’s never done since I’ve known him: He asks me my opinion on a game. “How’d that backup quarterback for Dallas look to you, pards? He look all right?…This line’s got to keep going up, don’t you think? Can’t go any other way, right?”

I’m stunned.

I admit to Big Daddy that I don’t really have a strong opinion. Perhaps he’s patronizing me; perhaps he’s testing me. Or maybe he’s just making a nice gesture, helping me feel more included in the team.

Big Daddy knows I don’t have access to the computer algorithms he possesses. He knows I don’t have an injury man on salary to keep me abreast of the latest sprained ankles and twisted knees. He knows that my single year of sports-betting experience hardly qualifies me as the smart money. But Big Daddy also knows that I want desperately to learn the secrets, to own the magic.

He knows I want to be one of the Brains.

 

Herbie calls late in the day and keeps me on the line while he moves money all around Vegas and the rest of the world. From what I can gather, he has dozens of people stationed at casinos around town, as well as several dialers who place smallish bets (a couple of thousand dollars) with the offshore operations. “Stand by, 44. Get ready to call. We’re gonna see if we can’t get them to move their number.”

For forty-five minutes, as the Monday Night Football kickoff looms, Herbie and I try to get our money down in Costa Rica on the Redskins and the under. But the bookies at both my shops are either stubborn or smart. They won’t move. After nearly a dozen calls, I finally get the number we’re looking for, and I’m able to bet $30,000 of the $50,000 I want to wager. We end up getting crushed.

Halfway through the debacle, Big Daddy calls, wondering if I might have some additional outlets, other offshore books that might want some of my business. Never mind that I’m already betting $50,000 and up each game; he always wants more. I tell him about a few leads I’ve turned up, none of which will allow me to use the agent-in-L.A. method for handling the money. They all want me to post it in their bank, somewhere in the Caribbean.

“Well, that’s fine. But we need to get some sort of bank reference, some sort of letter of credit,” Big Daddy says. “You know: We put up, they match it. Something like that.”

I tell him I’ll look into it.

Rick Matthews tells me to do it now. Don’t wait. “Let’s see what we can manage. And if it works, I’ll wire you some money tomorrow morning and you can wire it down there and we can get things going.”

I talk to several managers at bookmaking shops in Antigua and Costa Rica who give me the usual sales job and security assurances, including bank references. They even offer me sign-up bonuses as high as 10 percent on my money and a two-cent break on the juice. But as far as matching bank accounts goes, I’ll have to talk to the owners in the morning. When I tell Big Daddy this, he says, “That’s fine. Call them bright and early, and then call me. And, 44,” he says, “have your bank information ready. I’m gonna be sending you some money.”

The next day, $300,000 shows up in my checking account.

“Man’s gotta have some money to play with,” Big Daddy says blithely.

We’ve reached an unprecedented level of trust. And, frankly, it scares me a little. I’m no longer a richly remunerated courier, I’m the conservator of a small fortune.

The funds, of course, aren’t meant to sit in Los Angeles collecting interest. The next morning I open two new offshore accounts in Costa Rica, wiring $100,000 to each operation. Big Daddy has approved the transaction, saying, “We’ll take a little shot with these cats, see if they’re any good.”

I’ve entered a world where $100,000 is a little shot.

I have also unofficially become a lieutenant in Big Daddy Enterprises. Late at night, Rick Matthews calls and patches me in with Brother Herbie. We have a three-way conversation among “the crew,” as he calls it, evaluating where our money is, which shops will take what, and how we want to handle tomorrow’s bets. Again Rick Matthews actually asks my opinion. (And concurs with it.) Though the key decisions rest solely on Rick’s judgment, I feel like a trusted advisor. Matthews could probably replace me with another curious journalist without the Brain Trust suffering more than a momentary operational hiccup. But in my fantasy world, suddenly Mr. 44 is an indispensable asset. If I’m not Big Daddy’s right-hand man—that would be the implacable Brother Herbie, I deduce—I’m getting to be the left-hand one. I feel like a made guy.

On an otherwise unremarkable Thursday, when I’d normally be pecking away at my keyboard, composing magazine stories for two dollars a word, four things happen:

1. Nightclub Derek pays off my winnings.
2. My two new Costa Rican outs take my first bets graciously.
3. The Brain Trust wagers close to $250,000 on five different college games, including more than $100,000 on the evening’s nationally televised Air Force game.
4. Big Daddy wires another $300,000 into my account. “We gonna do some business this weekend, Johnson,” he says in his thickest drawl.

I’ve now got more than $900,000 at my disposal. We have $150,000 riding on the Washington Huskies game, a wager that approaches the size of my Super Bowl bet—and it’s only the fourth week of the college season. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to work on my “real” job. When your bankroll is rising and falling by tens of thousands every weekend, mustering interest in grinding out a magazine story on, say, golf courses in Michigan requires the concentration of a yogi. Which is not what you’d call someone who considers watching ESPN’s SportsCenter his chief religious sacrament. I’ve been infected with the action bug.

My newly acquired nonchalance about money allows me to back my opinions with a conviction born of an ever-fatter bankroll. Oscar De La Hoya is fighting Julio Caesar Chavez in Las Vegas. I feel certain that Oscar should be about a 20–1 favorite, that there is almost no way, save for a disqualification or a freak sucker punch, Chavez can win. Yet the Golden Boy, thanks to the efforts of many Mexican bettors in town, has been bet down to 8–1. (My pal Stevie the Pencil at Caesars confirms this when I call.) I decide this requires an investment.

Normally I might bet $800 on a proposition such as this, $800 to win $100. But, hey, it’s only money.

I bet $27,500 of my own money.

Knowing the odds will continue to plummet, I wait until shortly before fight time to make my wager. And instead of taking a bad price from one of the offshore bookies, I call my partner in Las Vegas, Brother Herbie, and see if he’ll get one of his runners to check on the price at Caesars Palace, where gamblers get the fairest spreads. It’s down to –550, meaning a $550 wager wins you $100.

Brother Herbie is the ultimate money mover. So I ask him to spot me the dough. I tell him I’m coming to Vegas Sunday night for a party; if I lose I’ll pay him then.

He asks that we keep this arrangement secret from “the other guy,” as he calls Big Daddy, but, otherwise, he has no problem getting the bet down for me. “You really like De La Hoya in this one?” he asks, making sure I truly want to bet as much as I say I do.

“Yes, sir,” I say, as confidently as Big Daddy picking a football team.

Brother Herbie calls me back a short time later. “You’re down. Good luck!”

I’m not nervous. I know I’m going to win. And even if I don’t—well, $27,500 is only a few football bets.

I win $5,000 on the De La Hoya fight and lose more than $8,500 (my share of the Brain Trust’s $85,000) on NFL games.

All in a day’s wagering.

 

Eight days later, I’m in the parking lot of the Las Vegas Hilton, directly across from where Brother Herbie lives—a penthouse apartment in a defunct casino, converted into residential condominiums. In town for the Blackjack Ball, a gathering of elite twenty-one players, I’m also going to pick up my Oscar De La Hoya winnings and meet the gambling monk for the first time. Listening to a freaky radio station specializing in the music of an indeterminate Central American country, I feel like a character out of a Carl Hiaasen thriller, someone shadowy and slightly mysterious who’s constantly making large cash transactions. This is not the way a nice Jewish boy from suburban Milwaukee usually feels.

Herbie arrives twenty minutes late, wearing the white Caesars Palace hat he promised he’d be sporting. “You’ll recognize me right away,” he predicted. “Awfully good-looking gentleman, ’bout forty years old. Resembles Kevin Costner.” The man parked beside me I would guess is closer to fifty and definitely movie star material—a dead ringer for Ernest Borgnine.

His modest Nissan sedan is redolent of cigarettes. An empty wineglass sits in the cup holder, with a ring of purple wine floating near the stem. “Mr. 44, I presume?” he says, handing me a winning ticket from the Caesars sportsbook.

“Pleasure to finally meet you,” I tell him. And it is. Brother Herbie is a guy who makes me think reformed Christians aren’t all bad. He’s clean-cut and robust, with the belly paunch Las Vegas residents seem to acquire when gambling on the golf course becomes their most strenuous activity—remarkably like the way I had pictured him. I wonder if he thinks the same about me.

Our brief exchange of pleasantries (and money) turns into an hour-and-a-half discussion about the finer points of betting on sports. Brother Herbie gives me the kind of information I’m certain Big Daddy wouldn’t want to share with an inquisitive novice. And I drink it all up.

He reveals, for instance, that Big Daddy owns “the computer,” the magic box that consumes reams of raw statistical data, runs millions of simulations, and spits out a point spread that’s accurate to a tenth of a point. I knew this, but having my belief validated by someone who has actually seen it makes me feel as though I haven’t been a gullible lad swallowing a good story. The computer is real.

Brother Herbie reveals that, as a complement to the proprietary technology, Big Daddy employs four handicappers—two regular guys who predict the final score of each game, an injuries and weather guy who specializes in late-breaking news, and a psychological and matchup guy who doesn’t predict scores but has a great feel for which team will have the upper hand. Brother Herbie doesn’t reveal how many operatives work for the Brains. Herbie does reveal that when Big Daddy really likes a game, it seems as if he (and people like me) can never find enough places to bet enough money. “When Rick Matthews wants to get down,” Herbie says, chuckling, “he’s like a bulldog.”

No kidding. This is why, despite Big Daddy’s intention of keeping me “cool as a cucumber,” he goes for the jugular as frequently as possible and risks bookie burnout.

“Seems like sometimes it’s never enough,” Herbie says, shaking his head.

Before our visit is over, Herbie recounts tales of gambling with Big Daddy on golf, gambling with the casinos at the dice table, and gambling with bookmakers on sports. (Herbie, I immediately recognize, never had a prayer of making it through theological training. The man loves gambling more than his Lord.) I endure his lengthy explanation of how he consistently beats the dice game, a proposition that anyone who’s been around casinos knows is impossible. But who am I to disagree? A year ago I would have said the same thing about sports.

 

Back in Los Angeles on Monday, I pay Nightclub Derek $97,500 to cover my losses from the weekend. I won $84,000 at Nautica but lost $181,500 at Rio. My debt isn’t due until Wednesday, but I want to clear the books immediately for goodwill purposes. Derek pronounces me “super cool” and promises that this kind of fast-pay gesture will mean a lot to everyone involved. “You’re cool, bro,” he says admiringly. “You’re good for whatever amount.”

My bank takes the opportunity to tell me that it will no longer allow me to withdraw the previously approved $50,000 a day, effective immediately. The bank manager, a stout woman who wears running shoes with her pantsuit, says that while she hates to lose a customer, she can’t accommodate my “special needs” and suggests I start looking elsewhere for someplace that can.

“So, if I understand you correctly,” I say, “you’re happy to take in as much money as I care to deposit. But you’re not willing to give my money back to me when I want to withdraw it?”

“Not in cash,” she says, officiously. “It puts my branch at risk. Something reasonable—ten or twenty thousand—I can do. But I’ve instructed the tellers to stop with these large transactions.”

When I break the news to Big Daddy, he’s predictably livid. He doesn’t realize that regular people in regular cities don’t handle $200,000 in cash like irregular gamblers in an irregular city like Las Vegas. Incredulous, he asks, “You mean they won’t just slide the money across the counter?”

Derek, on the other hand, understands. “That’s fine, bro,” he says. “Cashier’s checks are cool.”

So the next day I deposit $335,000 in cashier’s checks, made out to me, in my safe-deposit box.

Later in the week I lunch on the Sunset Strip with Derek, Seth, and Ron Blutstein, the owner of Rio Sports International in Costa Rica. By the time the check comes, Ron, a young Jewish fellow from Chicago who claims to have formerly been an illegal bookie in Las Vegas—an occupation that seems to me as useful as a surfboard salesman in Uganda—is completely comfortable with our relationship. He tells me he has a good feeling about me. Of course he does. I’m the kind of excellent customer—someone who bets a lot of money, loses, and pays promptly—any bookie in his right mind would want to do anything in his power to keep. “What can I do to keep you happy?” Ron asks sincerely.

Rio Ron is a self-confessed degenerate gambler, a guy who likes to make $50,000 sucker bets such as five-team parlays, in which all five selections must win for a big jackpot. He understands intimately that some of us nice Jewish boys like to play real high. So I suggest he might raise my limits a little. That way I would bet more with him and less with his competitors.

“You got it!” he exclaims. Rio Ron says that as of this moment I’ll be able to bet $50,000 on NFL sides, $40,000 on college sides, and (unbelievably) $30,000 on NFL and college totals.

And why not? I’ve just blown $181,500 in his shop.

Everyone is happy. The greedy bookie, his greedy agents, the greedy customer—everyone is licking his slavering chops at such an arrangement.

“I’ll tell you what, Michael,” Casting Seth says, laying a hand on my shoulder, “I’ve never met anyone like you. I wish there were more.”

“No you don’t, Seth,” I can’t help saying. “Believe me, you don’t.”

“I’m just saying. You’re a great guy.”

“Sure. But I’m going to win back every dollar I lost and make you guys cry.” All three of my hosts laugh solicitously. “I’m not kidding, boys. I’m the best.”

“Yes you are, sir,” Rio Ron says, patting me on the other shoulder. “You sure are.”