Billy Phelan's Greatest Game (9 page)

“I’m Paul Whiteman.”

“Wyman?”

“Whiteman. Whiteman.”

“Ohhhhh yeah, Whiteman. You’re the guy’s got that hillbilly band playing over at Piping Rock. You don’t mean nothing to me, bud. Go see the manager if you want
chips.”

They fired Billy twenty minutes later. Orders from above. From those who didn’t want to make enemies of Paul the Man. Lemon Lewis came over to the table and said, “I hate to do it,
Billy, but we gotta can you. I’ll call over to Newman’s and the Chicago Club, see what they got going.”

And two hours after that Billy was back to work, with cards this time, sleek and sharp, full of unpredictable combinations. Billy, maybe the best dealer around, pound for pound, you name the
game, such a snappy kid, Billy.

He was in Saratoga that year because one night a month earlier he was hanging around Broadway in Albany when Bindy McCall came by, Bindy, in the tan fedora with the flowerpot crown, had
connections and investments in Saratoga gambling, a natural by-product of his control of all the action in Albany, all of it: gambling houses, horse rooms, policy, clearing house, card games,
one-armed bandits, punch boards. Playing games in Albany meant you first got the okay from Bindy or one of his lieutenants, then delivered your dues, which Bindy counted nightly in his office on
Lodge Street. The tribute wasn’t Bindy’s alone. It sweetened the kitty for the whole McCall machine.

Billy touched Bindy’s elbow that night.

“Hey, Billy.”

“Got a second, Bin? I need some work. Can you fix me up for Saratoga next month?”

“What can you do?”

“Anything.”

“Anything at all?”

“Craps, poker, blackjack, roulette. I can deal, handle the stick.”

“How good are you?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

Bindy chuckled.

“I’ll ask around someone who has. See Lemon Lewis.”

“All right, Bindy, fine. Obliged. Can I touch you for fifty?”

Bindy chuckled again. Billy’s got brass. Bindy reached for the roll and plucked a fifty out of the middle.

“Use it in good health.”

“Never felt better,” said Billy. “I pay my debts.”

“I know you do. I know that about you. Your father paid his debts, too. We played ball together when we were kids. He was one hell of a player. You ever hear from him?”

“We don’t hear.”

“Yeah. That’s an odd one. See Lewis. He’ll fill you in.”

“Right, Bin.”

Billy saw Lewis an hour later at the bar in Becker’s and got the word: You deal at Riley’s.

“What about transportation?” Billy asked. “How the hell do I get from Albany to Saratoga every night?”

“Jesus, ain’t you got a car?”

“Car? I never even had roller skates.”

“All right. You know Sid Finkel?”

Billy knew Sid, a pimp and a booster and a pretty fair stickman. Put his kid through dentists’ school with that combination.

“Look him up. I’ll tell him to give you a lift.”

“I’ll half the gas with him,” Billy said.

“That’s you and him. And don’t forget your source,” and Lemon hit himself on the chest with his thumb.

“Who the hell could forget you, Lemon?” Billy said.

It went fine for Billy for two weeks and then came the Whiteman scene and Billy went from Riley’s to the Chicago Club, on earlier hours. The Club got a big play in the afternoon, even
though the horses were running at the track. So Billy had to find new transportation because Sid Finkel stayed on nights. Was Billy lucky? He certainly was. Angie Velez saw him dealing at the
Chicago Club and when he took a break, she asked him for a light.

“You weren’t out of work long,” she said.

“Who told you I was out of work?”

“I was there when you gave it to Whiteman. Funniest damn thing I’ve heard in years. Imagine anybody saying that to Paul Whiteman. You’re the one with the hillbilly band. I
laughed right out loud. He gave me an awfully dirty look.”

Billy smiled at this new dish. Then he asked her name and bought her a drink and found she was married but only dabbled in that. Hubby was a gambler, too. Brought her to Saratoga for a week,
then left her there to play while he went home to run his chunk of Rochester, what a town. No town like Albany. Rochester is where you might go on the bum, only might, if they kicked you out of
Albany. Billy couldn’t imagine life outside Albany. He loved the town. And half-loved you too, Angie, now that you’re here. “Are you a spic?”

“I’m Irish, baby. Just like you. One of the Gagen girls. My old man’s a Cuban.”

She was playing kneesies with him by then.

“You keep that up, you’re liable to get raped.”

“Room two-forty-six in the Grand Union.” And she proved it with the key. That was the beginning of Billy’s private taxi service between Albany and Saratoga for the rest of the
month. Other things began that season in Saratoga: Billy’s reputation as the youngest of the hot numbers at any table, never mind the game. Big winner. I could always get a buck, Billy said.
What the hell, I know cards and dice.

Of course, at the end of the season Billy was broke. Playing both sides of the table.

Now Mildred Bailey was all through and Clem McCarthy was barking in with the race results on WHN, and can you believe what is happening to Billy? Friar Charles wins, the son of a bitch,
five-to-two, the son of a bitch, the son of a bitch! Martin Daugherty, what in Christ’s name are you doing to Billy Phelan?

Here’s how it looked to this point: Martin bet ten across the board on Charley Horse, who wins it, four-to-one; puts a tenner across also on Friar Charles and now wins that one, too; and
has a third tenner going across on Hello Chuckie in the sixth at Pimlico, and Hello Chuckie is two-to-one on the morning line. There is more. Martin also
parlayed
the three horses for yet
another ten.

Now, Billy knows that Martin is a hell of a sport, always pays, and loses more than he wins, which has always been pleasant for Billy, who takes a good bit of his play. But my Jesus Christ
almighty, if he wins the third, plus the three-horse parlay, Billy is in trouble. Billy doesn’t hold every bet he takes. You hold some, lay off some. You hold what you think you can cover,
maybe a little more, if you’re brassy like Billy. Billy lays some off with his pal Frankie Buchanan, who has the big book in Albany. But mother pin a rose on Billy. For bravery. For Billy is
holding
all
of Martin’s play. Didn’t lay off a dime. Why? Because suckers and losers bet three-horse parlays. I’ll hold them all day long, was Billy’s philosophy
until a few minutes ago when Clem McCarthy came on with the Friar Charles news. And now Billy is sitting at his card table in the front room. (Billy came here to Thanksgiving dinner six years ago
and never went back downtown to his furnished room.) His money sits on the floor, next to his bridge chair, in a Dyke cigar box, Dykes being the cigar the McCall machine pushed in all the grocery
and candy stores in town.

Billy himself sits under the big, shitty print of Mo the Kid in the gold frame. Billy’s fingers are working with his number two Mongol pencil on the long yellow pad, and his eyes keep
peeking out through the curtains on the front windows in case state cops step on his stoop, in which case Billy would be into the toilet p.g.d.q., those horse bets would be on their way down the
city conduits toward the river, and even the most enterprising raider could not then bring them back and pin them on Billy’s chest.

Stan whatsisname, the WHN disk jockey, was talking about Bob Crosby and Billy felt good hearing that because he knew Crosby, had heard him in Saratoga, danced to his music with Angie, talked
music with him when he played The Edgewood over in Rensselaer. “Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea” Crosby was playing now. The phone rang and Billy turned Crosby down. Frankie
Buchanan with the results of the fifth at Arlington Park, Friar Charles official now. Billy then told Frankie about Martin Daugherty’s very weird parlay.

“You’re the weird one,” said Frankie, who was as weird as they come. One of the best-liked guys in Albany, Frankie, and yet he couldn’t take the public. He’d come
out at night for ham and eggs, and you’d have to sit with him in his car behind the Morris diner while he ate off a paper plate. Crazy bastards in this world.

“You want to give me the third horse or part of that parlay?”

“No,” said Billy, “I can’t believe the son of a bitch can pick three in a row, and parlay them, too. I never seen it done. I believe in luck but not miracles.”

“Okay, pal,” said Frankie, “it’s all yours.” And he left Billy wondering if he was really crazy Billy could cut the mustard if the third horse ran out of the money,
because the day’s play was good. But if Martin Daugherty wins the parlay, Billy, it’s up in the seven, eight hundreds, even if nobody else wins a nickel. And Billy Boy, you don’t
have that kind of cash. So why, oh why, is darlin’ Billy doing it? Well, it’s a gamble, after all. And Billy is certainly a gambler. Nobody will argue that. And Billy is already feeling
the pressure rise in his throat, his gut, under his armpits, under his teeth and behind his jockey shorts. Christ, it tickles me somewhere, Billy thinks, and the money doesn’t matter.
Pressure. Sweet pressure. Here we go again, folks.

Crosby was just winding up “Deep Blue Sea.” Billy remembered listening to it with Angie, saw her face. And then it was Morey Amsterdam on the radio. Popped into the studio as usual
to ad lib with Stan. I gotta go up to the sixth floor, Amsterdam was saying. They’re gonna lay a rug up there and I wanna see how they do it.

Telephone. Martin Daugherty.

“Yeah, Friar Charles wins it, Martin, so you got something good going. Shows seven dollars, four dollars, and three-forty. Tote it up, Martin, you’re the money machine
today.”

Stan was telling a caller, if you don’t like my show, you crumb, don’t listen, but if you want to make more of it than that I’ll meet you at five o’clock out in the alley
behind the studio and knock your brains out. And he gave the address. Wireheaded bastard, that Stan. Billy liked his style.

Then it was quiet with no phones and only Earl (Fatha) Hines—a kid, really, so why do they call him Fatha?—playing something wild, and somebody in the chorus, when he started to move
it, really move it, yelling out, “Play it Fatha . . . play it till nineteen ninety-nine.” And Billy smiles, taps his foot, feels the jazz, feels, too, that good old, good old pressure
beginning to cut a pulpy wedge out of his fat-assed day.

Simpson, that bum, rang Billy’s bell, looking for his sawbuck. Billy saw him coming up the walk, fished a tenner out of the cigar box, folded it once and put it in his
right hip pocket. Ten down the sewer. But Billy had to pay. Tribute to Pop O’Rourke, Democratic leader of the Ninth Ward, who, six months ago, when Billy announced plans to write horses,
approved the venture during Billy’s formal call. The payoff? Give ten a week to Simpson, Pop said. He’s down on his luck. He’ll come by every week for it. Fair enough, Billy said.
What else could he say? And he was still paying out the tenner.

“Hello, Bill, how you doin’?” Simpson said when Billy opened the door just enough to make it clear that it was not a welcoming gesture. The Simp’s sport shirt was at
least four days soiled and he needed a shave. Holes in the elbows of his sweater, boozer’s look and the breath’d knock over two mules.

“Life’s still tough,” Billy said to him.

“I thought maybe I’d come in and sit a while,” Simpson said as Billy was reaching for the ten in his pocket. And that line stopped Billy’s hand.

“What?”

“Keep you company a while. I ain’t doin’ nothin’, just hangin’ around Brady’s. Might as well chew the fat. You know.”

“No, I don’t know nothing like that,” Billy said. “You ain’t coming in now or ever.” He opened the door all the way, stepped out, grabbed Simpson’s
dirty shirt, and lifted him backward down the stairs. “Now get off this stoop and stay off. Next time you put a foot on it I’ll knock your ass the other side of Pearl Street.”

“Don’t get hot, Bill. I just wanna come in and talk.”

“I don’t let bums in my home. Who the hell do you think you’re conning? From now on I don’t even want to see you on this side of the street.”

“Where’s my ten?”

“You blew it, bum.”

And Billy slammed the door and called Pop O’Rourke.

“And he says he wants to keep me company for the day, chew the fat. Listen, Pop, I respect you, but that bum is looking to see my action. I have a good half hour, he’ll want twenty
instead of ten. Don’t send him back, Pop, and I mean that. I don’t like his slimy looks and I never did. I hit him once, I’ll knock him off the stoop altogether. There’s
five steps and he’d clear the whole five if I hit him. I’ll break both his arms, Pop. I don’t want the bum ringing my bell.”

“Take it easy, Billy. He won’t be back. He did wrong. He’s a greedy person. I’ll tell him.”

“Fine, Pop. Do you want me to send you the tenner?”

“No, not at the moment. I’ll let you know if there’s any other needy case around.”

“I’m a needy case, Pop.”

“But there are rules, Billy.”

“I play by them.”

“That’s the good boy. Just don’t get excited. I underwent a heart attack that way, and I can tell you that getting excited is one of the worst, one of the very worst things a
man can do to himself. It takes you over when you don’t expect it. Very sudden and we don’t anticipate a thing. It’s a terrible thing to do to yourself, getting too overly worked
up, Billy. I wouldn’t do it again for any man.”

“I’ll catch you later, Pop. Thanks.”

“Billy, I’m very glad you called me.”

Billy hung up and scraped the horseshit out of his ear.

The first of Billy’s family came home at three-forty Daniel Quinn, age ten, resident little kid returning from fourth grade at Public School Twenty across the street,
found his uncle on the couch with
True Detective
open on his chest, the lights out, shades drawn more than usual, the
Telegraph
, the
Armstrong
, the New York
News
and
Daily Mirror
on the floor beside the card table.