his services as a paid tutor to the university’s athletic department, a fiefdom with impressive financial resources. With his impeccable academic record, he was immediately accepted. He was soon assigned to tutor a talented athlete from River Forest, Illinois, named Rocco Bonadio.
Rocco was at the university on a football scholarship. As Bledsoe soon discovered, his brawny, amiable, dark-haired pupil had little interest in, and even less acumen for, his studies. Rocco was in Madison solely to block for Badger glory, drink as much beer as possible, and screw as many coeds as he could. Bledsoe told Harriet Okey, his girlfriend that semester, that Rocco was “so dumb he can hardly make an ‘O’ with a glass. He’s got a hairline that nearly coincides with his eyebrows.”
After learning more about Rocco’s background, Bledsoe showed more interest in him. Rocco, it turned out, was the only son of Chicago Outfit boss Fifi Bonadio, a man of such authority that, in the words of one of his lieutenants, “when he comes home at night his wife stands at attention and the parakeet and goldfish try to look busy.”
Fifi Bonadio was extremely proud of Rocco’s athletic exploits, but even prouder that the Bonadio clan finally had its first college student. And the mob boss was determined that Rocco emerge from Madison with a degree. Primarily as a result of Bledsoe’s efforts, this happened. Bledsoe wrote all of Rocco’s papers for the courses in his major, criminal justice. That was the tuck-away bin into which many scholastically challenged jocks were funneled, the irony of which, in Rocco’s case, was not lost on either Fifi or Bledsoe. Because of the young man’s “learning disability,” Bledsoe arranged for Rocco to take all of his quizzes and tests while being monitored only by Bledsoe. He thus managed to guarantee the much desired diploma for the Bonadio family wall.
“Had Rocco ever gotten a grade higher than C in any course,” Bledsoe confided to Harriet, “there would have been grounds for a full-scale NCAA investigation. I massaged him through just at the right level, work good enough to earn passing grades but not good enough to raise any red flags over the thick cranium of this dolt.”
Appreciative of Bledsoe’s efforts, Fifi Bonadio, during a festive dinner at an upscale Madison restaurant the night before Rocco’s graduation, tapped Bledsoe on the arm. Several glasses of wine earlier, he had begun to smile benevolently at Bledsoe, who was seated beside him, addressing him fondly as Professor. “You did good with my boy,” Fifi said softly, nodding toward his beaming son. “I know it wasn’t easy. He’s a great kid and a damned good football player. But he’s got his mother’s brains. Nice people, good looking, her family, but they’re not much smarter than the goats they used to herd in Calabria.
“So, I toast you Mr. Bledsoe,” Bonadio said, raising his wine glass.
“Salud
. And,” reverting to his softer voice, he added, “I owe you. You ever need anything, any time, you call me.” Bonadio slipped Bledsoe a card with a business phone number along with whopping cash bonus.
***
Bledsoe smiled to himself whenever he thought of that night. But he never thought he would have occasion to call in the favor offered—until now, with Grandma Bledsoe’s deadline looming less than a year away.
Late that same September week, two days after his meeting with lawyer Altman and two years, three months after Rocco Bonadio’s graduation dinner, Bledsoe dialed Big B Construction and Paving, Cicero, Illinois, and left a message on the answering machine. Fifi Bonadio called back an hour later. “Professor, how are you? What can I do for you, my friend?”
Bledsoe said he was fine, but he needed some advice. “I’m working on a paper about horse race gambling in America,” Bledsoe lied. “I’d like to talk to someone who has been involved in it, who knows a great deal about it. I don’t need
Rocco was at the university on a football scholarship. As Bledsoe soon discovered, his brawny, amiable, dark-haired pupil had little interest in, and even less acumen for, his studies. Rocco was in Madison solely to block for Badger glory, drink as much beer as possible, and screw as many coeds as he could. Bledsoe told Harriet Okey, his girlfriend that semester, that Rocco was “so dumb he can hardly make an ‘O’ with a glass. He’s got a hairline that nearly coincides with his eyebrows.”
After learning more about Rocco’s background, Bledsoe showed more interest in him. Rocco, it turned out, was the only son of Chicago Outfit boss Fifi Bonadio, a man of such authority that, in the words of one of his lieutenants, “when he comes home at night his wife stands at attention and the parakeet and goldfish try to look busy.”
Fifi Bonadio was extremely proud of Rocco’s athletic exploits, but even prouder that the Bonadio clan finally had its first college student. And the mob boss was determined that Rocco emerge from Madison with a degree. Primarily as a result of Bledsoe’s efforts, this happened. Bledsoe wrote all of Rocco’s papers for the courses in his major, criminal justice. That was the tuck-away bin into which many scholastically challenged jocks were funneled, the irony of which, in Rocco’s case, was not lost on either Fifi or Bledsoe. Because of the young man’s “learning disability,” Bledsoe arranged for Rocco to take all of his quizzes and tests while being monitored only by Bledsoe. He thus managed to guarantee the much desired diploma for the Bonadio family wall.
“Had Rocco ever gotten a grade higher than C in any course,” Bledsoe confided to Harriet, “there would have been grounds for a full-scale NCAA investigation. I massaged him through just at the right level, work good enough to earn passing grades but not good enough to raise any red flags over the thick cranium of this dolt.”
Appreciative of Bledsoe’s efforts, Fifi Bonadio, during a festive dinner at an upscale Madison restaurant the night before Rocco’s graduation, tapped Bledsoe on the arm. Several glasses of wine earlier, he had begun to smile benevolently at Bledsoe, who was seated beside him, addressing him fondly as Professor. “You did good with my boy,” Fifi said softly, nodding toward his beaming son. “I know it wasn’t easy. He’s a great kid and a damned good football player. But he’s got his mother’s brains. Nice people, good looking, her family, but they’re not much smarter than the goats they used to herd in Calabria.
“So, I toast you Mr. Bledsoe,” Bonadio said, raising his wine glass.
“Salud
. And,” reverting to his softer voice, he added, “I owe you. You ever need anything, any time, you call me.” Bonadio slipped Bledsoe a card with a business phone number along with whopping cash bonus.
***
Bledsoe smiled to himself whenever he thought of that night. But he never thought he would have occasion to call in the favor offered—until now, with Grandma Bledsoe’s deadline looming less than a year away.
Late that same September week, two days after his meeting with lawyer Altman and two years, three months after Rocco Bonadio’s graduation dinner, Bledsoe dialed Big B Construction and Paving, Cicero, Illinois, and left a message on the answering machine. Fifi Bonadio called back an hour later. “Professor, how are you? What can I do for you, my friend?”
Bledsoe said he was fine, but he needed some advice. “I’m working on a paper about horse race gambling in America,” Bledsoe lied. “I’d like to talk to someone who has been involved in it, who knows a great deal about it. I don’t need
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