harried waitresses smiled at me in
recognition as I made my way across the room to a doorway leading
to the real attraction on the lower floor—a large betting room where
you could lay money on any horse race at any track in the country.
The day’s major races were broadcast over the parlor’s wall speakers
and the hollering in there could get pretty intense when a race was in
progress.
Anybody could get into the betting room, but the upper floors
were exclusive. The elevator and the narrow stairway were in a hallway at the rear of the room. The stairway doors on every floor locked
automatically from the inside, and there was always a palooka posted
at the elevator to make sure nobody but special customers or friends
of the Maceos got on it. Rose and Sam had their offices on the second
floor, which also contained a billiards room and the Studio Lounge—
a small restaurant with a dance floor and a long bar and a backroom
gambling hall for big-money card and dice action. The third floor
was a health club equipped with a boxing ring and all kinds of exercise equipment.
The only raids the local cops ever pulled were of course just for
show. They always let the Maceos know they were coming and they
never hit anything but the ground-floor betting parlor. Whatever
equipment they confiscated they returned on the Q.T. a few days •• later. Every now and then, however, the Texas Rangers would come
calling. That’s when the elevator man would push a hidden button to
buzz a warning to the upper floors. The band in the Studio Lounge
would strike up a blaring rendition of “The Eyes of Texas,” which
everybody knew was the signal of a Ranger raid. The staff in the gambling room would fly into action, covering the gaming tables with
expensive tablecloths and setting them with dinnerware and platters
of food. The back bars would swivel around to hide the booze racks
and display nothing but seltzer bottles and tea sets and urns of fresh
coffee. The elevator was also equipped with a secret switch that
turned it into the slowest mechanical conveyance in Texas. By the
time the Rangers arrived at the second floor the only booze they’d
find was what the customers had brought in—which was legal to
do—and there wouldn’t be so much as a poker chip in sight.
At this hour the day’s races were long over, and the betting parlor
was pretty quiet. A few guys sat around with bottles of beer, gabbing
and telling each other how close they’d come to winning big today in
the first or the fifth or the last race at such and such a track.
Guarding the elevator tonight was an ex-pug named Otis Wilcox
who’d once lasted six rounds with Tunney before the Gentleman Marine coldcocked him. Otis said he couldn’t remember his own name
for an hour after he came to. He worked as both a Turf Club guard
and a trainer in the gym. He gave boxing lessons to health club members and still liked to spar, but he wasn’t one to pull all his punches,
so regular partners were hard for him to come by. I was his favorite
sparring buddy because I could take it. Besides, I was a fast learner
and had gotten good enough to make it interesting for him. The
lumps I took were worth it to me for the chance to box against somebody who knew what he was doing. We rarely got a chance to work
out with each other, though, because of our different schedules, and
we hadn’t been in the ring together in a month. We’d gone three
rounds the last time, and we got pretty serious in the third. With •• about a half minute left in the round he’d got careless and I nearly
knocked him down with a right. For the rest of the round he went at
me with everything he had. By the time the bell rang, my headgear
was in a lopsided twist and my ribs felt like he’d used a ball bat on
them. But Otis took a lot of kidding from some of the boys about the
right hook I’d hung on him, and I knew he couldn’t wait for our next
session so he
recognition as I made my way across the room to a doorway leading
to the real attraction on the lower floor—a large betting room where
you could lay money on any horse race at any track in the country.
The day’s major races were broadcast over the parlor’s wall speakers
and the hollering in there could get pretty intense when a race was in
progress.
Anybody could get into the betting room, but the upper floors
were exclusive. The elevator and the narrow stairway were in a hallway at the rear of the room. The stairway doors on every floor locked
automatically from the inside, and there was always a palooka posted
at the elevator to make sure nobody but special customers or friends
of the Maceos got on it. Rose and Sam had their offices on the second
floor, which also contained a billiards room and the Studio Lounge—
a small restaurant with a dance floor and a long bar and a backroom
gambling hall for big-money card and dice action. The third floor
was a health club equipped with a boxing ring and all kinds of exercise equipment.
The only raids the local cops ever pulled were of course just for
show. They always let the Maceos know they were coming and they
never hit anything but the ground-floor betting parlor. Whatever
equipment they confiscated they returned on the Q.T. a few days •• later. Every now and then, however, the Texas Rangers would come
calling. That’s when the elevator man would push a hidden button to
buzz a warning to the upper floors. The band in the Studio Lounge
would strike up a blaring rendition of “The Eyes of Texas,” which
everybody knew was the signal of a Ranger raid. The staff in the gambling room would fly into action, covering the gaming tables with
expensive tablecloths and setting them with dinnerware and platters
of food. The back bars would swivel around to hide the booze racks
and display nothing but seltzer bottles and tea sets and urns of fresh
coffee. The elevator was also equipped with a secret switch that
turned it into the slowest mechanical conveyance in Texas. By the
time the Rangers arrived at the second floor the only booze they’d
find was what the customers had brought in—which was legal to
do—and there wouldn’t be so much as a poker chip in sight.
At this hour the day’s races were long over, and the betting parlor
was pretty quiet. A few guys sat around with bottles of beer, gabbing
and telling each other how close they’d come to winning big today in
the first or the fifth or the last race at such and such a track.
Guarding the elevator tonight was an ex-pug named Otis Wilcox
who’d once lasted six rounds with Tunney before the Gentleman Marine coldcocked him. Otis said he couldn’t remember his own name
for an hour after he came to. He worked as both a Turf Club guard
and a trainer in the gym. He gave boxing lessons to health club members and still liked to spar, but he wasn’t one to pull all his punches,
so regular partners were hard for him to come by. I was his favorite
sparring buddy because I could take it. Besides, I was a fast learner
and had gotten good enough to make it interesting for him. The
lumps I took were worth it to me for the chance to box against somebody who knew what he was doing. We rarely got a chance to work
out with each other, though, because of our different schedules, and
we hadn’t been in the ring together in a month. We’d gone three
rounds the last time, and we got pretty serious in the third. With •• about a half minute left in the round he’d got careless and I nearly
knocked him down with a right. For the rest of the round he went at
me with everything he had. By the time the bell rang, my headgear
was in a lopsided twist and my ribs felt like he’d used a ball bat on
them. But Otis took a lot of kidding from some of the boys about the
right hook I’d hung on him, and I knew he couldn’t wait for our next
session so he
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