were sold. His eyes shone in amazement as he watched people coming up to pay ten cents for a hot dog.
“That fellow over there,” he said. “He sure does a good business.”
“Sure,” I replied, and a vague scheme began to form in my mind. “You know, people at a racecourse don’t watch their money - they spend it freely.”
“I can see that,” said Kahn. “How much do you suppose he takes in every day?”
“I don’t know. But it ought to be easy to find out. Why don’t you watch for a while? I’ve got to see a fellow on some business. I’ll leave you here and meet you again in fifteen minutes.”
“Yah, sure,” said Kahn. He was so fascinated that he hardly noticed that I was gone.
I looked for Bob Collins. I found him, stated my proposition, and got him to work with me on the deal. Then I returned to where the old fellow was still standing in front of the red-hot stand, counting the dimes that poured in.
“Well,” I asked, “have you estimated how much he takes in?”
“Yah. It must be a hundred dollars a day.”
“Oh, I think it’s more than that. I believe he takes in around two hundred dollars a day.”
“Two hundred dollars a day!” Kahn repeated. “Why, on that he must make a big profit. How much does he have to pay for the lease?”
“Oh, he doesn’t have a lease,” I replied. “It’s what we call a concession. He doesn’t have to pay us anything, as long as he satisfies the patrons.”
“My, I would like to have a business like that. The customers would like my fine imported frankfurters.”
“They certainly would,” I agreed. “And you could get more for them, too. Maybe twenty-five cents. Money means nothing to people at a race track.”
“No,” said Kahn, “I wouldn’t charge a quarter. I could put up a fine frankfurter sandwich and make a good profit for fifteen cents.”
“And you could sell roast beef sandwiches, too. Would you be interested in having the concession?”
“Do you think I could get it?”
“With my help, you can,” I replied. “Remember I own stock in this track.”
“Yah, I remember,” said Kahn.
“Come into the office with me,” I invited him. “We’ll talk to the secretary. He has charge of the concessions.”
I led him into the office of Sheridan Clark, who was secretary of the Association that operated the track. Clark, of course, did have charge of the concessions. But there was one thing about his office that Kahn did not know. It was always open. Jockeys, trainers, and owners were constantly going in and out on routine matters. And I happened to know that, at that particular time, Clark was not in the office.
When we walked in, a man was seated behind Clark’s desk. It was Bob Collins, my confederate.
“Mr. Clark,” I called, “this is Mr. Kahn. I’d like you to see what you can do about getting the red-hot concession for him.”
Collins stood up and shook hands. “Glad to know you, Mr. Kahn,” he said. “Any friend of Joe’s is a friend of mine.” He walked out from behind the desk. “Let’s go have a glass of beer and discuss this further.” That was a pretext to get us out of the office. We didn’t know when Sheridan Clark might return.
Kahn had not the slightest suspicion - only a warm glow in his heart - as we strolled to the bar.
Collins asked for more details, and Kahn told him what wonderful meats he prepared and how certain he was that he could satisfy the customers. At the right moment I added words of praise for both Kahn’s products and his character. Finally Collins was convinced that the concession should be turned over to Kahn.
“But I’ll have to give the other man a few days’ notice,” he said. “Suppose you begin next Monday, Mr. Kahn.”
“Yah,” replied the German. “That will be good.”
“Fine.” Collins ordered another round of beer. Then as if the concession matter had been settled and was of no further concern: “Joe, isn’t it about time to make the killing?”
“Yes,” I returned. “We’ve decided on next Saturday.”
“What’s a killing?” asked Kahn.
Collins hesitated.
“It’s all right to tell him, Sheridan,” I nodded. “He’s one of us now, you know.”
So Collins told him. “We have bad days, when attendance isn’t very high. If it’s raining or we have other bad weather, people don’t come to the track. At the end of the season, we’d be in the hole if we didn’t do something to make up for our losses. So we have a fixed race once every season. We take some of the Association’s money and bet it on this race. That way we even up the losses.”
“You mean it costs so much to run a race track?”
“It wouldn’t except for the purses we give. The purses, combined with the expenses, exceed the receipts, and we have to do something to make up for it.”
“I understand,” said Kahn brightly.
After we had left Collins and were driving back to Chicago, I suggested to Kahn that it was a good opportunity for him to clean up. I explained that it was arranged for the winner to be a horse on which the odds would he long. But to prevent the bookmakers from getting suspicious, the money was spread around the country in various cities, including Milwaukee.
He seemed interested. The following day I dropped in at his shop.
“I’m going to Milwaukee on Friday,” I told him, “to place $10,000 for the Association. Would you like to come along and get in on the killing?”
Kahn was cautious. He was eager to make money but at the same time he didn’t want to take any risk.
“How much would I make?” he asked.
“The horse will probably pay about 5 to 1.”
“I could bet maybe $500,” he muttered.
“Don’t be foolish!” I scoffed. “This is your chance to make a fortune. Why, $500 is only a drop in the bucket.”
After some additional persuading he decided he might as well make it worth while, since it was a sure thing anyway. He went to the National Bank of the Republic and withdrew $5,000. The following Friday, we were in Milwaukee.
I had arranged a poolroom setup to take his money. I bet my $10,000 and he put down his $5,000. Then I asked him to wait for me at the poolroom.
“I have some business downtown. I won’t be long. I’m expecting a phone call from Sheridan Clark in Chicago and if it comes while I’m gone, take the message, will you, Mr. Kahn?”
My
