told Kahn to tell me to “Bet as much as possible!”
When I returned and he gave me the message, I said: “I’m going to bet a marker for $10,000. Why don’t you bet some more?”
“I haven’t got any more money.”
“You can bet a marker as I did.”
“What is a marker?”
“You tell ’em how much you want to bet. They give you a ticket and they’ll hold your bet until noon tomorrow. That’s to give you time to wire the money.”
As usual he was cautious. But he finally decided to bet a marker for $2,500, the money to be wired from Chicago the following morning.
We returned to Chicago and the next day, Saturday, the day of the supposedly fixed race, I was at Kahn’s place. He gave me the $2,500 and I went over to the Western Union office. I wired $25.00 and got a receipt. It was no trick at all to alter this to $2,500. I took the receipt back to Kahn, and that’s the last I ever saw of him.
I later learned the sequel, which I had intended to prevent. I had arranged to have Bob Collins call him on Monday and tell him the concession deal was off. But I had not reckoned with his German thoroughness. When Collins called Mr. Kahn had left for the track.
He had a wagon loaded with frankfurters, roast beef, and the trimmings. He arrived at the track just after dawn and began to move his stuff in. When the Superintendent of the grounds questioned him, he told of having made the deal with Sheridan Clark. The Superintendent did not question his story.
Rather he pitched in and helped Kahn unload and set up his stand. The old fellow had bought a new sign: “Now UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. BETTER FOOD WILL BE SERVED.” It was put up and he was ready to do business. Then the regular concession man came in.
Seeing the sign and the excellent food Kahn had brought, this man too thought the deal was on the level and that the concession had really been taken from him. He was about to depart when Sheridan Clark appeared.
Eventually, the old man got the drift. He packed up his things and sadly returned to Chicago. He made no complaint, and as far as I know never told the story to anyone. He has passed on, but the fine food shop that bears his name has continued to prosper.
A somewhat similar deal was made with a man named Bolton, a Dutchman with a beard, who owned a business block known as Bolton’s Opera House, where public dances were held twice a week.
Patsy King, who controlled the policy game in Chicago and owned a string of poolrooms, had set Billy Skidmore up in business in Bolton’s building. Skid had a cigar store, with a little gambling in the back room. A lot of us used to hang out at his place.
Mr. Bolton had a paint store in the same building. He also was a contractor and employed a crew of painters. He had seen me around.
One day he asked me what my business was. I told him that I worked for the Racing Association. I arranged for him to visit the track with me.
He too had a great curiosity. But his particular interest was focused on the grandstand, which was badly in need of paint. I contacted Collins. We went through the routine, and ended with a promise to Bolton that he could have the contract to paint the grandstand and stable the following week.
Meanwhile, I worked the “killing” game on him, and he wagered $2,500 - or thought he did. The following Monday morning, bright and early, his painters were at the track with their materials. They set up their scaffolds and were busy at work on the front of the grandstand when the track manager came to work and discovered them.
“What are you doing up there?” he demanded.
“We’re painting the grandstand,” replied the painters’ foreman. “And when we finish that, we’re going to paint the stables.”
“Is that so?” The track manager had a vicious temper. “Well, nobody told me about it. You get those scaffolds down and get out of here.”
“Not until we’ve finished this job.”
“You’re not going to finish the job,” the other retorted hotly. “Come down!”
“Suppose you come up and get me!” growled the painter.
“I’ll be glad to accommodate you.” The manager started to ascend the scaffold.
The foreman had been mixing a huge bucket of paint. He took careful aim, slowly overturned it, and dropped it. The track manager was soaked with paint from head to foot. The painters roared.
The man yanked the bucket off his head and dug the paint out of his eyes. Then he let out a bellow of rage that was heard all over the grounds. The entire track staff came to his assistance and the painters were forcibly ejected after a wild mélee amid splashing paint.
Bolton immediately contacted the track officials and learned that he had been duped. However, it was a fact that they were considering a paint job for the grandstand and stables. I later learned that Bolton very likely would have had the job since his men had already started, had not the track manager interfered.
Bolton soon learned that the race he had supposedly bet on was not fixed. But what irked him even more was that he had been misled about the grandstand contract.
He went to Skid. “Where is that little slicker?” he demanded.
Skid pretended ignorance, and Bolton poured out the whole story. “He took advantage of me, he led me on and then swindled me.”
Nor did Bolton let the matter drop. He swore out a warrant charging me with operating a confidence game. I was arrested and the case came before Judge Shott in his Justice Shop. As it happened, Skid knew Judge Shott and had a private talk with him.
Over Bolton’s protests, Judge Shott ruled that he was not “an unwary stranger,” that he had entered the betting deal, believing he would make money on a dishonest race, and that, as a businessman, he should have obtained a written contract before he started painting the grandstand. The case was dismissed and I was released.
I saw Bolton many times after that, at Skidmore’s cigar store. His rancor eventually disappeared and we became friends, though I never tried to take him again.
“You’re a slick duck,” he used to say, and there was grudging admiration in his voice.
The odium of the confidence-game charge did not help my standing at the track, and I decided to take a short rest until the affair had blown over. I went to the lake-resort region of Illinois, northwest of Chicago.
I soon learned of a man I shall call Van Essen, who was by far the wealthiest man in those parts. He had an estate on Gray’s Lake and was a heavy investor in the bank. I had heard there was to be a big Fourth of July picnic at Gray’s Lake, and decided to attend. But first I returned to Chicago to prepare my “props.”
Dan Canary ran a livery service on Wabash Avenue. From him I hired a car and liveried chauffeur. All cars in those days were one-cylinder affairs and were rarities even in a big city like Chicago.
With my chauffeur, I motored to Gray’s Lake and attended the picnic. During the height of the festivities there was a plea for contributions to some charitable institution. The justice of the peace, a onearmed man, made a strong
