A TIP FOR MR. MACALLISTER
One hot summer night I stood at the bar of Bathhouse John Coughlin’s Randolph Street saloon in Chicago, quaffing a glass of beer. I had spent a strenuous day at the racecourse. The saloon was crowded with men engaged in drinking and in animated conversation. It probably was as mixed a group as any ever assembled under one roof outside of a penal institution. Pickpockets, thieves, safecrackers, and thugs of every degree mingled with cardsharps, swindlers, gamblers, policemen, and politicians.
At the other end of the bar stood Alderman Coughlin, resplendent in a two-gallon silk hat, a mountain-green dress suit and a red vest with white buttons. He was talking to a blue-coated policeman named Fred Buckminster.
I had only a casual acquaintance with Buckminster. He was technically on the side of the law, although his chief duty was to collect tribute from the crooks on his beat and turn it over to the politicians. I doubt that Fred got much of the graft, because the politicians had a very good idea of who was paying off and how much.
However, I was operating pretty well within the law at that time and I had no reason to pay tribute. Not for several years did I really become acquainted with Buckminster, whose cherubic, extremely honest-looking face and portly bearing had earned him the sobriquet of “The Deacon.”
As I stood there a well-dressed man, several years older than I, approached the bar.
“Good evening,” he said. “Won’t you join me in a glass of beer?”
“Thank you,” I replied.
The bartender drew two glasses of beer, and we began to quench our thirst.
“My name,” offered my companion, “is William Wall.”
“Glad to know you, Mr. Wall,” I returned. “My name is Weil - Joe Weil.”
“The Yellow Kid!” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard about you. They say you’re a pretty sharp young fellow.”
Of course, I had heard of Billy Wall. He was known as one of Chicago’s leading confidence men. We conversed for some time, taking turns buying the drinks.
“There are many things to learn in this - ah - profession,” said Wall. “Besides having a sharp wit, you must be a smooth, polished actor. Maybe I can help you some time.”
I was flattered. But I was not yet ready to enter into an alliance. Our meeting broke up with my promise that I would think it over and get in touch with him.
One thing is very important to the successful con man: honor. That may sound strange, but it’s true. I don’t know how much truth there is to the old saying about honor among thieves, but it is an absolute necessity among con men.
Though a con man may conspire to fleece others, he must always be on the level with his associates. The victim’s cash is usually taken by one man, who disappears. And it would be a sorry day indeed if this man, who had taken the money, didn’t meet later with his associates to divide the spoils.
During the next few days, I made careful inquiries about Billy Wall. Everyone had the highest praise for him: he could be trusted. So I contacted Billy and we formed a partnership.
For a while we worked the old con games that were, even then, growing whiskers. Billy Wall was an accomplished actor, and I learned a great deal from him. But he lacked imagination. He never thought of anything new.
I was not satisfied. My mind was alert and full of fresh schemes. One day I proposed one to Bill, and he readily agreed to follow my lead.
My first step was to insert a blind ad in an evening newspaper:
WANTED - Man to invest $2,500. Opportunity to participate in very profitable venture. Must be reliable. Confidential, BoxW-62, care this paper.
That brought several replies, each of which was tucked away for future reference. The one that intrigued me most was from a man whom I will call Marcus Macallister, owner of the “Macallister” Theatre, one of Chicago’s leading playhouses, which offered the best in legitimate stage productions.
I knew also that Macallister was one of the principal backers of a new amusement project then in the planning stage. It later became White City, which included an arena for boxing and wrestling, bowling alleys, a dance hall, a roller-skating rink, and other recreational features. Macallister was our man. He not only had money, he was a plunger.
The day after I received his letter I called at his office. In those days I traveled under my own name.
“What is your proposition, Mr. Weil?” Macallister asked.
“My brother-in-law,” I confided, “is in desperate need of $2,500. If you will lend it to him, I will show you how to make a fortune.”
“What does he need $2,500 for?” he inquired.
“Well, he’s hopelessly addicted to betting on the horses. He began borrowing money to make bets. Now, he’s in the clutches of the loan sharks. He owes them $2,500, but his wife - my sister - doesn’t know about it. The loan sharks have demanded their money. If it isn’t paid by tomorrow night, they are going to my sister and expose him.”
“How can a man like that help me make a fortune?”
“By giving you absolutely reliable information on the races. He works for Western Union. He will tip you off on a horse after it has won. You can make a bet on the nose and you can’t lose.”
There is something about a “sure thing” on a race that a horse player can’t resist. A gleam of anticipation appeared in Macallister’s eyes. He tried to cover it up.
“I never bet on the horses,” he said. “How does it work?”
I knew he was lying, but I led him to the Redpath Saloon at State and Jackson. In the rear was a poolroom.
In those days, most handbooks - which were legal - operated in poolrooms. Their equipment included a cashier’s cage for taking bets and paying off winners, wall sheets where the odds on various horses were posted, and the telegraph desk.
Western Union furnished racing information by wire. Most of the poolrooms subscribed to this service and had direct wires from the Western Union building. Of course every bookmaker had to employ an operator who jotted down the messages. The results were called out by a clerk.
In present-day handbooks all betting is closed at post-time. In those days bets were accepted until the telegraph operator received the flash, “They’re off!” He received a running account of the race which was called out by the clerk. At the finish the winners were announced.
Mr. Macallister seemed fascinated by the amount of money that was changing hands.
“You could make a fortune,” he agreed, “if you had the right horse.”
“If you know the winning horse beforehand you can’t lose.”
“But how is that possible?”
“Come over to the Western Union building with me.”
On the way over I explained that my brother-in-law knew nothing
