ROBBING THE SUPER BOWL BOX POOL...THE PERFECT CRIME

In the early 1990's, fifty-year old Bill Derry was an Atlantic City casino floor supervisor and coworker of mine.  From the outside looking in, most people would think he had the world by the balls. But Derry had four major vices; three of which he handled well but the fourth, (unseen to nearly everybody) was his downfall.

Bill's first vice was being a wheeler-dealer with an incredible energy to legally earn money.  Derry owed much of his success to his semi-retired father's connections with Chester Pennsylvania bus rentals.

Derry capitalized on dad's influence to inexpensively charter buses, (later, he bought his own).  He started by organizing sightseeing trips for casino workers, (plus friends and family), to New York City, Washington DC, Baltimore and Philadelphia.

He soon parlayed his service to include Broadway shows, concerts and sporting events.  Derry's all-inclusive service earned a loyal following because he provided a sandwich, chips and soft drinks to all the passengers...plus a customer satisfaction guarantee.  So when one of his buses to Baltimore broke down on I-95 after an Orioles game at Memorial Stadium, he refunded 100% to everyone who suffered while waiting three hours for another bus to take them home.

THE 1990 GOODWILL REFUND FROM THE BALTIMORE TRIP REWARDED BILL DERRY WITH A RESPECTED REPUTATION WHICH RESULTED IN A TREMENDOUS AMOUNT OF POSITIVE, WORD-OF-MOUTH ADVERTISING.

Derry's broadening empire soon included buying two buses. He used them to bring gamblers from New York's Chinatown, to, two different Atlantic City casinos.  Those buses eventually grew to make three trips a day, every day of the year and were full.  He and his partner in Manhattan got a cut from each bus ticket sold and a healthy kick-back from the casinos.

Derry's next vice was being an excessive over-eater.  Due to his weight, he earned the hated nickname, Bill "William the Refrigerator" Derry.

WILLIAM "THE REFRIGERATOR" PERRY (1962-PRESENT) PLAYED IN THE NFL FROM 1985-1993.  HIS NICKNAME WAS IN REFERENCE TO HIS ENORMOUS SIZE, 6 FOOT 2 AND 335 POUNDS.  BILL DERRY WAS NO ATHLETE AND WASN'T NEARLY THAT BIG...STILL THE NAME FIT.

Like William Perry (above) Bill Derry had an engaging, upbeat personality.  So, he never let petty barbs get in the way of his cash flow.

It's hard to believe that Bill's life-of-the-party spirit could ever get more robust but it did when his third vice kicked in...drinking. Derry was famous for leading hordes of people, after to work, to his favorite watering holes, (maybe he was getting a cut from bar owners too)?  Bill was usually the first to order a round for everyone...even for the leeches who never bought anyone else a drink.

BILL WAS PARTIAL TO CHASING JAMESON SHOTS WITH HEINEKEN.

Bill held his liquor well and was never out of control.  But when he was well-lubricated, he was usually an easy touch for any sponge that had a family or health crisis.  Even at work, he was generous and likely to volunteer a donation to a bad situation or to help celebrate wedding and baby showers, special birthdays, retirees etc.

In support of Derry, he had a live-in girlfriend Reiko "Rico" Dunlap.  A blackjack dealer in our high action baccarat pit, Rico was a forty-year old divorcee, originally from Indonesia.  She combined a delicate femininity with an exotic look and raw sexuality.  Rico's flirtatious, outgoing nature and years of experience dealing in Las Vegas made her a toke (tip) earning magnet; as she made many high-rollers think they had a romantic shot with her.  Even our jet-setter coworkers who tried to woo her with their self-professed machismo and offers of cocaine were gently turned down.  On the job, there were always gossip-mongers and jealous haters but not a single, decent person I knew doubted her fidelity.

On a rare occasion, Rico spent her break at work alone.  She had a way of sitting in a booth with her legs tucked under her body and putting on a pouty, I need male companionship face.  This stance always caught my attention and made me think she was posing for a nudie magazine.

(Stock Photo) AT FORTY, RICO WAS A FANTASY MACHINE.  IT WOULDN'T SURPRISE ME IF SHE LOOKED LIKE THIS WHEN SHE WAS TWENTY.

Together Bill and Rico were the ultimate power couple.  Even though he was obese and she was nearly perfect, these soul mates were always on the same page.  Their public shows of affection didn't occur often however the sexual chemistry between them was obvious. More importantly, this odd couple was most amazing when their sizzling gift of gab was channeled to satisfy their thirst for money, (he often bragged how they double-teamed a New York businessman, to solidify the Chinatown to Atlantic City casino bus junkets).

I bet everyone who knew them were at least a little envious.  But there were red flags that should have been a clue to underlying problems. Bill and Rico lived in a crumby apartment in Pleasantville and shared an unimpressive, eight-year old sedan.  The reason why they lived like that and never went on vacation...was Bill's fourth vice.

EVEN ON THE DAY IT WAS INTRODUCED, THE CHRYSLER LeBARON WAS NEVER A COOL CAR!

It was so out of character that Bill drove such a beaten-down, boring car. Far worse was the comical contradiction that when that hunk-of-junk was in the shop, he drove around in a little, yellow nursery school-sized bus with Pennsylvania license plates, (which was probably supplied through his dad's influence).

I REMEMBER HOW SHOCKED I WAS THE FIRST TIME I SAW BILL PULL INTO THE EMPLOYEE LOT IN THAT LITTLE, YELLOW SCHOOL BUS.  BUT I WASN'T SHARP ENOUGH TO IMAGINE THE SYMBOLIC RELEVANCE OF SUCH A COOL GUY, DRIVING A GOD-AWFUL LeBARON AND HAVING A NURSERY SCHOOL  BUS... IMPORTED FROM PENNSYLVANIA...AS A BACK-UP. 

At that time, New Jersey casino workers weren't permitted to gamble in Atlantic City. So Bill feverishly entered into negotiations with the elders at the Foxwoods Casino, to bus his gambling deprived New Jerseyians to the Nutmeg State.

BEFORE FOXWOODS OPENED IN 1986,  NEW JERSEY CASINO LICENSE HOLDERS HAD TO GO TO LAS VEGAS TO GAMBLE...OR THEY STAYED IN ATLANTIC CITY AND WORE OUTLANDISH DISGUISES TO DIMINISH THE POSSIBILITY OF GETTING CAUGHT.  NATURALLY, THE REALLY RIDICULOUS GET-UPS DREW MORE ATTENTION TO THE KNUCKLEHEAD TRYING TO KEEP A LOW PROFILE.

One of our pit bosses heard that Derry was trying to make a deal with the Indians and said, "In the mean time, you and Rico should come up to Connecticut with us and take a shot."  Bill said, "No way!  It's okay for my customers to work forty hours a week in a casino and then drive three hours each way on their days off...just to spend more time in one..."  The boss said, "Yeah but..."  Bill interrupted, "Me gambling in a casino would be like a Greyhound driver going on vacation by bus."

The hidden truth was Bill was already addicted to gambling but not on table games.  He was a glutton for punishment through bookies.  His first love were the ponies but during football and basketball season and to a lesser extent baseball, this sports betting vice trumped all three of his other shortcomings.

Bill did a great job keeping this weakness secret. So despite his outward generosity when he had money, he was overwhelmingly broke.  He was caught in a trap, riding a roller coaster lifestyle with more down cycles than up.  Far worse, later it became known that his father's wish to permanently retire was hampered by having to bail his son out from strong-armed collectors.

While waiting for the contracts with Foxwoods to be finalized, Bill and Rico got the idea of brokering a cruise.  They found out that while plenty of people would go to Connecticut by bus, others with more discerning taste were willing to cough-up big bucks to do something colossal and unique with a group of friends...that included legally gambling, out at sea. Bill figured they'd get a volume discount from the cruise ship, give his customers a perceived deal while getting a commission for each cabin filled.  In the end, they would get paid, to take a free vacation.

At that time, (December 1991), Bill's friend, (a shift manager from his former job), told him that corporate lawyers had forced his old casino to officially ban Super Bowl box pools on the property. Bill's mind went into hyper-drive while his buddy blithered on about the usual yaddy-yada phrases like, "disciplinary action up to and including termination."  Bill realized, in the past, upper management in Atlantic City turned a blind eye to these illegal, but highly publicized pools, (for different, yet modest amounts).

Bill mulled this information and recalled that some Wall Street, executives have a Super Bowl box pool with a million-dollars at stake.   That's when he hatched the idea for his own exclusive Super Bowl pool that would net him a free chance to make; $30,000.00, $15,000.00, $7,500.00 or a combination of those amounts.

Derry's Atlantic City Super Bowl box pool would be the biggest in town, EVER!  At a cost of $600.00 per box, he would create $60,000.00 in prize money, (there were a hundred boxes), Bill got the word out to every casino in Atlantic City. Like wildfire, the news spread quickly even beyond the casinos.

At first, the payments came in slowly.  But Bill took no chances on friends or strangers and extended no credit.  All through January, while the NFL playoff tournament played-out, gamblers, (some weren't even football fans) came out of the woodwork to meet privately with Bill, pay up and pick a box.

A BOX POOL IS UNLIKE BETTING ON A SPECIFIC TEAM.  EVERYONE HAS AN EQUAL CHANCE BECAUSE THE WINNERS ARE ARBITRARILY DETERMINED BY THE LAST NUMBER OF EACH TEAM'S SCORE.  THE POOL STARTS WITH A TEN-BY-TEN GRID OF EMPTY BOXES.  THE TEAM DESIGNATED AS THE HOME TEAM IS WRITTEN ACROSS THE TOP. THE VISITOR IS WRITTEN ON THE SIDE.  BEFORE THE NUMBERED SEQUENCES ARE ESTABLISHED, THE BUYER SELECTS A RANDOM BOX. .

To avoid getting in trouble, fictitious names are used in the boxes to protect the participants from incriminating them self. Some of the encrypted identities are simple initials but more creative ones include; nicknames (Ice-Pick), cute phrases (Dead and Buried), favorite teams, (Vikings #1), home towns, (The Nutley Nuisance) or toilet humor (Sir Farts A Lot) and of course perverted ones, (Opti-Lingis).

Bill created his own conversion chart that included his customers encoded names, real names and phone number. When the next to last box was filled, Bill took the last one for himself, (he fronted the money but it was a freebie because the winners always tipped the organizer).

In the past, for other people's box pools, Bill used, "Bonnie and Clyde."  But for his own, he merely wrote,"72," (a sarcastic reference to William "The Refrigerator" Perry's uniform number).

Most everyone at work knew where Bill's dumpy apartment was.  So as a precaution against theft, he told people, in confidence, that his father was holding the $60,000.00, in Pennsylvania.  The reality was, the money was in a Neimann Marcus boot box, in his bedroom closet.  To insure a quick and efficient delivery, he had separated the jackpots into two packets of $7,500.00 and one each of $15,000.00 and $30,000.00.

A few days before the big game, a ceremonial meeting took place to establish the positioning of the all-important numbers.  To do this, twenty playing cards are used from a normal deck, (specifically the ace through ten of a black suit {spades} and the ace through ten of a red suit, {diamonds}).  To avoid any hint of cheating or collusion, these cards are "washed," "riffled," "shuffled" and cut, (note the box pool sample above, it identifies the sequence of the cards and placement of the numbers for that pool).

The winners are determined by the last number of score after the first quarter, halftime, the end of the third quarter and the final score.  Like the old board game, "BATTLESHIP," if you search where the two numbers meet, you'll find the winner's name.

HASBRO'S "BATTLESHIP" USES LETTERS AND  NUMBERS TO FIND IT'S TARGET, (THEREFORE, "B-6"  WOULD BE AN EXCELLENT SELECTION TO SINK YOUR RIVAL'S BATTLESHIP).  THE SUPER BOWL POOL USES RED AND BLACK  NUMBERS TO DETERMINE ITS WINNERS.

So instead of sinking enemy war ships, by using the box pool grid (scroll up), you can see that "RS" was the first quarter winner because the Patriots (red) had 7 and the Giants (blue) had 3.  If the score at halftime was Patriots 10 and the Giants 3, that would explain why "BB" won.  If the score was Patriots 24 and Giants 17 after three quarters you can see why "BA" won.  If the final score was Giants 27, Patriots 24...then "BA" would have won the third quarter prize as well as the grand prize final score, (because the Patriot stayed on 4 and the Giants added ten points and remained on 7).

If that grid represented Bill's pool, "RS" would have won $7,500.00 for the first quarter.  "BB" would have won $15,000.00 for halftime.  And "BA" would have won $7,500.00 plus the $30,000.00 bonanza.

On Sunday January 26, 1992, the actual Super Bowl for Bill's pool featured the Washington Redskins and Buffalo Bills.  I had to work that night but Bill and Rico were off.  In a party-like atmosphere, Bill arranged a free buffet at a bar in Egg Harbor Township which drew a crowd of participants, their friends and curiosity seekers from work.

On one of my breaks during the early second quarter, the game was tied at zero. I was sitting next to roulette floorman Jimmy Hu.  He pointed at the Xerox sheet that Bill Derry provided with all the boxes and numbers and said, "I got the shittiest numbers."  Hu showed me the 8-8 box that had his coded name, "WHO'S ON FIRST." He added, "I got no shot."  When I shrugged he pointed at 0-0 and said, "Do you know 'GIRL POWER,' he won the $7,500.00 first quarter."

The halftime score was Washington Redskins 17 and Buffalo Bills 0.  So whoever "JELLO-n-MILK" was, they had black, zero and red, seven and won $15,000.00.

The score after three quarters was Washington 31 and Buffalo 10 that made a $7,500.00 winner out of "GOOFY AND PLUTO."

I wasn't involved with betting on the game so to me it was a dull blow-out. Towards the end, I was sitting on break next to a pit boss.  He was silent as we watched the game's last few minutes dwindle. When the Bills scored what seemed like a meaningless touchdown, the score became 37-23. A crazy bolt of electricity shot through him.  I asked, "Are you okay?"  He whispered, "If Norwood kicks this extra point..."  He took out his Xerox pool sheet and showed me the box where the red 7 box, met the black 4 box...it read: "COL. STINK-FINGER."  He said, "Then, if there is isn't any more scoring...I win thirty grand!"  I said, "What if he misses?"  He gave me a dirty look, found the red 7, black 3 coordinate and murmured, "Then this, 'BRAIN DONOR NEEDED,' guy wins."

I wasn't on his shit list long because the kick was good and the scoring was over.

Meanwhile, twenty miles away at Bill's Super Bowl party, everyone in the bar was begging Bill for Col. Stink-Finger's identity.  Bill never noticed during the game but Rico kept handing him phantom Jameson shots that she bought.  He was still in control but he was noticeably drunk as he announced who the big winner was.

Lost in the excitement, Rico got in Bill's LeBaron and went home.  An hour later, Bill didn't need to be a detective to figure out why Rico and his car were missing.  He got in a taxi and sped home.  He was relieved to see his car out front.  But the apartment was empty and so was the boot box with $60,000.00.

It was the perfect crime.  Bill couldn't involve the police.  He correctly assumed that she would be abandoning her job so complaining to his employer would only jeopardize his position.

In desperation, Bill called every casual friend Rico had. He questioned coworkers and came up empty. He realized the only people out-of-town that she was in contact with was a cousin and her family, a girlfriend (Nadine) and Reggie Dunlap, her ex-husband...all of whom lived in Las Vegas.

On Wednesday afternoon Bill Derry landed in Vegas. He knew the address and the casinos where Rico's cousin and her friend Nadine lived and worked in.  Bill staked-out Rico's cousin's house and accosted her in the street.  He was so angry the innocent girl cried.  He believed that she hadn't seen or heard from Rico.

Nadine dealt blackjack at the Frontier Casino.  When he got there, a pit boss said, "She called out yesterday and today."  Bill went to Nadine's apartment.  He sat on a park bench across the street for hours until Rico and her friend came home.  They were each carrying several bags each from high-end department stores.  He timed his approach that he came upon them as the front door opened.  He forced his way inside.  A violent argument started.  Bill searched the guest room as the girlfriend screamed for help.  Bill said, "Go ahead, call the fuckin' cops too."  The girl stopped yelling as Bill found a treasure trove of cash. He knew that he had carefully packaged the money so he could see at a glance that a big chunk was missing.

"Where's the rest of it?"  Rico snarled, "I spent it...it's gone."  He readied a backhand slap but Rico defiantly, stood still, eyes open and awaited the blow.  Bill stopped himself. He grabbed up as many shopping bags as he could.  At the door he threw them down in futility.  He was about to tell Rico that he loved her as Nadine lashed out in a profanity laced tirade.  Rico cut her friend off and softly said, "'Fridge,' be happy with what you have and go."  Bill stood frozen in disbelieve for several seconds.  He reflected on the biggest fights in their gambling, codependent relationship and that she never called him by any form of his hated nickname.  Defeated, without speaking, he slunk away.

On the flight home, Bill regretted not going through Rico's purse. He came back to New Jersey $22,000.00 short. He made five phone calls. The last four was to inform the pool winners that he would pay them in full...in installments.  The first call was to tell his father why he needed so much more money. Now, twenty-three years later, I wonder if the senior Mr. Derry ever got to fully enjoy retirement.

THE RETURN OF STEVE THE SLEEVE

In August 1982, the Las Vegas Golden Nugget Casino hired me as a craps dealer. I was lucky that Nick Tucker, a fellow student of mine from the New York School of Gambling, (in 1978), dealt craps there too. Tucker took me under his wing, introduced me to people and showed me the ropes.

IN THE BACKYARD OF MY CANFIELD DRIVE CONDO, NOBODY WAS MORE MONDO BOFFO THAN ME DURING MY GOLDEN NUGGET CAREER, (1982-1984).

The Nugget was unique, in that it had no help's hall.  By not providing the staff with an eating facility, everyone was free to leave the building to eat...or whatever they pleased.

Nick said, "This free pass policy seems like a good idea but it leads to temptation, problems and trouble.  A lotta guys (girls too) do drugs or drink, get messed up and lose their job." 

I reminded Nick that I got my foot in the door when a dealer vanished in the middle of his shift, (vice detectives arrested him at the adult bookstore around the corner), after he stuck his penis through a "glory hole," (to be orally satisfied by an unseen solicitor on the other side of the wall).  

Nick was suggesting where to eat as we were about to leave the Nugget. We agreed on a burger from the Horseshoe Casino snack bar, (across the street).  We still had the strength of the Nugget's air-conditioning on our backs as the triple-digit desert swelter hit us in the face. Suddenly, as we stepped outside, Paul Proctor an old man blackjack dealer from the Nugget jostled Nick as he stormed past us, (Proctor was about sixty.  Oops, old man? That's how old I am now). 

Fremont Street was teeming with cars, (way before it became the Fremont Street Experience...see below...a canopied, pedestrian-only thoroughfare). 

NICK AND WERE CROSSING BETWEEN THE GOLDEN NUGGET SIGN AND THE BIG "B" (BINION'S HORSESHOE).  DON'T LET THE CANOPY, FOOL YOU,  THIS PICTURE IS OUTSIDE!  IN MY DAY,  FREMONT STREET WAS FILLED WITH CARS.  ON WEEKENDS, LOCAL TEENS CRUISED UP AND DOWN THAT SAME STREET (above) TILL THE WEE HOURS OF THE MORNING.

Paul Proctor hustled out into traffic and dodged between taxis. Suddenly, four uniformed Golden Nugget security guards and one plain-clothes supervisor rushed past Nick and I. They caught up with Proctor as he reached the opposite curb.

     

Like the wild west, women started screaming as the officers unprofessionally drew their weapons.  The supervisor was readying handcuffs as he ordered, “Empty your pockets!”  

In seconds, Nick and I were in a mob of curiosity seekers that encircled the performance. I was five feet from Proctor as he grudgingly turned out his pants pockets. All he had was; a money clip with eight dollars, some coins, a comb and a key-ring.

     Proctor innocently shrugged, “You must have me confused with someone else.”

     The stone-faced supervisor said, “Breast pocket.”

     Proctor pretended to be surprised as he patted his shirt pocket and said, "Geez."  He gulped and forced a laughed as he produced three, green Golden Nugget chips and two reds, ($85.00). “Goddammit fellas," he groaned, "I forgot to drop these tokes.”

Proctor was cuffed.  The supervisor leered at Nick and I, "He wasn't stealing company money...that was YOUR tips." Together with his posse, the plainclothesman prodded the perpetrator, for his walk of shame, back into our casino.

Nick jabbed me in the ribs, “See what I mean, drugs, booze and stealing.  That asshole was going to drop the stash off in his car and come back for another load. Lord knows how long he was doing that shit. Strange things happen when they let weak people come and go.”  I said, "Wow."  Nick sighed, "After security gets done with him, I bet he accidentally falls down the same cement staircase ten times in a row.  While he's in the hospital, they'll make him sign a waiver."  I said, "Waiver?"  He said, "Yeah, like a trade off.  That way he doesn't risk jail, in exchange for not suing them.  Either way, we’ll never see that prick again.”

Whether Nick's assertion was true or not, Vegas had an unwritten law against stealing from casinos due to the implied (real?) existence of organized crime.  So unless you were especially desperate or thought you were smarter than everyone else...the casinos were rarely victimized, (certainly ol' Paul Procter thought he was being clever by robbing the dealers instead of management).

Three years earlier, after six months experience dealing craps in Las Vegas, I got my first taste of conniving people who thought they were smarter than everyone else.

At 5:AM, on my way home from work, (the Holiday International Casino),my car was sideswiped, (a hit and run), on Interstate-10.  I was hit so hard, I lost control near Sahara Avenue and crashed, knocking over a light pole, (you may recall my April 1, 2013 blog, "THE SHORT LIFE OF THE MAFIA STAFF CAR."  In it, I described how that accident totaled my $385.00 used car and broke my hand).

I came to work the next day in a cast.  I had a good relationship with my pit boss (Paul "Shag" Darrow) and asked if they would hold my job while I healed, (seven weeks).  He excused himself.  Ten minutes later he returned and said, "It's all fixed, you'll work here."  I said, "Doing what?"  "You're a dealer, right?"  I said, "Yeah.  So I'll operate the Big Six wheel?"  He said, "You're a craps dealer."  I said, "I'll sit box? (supervise)" Shag said, "No, you're a craps dealer, you'll deal craps."  And I did.  Shag did say if anyone ever objected that he'd move me...but no one complained, (last week was my 36th anniversary in the gaming industry and I never saw or heard of anyone else dealing craps with their hand in a cast).

SUMMER 1979.  THE ONLY PICTURE OF ME WITH THE CAST.

The only cast-related problem I had was end the end of my first night.  The pit boss and other supervisors from the next shift (graveyard) relieved my bosses.  On my way out, I was intercepted by the six-foot-six graveyard pit boss John Garrison and his toady lead floorman, Mackey Jones.  

Garrison said, "Hey Jonesy, how many greens ($25.00 chips), you think he can you stuff in that cast?"  I was naive and thought they were kidding.  Mackey lifted my cast, stared me down and said, "We better keep an eye on Steve the Sleeve."

A sharp person would have been insulted...I was intimidated. The whole time in the cast, I exaggerated, "clearing my hands" before touching my body, to prove I wasn't putting chips in my cast or up my sleeve. 

A few days later, my closest friend "Ciro the Hero" told me about his friend's friend, Mike "Mooks" Mamoukian.  Mooks was a likable dope who months earlier had worked with Garrison and Jones.  Ciro's tale was chilling, (for a fuller version of Mike Mamoukian's story, read my June 24, 2013 blog, "MULTIPLE MOOKS.")

Mamoukian was from Buffalo New York and been a strip club bouncer.  His scary face was covered by occupational hazard scars.  But because he regularly ran afoul of his criminal employer, (unpaid debts and insubordination), they "owned" him.  As a testament of their hold on him and his unwillingness to, "get with the program," his mangled hands and gnarled fingers looked like they were twisted and broken a gazillion times. 

MOOKS' FINGERS, KNUCKLES AND HANDS REMINDED ME OF NFL HALL-OF-FAMER CHUCK "CEMENT CHARLIE" BEDNARIK'S, (above). BEDNARIK (1925-PRESENT), PLAYED FROM 1949-1962.  HE WAS THE LAST NFLer TO REGULARLY "GO BOTH WAYS", (PLAY ENTIRE GAMES, CENTER ON OFFENSE AND LINEBACKER ON DEFENSE).  HIS DISFIGURED HANDS ARE A RESULT OF RIVALS WHO TRIED TO CRIPPLE HIM IN PLAYER PILE-UPS.

Mooks knew he had no life in Buffalo.  When he saw an opportunity to break his cycle of abuse, he not only fled to Las Vegas but he virtually kidnapped Maria, a kindred spirit dancer.

Eventually, Mooks became a craps dealer at the Holiday International.  But between his lack of intelligence and inability to handle chips, his coworkers labeled him; the worst dealer in Vegas.  One day John Garrison took him aside and said, "Mike, not everyone is cut-out to be a craps dealer."  Mooks took a deep breath in the expectation that he was getting fired.  

Mooks reflected on his heavy responsibility, supporting Maria. As ugly as Mooks was, that's how beautiful this illegal refugee from Estonia was.  In the late 1970's, while the Cold War was still going strong, her family paid a heavy price to smuggle her (alone) into the country. Unfortunately, once here, the unscrupulous broker sold her like chattel to the strip club owner.  While working in his club's kitchen, Maria was duped into using heroine.  Once addicted, this lonely, non-English speaking, flawless beauty became enslaved as a topless dancer and prostitute.

John Garrison interrupted Mooks' daydream about his platonic relationship with Maria, "Mike, did you hear me?"  Mooks said, "Heh?" Garrison huffed, "I said, dealing craps is not for everyone.  But I can see you're a bright, decent guy who may be better suited to help our company in a management position."  Mooks scratched at his uni-brow and nodded. Garrison said, "I just got a promotion and I think with your people skills, you'd do a bang-up job replacing me as the graveyard craps pit boss."   

In the blink of an eye, moronic Mooks had gone from thinking he was unemployed to doubling his salary.

The reality was, Mooks was set-up to be a patsy.  While getting wined and dined, respected and appreciated, he was getting indoctrinated to be a fall-guy.  Between lavish meals and personalized hostess service on the casino floor, Mooks was inundated with providing his "John Hancock." The new position was exciting and he felt important, (in his private time, he even practiced his signature).  So there was little chance he'd do anything to jeopardize the bonanza he fell upon.

The casino had the least customers in the overnight hours. So someone with Mooks' intellect wouldn't think twice why he was bombarded with signing mostly bogus paperwork, (for the floor waxing team to be on the casino floor, clearance for the exterminator , overhead light bulbs to be replaced, memos approving new dealer aprons, the master attendance sheets and more).  What he definitely never picked up on was that all these signatures and initials came at the same time as fills, (fresh casino chips to replenish a table's bank).

On his third day, Mooks was distracted with a new, more complex version of the attendance sheet.  Mackey Jones shoved the fill slip (receipt for the chips), in Mooks' face and said, "I see you're buried, sign here and I'll put the fill on the game for you."

Mooks thanked him but never counted the chips (money). This scheme worked perfectly five shifts in a row, as he signed for $500.00 that wasn't there...and was subsequently stolen by Garrison, Jones and two others.

One morning, a young, hippie-ish dealer came into the restaurant while Mooks was waiting for his stuffed veal chop at 6:00AM. The kid said, "I could be wrong because I was reading the fill slips upside down but three nights in a row, a tray of nickels (one hundred, five-dollar chips, $500.00) was missing."

Mooks dismissed the kid as he shoveled spoonfuls of shrimp bisque into his mouth.  Suddenly everything came together.  He ripped off his soup-stained napkin from the neck of his shirt and sped to John Garrison's office.

Garrison listened to Mooks accuse Mackey Jones and the boxman of plotting to rob the casino. Under his breath Garrison said, "You're smarter than you look."  Mooks took it as a compliment, smiled and said, "Well I can't take all the credit, I did have help."  Then he named his informant. Garrison said, "I want to thank you.  I'm gonna have to fire those guys...but I can't take a chance that you and that kid aren't in it with them.  You understand."

Mooks was unemployed for months until he got hired as a blackjack dealer, at the bottom of the barrel, Lady Luck Casino.At that point, Garrison, Jones and their fellow conspirators, (the boxman and the cage cashier) were still at the Holiday International when I was asked, "How many green chips could I stuff in my cast?" 

Last week, I was telling a new MGTP reader (EEBEE) about a recent scam at the Cosmopolitan Casino where a dealer was permitted by his accomplice supervisor to hand off $60,000.00 in chips to a third comrade posing as a customer, (of course these desperadoes weren't smarter than everyone else and got caught).

EEBEE countered, "I just saw on the Travel Channel a casino stealing device called the 'sleeve.' It looks like a big, plastic twist-off cap from a water bottle."  

UNLIKE THE SMALL TWIST-OFF CAPS, (above), THE NEARLY UNDETECTABLE "SLEEVE" IS CLEAR, SPECIALLY MADE OF A NON-REFLECTIVE MATERIAL AND HAS NO LINES OR GROOVES.

The sleeve is deep and wide enough to jam five standard casino chips in.  To start the process, an actual five-dollar chip from that casino is pushed to the bottom and brought onto the table by a roulette dealer.  The dealer secretly squeezes four, one-hundred dollar chips into the bottom of the sleeve.  The camera above sees a typical pile of five, red chips.  The sides of the sleeve are painted red to match the wall of the chips.

The dealers accomplice makes bets of five red chips on an even money bet, (odd-even or black-red).  When it loses, the team is out $25.00 .  When it wins, they get four hundred, hidden under a five-dollar chip, (an undeserved $380.00).

EEBEE and I discussed the obvious shortcoming of such a scam. Primarily, a halfway sharp supervisor would notice the shortage in hundred dollar chips. But if done once a night it, it could work. Maybe even once an hour as the sleeve is brought back after each of the dealer's breaks.  But the biggest drawback would be greed.  It might seem so easy that dastardly duo might get impatient and try to pass it back and forth several times over the table, (a new bet with the sleeve would reveal one red at the top and be otherwise empty.  It would be paid $25.00 when it won.  But when it lost, (only five dollars), the dealer would have a chance to reload it.

EEBEE said, "It was that kind of greedy bullshit that got Steve the Sleeve caught."  I said, "Where did you get that name from?"  EEBEE said, "On the show, the dealer they caught with the sleeve was named Steve.  That's what they nicknamed him."  I said, "Well, it's the return of Steve the Sleeve!  At least I'm not the only one."


Then I explained about Paul Proctor and Mooks before telling him that that thieving John Garrison and Mackey Jones had the audacity to imply that I was stuffing chips in my cast and calling me, Steve the Sleeve.

EPILOGUE:

In 2009, I saw "Ciro the Hero" for the last time, (that's when he became "Ciro the Zero"...but that's a story for another time).  

He told me that Mooks was paranoid for a long time about his old strip club bosses ordering a hit on him so they could recover their property, (Maria). Considering that the schmuck told strangers he was from Buffalo and never changed his name (there can't be too many Mamoukians out there), it's a miracle the baddies never caught up with him. 

Ciro said, "Mooks might have been an imbecile but he was a champ, the way he cared for Maria while she was going cold-turkey," (I saw her once in 1979 and she seemed catatonic before I found out why). 

Ciro said, "Mooks was all she had.  They fell in love. Twenty years ago, I was a witness at their courthouse wedding.  The first thing Mooks did was contact her family.  They had no idea what happened to her and assumed she was dead. Then as a honeymoon, he took Maria back to Estonia."

Mooks is still dealing blackjack in some dive casino downtown and Maria has a big pit boss job on the strip.  Having nothing to do with why he's now "Ciro the Zero," Ciro wouldn't tell me where they were working.

LOOKING LIKE ENZO STUARTI IS NO INSULT!

The 1968 New York City teacher’s strike prolonged summer vacation to a gazillion kids throughout the five boroughs. But this joyful boon did not filter down to everyone.  To me, it was one of the all-time biggest wastes of time.

A major factor why I didn't profit from the extra free time was, my mother. Way before I was thirteen, mom's knack for making me want to go to school started with a torturous mid-winter tradition on Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthdays or the odd snow day.  Instead of frolicking with friends, those "holidays" were reserved for the worst household jobs imaginable.

My dad worked on holidays and mom didn't drive so we were stuck in the house. That meant, from the time I was in first grade, Lincoln’s Birthday was a mandatory cleaning of my room day...or as she put it, “a command performance.”  Even as my age advanced through adolescence and into the early stages of puberty, this Herculean chore was a minimum, two hours of intense awfulness. 

Right after breakfast, mom would remind me that was pissed because my room looked like Yucca Flats after the blast. The death march upstairs was accompanied by her words of confidence.

YUCCA FLATS NEVADA (STARTING IN NOVEMBER 1951) WAS THE SITE OF AMERICA'S FIRST ABOVE GROUND NUCLEAR BOMB TEST.  (above) FROM 65 MILES AWAY, A MUSHROOM CLOUD CAN BE SEEN FROM DOWNTOWN LAS VEGAS.

Mom's words of praise were really a ploy to manipulate me into thinking the job was fun and easy. For the first fifteen minutes, I was indeed motivated to do well and please her.  But there would be obstacles. While I was feebly toiling, it didn't take much to distract me.  Mom's unexpected drop-ins resulted in a lack of progress with me playing with a toy that had been lost for months under the rubble.  If mom’s ire was ignited, she became a hollering hurricane.  So when she caught me lollygagging, it was like switching on an industrial-sized scream machine. 

By the time I was eight, as unsophisticated as I was, I knew the importance of being certain that my foray into cleanliness was complete before proclaiming that the task was done. Nevertheless, there was a big difference between Stevie clean and mommy clean!  Under mom's drill sergeant scrutiny it was a guarantee that she would unearth evidence of laziness and poor workmanship. I don't know how she did it without a divining rod but she sensed where I crammed an emergency Twinkie, tucked some army men under the legs of my bureau or left my all-important baseballs cards under a textbook on the desk.  Upon identifying my failures, I was “encouraged” to return to the scene of the crime, (this unfortunate scenario usually played out more than once).

Lunch on Lincoln’s Birthday was nirvana. On days like this, the usual brown-bagged, oil-soaked tuna sandwich that disintegrated when exposed to my school cafeteria’s atmosphere was replaced by heavenly chicken noodle soup and a grilled cheese with tomato...washed-down by a sweet chocolate milk. 

I HAVEN'T HAD GOODMAN'S CHICKEN SOUP IN OVER  FORTY YEARS, (BACK THEN, ITS BLUE BOX FEATURED A LOGO OF A CHICKEN IN A CHEF'S HAT).  ASSUMING THE RECIPE IS THE SAME,  IT WAS DELICIOUS AND BETTER THAN MY MOM'S HOMEMADE, GRANDMA'S OR ANY RESTAURANT.

Unfortunately, I was never the sharpest tool in the shed, so while I was in this orgasmic food stupor, I always forgot there was a “second game of the doubleheader.”  

What I overlooked was that the entire afternoon would be dedicated to organizing my closet. By the time this realization was realized, I was a broken man.  Whatever meager momentum I might have had was gone. So while feeling bad for myself, I typically made the mistake of pouting and making off-color remarks.  Mom’s response to my childish rebuttals made the heinous, dreadfulness...into argument-filled drudgery.   

Of course the worst was yet to come because a week later, Washington’s Birthday was a purgatory-like affair reserved for restoring order to the lost continent, of my basement.  This all-day cruel and unusual punishment was overwhelmingly my own fault because every year, I turned our lower floor into my own wild kingdom…that others might call a hoarder’s paradise.

So by the time the teacher’s strike postponed the start of eighth grade, I had in the back of my mind that mom might occupy my added leisure time with detestable outdoor projects.  I imagined her warm weather command performance might include; excavating the dead apple tree in the backyard, climbing a two-story ladder to remove the leaves from the gutters and painting our cyclone (chain-link) fence, (mom was partial to silver).

MY MOTHER HAD A LINE RESERVED FOR TAKING OUT THE TRASH.  SHE'D STARE ME DOWN AND SAY, "SOMEBODY BETTER TAKE OUT THE GARBAGE! ISN'T THAT RIGHT MR. SOMEBODY?" OUR CHAIN-LINK FENCE WAS PAINTED EVERY MILLION YEARS WHETHER IT NEEDED IT OR NOT.  SO I KNEW THE DAY WAS OVERDUE FOR HER TO SAY TO ME, "SOMEBODY BETTER PAINT THE CYCLONE FENCE..."

Leave it to my mother to be a step ahead of me.  She found out that despite the strike, a skeleton crew of administrators were keeping John Wilson Junior High, (my school) open.  My first instinct was school was better than being an indentured servant digging out the corpse of a thirty-foot apple tree. That's why I willingly accepted the lesser of two evils and went to school. While every kid I knew was getting an extended summer, me and three percent of the John Wilson student body was sitting without air-conditioning, every day, in the sparsely populated auditorium.

THE ADJACENT, PRISTINE PLAYGROUND SHOT FROM INSIDE JOHN WILSON,  (FALL 1960).  SEVEN YEARS LATER WHEN I ENTERED THE SCHOOL THAT PARK HAD BEEN VANDALIZED BY DRUGGIES WITH EVERY BENCH, SWING AND SEESAW BROKEN AND THE ADMINISTRATION BUILDING BURNED TO THE GROUND.

For those of us being held hostage because of the teachers strike, it was obvious that the powers-that-be were out of touch. They had us watching hygiene films, being indoctrinated into the propaganda of “living right” or getting scholastic lessons that few of those seventh, eighth and ninth graders could relate to.

 

At one point, some genius realized that the natives were getting restless and losing brain cells by being cooped up.  So to improve our minds while entertaining us, this moron thought it was a good idea to dust off, (for the pleasure of their captive audience), a documentary on the Holocaust.  Within a short time, many of the more immature kids were shocked or sickened.  Some screamed and cried until the film was shut off. The absurdity and lack of intelligence behind this poor choice boggles my mind to this day. 

These idiots weren't done yet. They parlayed the insanity by showing us the most depressing “kid-friendly” movie they could find, “OLD YELLER.”  At different times, we all lost interest and stopped watching.  I bet a lot of those kids who weren't aware that hallucinogenics were readily available from the assholes who took over the playground were contemplating jumping off the roof.  More importantly, the two poor girls who clapped at the end of the film, (because they actually followed the plot long enough to find out it had a happy ending), were met with a scornful tongue-lashing by a suit (the assistant superintendent), because the actors weren't there to appreciate the applause.

From that day forward, they showed a lot of cartoons.

All my friends' parents were sharp enough to recognize that this free, six-hour baby-sitting service was less than worthless.  Slowly, the amount of kids attending this ridiculousness lessened. I know this because I never missed a friggin' day, (in June, at the end of the term, I won the Best Attendance Award…lucky me).  That "showing-up at all costs" mentality has followed me because in my current job, I have four call-outs and missed a week twice for medical procedures…in twenty-five years…which has earned me over twenty “Perfect Attendance” certificates.

The Internet says that New York City teachers strike lasted until November 17, 1968 and that schools were closed for thirty-six days, (I would have guessed only three weeks).

During that bullshit time in “school,” one could say: when life comes up all lemons, make lemonade. So while being “incarcerated,” I made new friends.  John “J.D.” Martino and Ray Watt were not my standard issue type friends but I was glad to have them…and we stayed tight for two years.

My new friends were not into sports. I proved it when I referred to the Abbott and Costello, "Who's on first" comedy routine by saying, "Watt's on second."  Ray Watt claimed he didn't know Abbott and Costello and didn't think my rendition of this comedy classic was funny. But J.D. and Ray's allure was well-timed with me out-growing the fraidy-cat, do as you parents say, kids on my street.  

Ray and J.D. were progressive, adventuresome and fun (in a non-criminal way).  So I was able to make quantum leaps towards adulthood with simple unsupervised things like seeing movies, going for pizza or long walks to nowhere.

J.D. even had a job.  On Canarsie’s Rockaway Parkway near Glenwood Road, he made deliveries on a bicycle for a salameria, (a sausage shop but more specifically an Italian butcher).

ON A SIMILAR BIKE, J.D. WORKED FOR PEANUTS BUT HE WAS THE ENVY OF EVERY KID IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD.

On my way back and forth to my dentist, (Dr. Reiss on Farragut Road), I dropped in on J.D. at work. He gave me full rock-star access to the bowels of the store.  While some people may have been disgusted by the odor of the animal fat, the sight of carcasses and recognizable cow and pig body parts, I was amazed.  However, I didn't like seeing animal bones and was reminded of the Holocaust when they were thrown willy-nilly into the “fat truck.”

I TURNED AWAY, THE FIRST TIME I SAW THE FAT TRUCK.  APPARENTLY THE BONES AND FAT ARE BOUGHT-UP BY A SEPARATE ENTITY AND RECONSTITUTED TO MAKE SOAP AND OTHER ITEMS. I COULDN'T FIND A PHOTO ON THE INTERNET THAT CAPTURED HOW GROSS THE BONES, CHUNKS OF WET FAT AND THE OMNIPRESENT FLIES WERE...SO YOU'LL HAVE TO SETTLE FOR THIS ONE.

J.D.’s house was our meeting place.  His old world Italian parents didn't let him have friends in his room or in the gaudy, museum-like living room.  So with his mother, father or both hovering nearby, we were relegated to the basement…which curiously had a full kitchen.  I thought that was odd but there was always the great aroma of something cooking down there.  We infrequently stayed long because his austere folks never offered a smile.  So even a glass water was out of the question.  Maybe they didn't trust us or they thought Ray and I were bad influences?  Who knows, maybe there were bodies buried under the home-grown tomatoes and zucchini in their yard. Besides, we were “into” our new found freedom and wanted to get out.

In 1969, we saw movies like, "BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID" and "THE PRIME OF MISS JEAN BRODIE." In the latter, I saw a woman's breast for the first time on the silver screen. Afterwards on one of our legendary, philosophical walks to a pizza place, I voiced my pleasure over seeing bare bosoms. I was happily surprised that everyone shared my appreciation.

J.D. had contact with older boys at the butcher shop.  A week later he said, "Wanna see hundreds of tits...and maybe more stuff?"  He had Ray's and my attention as he added, "It's gonna take a couple of buses for us to get there and it's a long shot to even get in, but..."

On a Saturday afternoon we took mass transit to Kings Highway and Flatbush Avenue.  From there our adventure took us to the Marine Movie Theater on Flatlands Avenue.  In the distance we read the marquee advertising the X-RATED double-feature, "KAMA SUTRA"and "BALI HAI."

This momentous moment in my coming of age resulted in immediate excitement from my nether regions. However, that erotic feeling in my loins was tempered when J.D. said, "Even though me and Ray are taller than you, you look older.  So you have to get the tickets."  At fourteen, even if you put a handlebar mustache on my face, there was NO WAY I looked seventeen!  I refused.  I was afraid we'd all get arrested and my mother would make me clean the jail.  But Ray whined, "We didn't come all this way for nothing..."  J.D. interrupted, "You'll be our savior."  Ray said, "Just do it," as they ponied-up their money.

The lady in the ticket booth looked like a combination of; a lump of mashed potatoes that had been flung up against the wall and the froggy woman who lived across from my house.  I sheepishly approached and focused on her beehive hairdo and the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. A million ways to ask for the three tickets crisscrossed my mind as I meandered closer.  She was filing her nails as mumbled incoherently.  She looked up, put on the glasses that were hanging from a chord around her neck and stared me down.  I thought I was going to crap in my pants. Like a deer frozen by oncoming headlights, I stood dumbfounded.  I was avoiding eye-contact as she croaked, "One ticket, one dollar."  I spoke but nothing came out.  I slipped three singles through the transom, lifted three fingers and groaned, "I-I-I n-n-need three."

Inside, J.D. and Ray treated me like a hero and bought me Raisinets and a coke.

CANDY PLUS SEXY MOVIES EQUALS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE.

Later, I couldn't tell you much about the plots but I knew I never wanted to go to the movies with my parents again.  On the way home, we lustily analyzed every theatrical minute of joy.  I said, "That lady in the leopard-skin sarong should have won an Oscar."  Ray said, "She was in both movies."  I said, "No way..." Ray said,  "Didn't you see that mole on her wrist?"  J.D. said, "I don't think I would ever notice her stupid wrist if I saw those movies a thousand times."  I said, "If she was in both that proves she's a great actress because she was from India in the first and Indonesia in the second." Ray and J.D. nodded.

When we stopped for pizza I expected to maintain my heroic ticket-buyer savior status...but by then I was a mere mortal again and paid for my own.

In June 1970, the John Wilson graduation ceremony was being held at the palatial Albee Theater in downtown Brooklyn. Ray caught a ride with J.D.'s parents.  Out front, I introduced my folks to everyone.  J.D.'s mom and dad were as cold to my mom and dad as they were to me and Ray...their loss.

During that summer, I worked a lot for my father.  One day J.D. and Ray said they were hanging out. I wanted to go but it was an important day for my dad and he couldn't spare me.

Days later, I found out that Ray and J.D. did the usual nonsense but included a long walk along the Belt Parkway.

THE BELT PARKWAY, LIKE A BELT, WRAPS AROUND BROOKLYN.  ON THE EXTREME RIGHT (above) YOU CAN SEE THE MODERN PEDESTRIAN AND BICYCLE PATH.  I WAS TOO YOUNG TO REALIZE THE DANGER AND WOULD HAVE TAKEN THAT STROLL WITH J.D. AND RAY WITHOUT HESITATION  EVEN WITH TODAY'S FANCY TRAIL, YOU NEVER KNOW WHO'S LURKING THERE.

Along the way, some bastard sprang out of the bushes and mugged them.  Ray handed over some chump change.  But J.D. was a working man.  He had over twenty dollars and refused to comply. The thieving punk cold-cocked him. J.D. collapsed. The robber stood over him, threatened to kill him and demanded cash.  When J.D. turned his head to look up, blood was pouring from his left eye. The assailant fled.

J.D. had a torn cornea.  He had successful surgery but to insure a full recovery, he was forced to wear special sunglasses for weeks.  The first time I saw him I remarked, "Hey, it's Enzo Stuarti!" J.D. got offended and told me to screw myself.  Considering how we all spoke to each other, I never thought he'd be so thin-skinned to be put-off by something as vanilla as that. I said, "It's no insult to look like Enzo Stuarti." But J.D. was hurt.  He hurried away and called back at me, "My parents were right about you."

ENZO STUARTI (1919-2005) STARRED ON STAGE AND SPECIALIZED IN SINGING POPULAR ITALIAN SONGS.  WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN, I ONLY KNEW HIM AS THE RAGU SPAGHETTI SAUCE SPOKESPERSON ON TV.  HIS CATCHPHRASE WAS, "THAT'S A'NICE!"

I said to Ray, "What did his parents say about me?"  He said, "Dunno."  I said, "You know Enzo Stuarti.  He's a real good-looking guy.  I just saw him on the "MIKE DOUGLAS SHOW."  He acts on Broadway, sings Italian songs..."  Ray shrugged.  I continued, "Stuarti was an American merchant marine in World War II. He survived his ship getting sunk by a German U-Boat...the man is a freakin' hero...why would J.D. be insulted?"  Ray said, "I never heard of that Stuarti guy."  I had to believe him, he claimed that he didn't know Abbott and Costello either.  When I said, "But..."  Ray said, "He might think we wouldn't have gotten jumped if you were there." I said, "So he's blaming me?  That's too crazy!"  "Maybe he thought you were making fun of his glasses?"  I said, "Enzo Stuarti doesn't wear sunglasses.  I wasn't being mean, I was being silly."  Ray said, "Beats me."  I sighed, "Hey, when I wasn't around, were his parents nice to you?"  Ray said, "No.  They were always quiet.  I figured they were shy because their English wasn't so good."

The following September, I started my Canarsie High School career.  I made new friends and joined the football team.  Ray went to a high school in Manhattan and I never got back in touch with him.  I saw J.D. all the time in school.  He didn't show any ill effects from his eye injury but ignored me every time we crossed paths.

I never unraveled the mystery of why he severed our ties...and don't care.  But I'm glad I endured that colossal waste of time teachers strike because I would have never bonded with J.D. or Ray. And I'll always treasure the time we three hurdled towards maturity together.  But beyond that, I chalked up our short-lived friendship...as J.D.'s loss.

DON'T LET YOUR NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS BE A CROCK!

Did you ever know deep in your heart that something was wrong?  But because it was so minor, you didn't speak up...even though it was driving you crazy?

Television personality Phil "Dr. Phil" McGraw once said of New Year's resolutions, "A year from now, you're gonna weigh more or less what you do right now."  On the surface I agree that we should be comfortable in our own skin.  But on a deeper level, while it's true that we must play the cards of life that we are dealt...I think it's more important for us to evolve, improve and be a better person.

PHIL McGRAW (1950-PRESENT) IS AN AUTHOR AND  FORMER PSYCHOLOGIST.  HE IS BEST KNOWN FOR STARRING IN HIS OWN TV SHOW, "DOCTOR PHIL," SINCE 2002.


Most resolutions are a crock.  People want to feel that they are in charge of their lives and that they are willing to make sacrifices in the name of self betterment. I know because I do that too. I've made the same resolution for thirty years and sadly, little has changed. So today's blog is dedicated to my New Year's resolution to be more assertive.  The irony is, to be more assertive all you need to be is...more assertive...and somehow it never happens  But here we are three days into the new year and I have already gone the extra mile...through the miracle of FACEBOOK.  

FACEBOOK THE KING OF ONLINE SOCIAL NETWORKING WAS FOUNDED BY MARK ZUCKERBERG, AMONG OTHERS, IN FEBRUARY 2004.

First, I digress by saying that in 1975, I lent my cherished 1963 New York Mets yearbook to a close friend.  It took about a year until he returned it.  About another year after that, I leafed through it and realized that...that particular copy wasn't mine.

Shortly there after I moved to Las Vegas.  So for five more years, this impostor Mets yearbook was tucked away in my parents' attic.  In 1984, my wife and I moved back in with my folks while waiting for my New Jersey casino license to be approved.  I never stressed about yearbook but when the sports memorabilia collecting phenomena gained momentum, I made it a point to re-unite with my potential treasure, (back then, a pristine copy was worth $175.00).

The bottom line was, the stained, creased and frayed piece of junk that had been foisted upon me was in the condition that's worse than terrible and beyond poor. That translates into being a worthless collectible. BUT...bear in mind, this replacement was in far better condition than my original. Nevertheless, because it might be the single item I possess the longest, (over fifty years), it has a sentimental value that can not be put in dollars and cents.

I know now that I ruined my original by writing all-over the inside.  My graffiti included; mustaches on the players, blackened teeth, arrows through heads, Martian-like antennas, antlers and eye patches. Then with the ignorance only found in the under ten-year old crowd, I misspelled (with horrid penmanship) such pre-profanity phrases as, "You stink," "Trade me to the miners" and "I smell reel bad."

During the course of 1984, I had a chance meeting with that friend.  I wasn't angry about the book but would have liked some clarification.  But he was messed-up and didn't seem lucid enough for even an informal interrogation about insignificant, old news.

Afterwards I realized that if he lost it, he went through great lengths to get a replacement, (another way to identify the hoax was that different players were featured).  That meant he found a similar book and tore off the cover.  But he over looked the fact that his was a revised mid-season edition and that my issue the original.

Now thirty years later as I confront my need to be assertive, I was watching "BRAD MELTZER'S LOST HISTORY," on TV.

BRAD MELTZER (1970-PRESENT) IS AN AUTHOR.  HE HAS HOSTED A SHOW CALLED, "DECODED." ITS 23-EPISODE RUN WAS BASED ON HIM SENDING A THREE-MEMBER TEAM, (A LAWYER, JOURNALIST AND AN ENGINEER) TRAIPSING ALL OVER THE WORLD TO DECIPHER THE GREAT CRYPTIC MYSTERIES IN HISTORY.

Now his latest "LOST HISTORY" show just finished its first ten episode season.  It deals with prominent historical items that have been lost or stolen.  Crazy as it seems, the famous flag raised by the firemen on 911 is gone!  The original airplane patent the Wright Brother's filed is missing and Adolph Hitler's personal photo album hasn't been seen in decades.  Even crazier, treasures like this have been stolen and mislaid while in the custody of famous museums, our government archives and private collections. I find it fascinating that Lost History viewers are encouraged (through cash rewards) to help recover these rapidly disappearing artifacts.  It would seem impossible but some have been recovered from people's basements, warehouses, at garage sales and online.

You never could expect something like the remains of  JFK's brain to go missing. Or that someone stole George Washington's false teeth.  Or unless a new copy of the Apollo-11 moon landing video is found, the public will only see the multi-generation copy of a copy of a copy we all know, (it seems that due to budget cuts, NASA believes the only known clear copy has been erased? But experts think there are more out there).

Yesterday, a segment of Lost History intrigued me.  It had to do with authenticating the original Derringer that John Wilkes Booth assassinated Abraham Lincoln with. An anonymous tip to the show, alleged that the gun on display in Washington DC's Ford's Theater was a fake.  That a perpetrator broke into the display case and did the old switcheroo.  It was fascinating to see the time consuming, costly process of proving the gun was in fact the original.

This switcheroo...made me think of my yearbook.  But I didn't act on my need to know the truth. Then kismet was on my side that same day. While on FACEBOOK, the icon popped up, "People You May Know."  And there was my Mets yearbook friend's sister's name.  With all the assertiveness I could master, I messaged her.  It was not only the right person but she remembered me.  She thought it would be a great idea to reach out to her brother.  He doesn't use FACEBOOK.  So I sent him an E-Mail.

I concentrated on getting my foot in the door. My E-Mail was simple.  Hey how you doing.  I've been here and there.  I'm married, my son Andrew is going to be twenty-one next months etc, etc.

The second part of my plan would bring up the yearbook mystery, in a second E-Mail. Unfortunately I was remembering my friend's personality from the mid-70's.  That person would have been proud to explain the genius behind every aspect of his forgery.  Instead I got a response that screams out, I've had a tough life and I don't want to share the gory details with you.  His actual note read:"I'm glad you're okay.  Please don't E-Mail me again."

Do I get credit for being assertive?  Maybe I'll call Phil :Dr. Phil" McGraw.  But he'll probably tell me all New Year's resolutions are a crock.