Speaking of Eddie the Bookie…


One week, when it came time to pay, I was the one allotted to collect our loses and meet Eddie. I hadn’t meet him before but I had spoken to him on the phone. He would always answer the phone with his, “Yeeaahh-up?”

“Hey Eddie, I have the money, where should we meet.”

“I’ll come to you, whereabouts are you?”

I told him approximately where I lived and he agreed to come meet me in the parking lot of the convenience store right across the street from my apartment in half an hour.

“How do I know who you are?”

“I’ll be in a station wagon.”

“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

I thought to myself is that enough information “I’ll be in a station wagon"? But I’d heard Eddie had only three teeth so I figured I’d use that to identify him as well – how many people with three teeth are going to be in a station wagon in the parking lot of that particular convenience store, right?

Now, in those days, I worked the swing shift, so my mornings and early afternoons I had free. I would usually lounge around in crappy clothes until it came time to go to work. By crappy, I mean: Smelly, torn, over-worn rags. (There’s another story there for later)

At about noon, half an hour after I got off the phone with Eddie, I headed down to the parking lot, dressed like a bum, with the cash – which was a substantial looking amount, maybe about $800, all in tens and twenties – folded in my pocket.

I crossed the street and immediately saw a station wagon parked slightly away from the front of the store, off to the side. I chalked that up to a bookie being discreet, it had to be him. As I approached I started to get nervous, I mean this was illegal, I was participating in illicit gambling activities. You hear all kinds of stories, this was the mob after all. With each step I grew more apprehensive. My mouth started to get dry. I tried to wet my lips but I was parched. My palms, however, were moist with perspiration. I started to doubt myself. Would I have the courage to go up to him when I got close enough? I had to.

I was close enough to see the driver. He was alone, sitting in a relaxed manner. I got closer. He was eating an ice cream cone and reading a newspaper, his seat pushed back from the steering wheel. Another step. I was close enough now to see he was reading the sports page, it had to be him. I was too close now, committed.

I stepped to the open window, pulled the wad of cash from my pocket, flashed it to him and said desperately, “Are you Eddie?”

“Am I ready?” It was then I realized he had a full mouth of teeth.

He turned and saw me, instantly frozen in horror at the dilapidated stranger who had so openly approached him with a ton of cash and a proposition. The ice cream cone fell from his hand.

“Ready? Ready for what? Oh my God!”

He was trembling, panicky. The words hadn’t yet left his mouth before he threw the newspaper to one side, slide his seat in a rush back forward and started the car.

“I’m getting the hell out of here!”

He pulled the car back with a set of uneven jerks, switched gears and squealed out of the parking lot like he was being chased.

It wasn’t Eddie.




He pulled in about two minutes later. Thanked me for the money, “Better luck next week.” Then left.

Transaction complete.