During World War II, the draft was absolutely (well, nearly) operated without bias. Thus in a barrack at one post was a man with a master’s in math from Columbia, a wealthy fellow (how come these guys weren’t officers?) from New Mexico and a Southern teen, still eager to get back to and complete college (“collitch” his first sergeant called it), while hoping he got out of all this alive (he did).
No one, however, had the flash of Steve, a lanky, first generation Serb-American from East Chicago, Indiana.
His father ran what a mutual friend described as a “really big” pool and beer hall. In those days, East Chi was a mill town and business was good. Steve worked for his daddy as a boy but when he graduated from high school, he set out on his own.
He took his savings, borrowed several thousand from his father and bought an “inn” out in the out country of New Jersey. The place needed work. Steve hired one guy. They calked, painted, poured cement, repaired plaster walls and cleaned and cleaned.
He opened and “nothing happened.” Located an easy drive from New York, he found (don’t ask) a way to advertise in the mystifying Apple and soon thereafter got a query. “Where are you located? Is it near any city? Would you say it was secluded?”
He got a few visitors from this, but then got a call from a fellow who wanted to rent all twelve rooms. On arriving, this group was surprised there was no bar. Steve opened one that night. He began repaying his father and life looked good. The year was 1939.
Steve’s early education had included gambling . . . professionally. He could make a deck of cards sing, a pair of dice dance though he needed his own dice for the latter.
He converted office space to a game room and was caught in a cash avalanche. It was sweet. Illegitimate income always is (see Wall Street ’08).
Then one night three guys came in. They were big, had short haircuts, rough clothes and looked tough. Turns out, they were. They started a fight, an excuse for tearing up Steve’s joint. The message was: No gambling in this county that doesn’t go through The Man.
Steve checked out the damage and decided to quit the game. But first he took his dice and his quick hands to the The Man’s games in a half-dozen joints. When he’d won enough to repay his debts, he left for East Chicago.
It was the story he told me and I believe it because of his earnest confession that he “was scared to death” while trying to win back his money and get the hell out of Jersey.
He returned to East Chicago from where he joined the Army to become a moderately decorated warrior with new tales of expensive thrills.
Merely one story of this guy. |
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