Another Wednesday chronicle from my days with the Flat Rabbit Press. One thing I've noticed is that, like sales of the now defunct newspaper, readership of the blog is soaring. Thanks; I'm glad you're enjoying the ride.
Welcome back, pal.
Houston, we have a problem. I suggested in my last column that I might tell same tales from my days of collecting gambling debts, and I'll surely get started on that before long, but something else has been nagging at me. Unfortunately, when we get into the "something," I just know what it's gonna do to the esteemed editor and publisher of this gazette. I figure he'll no longer be esteemed, but just "steamed."
You see, when I save these columns to my computer, I use a file name like FRP20050731. FRP, of course, is the acronym for "FLAT RABBIT PRESS." The 2005 is for the year, 07 for the month, and 31 for the date. This methodology makes it so much easier to find files, because they line up in your index by date. That's my free computer tip for the day.
Now, back to the "FRP." It seems to me, tucked way back there in the cobwebs of my cavernous mind, that there was once-upon-a-time a comic strip where the main character, a fat old guy with a stovepipe hat, used to utter things like, "Fapppp" and "Frrrp" and such sayings in response to being caught doing or saying something wrong, or having someone go one-up on him. And, frankly, that's what's naggin' at me.
I don't think it was "MOON MULLINS," but it might have been. I know for certain that it wasn't "MICKEY FINN," or "NANCY," or "DICK TRACY," or "ALLEY OOP!" It's really bugging me. I mean, I've been sipping on grasshoppers for an hour now, and it still doesn't come to mind. By the way and as another free tip, it's so much easier to sip on grasshoppers if you spread their wings first.
So it is, my pal, that I need your help. I really need to know the answer to this most perplexing question before I venture into straight brandy, because brandy gives me the gout. If you know the answer, could you PLEASE… Oh, PLEASE LORD…. Cometh on down from your mount and layeth the answer upon my soul! CLEANSETH ME from my wicked ways and…. No, strike that last thought. I do so much admire my wicked ways.
If you know the answer, please send me an email at bullitts@frontiernet.net or drop me a postal card at PO Box 238, Burney, CA 96013 and I'll be most grateful. Or, is it "greatful?" Who cares? I'm into the brandy already. FRPPPPP! Who so evereth shall provideth me with the answerth, shalt be enterdeth into a drawingeth for a free sippeth of my brandyeth. Uh oh, dang thing's emptyeth! FAAPP!
There are sooo many stories that I can relate about collecting gambling debts. Many of them are fascinating because of the people involved. Most of them have a humorous overtone. A lot of them I can't tell, for obvious reasons.
In my day, I was the single best "phone man" in the business. Ask anyone. I collected more money on the phone than the Pope at Sunday Mass. My success was generally due to my injection of humor. My favorite line in the latter '70's was, "You ever watch ‘THE GODFATHER?'” Of course, everyone in the world had been to see that movie. "Well, unless you pay up, you're gonna' end up in bed with the OTHER end of the horse!" That single line probably collected well over a million greenbacks.
A cab driver owed the Aladdin $600 for a bad check. I had a guy working for me by the name of John. John would call the customer and meanly ask when in the hell the guy was going to pay up. The guy would consistently answer that he came in to pay last week, but that he couldn't make it past the dice tables and he'd lost the $600. John would go totally ballistic. Problem was, the dice tables were just outside the main cage where our offices were located and John couldn't understand why the guy just would not step on over and pay up.
One day, just for the heck of it, I gandered through the pit records and tallied up the customer's craps losses for the previous year. I told John, "God forbid the day that you collect that $600. It'll cost the joint $30,000 in revenue a year on the dice tables."
There was a another guy from southern California who owed the Desert Inn a lot of money for a long time. But, he'd always been a loyal customer and he and his wife had been on the splits. One day, he called me to announce that they had gotten back together and that things were going great with their business and, "Bob, thanks for bearing with me, how much do I owe?" He sent the money the very next day.
Well, we reestablished his credit line and he and his lovely wife came to see me and they gave me a very expensive knife set in gratitude. A few weeks and trips later, George called me to say that he'd like to come up as a "non-registered guest." That usually meant that the customer was playing hanky panky and didn't want anyone to know he was staying at the hotel. Of course, I accommodated his wishes.
On the day of his arrival at the Desert Inn, I received an unexpected call from his wife. "Have you seen George?" No. And, I did NOT lie! I had not seen him, yet. "Good. I'm staying across the street at the Frontier and I have, well, he's a gentleman friend of mine, and we'd like to see Frank Sinatra Jr. I've seen Wayne Newton's show so many times! Can you fix us up with that and, if you should hear from George, please don't mention I'm in town? I mean, he's in Omaha working his tail off on business and I just know he'd be angry if he knew I was in Vegas without him!"
Sure, sure, sure. And, yep! My next call was to George's room, no answer. I left a message. "Urgent you return my call." He didn't get it.
What are the odds? George and girlfriend end up in the Desert Inn's foyer on the way to see Wayne Newton at exactly the precise moment Sharron and boyfriend enter the foyer on their way to see Frankie Jr. Like I said, please pass the gray poop on! Yeah, the cops ended up on the bloody scene. But, at least, I had a good set of kitchen knives. Still have ‘em, too.
Holy Cleveland! Now the stories are zapping through the infinite resources of my mind like speeding bullets! I could fill this gazette with stories for the rest of the year! Next!
There I was, eyeball to eyeball with the business end of a loaded 45. It was an automatic. I knew it was automatic because it didn't have the little round thing that holds the bullets. I knew it was loaded because I saw the guy slip the clip in. Needless to say, I watched intently as he laid it down on the top of his massive and well-polished mahogany desk.
"Do you know," he growled, "I own the sheriff, the police chief, and the judges in this town? All I have to do is just reach for the gun and blow your ***** head off and no one, I mean no one, will ever know what happened to you." Succinctly said.
Of course, you're salivating. This is a classic movie scene. Where’s good old Marlon when you need him? But, what's in the cards, my friend, is that I will tell you that whole story in the next issue. And then, we'll talk about Bugsy Siegel or Howard Hughes, I haven't decided yet. But, I continue to have stories to tell.
No comments:
Post a Comment