Скачать книгу

who wished to pay the fee could exercise their horses there. The five-eighths track served my purpose admirably.

      From the start I did not become a horse owner because of a notion that I might win purses. I had already learned that it could be more profitable to lose. That is the system I devised for “beating the horses.”

      I always maintained the finest tack-room at any racecourse where my horses were running. A tack-room is a place where an owner keeps his saddles, weights, jockey uniforms, etc. Mine was outfitted solely for show purposes. Anybody who saw it immediately concluded that the owner certainly must have fine horses.

      As a matter of fact my horses seldom ran in the money. One of them, Mobina, was an old plater that would never even show. But I put fine saddles and a well-dressed jockey on him and to the uninitiated, he looked like a good bet.

      There was a man whom I shall call Epping who lived on Jackson Boulevard and was a frequent visitor to the Garfield Park race track. He saw my boy exercising Mobina and became interested.

      Knowing Epping’s background, I was interested in him, too. He was wealthy and had a prosperous business on Chicago Avenue. In those days a man could keep all his money. There was no income tax and he did not have to account for where he got his money or how he disposed of it.

      Epping’s employees were often hard pressed for ready cash. They had a habit of going to the paymaster for an advance until payday. This gave Epping an idea. Why not set up a place where anybody who was regularly employed could obtain a small loan?

      Until then the only people who made loans were the banks and the “loan sharks.” This latter group not only made you mortgage your life but charged unbelievable rates. Epping altered this by making regular employment the chief qualification. And he charged rates that were considered reasonable - six per cent a month. His lending business was the beginning of the present-day small loan concern.

      I already knew of Epping’s wealth, and it did not take me long to discover that his chief aim in life was to accumulate more. He was interested in my horses because he had heard that there was considerable money to be made in winning purses. I soon learned that he knew very little about race horses. I told Epping that the five-eighths course at Garfield Park was a three-quarter track, and he didn’t know the difference. But what a difference it made in the running time of a horse like Mobina!

      “That horse will make me a lot of money,” I told Epping, “if I can raise the money to get him in shape.”

      “How much money do you need?” he asked.

      “I’d have to do some figuring,” I replied. “Why?”

      “Would you be interested in a partner?”

      “I hadn’t thought of that. What do you suggest?”

      He proposed that he make me a loan, to be repaid out of the profits. He would get a cut of the winnings. We discussed this at some length and decided that 20 per cent would be a fair split for Epping. I did some figuring, and explained that it was an expensive proposition to stable a horse and to pay a trainer and jockey. I finally arrived at a figure - $3,700.

      Epping was a hard-headed business man and insisted that we draw up a contract. He agreed that it could be done by my own lawyer, who was in on the deal and knew the kind of contract that I would need. It was duly signed and witnessed, and Epping advanced the money. Then he waited for Mobina to start winning purses.

      But there was no chance that Mobina would win. I didn’t even enter him in a race. After about thirty days, Epping began to get impatient and asked for an accounting.

      I told him that it takes time to get a horse in shape to race and reminded him that I was waiting for a good purse. This stall did not satisfy him. A few days later he demanded that I repay the loan.

      I pointed to the contract. It provided that “When Mobina shall have raced and won, then the monies advanced by Party of the First Part (Epping) shall be paid by Party of the Second Part (Weil), plus 20 per cent of the gross winnings.”

      Epping saw the joker in the contract and knew that he couldn’t get anything by bringing suit. But he did swear out a warrant charging me with operating a confidence game.

      The judge threw the case out, holding that “the contract was based on a future event and that no crime had been committed or could be committed until the event had taken place.”

      Epping didn’t bother me any more, and I don’t recall that I ever saw him again. As a matter of fact, I never saw most of my victims again, once I had taken their money. This is strange, too, considering that I have been around Chicago for all these years. I probably have passed them on the street many times.

      Meanwhile I met a man named A. B. Watts, who was a breeder of blooded horses. I made a deal with him to increase my stable, and thereafter all the horses I bought came from Watts. These included Title, Black Fonso, Thanksgiving, St. Durango, Sir Christopher, Dan Joe, Meddlesome, and Zibia.

      These were fine-looking horses and made an excellent showing when I had exercised them for the benefit of suckers. The latter fell into several categories. Those like Epping advanced money to help train the horses and win purses. Others were led to believe that we were training a “ringer” which would later win and make it possible for them to clean up on wagering. The most gullible were those at the tracks who went for “inside tips” on betting.

      At the track, I frequently posed as a jockey. I had to employ a stooge, and on many occasions was helped by William J. Winterbill. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and well-built, with fine features. He dressed conservatively.

      Here is an example of the way we worked:

      Winterbill and I selected a victim from the crowd of men standing near the betting ring. Program in hand, Winterbill approached the sucker and struck up an acquaintance while talking about the day’s entries.

      “My name is Winterbill,” he introduced himself. “William J. Winterbill.” He stuck out his hand.

      “Mine is Harper,” responded the other man. “Glad to know you, Mr. Winterbill.”

      Winterbill was an impressive-looking fellow. He had little trouble getting the victim to believe that he was a business man, taking a day off at the races.

      “What horse are you betting on?” Winterbill asked.

      “Haven’t made up my mind,” Harper replied. “Have you any suggestions ?”

      “No, I haven’t decided either.” Then his eye wandered away from the betting ring. “Say! Do you see that fellow standing there?”

      He pointed to me. I had a pad of paper in my hand and was busily jotting down figures. “Yes, I see him,” said Harper. “What about him?”

      “Don’t you know who he is?”

      “Can’t say that I do.”

      “Why, that’s Willie Caywood, the jockey. He rides for Sam Hildreth, the famous trainer.”

      Of course, Harper had heard of Sam Hildreth. We always picked the name of a famous trainer. (Hildreth later raced Zev, one of the greatest horses of all time.) I was slight and young and could pass for a jockey.

      “Wonder what he’s figuring up?” Harper mused.

      “I wonder, too,” said Winterbill. “If there was only some way we could get to know him.”

      Just then, I dropped my pencil. It rolled some distance from where I was standing.

      “Quick!” hissed Winterbill. “Now’s your chance. Pick up his pencil. That’s your chance to meet him. Maybe he will give you a tip.”

      Harper hurriedly retrieved my pencil. I was properly grateful.

      “Thank you, Mr. - ”

      “Harper. Don’t mention it.”

      “My name is Willie Caywood.”

      “Not

Скачать книгу