The Bookie Boys

“I swear to God himself, Earl Morrall should be shot, and if they need someone to do it, I’ll drive down to Baltimore right now to make sure that useless sack of shit never touches the football field again.” Isaac slammed his hand against the steering wheel, his rage bubbling over as he ranted about the Baltimore Colts’ humiliating defeat to the New York Jets in Super Bowl III. They’d lost to Joe Namath and the Jets, and Isaac wasn’t about to let it go.

Ten minutes into this tirade, Louis, sitting in the passenger seat, let out a long sigh. The Lucky Strike dangling from his lips left a thin ribbon of smoke curling toward the cracked window. “Have you considered that 18 points was just too many points?” he asked, his tone flat and detached as if trying to dodge the tempest of Isaac’s fury.

Isaac’s eyes darted to Louis, incredulous. “The AFL sucks! That whole game was a fluke. If I knew better, I’d say it was the mob’s doing. I could’ve gone out there and beat Joe Namath myself. You’re telling me that punk is better than Morrall? Better than Johnny U?”

His knuckles tightened on the wheel as the memory of yesterday’s disaster clawed at his mind. He’d been at the club, Jets fans erupted in cheers around him as he sat in disbelief and anger. Four interceptions. Four. It was a betrayal, an abomination.

“My father, rest his soul, came to this country and proclaimed our family Baltimore Colts fans,” Isaac continued, his voice cracking. “We were proud of our team. And what have they done for us? Nothing but embarrassment.” He reached into the ashtray for one of Louis’ cigarettes, his hand trembling with frustration.

Louis exhaled a puff of smoke, his eyes half-closed. “How have they embarrassed you? It’s one bad game.” He smirked, knowing full well he’d just thrown gasoline on the fire.

Isaac’s glare could have melted ice. “One bad game? I had fifty dollars on that game. Fifty dollars, gone. I had to cancel dinner with my wife Friday night because of that bet. My kids better hope it snows this week because that’s the only way they’re getting fed.” He lit the cigarette and without blinking smoked it down to the butt and flicked it out the window.

Louis chuckled, his smirk widening into a grin. “You know, Isaac, if you’re down right now, I could help you out.” He reached into his wallet and pulled out a wrinkled fifty-dollar bill. “I took the Jets against the spread. Here, take this. Pay me back whenever.”

He stuffed the bill into Isaac’s jacket pocket with deliberate care, his grin practically oozing mockery. Isaac froze, his face twisting into a mask of betrayal. The look in his eyes was raw, primal—the kind of look Caesar must have given Brutus in his final moments. Without warning, he swung a fist at Louis, who dodged with practiced ease.

“I’ll kill you! Earl Morrall first, and then the second bullet’s going right through your skull, I swear to God!” Isaac’s voice cracked with rage, but his words only made Louis laugh harder.

Louis was nearly doubled over now, his laughter reverberating through the car. The sight of Isaac, face flushed crimson with fury, only fueled his amusement. He couldn’t wait to share the story at tonight’s poker game. The image of Isaac’s seething rage, the fifty-dollar bill tucked into his pocket like a mocking reminder, was too perfect.

Isaac gripped the steering wheel tighter, his jaw clenched. Outside, the urban New Jersey landscape blurred past the window as they made their way to their pickups for the day. It was a simple job, really. They’d walk into a place, ask for the money, and people would pay up. It wasn’t complicated. Bookies those days formed relationships with their customers. It could be anyone: your friend’s dad who you’d see every now and then at a BBQ, your local high school football coach who clearly wasn’t a teacher but definitely wasn’t paid enough to just coach football, or the guy behind the counter at a deli—the one who dressed a little too sharply and was just a little too friendly for someone working at a sub shop.

Then, of course, there were the mobsters. The guys who spent their days studying teams around the country to set the lines for games and who wouldn’t think twice about breaking your kneecaps at the slightest provocation.

Isaac and Louis weren’t like that—not quite. They didn’t need to be as scary as the Italians. Isaac was a Russian immigrant who’d come to America as a child, but from a part of the Soviet Union he wouldn’t proudly call “a revolutionary.” Louis, on the other hand, was a New Jersey special: half Italian, half Puerto Rican. Not Italian enough for the Italians, not Puerto Rican enough for the Puerto Ricans. Together, they were the handymen for “The Barber,” the neighborhood bookie.

If someone wanted to make a bet, they could call up and place it, or stop by the barber shop and do it in person. There were three types of bets on offer. First, the spread. One team was the favorite, given a certain number of points. Bettors would wager on whether that team would cover the spread or fail. Isaac, for example, had bet that the Colts would cover, despite the line giving the Jets an 18-point head start.

Second was the over/under. The bookies would predict the total number of points scored in the game, and bettors would gamble on whether the actual score would go over or under that number. Louis thought this was a lazy bet—no skill involved, just hoping for points or the lack of them.

Finally, there was the moneyline: a straightforward bet on who would win. The bookies set the odds, and you put your money down. With the Colts as heavy favorites, a $1 bet would win you 90 cents. Conversely, betting on the underdog Jets could turn $1 into $10.

For Louis, the type of bet didn’t matter. If you were seeing him, it meant you’d lost.

*** 

The two of them arrived at their next destination. They were outside the old Public Inn, a bar that had flourished during the ’30s and ’40s but began dying in the ’50s and was abandoned in the ’60s. The old Public Inn sign was now covered with a new banner that proudly displayed: “The First People’s Church.”

“What the hell are we doing at a church? Did the priest place a bet?” Isaac asked, his brow furrowed as he glanced at Louis. This was the pickup the Barber had mentioned—a new customer who’d placed a thousand-dollar bet on the Colts by phone. The Barber didn’t usually deal with strangers making high-stakes bets over the phone, but with the Super Bowl drawing so much action, he couldn’t resist.

The Barber was a beloved figure in town. Fathers, and even some mothers, frequented his shop to place bets. Kids loved him too. He gave them lollipops when their parents stopped by to place bets. He ran the local toy drive at Christmas and hosted the town Christmas party, an event everyone attended despite knowing it was a convenient way for him to launder money. People didn’t mind. His reputation ensured most complied when Louis and Isaac came knocking, and confrontations were rare. Still, the Barber had warned them: with a new customer and a large bet, they should set the tone firmly from the start.

Louis and Isaac stepped out of their Lincoln Continental and climbed the creaking wooden steps to the door. The porch was in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint and a few new planks.

“Do we just walk in?” Louis asked, gesturing to the banner. “It’s a church, after all.”

They pushed open the door and stepped inside. It didn’t look much like a church. The air was thick with dust, and sheets draped over old tables and chairs hinted at the building’s former life as a restaurant. The bar was still stocked with half-filled bottles of liquor and spirits long past their expiration dates. Behind it stood a young white man with shaggy hair, an unkempt beard, and an untucked, flowery shirt.

“I thought they kept you hippies in California,” Isaac said, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he eyed the man at the bar.

“Peace and love know no region, brother,” the man replied, extending a hand for a handshake. “Are you gentlemen looking to join?”

“Not quite,” Louis cut in, stepping forward. “You and my friend here have something in common. You both believed in the Colts yesterday, and Earl Morrall let you down. But here’s the thing—you placed a hefty bet with our boss, and he needs you to pay up.”

Louis fixed the man with a stern look. He wasn’t particularly worried. In his mind, hippies were soft—peace-loving idealists who had never been in a real fight much less a fist fight. This guy wouldn’t be any different. He also thought about the wager. This guy placing a thousand dollars on the game? Couldn't be. The Man at the counter did not even look like he had five bucks, forget a thousand dollars.

“Ah, yes. I was feeling a bit lucky last night.” The man behind the bar glanced down briefly. “How much do I owe you gentlemen?”

“Our boss said you placed a bet for a thousand dollars,” Louis replied.

“A thousand dollars would’ve gone a long way for our church. I was just trying to pay off the rest of our funding. Guess you never know a good thing until it’s gone.” The man chuckled, his eyes darting down toward the counter again.

Louis and Isaac exchanged a quick, uneasy glance. Something wasn’t right. The air in the room was thick, and it wasn’t just the dust. Both realized, without needing to say it aloud, that they’d left their pieces in the car. It had seemed unnecessary for such a routine pickup.

“Let me ask you, gentlemen,” the man said, turning to face them fully with a whiskey in his hand. His eyes were cold and calculating, though his smile suggested a forced friendliness. “Before I hand over this money, is there any way you could find it in your hearts to forgive this little transgression? Let our church grow, a bit of a tithe for our humble beginnings?”

“That’s not our department,” Isaac replied firmly. “We’re in receiving, not management. We just need to collect and get out of here.” He kept his voice steady, trying not to reveal his growing anxiety. Negotiating from a point of weakness was a death sentence in this line of work.

Louis, scanning the room, caught the man’s earlier slip: “we.” There was no one else visible, but the man’s constant glances behind the bar confirmed it—he wasn’t alone.

“That’s a shame,” the man continued, his voice low and almost sympathetic. “Because if I give you this money, it’s the end of our little church. I’m just trying to show people that instead of fighting and wasting resources, we need to come together and share. Build heaven here, a utopia where—”

“They do say all you hippies are communists,” Isaac interrupted, his eyes narrowing as the man glanced behind the bar again.

“Listen, just hand over the money so we can go. We’ve got more pickups today. Maybe we’ll come back for one of your hippie-communist kumbaya parties another time,” Isaac said, his voice laced with forced calm but tinged with urgency. Turning slightly, he whispered to Louis, “Get ready to grab the pieces when I tell you.”

“That’s disappointing. I was hoping you’d be more understanding. Aaron, now!”

In an instant, another man popped up from behind the bar, brandishing an M16. The room erupted as the gunfire shredded the air. Isaac and Louis dove behind a table, crawling toward the doorway. POP, POP, POP—the bullets rained down, splintering wood and sending clouds of dust into the air.

“What kind of hippies have an M16?” Louis muttered as they scrambled for cover.

“He’s a terrible shot.” Isaac stuck his hand up in the air for a few seconds, and Aaron had yet to hit him. “Wait for the reload. Here’s the keys—run to the car and grab the pieces!” Isaac hissed. Despite their equal standing, Louis often deferred to Isaac’s experience in moments like this.

POP, POP, POP—CLICK, CLICK, CLICK.

“Go!” Isaac barked. Louis darted down the hallway toward the exit as Isaac shouted, “THIS IS WHY HIPPIES PROTEST THE WAR, NOT FIGHT IT. YOU SUCK AT SHOOTING!”

Louis burst through the front door, keys in hand, sprinting for the car. He was focused, tunnel vision was in full effect as he was locked in the car. THUMP. The next thing he knew, he was airborne, crashing through the wooden bannister. He landed hard in a thorn bush, his body screaming in pain as the sharp branches cut into him. Dazed, he looked up to see a massive man—built like a brickhouse—towering over him. A blonde woman bent down, scooping up the keys from where they’d fallen. Together, they ran toward the car.

Gunfire continued from inside as the pair jumped into the Lincoln Continental, reversing down the alley. Moments later, the shooting stopped, a door slammed open, and the car roared away.

Isaac emerged from the building, rushing to pull Louis from the thorn bush. They stood together, watching helplessly as their car disappeared down the street.

“What the hell happened to you?” Isaac asked, his voice sharp with frustration.

“Al Atkinson lit me up, that’s what. They were waiting for one of us to come out,” Louis groaned, clutching his side.

“How much money was in that car?” Isaac’s face paled as the full weight of their predicament sank in. “I just want to know how screwed we are.”

“Roughly ten grand,” Louis admitted, wincing in pain. The morning had been full of jokes, but now their lives were in trouble and lots of money had now gone missing that they were going to need to get back. 

“First bullet for Morrall, second for you, third for the hippie, and fourth for the bad shot behind the bar,” Isaac muttered, running a hand through his bald head as he tried to think. Louis, sitting on the broken steps, managed a weak laugh.

“The hippie priest had a point.” Louis quipped. “You never know a good thing until it’s gone.”