Archive for December 2010

I’m at the bar with a dish of spaghetti and a glass of Chianti, but I’m not in a good mood. These dog bettors have been beating me up for three weeks running, and the Vegas lines are killing me. I was talking to a buddy of mine in the business, and he was telling me Vegas is moving the line with only a few thousand on one side, and we shared a laugh at this. Back in the day … in my day, it took thirty grand on one side for me to move a line. And I never laid off.

It’s a fact that the lines stink nowadays. Once upon a time Jimmy the Greek put out a line and it was solid—we all won. But now you’ve got to wonder about these geeky college boys and their computers, and you just know they haven’t got a clue.

That’s the problem with the world today: Too many rules and too little initiative. I say get rid of the frat boys and bring back the men, the risk takers. I’m trying to make a living here.

Some ball-buster got pissed at Victor because he called her “doll”. Hey, Victor calls every woman doll. None of my girlfriends have ever complained and my wife thinks he’s cute. But there we were, sitting at Shooter’s Waterfront Café in Fort Lauderdale, and the skinny broad at the next table was eyeing us, and Victor looked up and said, “How you doin’ today, doll?”

I knew she was trouble. First off, she looked like she hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks, and she was wearing a pantsuit on a hot, sunny day. All the other chicks were showing skin, and some were really showing, if you get my meaning.

I had the Stella di Mare pulled to the dock, my three crew on board. In case you don’t know Shooters is on the Intracoastal, a real party spot. On the weekends they do those hot bod contests and the place is rocking. But on the afternoon Victor and I stopped in with some of the guys, it was fairly quiet.

We were sitting dockside, in the shade of the big awning. I have to tell you the Stella looked beautiful, and I could see people eyeing her, wondering who the eighty-footer belonged to. I don’t like to brag, but I do have money, quite a lot of it, and not all of it honestly come-by. I’m not cheap, either. So if you’re hanging with me, you are guaranteed a good time.

Victor always hangs with me. First off, he’s my muscle, and he’s a pretty good guy all around. Sure, he can be a little corny, but he’s always a gentleman. So when the skinny bitch went ballistic, accusing Victor of being a chauvinistic pig, we all laughed. This pushed her over the edge and she called for the manager. As soon as the poor guy saw who she was complaining about, he got nervous. And who can blame him? He knows who I am—plus, I’m in there fairly regularly, and his wait-staff loves me.

To make a long story short, she got the boot. She stormed off, muttering threats, and the manager apologized for our inconvenience. Later that day I relayed some of the incident to my wife, and Angie suggested maybe Victor shouldn’t address a woman as doll until he gets to know her. But I say screw that. If Victor wants to call a woman doll, that is his prerogative. I don’t see what the big deal is, do you?