On the Coat Tales of a Gamber
Did I tell you that I was married and divorced four times in the span of sixteen years? Although it caused me to experience much personal turmoil, it did me a lot of good. Maybe marriage was my best lesson. All of my wives were beauties, let me tell you that for sure. Carman, my fourth wife, was by far the best lover I had ever been with. I probably started out wrong by getting married too young. I suppose when I think back on my life, I was really not ready to be tied down in my twenties. You know how it was, at the time, everyone else was getting married, so getting hitched seemed like the thing to do. It was a normal process to follow the crowd… equal misery for all. But I am getting myself sidetracked here.
Being married and the friend of a professional gambler created a lot of stress. It was 1970, I was getting over my third divorce and heading into the navy. The gambler’s life is footloose and fancy free of course. With a wife and kids, a fellow is expected to stay close to home for all of those domestic obligations. Although my run ins with Scarpone waned as I approached my time to report to the navy, I hung out enough with him and the boys to earn that divorce no doubt.
Forget what I said about marriage being my best lesson. Joining the navy was the best thing I ever did. For one thing, I found out that women really go for navy men, many women. That is when I met Carmen. Carmen was like the character in the opera Carmen. She was my best beauty, a strawberry blond, with fiery green eyes and a temper to match. She was free with her love, and she loved men on the dangerous side. So, with my gambling association with Scarpone and being in the navy, I was pretty much the man of Carmen’s dream. We flew to each other in abandoned passion those early months after I went into the navy. I had my last two children with Carmen.
I was shipping out in August of that year. I had loose ends that I had to tie up before going to the navy. The divorce of the third wife was among my bigger distractions. Still, I managed a few trips with Scarpone. Of course, there were always the times that I would see him at one of the local games in Robstown. The old farmhouse was still holding poker and craps games regularly. The backroom of a tavern for sure and out of town, the roadhouse would have gambling. Cockfights were always available, and you could get word of one of those events almost any weekend. In the South, weekend gambling was common as the West Texas wind. Hell, what am I saying? It still is. It was just a matter of being tuned in to the grapevine to know what, where and when. The cockfights were most common. They moved around from small town to small town. This made it difficult for the law to know about them. The cockfights drew larger crowds than say cards or dice. That translated into more money exchanging hands. The cock fights were held in the countryside, usually in large, open barns. They were always tucked away down a country road. The farms had plenty of parking and were out of sight of John Law. Any given weekend, a bunch of cars all traveling to the same place were as likely to be going to a revival as would be a cock fight. If you understand gambling crowds, then you understand the pitched fever that comes over people chasing a quick buck.
For the record, I did not know of any dog fights going on in those days. I suppose each vice has its own attraction for the kind of people that participate. Take Scarpone for example, he was a professional dice and poker player. That was it. He did not mix with other types of gamblers, rail birds, bookies, loan sharks and otherwise low lifers running money swindles.
The last time that I saw Scarpone was in Robstown. It was midsummer, and I was ready to go off to the navy. Scarpone did not live in Robstown. He actually lived 100 miles from Robstown, but he came there because there were two homes that had poker games running just about all the time. I mean that the games would run seven or eight days straight before breaking up. Some guys would be in a game for two or three days before they crashed for a few hours on one of the sofas. These homes had no beds, just sofas, tables, chairs and running water. Everything else was brought in. There was no food delivery in those days so a runner would be sent out to get food, booze and whatever else might be needed. Sometimes I would be the runner. The houses had to keep a low profile. The operators of the game did not want anyone to know what was going on, except of course for the gamblers. The old farmhouse was one of these homes.
There were a few bars with gambling in town too. But the three places where the high rollers played were the two houses and one bar, “Anchors Aweigh” … A fitting name for me at the time. Anchors Aweigh was well disguised. There were actually two operations in one building, upstairs and downstairs. The downstairs is where all the gambling took place. It was blocked off from the straight business upstairs. No one could even get down to the gaming from the top side. The gambling part had a separate entrance, around the back. The legit part of Anchors Aweigh fronted for the gambling well enough. With all the traffic coming and going for the upstairs business, no one was really noticed or out of place going to the back. Or maybe it was just a blind eye that was paid off. All of the gambling joints took a big rake, way more than what you’d see in a Vegas casino. The house had to take a larger cut to keep the cops happy.
Scarpone was in town playing at the old farmhouse. I was on the bum just waiting for August. I drove out just for something to do. Scarpone was in a game. When I entered the room, he glanced up to see who came in, but he did not acknowledge me. By this time, my connection with Scarpone was over and he no longer expected anything of me. During a break, Scarpone came over to say hello and wished me good luck in the navy. There was nothing else really outstanding about that last meeting. After I announced my report to duty date, it was like I had declared my divorce from the gambler’s lifestyle and suddenly I was no longer a card-carrying member of the club. I mean I was still welcome to show up and all, but it was almost like I was invisible to the boys. It was like I was already gone, and they were carrying on just the same without me. It is strange for me to try and describe in words how it was for me that last summer in Robstown. Maybe there was a sense of me never going back. Maybe the old crowd resented me for leaving.
I did not know it at the time, but my enlistment into the navy would mean leaving Robstown for good. My escapades with Scarpone came to an end and faded away with only memories of my life and times with a professional gambler. I’d like to say that Scarpone was a legend. Though I think his notoriety was connected mostly with the underground gambling in the South. He really was in the league of those like Amarillo Slim. Only that Scarpone chose a different path, on the other side of the knife’s edge. He made his business on the dark side with illegal gambling and sleight of hand. That’s the way Scarpone made his money.
That was the last time I saw Scarpone. The truth is you can never go back home to the way things used to be. Sure, I pay visits now and then to see my kin, but I could never go back.
On the Coat Tales of a Gambler continues in
Episode 24 – Going to Cheyenne