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Blogs by Robert A. Mills
OH, MY PAPA (& MAMA, TOO) . . . 6/18/2011 6:24:22 AM
A wealthy and prominent restaurateur befriended me many years ago, and because of the Runionesque aura of my professional persona, invited me to often accompany him and his cronies on junkets to the Big Apple.
Consequently, I became a habitué of first class flights, hotel suites and penthouse apartments with incomparable views of Central Park and the East River. A similar fondness for racetracks followed, and I was soon on a first-name basis with touts, bookies and cashiers at Aqueduct and Belmont Park. There, I became a trusted “runner” who placed bets averaging a couple hundred to several thousands of dollars on as many as nine races a day.
At night, we dined at the Stork Club and Delmonico’s; rubbed shoulders at the Copa and Latin Quarter with Harry Belafonte, Vic Damone, Connie Francis, Tony Bennett, Martin and Lewis et al — in fact, the Copa’s maitre d’ was Tony Lip who went on to fame and fortune on “The Sopranos.” He always greeted me with “Hey, look at what da cat dragged in! Whaddya want, Millsy, a table for two — or twenty-six!”
Only once did I get bounced from the Latin Quarter, sort of. Sammy Davis, Jr. was headlining there that June night, and Connie Francis, dripping in ermine, came in with her father, Guiseppe Franconero, an immaculate and proud papa in a gray Chesterfield and sporting a whiskbroom of a moustache, and, as it was a Father’s Day celebration, he wanted my ringside table for his famous daughter and their friends.
“Come on, Millsy,” Tony Lip begged, “jus’ dis once. I gotta nice table for youse guys jus’ one row back.”
“No way,” I protested, sticking to my guns, so to speak (unquestionably, I was the only one within a quarter mile not packing heat.) Connie Francis said, “Hold on. You the disc jockey and weather guy or somebody?” I told her I was. “Stay where you are,” she commanded, turning to her father. “Pop, you go to the bar and get a drink. I’ll sit back there with Patsy and Buddy.”
With that, she planted a wet smooch on her old man’s pursy mouth, and I again turned my attention to Mr. Davis, Jr.
I did no good. Franconero had more juice than Minute Maid. Tony Lip snapped his fingers and fourteen gorillas in dark, ill-fitting suits came from nowhere and literally moved us a row back. They carried not just our party, but the table as well, switching the chairs and people from ringside to the second tier.
“I warnedja,” Tony said, and whispered something to our waiter. We all had filet mignons, our own bottles of Scotch, and ate and drank till past two. There was no bill when we said goodnight, although my restauranteur friend tipped the waiter a couple C-notes.
The next afternoon found our entourage at Aqueduct. Feeling especially lucky, my host and his cronies had me running to the windows and placing bets on every race. One fellow, an insurance man, even gave me a Benny F to play on the trifecta in the fifth race. He won; at days end I handed him $38,400. He tipped me a cool grand.
Although I never watched a single race (except for casual glances at the closed-circuit TVs scattered ten feet apart above the bar,) I covered bets on every race, recording an average of three winners — or place and shows — for every start. When the ninth race was history, I had covered bets worth twenty grand and handed over more than fifteen in winnings.
Of course, each transaction was accurately recorded, and all losing tickets accounted for. You never hedged anyone’s bet — accounting for your personal take of 10%, in this case: $1,535 plus about $1,850 in tips, far more than I made daily in the broadcasting dodge.
“Runners” are unquestionably the only people who make any money betting on horses (or dogs) — not that I actually “bet” on anything (except maybe not screwing up the tally.)
That all took place some years ago. My restauranteur friend is now taking reservations for that Big Diner in the Sky, and most of his cronies are either deceased or in jail. I may be the only survivor.
I don’t know if the Latin Quarter still exists. Lou Walters, the owner back then, is certainly gone, but his daughter Barbara is apparently immortal. The Copa, having run through various owners, was closed, then re-opened, moved, closed again — now scheduled to re-open to the public in a new location this year.
It’s a safe bet that Tony Lip may be there, but I won’t. Unless Connie Francis shows up with her old man — he must be 142 by now. I wonder what her mom is up to? Speaking of moms . . .
It was probably someone’s brilliant idea (I normally get credit for such innovations, but this time I am compelled to decline the honor) that all the resident “men folk” (of which there is a curious multitude who followed me to Georgia) take charge and purchase, prepare, serve and clean up the entire Mother’s Day feast this year.
Including yours truly, there are six male counterparts, counting a teenager and a college junior (also the 2 1/2-year son of a mother’s daughter and son-in-law who barely counts; my own children and abundant grand- and great-grand kids are scattered across the country) and the distaff side now consists of an ancient matriarch, two elderly mothers and two married daughters — a grand total of ten or eleven mouths to feed (depending whether you count the 2-year old or not; I don’t think anyone did last May.)
The affair was held at one of the married daughter’s house, and her husband grilled the steaks. My peer provided the mashed potatoes and some wine, while others concocted salads, veggies and key lime pie. I provided soft drinks (of which I personally devoured two cans, only one of which was accidentally spilled) and the college junior worked the espresso machine, pretending that portion of the kitchen was a Starbuck’s.
Someone brought a platter of shrimp and cocktail sauce for appetizers, but it gave off a mysterious odor, indicating it was putrid and inedible. My peer gobbled down a few, anyway, which he antidoted with an orange. The steaks, however, were succulent, grilled to perfection. The key lime pie was to die for, enhanced eventually by the espresso.
Only the clean-up detail was an adventure of choreographed confusion. The son-in-law, at whose house the feast was held, had his own method of refuse removal and dish-washing; for reasons known only to him, the automatic dishwasher was of limited use. He insisted my peer and I dry the dishes with a soggy towel; I opted instead to wipe the counters clean with a solvent and mini-rag. I did a mediocre job.
In any event, the women (all of whom are mothers, grandmothers and great-grandmothers) thought the effort was superb. They had nothing to do but sit on the deck, play with the attendant grandchild and assorted dogs, and stuff themselves into oblivion with the best holiday meal ever provided.
Was this to become s.o.p. for family get-togethers? Probably not, although it should be. We men outdid ourselves, and unless the women were whistling Dixie, they said they really enjoyed it. Indolent to the extreme, what was not to enjoy?
Only one thing was flawed, and that was the pre-dinner “grace.” Someone had the thought of asking several people to remark what Mother’s Day meant to them, and a few vague but heartfelt utterances were made. I was prepared to offer a statement of profound sentimentality, but I was, unfortunately, not called upon.
Too bad. There would not have been a dry eye in the joint.
