North Queensland book search by Peter Simon results in an outburst of Runyonese .
This scrounger is more than somewhat delighted when he comes across the 1965 omnibus reprint of RUNYON ON BROADWAY , with a memoir by Don Iddon and a portrait of the racy writer with his typewriter , in an op shop freebie bin in the recently flooded town of Ingham .
I am accompanied on this never ending search by my baldy , chunky, No. 2 son , who in his younger days on the football field was dubbed Mad Max , so could easily pass as one of the heavies illustrated in the book , such as Dave the Dude , handy with his fists , a gunman as well.
Admittedly it is a cancelled copy from the Kilkivan Shire Library , has a worn and torn dustjacket , boards bumped , still , to me, it is like a gold brick which has fallen off the back of a truck on a delivery run to Fort Knox , bringing back fond memories .
My ever-loving wife bought me a copy of it in Rotorua , New Zealand , in the l960s ,where I worked on the Rotorua Post as a reporter, a position obtained for me by former Cairns Post reporter Colin Dangaard , who went on to work on the Miami Herald and start his own popular showbiz television show , mixing with many colourful characters, JR a nextdoor neighbour , as had Runyon .
My well read copy of Runyon On Broadway disappeared in our travels , possibly waterlogged in Cyclone Tracy. Another journalist mate, the late Peter Blake , whom I described as Australia's Damon Runyon , came into contact with numerous colourful characters , especially when involved with Sydney's famous Kings Cross Whisper . He had also worked in Hong Kong and on the New York Post .
One of the great yarns written by Damon Runyon , The Snatching of Bookie Bob, told how Harry the Horse , Spanish John and Little Isadore , hard characters in all respects , grab a bookmaker and hold him for ransom , at the request, it is later discovered, his ever-loving wife. While kept in captivity, the bookie takes the bets on nags placed by the terrible trio , and they end up owing him money .
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| Upright Blake |
While Peter Blake was working in Darwin , in the Northern Territory of Australia , he also became a bookie . Years later, for this blog, he admitted being involved in an attempted sting at the Fannie Bay Racecourse, which would have inspired Damon Runyon. Bookie Blake , in his inimitable style , wrote :
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Bookies can smell a set-up from four furlongs away on a windless day and
Fannie Bay's rough-and-tumble mainly blue-collar ring was no different, but
that didn't stop one small group of punting tragics from giving it a go. The
players in the great bookie plot were led by one James Arthur Ramsay, better
known as Jerker Jim and later to be a co-founder of the Kings Cross Whisper, but
at that time reporter at the NT News. Jerker, formerly of Sydney, Melbourne,
Brisbane, Albany, Gympie, some of which locales he departed in unseemly haste
with various citizens wanting to know what happened to their money, either
loaned and given over to a sure-fire get-rich scheme engineered by Jerker.
Three other toilers at the ramshackle NT news office made up the rest of the
team- Peter Blake, enthusiastic but not too successful Fannie Bay regular and
ironically years later to become a Darwin bookie himself; Margaret Greenberg
reporter and fearless but perennially-broke punter whose good looks enabled
her get on the nod with the more randy members of the Fannie Bay bookies
fraternity, and Grahame Aimers, lanky Kiwi linotype operator and flatmate of
Ramsay and Blake and like many Kiwis of that era, closer to a quid than the
print.
The final player shall be known only as Bill the Soldier, thirsty army
sergeant stationed at Larrakeyah, befriended by Jerker during many a session at
their favorite watering hole, the Vic Hotel, where the clientele was ruled
with avuncular discipline by Richard Fong Lim, a good bloke whose brother Alec,
coincidentally, was a Fannie Bay bookie.
At that time (early mid 1960s) the Darwin Turf Club got its radio
broadcasts of the Saturday races courtesy of the ABC, but occasionally prior
commitments meant these broadcasts were delayed. Such occasions were the cricket
tests, the national broadcaster's holy grail and not to be interrupted for any
reason, Also, technical problems would sometimes delay the broadcast, prompting
some bookies to let eager punters on after the advertised starting time, for up
to three or four minutes, a fact noted by the band of desperates.
This course of events was at the heart of the scheme to dud the bagmen.
The ultimate beauty of it was that no laws would be broken by betting after the
starting time, the satchel-swingers had no comeback if they got taken to the
cleaners by astute students of ABC radio form.
The big hurdle facing the would-be ring raiders was how to get the result
of the non-broadcast races onto the track where the discreet plunges on the
winner would be orchestrated. Learning the result was easy -- phone mates in
the south and listen to the broadcast, or have somebody with communications
equipment powerful enough to tap into the race broadcasts on the Sydney and
Melbourne radio stations . Remember we are taking pre-mobile and internet days
and it was not as if somebody could stroll into the racecourse car park with a
bloody great ham radio strapped to his back and tune into the races. To say that
this would not attract unwelcome official attention is rather like saying horse
shit won't attract flies
Still, wouldn't it be lovely if somehow, somebody could be positioned
unseen in the car park within easy sight of the betting ring, and such
accomplice would semaphore the result to members of the group, quids clutched in
clammy hands and ready to invest on the sure thing with bookies still looking
for action after the starting time.
Enter Sergeant Bill for his starring role. He had access to an army
commuications truck, and so the ability no-one else in Darwin possessed, picking
up the race calls direct from Joe Brown and Ken Howard when the Darwin Turf
Club had no live broadcast. Bloody perfect!
The following Saturday there would be no broadcast of the first two races
in the south because of cricket commitments-- and this was the window of
opportunity. Depending on starting times this gave the group potentially the
first four races bet on. However stern rules applied -- (1) if a bolter came in
at big odds give it a miss --investing 20 or 30 pounds on a 33/1 shot would
certainly ring alarm bells with the bookies particularly after the race had
started and very likely such bookie would look very hard at the person wishing
to place such a bet maybe even suggesting he fuck off and stick his money
you-know-where . (2) don't bet with the same bookie twice and as there were four
people handling the commission this was no problem. (3) No more than 30 quid in
one bet -- also not problem because the total bank for the ring-raid was about
200 quid. (4) Bet each way when odds allowed it and have a second losing bet on
another horse to help allay suspicion. With up to four races to have a crack at,
the haul for the day could reach a couple of grand -- serious cash for
impoverished NT news hacks and an army sergeant.
Race day loomed and all concerned hoped it would culminate in a
rollicking evening at the Hotel Darwin lounge bar or the Fannie Bay Hotel,
traditional sites for Saturday night roistering, the Vic being reserved for
routine week-day tippling.
By Thursday night the plan was ready to snap into operation. Bill had the
army communications truck lined up, and the gang of four had targeted the
bookies who, on previous form, would be be taking on punters after starting
time.
This is how the betting coup would work. Blake was the point man stationed at
the end of the betting ring where he had an uninterrupted view of the nerve
centre of the operation -- Sergeant Bill's truck. As soon at the horses crossed
the line Bill would hold up a piece of paper with the winner's number and Blake,
Jerker, Greenberg and Aimers would fan out to get the money on. It looked
foolproof and it was.
Just one problem. Less than 24 hours to race day the Darwin Turf Club
announced it had arranged an alternative broadcast and there would be no
interruption of the race calls.
And so, the Great Darwin Betting Coup collapsed. There was indeed a
gathering of the gang of four at the Darwin Hotel on Saturday night, where, in a
sea of beer, they pondered what might have been. Oh, and to add their sorrows,
they had all done their money at the races that day.
