Betting the Kentucky Derby in Uniform

From a cultural perspective, America is a peculiar nation. Without the richness of millennia to draw from or many shared borders to influence us, America manages to hold her own. Similar to the old-timey days, we just do things differently here. On the world stage, however, many nations find America less entertaining, viewing us as a spoiled bully still in diapers. Perhaps true, but the United States attracts players from around the world, forming the greatest expansion team in history. And with all those cultures in the mix, America proudly displays her combined greatness. For better or worse, we also do a robust job projecting ourselves as a libido-driven, virus spreading, collection of binge drinkers.

America has also reimagined some practices to the benefit of democracy worldwide. Ancient Pagans would wish to carry the candy basket of any American kid on Halloween, and no Inuit festival can warm the feet of a reveler at our Groundhog Day or polar plunge celebrations. And look what we did with the Kentucky Derby! In grand tradition, America took a rabid racing revue and rebranded the event worldwide. What started as a modest race in the lush green fields of undiscovered Kentucky, has become the most exciting two minute spectacle in sports.To this day, old ladies who have never played the lottery will put on their best springtime bonnets, gather in living rooms across America, and bet trifectas on the most creative names in the animal kingdom.

While the Kentucky Derby is held during the rainy season, you can tell our creator must dig the ponies too. In both NYC and Churchill Downs, most race Saturday's are picture perfect. The weather factor makes working patrol that day much more favorable, as the streets turn quarantine-like at 5 pm. After the event, all combatants then re-emerge for drunken Saturday night fuckery. The same formula applies to many religious holidays, the super bowl, and all boxing championships.

Fun fact: There's not a Mayor, Police Commissioner, council of criminologists and certainly not the Department of Justice that can implement better crime fighting initiatives than Mother Nature. Cold, rainy weather prevents more violence than all the social programs in history combined.

During rare periods of "radio silence," experienced officers learn how to capitalize on free time. Unlike very many jurisdictions, most cops in the NYPD are familiar with cutting short their meal hour, or not getting one at all due to a backlog of calls for service. So when calm descends on the streets, some officers may extend a lunch break, text a booty call, or futz around with the bodega cat a little longer. Some may whip out their clamshell phone to examine the odds on the big race...

"Hey, Steve, have you bet on the race today? You gotta still be glowing from your relative's share of the largest superfecta payout in history."

"I haven't bet yet, and if Mickey was closer than my wife's brother's father in law, I might have seen a piece of the winnings," Steve replied. "But a few horses are going off at 30 to 1, and I'd like to keep the momentum going. Wanna head to the OTB now then we'll find a spot to watch the race before our break?"

For those too young to remember, or too wise to discover themselves, Off Track Betting was yet another government operation mismanaged out of existence. Devised to cut into the mafia's action of the lucrative horse betting scene, New York initiated America's first state sanctioned off-track betting operation. In the era before online wagering, the racket took a 17 percent rake of nearly a billion dollars in horse racing bets. Win or lose, OTB made money on every transaction, totaling hundreds of millions in annual revenue. And they still managed to fuck it up.

Still, it took decades to embezzle funds from so many degenerates. Like any good organized crime syndicate, many stakeholders wanted a cut. Everyone from private handlers and breeders, to three NY racetracks, to the bloated 1,500 person OTB staff, and even landlords renting the storefronts were greased. Embracing centuries of cultural traditions from other lands, grossly overpaid executives were hired through political patronage appointments.

But kickbacks weren't enough. To protect track attendance, mind-numbing rules were implemented for the neighborhood betting "parlors," but, alas, they were no deterrent. Seating, restrooms or food service was not provided to the army of disheveled, mostly middle aged men with little better to do every afternoon than consume cheap booze and smokes, peruse the racing form, and piss all over the properties of neighboring residents. (To the uninitiated, horse bettors are not the fanciful gambler you might be acquainted with at the movies. With some minor variation, horse gamblers across the globe look more like the type flushed from under a bridge than those wearing a tuxedo at a gaming table.)

By negligent design, the OTB became a beacon for many "neighborhood types" in most neighborhoods of the city. Rootless behavior and opportunity collided to create a perfect storm of underworld opportunity. Like a spring awakening, disorder flourished both inside and outside the OTB, with cashiers secured behind enclosed booths, and supervisors wise enough to never interfere. Hand-to-hand drug deals were often moved from the street INSIDE the store to evade detection.

Like a scene out of Casablanca, or more aptly the Star Wars cantina bar, a neighborhood guy could wander under the dimmed and flashing fluorescent bulbs, find the right corner of the room, and engage in most transactions short of selling arms to Ukrainian freedom fighters- who also resided in the community. Inquiries of a higher order might be directed to the social club conveniently located at the rear of the building. Oddly enough, in addition to sports bookies, there was a robust horse betting scene too! Recall, the state extracted usurous fees and commissions, creating an underground market, plus they provided a toasty, dry environment with updated odds and television monitors. If you needed fireworks, skunk-weed, a tagged automobile, perhaps a fake driver's license or a stolen credit card, the neighborhood OTB was your place. Heck, even counterfeit money flowed through the location for a short period, fueling many evenings at the strip club and, predictably, large black and white evidence photos taken of every male from the avenue. Thanks to the state-sanctioned racket, the neighborhood OTB was the incubator for all things fugazy.

Safe to assume, then, that any hint of law enforcement was not welcomed. As it was, both the cops and the parlor boys knew most bad behavior stemmed from the location EXCEPT street muggings. That lowbrow behavior was somehow deemed unacceptable in the Gravesend community and was relegated to the projects. As a neighborhood entrenched in organized crime, the elders did not want unnecessary attention. Keeping the pesky police focused on street level disorder across the tracks was a better strategy. If an NYPD cruiser stopped in front of the location, word spread through the shop before the uniforms even exited the vehicle. Most times, if cops stopped, it was just a routine "show up" with a victim from a past crime, but again, most activities occurring at the OTB were 'victimless crimes' where nary a call to 911 was placed.

Pulling a patrol car in front of the OTB, or any crowded street corner will silence a crowd. Sometimes the guilty will flee, others will freeze with a cold, unwelcoming stare. Unfortunately, this tension is routine to the urban cop, and not present in other workplaces. In most of America, where civility blossoms and street-corner culture does not exist, the police do stuff like shoot hoops and make goofy dance videos. So upon arriving at the location on the highest of equestrian holy days, people were not in a dancing mood. Exiting curbside from the passenger seat, and sensing the tension, an effort was made to break the ice and shake the hands of the closest recognizable people. Coming from the neighborhood, the task didn't take long, but it was not a crowd pleaser.

With the delay of walking around the patrol car, Steve felt the tension. Intuitive and alert, Steve was free range and organically raised in Brooklyn too, making him a first rate partner. As an upright walking human, Steve was also embedded with limitations, namely his male ego. Over the years, one could predict when some drunk and belligerent person would hook him; whereas vile insults and "ya mother" jokes was a street corner pastime in Gravesend. Steve's upbringing differed slightly. Only two zip codes apart, my partner's adolescence was spent in verdant public spaces acquiring athletic ability, improperly learning that life was measured in wins and losses. Mother insults and drinking brass monkey were considerations of a lesser value in his neighborhood. Still, his New York City roots were evident, opposed to nearly half the NYPD, raised in the suburbs or recruited from galaxies far, far away.

While not unfamiliar with the location, a simmering bravado was apparent, unconsciously inflating Steve's chest as he entered the parlor with his partner a few handshakes behind.

"Hey, what horse is the fuzz betting?" said Johnny Pal emerging from a strobe-lit corner with a tight hug.

"Some longshot combo as usual, Johnny, but I hope that crabby cashier doesn't break our balls, or I'll need you to place our bets."

At the window stood the grumpiest, but grooviest employee in the OTB syndicate. Firmly trapped in a time warp, this woman possibly had the most seniority in the organization, and certainly the most seniority in the room. Barely taller than the green screen betting terminal, what she lacked in height, she made up for with a perfectly coiffed, jet black, beehive hairdo. She always sported a colorful silk blouse, well pressed black slacks and black rimmed, cat eye style glasses. Complementing the ensemble was a pearl necklace with matching dangling pearl earrings. Her perfume wafted from behind the glass, graciously overpowering the stale smoke and body odor permeating the back of the room. The old lady did not utter a word of her disapproval, but she mildly shook her head and sucked her teeth as we fumbled through an awkward combination of exactas and superfectas. After a few quick goodbyes, we hopped into the patrol car to consider where to watch the race.

"That crotchety old broad was brilliant, wasn't she?" I said. 

"Yeah," said Steve while lifting his fourth cup of coffee from the sticky center console. "She must've been something else before electricity." And with that, we drove a few silent blocks to Angelo's basement bachelor pad for the viewing party. Here, we discovered that degenerate horse bettors and lottery scratch off participants often run in similar circles. We also discovered after quite an annoying tally of betting slips that only one winner emerged from the basement... Officer Steve.

Back at the OTB, Anyone appearing after the race was usually in possession of a winning ticket. (BTW, did you know the Derby race is actually NOT the final race of the event day at Churchill Downs?) Upon our second visit, the crowd was largely outside, less startled, and perhaps more welcoming, wanting to know if we hit. A good score usually meant a round of brown bagged beers from the bodega across avenue X. By now, the boys could be hopeful thinking a couple of cops wagering in uniform might also double down to purchase liquor and distribute it publicly. They probably would be right, had Steve's 30 to 1 winner been more than a $2 wager. Either way, we proudly marched to the rear betting counter during the closing minutes of a whirlwind day.

"I can't do this," said cat eyes, while tisk-tisking us and still sucking her teeth in disapproval. "I cannot pay you the $60 winning ticket since you're gambling on duty." Watching the jowel muscles tighten on Steve's square jaw, he responded in a firm and steady tone. We both knew not to raise attention in this matter, as the intervention of OTB supervision and eventually our own, could only end on the cover of the newspapers. Steve continued to plead his case. "Look, You're going to make an issue over sixty dollars? You gotta be kiddin' me...You didn't refuse my bet, so why don't you just pay me?"

After a long stare through those pointy frames, grumpy cat tapped a bunch of keys on the dot matrix computer and the drawer opened. She reluctantly pushed the bills under the window as if her commission check would be reduced for the month. Steve then flashed a big smile and a genuine "thank you" as we turned and walked out of the nearly closed and empty shop, slowly kicking through piles of discarded race sheets and losing tickets.

"Walk slower and savor this moment, Stevie," I said. "This will be the closest you ever come to your own ticker tape celebration."

As indicated, Off Track Betting would soon crash and burn under a scandal of mismanagement and theft, putting an end to our on-the-clock side hustle. The parlor of regulars would eventually blend back into less noticeable scenery, congregating in local parks, pizzerias, fast food dining rooms, and probably a good number of bridges and overpasses city wide.