Back in the Day, when the 'Numbers' were Illegal and Fun!

Massachusetts:  The Bridge between the Birthplace of the American Navy
(Beverly) and the Witch City, (Salem).

By Bill Russo

The United States that I was born into, in the 1940s, was a vastly different place than it is today. 

We have added Alaska & Hawaii, but have lost much more than we gained.

By 1940 the Automobile had transformed this nation from a country of farmers to a land of blue collar workers. Most people were employed at a factory within walking distance of their home. They didn't even need a watch.

The factory whistle went off at eight in the morning and blew again at noon for lunch. At one p.m. the blast meant back to work and the final scream at five p.m. signaled the end of the work day.

People didn't live in cities; they lived in neighborhoods. Ours was composed of Italian immigrants, many of whom would gather in their spare time at the Old Rose Restaurant near the Beverly/Salem bridge, which was owned by my Uncle - The restaurant, not the bridge. There were 30 stools at the lunch counter, six more stools in the adjoining bar, and four booths near the bar (for the elite - you know, the people who used glasses for their beer).

My Dad was a regular occupant of one of the six bar stools and his pal Jake smothered another. Jake was so fat, that when he sat down, the stool disappeared from sight and so did half of the supporting leg. I never knew exactly what Jake did for a living, but I suspected he was an accountant, because Dad said he worked with numbers ( I was seven years old at the time).

Unlike now, in the 1940s, gambling was declared evil and illegal by the government - except in Las Vegas, which was for some reason granted an exemption from pretty much any kind of morality.

Jake felt that he should be just like 'Vegas' and he ran a nice little 'numbers' operation for all the Italian community and a good part of the rest of the town. Most times, the law left Jake alone.

Our city, like all middle sized to large communities, had 'beat cops' who would do a walking patrol of a specific set route; calling in to headquarters at regular intervals from special phones installed on metal poles every few hundred yards.

On one particular boring, sweltering Summer day, Gino, the regular cop on our beat, decided to have some fun with Jake. He followed Jake from place to place as the fat man walked his route and picked up his betting slips and wads of cash, at stores, offices, and homes.

By the railroad tracks near the harbor, Gino confronted Jake, who by then had a thick pile of slips in his flabby hand.

"Okay Jake", Gino shouted, with one hand shading his eyes from the blistering rays of the sun, "I am taking you in for making book. You're going to jail. Hand over your slips."

"Leave me alone Gino," protested the sweltering fat man, rivers of sweat ran from his wet head and splashed onto his grubby white tee shirt. Looking as wet as if he had just emerged from the ocean, Jake quickly swallowed in one big gulp, the whole chubby pile of betting slips.

"You ain't got no evidence, Gino. I guess you're just going to have to let me go!"

Back at the Old Rose Cafe at sunset, my Dad, my uncle, Gino the Cop, Cushy the car salesman, Joey the Kid, and a few other regulars; were having big laughs at poor Jake's expense.

Jake was seated by himself at the lunch counter with only a single glass of water in front of him. No food. No beer. No chips.

"Hey Jake," shouted my Father, always pretty good with the needle, "How come you're not eating today?"

"Wassamatter Jake?",  Joey the Kid chimed in, "Is your tummy upset? We've never seen you go a whole day widdout eating!"

"SHUD UP YOU GUYS, JUST SHUDDUP!!", from his solitary spot at the lunch counter, Jake screamed at the group sitting at the bar, "Thanks to that bum Gino, you are sitting with, I already ate today and now my stomach don't feel good. Don't ever try to book anudder bet wid me....I am talking about alla youse guys. You're shut off. No more bets, you bums."

"And one uddah thing", Jake added, "Gino, you think it's so funny. I hope you have three murders and a bank robbery tomorrah. Den you'll have enough paperwork to feed da whole station, you bum!"

Many years later,  before my Dad passed away, he and I recalled that day at the Rose.

"Jake was so mad that he kept cursing us for a week till there was a big race at Wonderland Greyhound Park. He forgave us as soon as we started pulling out 'fins' and 'sawbucks' to make a few bets," Dad recalled.

"Poor Jake," he added. "I am glad ol' Jake died and did not live to see this legalized lottery thing. Scratch tickets. Numbers betting. Everything run by the government. Jake would say that it's just another case of the government stepping in and taking over private enterprise."

"I know Dad," I sympathized. "This legal gambling would have put Jake out of business."

"Yah, "Damn lottery stinks!! And you know what else?"

"What Dad?"

"I will tell you what else, if you won $500 from Jake, he would give you $500. If you won money, he paid yuh. He paid yuh every single cent!!! He was totally honest, not like the government lottery."

"What do you mean?"

"Jake gave you your money," Dad said again, "and he never took no taxes!"