A note from the author: The material I’ve written for this blog over the years has primarily been non-fiction (political op ed, and reviews of music, theater, film and literature) and last year I self-published a memoir, The Mystery Boy and Other Stories. Lately I’ve been dabbling in fiction and this issue of Opinion8ed2 is a departure from the usual as I present my first attempt at short story fiction. The following story was inspired by an anecdote told to me by my friend Wayne Koff, and while it takes place in our childhood home, the story itself is pure fiction.
A Day at the Races
by Paul Kalb
In August 1968, the Police Department for the City of Long Beach, NY had their hands full. In the wake of the murders of Dr. Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy just months earlier, racial tensions in town were at a breaking point. The heat wave didn’t help matters much. Temperatures exceeded 90 degrees and the high humidity and stillness in the air combined to create a relentless haziness that hung over the City by the Sea and refused to budge.
Not surprisingly, the high temperatures drove people from their homes and apartments, most of which were not air conditioned. Who needs air conditioning when ordinarily, you could count on a strong southerly sea breeze that kept temperatures a good ten degrees cooler than those on the mainland. And during a heat wave such as this, many Long Beach residents gathered along the city’s pride and joy, the boardwalk.
Over most of its 2 ¼ miles, the boardwalk was an open stretch with uninterrupted vistas of the Atlantic Ocean pounding the pristine white sand beaches. There were wooden benches and old-fashioned lampposts every 50 feet or so to facilitate contemplative moments and a lane in the middle that allowed bicycle riders long stretches free from the dangers of motorized vehicular traffic. But the half-mile area of the boardwalk in the center of town was much more developed, and as such, quite a bit more congested.
There were several nursing homes along the boardwalk like the King David Manor, an absurdly ugly looking apartment building constructed with the needs of the elderly in mind. Perhaps its glow-in-the-dark bright orange and yellow color was chosen to assist those whose eyesight and/or memories were slipping, find their way home.
Any number of food establishments were available where one could get a quick bite or satisfy a sweet-tooth craving. Each one fronted on the boardwalk and the doors and windows were wide open so the enticing smells mixed with the smell of salt air and wafted slowly in an irresistible combination like a snake charmer’s magic spell.
Within just a few blocks one could find hot dogs with sauerkraut and spicy mustard or an overstuffed deli sandwich of pastrami or corned beef on rye with kosher half-sour dill pickles. For those who preferred meatless options, there were potato, kasha, mushroom or spinach knishes or mouth-watering cherry-cheese blintzes at Izzy’s Knishes, washed down with a Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry, Cream or Cel-Ray Soda.
Or perhaps a slice of pizza and a Coke which were just a few doors down if you were so inclined. Sweet summer treats like salt-water taffy, frozen custard soft-serve cones, Italian Ices (fresh-squeezed lemon was the most popular but cherry, chocolate, and coconut were equally outstanding) and booths selling popcorn and cotton candy were plentiful. You could order your food to-go at the window and eat on the boardwalk. Venturing inside was like entering a time machine. The beat-up wooden floors, stainless steel counters, and menus scribbled on chalk boards hadn’t changed in two generations.
This stretch of the boardwalk was packed with amusements where one could try their luck at various games of chance in an attempt to win coupons redeemable for gifts – most of which were useless tchotchkes, but there were always a few large Kewpie dolls or stuffed animals for the lucky winners to impress their friends and family. There were two competing places to play Skee Ball (Faber’s and Seidel’s), Fascination, the Penny Arcade, the Shooting Gallery and Greyhound Races. With their flashing lights, cacophony of bells and whistles, prizes hanging on every inch of available space, and peeling paint, the amusements too, had the look and musty feel of an earlier time gone by.
So, the boardwalk was overflowing with Long Beach residents and those spending a week-, month-, or summer-long vacation away from the steaming hot metropolis of New York City’s five boroughs. The population of Long Beach tripled in the summer, going from just over 30,000 year-rounders to well over 100,000 people in the summer. The boardwalk in the center of town resembled a melting pot on rapid boil, with lots of elderly retirees, families out for some summer evening fun, and hordes of young people. But on closer examination, one could identify specific groups, especially groups of young teens who tended to congregate together, apart from others.
Within a few short blocks of each other, but in easily recognizable cliques, you’d find the kids from the working-class West End district smoking cigarettes and drinking beer from cans “hidden” in paper bags, the Black kids keeping their distance but standing their ground blasting Motown music from a large transistor radio, and the Puerto Rican and Latino kids not far off holding their own with equally blaring salsa music. Rounding out the melting pot were multiple groups of middle-class white kids, many of whom were long-haired aspiring hippies who’d occasionally wander off down the beach or under the boardwalk to smoke a joint or sit around with a couple of guitars and jam.
Most nights these divergent and potentially contentious groups ignored each other, hanging out or trying their luck at the various boardwalk amusements. But given the escalating tension in the world and the especially hot temperatures, tempers occasionally flared, sparking incidents that kept the police officers busy keeping the peace. That’s why when Detective O’Malley and Seargent Collins were assigned a case to investigate what their supervisor dubbed, “The Kewpie Doll Caper”, they just rolled their eyes.
Jack Draper, owner of Long Beach Boardwalk Amusements, Inc., which operated Greyhound Races and The Shooting Gallery, lodged a formal complaint with the Long Beach Police Department (LBPD) Detective Squad that stated an unusually high number of Kewpie dolls and stuffed animals were being awarded recently at the Greyhound Race concession. According to Draper’s allegation, this was the direct result of an organized cheating ring in operation, and he requested assistance from LBPD to crack the case.
During his deposition, Draper explained the details of how the game worked. The greyhound racers advanced towards the finish line by the action of each contestant who pushed down on a metal lever that sent a Spaldeen rubber ball into the air. Depending on which of four possible holes the ball landed in, the dog would advance one, two, three, or four paces up the track. A loud bell sounded when one of the greyhounds crossed the finish line signaling the end of the race and the lane marker light flashed to declare the winner.
What Draper didn’t tell the cops in his official complaint was that he was the one who was actually cheating. As it turns out, he was facilitating a mob-supported betting ring in which he could manipulate the winning racer by swapping out the rubber balls in one lane. Ordinarily, they used new, lively balls that bounced readily and took longer to enter the hole, thus slowing the speed of the racer and making it more difficult to win. But in one lane, they used older dead balls that gave that contestant a distinct advantage. Each day they randomly rotated the lane with the dead balls, making it very difficult to ascertain which lane might have the built-in advantage. But that information was carefully leaked to his underboss who then manipulated the bets. The contestants had no clue the game was rigged or that the large stakes they were actually playing for were far more valuable than Kewpie dolls.
Unfortunately for Draper and his shady collaborators, it appeared that someone had cracked the scheme and was cashing in on the winnings they felt entitled to. He thought it odd that his underboss told him to file a complaint with the cops, but it turns out the Chief of the LBPD Detective Squad was also on the take, thus minimizing the risk of exposure. So, for the mob, this was a convenient way to break up the competition and keep their advantage in the illegal betting ring.
Harold Keppler, whose father ran a bait and tackle shop in town, was an extraordinarily bright 11-year-old, just entering Long Beach Junior High School. Earlier that year Hal was invited to compete with the Mathletes team and he reached the quarter finals in the North American Junior Chess Championship, finally losing to a 17 year-old high school senior who was heading for a full scholarship at Harvard in the Fall. But like his friends, he also loved hanging out on the boardwalk, going to Miniature Golf and playing Skee Ball and other boardwalk amusements morning ‘til night. This ate up most of the allowance his parents provided for discretionary spending.
Hal was also a huge music fan and held down a job delivering Newsday so he’d have spending money to purchase new hit singles and LPs from the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Grateful Dead, Cream, the Doors, Otis Redding, and Aretha Franklin. He was so addicted to the seemingly endless supply of good new music, his mom joked he needed to join RA (Records Anonymous). This month wasn’t even half over and he’d already spent whatever money he had at Tilben’s Music Center purchasing the newly released albums Cheap Thrills, Electric Ladyland, Bookends, and Aretha Now.
The new Stones album Beggar’s Banquet was being touted as their best yet and reportedly was due to hit the shelves next week. Dylan’s former backup band just released an album called Music From Big Pink to absolutely rave reviews, the Dead had a new release called Anthem of the Sun, and Otis released an album containing his mega-hit single, Dock of the Bay. He absolutely had to have these soon-to-be collector item gems, but he’d need at least two more paper routes to get enough money to pay for them. Hal had already tapped his folks for an advancement on next week’s allowance, so he needed to figure out a new source of income.
And then one evening as he was hanging out with his buddies on the boardwalk, it hit him. “Step right up and try your luck at the Races!” shouted the barker at Greyhound Races. “Just 25 cents and there’s a guaranteed winner every time! Win yourself a Valuable Prize! Win one for your kids or sweetheart!”
Hal had never been too excited about the overstuffed bears and large Kewpie dolls that were offered for prizes, but when the barker suggested winning one for a family member or partner, he realized if he sold them he could make some easy money. He’d probably get ten times what they cost him and the profits from each sale could be turned around into a new record album for his collection. All he had to do was figure out a guaranteed way to win the race almost every time he played.
Rather than fall prey to the barker’s seductive invitation, however, a careful plan was hatched. Hal did step right up… but only close enough to observe the action while still lurking in the background and not calling attention to himself. When one game ended and the crowd temporarily dispersed, he moved away so as not to be seen and when a new crowd gathered, he stealthily slipped back into position to continue his observations. His immediate goal was to collect data over a large enough sample size to be statistically significant. His overall objective was to discern whether play was absolutely random or whether there might be slight advantages in one lane over another. If he was going to make this a profitable venture, he needed any edge he could get.
In addition to his mathematical wizardry, Hal was blessed with a photographic memory, so he was able to make a mental record of the first three finishers in more than a hundred games over the course of the day. Then analyzing the data in his head, he was pleasantly surprised to find a decided advantage present in Lane 5. It wasn’t fool-proof and still required a skilled player at the controls, but there were definitely more winners in that lane. When he finally stepped up with money in hand to play, Hal was also careful to camouflage his scheme by losing a few rounds before going in for the kill.
On his third try he scouted the other players and they all seemed like novices, so the time was right. He took a deep breath just before the starting bell rang out and focused on shooting the ball with just the right amount of arc to land in the top scoring hole.
“And they’re off!” came the barker’s voice over the tinny PA system speakers, channeling Howard Cossell calling the race. Swish! Hal’s greyhound immediately shot out to an early lead. In rapid staccato with Cossell’s distinctive nasal twang, “Off to a fast start, ahead by three lengths in Lane Number 5 is Ballyregan Bob. He’s followed by Star Title in Lane Number 2 and Master McGrath in Lane 4 who are neck and neck battling it out for second place.”
Hal didn’t want to attract too much attention, so he intentionally overshot a few balls to give others a chance to catch up. “But wait a minute folks… coming up quickly in Lane Number 1 is Mick the Miller who just passed Westmead Hawk in Lane Number 3. Jay is Jay in Lane 6 is pulling up the rear but lots of time left in the race.”
About halfway through the race, Hal refocused and landed enough shots to regain and take the lead for good. The bell sounded and exulting in victory, he leaped high in the air with his right fist extended. “Finishing with a victory margin of two-lengths, it’s Ballyregan Bob in Lane 5, followed by Master McGrath in Lane 4, and Mick the Miller in third place just three lengths back!” Beaming with a shitass grin, Hal collected his 10-point coupon. Just four more of them and he’d have enough for a prize, but he decided to be discreet and call it quits for the night.
Hal returned the next day, but rather than go straight to Lane 5 and start playing, he repeated his data mining and analysis. And he was glad he did because, much to his surprise, he discovered that today the competitive advantage belonged to Lane 6 by around the same margin. He put his quarter on the table and ambled over to Lane 6. This time Hal took an early lead and continued to cruise on to an easy victory. To obfuscate his actions, he played and lost a few games in other lanes but switched back over to Lane 6 for another two winning races. It wasn’t apparent just how the lanes were rigged but he was certain that they were. As long as he took his time to case the joint and analyze the data, he could maintain the edge he needed to game the system. He also realized he needed to be patient and choose the times he played carefully, splitting his winning games among several barkers on duty during the day to reduce the chances of being noticed.
His strategy played out as planned and in just a couple of days he had enough coupons to snag a three-foot stuffed bear. He chose the most hideous, electric green colored bear because at this point the idea was to attract as much attention as possible. While proudly showing off his catch, Hal walked over to National Boulevard where he found groups of families with young kids running about as they visited their grandparents who were parked on the wooden benches facing the ocean. His fishing instincts told him this was a good location to drop his line in the water.
Sure enough, within minutes, a group of children were circling around the bait, talking amongst themselves and pointing at the large bear in his arms. The ripples of commotion radiated outward, penetrating the group of adults on the bench and somebody’s grandmother called out, “Hey boychik, that’s some bear you got there! Such a sweet punim.” Hal wasn’t sure if Bubbe was complimenting him or the bear, but he used it as an opportunity to continue the conversation. “Thanks, I won it at the Greyhound Races…but I’m trying to sell it because I want to buy my parents a gift for their 25th anniversary next week.”
He figured his little fib was of no consequence but greatly increased his chances for making a sale. Bubbe turned to her husband and muttered something in Yiddish to the effect of “Fon dos veln di kinder zeyer tsufridn vern…” Hal was only slightly literate in Yiddish but was pretty sure he understood and responded, “Yes, it does appear that they’d love having it!”
Bubbe reflected for a moment and gave Hal a long stare which ended in a smile. “How much you asking?” When Hal returned the smile and said, “For you, five dollars,” she quickly replied, “Listen boychik, I’ll tell you vut… Such a gut yingele who buys presents for mamela un tatehla…Nu, I give you three fifty but not a penny more!” Hal laughed and said, “Deal!” Bubbe turned to her husband, “Irving, pay the schnook his gelt.”
At the end of the day, a couple of kids went home with a huge grin and a new stuffed animal for their bedroom, their grandmother was kvelling, and Hal walked up to Park Ave. to pick up his copy of Big Pink. A win-win-win. Detective O’Malley and Seargent Collins on the other hand, never did find any suspects and to this day, the Kewpie Doll Caper officially remains unsolved. The following summer Draper and his cronies resorted to more typical underworld techniques to ferret out the competition. Fortunately, Hal was safe and sound at summer camp and never realized how close he’d come to swimming with the fishes.
opinion8ed2 
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