Between the Bylines Read online

  I momentarily reflected to myself all the agonizing and exhilarating moments I had when I was heavily involved in gambling and all the famous denizens of the trade I met like Bob Martin, Jack Franzi, Jimmy Vaccaro, Kale Kalustian, Jimmy “The Greek” Snyder, Harry Gross, Satellite Mike Economou, Fast Eddie Cosek and the legendary Ron “Cigar” Sacco, the offshore betting pioneer who was featured prominently on CBS’s popular Sunday night news show 60 Minutes.

  I often had Thursday night dinners with Sacco at his favorite restaurant, Dan Tana’s, in West Hollywood, during my gambling years, and his stories about his profession always kept me entranced.

  When Harry Gross committed suicide in April 1986 in Long Beach, the New York Times ran a lengthy obituary in which it detailed his $20-million-a-year bookmaking empire in New York during the 1940s, when he had more than thirty-five betting shops.

  Gross also spent more than $1 million a year paying off cops and politicians and was involved in a well-publicized two-year trial that resulted in the conviction of 22 New York policemen and 240 others being dismissed from the department.

  I got to know Harry well—he resided in Long Beach the final fifteen years of his life—and always recall his saying to me, “At the end, the players always lose. I remember one guy in New York who owned a major trucking firm, and he beat me for hundreds of thousands of dollars for a couple of years. And he wasn’t one bit humble about it and always was telling me how I reminded him of Santa Claus, giving out free gifts. By the end of the third year, I owned his trucking firm. I took the action over the years of some of the biggest gamblers in the country, people like the Las Vegas casino owner Sidney Wyman and the New York mobster Albert Anastasia. And every single one of them lost. I don’t think anyone ever mistook me for Santa Claus.”

  I thought of what Harry Gross had once said to me as I got set to respond to Gillian’s inquiry.

  “Oh, I was fibbing…I’ve made a few bets since January 1, 1991,” I finally said. “I bet on a couple of horse races and played some blackjack on occasion. But never lost more than forty or fifty bucks. And I only did it, like I said, a few times. But I was never interested in the horses and the casino games. When I was gambling, I was strictly a sports bettor. I made my last serious bet on January 1, 1991.”

  “Why January 1, 1991?” she wondered.

  “I lost $17,500 on a football game between Notre Dame and Colorado in something called the Orange Bowl,” I said. “I took Notre Dame [I had taken the Fighting Irish plus a half point), and it lost 10–9. But the Fighting Irish should have won. One of their players [Rocket Ismail] scored on a ninety-two-yard punt return with forty-three seconds remaining, only for an official to nullify it with a penalty. And it was a penalty that should not have been called. It was known as the ‘Phantom Penalty.’ I had bet on the right side, but I still lost. I looked at myself in a mirror above my restroom sink later that night and said out loud to myself, ‘I’ll never again make another sports bet.’ And I haven’t.”

  “What do you mean by your being strictly a sports bettor?” asked Gillian.

  “Like betting on football, baseball, basketball and boxing,” I said. “Like not betting on casino games like blackjack, baccarat, roulette and craps. Believe me, Gillian, I once was a compulsive gambler. I was out of my mind. I bought a $3,000 satellite dish in 1986 that I placed atop my garage, and it looked like the ones they have at NASA in Houston, so I could watch all the events I was betting on. I was routinely making four- and even five-figure bets, and I was a newspaperman earning less than $40,000 a year. And what was so weird was that I didn’t even make my first serious bet until I was forty.”

  “Douglas, I could never live with a person who was doing that,” she said with typical honesty.

  “It was hard for me to live with myself when I was doing that!” I responded. “I was engulfed in a raging fever. I fortunately stopped before I went broke, which happens to all compulsive gamblers.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever go back?”

  “No way. The only element that keeps compulsive gamblers from stopping is a lack of funds—and too many times that doesn’t stop them, either. Fortunately, I never got broke, but I also have never gone back. Not once. And never will.”

  I shuddered inwardly as I thought back to those stressful days—and there were plenty of them—that I myself created.

  How different I was now. We human beings can be so mercurial in our changing of hues, altering of courses, embracing of wicked compulsions. I always was stable when it came to my work, but such stability never carried over to my private life, in which I too often trespassed the borders of moderation.

  “How did you ever get started gambling when you were in your forties?” I suddenly could hear Gillian asking me, jarring me out of my reverie.

  “I’ve talked enough about my gambling,” I said. “Let’s talk about it another time, and I’ll relate tales you might find difficult to believe. And believe me, Gillian, there are many incredible ones. But not now. We’re in the French Riviera, and my gambling days are long behind me. I’m just looking forward to seeing the Matisse Chapel and the Maeght museum at Saint-Paul de Vence. And if we have time, we’ll visit Renoir’s old home in Cagnes-sur-Mer.”

  Chapter 18

  The Matisse Chapel turned out to be a small but appealing structure with tall, gracefully designed stained-glass windows and three large wall murals. We spent a short time there, had lunch in Vence and then drove the short distance near Saint Paul Vence, where we roamed around the Maeght with its collection of modern art paintings, sculptures and ceramics. It included works by such artists as Pierre Bonnard, Georges Braque, Alexander Calder, Marc Chagall, Alberto Giacometti, Fernand Leger and Joan Miro.

  But the seminal highlight of that day for us—and one that neither of us ever forgot—was the visit to Renoir’s villa in the hills above Cagnes-sur-Mer. Renoir was one of the most famous of the Impressionists—his popularity rivaled Monet’s—and you could actually feel his presence when you walked around his residence that had his original furniture in place, a lot of old photos and mementos and the wheelchair he used in front of the easel in his atelier. There were a few of his paintings and sculptures in the home where he resided in the final years of his life. There also was a garden on the six-acre plot of land that brimmed with Renoir’s beloved olive trees and that afforded a breathtakingly picturesque view of the Mediterranean. There was an emotional chord about Renoir’s place that resonated strongly with both of us.

  Before that first date with Gillian when she showed me around the National Gallery, I had no knowledge of Renoir or other renowned painters. But in the ensuing years, despite not seeing Gillian since September 1992, I had devoured many books on these gifted people, including James Lord’s stellar biography on Giacometti. Lord, an American expatriate who long had resided in Paris, was a memoirist extraordinaire who related fascinating stories about people he knew like Giacometti, Picasso, Cocteau, Gertrude Stein, Georges Braque and countless other cultural icons. I actually met Lord one evening at a Paris restaurant and told him how much I enjoyed his work.

  Anyway, after we got back to Cannes late in the afternoon, I was in a joyful mood. And in those days, when I was in a joyful mood and when I was with a lady for whom I had a deep fondness, I always felt like having fun. Which meant I felt like drinking and laughing and conversing with everybody as though I were a politician at a fundraiser.

  “Let’s go hit a few places,” I said. “Let’s start celebrating the coming of the New Year early.”

  “Sure…why not?” replied Gillian obligingly.

  And we did. We must have visited seven or eight taverns near the hotel in the first two or three hours, and I had a drink, or two or more, at every one of them, while Gillian, who it turned out was a modest drinker, began ordering Perrier after consuming her usual limit of two glasses of wine.

  We had made a reservation that night at a small brasserie called Grill 22 behind our hotel that was operated by
a friendly French couple. I had gone there earlier in the week and had been a regular at the place for several years.

  When we arrived at nine o’clock, I was in a jovial, if not inebriated, state. I guess I wound up ordering five bottles of Dom Perignon during dinner, and I guess we shared the champagne with many of the customers. I say I guess because I have only a faint recollection of what happened at the dinner and beyond—Gillian said I insisted on us going to a nearby disco and that we did some serious dancing—although I do remember horns blaring at midnight and her having to hold me up as I staggered back to the hotel at 4:00 a.m. I also remember the next day having a stunning financial shock when I looked at my American Express receipt from the restaurant. With tip, it was $704. But even worse than that revelation the next morning was what happened next.

  “Take it easy, Douglas, you’re going to be sick,” warned Gillian.

  “I feel all right,” I said as I got up to go to the restroom.

  “Just take it easy,” she reiterated.

  And Gillian certainly was right.

  I had my share of hangovers across the decades, but this one left me almost immobile. My legs were unsteady, my stomach was nauseous, my eyes were heavy, my head was throbbing. Other than that, I was in prime fettle. I did somehow manage to stagger back into the bed after loudly vomiting, got under the blankets and curled up in the fetal position.

  “I can’t move,” I said haplessly.

  “I knew you’d feel that way,” she said. “I tried to warn you last night to take it easy. But you were in a zone. Your own private zone. You were pretty whacked out at the disco. I even got mad at you, but it didn’t make any difference. You just stayed out on the dance floor and left me alone and kept dancing.”

  I was embarrassed as I listened to her words delivered without anger and promised her that never would happen again, which it didn’t. Wasn’t I now too old to be acting as though I were back in the disco era when I was much younger and more durable?

  I spent most of that day in bed, trying vainly to sleep. I felt horrendous. I always found there is only one certain cure for a hangover: tomorrow. And even that, on occasion, isn’t enough time to remedy one of nature’s cruelest self-inflicted punishments. I didn’t make it out of the hotel that day until mid-evening, when we walked along the boardwalk and wound up having dinner at Farfalla.

  Gillian flew back to London early the next morning, and I remember feeling sad. We’d had such a rapturous time together, and I yearned for it to extend into infinity. Suddenly, I was in love, and I think she was, too. It was nice, a feeling of gladness.

  Chapter 19

  It is a romantic reality that lengthy distances (like eight thousand miles) and lengthy absences (like months at a time) are not conducive to lasting relationships. As Gillian returned to London on January 2, 1996, I thought about that reality and decided I’d do something about it.

  After I returned home, I began phoning her almost every day to make sure the intimacy that we had formed in Cannes wouldn’t dissipate. Still, I also realized that phone calls alone wouldn’t be enough to sustain what we had going—and decided on a slightly more radical course.

  Why not simply go see Gillian?

  After all, I still had access to those moderately priced airline buddy passes from a pal, Bill Dandridge, and Delta still had a co-share with Virgin Atlantic. Sure, being a non-revenue traveler, I was always wait listed for a flight, but I knew the only way I would miss one was if it was filled to capacity, which never happened in those days on the 747s that Virgin Atlantic used on its London run.

  My boss at the time at the Press-Telegram, Jim McCormack, was a kindly, understanding fellow, a beloved Long Beach sporting figure—he covered the local university’s sports teams for more than two decades for the P-T—and booster of mine who always displayed a sense of compassionate tolerance when I sought a favor.

  After I explained the situation with Gillian and the necessity of making periodic visits to see her, Jim said, “No problem. You do what you have to do.”

  Celebrating with renowned jockey Willie Shoemaker (second from right) are (from left) former Long Beach Press-Telegram senior sports editor Jim McCormack, Doug, former Los Angeles Herald Examiner sports columnist Melvin Durslag and P-T editor Rich Archbold.

  And so seven times that year I flew to London. I’d depart LAX on Wednesday afternoons, arrive at Heathrow late on Thursday mornings and would depart on Sundays. I’d always write my Thursday and Friday columns for the Press-Telegram in advance, and Jim McCormack graciously gave me Sundays off.

  “I know you’ll make it up to us down the road,” said Jim, which certainly was the case that summer when I worked the Olympic Games in Atlanta.

  After flying into Heathrow, I’d take a cab to Gillian’s flat in Streatham Hill and would immediately head to the tiny store around the corner where the spinster sisters were always behind the counter and where I always purchased the usual six London papers. I’d then return to Gillian’s place and would lie in bed and read the papers as long as I could before falling asleep, which usually lasted for four hours. I’d then go on an hour-long run, shower, walk the neighborhood, have a couple beers and then return to the flat and wait for Gillian’s arrival, which usually came around 8:00 p.m.

  It was a draining, exciting five days for me. The weather was typically dreary—cold and gray with periods of rain—but that didn’t keep me from running. One evening, Gillian and I walked to nearby Brixton and dined at a Jamaican restaurant. The food was delicious, and later we went to a popular rum bar that was owned by a Jamaican. I asked the gentleman for his finest rum, and I wound up consuming five shots of it. We laughed and giggled all the way home, as we were pelted by the ever-present raindrops.

  We continued to enjoy each other’s company immensely, and our common interests—jogging, movies, reading, art—only drew us closer.

  I continued to find the London tabloids to be a scream—their specialty was exposing the marital infidelities of entertainers, athletes and politicians—and I also became an admirer of a polemical writer for the Times, a fellow named A.A. Gill, a restaurant and TV critic of astonishing acerbity, and by the nightclub musings of a columnist for the same paper, Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, a socialite playgirl who was the Kim Kardashian of her day, albeit a lot taller and a lot more attractive. Ironically, on one of my return trips to LA, I struck up a conversation with a gentleman from London who produced and directed TV documentaries. His name was Michael Gill, and he was the father of the notorious Times author.

  I felt during those brief trips to London that Gillian and I kept getting closer and more affectionate.

  As we dined one night at Gillian’s favorite Indian restaurant in Streatham Hill, she asked me if I ever wanted to get married again.

  “Of course, I’ve told you before…I’m going to marry you,” I said.

  She remained silent and shyly bowed her head.

  “Honestly,” I said. “I’m going to marry you.”

  I was looking for a negative response but didn’t get one; she had a radiant look on her face.

  I noticed how Gillian became more interested in my life as a sportswriter during this period and began asking me more about it during our conversations.

  “If I died this moment, please, don’t shed a tear for me if you attend my funeral because I’ve had a life one could only dream about, especially considering where I came from,” I told her on one occasion. “I’ve always said that the worst and best thing that ever happened to me is that I found my quintessentially perfect job at twenty-four years old. During the late ’60s and throughout the ’70s, I flew everywhere around the United States with professional athletic teams. I first covered the Lakers and then for seven years covered the Rams, a football team once located in Los Angeles and now in St. Louis. If I had gone into real estate at that time in Southern California, I’m sure I’d have become very wealthy, as a few of my friends did. But they didn’t live the kind of life I did, which was neve
r dull and always fun.

  “I remember once when I was in Boston where the Lakers were set to play a regular season game. The team had an off day, and Wilt Chamberlain called my room early in the evening and invited me to go out with him for dinner. I, of course, did, and later we went to a nightclub—it was called the Point After—and everyone made all over Wilt. And because I was with him, I also was treated like a celebrity. And I got to know the American actor Ryan O’Neal, who had scored big with Love Story, because he was a co-manager of a terrific welterweight fighter named Hedgemon Lewis, and I covered some of Lewis’s fights for the Herald Examiner. One night I took a date with me to see a world title fight at the Olympic Auditorium, which is a famous fight arena near downtown LA. And as we’re walking down the aisle to our seats, I hear someone yell out, ‘Doug!’ And it’s Ryan O’Neal. And he happened to be the favorite actor of the date I was with, and obviously, that made quite an impression on her, especially when I introduced her to Ryan. That was before I got married.

  “Gillian, I was so enthralled by my job that I overlooked the fact that I was stuck in a bad marriage that I detested. It’s not that my wife was a bad person. She wasn’t. It’s just that she was possessive and jealous, and I was simply too young and didn’t want to be tied down. I had a lot of thrilling times in the ’70s, but I would have had a lot more had I not been married. I made up for it in the ’80s when I was single and have had my share of fun moments this decade, too. Oh, how I have made it up for it!”

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  “Let’s talk about that some other time,” I said. “I’ve talked enough about myself.”

  “What about you?” I said. “I know you were good in judo. I know you had a long relationship with some guy that ended badly. I know you had a difficult time when you first moved to London. I know I’m the first American guy you’ve ever dated. I know you’re close to your parents and that your dad would take the family on vacations to as far away as Rome when you were a kid in a small car that often broke down and…”