Punters and Publicans in the Local Bar

Michael (all names are pseudonyms) has white hair and ruddy cheeks. He has an easy smile and his friends say that he is good company. Michael is a bookie, and his friends are the drinkers and gamblers at an uptown bar.

When I first walked in, Michael was in the corner counting out a stack of 20s, perhaps $600 worth. Two other men were watching him count. He made a joke, put the money away and climbed back onto his bar stool next to the payphone.

On the wall behind the bar there was a television tuned to channel 71, the OTB station, but no one was watching the horses. All the talk was about the upcoming game six of the World Series. The men sipped their drinks and discussed the odds: "Pettitte/Johnson. It'll be 7-to-8. No, 9-to-11." The payphone rang. Michael answered it and made some notes in the margin of his Daily News.

I ordered a beer and chatted with Davie, the very large Latino bartender. Davie told a story about getting drunk and falling asleep on the beach in Long Island. When the local police woke him up, he was so sunburned his skin felt like leather. He had to cover himself from head to toe in cold cream: "I looked like a white guy. Like Casper the ghost."

Time passed. A man named Josef walked in. Michael said: "Fresh money! Fresh money! How you doin' Josef?" Josef ignored him and shuffled down the bar to speak to Pete. Josef had a Polish accent and he spoke in a rough whisper. Michael let him talk for a moment. Then he stood up and said:

"Come here, Josef, listen. I don't want to be a pain in your ass but you owe me money. You owe me $155 and you've owed me for five years. You can't come in here and put money down with Pete if you're not going to pay your debts. I'm not asking for all of it, but every time I see you I want you to give me something?$20. I need something. It's gotta be something every time and then we won't have this problem anymore."

Josef didn't respond, and Michael repeated his request for money more forcefully. The two of them were standing chest to chest in the middle of the room and everyone at the bar looked around for Davie the bartender. But Davie was missing and he hadn't been seen for some time.

"Fuck you," said Josef. "I paid your father."

"My fucking father's been dead for five years. Which is as long as you've owed me money! I want $20 every time you come in. If you don't give me something today, I'm never fucking talking to you again."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's not a threat. I'm just telling you I'm never fucking talking to you again!"

Out of nowhere, Davie reappeared. He was fastening his belt and he waddled quickly over to the confrontation. He stuck out his belly and put his hand on his hips. Michael said, "He comes in here and wants to place money with Pete, but he owes me $155 from five years ago."

"Either you're gonna leave or I'm gonna escort you out," said Davie.

"Who are you?" said Josef.

"I'm the bar and this is my place. It's time for you to go."

After Josef left, Michael turned to Davie and asked him where he'd been. One of the regulars jumped in to answer the question. "He was taking a dump. I heard him."

Michael was still red in the face. He kept telling the man next to him about the money Josef owed him. "What can you do?" said the man. "Deadbeats."

"That's stupid, that kind of money," said Michael. "It makes no sense. I'll tell you, one time?you guys have heard this story before?one time I came back into town and I was loaded. I'm at home, in the middle of the afternoon, and I get a knock on the door. They say they're cops. Where have you ever seen a cop with a cellphone? They knock on the door and I open up, and suddenly it's a madhouse. They trash the place. Drawers on the floor and everything. I had $50,000 sitting on the coffee table when those guys came in and when they left it was gone. I never heard anything about it again."

"Did they know you were a bookie?"

"How do I know?"

The next day I went back to the bar. There was a young man leaning against the door outside and he was obviously drunk. He stepped aside as I approached, but when I tried the door it was locked. Through the window I saw Michael and four others talking together. A large man with gray hair unlocked the door and poked his head out. "Private party," he said gruffly. I turned to go, but the drunk stuck his foot in the door and tried to push his way in. Halfway down the block I looked back to see what was going on. The large man was standing on the sidewalk pressing the drunk's face tightly against the wall.