For years Richie Boy and I bet the Super Bowl according to the Manny Principle, which was that Manny had never beaten the spread for the NFL's final game. Accordingly we always bet the other way. In 1996 the championship game matched the Dallas Cowboys against the Pittsburgh Steelers in Tempe, Arizona. All week Googs, Domingo, Richie Boy, and I had been badgering Manny for his pick and on Friday afternoon we intensified the pressure.
"Who you like?" Richie Boy was tired of waiting.
"Anytime I tell you, I lose." Manny said from behind his desk.
"No, anytime you bet on the Super Bowl, you lose." In 1995 Googs, his first son, had won $1000 betting on the 49ers taking the 19.5 point spread over the Chargers.
"And I didn't see a penny from any of you gonifs." Manny wasn't superstitious, but this losing streak was a joke amongst everyone on West 47th Street and beyond; friends, foes, rivals, but not his bookie Rip, who had kept the bet secret like a priest hearing an altar boy's confession. "You're invited to watch the game at my apartment. There'll be food booze and a big TV, but you want to make a bet, use your head not mine."
Manny didn't speak to us for the rest of the day. Richie sold two diamonds memoed from his partners, the Randolph firm. Domingo and I spent the afternoon schlepping orders from the polishers to the setters to the polishers again and back to the store. At closing we locked the goods in the safe and Manny paid our salaries. We got paid in cash. $100 bills. Normally we were out the door a second later, but not tonight.
"C'mon, Dad, give us a break." Richie Boy pleaded on bended knees, which wasn't easy since he had popped both ACLs in Jackson Hole in 1990.
"What?" Manny leaned back in his chair.
We weren't the only ones waiting for his prediction. Mr. Randolph turned up his hearing aid to 10. The Jamaican guard eavesdropped at the counter. There was a knock on the door. It was Uncle Seymour. His older brother entered the exchange and Mannysaid angrily, "You don't come to see me here all year and now you show up like a long-lost shoe."
"Don't have a cow." Seymour was a die-hard gambler. "I was only passing by."
"Passing by, my brother, the ex-cop, passing by on the way back from the track."
"Ain't no racing up north this time of year." The ex-cop loved the horses and in the wintertime gave most of his pension to the Florida race tracks via the OTB on 48th Street. He turned to Richie Boy. "He's not telling us, is he?"
"No." Richie Boy shook his head. "The old bastard thinks he'll win, if he doesn't tell us."
"Win?" Seymour laughed as only an older brother can laugh at his younger brother.
"What?" Manny was hot. "You think I will lose on my bet?"
"Manny, I love you, but you haven't won a Super Bowl bet since the Jets lost to the Colts."
"That's not Manny's fault." I had to defend my boss on this. Maybe if he gave me his bet and I could double up on the $700 cash in my pocket.
"Ass-kisser." Googs called them as he saw them.
"No, Manny was fucked by a fixed game."
"They don't fix the Super Bowl." Seymour's statement was more a question than a challenge.
"No, four years ago I'm sitting at a hotel in France. I run into Bubba Smith of the Baltimore Colts who's promoting POLICE ACADEMY. I asked after a few drinks, "How you lose that game to the Jets?" At first I thought he would take off my head, instead he whispered, "They got to the quarterbacks."
"Quarterbacks? Morall and Unitas?" Seymour smirked, because Unitas had a straight reputation.
"Both of the Colts QBs. The bookies had threatened to kill their families."
"They fixed the quarterback?" Manny had won a month's pay on that bet.
"Why you think Joe Namath was so confident. He knew the fix was in."
"It was only one game."
"What about 1979? All the smart money went on Pittsburgh to cover the 3.5 spread, then the bookies stretched it to 4.5. You might remember the game but Dallas trailed 35-17 with 7 minutes left, but somehow come back to score two TDs to beat the spread, fucking everyone who bet the Steelers."
"I lost that bet too."
"I won." I knew Manny thanks to his brother cop partner working with me at Hurrah, a punk disco on West 62nd Street. I had bet my salary on Seymour's recommendation of the Manny Principle.
"Dad, you're gonna lose. Nothing you do can stop you losing the Super Bowl." Googs was in debt to his car dealer. "I win and I'm good for the winter. Think of your kids. Me and Richie."
Manny eyed us all. "No."
"Dad," Richie Boy spoke with the soft tone used it to close deals. "How much you gonna bet? $500? $1000. You tell us your choice and we'll make good your loss."
"A real hero." Manny shook his head defiantly. "You want me to lose."
"I don't want you to lose, but you're going to lose." Richie held up ten C-notes. "You lose every year. Not on everything. Just the Superbowl. We'll make good for you."
"You want me to bet. I lose the bet and then you pay me the money."
"Simple. You come out ahead."
"What makes you so sure that I won't win this year."
"Manny?" Richie Boy, Googs, and Seymour shrugged sympathetically. They were family.
"I can't win with you guys. I bet Dallas."
"Makes sense." Seymour wrote down the name. Once a cop, always a cop. They liked to write things down.
"You know something we don't know?" asked Googs.
"Only that Manny will never win Super Bowl."
We held our breath. Manny didn't think it was funny and pointed a finger at his son. "Okay big shot, just remember what you said, because this year I'm winning big."
Everyone left the exchange. They had the prediction. Everyone was betting the Pittsburgh. I never gambled. In 1974 I had lost everything driving across Nevada on my birthday.
That Sunday we went to Manny's apartment in Grammercy Park that Sunday. He had a spread from Little Italy on the table. A six-foot long Godfather sub. Wine and every alcohol. The couch was big enough to sit Googs, Seymour, Richie Boy, his wife from Buffalo, and his two high school friends; Werthel and RD. We bet heavy the other way from Manny. The Cowboys failed to cover the nineteen point spread even with three inceptions from Steelers' QB Neil O'Donnell.. 27-17. Richie Boy handed his father $500 for his loss. He was a good son. We drank the rest of his vodka toasting Manny for his bet, but the sixty year-old was in too good a mood for my tastes and when his old man and I stepped out onto the balcony to huff a joint some air. I asked, "Why you in such a good mood?"
"Because I bet the Steelers."
"But you told us that you bet the Cowboys?"
"And you believe everything someone tells you?" Manny liked answering a question with a question. "Don't believe nothing and don't tell anyone this either."
"Why you telling me?"
"Because no matter if I tell you not to, I know you'll tell your friend Richie that I bet on the Steelers. I want to see his face on Monday."
"But you took $500 from him?"
"No, he gave it to me." Manny looked over his shoulder and smiled, "Everyone's much happier thinking I have a curse. Why spoil their good time?"
I felt bad about saying nothing to Richie Boy about his father's bet, because he was so happy. Monday would be a different story. All Mondays are.
