How to fix a horse race
The biggest social problem of my late teens was drunk driving. The crack epidemic had not yet reached the suburbs, driven out of the cities by upper-middle-class cocaine addicts and MTV’s predilection for violent Gangsta rap. Concerned parents formed Mother’s Against Driving Drunk and had their children sign No Questions Asked pledges promising to hitch a ride if they owned the car but drank too much. One of my classmates was arrested for DUI and had to spend several weekends in the Oakland County Jail. The Scriptor, our high school newspaper, had him write a series of articles about his experiences. Wylie E. Groves High School’s version of direct fear.
The two events that worried our concerned parents the most were prom night and the after-prom parties. Graduation parties were usually held in hotel rooms, so the solution there was pretty easy: Mom and Dad stopped renting out the rooms and threw the parties themselves. There was usually no beer, but hey, when you’re an impoverished high schooler bent on having the time of your life, price matters.
After graduation parties were a little more difficult, but in a time of civic engagement between parents and young adults, schools held the holidays. Once again, 3.2 beer consumption remained at zero, but the parties were always great fun, or so the reports from the classes before ours (1987) said.
My friends Howdy, Sreeny, and I sat around the dark-oak-stained octagonal table across from the bar my parents occasionally ended up at in the basement discussing how the funds for our senior party should be spent. I favored a party at a downtown hotel with Sreeny rejecting the idea. “Think of how many people in Birmingham are proud that they haven’t been to the city of Detroit in 15 years or more,” she said. “Do you think our parents are going to let Groves throw us a party near where the riots happened in ’67?”
I reminded Sreeny that the riots occurred approximately 9 miles north of downtown. “Besides, do you think the Big Three and the DPD would let anything happen to the children of auto execs?” I offered.
Just as Howdy was beginning to weigh his plan for our senior party, the Old Man came downstairs and joined us at the table. After listening to the conversation for a bit, while he played with the gold ring on his left hand, Dad asked who was in charge of the money for this party. “Jenny Smith. She’s our class president,” Howdy said.
“Why don’t you have Judy take the money from her? Have her tell all the other parents in the PTA, I guarantee it. Then the four of us will take the cash and double or triple it.” Then your class can have your party on top of the Renaissance Center in that restaurant that goes around,” the old man said with his Romanian accent deepening.
“How are we going to do that, Mr. Zola?” Howdy asked.
“We’re going to fix a horse race,” Dad said.
Sreeny and Howdy cracked up. I shook my head and rubbed my temples with my left hand. All I ever wanted from my Old Man was for him to teach me how to throw a baseball, tell me about his college experiences, etc. I wanted Ward Cleaver and I got Meyer Lansky. My friends, however, loved my father’s doctorate. on the street.
He laid out the formula for the three of us. Once we had the money, we would go to the track, where the harness racers were running that season, either at DRC or at Hazel Park Raceway. It had to be an 8 horse race; he would choose to make sure we had the right one. We would pay four of the drivers between $100 and $200 to end up broke; that would leave us with 24 Trifecta combinations. We would then place 24 bets on the amount we pay drivers with a zero added, for example if we bet $150 per man then we would bet $1,500 on each Trifecta ticket. When the proper Trifecta came along, we would have doubled our money.
“Don’t worry about the money. I guarantee it,” he grabbed my forearm for emphasis.
“Dad, what would the rest of the parents think when they found out how we make all this extra money from classes?” I asked.
“When I guarantee the money, it’s safer than the bank,” he said. “The other parents won’t mind. Your party will be the social event of the year. Think about it and tell Alex about it.” The Old Man got up and took the car keys out of his right front pocket. “I have some advice. I’m going to the track. I’ll talk to you later.” We had the party at Groves in the cafeteria and gym wing.
It was true that the class party fund would have been safe, not just because my father had given his word. Detroit’s tracks were (and still are) so crooked that Las Vegas wouldn’t book their action. These days I wonder what certain parents on the WASPy side of town would have said if they knew that their sons’ prom, upgraded to Ren Cen, was paid for by a crime. After all, the crimes that built his family’s fortune were at least three generations in the past.