Lankester - Dangerous odds: [my secret life inside an illegal billion dollar sports betting operation]

DANGEROUS ODDS

MARISA LANKESTER

Copyright 2014 by Marisa Lankester

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014931839

ISBN 9783-90619600-8 (Hardcover)
ISBN 9783-90619601-5 (eBook)

Published by Cappuccino Books
Cappuccino Books by Vigan GmbH
Stansstaderstrasse 90, CH 6370 Stans, Switzerland
www.cappuccinobooks.com

Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books
www.midpointtrade.com
orders@midpointtrade.com

Interior design by Neuwirth and Associates, Inc.
Cover design by Daniel Donati, ZurichTokio
Cover images: Getty Images, iStockphoto, Adriano Vigan

Printed in the United States of America

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I have recreated the events depicted in my memoir from my memories, journals, photos, and extensive research. I have changed the names of certain individuals and places. Some identifying characteristics and details have been fictionalized.

In September of 2007, Nicola Maffei offered me a no-strings-attached grant so I could write my memoir. This allowed me to take a leave of absence from the minimum-wage, manual-labor job at the factory where I was employed to start work on Dangerous Odds. I am profoundly grateful for his encouragement, support, friendship, and unshakable conviction that one day my story would be published.

A massive thanks to my daughter Justine, for reading every draft I cranked out, and to my familyespecially my siblings, Peter, Heather, and Kathrynfor their encouragement.

In Zurich, a special thank-you to Lori Gadola, who was a second mother to my daughters while I was writing; Sylvie Domeniconi for bringing me coffee creamer from all over the world so that the thousands of cups I consumed working at my desk were all divine; Michele Donath for sharing the last year of madness with me; and Lotti Gut for her enthusiastic reaction to the almost-final draft, which made the last few weeks working on the manuscript a pleasure.

In London, many thanks to Neil Blair and Rebecca Cripps. In the States, I would like to thank Tony ONeil for giving the manuscript a kick; John Paine for editing Dangerous Odds; and Maryann Palumbo for her faith in the project she so aptly named.

Lastly, I would like to offer my deepest gratitude to Adriano for being the backbone behind this project, for putting up with my nonsense, for our past and future adventures, and for making me believe in happily ever after.

For my daughters Justine and Jennifer

WHEN I LOOKED BACK later, I realized that the soldier pointing his gun at my head terrified me less than his confiscating my passport. Now I had no way to get off the island. I should have left my passport at home, I told myself. I shouldnt have gone to work early. I had plenty of time to indulge in pointless recriminations as I sat locked away in a filthy, rat-infested Dominican prison. In this concrete fortress, the heat was so oppressive that even the walls around me were sweating.

THE MORNING HAD BEGUN like any other in the city of Santo Domingo.

A furious chorus of car horns split the heavy tropical air, alerting me to the blackout even before I hit the massive traffic jam. Blackouts were a feature of everyday life on the island, a product of an unstable government presided over by the blind octogenarian president, Joaqun Balaguer. Poverty, widespread corruption, political disappearances, and power outages were hallmarks of the era. An unlit traffic light dangled uselessly over the jammed intersection. It was too late to avoid the snarled traffic. Instead I shifted down into first gear, waiting my turn behind the other vehicles on Avenida Tiradentes.

Santo Domingo was a city of intoxicating contrastsa place where extreme poverty rubbed shoulders with unimaginable wealth. I loved it from the moment I arrived, almost five years ago; though that was not the experience of countless other American expats, drawn by the lure of easy money, endless beaches, and tropical weather. It took a certain type of personalitystubborn, resilient, determinedto flourish in the terrible beauty of Santo Domingo.

As I sat marooned in a sea of chrome, a thud on my windshield shook me out of my thoughts. An old man with a mouthful of rotten teeth tipped a large cardboard crate toward me and gestured to the half-dozen newborn puppies within. I shook my head. He trudged away to try his luck with the drivers behind me.

Ahead, nothing was moving. On most days I would have started to panic. In my line of business, getting to work late was not an option. The first time you were warned; the second time you were fired. Today, however, I had plenty of time. I cranked up the air conditioner and the radio, trying to drown out the incessant honking.

Twenty minutes later I reached the quiet, tree-lined street where our villa was located. All the homes on Salvador Sturla had a neat, uniform look to them: surrounded on three sides by towering walls, with heavy wrought-iron gates protecting the entrance. Our villa also had a gardener tending the lawn, and an armed guard patrolling the premises. The only difference between our villa and the others in this residential neighborhood was that nobody actually lived here.

I parked my little blue Daihatsu next to Rogers red Cherokee, locked up, and slid the keys into my jeans. The guard opened the gate and I made my way toward the back of the house. From inside the open side door I heard the crackle of a transistor radio.

Peering into the kitchen, I saw Remo bent over the counter, peeling a mountain of potatoes. I snuck up and grabbed him around the waist. He dropped his knife and spun around, his gray eyes darting between me and the clock mounted on the wall. I dont believe it! he cried. Youre early!

I stepped into what used to be the villas formal dining room. Now it was known as the Big Office. Carmine was hunched over his desk, a garish Hawaiian shirt hanging off his bony frame. His eyes, magnified to owl-like proportions by his thick glasses, widened comically when he saw me. Before he could say anything, a fit of coughing erupted from the next room. I peered in. Roger was studying the racing form with a furrowed brow, alternately sucking on a Marlboro and gulping coffee.

The office ran on a strict schedule. Both men were busy preparing for the frantic day ahead. In twenty minutes the company van would arrive, dropping off the first group of clerks. A second group would arrive shortly afterward. By one oclock, the phones would be ringing off the hook as we scrambled to record thousands of bets from all across the United States.

I sat at my desk. Roger had another coughing fit in the next room. Time to quit, Roger! I called.

Roger managed the Small Office, where bets on a single game were limited to a mere $2,000. I clerked for Carmine in the Big Office. We took wagers from the professional gamblers, customers we referred to as wise guys or smart money. The kind of men whose daily bets could total $100,000.

I was addicted to the adrenaline rush that came with working there. At the moment, though, there was nothing to do. The phones were silent; the cubicles that lined the room were empty.