Sophia Loren (credit: Allan warren; https://creativecommons.org) 

                                                       Sweet Connie

I have both talent and training in kinesics. What people call “body language”. Among people who are not professional psychologists, I was a pioneer. I do not explain my best tricks, but neither do any of the other kinesics experts I know. Why? Not because I fear retaliation from anyone. It’s because I’ve learned to respect, and avoid violating, the need of the vast majority of the human species to believe in magic. Yes, it’s useful in my way of life, but no, I do not see myself as being a “criminal”. I do what any person in power does. I just do it better.  

I remember my family’s dealings with Pete Radenkovic very clearly, partly because I knew his daughter at school. In fact, we were friends. In the same social circle, though, admittedly, not best friends till grade 12. I was Connie, the daughter of Mike Messina, a small-scale celebrity, I guess you could say. Most kids in the school knew my dad wasn’t really in the olive oil business. He was “a soldier in an urban war”. His term. The general of the soldiers on the Messina side of the dons’ war in L.A.. Most people in the city, generally, and in my school especially, knew this. I got respect from about grade nine on.  

Anyway, she was Ilinka Radenkovic, daughter of a high-school Math teacher who had overblown ideas of making it among the big players. Inka was like me, a stacked brunette who lived a bit too hard and therefore had to keep an eye out for her dad’s spies, which in my case, were everywhere. And we were easy to spot in those days. We wore expensive clothes and too much eye make-up.

But the point is that I knew privately, personally, how much Inka loved her dad. Her mom was a frigid blond whiner forty pounds overweight, who just had to tell anyone who’d listen about every morsel that passed over her lips. She had always “lost two pounds this week”. Pete once told her (I was there), “Lorraine, I’ve been keeping track. You have now officially disappeared.”

Pete could be cruel. And he seduced any woman gullible enough to be taken in by his “Old World” charm. He was full of compliments and manners for the young women that he worked with, or met at the golf club, or wherever. But to his credit, he left teenagers alone. He was too stocky for my taste, for sure, but he was in shape as he worked out daily. He had what is called “animal magnetism”, for some women. Everyone who knew him knew he was skillful at the “love” game. But, then again, the pill had arrived by that time, and many of his “conquests” probably saw him as their conquest. They were playing around every bit as much as he was, and on the plus side, he did know how to please a lady.

But Pete got “way too big for his britches”, as the saying goes. He got caught in 1980. I remember the year because it was the year Reagan got elected, the year that was the start of a good era for my dad and his friends. 

You see, Pete, deep down, wanted to be a big shot. He wanted to be a player in the league that my dad played in, but Pete was mostly a phony. He hadn’t ever taken care of anyone, and he wasn’t particularly good at reading people. He claimed he was, and for a while, it seemed to be true ...but then he got caught.

A Math teacher. He claimed to be very good at calculating all kinds of odds in his head at a moment’s notice, especially when he was playing poker. My dad and about eight of his friends – the number varied, week to week – played poker every Wednesday night at the golf club, sometimes till daylight. Pete went to work at BHHS, “Bevy” as we called it, on no sleep some Thursdays, I know for a fact. But Math is ridiculously easy to teach compared to almost all other subjects. It’s only problem is that it’s boring. And, of course, you have to be good at Math to teach it. That cuts out a lot of aspiring teachers right there.

   

                                        Beverly Hills High School 

                               (credit: Toglenn, via Wikimedia Commons)

Anyway, Pete played in the golf club board room poker games. Sometimes ten guys, sometimes as few as four. In the ‘70’s, some guys lost ten grand in a night. Most of them shrugged it off. They could afford. But Tony M., my dad’s best friend, got mad. It wasn’t the money. It was just that he knew he was a good poker player. He could go to Vegas for the weekend and come home several thou up almost every time. Something smelled off in this picture. T. was sure of it.

Pete sometimes won more than he lost, and sometimes lost more than he won, but at the end of a year, he was always at least eighty thou up. Some years more,  and twice, much more. In 1970’s dollars. This went on for over 7 years.

Unbeknownst to anyone else, even my dad, Tony M. hired a private dick. A bony, big-nosed, blond giant named “Chris”. (We hired him later at least twice.)

Chris was the best at what he did. In under a month – an expensive month for Tony, but he had the cash – Chris figured it out, got the evidence, and brought it all to Tony. Tony then took it to my dad.

Why Pete did not die is the point of my story.

This teacher-zero (as far as Tony and some of the others were concerned, he was a zero) had been cheating the whole time. He and the manager at the Pacific Sunset Golf and Country Club, the most exclusive one in L.A. in those days, had worked it out between them. Des, the club manager, got half.

They kept their secret very close for the whole seven plus years. That’s worth saying because a lot of gamblers can’t. They’re braggarts by nature, and even a smart waitress can read their tells. But Pete and Des were slick.

                                        

                                                                   Billy Dee Williams 

                                                (credit: John Mathew Smith, via Wikipedia) 

                                                           

Des was a Billy Dee Williams-type, a handsome black guy who’d started out in South Central. (I thought several times about riding him for a night in those days. But that’s another story.) Des must have quietly hated these thug dago pricks. My guess, anyway. He must have. It’s all that would explain why he took such a chance. He got his knees smashed and got busted back to waiting on tables. Limping for all his years. With the understanding that he could not quit. Ever. He was on display every night for any who believed even momentarily that Mike the Duke would tolerate a cheat.

Legit losses, they’d swallow. That was playing. But cheats? Look at Des, fool! Or five or six others I could name but won’t.

But my dad was also a visionary in the 70’s. By 1980, I had an honors degree in Psychology from Stanford, and I’d spent two years working in Nevada casinos. I loved Psychology; I would have stayed to the Ph. D., but Dad had bigger plans. 

My brother was a baby, mainly because Mom had made him one. Stupid. Lazy. Fat. So, my dad chose to gamble on his Sweet Connie. Constanzia. Me.

Thus, I was at the meeting in late 1980 when the fertilizer hit the ventilators, as they say. First real one I attended. I was not to speak, but I finally did, and in the end, I know Dad was glad that I did. He was very proud of me that night.

Dad told all ten guys (four of them poker players), to shut up and listen to Tony, and they did. They could see Dad was pissed. Tony just introduced Chris. 

Chris showed them the card decks and then the pictures he’d taken.

The decks of cards were kept in the safe at the golf club. They were the Bee type used in a lot of casinos in those days, which was maybe not such a smart choice. They’re a favorite brand among mechanics. Card sharks. Whatever you say.

Des had been marking them. That was the unforgivable sin. But the idea had been Pete’s to begin with. That was why they let Des live. But back to the meeting.

Chris then explained the scam. Des was using a razor to scrape two of the little diamonds along top edges on the backs of the cards so that they were ever so slightly lighter in color than the rest. Both short ends of each card. The positions of the marks gave away what the cards were. Then he was re-sealing the decks and putting them back in the safe. When the game was on, Pete could tell what the other players were holding. He must’ve gotten really fast at it because the truth is that I could barely make out the markings and then only on some of the cards. But I’d seen sharks in Nevada so I knew how good they can become.

Chris proceeded to demonstrate. The men at the table opened all three new decks, I think. I can’t remember for sure. They picked cards at random from the decks and held them as they would in a normal poker game ...and Chris named every card. He also had photos of Des sneaking into the club Wednesdays at 3 a.m.

Rooms sometimes go silent when the people in them are full of embarrassment. Or once in a while, in enormous grief. The death of a child or someone young, someone who was really loved. But I read body language. Neither of these were the explanation for the silence in that room that night. The anger in that room was biblical. More Jungian than Freudian. They would have killed the cheats with ice picks and taken two days and enjoyed the process from start to finish.

I felt very sad for Inka, but you see the point. Pay attention to your feelings and those of all around you. What did Brando say in G1? Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. I used my feelings that night. They were pointing me to a very useful insight. I had presence of mind, and a “good whip”, Dad said.

One guy at the table, Ignazio – “Z” he was called – was a poker player. He had a face like a lizard - sloping brow, weak chin, blunt nose, and almost no hair. He looked like a sallow chameleon. That night he looked like he’d just eaten a bug that had gone rotten. Looking at him really scared me, but I stayed cool.

Anyway, after a minute or so of silence, Z. said: “I will take care of this”. 

I looked at Dad and gestured like I wanted to speak if he’d let me. He slowly clamped his left hand over his mouth. Shut up. But my look was begging, I guess you could say, so finally, in a break with protocol, he told the others: “You all know my daughter. She has an honors degree from Stanford. Psychology. She has also been working very hard in LV, learning the gambling business from Don Vito and his guys. She reads people. She wants to talk. Is that okay with everyone?”

Normally, they would have said something like “What the fuck, Mike?” But they respected my dad. And the night was already nuts. So, no one said “No”.

I was twenty-five. 

Dad nodded to me. He was trusting me way out on a limb. His eyes were telling me hard not to let him down.

I can recall almost word for word what I said. It was simple. These men had many traits, but forbearance was not one of them. There must be no bullshit.

“I know Pete Radenkovic’s daughter. We’ve been best friends since the fall of 1974. When I come back home, any time I don’t spend with my dad, I spend with her, which means several times a year. She’s the sister I never had.

“Why this figures into this case is that I know her really well. I know how much she loves her dad. Some of you have daughters of your own. I believe father-daughter relationships are the most powerful of all. When they work. You see mine with my dad. Past explaining. Inka has that kind of love for her dad.

“The difference is that he’s a loser. My dad is not.

“But here’s my point: Inka is very smart. Not so much in Psychology, but in Math, and especially in Statistics. She has a job with Goldman-Sachs that last year paid over half a mill. My rough calculation is that Pete owes to the players in the Wednesday night games about a mill two at this point. Inka has to live in New York, and she hasn’t saved much so far. She’s only been with GS for two years. But I know she will live on rice and beans in a cold-water walk-up apartment to save her dad’s life. In short, again rough calculations, she will repay you all in about six years. Eight at most. How long you milk her after is up to you. But I’m asking that you keep it moderate, because then she won’t get ideas.

“I’m asking you to gamble on a business proposition in place of revenge. Revenge is not profitable. Invest in love. It can be calculated just like anything else. Pete you can send to Atlantic City or somewhere where Ink can visit him. Make him work. Maybe degrade him a bit. Bust his balls. But I’m asking you not to liquidate him. Not because Ilinka is my friend, but because I have a better deal for you. Intelligently handled, he's worth much more alive; it’s just business.

“All the families in the country will accept this decision. That’s all I gotta say. Thank you for listening. You really are men of respect.”

You have to speak their language.

I looked over at Dad. He was smiling in the eyes. Quiet, but very happy.

It was the beginning of my rise. A lifetime ago. I made the L.A. families legit business people. I taught five of the men and one woman how to read body language, and then, we learned to do business without guns. Nearly, anyhow. 

But telling the events of that night still fills me up. (Oh Daddy, I miss you!)

Dad’s gone. Since 1996. I’m twice married and twice divorced. I never met a man who could measure up to Mike the Duke. And I was his Sweet Connie.

Ah, well. I love my boys. It’s enough.

Inka and I are still close. I think she may have guessed I was the reason her dad lived to get old and play with his grandchildren. Anyway, she has always been extremely loyal to me, way more than to GS or anyone except Pete. She has been useful many times.

And Pete? He lived dealing blackjack in Atlantic City till just last September.   

You’re judging me right now, aren’t you? I see it.

My youngest, Michael, is getting married next spring. In Bali. 200 guests. So, tell me, how are your kids doing?   

   

                             Beaches of Bali  

  (credit: Jorge Láscar from Melbourne, Australia) (https://creativecommons.org)