RED (ARNOLD “RED” SKEOCH…SCAM ARTIST)

(Arnold “Red” Skeoch…scam artist)

“Pardon  me, could I see  the manager, for a moment?”

“Yes sir, wait here….cute little boys.”

“Right this way, sir.”

“Name’s Arnold  Skeoch”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m a  single parent…working…doing the best I can…but a  little short of money this  month.  Could you see your way

clear to advancing me a few dollars?   Tough raising two children alone.”

“Yes,..do you have an account with us?”

“No but planning to open one.”

(Year: 1947)

 Eric and I did our part of the attempted  bank scam.  We looked pathetic.  Did  it work?  Not sure, Dad always needed  money for the horses.

Just how he got that money was  never explained.  Did the  bank manager advance him some  cash…Was  the manager a soft hearted mark?

 I do not know.  One thing for sure is that event really happened and  got permanently lodged in my memory. The was 70 years ago and I can

even remember the bank and the frosted  glass managers’  office on  a  corner near Dufferin and Bloor Streets in West Toronto The year was 1947. 

In 1947 the  Dad  realized having two sons could  be useful rather than a pain in he ass.  So he devised ways we could be part of his gambling addiction.  Addiction?  No, wrong word.  Gambling Adventures.  Attempt to level the cash income playing field.

“Those  rich bastards have more money than they know what to do with.  So who gives a  sweet goddamn if I take a slice?” 

“Boys, I think  we can  make a little money over at the track gates.”. he used the term ‘we’ as if he would be part of the scam.  And he was  part of it, a silent partner.  We  were the front men…the point men of “The Dufferin Racetrack Racing Form scam”.  I was  9 and  Eric was 7…perfect ages . We looked as innocent as a pair of warm and cuddly kittens.  Men rushing through the track  gates  would either ignore us or give us  a pat on the head or tell us  to ‘Get the hell out of the way’.  Perfect.

“Boys, there are two kinds of men going to the track late.  Men leaving and men  arriving. Both groups  are in a rush.  The leaving men are rushing away to work or heading home fast so  their wives won’t know they’ve been playing the horses  The arriving men are rushing in to place bets on the fifth or sixth race.  Both groups are in a  hellfire hurry and that’s where you come  in.  The leaving men will throw  away their Entries forms…the arriving men will need Entries forms..  Gather up the forms  from the pavement or the garbage bins.  Only the good ones. If they are torn or covered with tobacco juice then they aren no use to us.”

“What do we do with them.”

“Sell the the Entries forms to the arriving men.  They need  to put their money down fast. Sell them the forms for 10 cents.  Keep the forms

you don’t sell. We  can sell them tomorrow.”

“Do the same horses run every day,  Dad?”

“No.  Different horses but arriving men will not know that.  They are in rush.  A lot just bet bu mi be.  In short, they do not know their ass from their elbow.  And  they will think they are getting a deal…a lot cheaper than those the track sells”

“But Dad,  the arriving men are getting tricked.”

“No matter….fools are born every minute.  Just get the money.”

‘What will we do with the money?”

“I’ll look after that.  if there seems to be trouble run like  hell for home.  The arriving men will never chase you.”

And so Eric and I  were now  employed.   Our School  was right on the north side of the Dufferin Racetrack.  Our home was a rented  flat at 18 Sylvan Avenue, right in the centre of Dufferin Park.  We knew the territory.  We were also  getting  ice to the ways  of the  world.  were we petty criminals?  No.  Criminals  steal things.  We  are providing  a service…recycling racing foms.  Granted  our business was  a bit shady since day old forms meant the arriving men were  betting on non-existent horses.

We  learned a hard  lesson when we saw the Nosey Boys stealing boxes of candy from the Robertson Candy truck. They got a good load  and ran down Dufferin.  When the cop arrived, Eric and I were there innocent as Cherubs.

“Did  anyone see who  stole the candy?”

“yessir, we did.  It was the Nosey Boys,” (so called  because their noses were always  running gobs of nose  nectar.)

“Do  you know  where they live?”

“Yessir, down  the street.”

“Can you taken me there?”

“yessir…suppose we could.”

And so we proudly jointed the forces  of law and order by trailing the cop down to the Nosey Boys house.

Their mother answered the door.

“Do you have three sons, madam.”

“yes.”

“Can I see them for a  moment?”

“Boys, there’s  a  policeman here, wants  to see you.”

And the Nosey  Boys arrived  at the door and looked  at us…at Eric and  me.

“Are these the boys that rifled the Robertson Candy Truck?”

“Yes sir…”

Somehow  being on  the side of law and order began  to lose its appeal.  We had become snitches.  Cherubs  no longer.   Next day we got a good  jumping from the Nosey Boys.   From that day on I wondered if police use witnesses that way.   Being Honest became dangerous.

What has the Nosey Boy incident got to do with our racetrack scam?  A lot.  The Robertson’s  Candy factory was beside the broad entranceway to the Suffering Track.   That was Nosey Boy  territory.  So we had  to keep our eyes peeled for a  Nosey Boy  trying to get even while at the same time hollering, “Get Today’s  Entries here.”

Then there was  Abe Open, the owner of the Dufferin Track, whose agents printed and sold the “Today’s  Entries” brochures at a profit to the Open.  We  were cutting into his business.  So we had to be blatant and  fleet of foot at the same time.

The scam did not last long.  Perhaps a week or less.  Once Mom got wind of it, our semi-criminal scam was  abruptly closed down.

How  fit dhr gin our.  Somebody snitched…either Eric or me.

But Dad was on a roll.  His discovery that his kids could be useful led to the ‘Scour the Rail’ job. 

“Boys,  listen up,  we  have a change  of  plans.  This time  keep your goddman traps shut.  Your mother does not need  to know everything we do.  There is a kind of honour among men,” an expression Dad borrowed  and changed a little by substituting men for thieves.

“What’s the plan, Dad?”

“After the 8th race I want you guys  to collect all the tickets  dropped  below the rail.  Move fast.  Slip into the track as  people  are hustling out.  No one will catch you.  Then collect the tickets”

“All  of them?’

“No, just the best looking.  If they are sitting a pool of spit…tobacco juice.  Just pass by.  Tickets do not need to be perfect.”

“But they are losing tickets.”

“Not so.  There is always some  stupid son of a  bitch who drops a good ticket. I’ll check them at night.  Now bugger off remember to be here at 5 p.m. sharp.”

“Why the rail Dad.  Why not check floor of the club house.?”

 “Somebody will grab you by the scruff of the neck in the club house.  No one cleans  under the rail until late at night.  And the men at the  rail get bloody excited.  They drop  tickets.   Some of them a boozed up with shaky hands.  Could be a gold mine for us.”

Dad used the terms ‘us’ and ‘we’ but he meant him.  Eric and  I were flattered  to be included in Dad’s schemes.  Life with him was  never

boring.  No lessons on good behaviour.   Never avoided a cuss word when an expletive like ’son of  a bitch’ made language more musical. Always  treated  us with his kind  of affection.  Strong as an ox but never raised  a hand to us.  Why would he do that?  We were his ‘artful dodgers’ as  Charles Dickens would have said.  Had Dickens been alive in 1947, he would have devoted a whole book to Red Skeoch. But back to the dropped ticket scheme.  Did he ever find a good ticket?  Not that I remember but  he would not have fessed up anyway.  His scheme. His money,  I can still picture  him in our living room checking piles of Win/Place/Show Daily Double  tickets…doing it by lamplight way past our bed time.  Said he got a few winners. Then again dad said a lot of things that were not true.  He tired of it eventually.

Dad  was  not a person for sloppy sentimentality.  Never hugged or kissed us which was fine by us.  We grew up avoiding hugs and kisses whenever we could.  His kind of affection was communicated by the use of opposites.  What does that mean?  So glad you asked.  Dad never used our real names, never called me Alan or called my brother Eric.  Instead he said…let me put this in Red’s own words

“I’ve got two sons…one  is a gutsy bugger and the other is stupid as Joe’s dog.”

Dad used this line  of  introduction over and  over again as we grew up. If a listener was offended all the better.  if a  listener muttered something like ‘those poor little boys!’ then Dad knew he had struck pay dirt.  Some  older women found Dad really offensive but I noticed women seemed to like him no matter how outlandish.

Over time we grew up.  Became  teen agers.  And Eric, made a fateful remark.

“Dad, that is  an asinine  expression when you say one of us is “stupid as Joe’s dog”.  It make no sense.  Just how stupid was Joe’s  dog?”

Dad grinned  from ear to ear.  “I have been waiting for years for one of you to ask.”

  

“Well?”

“Well, Joe’s dog  was so stupid he jumped  over nine  bitches to screw his own shadow.” and his grin got wider and wider.

Neither Eric  nor I ever knew which of us was the gutsy bugger and which was Joe’s dog.  No matter, both were meant as terms of endearment.  We know that.

GOT A HORSE:   CLAIMING RACE

Dad  had  all kinds of  get rich schemes centred around  horses.  None ever worked  out.  He died  with an estate valued  at $21 of which he owed Eric  $20.  So there was no acrimony at his  funeral.  Just sadness.

My third story about Red and Dufferin Racetrack is rather tragic.

Dufferin was only one racetrack frequented by dad.   He hit them  all.  usually got in free as he had many cronies with the same addiction. Our cousins Jim Townsend  visited two racetracks years ago…Woodbine and a year or so later Fort Erie.  He  met dad at both tracks

Dad rarely missed a racing season.  He even worked night shift at Dunlop Tire corporation so he could  spend  his  days at the  racetracks. Money?  Where did he get the money?  he got it wherever he could even our piggy banks as kids and our bank accounts as adults.  As Eric says often, “We had  the only mother who used her purse as a pillow.”

But Dufferin was our racetrack … a two minute hike from our flat on Sylvan Avenue to the racetrack gate.  Even shorter for Eric and I when we used a loose board in the ramshackle stable area at the south end  of the track.  Which is where this story begins and ends.  Again, let me use Dad’s words as filtered through my mind.

“Boys, slip over to the track today?”

“Why, what’s so  special?”

“I bought a horse…racing in third race…hot walker will be cooling off the horse at the stables.”

“Can we still get through the board fence?”

“Nothing has stopped  you in the past.”

Dad must have only been a  part owner.  He never had the money to buy a horse.  Only enough money to bet on them.  But to us, he had become a real big shot.  A horseman among horsemen.   Even at our ages we knew his horse ownership would be a big problem for mom. How could he pay to keep  a horse?  Where would he keep it?  How would he move it? Feed it? Tend the horses health?  Here a trainer, groom, hot walker…jockey.  There was no way mom could help.  She  was a sweatshop worker in the needle trades.  Hard work for little money.  And  what she earned was barely enough to pay the rent and put food on the table.   She made our clothes from clothing discards.

“Keep this quiet , boys.”

Wit our family things always seemed  to have a  way of  working out…shooting out.  That day Eric and  I slipped through the racetrack fence was a good if tragic  example.

“What are all those people doing here?”

“Let’s take a look.”

There was  a large crowd of men  encircling a horse.  Before  Eric and I could get near there was a loud noise…like a shot.

And  the horse reared up  and then disappeared in the crowd.  A man with a gun…police maybe.

“They just shot that horse.”

“I don’t want to see.”

“wonder  if that was Dad’s horse?”

It was Dad’s  horse.  Broke its’ leg in the race and had to  be put down fast.  Very sad.  But also a great relief.  What was dad  going to do  with a horse?

I wish he had told us more.

MARRIAGE

This picture says  much.  Two people who liked each other. Dad  and  my future wife Marjorie.  From that moment on I knew we were destined to marry.  Any  person who could  understand my father was  a  rare find.  Only girl I ever  took home.

Love is blind some people believe.  Not me.  Marjorie and  I found each other at Victoria  College, University of Toronto.  She seemed to like me and I her.  But could  she maintain that liking once she met my Dad?  That was a very important question.  I had many girlfriends up to that  point but had never taken one home to meet my parents.   But Dad could be cantankerous. Outlandish.  Perhaps  frightening even.  No worries though.  Dad and  Marjorie hit if  off right from the get go.  She understood his tendency to speak  in opposites and to use cuss words with imagination. Musically really.  But the cement that bound  them was their mutual love of horses.  “How would you like to go with me to Fort Erie Racetrack on Saturday?”  Dad asked Marjorie. Mom and I were  secondary.  I took a picture of them  at the track that day walking arm in  arm to the parimutuel  window or the parading of the thoroughbreds.  Dad  with his cigar and  Marjorie with Entries  List for the day.  Both in dark glasses.  Hip to hip. Real horse lovers.

Marjorie and Dad at Fort Erie Racetrack  very  early in our courtship.  Dad has

a  pencil in hand. Marjorie has the Entries List.  They are striding to the winners circle.  Hip to hip.  Both dressed for the track..dark glasses and straw hats…dressed  in their best clothes.   Posh.

Years  later, Marjorie bought a horse called  Spartacus.  The son

of an estrogen mare.  Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of mares  were changed up in barns  across  Canada so  that farmers  cold  collect the urine from pregnant mares to make birth control pills.  These mares were slaves. Spartacus was one of the lucky  colts.  The fate to others was likely grim.  IN Roman history Spartacus was a freed slave.  So was  his horse namesake.  he ran  free most of the time.  Later I will tell the full story of Spartacus.  I only mention him now because he was similar to Dad in a way.  He broke through all restraints and ran with the wind with Marjorie on his back.  That’s  him below.

Spartacus is  the pinto gelding in the foreground with his shadow in the pond of snow meltwater in early spring.  Racing. Racing. Racing.  No restraints . Like Dad.

BY DEC. 2017, we had  quite a stable horses in England.   Owned by our Swiss daughter in law, Gabriela and stabled in Both London and  a posh stable in Surrey.  The original mare Mare  had a foal so  Gabriela bought another foal to keep company.  Dad  would have loved  these horses.  Seems  the ability to ride and  cuddle  horses skipped a generation.  I do not trust the big things and they seem to know it by putting their ears  back and readying themselves to pound me into putty with their goddamn  hooves. 

RED: STORIES REPEAT OVER AND OVER AGAIN