Arts & Entertainment
Lost in middle America with the ‘Bookie to the Stars ’
“Ya wanna make a bet?”
It seemed to come from nowhere.
I looked around, placing the voice
with the drooling, bent old man at the
end of the bar.
“Ya wanna make a bet?” he said
again. The way he said it, you could
tell he wasn’t asking. The words came
spitting out in defiance of the gnarled
old body they came from. I couldn ’t
tell if they were meant for the bar
tender or just the air between any of
the three or four people in the bar.
At the next beer, I asked the bar
tender if he knew what was going on.
“Yeah,” he drawled, “he comes in
here all the time. “Says he used to be
Warren the Worm.”
I must have looked confused. I
was.
“Yep, Warren the Wormsaid the
bartender like it meant something.
“Says he used to be Bookie to the
Stars.”
“What the hell does that mean?,” I
started to laugh.
“It means just what it %&#@%*
says it does,” yelled Warren the
Worm, slamming his bony fist down
on the bar with surprising force. “I
was bookie to the stars, ya know what
I’m sayin’?”
I looked over at Warren. Under
neath his faded, rumpled, cigarette
burned Hawaiian shirt was a pale,
bone-thin body. Dirty green slacks
hung loosely on his frame. His
rheumy yellow eyes burned intensely
in their sagging hollow sockets. The
once-proud jaw still jutted out defi
antly, but now it was surrounded by a
—r
face in decay. Too much alcohol, too
many years, too many worries. The
jaw was covered with a silver-white
growth somewhere between beard
and stubble. A battered greasy Pan
ama hat perched atop the balding
head.
“They useta all come inta my joint,
allavem. You name it — Gable,
Brando, Monroe, Dean, Mineo,
Frank; hell, Crazylegs and that
&*(%#$<§> Dutchman useta come in
an’ bet on themselves! Yaknow what
I’m sayin’?”
Ya know whaii m sayin’ ? The way
he said it, it wasn’t really a question,
but more of a warning — cryptic and
mysterious — and when he said it,
he’d stare straight through you with
those rheumy yellow eyes.
“I was the bookie in Hollywood.
Nobody else came close, ya know
what I’m sayin’? Those were the
days. That was the Golden Age, it
was.” Suddenly he turned and faced
me directly. “Hell, ya want me ta
show ya?”
Actually I didn’t. Warren the
Worm looked like he’d been spinning
this little yam since midaftemoon.
Just during my two beers he’d stacked
up a nice pyramid of shotglasses, and
the wadded up overabundance of
soaking napkins in frontof him hinted
at several more.
There’s something about that part
of a hot, sticky afternoon when you
nave notning to ao, out teei nice you
should be doing something. These are
the kind of aftemoons when robberies
are planned, murders are contem
plated, and little boys sneak off to
play in muddy creek banks, knowing
full well what will happen when their
mothers catch them.
Without fully understanding why,
I found myself in the back of a cab
with Warren the Worm, former
Bookie to the Stars.
After giving the driver a series of
directions, Warren the Worm told me
about his glory days in Hollywood,
about his office in the middle of the
Sunset Strip, about his heydey as
Bookie to the Stars. He mentioned a
lot of famous names — like Bogey,
Chaney, Stewart, Coop — and had a
detailed story about every one of
them. Some of the stories were pretty
good. After awhile I believed he re
ally had been the Bookie to the Stars.
Still, something was wrong with
Warren the Worm's stories. I couldn’t
place it at first, but there was always
one little thing, something about the
way he pointed out the window every
lime he mentioned some long-gone
Hollywood kingpin.
When I finally figured it out, I was
embarrassed at how silly it was. I also
had a renewed sense of foreboding
about Warren the Worm.
He’d been talking about all the
sigh is on the comer of Ho) I y wood and
Vine. Anything from celebrities out
gazing at their star in the sidewalk to
drug deals and knifings.
Then suddenly, we were there.
Well, not really, but the street signs
said we were. And so did Warren the
Worm. He was insistent. It didn’t look
anything like his description. The
comer was bordered by immaculate,
well-trimmed suburban lawns, in
front ofpleasani-looking suburban
houses. There were no people in sight
and there were no stars on the side
walks. The only thing that looked
right on the whole street was a yucca
plant in the m iddle of someone’s yard.
See WORM on 7
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