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Farrell found a way to avoid beatings. Or, more accurately, the solution found him. It was the Mafia.
By the middle 1970s, he had a reputation as a top card and dice mechanic. That was bad. Everyone who was any kind of gambler in New England knew there was something wrong with the game if Farrell was playing.
Afflicted by fame, Farrell began working private, high-stakes card games. He paid agents to tip him to high-rollers who, more often that not, were running crooked games themselves. Farrell donned disguises and concocted phony personas. His agents got him seats at the table and he switched in stacked decks of cards called "coolers" — a move known in the argot of the hustle as "cold decking the sucker."
Many of his agents operated on the periphery of organized crime. The New England mob, more so than others around the country, knew the value of the con. A lot of old-line New England racket guys broke in as hustlers. Frank "Skyballs" Sciabelli, the former Genovese capo in Springfield, was a hustler. So was Pippy Guerrero in New Britain, Mickey Poole in Bridgeport and Henry Tameleo, right-hand man to former New England boss Raymond L.S. Patriarca.
The call that changed Farrell's life came from William "The Wild Guy" Grasso of New Haven, one of the most ruthless gangsters anywhere. A witness at a mob trial testified about how Grasso had to be restrained once from stuffing a soda jerk into a freezer after the kid put the wrong flavor on the gangster's ice cream cone.
Grasso had just finished a stretch as Patriarca's cellmate at the federal penitentiary in Atlanta when he called Farrell. Grasso entered prison as a strong arm and left groomed to become Patriarca's underboss, second in command of New England's dominant criminal organization. Back on the street, Grasso was exerting control over the Hartford and Springfield rackets for the Patriarca family. One of his first calls was to Farrell.
"I went to see him and that's when he gave me the proposition, or the ultimatum," Farrell said. "'Hey Jack,' he said. 'You're moving around pretty good. You're getting a pretty good reputation. Do the right thing. Or go get a lunch pail.'"
It was Grasso's way of telling Farrell he was now a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Patriarca crime family. Farrell had three options: He could kick back part of everything he made in New England to Grasso. He could get a lunch pail and become a working stiff. Or he could keep hustling on his own and wait for Grasso to kill him.
"I wasn't really too hip about racket ways, you follow me?" Farrell said. "So I said, 'Of course I'm with you.' Well, that sealed my future."
Farrell got access to the money and muscle of a powerful criminal organization. The mob would feed him business and protect him. But for the rest of his life, whenever Farrell worked in New England, Grasso or some other gangster would have a hand in his pocket. Beyond Patriarca's New England turf, Farrell was on his own.
"If I was going to continue being a hustler, I couldn't avoid the mob," Farrell said. "But at that time, I didn't particularly care if I avoided them because I kind of liked their lifestyle, you follow me? So I made a decision that I would do business with them. Later on, I got away from them pretty good. I learned how to duck them. Because I knew the best that they could do was go in my pocket."
That became clear immediately.
Farrell had been experimenting with magnetism. He wanted to learn whether he could influence the roll of dice infused with magnetic carbide. The object was not to win every throw, but to increase the odds of making numbers over extended play.
After immersion in the science section at the public library, Farrell made an appointment with an electrical engineer at a New Jersey magnet manufacturer.
"I told him my brother-in-law was a big backgammon player and I wanted to play a trick on him," Farrell said.
The result was a concealed leather harness that held two heavy bar magnets at the front of Farrell's hips. The magnets hung vertically. When Farrell stood at a dice table, half the length of the bars extended above the surface of the table and half the length below.
The bars were cast from an alloy of rare metals that gave them a peculiar magnetic property. The north and south poles of common magnets are contained in their broad, flat surfaces. Farrell's specially manufactured magnets were polarized longitudinally. The north and south poles were contained in the ends of the bars.
When one end of the bars extended above the table's surface, it caused the dice to show only high numbers. The other end of the two bars resulted in low numbers. The magnetized dice cost about $300 apiece.Under even close inspection, the die appear clear as glass. But they react energetically when a magnet is passed over them.
The proving ground was to be an illegal casino in Meriden run by bookmaker Salvatore "Butch" D'Aquila. The man wearing the harness would commandeer a corner of a dice table. The other players in on the scam were instructed to switch in magnet dice and shoot within 18 inches of the harness.
"I couldn't go personally because I was known as a sharpshooter," Farrell said. "So, I got this group together. They were all steady players at this game. The first night, we win $15,000. In '76, that was big. And they're like, 'Holy Christ, Jack. You should have seen it.' Two nights later, they won $9,000."
Now Farrell had to pay Grasso. He tucked $2,000 into an envelope and met the underboss at the Wonderbar on the Berlin Turnpike.
"I says, 'Billy. By the way, here's a little something for you. You know that game, Butch D'Aquila's? We're beating it.'"
Grasso responded, characteristically, with an explosion of profanity.
"You Irish [expletive]," Grasso said. "That's my game."
D'Aquila, it turned out, was in the same situation as Farrell. He, too, had been told to pay up or get a lunch pail. He was under Grasso's protection. By stealing from D'Aquila, Farrell was robbing Grasso.
Fortunately, Grasso had something of a fluid business ethic. The underboss told Farrell to keep ripping at the game — as long as D'Aquila remained in the dark. But Farrell would have to double his payment to Grasso.
"Billy wanted two ends," Farrell said. "To me, it meant nothing. You stay at the game an extra half hour and hit three more numbers. That's what it meant to me all my life. You work a little extra harder for that extra $2,000."
Farrell made money off his bar magnets until drug gangs began taking over northeastern cities, and armed dealers, flush with cash, began appearing at dice games. That's what happened in Waterbury, at a dice game called barbute, popular with Albanians.
Figuring his reputation hadn't reached Albania, Farrell strapped on the harness personally and took over a corner of the table. When another player pushed in next to him, the gun in the player's coat pocket banged against one of Farrell's magnets.
"You carrying too?" Farrell asked.
The player was so consumed by the game that he paid no attention. Farrell slipped away. But it was time for a new plan.
By the middle 1970s, he had a reputation as a top card and dice mechanic. That was bad. Everyone who was any kind of gambler in New England knew there was something wrong with the game if Farrell was playing.
Afflicted by fame, Farrell began working private, high-stakes card games. He paid agents to tip him to high-rollers who, more often that not, were running crooked games themselves. Farrell donned disguises and concocted phony personas. His agents got him seats at the table and he switched in stacked decks of cards called "coolers" — a move known in the argot of the hustle as "cold decking the sucker."
Many of his agents operated on the periphery of organized crime. The New England mob, more so than others around the country, knew the value of the con. A lot of old-line New England racket guys broke in as hustlers. Frank "Skyballs" Sciabelli, the former Genovese capo in Springfield, was a hustler. So was Pippy Guerrero in New Britain, Mickey Poole in Bridgeport and Henry Tameleo, right-hand man to former New England boss Raymond L.S. Patriarca.
The call that changed Farrell's life came from William "The Wild Guy" Grasso of New Haven, one of the most ruthless gangsters anywhere. A witness at a mob trial testified about how Grasso had to be restrained once from stuffing a soda jerk into a freezer after the kid put the wrong flavor on the gangster's ice cream cone.
Grasso had just finished a stretch as Patriarca's cellmate at the federal penitentiary in Atlanta when he called Farrell. Grasso entered prison as a strong arm and left groomed to become Patriarca's underboss, second in command of New England's dominant criminal organization. Back on the street, Grasso was exerting control over the Hartford and Springfield rackets for the Patriarca family. One of his first calls was to Farrell.
"I went to see him and that's when he gave me the proposition, or the ultimatum," Farrell said. "'Hey Jack,' he said. 'You're moving around pretty good. You're getting a pretty good reputation. Do the right thing. Or go get a lunch pail.'"
It was Grasso's way of telling Farrell he was now a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Patriarca crime family. Farrell had three options: He could kick back part of everything he made in New England to Grasso. He could get a lunch pail and become a working stiff. Or he could keep hustling on his own and wait for Grasso to kill him.
"I wasn't really too hip about racket ways, you follow me?" Farrell said. "So I said, 'Of course I'm with you.' Well, that sealed my future."
Farrell got access to the money and muscle of a powerful criminal organization. The mob would feed him business and protect him. But for the rest of his life, whenever Farrell worked in New England, Grasso or some other gangster would have a hand in his pocket. Beyond Patriarca's New England turf, Farrell was on his own.
"If I was going to continue being a hustler, I couldn't avoid the mob," Farrell said. "But at that time, I didn't particularly care if I avoided them because I kind of liked their lifestyle, you follow me? So I made a decision that I would do business with them. Later on, I got away from them pretty good. I learned how to duck them. Because I knew the best that they could do was go in my pocket."
That became clear immediately.
Farrell had been experimenting with magnetism. He wanted to learn whether he could influence the roll of dice infused with magnetic carbide. The object was not to win every throw, but to increase the odds of making numbers over extended play.
After immersion in the science section at the public library, Farrell made an appointment with an electrical engineer at a New Jersey magnet manufacturer.
"I told him my brother-in-law was a big backgammon player and I wanted to play a trick on him," Farrell said.
The result was a concealed leather harness that held two heavy bar magnets at the front of Farrell's hips. The magnets hung vertically. When Farrell stood at a dice table, half the length of the bars extended above the surface of the table and half the length below.
The bars were cast from an alloy of rare metals that gave them a peculiar magnetic property. The north and south poles of common magnets are contained in their broad, flat surfaces. Farrell's specially manufactured magnets were polarized longitudinally. The north and south poles were contained in the ends of the bars.
When one end of the bars extended above the table's surface, it caused the dice to show only high numbers. The other end of the two bars resulted in low numbers. The magnetized dice cost about $300 apiece.Under even close inspection, the die appear clear as glass. But they react energetically when a magnet is passed over them.
The proving ground was to be an illegal casino in Meriden run by bookmaker Salvatore "Butch" D'Aquila. The man wearing the harness would commandeer a corner of a dice table. The other players in on the scam were instructed to switch in magnet dice and shoot within 18 inches of the harness.
"I couldn't go personally because I was known as a sharpshooter," Farrell said. "So, I got this group together. They were all steady players at this game. The first night, we win $15,000. In '76, that was big. And they're like, 'Holy Christ, Jack. You should have seen it.' Two nights later, they won $9,000."
Now Farrell had to pay Grasso. He tucked $2,000 into an envelope and met the underboss at the Wonderbar on the Berlin Turnpike.
"I says, 'Billy. By the way, here's a little something for you. You know that game, Butch D'Aquila's? We're beating it.'"
Grasso responded, characteristically, with an explosion of profanity.
"You Irish [expletive]," Grasso said. "That's my game."
D'Aquila, it turned out, was in the same situation as Farrell. He, too, had been told to pay up or get a lunch pail. He was under Grasso's protection. By stealing from D'Aquila, Farrell was robbing Grasso.
Fortunately, Grasso had something of a fluid business ethic. The underboss told Farrell to keep ripping at the game — as long as D'Aquila remained in the dark. But Farrell would have to double his payment to Grasso.
"Billy wanted two ends," Farrell said. "To me, it meant nothing. You stay at the game an extra half hour and hit three more numbers. That's what it meant to me all my life. You work a little extra harder for that extra $2,000."
Farrell made money off his bar magnets until drug gangs began taking over northeastern cities, and armed dealers, flush with cash, began appearing at dice games. That's what happened in Waterbury, at a dice game called barbute, popular with Albanians.
Figuring his reputation hadn't reached Albania, Farrell strapped on the harness personally and took over a corner of the table. When another player pushed in next to him, the gun in the player's coat pocket banged against one of Farrell's magnets.
"You carrying too?" Farrell asked.
The player was so consumed by the game that he paid no attention. Farrell slipped away. But it was time for a new plan.
