A Christmas Miracle

When writers, publishers and promoters get together, you're hoping for good things, but bad things often happen.

Fate seems to deal only so much good luck to an individual. Everyone has a splash of good luck from time to time. It's almost as though we are being tested by a Higher Power (I call Him LORD) who wants to see how we handle His talents.

At any rate, there I was in Miami at a hotel resort just off Biscayne Boulevard. For the past six months, I had been a well paid writer working for Stephen Muss, the multi-millionaire who owned the world famous Fontainblew Hotel in Miami Beach.

Muss and several other deep-pocketed hotel owners in Miami Beach were financing a campaign to legalize gambling in Miami Beach. They spent over $6 million on the campaign and nearly won the special election. We lost by a plurality of votes from Northern Florida's Bible Belt, helped by DisneyWorld Corp. which did not want casino gambling in Florida. Ironically, DisneyWorld owned several large cruise ships sailing out of various Florida ports, all of which had casinos on board.

Muss took the election loss like a gentleman and the true winner he was all his life. He threw a big party at the Diplomat Hotel, where some of our offices had been. That evening after far too much champagne, I met Meir Bram, a Jewish magazine publisher who lived in Las Vegas.

Meir was a short stocky man, always well dressed in a three-piece suit. He also smoked cigars and offered me one.

'Stephen tells me you're a pretty damn good writer,' Bram said, blowing out a ring of smoke. 'How would you like to have a job editing one of my magazines?'

When I drove home that night, I was giddy with happiness. I had just accepted an editor's job that paid a hefty salary in Las Vegas, one of my favorite cities. Bram said the magazine was just starting up and that he was meeting with investors to finalize their agreement. I told him I would pack that night and meet him at his publishing offices.

I took an AMTRAK train to Las Vegas. I much prefer railroad trains to flying. You see the country, there is a 24-hour diner that serves as a bar on board and you get a chance to meet interesting people.

The journey was uneventful but it got the job done. I checked into a downtown motel that had seen better times -- I had a limited amount of cash and didn't want to invest too much before meeting with my new boss -- and called Bram's office.

'Mr. Bram is not in' she said after I told her who I was and why I was in town. 'He wants you to wait until he calls you. There has been a bit of a hang-up with the investors.'

Well, the hangup was that the investors had pulled out. There would be no new magazine. I was out of a job. By the time the publisher told me this stunning news, nearly a month had passed and I was down to less than $50.

'Come to my office Friday morning,' he told me over the phone. 'I will see what I can do about giving you a freelance writing assignment.'

Friday morning was three days before Christmas. My week's rent -- $98 -- was due that night and my billfold contained $36.50.

Meir's office was just off the Strip about two miles from my motel. I decided to walk to save the $1.25 bus fare.

The walk was difficult and since Las Vegas was experiencing an unusually warm December, the sidewalk was hot beneath my feet. I trudged along the Strip, avoiding traffic, and skipping over culverts and past concrete abutments.

And then I saw him. A man with a beard caked in vomit, lying on patch of green grass just off the Strip. He was surrounded by empty wine bottles and discarded beer cans. His eyes were closed and his hand was outstretched.

I tried to pass him by. I couldn't. A voice in my head said, 'Go back. Inasmuch as ye have done for your bretheren, ye have done unto me.'

I turned around and walked up to the stranger. 'I came back,' I said. I reached into my pocket and dropped a dollar and change into his hand.

Bram was getting into his Cadillac when I arrived at his publishing house.

'Sorry,' he said curtly. 'I have to leave. I'm meeting with investors about the magazine. Come by Monday morning and you may have a job.'

He drove away. I walked back to downtown Las Vegas.

Binion's Horseshoe was offering a special on breakfast. Miserably, I entered the casino. As I passed the horse betting section, I looked on a giant screen. Santa Anita was about to start it's first race. I had 15 minutes to make a bet.

'Why not?,' I thought.

The California track had something called the Place Pick All. Meaning for a minimum of $1 per wager, you could bet on horses in all the races on the card that day. If all your horses won or placed, you won the wager.

I quickly handicapped the nine races on the card. In four of them, I selected two horses. I picked one horse in each of the other five races for a total bet of $16, leaving me $20 to my name.

Then I wandered into the poker room. A $1-3 stud game with a minimum $10 buy-in was in progress. I bought in, received my chips and stuff my last $10 bill into my pocket.

My horses either won or placed in the first four races. I grew more excited by the moment. In the fifth race, I had picked two horses. They finished first and second, giving me two live tickets.

The other players noticed what I was doing. A red-haired woman who was there with her husband said, 'Dear, I can't help but notice your excitement. What's going on?"

I told her and the table everything. Everybody was sympathetic, including the dealer.

My choice in the sixth race placed. And my selection in race seven won.

Several of my picks had paid big money when the favorites finished off the board.

Clearing my throat, I announced to the table, 'If the number four horse wins or comes in second in the next race, I will buy all of us a bottle of Dom Perignon Champagle in celebration.'

Somehow the word got back to the poker room manager. He came over to our table smiling.

'I heard about your offer,' he said. 'I am going to go one better. Even if your horse finishes out of the money, you'll get your champagne. It's on Mr. Binion.'

My horse, a roan named Olliman, went off at 9-2 odds. He broke dead last. I was on my feet screaming and pounding the poor redheaded woman on the arms. Olliman made a move on the turn. Running on the outside, he rolled toward the finish line and placed by a neck.

I had won. Over $12,600!

That evening, I left Binion's Horshoe tired, high on life and carrying a bottle of champagne. Instead of walking to my motel, I hailed a cab and told him to drive me down the Strip.

'Where to, Buddy?,' he said in a bored New York accent.

'To a place just past the Sahara, a grassy spot near the concrete abutment.'

He slowed the cab when we arrived there and pulled to the side of the road. I got out and walked onto the grass.

The man was not there.

There were no empty wine bottles or beer cans. It was as though the entire area had been cleaned by a band of....

Angels.

That was when I remembered what the man in the bard had looked like.

I stared into the sky, closed my eyes and said 'Thank you, Jesus, and Merry Christmas.'

Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.