The Smart Money

How the World's Best Sports Bettors Beat the Bookies Out of Millions

Michael Konik

• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Year: 2006
• Print ISBN: 9780743277143
• eBook ISBN: 9780743281720

A riveting inside look at the lucrative world of professional high-stakes sports betting by a journalist who lived a secret life as a key operative in the world's most successful sports gambling ring. When journalist Michael Konik landed an interview with Rick "Big Daddy" Matthews, the largest bet he'd placed on a sporting event was $200. Konik, an expert blackjack and poker player, was no stranger to Vegas. But Matthews was in a different league: the man was rumored to be the world's smartest sports bettor, the mastermind behind "the Brain Trust, " a shadowy group of gamblers known for their expertise in beating the Vegas line. Konik had heard the word on the street -- that Matthews was a snake, a conniver who would do anything to gain an edge. But he was also brilliant, cunning, and charming. And when he asked Konik if he'd like to "make a little money" during the football season, the writer found himself seduced... So began Michael Konik's wild ride as an operative of the elite Brain Trust. In The Smart Money, Konik takes readers behind the veil of secrecy shrouding the most successful sports betting operation in America, bypassing the myths and the rumors, going all the way to its innermost sanctum. He reveals how they -- and he -- got rich by beating the Vegas lines and, ultimately, the multimillion-dollar offshore betting circuit. He details the excesses and the betrayals, the horse-trading and the paranoia, that are the perks and perils of a lifestyle in which staking inordinate sums of money on the outcome of a single event -- sometimes as much as $1 million on a football game -- is a normal part of doing business.

Five

A Mule or a Man?

Vivian and I arrive in Las Vegas late on Thursday night, directly from Thanksgiving in North Carolina with my parents, whom I’ve briefed about my involvement with the Brain Trust. My father thinks being part of a massive professional betting ring is cool. My mother wonders why I’m not devoting my time to writing human interest stories. “Is it really necessary to be associating with such unsavory characters?” she asks.

“They’re actually honorable people,” I retort. Mom makes a face.

As soon as we’re off the plane, I call Big Daddy, who sounds dead tired and slurry. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was drunk. He gives me Sarge’s cell phone number and directs me to call the bagman as soon as I check in at Caesars. “It’s gonna be about seventy, eighty thousand,” he drawls. “I’ll call you in the morning and we’ll get started.”

Seventy thousand dollars isn’t even RFB money, I’m thinking.

The Sarge arrives well after 11:00 p.m. When he steps into our plush suite, in the newly opened Palace Tower, he says, “Hey, kid, you’ve really moved uptown.”

“Let’s see if we can stay here,” I joke.

Sarge cocks his thumb and forefinger at me, makes a clicking sound, and says, “If anyone can do it, my friend, I’m looking at him.” He tucks his gun (the real one) in his pants and exits the room. But I get the sense he hasn’t left completely. My heart beating rapidly, I tiptoe to the door and peek through the view hole. Sarge is still there in the hallway—lighting a cigarette.

The college season is winding down. Only seven games illuminate the uncharacteristically empty Caesars toteboard. For me to make any serious money (and retain my comp status) we’re going to have to play most of them. Which is unlikely. On the other hand, the Pencil might let me bet more than my usual, as he has suggested, since all seven games are prime-time television events, with various conference crowns at stake.

Big Daddy calls at 7:30 in the morning and sends me downstairs with two plays. Per my agreement with Stevie, I ask for more on both games, knowing the chances are unlikely on the Georgia contest (the line hasn’t moved all week) and highly likely on Virginia Tech (the line has moved steadily, and I’m taking the side the bookies need). Sure enough, one of the supervisors grants me $15,000, the usual, on the Georgia game and $20,000, $5,000 extra, on the Virginia Tech side.

When I call Big Daddy, he’s mildly annoyed. “I didn’t want more on that game,” he mutters. “From now on, ’less I say something, assume you’re betting the usual limits.”

“Got it.” I’m mildly shaken. I thought the goal was always to bet as much as possible. Is Big Daddy merely using me to hedge some of the Brain Trust’s early week action? Am I betting the wrong side?

I’m too timid to ask.

The Sarge will come by in an hour with more money, Big Daddy assures me. In the meantime, stand by for further instructions. Before the delivery, he calls back with another play, an over-under on which the Pencil typically allows $7,000 to be wagered. So I grab a $10,000 stack from my room safe and leave the rest in my bag, with Viv guarding the balance. When I approach the counter, Stevie steps out to greet me. He’s warm and friendly, so much so that when I announce my bet, Syracuse, over 51 points, he offers me a $10,000 limit.

Momentarily taken aback, I mumble something about not bringing enough money (getting in late, and all), but thanks anyway. The Pencil is going out of his way to be a nice guy, and, unfortunately, I can’t oblige.

When I report the exchange to Big Daddy, he says that the Brains could have used more on Syracuse, but that I did the right thing. “I’ll keep it in mind that he’s letting you bet more.” When Rick sends me down again for another total play, I politely ask for—and receive—a $10,000 ceiling. “Don’t ever say I’m not nice!” the Pencil says, as though he’s doing me a favor.

I tell Stevie I’ll remember him at Christmas. “But don’t expect anything that costs more than twenty-five bucks. I don’t want anyone to think I actually like my bookie.”

When I return to the room, Sarge is there, babbling to Viv about his favorite actor, Clint Eastwood. “They said he’d never work ’cause his Adam’s apple was too big!” he says.

He gives me another $76,000 and asks, apropos of nothing, if I’ve ever seen the Brain Trust’s war room, where this whole business starts. Sarge confides that it’s basically a two-person operation—Big Daddy and his beautiful sister Kathryn, who’s apparently just as sharp with figures as her legendary brother—with four phones, a few television monitors, and several computer screens. “And you should see Rick work it all—it’s like he’s on Wall Street.”

Sarge also reveals that though he has numerous runners stationed around Las Vegas, I’m the only out-of-town guy Big Daddy uses. My heart begins to race. The door leading to the Brain Trust’s secret world is beginning to crack open. “Rick doesn’t bet sports for the money so much as the thrill of winning the game. During the workday, man, he’s deadly serious. Very demanding. Everything has to be in its proper place. See, Big Daddy is probably the quickest learner of anyone I ever met. He’s the last person in the world you would want to play any game against.”

I want desperately to see how the legend operates his business. I want to spend a day with him in the war room. But I’m labor; he’s management. Until I prove that I’m something more valuable than a smooth-talking actor capable of convincing greedy bookies to take my monster bets, I know Big Daddy won’t have much use for me as a decision maker. I can be one of the Brains, but I can’t be a brain.

The Wizard of Odds calls only twice more all Saturday, once to double-check the amount of money Sarge delivered and once to inquire about Caesars Palace’s limits on college basketball, of all things. Betting on college hoops does not strike me as a great idea. According to Pencil Stevie, the public doesn’t bet much on this sport until the national tournament. Until springtime, it’s the exclusive province of smart-money wiseguys.

Rick doesn’t bother to release his trained mule officially until the dinner hour, precluding a health club workout, recreational blackjack, or the diversion of mindless arcade games, which Caesars offers to the children of gamblers, possibly in the hope that those kiddies will learn from an early age that shoving quarters into machines is a great way to pass the day.

Outside it’s a gorgeous November day, with the sun warming the red mountains that ring the Vegas valley. On what’s easily the lightest-volume day of my sports betting career, I watch movies in my room, go 1–3, and lose $28,500.

On NFL Sunday, I bet two games in the morning and sulk in my suite as both wagers go down in flames. The phone rings. “How’s the world treating you, pards?” Big Daddy asks.

“Besides losing this New Orleans game because of a penalty on an extra point try, things are fine,” I reply glumly.

“Yeah, that’s not enjoyable.” I can hear him riffling through papers. “Well, let’s see if we can’t find something to turn it around. I’ll call you right back.”

Ten minutes later he directs me to bet Denver—the last game of the day—for our usual limit. When I go down to make the play, the Pencil and I chat briefly about some of yesterday’s games—“Intangibles, Mike,” he says, commenting on the freak extra point debacle that cost me $33,000. “How do you account for that?” I discover that Stevie likes all the underdogs today. “I gotta tell you, Mr. K, I really like San Diego”—Denver’s opponent.

“If I knew that, Stevie, I would have bet you straight up and saved the juice.”

“For ten, twenty bucks, sure,” the Pencil says. Fact is, that’s about the amount I would probably bet myself if I weren’t gambling with Brain Trust money.

When I report my wager, Big Daddy asks me to inquire how much the Pencil is going to let me bet on the upcoming college bowl games. “It’s time to go bowling pretty soon. Tell him you’re a winner and you want to gamble it up. Tell him you want to bet a hundred thousand a game. See what he says.”

I’ll have to find an appropriate time for such a request—which I’m sure will be denied. But maybe I’ll get $50,000 a pop.

Six minutes before the 10:00 a.m. kickoff, Kathryn Matthews-Reynolds calls me with a play. I’m surprised to hear from her. I had imagined that she spent her Sundays aiding her illustrious brother with administrative tasks, not barking out bets. “We need Buffalo plus two, but the game starts soon, so you’ve got to hurry.” I repeat the order and sprint to the elevator, thinking that a bet this late must involve a last-minute injury that the rest of the world hasn’t yet heard about. Or maybe the line has moved so much in the last ten minutes that all of a sudden there’s value in the wrong side.

I arrive at the sportsbook with about two minutes to spare. And despite a large line of gamblers, I get the bet in under the wire. Standing beside my window, the Pencil, drawing what looks to be Georges Braque’s version of a football stadium, again offers me a higher limit. I thank him but decline. “I’m losing, Stevie. Let me win a few and we’ll see.”

The board moves from Bills +2 to Bills +1. Thanks to the service Big Daddy uses, the one that pipes in up-to-the-second odds from casinos around the world, he’ll see on his computer screen that I’ve made my play right before the deadline. So before I return to the room to phone in my confirmation, I stop at the deli to get a sandwich. Fifteen minutes later I’m back in my suite.

Rick chews me out for keeping him waiting. I explain that I saw the number move and paused to get a sandwich. He chuckles. “Well, that’s not gonna work, pards. I need to know right away.”

“Got it. Won’t happen again,” I promise.

Then Rick admits that he did in fact see the number move and that “his people” at Caesars reported that they witnessed me making the bet. “No problema, 44. Good day, sir,” and then he hangs up.

The call leaves me trembling. Who are these people? How closely am I being watched? Is the Pencil in on this?

Cautioning me not to share my information with a single living soul; phoning in bets at the very last moment; having anonymous runners report my actions—it all suggests to me that Big Daddy suspects I’m picking off his plays and then who knows what? Selling the information? Leaking it to a competing syndicate? Doing something wrong.

I think about my weak moment of renegade betting the week before. Rick, in all likelihood, knows about this.

Clearly I’ve got to do everything by the Brain Trust book. Or else.

Even after the Bills whip the Jets straight up, notching another $30,000 win in my account, I hear nothing from my handler. Trapped in the still-tense hotel room, Vivian and I spend the day watching movies, waiting. Indolent and narcotized from room service snacks, she doesn’t seem to mind the enforced inertia. Shortly before 4:00 p.m., the second of my Brain Trust cell phone batteries goes dead, and since I haven’t been provided with a charger, I have an excuse to leave my plush prison. I go downstairs to a pay phone and call Big Daddy to report the news. Almost as an afterthought, he instructs me to bet the under on the Denver game. “I want it under forty-four, but if it’s at forty-three and a half right at post time, bet it at that number.”

While I’m hanging around the counter, waiting for the number to move, Gino the Suit comes out to say hello. He asks if I’ve seen the Racing Form today. Seems there’s a mention of my latest gambling story about a couple of local bookies trying to bring parimutuel-style wagering, which is more commonly found in horse racing, to Las Vegas sportsbooks. The Suit and I chat amiably about this innovation—Gino suggests that it was he who helped craft the regulations that made it possible—and the pros and cons of such a wagering system. I like the Suit. He’s a smart fellow. And he smells good.

Fifteen minutes before the Denver game, an obese Mexican fellow bets the over—for $50,000. I’m standing at the counter when this happens, and I almost can’t believe what I’m seeing. The Pencil’s letting this guy bet $50,000 on a total?

“Did I hear that right?” I ask.

Stevie looks up from his cartography and smiles sheepishly. “You’re one of our big players, Mike. But you’re not the biggest.”

“That’s obvious,” I say, bug-eyed. “Tell you what, Steve. I gotta believe you might want some action on the other side right about now. I’ll take the under for ten.”

“You got it.”

When I tell Big Daddy about the fat Mexican, he says, “I wish I knew that. We could have bet ’em forty thousand on that under. How ’bout this: Go back down and bet up to twenty-five thousand more, if they’ll give it to you at forty-four. If it’s forty-three and a half, bet them up to twenty thousand. Now, go on. The game’s almost starting.”

I race back to the book, where I ask for some more at 44. Nothing doing. So I propose $20,000 more at 43½. Gino the Suit, acting as chief negotiator, tells me I can have $10,000 more. I take it, moments before the kickoff sails through the air.

So I have $30,000 on Denver to win and $20,000 on the game going under. This irrelevant contest has turned into a big financial decision. While I’m watching the action unfold, I wonder what sort of information Big Daddy has that inspires such heavy play on something like the under bet. What does he know?

In this case, apparently not much. Both Denver and its opponent, San Diego, score at will, putting up 37 points—before the end of the first half. ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Colophon
• Other Books by Michael Konik
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Author’s Note
• Contents
• Glossary
• Preface
• Introduction
• One A Proposition
• Season One Autumn 1997—Spring 1998
• Two High Roller
• Three Built In
• Four Close Calls
• Five A Mule or a Man?
• Six Super Bowl
• Seven March Madness
• Season Two Summer 1998—Spring 1999
• Eight Persona Non Grata
• Nine The Wild Frontier
• Ten Ripped Off
• Eleven Milking the Cow
• Twelve Deputy 44
• Season Three Summer 1999—Spring 2000
• Thirteen A Little Knowledge Is Dangerous
• Fourteen Bringing Home Baby
• Fifteen Good-bye and Hello
• Season Four Summer 2000—Winter 2001
• Sixteen Superstars
• Seventeen The Smart Money
• Epilogue
• Acknowledgments