And nothing has. Implacable and chameleonlike, he has stalked into the rising sun on U.S. 66, averaging 50 miles a day—through New Mexico, across the Texas Panhandle, up through Oklahoma and Missouri. At week's end he was marching through Indiana on U.S. 40, just about even with a schedule that calls for him to take off his ripple-soled shoes and bathe his feet in Atlantic Ocean water before Thanksgiving.
Credit Rating Report
The cruelest insult yet cast at Frankie Carbo was flung discriminately about the nation this week in a William J. Burns International Detective Agency flier distributed to hotelmen and merchants. It reflected on Frankie's credit standing. It made the spurious suggestion that, as a fugitive since last July, Frankie may be running low on funds and crudely try to pass a bum check or two.
The implication is unfair. It must have hurt Frankie, a proud wearer of silk and cashmere. He never has resented accusations of murder or forthright declarations that he is the world's No. 1 fight fixer. These have given him a certain classy cachet. But it is unjust to say, as the folder does, that he may be suffering from the shorts. Frankie is, after all, a friend of millionaires, among them James D. Norris, the shy, retiring ex-president of the International Boxing Club now fighting so hard to avoid giving testimony before the New York grand jury that indicted Carbo as an undercover fight manager.
Frankie has always dressed well, eaten well, lived well since he discovered the simple virtues of the fix. He has been entertained at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York and has basked in a $75-a-day suite at the Shamrock in Houston. He has executive ulcers that a Madison Avenue vice-president would envy.
The chances are that Frankie never passed a bum check in his life, mostly because he does not like to sign his name to anything, including hotel registers. Besides, he deals pretty much in the anonymity of cash and, besides that, he has many hospitable friends who are glad to put him up when he comes to town. Just a few weeks after his indictment last July, for instance, he was reported, though not in the society columns, to be the incognito house guest of wealthy Artie Samish at Palm Springs, Calif. Samish, the tax-evading slushmaster of the California legislature, got out of the McNeil Island federal pen only last March and the two boys must have had a lot to chat about.
It is hard to say where Frankie is just now. He likes to present a moving target. But lately he has been confining himself pretty much to the Southwest, handy to Mexico, from which he cannot be extradited on present charges. Thus he has been seen dining with Al Weill, an old friend, at Agua Caliente but he has also been observed in Reno, living not at all like a man who is short of funds.
It is to be hoped that when District Attorney Frank Hogan finally lays hands on Frankie he will right the Burns Agency's wrong. Chances are he will find that Frankie has plenty of loot in his pockets, and, if so, he ought to count it publicly in simple justice to a maligned man. Frankie is a heel and a thief but he is a notably well-heeled thief and fair's fair.
There had, incidentally, been some speculation among boxing's many friends of Carbo that if Mr. Hogan had been elected to the United States Senate this month the indictments against Carbo and others might be allowed to lapse, or at least be pressed with less vigor than Mr. Hogan has shown. It was a foolish hope at best and it has now expired in the election returns. Mr. Hogan lost his Senate race. His term as district attorney runs until December 31, 1961.
Horns of Plenty