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"That's that anti-Sherman act violation," Daly replied casually. "It has somethin' to do with boycottin' studio fights. I personally oppose studio box-in' due to the fact that it would eliminate the gate thereby defraudin' the fighter and his manager of the just gates that would accrue. TV people don't care what fighters get—their only interest is to sell the sponsors' products. The wolves are startin' to work already. WATV in Newark is gonna telecast the fights which they have purchased for the large sum of $100, or thereabouts, for the rights to the weekly telecasts out of Philadelphia for the Metropolitan area. The damage that will be done in this particular instance—the fighters are gettin' paid coolie wages—it will certainly knock out Sunnyside Gardens for good and that's the only small club left in the Metropolitan area. What will Julie Helfand do about this? Nothin', brother, nothin'! He will continue in his smear tactics in order for him to secure his goal, a judgeship!"
Where did Frankie Carbo fit in?
" Carbo?" asked Daly. "I only know what I read in the papers. What I read is various things from Helfand and people like that, supposed to be crusaders. I know Carbo personally, socially, and in my company he is nothin' but a gentleman. I think if there is anything against Carbo, there are certain authorities that are vested with the power to curb his so-called activities. He's a rather quiet guy. A fine fellow. Yeah, I go to a nightclub with him, public restaurants. I would introduce you to Carbo if we met in a public place. I believe Mr. Carbo knows or has a speakin' acquaintance with writers of all sports, whether it's horse racin', baseball, boxin' or any other. He is no stranger. He is a well-known person. I'm too old to duck anyone in public places, even if I wanted to, to hide from anyone in public places. I'm no different than a politician or anyone else tryin' to sell his wares. Politicians hold babies in their arms! They stop at nothin' durin' a campaign! They meet devious characters and the rank and file to sell their wares and get the votes; and after they get elected, they try to preach to the suckers." This amused Daly greatly, and he slumped down in the booth laughing.
How long had he known Carbo?
"I imagine I've known Carbo 26 years," Daly said, when he finished laughing. "I thought at one time he was in, uh, what the hell was that—in the orange business or something. I don't know whether he owned the citrus groves. I don't know if it was this frozen juice or what it was. His home now, I believe, is in Florida. You'll see him at the World Series. Choice seats. The big races. You know—Swaps-Nashua. Ringside seats at the fights. Does he go to the fights? Oh, sure! I believe horse racin' is his favorite sport. He is thoroughly versed in horse racin'. He talks very intelligent about horse racin'. Is he an owner? Not that I know of. But I'm not sure. Write: 'Not that I know of.' "
"ENOUGH ON CARBO "
Daly smiled. "You have enough on Carbo," he said with finality. "Just make sure that my opinion of the necessity of the Guild should be told. The public should be told that Mike Jacobs defrauded the fighters and managers of thousands and thousands of dollars that rightfully belonged to them. Just make sure that you don't twist it. You'd regret it."
Had he left anything out?
"No, you covered the waterfront. If that's not bein' outspoken, I wouldn't know what would be. What time is it?" asked Daly. "Five-thirty? I've got to go." He got up, started putting on his hat and coat, then said he had something to add. It was his opinion of the Harry Thomas-Jim Norris story.*
"I dare you to print it," Daly said with a smile. "Take this down. I absolutely don't think that Jim Norris was guilty of the charges made by a fighter, a washed-up fighter who never was great, and I believe that he was a publicity seeker no different than some of the morons who, when a murder was committed, go in and give themselves up. Morons and cranks, that's what. Morons and cranks. I may be wrong, but that's my opinion. That won't go," said Daly with a laugh. "I'll bet you don't print that." With that, Honest Bill shook hands, walked from the restaurant, hailed a cab, got in and rode off.