William "Billy" Scott takes a drag on a cigarette as he glances at a clock in his office, oblivious to the wind whipping the palm trees and the people outside going to shelters. A hurricane is about to strike this Caribbean island in a few hours, but that's not why Scott keeps checking the time.
The stocky bookie with the raspy voice and deep-set eyes is waiting for the computer screens in front of him to flash the football point spreads. Soon, the phones will be ringing and the bets will roll in.
From the top floor of the tallest building in Antigua, Billy Scott oversees a worldwide gaming empire. After serving six years in prison for extortion and conspiracy, the once flamboyant Toledo bookmaker moved to the island four years ago to set up one of the first Internet sites for wagering. The site lets people make bets up to $10,000 from their home computers anywhere, including the United States.
And while Antigua allows such enterprises, he's in trouble with his old nemesis: the U.S. government. Federal prosecutors say he's trying to escape U.S. gaming laws by going to a remote island just north of the equator with most of the bets being waged by Internet users in America.
A warrant has been issued for his arrest on felony conspiracy charges, but he's not about to surrender.
"No one wants to be in my position," says Scott, 58, from his office in the Bencorp Building in this crowded capital city that relies so heavily on tourism. "But I haven't done anything wrong. I just don't get it."
So far, the government of Antigua says the same thing, and will not extradite Scott for a business that's legal here. He may be a fugitive in the U.S., but not on this volcanic island, where he oversees an operation of 136 employees with a $6 million budget.
For now, there's nothing the U.S. government can do. Scott's World Wide Telesports and Sands Online Casino accepts an average of 35,000 bets a week, and is now among 300 such sites on the Internet. His is one of the most prominent.
"Billy's making more money now than he ever made as a book-maker in Toledo," says longtime friend Gus Nicolaidis, a Toledo restaurateur. "Everybody thought he was down and out."
The company's colorful web pages with 3-D graphics invite players to "the best bet on the net!" There's betting on sports as well as a virtual reality casino to play poker, black jack, and slots. Players can use a credit card or send a money order to start an account for as little as $100. The biggest jackpot: $50,000.
Though Scott has become a pioneer in cyberspace wagering the fastest growing industry in the Caribbean he has become a bad boy poster child of the anti-gambling forces. His case has been referred to the Senate Judiciary Committee, which wants to ban online gambling in the U.S.
"A guy like that could not get a gaming license in this country because of his background," says Alan Kesner, chairman of the National Association of Attorneys General's gambling committee. "And yet, he can go to a place like Antigua and do business as usual. It's just amazing."
A member of one of Toledo's best known racketeering families, Scott was accused of paying bribes to police while running the area's largest bookmaking operation in the early 1980s, court documents state. Several witnesses told police that Scott used threats and intimidation - sometimes force - to collect money.
His lawyer, John Czarnecki of Toledo, says the U.S. government does not have any business trying to crack down on Scott, who has served his time for his prior life of crime.
"I don't even know how they can prosecute this case," he says. "Where does the crime occur?"
Scott says he moved to Antigua because such ventures were legal, and that no one - and he repeats, no one - said it was against the law.
"Now, all of a sudden, they want me," he says, shaking his head.
With Hurricane Jose approaching the island, people on the congested and narrow streets below are heading home, and sailors in the nearby harbor are taking down their sails and battening down the hatches. But the ultimate gambler is not going anywhere.
He wore cashmere coats and tailored suits, and for most of his years in Toledo, Billy Scott played the role. From 1966 to 1979, he was arrested nine times for running illegal gambling enterprises, never serving longer than nine months, court records show. Like a character from a gangster movie, he tooled around town in a Lincoln Continental, flashing wads of cash.
"He was like someone out of Goodfellas," says Nicolaidis, founder of the Oak'En Bucket restaurant where Scott hung out and took calls.
Born to first-generation Italian parents, Scott's father, William (whose surname was Scotti), was a convicted bookie, and his uncle, Tony Paul Scott, was considered one of Toledo's most legendary racketeers before his death six years ago.
Young Billy ended up following in his father's footsteps, accepting $10 bets on sports games, he says. Eventually, the bets grew. But while his elders were normally quiet about their activities, Billy Scott was often up front about his illegal bookmaking.
"He drew so much attention to himself, that he ended up helping us," recalls retired police vice Capt. Norb Declercq.
Scott once sat next to an undercover policeman at a bar in 1980 and bragged about being the city's biggest bookmaker.
One night in late 1981, a vice cop saw Scott toss two packs of cocaine under a car parked at a Sylvania eatery. Already on probation from a bookmaking conviction in 1979, he was forced to appear before then Lucas County Common Pleas Judge Robert Franklin.
"You gambled. You lost. You pay," the judge said before sentencing Scott to two years in prison.
Soon, a federal grand jury began looking into the gambler's past deeds, and indicted him on extortion, racketeering, and other charges. After serving his state sentence, he accepted a plea agreement in 1984 from U.S. prosecutors that called for an eight-year federal prison term.
Scott's partner, Butch Wilson, ended up taking over the entire Toledo bookmaking operation. He too was later indicted. Billy Scott ended up testifying against him. Law enforcement officials say it was because Wilson was supposed to keep paying Scott's family while Billy was in prison. Scott doesn't want to talk about those days.
"I just want to move on with my life," he says.
The land slopes gently to the west and rises into volcanic peaks along the deep blue waters. Ringing the island are sandy beaches covered with palm trees and exotic flowers. This is where Billy Scott lives in exil?sentia with conspiracy to use interstate phone lines for gambling. Since then, nine people have surrendered to the charges, plea bargaining to misdemeanors, two cases have been dropped, and seven people - like Scott and Davis - are fugitives. Four cases are pending.
"We are still waiting for Scott to surrender to the charges," says Herb Hadad, spokesman for the U.S. attorney's office in New York.
But Scott is not going to turn himself in.
"It's legal in this country, so I don't see the problem," he says.
Even the government of Antigua, which set up a tax-free zone for the sports books, has rallied around him. Antiguan parliament members have voiced support, and the government says there are no grounds for extradition. A poor country, Antigua, which won its independence as a British colony in 1981, has come to rely on the revenues from the 30-plus toll-free and web page operations on the island. It costs $100,000 to get an annual online casino license, and $75,000 for a sports betting license a year from Antigua. Besides, Scott's business is considered a model on the island. As many as 136 Antiguans work for the company, with salaries and bonuses.
Scott recently built a home on Antigua, where he lives with his wife, Susan, and drives to and from work. His company is considered the island's largest sports book, with up to $10 million a week in bets, reports state. The firm keeps about five percent of the total volume as profit. But Scott won't say how much he earns, and he won't release the names of other investors in the company, including two lawyers. The government, which offers financial privacy to banks and businesses, will not release any names either.
"Total secrecy," boasts a government ad in a travel magazine. Scott, dressed in a faded black sport shirt, khaki shorts, and loafers, refuses to be photographed.
"I just want to live my life and be left alone," he says after a rare moment of silence. "Can't I move on?"
After his release from prison a decade ago, he lived in Columbus a few years, working for Drug Emporium chain stores. During a 1992 trip to another Caribbean island, St. Martin, he struck gold.
"I noticed there was a guy running bingo, and I asked him if I could open a sports betting (parlor) there, and he said yes," says Scott.
