BELLEVILLE, ILLINOIS

By Margot Hornblower

The judge who presided over the trial that blew open Belleville's gambling culture said it had spread like "cancer in the community," and for once this was not the hyperbole of a bench-pounding moralist.

This community of 43,000 residents planted its German roots in the cornfields east of St. Louis, Mo., more than a century ago, and today wears its heritage from storefront to storefront: Krupp Florist, Schnuck's Grocery, Dueker Chiropractic. In this tidy community of Moose lodges and brick churches, even the gas stations are nicely landscaped. But look closer, and gambling seems to have sneaked in everywhere--and not just because the riverboat casino of East St. Louis is docked 14 miles away. The gambling rage has also come through the video-poker machines in the local taverns, bowling alleys and American Legion halls. Under Illinois law these establishments may install an innocuous version of the machines--one that allows the player to have the fun of winning but that can't actually pay out any money. Belleville, however, found a way to raise the stakes.

The scam came to light six years ago when citizens complained to the state police about spouses running off with their paychecks and parents unable to feed their children. Troopers raided a VFW post and, with the help of the FBI and the IRS, eventually uncovered a gambling empire that over six years produced $48 million for Belleville wheeler-dealer Thomas Venezia. It worked like this: tavern owners paid out real winnings to the video-poker players. The profits were split 50-50 between Venezia and his tavern-owning partners. In the course of the investigation, 27 taverns were raided. Venezia was convicted of racketeering and sentenced to 15 years in prison; as he went down, he took with him the mayor of nearby Washington Park, who pleaded guilty to taking bribes. In addition, a prominent attorney was convicted of obstruction of justice, and the local Congressman, Democrat Jerry Costello, was named an unindicted co-conspirator in the cover-up.

Belleville's gambling scars run even deeper, as the Monday-night meetings of the local Gamblers Anonymous chapter testify. Among those telling their stories: a former electrician who says he would start arguments with his wife "so I could just leave the house" to gamble; a convenience-store manager whose addiction led her to embezzle $18,000; and a parcel-service driver, Marge Alexander, whose compulsion destroyed a life of on-time mortgage payments and perfect work attendance. Two of the three started behind the video-poker machines; all three ended up contemplating suicide. But Belleville remains oddly immune to the cost of its new pastime. In May a reporter from the Belleville News-Democrat found video-poker machines at 11 local fraternal clubs. A VFW post commander even admitted to paying out. Otherwise, said he, "nobody would play."