For NBA junkies who go back to the 1980s, the name Chuck Person probably evokes two things. One is his fantastic nickname, “The Rifleman,” which he got for being a three-point sniper (of a whole other era: He only made more than 150 in a season twice). The second is a number of trash-talking shootouts he had with Larry Bird, including in a memorable 1991 playoff series between Boston and Indiana, the Game Five finale of which saw each man drop 32 points. The Celtics prevailed, 124-121, and the legend goes that the Rifleman had to pay up and mow Bird’s lawn.

Person, who won Rookie of the Year in 1987 and remains Auburn University’s all-time leading scorer, was a fun player to watch, but I hadn’t thought about him in a while. Then he popped up in “Hot Dog Money: Inside the Biggest Scandal in the History of College Sports,” a new book by Guy Lawson. (Little A, the book’s publisher, is a subsidiary of Amazon. Amazon founder Jeff Bezos owns The Washington Post.) In one scene, set at an Applebee’s in 2016, the deeply indebted Person takes a $5,000 envelope from Marty Blazer, a crooked financial adviser turned undercover FBI informant. Person, then an assistant coach at his alma mater, pocketed the bankroll with a promissory note to deliver top NBA prospects to Blazer, who would then become their business manager. The conversation was captured on a tiny hidden recording device.

Lawson, a dogged investigative journalist, vividly tells the story of the three years Blazer spent working undercover to prove the NCAA plot was a “multibillion-dollar scam,” at least in the cash-cow sports of football and basketball. Blazer started telling Lawson his tale in 2020 after he’d done his FBI bit and been sentenced on federal fraud charges — a year’s probation and $1.56 million in restitution to clients — and he is certainly forthcoming in laying out the flaws, foibles and absurdities during his peak corruption days. (Emergency medical care for a client’s date, who had a breast implant blowout? Done.)

Lawson had full editorial control and there is no reason to doubt this version of events, but “Hot Dog Money” is, by nature, somewhat friendly to Blazer, who died in January at 53. Given that at this point (or for the past several decades), only Dockers Dads who use the term “student-athlete” non-ironically would be scandalized by this “scandal,” it’s hardly earth-shattering. But in the proper state of mind, the book snaps like a dirty water dog — not as a stunning expose, but as a black comedy.

Lawson includes countless sordid descriptions of grifters, groupies and (supposedly) grown-ups milking the collegiate teat with dubious hopes of everyone getting rich from guaranteed NBA contracts down the line. At its heart, it was a wide-ranging but typical pay-to-play scheme, medium bucks loosely passed around to get certain kids to play ball at certain schools and sign with various dealmakers. Person stands out as a recognizable NBA vet; most of the others who got caught in the FBI’s web weren’t headliners. Ultimately, there were 10 convictions, mainly of low-level assistant coaches and backroom shoe brokers.

Blazer was the proverbial old guy at the club, feting college studs and everyone in their orbit with C-notes, lap dances, luxury watches, starter cars and gallons of “single malt Scotch,” a spirit sold exclusively in every half-decent bar in America. He built his clientele in football, taking care of NFL prospects and, after they signed contracts, becoming their financial adviser.

“Hot Dog Money” — a phrase for cash peeled off on the spot, more week-altering than life-changing — really comes to life when it recounts the felonious jackpot that Blazer accrued and that forced his hand to become an FBI informant. As an investment strategist, he Ponzi-schemed the college football clients of his who became NFL studs, transferring more than $2 million without their knowledge to produce movies like “Mafia,” a Ving Rhames-led vehicle from 2012 that even Rhames might wish scrubbed from his IMDb page.

By all accounts, Blazer did everything the FBI asked of him in Operation Ballerz — yes, its real name — but he wasn’t exactly turning on the crew from “Goodfellas.” Blazer compares the NCAA to the mob, but no trucks get hijacked and nobody is pistol-whipped. Without a threat of actual violence, “Hot Dog Money” isn’t compelling in a murderous way, but the ridiculousness of the scammers throughout makes for an entertaining summer diversion, a solid book to accompany a couple of beers in a hammock.

The parade of cartoon characters who got a taste include: one of Blazer’s FBI handlers, who drunkenly took $13,500 of federal cash out of a hotel suite safe during a casino sting, and then lost it all on blackjack (as any good G-man knows, what happens in Vegas is most likely caught on camera in Vegas); the mysterious “Rick,” a chain-smoking, well-to-do, red-mulleted wannabe jock; the unrepentant plugged-in Adidas consultant Merl Code (who, inexplicably, wasn’t nicknamed “Cheat”); and of course the Rifleman himself, who submarined a promising and lucrative coaching career for a total of $91,500, less than a third of his salary.

While there were short prison sentences for a few of the 10 men convicted in Operation Ballerz, Person walked away with probation and 200 hours of community service, which encapsulates how small-time the biggest scandal in college sports history really was. (The sentencing judge cited Person’s ridiculously charitable ways for most of his life.) “Hot Dog Money” is still a lively read because Lawson is adept at building momentum and has a sharp eye for cinematic detail. The best scenes feel tailor-made for a frisky eight-episode streamer. And indeed, the book’s film rights have already been snatched up by George Clooney’s Smokehouse Pictures and Amazon Studios. I doubt the two-time Oscar winner will solicit my advice, but he would be far better served following the satirical “Burn After Reading” playbook rather than the straight-faced “Michael Clayton” one. First call: Ving Rhames.

Patrick Sauer has been a freelance writer for more than 20 years for many publications, some that still exist. He also co-hosts the live online talk show “Squawkin’ Sports,” which features interviews with authors of sports books.

Hot Dog Money

Inside the Biggest Scandal in the History of College Sports

By Guy Lawson

Little A. 314 pp. $28.99