I took the notes and found Lucky Phil, who sat in his usual place at the hall entrance. He seemed to have aged ten years in two days. His sinister face and grizzled complexion put me on edge. His kind knew a thing or two about back-alley knifings over bets gone bad. He stopped reading the paper and stared at me, his beady eyes as black as a cockroach. “Back again. How much?”
“One hundred on Gary.”
“You’re a brave man. I’ll give you five-to-one odds. Same as before. No betting after today.”
“Fine.” I handed him the bills. “I’ll collect my winnings after day seven.”
The bookie sniggered. “That’s what they all say.”
Mr. Hayden made the morning rounds, fresh from the salon, with his well-groomed mustache and glossy nails, gold pocket watch dangling. He wore a three-piece suit and a bowler. He strolled over and tipped his hat. “Mr. Huntsman, the riverboat gambler. Keep up the bets. I’m going to be a rich man when this is over.”
“Gary will be back on his feet.”
“You hope so. I wager he’s going to have a deflating experience out there. Accidents are bound to happen. He won’t make up the lost ground, even with the ladies. I know what you’re up to. You’re putting your friends at risk. Don’t you know that?”
“They’re not doing anything illegal. You do the same. The Colorado Kid is stuck like glue to Robert Napp. That’s no accident.”
“Why don’t you find that preacher, the Holy Roller, and ask him to say another prayer. Gary will need more than a novice rider like you and some ladies for help. Mr. Mandrel needs a flock of angels and an act of God to win.” Mr. Hayden tipped his hat again and took his leave.
Silicon Valley Cyclist 
June 24, 2024 at 12:54 pm |
Looks like only Jobst, I mean Karl, has the wits to outsmart Hayden.