Lay the Favorite (31 page)

“Enough being shitty to each other,” Dave said. “We’ll meet near my office. I know a place that has killer chicken Caesars. My treat.”

HIS TREAT?
Now that was insulting. I seethed. Sleet underfoot, bare black branches overhead, I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering in the cold. Enough! I’d rather slit my wrists, I thought, than fight this weather to go into midtown and sit across from Greenberg and eat a chicken Caesar.

“Lunch would be great,” I said, politely. “Let me see when I can get the money and I’ll call you back.”

I called ASAP and spoke to the new figures girl. We deducted the money I owed Bernard. My commission, plus the amount I owed Greenberg, came to $21,500.

“How would you like your player to receive his package?” she asked me.

“Actually, why don’t you just send it to me,” I said. “Is there any way you could Western Union it, to Rio de Janeiro?”

I made a mistake, I learned from it, and now I needed a vacation to forget about everything else. Jeremy was right about my habit of running away from things. But wasn’t this time different? I wasn’t shirking my duties; I was standing up for myself. And, anyway, I was taking him with me. We arranged for Otis to go to sleep-away camp in the Catskills, Jeremy finagled time off work, and two weeks after my arrival, he’d be meeting me at the condo I rented overlooking Ipanema Beach. In the meantime, Carolina and I would finally realize our South American adventure. She borrowed a diesel truck and we mapped out our entire trip. But really our goal was to stay lost, which, in the end, takes a lot more effort. Leaving the Brazilian consulate, expedited visas in hand, I swayed to the samba rhythm in my head. Squeezing into a Brazilian-cut bikini in the Bloomingdale’s dressing room, I could virtually taste the
caipirinha
.

Not until I was packing did I consider the life I was leaving or
the one to which I’d return. Part of me looked forward to quitting the business, once and for all, getting a new job and trying my hand at being a wife. But did I honestly think I could do that? Another part of me thought—perhaps hoped—that I couldn’t. But I truly loved Jeremy and it would shame me not to try. Listening to him play the guitar, I kept my thoughts to myself. I zipped my backpack, threw it over my shoulder, and kissed him good-bye.

Welcome to flight 2540, bound for Rio de Janeiro
.

I settled into my window seat, pulled up my table tray, and took immediate advantage of the first-class amenities. I was a little queasy at the thought of leaving Jeremy to deal with Dave’s phone calls, but on the other hand, I trusted that Jeremy would competently handle whatever situation arose with his usual terseness and innate sense of justice. A warm washcloth on my forehead eased my worried mind, and for the fun of it I changed the greeting on my cell phone. “You have reached Beth,” I said. “I’ll be gone for a long time. Please leave a message.”

The plane lifted into the air and I felt the spinning sensation of being swept off my feet, a feeling that always works its magic on me. In an instant, all of New York City lay below me. Somewhere down there beneath the big clock at Grand Central, Dave Greenberg waited for me to show up with his money, just like I said I would. At the thought of him
plotzing
, I ordered champagne.

Rising above the cloud bank, I tilted my face to the sun. I didn’t even need the plane. I could fly to Rio all on my own, hot with the rush of getting the best of it.

The earliest iteration of this book was a letter I wrote to Jeremy from Curaçao. Before I ever thought of myself as a writer, he believed in me. Thank you.

To agree to be a character in a work of nonfiction takes an enormous amount of generosity and courage. Dink, Tulip, Grant, Bernard, Jeremy, Wladimir: thank you for trusting me.

To all the gamblers—and their moms—who shared their memories, I couldn’t have written this book without you.

I would like to acknowledge all my professors at Columbia University, especially Stephen O’Connor, for his unending encouragement, and Samuel Freedman, who helped me see my own character—in the book, as a writer—more clearly and guided me as I took my first steps from book proposal to publication.

I am grateful to the Fulbright Program for its generous grant, which allowed me to focus on writing and gave me the opportunity to live in Central America.

Thank you, Las Vegas: the Capital of Second Chances!

Thank you, Peter Gethers, for being so cool. And D. V. DeVincentis, for snapping my author photo and for becoming a friend.

While I was writing this book, several people dogsat Otis and offered me sunny and quiet writing nooks and moral support: Jamie Fox, Alexi Villedrouin, Peter, Susie and Dougal, the Shusters, Carolina Freitas da Cunha, Dr. G., Michael Herzig, Clifton Leaf, and Ed and Lorrie Scanlan and their lovely Villa Vista Mar (villavistamar.com).

Mom, Dad, Sis: thank you.

Thanks also to Katharine Smyth for her wise and thoughful advice (on
all
subjects) and Brendan Beirne for being an awesome President of Manufacturing.

Gratitude to my editor and publisher, Julie Grau, whose incisiveness and attraction to risk make her a savvy gambler in her own right.

An immense thanks is due to my loyal agent and friend, Andrew Blauner, for making it all happen.

And lastly, Ryan Carrasco, your unerring eye, off-the-wall humor, and reading—and rereading—of drafts saved me from all kinds of embarrassment. There’s no one else like you in the entire universe.