Something for Nothing (6 page)

Martin made his way over to the G section. He was in a bit of a daze, but he felt pretty good.

“So,” Ludwig said. “I put down fifty bucks to win. How about you?”

Martin looked at him and smiled. “Let's just say I'll be buying the drinks.”

They stood there and listened to the guy in the white pants and red jacket play the tune for the start of the race on his trumpet. The kids always liked this part. Sometimes between races he'd play a real song. Nothing elaborate, just some little jazz tune, or a Sinatra song, maybe. Martin had heard him play “The Girl from Ipanema” a few weeks ago and had thought it was pretty cool.

B
IG
B
AD
W
OLF BROKE
from the two position and shot right to the front of the pack. He and Carmine were in red, and, using his binoculars, Martin kept his eyes locked on them as they drove forward. Martin was surprised by the quick start, but he figured Carmine was worried about getting boxed in on the rail. He'd probably keep him in hand after the first turn, Martin thought. But he was a little worried.

“He's out pretty fast,” he yelled to Ludwig, lowering his binoculars for a second. He had to lean close to be heard over the gathering noise of the crowd. The grandstands were only about half full, but there weren't many empty seats in the area immediately around them, and people were yelling and shouting as the horses sped down the track.

Ludwig nodded but didn't answer. He had his own pair of binoculars, and he was focused on the race.

Martin watched, waiting for Carmine to slow the pace. But Big Bad Wolf didn't let up, and pretty soon he'd dragged another horse with him into a solid lead. It was the four horse; Martin wasn't sure what his name was. Behind Big Bad Wolf and this other horse, there was a chase group of three about three lengths back. The others were already out of it.

What was Carmine doing? Sure, the race was only six furlongs, but from what Martin could tell, Carmine had him just about flat out. Did he really think he could steal the race like that?

The horse running with Big Bad Wolf fell off the pace along the back stretch, and fell in with the chase pack, so now it was Big Bad Wolf, and a group of four horses trailing about three lengths back. The chase group began to separate out a little bit and form a single-file line along the inside rail.

Huh, Martin thought. He felt a leap of excitement.

“That's right, big boy,” Ludwig yelled, lowering his binoculars for a second and hopping up and down a couple of times. “Keep it up.”

“Come on, Big Bad Wolf!” Martin yelled, his voice joining in with the rising din of the crowd. “Come on, now!”

But as soon as they started cheering, the gap between Big Bad Wolf
and the chase pack started narrowing. Martin shifted his binoculars and saw that one of the horses in this group was High and Mighty. He was about half a length off the other three horses running with him, but he'd moved to outside, and he was looking pretty good. Strong and smooth. Shit, Martin thought.

Martin swung his glance back to Big Bad Wolf. Carmine was crouched low over his back and neck, and it almost looked like he was whispering to him. What would he say? Something encouraging—“Just a little farther. You can do it”? Or something panicky—“Don't look back. They're gaining on you”?

As they hit the final turn, the horses leaning almost imperceptibly to the left and digging hard into the soft soil, the lead had collapsed to two lengths. Big Bad Wolf was trying to hold them off, but it didn't look good. You could practically see the lactic acid building up in his legs.

Come on, you motherfucker, Martin thought—yelled out loud.

By the time the horses hit the eighth pole and started down the final stretch, the lead was one length. Carmine had his whip out and he was working Big Bad Wolf's flank, but it didn't matter. The other horses were reeling him in.

“Oh my God,” Martin said as one horse (it looked like it might be High and Mighty) shot past Big Bad Wolf with about forty yards to go. The announcer yelled over the loudspeaker, confirming Martin's guess. The people around them were yelling and screaming and cheering. Jeez, he thought. Did everyone bet on this horse except me?

And then the other three horses from the chase pack caught Big Bad Wolf, and the whole group crossed the finish line in a clump. From Martin's vantage point it looked like at least one of them had passed Big Bad Wolf, maybe more. Martin watched as the jockeys stood in their saddles and slowed the horses. Carmine reached over and patted Big Bad Wolf on the neck—maybe a gesture that said sorry for whacking the shit out of you with my whip.

“What the fuck was
that
?” Ludwig yelled. He lowered his binoculars
and looked at Martin. Then he sat down. He looked stunned. Incredulous. It was obvious that he'd been convinced that Big Bad Wolf was going to win—that he hadn't even considered the possibility that he might lose.

“I don't know,” Martin said, shaking his head.

He closed his eyes. Three hundred dollars, down the drain. Just like that. Poof. What a fucking idiot.

“Jesus
Christ
!” Ludwig yelled—screamed. “I thought you said this guy Carmine knew what he was doing!”

Here it comes, Martin thought. Not that he felt like defending himself. I should've known, he thought. Big Bad Wolf isn't a finisher. The problem isn't the length of the race—it's what he does when he sees the finish line. He doesn't have the stuff.

The announcer was reading off the names of the horses that had placed, but Martin wasn't paying attention. Why did I bet two hundred dollars to win? he asked himself. Wasn't one hundred stupid enough?

He looked out at the board. He saw that the seven horse had won. That was High and Mighty. The payout wasn't posted yet, but he'd won all right.

Then he looked at the Place slot, at the number of the horse that had finished second. And there it was. It was the two horse—Big Bad Wolf. Hey, he thought. Look at that. He hung on after all—he must have just made it.

He sat there for a second, thinking. He was tempted to check his ticket, but he resisted the urge—he didn't need to. Because he knew what it said. He'd double-checked it after Charlene gave it to him. He'd bet the 2–7 exacta—Big Bad Wolf and High and Mighty. But he'd boxed it, and so it didn't matter what order the horses finished in. He had the first- and second-place horses, and so he'd won. Yes.

He was about to tell Ludwig about his win, but when he looked over at him, he decided against it. Ludwig was slumped back in his seat and staring outward, maybe at the geese flapping around out in the ponds,
or maybe at the coastal hills just on the other side of Highway 101. Martin watched him pull his ticket out of his pocket, look at it, and then crumple it up and throw it away.

The payoff for the exacta still wasn't posted, so he wasn't able to calculate how much he was going to clear. But he knew it would be a lot—over five hundred dollars, for sure. Definitely more than he'd lost on his other bet.

This, he thought, was a good sign. First the handshake with Val Desmond, then the winner on the exacta box. It was all about having a backup plan. That was how you beat the system. Because these days you couldn't count on anything to work out, could you? You either gave your money to the cranky lady in the betting booth or you handed it over to the guy at the bank, and then you just crossed your fingers. Sure, you tried to be smart about it, but things could happen—your horse could stumble out of the gate or even break down, or the fucking Arabs could choke off the oil supply. So why not have a plan B? At the track today it was the exacta box. In Martin's life—his real life—it was the deal with Val. Now his business could tank, but it wouldn't matter (or it wouldn't matter as much, anyway). Because he was going to start bringing some money in through the back door. He'd covered himself, and if things went well, he might win big (or he might avoid losing—which to his mind, at least lately, was another version of the same thing).

Martin looked over at Ludwig. He was still sitting there, but he wasn't scowling anymore. He was looking down at a
Racing Form
and mumbling to himself—he was getting ready for the next race. Good, Martin thought. Martin was tempted to tell him to try boxing some bets, but he knew better. Instead he stood up. He wanted to cash in his ticket and then give Linda a call. He knew he was going to be late and that this would piss her off. But he also knew she'd be pleased to hear the good news—the news about the race, that is. He didn't even consider saying anything about Val Desmond and their new agreement.

M
artin slept like a baby Monday and Tuesday nights. He felt relieved—at least he'd made a decision. Better, Val was off his back. No more scary messages, no more wondering how to deal with the money he owed him. He had a plan, and that was more than most people could say. He'd even been in a good mood at home, patient with the kids, frisky with Linda. She'd been wary but eventually receptive.

“What's with you?” she'd asked, but even in the darkness of their bedroom he could tell she was smiling. It was like old times—or like things had been until a few years ago, when suddenly they were only having sex once a month (if that), and he could sense a latent resentment in her.

But by Wednesday he'd realized what he'd actually signed on for with Val, and by the time Thursday morning rolled around he was a wreck. Flying to Mexico? For drugs—for
heroin
? Are you fucking kidding me?

He stood in his underwear, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, trying to picture himself making the deal. He'd land the plane in some field, leave it running, and just hop down, a suitcase of money in one hand and a sawed-off shotgun in the other.

“Not so fast,” he said into the mirror, imagining some Mexican guy reaching out for the cash. “Let me see the drugs first. Then you'll get your dinero.”

He looked at his fleshy belly, pale white skin, and bald head. He used to have bigger arms and strong shoulders, but now he looked older and weaker. Even his face had lost its sharpness. When had that happened? Down the hall he could hear Sarah screaming at Peter about something. He took a big gulp of air.

Not a chance, he thought. I can't do it.

Linda was getting ready for work (she'd started back at her job as a secretary in the insurance office in November, after the first shock waves from the oil embargo). So he made breakfast for the kids, scrambled eggs and toast. Sarah ate like a bird, but Peter shoved the food into his face. It was as if he hadn't eaten in weeks.

“Jesus, Peter, slow down,” Martin said. “What're you, part of the Donner Party?” He and Sarah exchanged a glance.

Peter shrugged. “Everybody thinks it's so horrible that the Donner Party ate each other, but it wasn't,” he said. “I'd have done it, too. For sure. I mean, the people they ate were already dead. It's not like they were saying, ‘No, no, please don't eat me.' And their bodies were frozen in the snow. It's the same thing as the hamburger we have in the freezer. It's not that big a deal, when you really think about it.”

“Okay,” Sarah said. “But I don't really
want
to think about it right now. I'm eating. It's disgusting.
You're
disgusting.”

Peter shrugged. “Hey,” he said. “I'm just trying to survive.”

Martin rolled his eyes. It was as though they were plotting to annoy him—had practiced their parts, even. He looked out the window and watched their dog Arrow sniff around and muse about the ideal spot for his morning dump. He reminded himself to send Peter out to pick up the dog poop from the yard before the end of the week. He also reminded himself that he didn't have to go in to the office if he didn't want to. He was still the boss, right? It wasn't like he was punching a time card, for Christ's sake.

So still without his toupee, he took the kids to school, then went back home and called Ludwig.

“I'm sick,” he said. “You're on your own today. Sorry.”

“You mean you're playing golf?” Ludwig asked. “Is that it?”

“Fuck you, Ludwig,” he said. “I'm really sick.” He slammed down the phone. Why did everyone always assume he was lying?

He sat by the pool for a while, drinking coffee and thinking. It was early May and nice out, warm.

If he backed out of the drug deal with Val (not that this was really an option anymore), he'd sink like a stone, financially. Sure, the Wells Fargo guys might loan him some money, especially if Radkovitch pulled some strings. But how long would that actually last, anyway? Would the Arabs ever open up the spigots again? Maybe oil was going to a hundred dollars a barrel—not just for a while, but for good. Maybe the party was over, America.

On the other hand, if he flew to Mexico—did it for a year like Val said—he might actually turn the corner. It just might work. He might just be able to keep on being the Martin Anderson he'd managed to create in the past ten years or so. Not the drifting loser who'd stumbled through his twenties and was headed for a bleak life as a middle-manager sales guy. No, this was the guy who'd started a business, had been successful, and had then moved with his family out to the suburbs. Sure, the suburbs had been a disappointment, but still, did any of his friends from high school live near Sal Bando? No, they didn't. And yeah, Martin's brothers liked to mock him, calling him “the banker,” but that didn't stop them from asking him for loans all the time. It wasn't easy to get by as a photographer or a musician, was it?

Martin watched the Pool Sweeper make its circuit around the pool. It was like a space ship patrolling the mini solar system of Martin's pool. Its hoses swept around the pool's bottom, blasting away at the algae. In some ways, Martin realized, the little machine was a real task master: it circled the pool all day and night, bringing order and cleanliness to this important part of Martin's backyard. If you were an errant leaf or piece of walnut skin, you were in trouble.