Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

“Phil, do you know anything about Welch’s connection with Andreas Karadimos?”

He shook his head. “Karadimos is a powerful figure in party politics, spreads his money around freely and he’s garnered a lot of influence, but there are other power brokers out there as well,” he said, glancing around nervously.

“Karadimos is very powerful.”

“You didn’t answer my question. I’ll rephrase it: do you think his influence with Welch has crossed the line? How much cash did Karadimos lay on the line?”

His face tightened. “Why, the unmitigated gall. Who do you think you are, asking a question like that?”

“Come on, Phil, you’ve studied Welch’s voting record, examined the committees he’s served on. You’re a pro. You’d see something if it was there.”

The waiter returned with our drinks. Rhodes picked up his Scotch. “I think you’re out of line with your implications, Mr. O’Brien.”

“Didn’t Manatt tell you to talk to me? Manatt’s the party chairman and you do want funding from the central party, don’t you?”

Rhodes tossed back his drink. “Manatt can go fuck himself.” Rhodes slammed the glass on the table and left.

I sat alone at Sol’s table knowing I’d hit a nerve with Rhodes. I pissed him off, sure, but indirectly I got the answer I was looking for. If Welch were on the level, he would’ve said so. I shifted my gaze to the table with the three Arabs laughing it up with Vincent James, the idealistic, honorable TV doctor. Is everything a veneer, an illusion, a deception?

Yeah, I got what I came for. I smiled. Shine a light in the sewer and watch the rats scramble.

Sol returned from making the call. We ordered lunch. I had a club sandwich, coffee. Sol ordered a cold prime rib sandwich and a gin and tonic. He purposely didn’t tell me about the call. I was dying to find out but figured he’d clue me in when the time was right. Instead, we discussed my meeting with Rhodes, and his abrupt departure.

“So Rhodes just got up and left?” Sol asked.

“Might have been something I said.”

“What did you say?”

“I asked him if his squeaky-clean candidate took bribes.”

“Think it upset him?”

“Might have.”

Sol grinned. “Well, some people are just too sensitive.”

All of a sudden, he stared intently over my left shoulder. “Hold it!” he shouted.

“What?”

“Jimmy, get ready to make some money. I think it’s on.”

“What do you mean? What’s on?”

He grabbed the racing program, flipped it to the fifth race. “Yes, this is what we’ve been waiting for.” He slapped the pamphlet on the table and quickly glanced around. “Okay, Jimmy, look at that table one down and two over to your right.” He indicated a table behind me. “Do you see it?”

I turned and looked. “The table with the three good-looking ladies?”

“Jesus! Don’t be so obvious. Quit staring.”

I turned back to Sol. “What about them?”

“Did you see the blonde, the girl with the big purse? Hold it! She’s getting up. Hurry, follow her; she’d recognize me. If she gets in line at the $100 betting window, come and get me, fast. If she goes to the $2 window, forget about it.”

The blonde’s chiffon skirt swayed in a fascinating rhythm as I followed her out of the Terrace Garden and into the cavernous barroom. She stopped, coolly glanced around, focusing on me for a moment. I moved toward the bar and sat down, taking a quick look out of the corner of my eye.

Apparently satisfied that I was nobody, she started walking again. Heads turned as she waltzed past the other male patrons drinking at the long bar. Then she veered left at the wide corridor that led to the betting area.

The blond stopped at the $100 window. I turned to get Sol and saw him lurking behind a column next to a potted rubber plant.

He rushed up to me, wiggling his fingers. “C’mon, Jimmy, gimme your $200.”

“It’s all I got. I need the money to defend Rodriguez.”

“Gimme the goddamn money! Hurry!”

I pulled the bills out of my pocket and reluctantly handed them over. I started to ask about the bet, but he was gone.

I wandered back to our table and waited. I’d given him all the money I had, money to pay some bills, money I needed to defend Rodriguez. The two hundred I gave to Sol was supposed to last until I could arrange for a loan on my car, which would take a while. I had no clients other than Rodriguez, and defending a murder rap would take not only a lot of money, but all of my time.

My eyes wandered around the Terrace Garden. Everyone was decked out in expensive clothes, dressed to the hilt. They obviously had plenty of cash to toss around. They wouldn’t even notice the loss of a couple hundred. That was just tipping money to these people. They were full of smiles and falling all over themselves with laughter. What a happy crowd. I knew money couldn’t buy happiness. I thought everyone knew that, but I guessed that these people hadn’t gotten the memo. Ignorant fools, thinking they were happy, probably going through their whole lives thinking they’re happy. It was sad. They’ll die without ever knowing they weren’t happy.

Sol had returned and slipped into his seat. Handing me a couple of parimutuel tickets, he said, “We’re down on the number three horse, Street Dancer, ridden by Jorge Torres.”

I stared at the tote board. “The favorite is the eight horse. He’s even money.” I wondered if Sol knew what he was doing. “But we’ve bet on Street Dancer?”

“Yeah, the morning line on Street Dancer was twelve-to-one. A long shot. But now he’s six-to-one. I only bet five, I didn’t want to drop the odds any farther.”

“Hundred?”

“Thousand. Your two hundred won’t affect the odds, but if I made a big bet, the odds would drop off the chart, would look funny.”

I looked at the program. “Windy’s Daughter is ridden by Eddie Cruz. It’s the heavy favorite, Sol. Do you think Street Dancer is a better horse than Windy’s Daughter?” Not that it mattered; he’d already bet our money on Street Dancer.

Sol chuckled. “You know better than that. Windy’s Daughter is a great horse, better than the one we bet on. But the jockeys decide who’s going to win the race, not the horses.”

I didn’t want to mention anything about the ethics of fixing horse races. Not with my two hundred on the line.

The horses pranced around on the track, wound up and fidgety, and soon they were set to go. The grooms shoved the last one into the starting gate. Taking a deep breath, I wondered if it would do any good to cross my fingers.

The bell rang. My pulse quickened. The racehorses jumped from the starting gate. The public address system bounced the announcer’s voice around the grounds, broadcasting the horses’ positions as they stormed down the track. Street Dancer was third around the far turn. It looked like Torres was pacing our horse well, but Windy’s Daughter was running first and running easy. They maintained their position down the backstretch and around the near turn until they entered the final straightaway.

Thundering down the homestretch, Windy’s Daughter held the lead, but our horse improved his position, second by a length. About one hundred yards from the finish, Street Dancer started to slow, bobbing his head. It was obvious that the better horse, Windy’s Daughter, would win the race. I would lose my money. My mind spun; maybe I could sell my car, move to a cheaper place, or whatever.

Then it happened. Cruz inexplicably stood in the saddle and tightened the reins.

A guy at the next table jumped up and screamed. “Look at that! Cruz missed the finish line. Thought he won the race. He’s done that before. God damn!”