Brett Halliday - Million Dollar Handle

“Go right ahead, it gives me ammunition for the next domestic skirmish. I won’t quote you.”

“We’re only open four months. The other eight the building just sits there. Taxes, insurance, upkeep. One thing about the hotel business, they’re open the year round. I heard the offer was five million.”

“Not all in cash. In fact, not much in cash.”

“But if he’s really just breaking even, why doesn’t he jump at the idea? That’s valuable real estate. So I thought I’d ask you.”

“Whether it’s true the track’s not making money? Ricardo, I can’t tell you. I own forty percent, my daughter Linda owns twenty. Together we have the power to walk in and demand to see every scrap of paper in the office, but we’ve never dared. We talk about it a lot.”

“I thought you’d be sure to know. Aren’t you secretary, or something?”

“Supposedly. The accountant brings me the tax returns with a little x where he wants me to sign. There’s never much tax due, which may not mean anything. We already pay that huge percentage, night after night, and the government won’t bother us if we lie a little. All I can say is, if Max is taking any money out, I don’t see much of it. I’ve had the same household allowance for six years, forget about inflation. I think it’s insane not to sell, while the market is high. But Max isn’t rational on the subject. He doesn’t like what’s happened to Collins. He hates those vulgar hotels. The deal would be complicated, and he doesn’t trust Harry Zell. But there’s something deeper. He’s been running that track since he was twenty-five. He took it away from some very tough people who inherited it from Al Capone-”

“I didn’t know Capone had anything to do with Surfside.”

“Oh, yes. Max cleaned them all out and made dog racing respectable, and that makes him an important man in Miami. He goes to dinners and gets to eat on the dais. He’s been mentioned for Senator, not too seriously, but he’s been mentioned. If he sells out to Harry, he won’t be a prominent sportsman anymore, he’ll be a middle-aged man with notes and debentures and stock that add up to five million dollars. And of course he’s hopelessly sentimental on the subject of dogs.-Ricardo, it occurs to me that this is your suppertime. I can make you some scrambled eggs.”

“I’ll eat something at the track.” He took a sip of the drink. Then he took a long breath and held it. Gripping the glass hard and looking at the bubbles and not the woman, he said, “Mrs. Geary, would you be interested in making a quarter of a million dollars?”

She had been about to pour more vodka, and the neck of the bottle rang against the glass.

“What are you talking about?”

“Not a quarter of a million just once. A quarter of a million a year, from now on.”

Now he looked at her. Her hand was at her throat, and he thought she looked frightened.

“Ricardo,” she said, almost in a whisper, “I think you’d better-”

“No, wait, don’t throw me out yet. All afternoon, I’ve been wondering. Should I, or shouldn’t I? I believe in luck. When something lucky happens, you can’t just back away from it, you have to push it. When will I get a chance like this again? You own forty percent of one of the biggest dog tracks in the country, and that car you knocked me down with is six years old and should have a ring job. That’s ridiculous. How much do you know about pari-mutuel betting?”

“That’s Max’s department. I cook and vacuum and clean the oven.”

“Which must get kind of-”

“Sometimes.”

A look went with this exchange, and Ricardo sat back and began talking less desperately.

“The thing to remember, Mrs. Geary, is that you aren’t betting against a roulette ball or a pair of dice, you’re betting against everybody in the grandstand, and that includes people who stick pins in the program or bet on the dogs with the cutest names. There’s no way you can win at a casino because the house cuts a piece out of every play. At the dogs-eight dogs in a race-bet at random, and you ought to average one winner every eight times.”

“I see that.”

“But the pool doesn’t pay back the full amount. A seventeen-percent bite-it doesn’t seem like much, but that’s on every race. Figure it out in dollars. Say the customers bet a hundred thousand on the opener. The winners get eighty-three. They dig for seventeen thousand more, and bet another hundred. They get eighty-three. See what I mean? Eight thousand people show up on an average night, and they bet about thirty bucks apiece. They brought two hundred and forty thousand in betting money. They go home with thirty thousand. That’s not seventeen percent, it’s close to ninety.”

“Ricardo, I never had the illusion that anyone could win in the long run.”

“You win if you can do seventeen percent better than the schmucks, if you know seventeen percent more about the dogs. And that’s hard. I try to bet three races a program. I’ve got a guy who buys tickets for me. You wouldn’t know him, probably, but he’s a well-known sight at the track. A big winner can’t hide, so we decided to do it right out in front. He does his betting in platforms and big hats, and on a cool night he’ll wear a light fur. If anybody can beat that seventeen percent, it ought to be me and Billy. I know the dogs by their nicknames. When the chart says the track’s fast, I know how fast, because I’ve felt it. A little dampness in the air can slow a dog down by a second, and that’s fourteen lengths. I don’t do any picking at all the first two weeks, until I know the racing pattern. Some dogs are going to start slow and finish fast. Some go wide on the straight and cut inside on the turns. Once they set the pattern they stick to it. I know what the kennelmen are up to. They’re always trying to get a fast dog in a slower class, and so on and so forth.”

She was beginning to seem more interested. “Are you saying that even you can’t-”

“I beat it,” Ricardo admitted, “but not by much. I was ahead fourteen thousand last year.” He looked at his watch. “Damn it, I’ve got to go.”

“Not yet! It’s a long way from fourteen thousand to a quarter of a million.”

He stood up, leaving his unfinished drink on the table. He had timed this carefully.

“If I don’t get back, it’s all academic, because I won’t have the job.”

“Ricardo, it’s unfair. I’m practically rigid.”

“Can we get together tomorrow?”

“No, that wouldn’t be so good. Max will be back. We’d better make it tonight after the racing.”

“Here?”

“Well-no. On account of the doorman. I’ll pick you up.”

This was another delicate moment, and Ricardo looked at the floor.

“How I do with the guy who does my betting, we meet at a motel, to be on the safe side. If you go first and rent the room, I’ll call from a box and get the number. Then we won’t have to be looking over our shoulder all the time.”

He pulled up suddenly. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said, to make absolutely sure that she did. “I mean, we need a place to talk for half an hour-”

“Heavens,” she said lightly. “Considering that I’m old enough to be your grandmother-”

He left it at that, and named an unromantic chain motel on Biscayne Boulevard, near the North Bay Causeway. They shook hands, rather formally. Ricardo was so anxious to get out without breaking the bubble that he forgot to thank her for the wallet and the drink.

Everything seemed to be clicking nicely. By the same token, he didn’t want it to be too easy; that would be equally unlucky.

Alone in the elevator, he said thoughtfully to himself, “I don’t know.”