Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Greed

“And if they don’t?”

“They’re done. Finito. Never to be heard from again.” Fisk put his index finger to his lips. “Mum’s the word.”

Merrick leaned back in his chair. “All right, buddy. I’m trusting you here.”

“It’s Garza we need to stop. He gets this done and he’ll expose a major weakness to our border defense. Every terrorist organization on the planet will be paying him a visit.” With a distant stare, Fisk said, “Give Nick and the boys a chance to get this done.”

Merrick cocked his head. “When you say, ‘the boys,’ exactly whom do you mean?”

Fisk smiled knowingly and returned his finger to his lips.

Merrick shook his head. He knew Fisk was protecting him, keeping him from being culpable with whatever Nick’s ‘family’ may be doing without law enforcement compliance. He also knew their involvement had saved many American lives in the past.

Merrick swiveled his chair around to face the South Lawn behind his desk. A hummingbird was flapping its wings furiously while pecking at a flower petal. “You ever wonder about the consequences of our choices, Sam?”

Fisk said nothing.

“Sometimes my choices allow a family to afford a new home or a schoolchild to afford a smaller classroom.” The hummingbird dipped and rose erratically, until it flew off in a fury. “Then other times my choices cause a homeless person to lose a meal.”

Merrick turned to face Fisk. “Sometimes I wonder if that homeless person knows I took that meal away from him so I could pay for us to capture a Mexican terrorist and save hundreds, or maybe thousands of lives. You ever wonder about that, Sam?”

“I try not to swim that deep,” Fisk said.

“Well, if this country has a beating heart, it’s because of people like Nick Bracco and Matt McColm.”

“Hallelujah,” Fisk said. “Now. . can we find something to eat around here?”

Just one look at the outside of the off-track betting place and Tommy knew he wasn’t in Baltimore anymore. There was a large patch of desert with some sort of beat-up cactus and a few wilted shrubs along the front wall. Along the side of the building an asphalt parking lot had a half-dozen pickup trucks and a couple of small foreign cars. Tommy parked in the back by himself, giving the rental a chance to survive a door ding.

As soon as he stepped inside, however, he felt right at home. It was a struggling sports bar whose owner probably decided to lure degenerate gamblers to bolster his lunch business. The rectangular bar was centered in the middle of the room with a scattering of round tables around the perimeter. To the right was the restaurant with booths and tables. To the left was the wall of OTB tellers.

Tommy took a seat at the bar and gestured to the bartender. “I’ll take a bottle of Bud and a Form please,” he said.

The guy behind the bar seemed bored as he placed the beer on the bar and handed Tommy the Racing Form.

“Seven-fifty,” the guy said.

Tommy gave the bartender a ten and told him to keep it. He took a swig of beer and examined the room. He spotted his mark instantly. The guy was sitting in a booth on the restaurant side, a pretty girl snuggled up next to him wearing the shortest shorts he’d ever seen. The guy stuck out because the crowd was mostly gray-haired men straining to see one of the dozen TV monitors hanging from the ceiling. He also stuck out because he was pushing three hundred pounds of pure fat.

Tommy glanced at a TV and discovered it was seven minutes to post time for the third race at Hollywood Park. He opened his Form and studied the charts. After a minute he glanced back up at the TV and said, “Shit.”

There was an older guy sitting two stools down from him who noticed Tommy’s mild outburst. He was a burly guy with a two-day stubble and a pair of reading glasses hanging around his neck.

“You okay?” the man asked.

“Aw, sure,” Tommy said, pointing to the TV, disgusted. “It’s just that the four horse is scratched.”

The guy looked down at his Form on the bar in front of him. “Of course he’s scratched, he’s a pig. Should be pulling a plow out in a field.”

Tommy nodded at the old-timer. “Yeah, but he’s the only other speed in the race. Who’s gonna wear down the chalk?”

The guy kept reading the paper in front of him. “What about the eight?”

“The eight?” Tommy laughed. “Shit, I could outrun that horse to the first turn.”

The guy put his reading glasses on and placed his index finger on the Form next to the eight horse’s past performances. While staring at the Form, the guy’s face broke out into a sheepish grin.

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “So I shouldn’t bet on the five to close up on him, huh?”

“Not without the four to force the pace.”

Tommy noticed the man’s beer glass was nearly empty. He waved at the bartender and said, “Please pour another beer for my friend here.”

The guy looked over to be certain Tommy was talking about him. “You sure?”

“Of course.” Tommy slid over one stool to sit next to the guy. He held out his hand. “Tommy Bracco.”

“Ben Westfall,” the man said, shaking Tommy’s hand.

“Hey, I hate know-it-alls,” Tommy said. “Bet whoever you want. I’m just a big mouth sometimes.”

“Don’t worry, I always do.”

“You’ve spent a few afternoons down here betting the ponies, eh, Ben?”

“A few,” Ben said, as he took his beer from the bartender and held it up to his new friend. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Tommy said. He looked up and saw a line forming at the teller. “You better get your bet down on the third.”

“Nah,” Ben said. “I’m not betting the favorite at that price. It’s not worth getting up twice to make twenty cents.”

“Twenty cents? You’re a two-dollar bettor?”

Ben sipped some of the foam off his beer. “Yes, sir.”

Tommy smiled. “My uncle was a two-dollar bettor as well. He used to bet just for the thrill of knowing he was right.”

“He still around?”

“Naw, he died when I was a kid. He was an ex-cop, Baltimore PD.”

Ben put his glass down. “I’m ex-Chicago PD. Your uncle and I would’ve gotten along great.”

“I’ll bet you would’ve,” Tommy said. “Once he died, my cousins Nick and Phil ended up living with us. Nick followed his footsteps as a Baltimore cop, then went on to become an FBI agent.”

“How about Phil?”

“He’s in Vegas gambling his way to bankruptcy.” Tommy shrugged. “You just never know.”

“No, you don’t.”

A distant bell rang and both men instinctively looked up to see the horses break from the gate at Hollywood Park. A low murmur filled the room as the favorite settled into an easy lead.

“You’re right,” Ben said. “He’s going to run away with it.”

As the favorite came down the stretch, the banter and cheering swelled. The moment he crossed the finish line two lengths ahead of the field, the cheering stopped and a handful of men slapped their hands with their Forms, trying to cash in on a long shot which was never going to make it.

Ben looked at Tommy. “How come you didn’t bet?”

“Too much on my mind.”

“Like what?”

Tommy stood and faced Ben. “You see this big guy over my left shoulder.”

Ben gave a cursory glance, then took another sip of his beer. “Yup.”

“You know him?”

Ben gave Tommy a cautious look. “You a friend of his?”

Tommy chuckled. “Hardly. I just want to make sure I got the right guy. His name is Jerry Lemke, right?”

Ben nodded. “That’s him. Why?”

Tommy gave Ben a surreptitious grin. “My cousin’s an FBI agent and he needs some info from this guy. We don’t have time for a formal question and answer session, so I’m going to need to speed up the process a bit.”