James Swain - Take Down

Billy proceeded to lose the next three races at Santa Anita. A half inch of rain had fallen at the track earlier in the day, and the conditions were sloppy. It seemed to be affecting many of the favorites, all of whom were falling out of the money.

His golf match wasn’t faring any better. On the front nine, he lost six holes and tied the other three. On the holes that he tied, Tony G purposely missed a couple of makeable putts, just to keep Billy in the game.

His losses were adding up. He was going to win it all back, but that didn’t matter. He hated losing, even if only for a short while.

Tony G parked the cart in a shaded spot by the teeing ground of the tenth hole. It was 4:53 p.m. The twelfth race was listed to start at 4:58 p.m. Cory and Morris were on the tee, preparing to take their drives. They had purposely slowed down and were holding up play. Tony G bit off the end of a cigar and said, “Who invited these jerks?”

“They sure are slow,” Billy said.

“You’re telling me. I’ve never seen them before.”

Clutched in Cory’s hand was a sixteen-ounce can of Budweiser. The can appeared to slip out of Cory’s grasp, and hit the ground.

“Shit,” Cory said.

The scam was on. Cory grabbed a towel from his bag and dried off his shirt. Morris picked up his partner’s driver and, along with his own club, pretended to loosen up. As Billy watched, the clubs formed letters in the air using the semaphore code.

Morris held the club in his left hand by his side, the club in his right hand at twelve o’clock. The first letter was D . The club in his left hand stayed by his side, while the other club went to eight o’clock. The second letter was A . The club in his left hand went to four o’clock, while the club in his right remained at eight o’clock. The third letter was N .

That was all Billy needed to know. He stuck his left hand into his pants pocket, located the swami gimmick, and jammed it under his thumbnail. He brought his hand out of his pocket and held it in his lap. With his right hand, he grabbed the racing form off the dashboard. Turning sideways in his seat, he opened the form to the twelfth race so the page was hidden from Tony G.

“I’m on a losing streak,” he said.

“Happens to the best of us,” the bookie said.

He scanned the horses entered into the twelfth race. The ringer was named Dana’s Boy, listed at seventy-to-one odds. He circled the name with the swami gimmick.

“Here she is. I think my luck’s about to change.”

He passed the racing form to Tony G and pointed at the ringer that he’d just circled.

“Five grand on Dana’s Boy.”

Tony G studied the form. As he’d done with each of Billy’s bets, he pulled up the twelfth race on the app on his cell phone and studied the true odds, which fluctuated before the start.

“This horse is dog food, kid. Why’d you pick it?” the bookie asked.

“My mother’s name was Dana, and I’m her boy,” he said.

Tony G relayed the bet to Guido. By now, Cory and Morris had hit their drives and left. Billy got his driver and went to the teeing ground. Tony G joined him moments later.

“Youth before beauty,” the bookie said.

Billy teed up and hit his drive. He was laughing inside, and his ball flew straight and true. For his next shot, he chipped to the green, then sank a twenty-foot putt for his first birdie of the day. Tony G couldn’t touch him and lost the hole.

As they left the green, Tony G pulled up a replay of the twelfth race on his iPhone, and they watched Dana’s Boy tear up the wet track at Santa Anita and beat the field by five lengths.

“Dog food my ass!” he shouted into the bookie’s ear.

Dazed, Tony G stumbled to the cart as if he had two left feet. Billy grabbed a bottled water out of the cooler and handed it to the bookie. The enforcers hopped out of their cart.

“What’s the matter, boss? You look pale,” Guido said.

“We just got taken for three hundred and fifty thousand big ones,” Tony G said.

“What? By who?”

Tony G smirked, as if to say, Who do you think? He leaned against the hood of the cart and gulped down the bottled water. His eyes were blinking, his brain playing back the events of the past hour and analyzing them, frame by frame, word by word, looking for a clue that might lead him to understand how Billy had scammed him. Long shots did not win horse races, and Tony G knew that the race had been fixed. But knowing something and proving it were two entirely different things, and if Tony G didn’t pay Billy off, his reputation would be ruined.

“Was it this little twerp?” Guido poked Billy in the arm.

“Leave him alone,” Tony G said.

“Wait a minute-I know this guy. I’ve seen him in the clubs around town, picking up all the hot chicks. He’s nothing but a two-bit hustler.”

“That’s great. Now, leave him alone,” Tony G said.

“Fucking piece of shit-you think you can scam us?” Snap jumped in, his chest puffing up like a rooster’s. “Maybe I should teach him a lesson and break his arm.”

“I said leave him alone,” Tony G said, growing irritated with them.

Snap backed off, only he didn’t back off. His eyes held the promise of future mayhem down the road. One day, Guido and Snap were going to hurt Billy. They’d do it in a parking lot or a lavatory or some place where no one was watching, and they’d mess him up real good.

Or not. Billy still held his putter. By extending his arm, he brought the putter’s head into Snap’s face and struck the bridge of his damaged nose. Snap groaned and took a knee with blood pouring out of both nostrils. Guido’s turn. Billy feinted and Guido shielded his head with his arms. The putter found the magic spot between Guido’s legs, and muscles went down in a heap. Billy tossed the putter into the cart and dusted his hands.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Tony G said.

“Yes, I did. You and I need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Stuff.”

Billy drove the cart while Tony G rode shotgun and listened.

“Let’s start out by talking damages,” he said, his eyes glued to the narrow path. “I lost twenty-three thousand five hundred bucks between my first four bets at Santa Anita and the golf, and you lost three hundred and fifty thousand on my last bet at the track, which puts me ahead three hundred and twenty-six thousand, five hundred bucks. Does that sound right to you?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Tony G grabbed the roof as they took a curve. “Look, kid, I know you scammed me. Your reputation will be shot when I’m done with you.”

He jammed on the brakes, nearly throwing his passenger out of the cart.

“Don’t threaten me,” Billy said.

Tony G started to reply, but didn’t, knowing that a display of anger would solve nothing at this stage in the game. He looked at Billy the way a parent looks at a misbehaving kid.

“You’re a tough little fucker,” the bookie said.

He took off down the path. “I have a business proposition for you. You and I have a mutual acquaintance named Gabe Weiss. Gabe is currently into you for three hundred large. I want to wipe away Gabe’s debt with the money I just won. Interested?”

“How do you know Gabe?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

“But I owe you more than that.”

“Keep it.”

The path ended. Billy parked by the pro shop and killed the cart’s engine. Las Vegas was the land of the unforgiving; there were no gimmes, freebies, or torn-up IOUs. Tony G waited to hear what the catch was.

“I don’t want any hard feelings down the road,” he said. “No threats or bad-mouthing. What’s done is done.”