Paydirt

16

Bobby and Scott stood uncomfortably in a hallway of mirrors. After an hour of saying "no," Bobby had grown tired of arguing and agreed to bring his son along. Now, staring into the mirrors, Bobby saw a dozen brooding images of himself ricocheting from the walls and ceiling.

"Neat place, Dad," Scott said, walking down the hallway, watching his own reflection, his sneakers squeaking on the Italian marble floor.

Dino Fornecchio led them through the apartment, toe-walking, bouncing along as if the floor were hot under his feet, each step a swagger, his dark hair greased into duck tails in the back.

LaBarca leaned against the balcony railing in the afternoon sun, his black pelt of chest hair glistening with oil. A pitcher of iced orange juice, or maybe mimosas, sat on a glass table. The sun was bright and warm, but Bobby was chilled, his hands clammy. He'd heard stories about LaBarca, everything from having pistol-whipped liquor store clerks in his youth to, more recently, extorting protection money from cargo shippers at the Port of Miami.

Before they could exchange greetings, a cellular phone rang, and LaBarca picked it up from the table. "Tony! Mio Figlio!

The great equalizer. Vinnie LaBarca might have been a ruthless gangster but he had something in common with Bobby. They both had sons. A break, Bobby thought.

LaBarca listened to his son for a moment, then held the phone away from his ear. "Hey Gallagher," didn't you play some college ball?"

"Penn State. Walk-on Q.B." Bobby made a motion as if throwing a pass, even though he'd never played one down at quarterback since high school. As an unrecruited walk-on, he earned his letter as a holder for kicks.

"My boy Tony's a freshman at Gainesville," LaBarca said. "No scholarship, either. He's getting the crap kicked out of him on the whadayacallit.

"The foreign team," Bobby said.

"Right. He ran up against the first string. Now, they're in winter conditioning drills, and he wants to quit the team. Give him a pep talk, yeah?"

Bobby spent three minutes on the phone with the homesick kid, a nose guard, which figured, given his father's fireplug build. Young Tony probably still had cleat marks on his chest from being run over by the Gators' first-team offensive line in practice every day. Bobby spouted a few cliches about how the tough get going when the going gets tough, and told Tony he'd look back on his freshman year with the same nostalgia as a soldier recalling boot camp. So just hang in there, and go Gators, rah, rah, rah.

LaBarca took back the phone, said a few words in Italian, then hung up and gave Bobby a friendly smack on the shoulder that momentarily displaced his scapula.

"Vinnie, this is my son, Scott."

"Hey kid, how they hanging?"

"Depends whether Dallas covers," Scott said, without missing a beat.

"Hey, me too." The gangster's smile was two rows of tombstones. "Gallagher, you got a good kid there."

"Thanks. I'm sure your boy will be okay upstate."

"Hey, don't say 'upstate.' Upstate is Raiford or maybe Eglin if the feds get you."

"Sorry, I mean at Florida."

"Yeah, he'll be fine if he don't flunk out, crack up his Corvette, or knock up any more cheerleaders. I'm just hoping to get some inside dope on injuries and game plans from him."

"Smart," Bobby said, figuring it was better than saying, "Whoa, that's illegal."

"Ah-choo!" LaBarca sneezed, leaving a trail of phlegm down his chest.

"Bless you," Bobby said.

"Fucking A," LaBarca said in thanks.

LaBarca wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shifted his bulk to train the telescope down toward the pool deck. "So what's up, Gallagher?" he asked, peering into the lens.

"I couldn't lay off your six hundred large. The line moved, and I'm holding all of it."

"So?" LaBarca looked toward the pitcher, and from nowhere, Dino appeared and filled a large glass. Ice cubes clinked, but no one offered the guests a drink.

Bobby shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Well, you knew I wasn't good for it. I mean we didn't discuss it, but it was sort of implicit that if I couldn't lay it off-"

"Im-pli-cit?" LaBarca rolled the syllables around on his tongue and didn't seem to like the taste. He swung the telescope away and looked directly at Bobby, his squashed nose looking even more pugnacious. "I'll tell you what's implicit. A bookie's gotta pay off when he takes a bet or he ain't gonna be taking no more bets if you get my drift."

The drift Bobby was getting was the northerly flow of the Gulf Stream where wannabe wise guys did the dead man's float. His mind raced.

"Vinnie, hear me out. I made a mistake. I shouldn't have taken the bet. I'm just doing this 'til I get my license back. I've petitioned for reinstatement to the Bar, and this was something I had to do for the money, but I'm no damn good at it. The limo business has been lousy, so I tried to go for one big score on the vig. I just want you to let me off the hook before something bad happens."

His face reddening, LaBarca leaned toward Bobby as if to get a better look. "Something bad? Like Dallas winning by more than seven."

"Yeah. Exactly"

"But something bad for you is good for me. It's not like I can go out and duplicate the bet, right. Today, I gotta give nine points, so if the Mustangs win by eight, I lose. Why the hell should I let you off the hook when I made a good bet?"

"Because I can't pay if I lose."

"I hear you got a real rich father-in-law," LaBarca said.

"Ex-father-in-law."

"So? Would he want anything bad to happen to the father of his grandson?"

"It's his fondest wish."

"C'mon, Gallagher. Families have problems, but would he want you to take a dirt nap?"

"He'd turn the first spadeful," Bobby said.

Scott couldn't believe it. Dad was fouling everything up. This wasn't the way to get to Vinnie LaBarca.

"I still haven't heard one good reason why I should cancel the bet," LaBarca said.

"Because you'll get bricked if Dallas doesn't cover the seven," Scott piped up. "The underdog is the smarter bet."

LaBarca's laugh spilled out of his stocky frame like water overflowing a tub. "The kid's a handicapper. Say, kid, do you use a system? C'mon, give me a tip."

"I like the dog when I can get more than five points," Scott said. "The American Economist did a study that proves you can go over the break-even point of 52.38 per cent just by following that system."

"No shit?"

"It's solid. Since you bet eleven dollars to win ten," Scott said in a grown-up tone, "you've got to win eleven bets to every ten you lose-52.38 per cent-just to break even."

"Right, because thieves like your old man take ten per cent juice."

"Bullcrap!" Scott said. "Dad's entitled to his vig.

"Cool it, Scott," Bobby said.

"What about this underdog stuff, Einstein?" LaBarca asked. "You telling me you like Green Bay tomorrow?"

"A lot, a scabillion!" Scott said.

"Scott, let me handle this." Bobby gave his son a sharp look.

"I would, Dad, but this is too important to me."

"To you? It's my bet."

"It's my life! I don't want to get punted to some nerdy boarding school where I gotta wear a coat and tie. So, please, just let me-"

"Scott! I'm your father."

"And I'm not," LaBarca broke in. "I'm not related to either one of you, thank Christ. Gallagher, you can't even control your own kid. Ever try slapping him around?"

"No."

"Didn't think so." He fixed Bobby with a dark-eyed glare. "A bet's a bet. You gotta know that, Gallagher."

He turned back to his telescope and peered down toward the pool deck. "Hey kid, you wanna see some topless babes? Even from this distance I can pick out the real from the silicone."

"Maybe you've never heard of the letdown trend," Scott said, not willing to give in.

"You should bet against the league's highest scoring team of the prior week. The probability is that they won't cover the spread, either as favorite or underdog."

"I'm not sure Mr. LaBarca wants to hear this," Scott," Bobby said.

"Sure I do. Go ahead, kid."

Scott smiled. "If the team has two high-scoring weeks in a row, bet against them the third week, and always bet against any team that manages to score more than one hundred points over a three-game spread, especially if that team has held its opponents to nine points or less in the last two games. Dallas scored the most points and gave up the least in the playoffs. They're due to break some shop."

"To break what?"

"You know, to do something janky and shiesty, to let down."

Vinnie LaBarca regarded the boy suspiciously. "In the conference championship game?"

"The stats apply to the playoffs, too. I have the numbers on my computer at home if you want to see them."

"Are you sure?" LaBarca sounded dubious, but a note of uncertainty crept into his voice.

"Even if you don't believe the letdown theory, Green Bay is a home underdog in a big game. Betting the home dog is one of the best strategies."

"I know. I know. I've been making money on home dogs before you were born." He seemed to think it over, then stood up, wrapping a terrycloth towel around his midsection. After a moment, he said, "Nine points."

"How's that?" Bobby asked.

"The line has moved to nine. Betting Green Bay today, I'd get the home dog plus nine."

Scott knew immediately where LaBarca was headed, and he did some quick permutations. If LaBarca wanted to hedge his bet, it could be very good for Dad. But it could be very bad, too. As the men continued talking, Scott quietly figured the odds of each possibility.

At first Bobby didn't understand, but then he brightened. "You want to hedge the six hundred thousand? Good thinking. Very smart. Definitely. The smart money does that a lot when the line moves-"

"You ain't gonna fuck me up the ass, Gallagher, so save the grease job."

"Okay, okay. But you do want to split the bet, right?"

Hoping, praying. God, let him do it. I'll never break any of the major Commandments again.

"Yeah," LaBarca said. "I'm gonna cut you a break, Gallagher, 'cause I always liked you and you got a good kid there, even with his smart mouth. I got six hundred thousand on Dallas minus seven. Now, I'm taking six hundred thousand on Green Bay plus nine. It's a good deal for you. If the bets cancel each other out, you make sixty thousand in vig. I win if either game falls right on one of the numbers. If Dallas wins by either seven or nine, one bet is a push, and I win the other bet for six hundred thousand. Are we on?"

Bobby's mind raced. It wasn't as good as canceling the bets. He still ran the risk of losing six hundred thousand he didn't have. But now, the odds were with him. He should win sixty grand unless he was monumentally unlucky. "Of course we're on."

"Don't do it, Dad!" Scott said, raising his voice.

"Now what?" LaBarca looked annoyed.

"You could really get hammered, Dad."

"Look, Gallagher, I'm not gonna take all day with you. Do we have a bet or not?"

"Yes! Scott, keep quiet."

"But, Dad…"

"You heard me!" Bobby's voice carried a threat.

"Kid, listen to your old man," LaBarca said.

"I'm sorry, Vinnie," Bobby apologized, grabbing Scott and pushing him toward the balcony door. "We're outta here. Thanks."

"Don't mention it," LaBarca said, turning back to his telescope.

Bobby hurried through the apartment and into the elevator, hoping to get out of there before LaBarca changed his mind. Once the elevator door closed, Bobby turned to Scott and said, "I don't know what got into you in there."

Scott didn't answer, just stood there sulking.

As they exited into the lobby, Bobby laughed and said, "My boy, I think my luck has changed. The momentum has shifted. Steady breezes and sunny skies ahead."

They were inside the old Lincoln limo before Bobby realized that his son hadn't said a word since being hushed inside the apartment. "Okay, what is it?"

Scott shrugged and said, "Chances are you'll win the sixty thousand. And like Mr. LaBarca said, there's a small possibility that the game will fall right on one of the numbers and you'll lose the six hundred thousand. But there's another chance that something even more skanky could happen. If the Mustangs win by eight, you've been middled. Mr. LaBarca wins his bet on the Mustangs because they'll have covered the seven, and he'll win his bet on Green Bay because he gets nine points on that one. You'll lose both bets, one-point-two million dollars."

Bobby was shaking his head. The math was right, but he wouldn't accept it. Couldn't accept it. He had a way out, and he wouldn't let the stone cold logic of the Kingsley genes defeat him. "Nobody's luck is that bad," Bobby said, praying it was true.

"It's not good for business if you care for a second whether blood is bubbling from a guy's mouth."

— Joey Browner, former Minnesota Vikings safety

" Hurt is all in your mind."

— Vince Lombardi