Sucker Bet

42

Mr. Beauregard’s ukulele had gone silent. Hicks was driving through Miami searching for American Airlines Arena and saw the chimp rub his stomach. On average, he consumed eight pounds of food a day, and Hicks guessed he was starving.

“Hamburgers, Mr. Beauregard?”

Mr. Beauregard clapped his hands excitedly. He loved hamburgers. Downtown Miami was fast-food heaven, and soon Hicks was sitting in the drive-through at a Burger King. At the squawk box, he was greeted by a sultry Latino voice.

“Welcome to Burger King. Would you like to try today’s special?”

“What is that?”

“Two quarter-pound bacon cheeseburgers covered in special sauce for a dollar ninety-nine.”

Mr. Beauregard jumped up and down in his seat. He loved the special sauce.

“Give me ten,” Hicks said. “And a small fries.”

They ate in the car. Mr. Beauregard was not keen on bread products and tossed the buns out the window. Soon a security guard came out of the restaurant. He was a Cuban macho man and glanced menacingly at them, then pointed at the buns lying on the ground. “They teach you this at home?”

Mr. Beauregard stuck his head out the window and snarled. The guard recoiled in fear. Hicks jumped out of the car, fearful he might call the police.

“Please excuse my friend.”

“Your friend?”

“I am the owner of a carnival.”

“Is he . . . dangerous?”

“My friend, this is the world’s smartest chimpanzee. Do you like music?”

“Well . . . yeah,” the guard said.

“Mr. Beauregard, play for the gentleman.”

Mr. Beauregard took his ukulele off the floor, and the music that came out was Spanish-sounding, like calypso. “Holy shit,” the guard said.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Hicks said.

“It’s my favorite song,” the guard replied.

In the fourth quarter, the game heated up.

Miami College began to play like they were possessed, and with five minutes left in the game, the score was even.

Since the half, Valentine had watched Jorge and Lupe exclusively with his binoculars. They were an unusual pair of athletes. Jorge was constantly busting up plays and stealing the ball from Duke’s forwards. He rarely shot the ball, preferring to pass to one of his teammates and let him get the glory.

Lupe, whose statistics in the program were terrible, was playing like he was possessed. He passed, he stole, he dunked, and he had more rebounds than anyone on the court. Two of Duke’s players were trying to cover him, leaving a Miami College player wide open.

With two minutes left in the game, Miami College took the lead for the first time. The crowd rose, screaming like it was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. Valentine knew better. Miami College could have easily been ahead by ten points. Jorge and Lupe were playing below speed, a pool hustler’s term for playing just slightly better than your opponent.

They were pros.

“Your father hurt Gladys Soft Wings’s feelings,” Running Bear said.

Gerry gripped the wheel. He’d read somewhere that I-95 ran over eighteen hundred miles and that the Miami stretch, which was less than ten of those miles, was the most dangerous. When they were free of the madness, he said, “Please apologize to her for me.”

“Your father needs to do that himself,” the chief said.

“I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Why?” the chief said. “Is your father above apologizing?”

Gerry pulled the car into a no-parking zone a hundred yards from the entrance to American Airlines Arena and threw it into park. Turning, he looked the chief in the eye.

“It’s like this. My father’s father was an abusive drunk who beat up my grandmother. When my father got old enough, he threw his father out of the house. Then he spent the next twenty years trying to make up to him for doing it.”

“Did he?”

“No,” Gerry said.

“So he carries around a lot of guilt.”

“Yes,” Gerry said.

Running Bear was about to say something, but then the front doors to the arena burst open, and a crowd of maniacal fans came pouring out.

Duke self-destructed in the final two minutes and lost by seven points. At the buzzer, screaming Miami College students stormed the court, cut down the nets, and carried their team out of the arena on their shoulders.

Through his binoculars, Valentine watched Rico, Nigel, and Candy leave. He hurried to the lobby and through the front doors, saw them standing in the VIP parking area.

He walked outside, and a car parked across the street flashed its brights. It was Gerry, with Running Bear in the passenger seat. He crossed and got in.

Rico’s limousine pulled out of VIP parking a minute later. His son threw his rental into drive and cut into traffic.

“You figure out what Rico’s doing?” his son said.

“Yeah. He brought in two pros, enrolled them in Miami College, and paid them to play like bums until this afternoon.”

Gerry nearly rear-ended the SUV filled with fans in front of them. “Miami College won? Do you know what the odds were on that happening?”

“Twenty-to-one,” Valentine said.

Gerry slapped the wheel. “You knew this was going down, didn’t you?”

“I knew the game was fixed, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Valentine leaned forward so he was hanging between the seats. He shot a glance at Running Bear, who seemed amused by this exchange. He looked at his son, who wasn’t.

“Just drive,” he said. “Okay?”

Ray Hicks had parked in the municipal lot two blocks away from the center. Leaving Mr. Beauregard in the car with the Ultimate Rhythm and Blues Cruise on the jazz station, he’d walked to American Airlines Arena and waited for the crowd to come out. Rico Blanco and his two friends were among the last people to emerge. Rico looked happy. He wouldn’t look that way for long.

Hicks ran back to his car. Mr. Beauregard had jacked up the radio and was clapping his hands to an old Sam Cooke song. Hicks pulled out of the lot, handed the attendant his ticket, then waited impatiently while the attendant figured how much he owed.

“Just keep it,” he said, throwing the attendant a twenty.

Hicks raced down the street. Rico’s black limousine whisked past his car, going in the opposite direction. In his mirror, Hicks saw the limo hang a left at the light.

There was no place to turn around. Pulling into an alley, Hicks waited as dozens of cars whizzed past on the street. Mr. Beauregard grew agitated and played hurry-up music on his ukulele like in the old Westerns.

Hicks tapped his fingers on the wheel. There were times when his friend did not amuse him, and this was one of them.