'Once you balance the books, neither do you,' Bobby responded. 'It's just a question of dividing the profits.'
'What a holdupnik! I'll give you sixty-per cent of the vig, thirty-six thousand, not a penny more.'
'It's a deal.'
Was it ever! Win or lose the bet on Dallas, as long as the Cantor's books were balanced, they'd pocket the vigorish on the losing bets. But Bobby hadn't heard from the Cantor since Monday afternoon. If he hadn't come through, if he hadn't laid off the bet, if no one was backing the huge wager…
If, if, if.
Just thinking about it tightened his chest as if a hand clenched at his heart. If the bet hadn't been laid off, Bobby would be standing naked, a bettor himself, putting everything at risk. The bet could bankrupt him several times over.
No, a bet that could get me killed!
A shudder ran through him like a sudden gust across still water. He tried to chase the thought away with sheer will power, telling himself the Cantor must have laid off the bet, then hopped over to the Bahamas for the week. He'd said it was a done deal. Hadn't he?
Bobby longed to pass the garbage truck but doubted the limo could handle it. He'd bought the old clunker from a dusty car lot in South Miami. In the Miami heat, the radiator was exhaling puffs of steam. The exterior had been midnight blue at one time but now was a splotchy gray-green and, with its dings and dents, looked like a survivor of a meteor storm. The leather upholstery was dry and cracked, and the suspension sagged, but it was good enough for teenagers headed for the prom, Brazilian tourists on a budget, and out-of-town salesmen trolling the strip clubs.
'If the Cantor didn't lay off the bet, there might be a bright side,' Bobby said. Looking for a silver lining in the shit storm of gray clouds.
'What's that, Dad?'
'I could win the entire six hundred thousand if the Mustangs don't cover.'
'Plus the vig,' Scott went on, knowingly.
Bobby smiled. At thirteen, Scott had grown into a lanky, cute, towheaded kid at the stage between adorable childhood and wise-ass adolescence.
'Right. Six hundred-sixty-thousand with the vig,' Bobby said, wistfully. 'No more polishing this old wreck limo every Saturday afternoon.'
'Hey Dad, you only polish the right-hand side.'
'That's the side the customers get in and out of,' Bobby said, wondering if the limo would overheat before they got to the race track. It struck him then, just how far he had fallen. 'Does it bother you that your Dad is a chauffeur?'
'No way! It's kind of cool. Most of the kids at school, their Dads are doctors, lawyers, or brokers. Total drudges.'
'I don't mind driving, either. It gives me time to think.'
And to listen. Husbands who cheat on their wives, brokers who churn their clients' accounts, employees who embezzle. His customers treated him as if he weren't there, and sometimes Bobby felt invisible.
Blame it on the chauffeur's uniform, the no-wrinkle polyester black pants with the silky stripe, the cheap white shirt and dark tie pulled up tight, and of course, the coup de grace, the cap, which creased his wavy brown hair and made his ears look like catchers' mitts. It all screamed 'working class guy.' Women looked right through him and men acted as if they expected him to carry their luggage. Which, of course, he did. Still, it was better than being Martin Kingsley's errand boy, better than toting his garbage to the curb and calling it roses.
'So what do you think, Scott? Hypothetically. What are Green Bay's chances of covering the spread and making us rich?'
'Fogetaboudit!' Scott called out. 'Green Bay will be hurtin' for certin'.'
'You sure?'
'I hate to tell you, Dad, but the Mustangs will win and cover the seven.'
'You're their number one fan,' Bobby said. 'I can't rely on you to set the point spread.'
'Sure you can. I used my computer to manage the strength indicators. If you look at scoring margins against teams with winning records, you'll see that-'
'Okay, okay, but I didn't have a choice. I had to give LaBarca what he wanted. That's why I needed the Cantor to lay off the bet just so I could pick up a sweet piece of the pie.'
The Cantor. Where the hell are you, anyway?
Bobby's cellular rang, startling him. He eased the old Lincoln limo onto the berm of the road and looked at the display: 'Private Call.'
'Hello,' he said, picking up.
'Bobby, there you are!'
His heart seized up at the sound of her voice.
'Where have you been?' Christine asked. 'I've been leaving messages.'
'Chrissy! I've been meaning to call you.'
Regret stabbed at him like blades piercing his skin. How he missed her.
'Mr. Montgomery called from the school again,' she said. 'Scott's tuition hasn't been paid.'
'Got it covered,' he said, just as he had to Vinnie LaBarca. In truth, nothing was covered. His life was a series of uncovered bets and unpaid bills. 'I'm going to pay the first semester and second semester in one lump sum.'
'Bobby, you know Scott's transferring to Berkshire Prep for the second semester.'
'No,' he said, refusing to acknowledge what the Texas judge ordered over his objections.
'I'll be paying for everything,' Christine said.
'It's not the money, and you know it. I don't want Scott shipped off to some boarding school fifteen hundred miles away.'
Bobby was getting a headache. The limo belched out fumes and sputtered its discontent. The race track was ten minutes away, and cars whizzed past, kicking up dust.
'It's the only way to maximize his potential,' she said.
'How, by taking him away from me?'
'No Bobby. You're a wonderful father.'
'Then why do it?'
'We've been through this,' Christine said. 'Scott's off the charts in math. He needs a special environment to nurture him.'
'We could nurture him. Together.'
'We're not going to rehash that,' she said with a sigh. 'And what we're doing now, splitting the school year between Dallas and Miami, is crazy. The shrinks all say so.'
'Then give me full custody.'
'Dammit, Bobby. Can you write a check to the school or should I do it? I don't mind advancing you the money if-'
'Whoops, going through a tunnel,' Bobby said, scratching his fingernails across the mouthpiece. 'Losing you.'
No, strike that. Lost you.
He clicked off, eased the car into gear and headed for the race track.
'Dad, I don't want to go to some skanky prison for math geeks.'
'You won't have to.'
''Cause I like hanging with you, Dad.'
Bobby walked a fine line as a divorced father, trying not to interfere with Scott's relationship with his mother while battling to influence how the boy was raised. It wasn't easy, not against the strong-willed Christine and her belligerent father. Bobby never doubted that Martin Kingsley loved his grandson. Scott was his flesh and blood, the only child of his only child. Unlike his material possessions, however, Scott was no longer under Kingsley's control, and that must have rankled the old man. The fact that Scott loved his Dad and emulated him must have been a
