Maybe Gallagher's stubborn rectitude had just become a blessing, Kingsley thought. Maybe he could parlay Gallagher's ruination into a way to solve his own financial problems. The germ of the idea was multiplying rapidly, and like most of his ideas, it had a dollar sign attached to it. The dollar sign stood directly in front of the five million dollars that Houston Tyler wanted paid the day after the Super Bowl. So neat and clean. He'd win the bet, pay off Tyler, then tell LaBarca to toss Bobby off the highest building in Miami.
'How would you like to take a bet on the Super Bowl, Bobby?' Kingsley asked.
At first, he didn't think Kingsley was serious. Bobby was too angry to pay much attention anyway, his heart banging away like a hammer pounding rocks. Who did the old man think he was? Trying to buy his son as if he were a mineral rights lease. Now Bobby was on his feet, preparing to leave, barely listening as the crazy bastard was yammering about a bet on the Super Bowl.
'If you're so sure my Mustangs will lose, or at least won't cover the spread, take some action on it.'
'Are you nuts? I'm not gonna do business with you.'
'Well, you're a bookmaker, aren't you? I'm giving you a chance to get even. I'll take Dallas minus four for five million dollars.'
Bobby wasn't sure he heard correctly, so he stood dead still and asked Kingsley to repeat it. After he did, Bobby said, 'Martin, if I had five million dollars, I wouldn't be here. I'd have paid off Vinnie LaBarca and would be winterizing my yacht.'
'I know that, Robert. I'd expect you to lay it off, go partners with some of your bookie friends. Let's say I lose, I'd owe you what? Five point five million with the vig, right?'
'Yeah.'
'And if you bring that in to a syndicate of bookies and Dallas fails to cover, what would be your share?'
'Probably twenty per cent.'
'One-point-one million, including the vig,' Kingsley said. 'You'd have a helluva start paying off your debt.'
Bobby nodded. He'd love to take the bastard's money. He'd love to see Dallas lose the game and Kingsley lose the bet. Plus, if he paid one-point-one million, more than three-quarters of the debt, he could buy time from LaBarca. There were hockey and the NBA playoffs coming up and March Madness. He could make more money, pay down what he owed. But what if Dallas covered? What if Kingsley won the game and the bet? He'd probably be dead the next day.
Bobby suddenly felt dizzy, his body rocking like a boat in a swell. He sat down and tried to think clearly. Maybe it would work. Maybe Kingsley's giant ego had just saved him. He could get healthy on Super Bowl Sunday if someone would back the bet. An amazing array of prospects spun in his head.
He'd fight to get his Bar license back.
He'd beat them in court and keep Scott at home.
He'd win back Chrissy from that born-again hambone quarterback with the plastic smile. Maybe they'd even have another child. Suddenly, there were more possibilities than grains of sand on the beach. Now who could he get to back the bet?
'The Super Bowl is to compulsive gamblers what New Year's Eve is to alcoholics.'
— Arnie Wexler, former executive director, New Jersey Council on Compulsive Gambling
27
Wednesday, February 1
Four days until the Super Bowl
Sometimes he acts like such a kid, Scott thought, as he let his father ramble on excitedly, rehashing several scenarios in which Dallas would lose to Denver or simply fail to cover the four-point spread.
'It's time for Stringer to have a bad game,' Bobby chattered, hopefully, 'plus the Dallas O-Line is getting old, and Buckwalter Washington looks too heavy to me.'
That's so lame, Dad. Stringer's on a hot streak, the Mustangs are the most experienced in the league, and Washington is so big, the Denver O-Line couldn't move him with a fork lift.
The limo was stopped at a traffic light on Biscayne Boulevard. They were on their way to meet Uncle Goldy, a bookie with enough contacts to lay off a five million dollar bet. But would he?
The light was green, but a cop held up traffic as a parade of marchers protested conditions on some Caribbean island that Scott hadn't yet studied in geography. And here was Dad, jabbering away, believing he's going to get lucky and beat Pop, as if luck had anything to do with it.
How many times have I told Dad that the answers are in the numbers if you know how to look at them?
Scott wanted to help his father, but how? He'd already crunched the numbers, and now it was too late.
How can I help you once you've bet on the wrong horse?
'Your grandad, bless his dark heart, has walked right into this one,' Bobby said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel like Charlie Watts on the drums. 'If only Goldy will back the bet…'
He let his voice trail off, counting his mythical winnings already, Scott thought.
The marchers turned onto Flagler Street, and the cop waved the limo through the intersection. When they reached the turn onto the MacArthur Causeway headed for Miami Beach, Bobby announced happily, 'I can feel it, Scott. My luck's about to change. The law of averages is with me.'
'That's a mathematical fallacy, Dad,' Scott said. 'An example of innumeracy.'
'Huh?'
'The math version of illiteracy, the inability to deal with simple numerical concepts.'
'Thanks a lot, son. I'm just saying I can't keep losing forever.'
'Sure you can. The law of averages doesn't change. If a coin comes up heads a hundred times in a row, there's still a fifty-fifty chance it will be heads again on the hundred and first.'
'Yeah, so?'
'So you have to look at the teams, not at your losing streak. Defense and the running game wins Super Bowls, and the Mustangs are better in both. They also have the league's best turnover ratio, a better field goal kicker, and Craig Stringer is playing the best ball of his career. Not only that, they've covered the spread all but three games, which is the mark of a championship team.'
Bobby quieted down as they passed the seaport, the cruise ships all gone from their berths, merrily steaming to island ports. Scott looked at his father, his forehead knitted in thought. He's changed, Scott thought. Ever since the divorce, Dad's been going downhill. He looks older and his belly has gotten soft, and he's not as much fun as he used to be. Suddenly, Scott was angry and sad at the same time, angry at his mother and grandfather for grinding Dad down, and sad that he couldn't do anything about it.
Sorry you're feeling bonked, sorry I had to tell you're gonna lose, but Jeez, Dad… somebody has to tell you the truth.
Scott was still trying to figure out how he could help his father when they pulled into a parking space just behind Goldy's ancient yellow Coupe de Ville.
Bobby could hear the old man slurping his soup before they reached the booth. Bent over his bowl of chicken- in-the-pot, Goldy Goldberg was dressed in a dapper seersucker suit and wore a red-white-and-blue bow-tie over a white shirt. He was a small, spare man with thick prescription sunglasses that had slipped down a notch on his nose. As he stared into the soup bowl, his pale skin seemed a jaundiced yellow under the glare of the fluorescent lights.
Bobby had silently rehearsed his pitch, but now he was suddenly nervous and full of doubts. What if Goldy wouldn't put up the money? There was nowhere else to turn.
'My favorite ex-lawyer and my favorite 12-year-old,' Goldy greeted them. 'Scott, are you getting ready for your Bar Mitzvah?'
