This race, however, would put things right, and maybe, he hoped, start a roll of good fortune.
The announcer's voice escalated as the horses rounded the final turn and galloped onto the home stretch. Canadian Mounty held the lead by two lengths with the finish line in sight.
"Yes! Go, Mounty! Get it!"
Halfway down the home stretch, another horse emerged from the pack, breaking away from the others and ducking to the outside. The jockey and saddle were draped in red with black polka dots. The brown thoroughbred stormed away from the others, charging toward the front where Canadian Mounty held on to a tenuous advantage.
That gap closed rapidly, and Carson could see it. The finish line loomed so close, just on the edge of the right side of the screen. Carson stood from his seat, still clutching the beer can. He leaned forward, mumbling, as if able to will the horse to victory.
He sensed the lead slipping away. His horse had broken too soon, and now the animal was running out of steam. The favorite closed the space between them to just half a length while the upstart in red and black roared past on the outside, easily taking the second position with fifty yards to go.
The jockeys bobbed in rhythm with their horses. The announcer's voice climbed to an enthralled crescendo. "And now they're neck and neck! It's going to be a photo finish, folks!"
"Go, you stupid horse!" Carson roared.
But it was too late.
The horse in red and black—dubbed Peyton's Rally—poked its head out in front and never looked back. It crossed the finish line half a length ahead of the favorite, leaving Canadian Mounty in third.
"No!" Carson shouted and threw his beer at the television. Luckily, he missed, and the can smashed into the wall just beside the screen, splashing lager onto the drywall and hardwood floor around the entertainment center.
Fury pulsed through him. He rubbed his shaved head with both hands, digging his fingers deep into his skull.
He strung together a slew of obscenities—how in the world could the horse have blown it.
A phone on the coffee table vibrated twice and then went silent. He didn't have to look to know who it was. Bert was probably texting him to gloat.
Carson clenched his jaw and bent over to look at the message.
"Tough break, bro. See you tomorrow."
Pressing his lips together, Carson nodded. He ran fingers over his smooth, shaved head. He blew air out of his nostrils like the horses on the television after their long sprint. "Tomorrow?" he mumbled, adding a few more choice adjectives to the statement. "What do you mean, tomorrow? You collect at the end of a week. I just paid you yesterday?"
"Yeah, well, funny thing about that is, we have a new policy. My associates and I are concerned about your ability to pay."
"What's that supposed to mean? I always pay. And on time."
"True," the Bordicuan said. "But like I said, new policy."
"This is bull and you know it, Bert. You can't just do that."
"You think you can tell me how to run my business? No one. No one tells me how to run my business. You understand? You're lucky I don't put the juice on what you owe right now. I took your huge bet. I doubt many bookies in Miami would have. Now you're going to insult me?"
Carson had overstepped. He wasn't afraid of Bert and his group of collectors. Even if they tracked him down to his house in Homestead, they were hardly the battle-hardened soldier he was. If Bert was foolish enough to send his goons after Carson, it would not end well for the bookie's operation.
Yet here he was, making threats, or at least the insinuation of a threat merely by asking about being insulted.
Carson knew he could kill the man if he wanted, along with all the guys on his payroll, but that would bring with it an entire slew of problems, not to mention he wouldn't be able to get any of his money back.
For now, Carson decided the only thing to do was play along, kiss the ring, and make things good with Bert. In the back of his mind, though, Carson began formulating a plan.
Bert had to keep his money somewhere, and most of it couldn't be in a bank. He likely had multiple cash operations going, filtering and scrubbing his dirty, untaxed money until it was cleaner than a general's shoes.
"I'll be there," Carson said.
"I knew you were good for it. I'll see you tomorrow."
The call ended abruptly with Carson still hanging onto the device.
He'd just lost a significant portion of his remaining money. And only one thought kept knocking at the back door of Carson's mind. I can get it back. One way or another.
Nine
Miami
Dak listened to the conversation through the wall from his seat in the back of the bar. One of the few devices he'd picked up from his stash in Tennessee was an audio amplification device that could pick up details of sound from sixty yards away. There was more powerful tech out there, but this one was portable and could fit under the folds of a jacket or the pockets of cargo shorts, as was the case when he walked into the bar. The half-domed unit was a smaller version of what could be seen any Sunday on the sidelines of football games.
Walking into the bar twenty minutes before, Dak seated himself at an empty table in the back.
There were only five other patrons in the bar at the time, which wasn't a surprise since it was the middle of a workday. As such, the bartender handled all the serving and pouring duties for the entire establishment. Dak imagined two or three servers would show up in the next hour or two before the end of the business day began dumping weary, thirsty customers through the doors.
Dak
