He knew things, the old man did. Not two plus two is four, or the earth is round, or a man’s wife is always right—everybody knew those—but good things. He always knew whether a flipped coin would come up heads or tails; whether the next card peeled off the top of the deck would be an ace of clubs, or a jack of diamonds; whether Gertie Malone’s next step would finally snag the big wrinkle in the frayed gold carpet and drop the miserable crone on her ass.
The old man didn’t know many facts, so he never watched Jeopardy, but he liked Wheel of Fortune and absolutely loved the nightly lottery drawings. He’d roll his wheelchair close to the television, lean forward until his nose almost touched the screen, and stare at the numbered ping pong balls as they tumbled madly about in the mechanical drum. A fraction of a second before one of the balls separated itself from the others and dropped into the chute, the old man’s lips would move.
“Nineteen,” he’d mutter to himself; “nineteen,” the busty brunette who manned the machine would say.
“Six;” “six.”
“Twenty-one;” “twenty-one.”
“Eight;” “and the Powerball tonight is . . . eight.”
There was no suspense, because the old man was always right, always had been, for as long as he could remember. Watching the drawings had become a ritual for him a few years earlier, though, nothing more than a few predictable minutes in a series of utterly predictable days and nights.
One evening in April, Leon Mallory noticed the old man sitting in front of the television, mumbling numbers. Leon was spooning watery vanilla pudding with Kool Whip into his grandmother’s pinched, toothless mouth at the time. Leon didn’t particularly like his grandmother, and he despised spending time with her at the nursing home. He was her closest relative still alive, though, and she was rumored to have a pile of money stashed away somewhere or other. Whether that was true, Leon didn’t know. He was skeptical because the nursing home was a dump, but he didn’t want to risk the old bat leaving her cash to the cat.
Leon’s grandmother was a new arrival at the home, and Leon hadn’t seen the old man before. He watched for a while, then wrapped his grandmother’s fingers around the handle of the spoon, dropped the pudding cup in her lap where it dribbled onto her flowered dress, and wandered over to squat next to the old man’s wheelchair.
“What’re you doing?” Leon asked.
The old man kept on reciting numbers until the lottery drawings wrapped up. Then he turned toward Leon.
“Calling numbers,” he said.
“How’re you doing?” Leon asked.
“All right,” the old man said. Leon misunderstood, and forged ahead, a little annoyed.
“What’s ‘alright’ mean?” he said. “Didja win or didja lose? I’m just trying to make conversation, for Christ’s sake.”
“It means I got them . . . all . . . right,” the old man said. He spoke slowly and emphasized all.
“Yeah, you and who else?” Leon muttered. “If you’re so smart, where’s the winning ticket?”
“Haven’t got a ticket,” the old man said. He smacked the wheel of his chair with an open hand. “I don’t get out much, you know.”
Wise ass, Leon thought as he stood up and returned to pudding duty.
He was back a few nights later, but this time he positioned himself next to the old man a few minutes before the lottery drawings started.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Grover Cleveland Washington,” the old man said, “my mother was a history buff. A lot of people call me Grove. I don’t always answer, though.” Leon waited a few seconds, but the old man didn’t say anything else.
“My name’s Leon,” he said finally, without any prompting from the old man.
“Don’t care,” Grove said. “Go away.” He returned his gaze to the screen and began muttering numbers as the painted ping pong balls dropped, one after another. Leon watched transfixed as Grove correctly predicted every number.
“You did get them all right,” he said in awe, “every damn one of them. How?”
The old man turned his wheelchair to face Leon.
“Don’t really know,” he said. “I see the balls after they drop out of the hole and then I read the numbers, just like you do. But I also see the balls before they really fall.”
It took Leon a long while to digest that bit of information.
“So you’re telling me you can see into the future?”
“Suppose so,” Grove said.
The next night Leon was waiting for Grove when the old man rolled into the television room.
“Do you ever watch horse races?” Leon asked as he stepped in front of the old man, blocking his way.
“Don’t like horses,” Grove said. “They’re big, and they smell bad, and they crap all over the place. Go to a parade sometime and try to roll a wheelchair through a pile of horse crap to get across the street. You’ll see what I mean.” Leon ignored Grove and pushed the old man’s wheelchair to the television. He switched the elderly set on and while it warmed up he punched the remote buttons for a cable horse racing channel. A dozen horses were charging into the stretch.
“Who’s going to win?” Leon asked.
Grove studied the screen for a few seconds. As the leading group of five horses passed the eighth pole Grove sat back in his chair. With 200 yards to the finish, the old man looked at Leon and said, “six.” Number Six was, at that moment, a solid length behind the horse in the lead and boxed in on the rail. Old man’s not as smart as he thinks, Leon thought.
They watched as the leader slowed just a bit, another horse drifted away from the inside, and Number Six charged through on the rail. Hopelessly beaten a few seconds earlier, Grove’s pick won by a nose. The winner paid $76.20 for a $2 ticket.
Leon was speechless for a time. No way that horse was going to win, he thought, no way, but the old man had gotten it right. He pulled a folded newspaper from his back pocket, opened it to the sports section, and spread the Keeneland entries out on Grove’s lap.
“Who’s going to win tomorrow?” he asked. Grove ran a finger down the page, calling off numbers almost faster than Leon could record the picks on a slip of paper.
“Thanks, Grove,” he said. “If a few longshots win, maybe we’ll have enough to get some new tires for your ride.” The old man smiled.
The next night Grove was trying to identify the evening meal when Leon stomped into the dining room. He grabbed one of the bicycle grip handles of the wheelchair, spun Grove around, and threw a handful of pari-mutuel tickets onto the old man’s lap.
“Not a winner in the bunch,” Leon said, his voice rising. “Not a single winner the whole day. I lost almost $700 because of you.” He drew his right hand back, as if he was going to hit Grove, then thought better of it. “You said you could see into the future.”
Grove brushed the tickets off his lap.
“I can see into the future,” he said.
“Then how do you explain those?” Leon asked, pointing to the tickets on the floor.
“I can see into the future,” Grove repeated. “Just not very far.”
“Not very far?” Leon asked, confused. “How far into the future can you see?”
“A second or two or three,” Grove said. “Every so often a little longer. Never more than a count of five.”
Leon clenched his fists, thought again about hitting the old man, thought better of it again. He opened his hands and shoved them into the pockets of his pants so hard that one of the seams ripped.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you had no idea in hell which horses were going to win those races?” Leon said.
“You never asked me,” Grove said.
“Sweet Jesus,” Leon said. He paced around the room, circling the old man like a lion sizing up its prey. Grove pivoted his wheelchair, his gaze tracking Leon.
“You never asked me,” Grove repeated. “Ain’t no secret about it. I’d of told you if you’d asked.”
Leon never met a scheme he didn’t like or a con he wouldn’t try, but Grove had him stumped. The old man possessed a talent that was truly unique but ultimately useless, at least for Leon’s purpose, which was making a lot of money without being burdened by any accompanying work. Grove could predict the winning number at roulette or the fall of cards in a game of poker or blackjack, but never with enough lead time for someone to get a bet down.
Craps was a possibility, Leon thought, but a few experimental rolls in the nursing home’s wide, carpeted hallway established that the old man could predict the numbers on the faces of the dice only after they left the shooter’s hand. Interesting, but too late to make a bet.
Leon’s attention drifted from scam to scam, but he always returned to horse racing. It finally dawned on him that it didn’t matter whether the old man really could predict the winner of a race in time to buy a ticket. The truth of things didn’t matter a whit, so long as people believed that the old man could do it.
The truth, Leon knew, was what you told people it was.
*
Sporting a finely tailored Savile Row suit and handmade shoes crafted from tan Italian leather, Leon was barely recognizable when he wheeled Grove into the Keeneland clubhouse. He was in deep to a loan shark known for his aggressive collection methods to pay for the clothes, and if the scheme didn’t work out, Leon thought he might have to spike his grandmother’s pudding with rat poison to hasten the inheritance.
But it will work, Leon thought, running the phrase over and over in his mind like a mantra. It will work.
Leon bought a Racing Form and a program for himself and a bowl of burgoo and a corned beef sandwich for Grove before parking the old man and his chair at a table overlooking the finish line. As the horses for the first race came through the tunnel and walked onto the track, Leon leaned down and put his face close to Grove’s ear.
“Do you remember the plan?” Leon asked. “Fingers up, fingers down?”
“Of course I remember the damn plan,” the old man said, dribbling burgoo onto the front of the crisp, twill shirt Leon had bought for him. “I’m crippled, you moron, not stupid.”
Leon sighed and blotted the stew from Grove’s shirt with a napkin. That’ll leave a stain, he thought. He gathered up his Form and program and wandered off, but never so far that he lost sight of Grove.
The favorite and a moderate longshot took the Daily Double without being challenged, and the next three races also had clear winners. Grove picked the first place finishers of each race around the 16th pole, but so did almost everyone else in the grandstand. Leon made small wagers on each race to pass the time and after five races he was up $8.40. That won’t keep the old man in burgoo for very long, Leon thought glumly as he lifted a pair of Zeiss binoculars to his eyes to watch the start of the next race.
The Plan, as Leon had come to think of his scheme, depended on several elements that were totally out of his control. And that bothered him.
He needed a race with at least three—more would be even better—horses in contention deep in the stretch; he needed one of the horses to be a solid betting favorite and at least one other runner to be a longshot; and he needed the longshot to win. The longer the odds and the closer the finish, the better; a photo finish best of all. Leon also needed the timing to work out. And he needed the old man.
The seventh race, a sprint for non-winners of two, looked promising. A half-mile in, the even-money favorite and a 68-1 longshot were on the lead, within a half-length of each other. The pace of Leon’s heart quickened as the horses swept around the turn and into the stretch.
He pressed the binoculars to his eyes with his right hand, his thumb and forefinger on the knurled focusing ring. He rested the left lens in the “V” formed by the little and ring fingers of his left hand, cupping the race program between the other fingers and thumb, close to his face. This allowed Leon to glance at the program without dropping the binoculars from his eyes, so he didn’t have to match horses and saddle cloth numbers from memory.
Leon had watched races that way for several years, ever since he saw a photograph of the track announcer at Churchill Downs clutching his binoculars and program while calling the Kentucky Derby for television. It was an awkward arrangement, but it worked. It also allowed Leon to watch the old man without obviously doing so.
The leaders passed the 16th pole and Leon glanced sideways at Grove. The old man lifted his right hand and pointed two fingers at the floor.
Two fingers down, add five . . .
“Come on Seven!” Leon yelled.
Coastal Storm—No.7—caught the favorite in the last stride and won by a head, to the tune of $138.60 for a $2 ticket.
Leon hadn’t bet on the winner, hardly anyone had, but he pulled a wad of pari- mutual tickets from a jacket pocket and started waving them over his head.
“Hot damn!” he said, slapping the bundle of tickets into the palm of his left hand. “Hot damn! Thank you, doctor.” Leon’s victory dance drew amused expressions from the bettors who spread out to give him room, then he stopped and walked away from the crowd in the general direction of the elevator. He riffled the inch-thick stack of tickets with a thumb and whistled to himself.
He’d only taken a couple of steps when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Looks like you did okay for yourself,” a voice said. Leon closed the fan of tickets, shoved the bundle into a pocket, and turned to face a large, casually dressed man.
“Yeah, looks like,” Leon said. “Got lucky, I guess.” He turned to walk away, but the man put his hand on Leon’s shoulder a second time.
“Takes more than luck to pick a winner in that race,” the man said. “Pick a horse that’s never been in the money over an odds-on favorite with good bloodlines and a top trainer—how’d you do it?” Leon stared at the man, sizing him up, then lowered his voice.
“I got an edge,” Leon said. He glanced to the left and right, then gave the man a conspiratorial wink.
“An edge?” the man asked.
“Can’t say any more,” Leon replied. “Gotta go.” He started again toward the elevator.
“Hey!” the man said, pointing a finger. “The windows’re over that way. Aren’t you going to cash those tickets?”
“Nope,” Leon said. “Never do. I give ‘em to waitresses, the kid who parks the car, the old guy who pops a rag on my shoes. Tips, you know. I do my real betting with a fellow who runs a book. Gives track odds, very discreet. Calls himself a ‘turf accountant.’ Can you believe it? Wonder what the IRS calls him?”
Leon smiled at the man and stepped into the elevator. Just before the doors shut he flashed a thumbs up at Grove.
The rest of the meeting produced a dozen finishes close enough to meet Leon’s criteria for The Plan. Grove never missed a winner, and Leon managed to put on a good show each time. He even made some serious money on getaway day with side bets on a three-horse photo finish.
From Leon’s vantage point, just behind the finish line, it looked like the outside horse was a clear winner, with the favorite on the rail second. Tucked in between the two, apparently beaten, was No. 4, a 39-1 longshot named Bronco Brother. Leon got the sign from Grove—four fingers pointed toward the ceiling—and with $38 dollars in his pocket climbed on a chair and shouted:
“A hundred bucks says the four horse wins!”
Two dozen people turned to look at Leon, and almost as many waved money in his direction. Leon swallowed hard and said, “I’ll cover ‘em all.”
“How about if I hold the money?” a man said, stepping through the crowd. Leon recognized him as the man from the first day of The Plan.
“Sure,” Leon said. “Why not?”
The stewards took almost a quarter-hour to decide what Leon already knew, that Bronco Brother had pushed his nose in front at the wire for the narrowest of wins. The man handed Leon a wad of bills.
“Not bad,” the man said. “Not bad at all. Looks like you’ve had a pretty good meet.”
“I guess so,” Leon said. He wanted desperately to count the money, but knew that wouldn’t fit the high roller image that The Plan required. Instead, he folded the bills without looking and put them in his pocket. “Can’t complain, anyway.”
“I’d think not,” the man said. “Listen, I’ve got a proposition for you.” He took Leon’s arm and guided him to a quiet corner.
“I’m listening,” Leon said.
“Name’s Mel,” the man said.
“Mel what?” Leon asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” the man said. “What does matter is that I’ve been watching you for a couple of weeks now, and you’ve been coming up with winners that no one on the planet would pick. All close finishes, all long odds. How do you do it?”
“I told you,” Leon said. “I’ve got an edge.”
“I heard that already,” Mel said. “But that’s not an answer. What kind of edge? I’ll make it worth your while.”
Leon looked around, satisfying himself that no one was in earshot. “It’s the vets,” he said.
“Soldiers?” Mel asked, confused. Leon shook his head and sighed, letting his shoulders sag.
“Not soldiers,” Leon said, “veterinarians. They always know which horse is going to win. You think they make those Lexus payments with vitamin injections?”
“Veterinarians,” Mel said, more to himself than to Leon. “How’s it work?”
“We’ve got a gentleman’s agreement,” Leon explained. “I send some money their way, they send some information to me in return. They don’t bet themselves, they just funnel my money through their practices.”
“Makes some sense,” Mel said. Leon smiled and fingered the lapel of his suit.
“And you can’t argue with the results,” he said.
Leon looked at Mel, and he could almost hear the gears start to mesh in the other man’s head.
“How would a person get in on that action?” Mel asked. “Hypothetically.”
“Hard to say,” Leon said. “Hypothetically, a person would have to have bulletproof connections on the backstretch, and those take a long time to develop.” Leon paused, looking pensive.
“Of course, hypothetically, a person who already has those connections might be willing to share them. With the right person, and for the right price.”
*
Racing’s collective consciousness shifted from Keeneland to Churchill Downs the weekend before the Kentucky Derby, and Leon and Grove took their show on the road. Leon “won” another race on the third day of the meeting, a $200 winner from a cavalry charge down the stretch. He didn’t see Mel, but he could sense the man’s eyes boring into him from somewhere in the crowd.
“We’re almost home,” Leon said to Grove later that day as he pushed the old man’s wheelchair through the cavernous grandstand. “I’ve got a big fish and Mel’s ready to bite.”
“How do you know?” Grove asked.
“I just know,” Leon said. “Trust me, I can feel it.”
A black Mercedes was parked in front of the grandstand gate, motor idling, emergency lights flashing, darkly tinted windows up.
“There he is,” Leon said. “Told you so.”
A rear window slid down and Mel poked his head out.
“Leon,” he called. “Do you have a minute? In private?”
Leon left Grove by the gate and walked to the car.
“Afternoon, Mel,” he said. I’ve been looking for you.”
“Have you now?” Mel said. “That’s odd, because I’m not that hard to find.” Leon shrugged his shoulders. “No matter. You’ve found me now. Have you considered my proposition?” Leon made a show of looking around. A knot of people were leaving the track and he waited until they were well past the car before he spoke.
“The race after the Derby,” Leon said.
“What about it?” Mel asked.
“There’re always rumors about that one,” Leon said. “It’s supposed to be the easiest race to fix because everyone’s attention is focused on the Derby winner. A sharp player can take advantage of the chaos.”
“Are you saying the fix is in?” Mel said.
“All I’m saying,” Leon replied,” is my sources tell me that a man might make some serious money betting on that race.”
“How much will it take for you to give me the winner?” Mel asked. Leon looked thoughtful for a time, considering.
“Can’t do that,” he said. “What I can do—if you trust me—is make a bet for you.”
“How much?” Mel said.
“A hundred thousand,” Leon replied. “That’s the only bet my man will handle, no more, no less. He says it keeps the riff-raff out and makes the math easier.”
“What’s your cut?” Mel asked.
“Nothing,” Leon said. “Think of it as a favor, for a friend.”
Mel pulled his head inside the car and the window slid up. The window dropped again a half-minute later.
“Be here tomorrow afternoon,” Mel said. “The money’ll be waiting.” Leon nodded and turned away.
“Hey,” Mel said. “Who’s the old guy?”
“My father,” Leon lied.
“You ought to get him a better chair,” Mel said. “One of those electric ones. You can afford it.”
“Maybe,” Leon said. “C’mon, Dad, let’s go home.”
Leon stopped by the nursing home on Saturday, Derby Day, on his way to the airport. The odds-on favorite had won the race after the Kentucky Derby, not that Leon cared. He had his passport and a one-way ticket to Mexico City in one pocket, a manila envelope stuffed with 100 Benjamins in another. The envelope had Grove’s name on the outside.
The television room was empty except for a trio of old ladies and a knock on the door of the Grove’s room went unanswered. Leon prowled the grounds for a while, then gave up and went to the receptionist.
“I’m looking for Grove,” Leon said to the middle aged woman behind the desk. He patted his pocket. “I have something for him.” The woman looked up, surprised.
“Mr. Washington’s not here,” she said. “I thought he’d be with you. Your friends picked him up a few hours ago.” A sick feeling slammed Leon in the gut.
“My friends,” he said. “What did they look like?”
“I don’t know,” he woman said. “Normal, I guess. Big, really big. Why? Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing,” Leon said. “There’s been a mix-up of some kind. Did they happen to say where they were going?”
“No, but they left this for you.” The woman handed Leon an envelope. He slipped a shaky finger under the flap and peeled it open. On the paper inside were two words: High Bridge.
Leon shuddered.
One night years ago, on a dare, he’d scaled a fence and crawled on hands and knees out onto the steel superstructure of the bridge. He’d clung there in the dark, 275 feet above the palisades of the Kentucky River, while a Norfolk Southern freight train thundered across the track a few feet away from him. The fear had been paralyzing, and it had taken Leon almost an hour to make his way back to solid ground. He’d been afraid of heights ever since and didn’t relish a return trip to High Bridge.
Now Leon found himself at the end of the nursing home driveway, weighing his options: turn right toward the airport, left toward High Bridge. He stared wistfully to his right, then pounded a fist on the steering wheel and cursed. Damn the old man anyway!
Leon jerked the wheel hard to the left and floored the accelerator.
Three men in dark suits lounged at a covered picnic pavilion when Leon pulled his car into High Bridge Park. One of the men walked out to meet Leon, frisked him quickly and expertly, and pointed toward a scenic overlook.
“He’s waiting for you,” the man said. “He’s not happy.”
The overlook was a metal platform jutting out into space, hanging there with little visible means of support. Mel leaned against the rail, looking down at the Kentucky River. Leon’s shoes scraped on the metal grating, and Mel turned.
“You have something that belongs to me,” Mel said. “Hand it over.”
“What’re you talking about?” Leon said, trying to feign innocence and ignorance simultaneously.
“The money,” Mel said.
“I didn’t bet,” Leon said. “I got word at the last minute that there was a problem with one of the horses. My contact couldn’t get to the favorite before the race. Since they couldn’t stop the favorite, I thought the bet was too chancy.” Mel considered this.
“Okay,” he said. “You saved me a hundred grand. Thanks.” Leon exhaled and started to relax. “Let’s have it.”
“What?” Leon asked.
“The money,” Mel said. “Let’s have it.”
“I don’t carry a bag of money around with me,” Leon said. “Have you seen the people who live out here? It’s like Deliverance, for God’s sake. The money’s locked away, for safekeeping.”
“Where?” Mel said.
“In a locker,” Leon said, “at the airport.”
“Leaving town?” Mel said.
“No,” Leon said. “The airport’s on the way from the track. It’s the closest, safest place.” He turned and started walking. I might get out of this after all, he thought. “I’ll go get it for you.”
“You’re forgetting something,” Mel said. “Someone, actually.” Leon stopped and turned back to face Mel, a puzzled look on his face. The man handed Leon a pair of compact binoculars and stooped to pick up a powerful flashlight. He clicked the light on and swung the yellow beam in a wide arc out into the darkness. The beam stopped at the bridge, and Leon lifted the binoculars.
Grove sat in his wheelchair on one of the double tracks, motionless. Leon could make out strips of grey duct tape binding the old man’s wrists to the arms of the chair, and another strip of tape across his mouth.
“We’ll take care of the money,” Mel said. “Give me the locker key and you can go get the old man. No harm, no foul.”
“I didn’t bring the key,” Leon protested.
“That’s too bad,” Mel said. He turned and cupped a hand to his ear. “Hear that?
“I don’t hear anything,” Leon said.
“You will,” Mel said. He glanced at his watch. “Right on time.”
“On time for what?” Leon asked. Mel ignored the question.
“Do you have any idea how far a train whistle carries?” Mel said. “I don’t. Maybe a few miles, maybe more. Who knows?” Leon stared into the darkness, in the direction of the far end of the bridge.
“Are you insane?” Leon shouted.
“Depends on who you ask,” Mel said. “Now, about that key.”
Leon pulled a locker key from his pocket and looked at it.
“What if I just toss this key over the edge?” he asked.
“I’ll throw you over after it,” Mel said, “and the old man’ll be road kill.”
Leon heard a train whistle wail in the distance. He looked down at the key nestled in his palm, then tossed it to Mel.
*
Leon skidded to a stop at the end of the bridge, breathing hard, peering out into the darkness. He knew Grove was out there, waiting for him, but he wasn’t sure he could step out onto the metal catwalk. The train whistle sounded again, louder than before, and Leon could see the engine’s headlight dancing through the trees in the distance. He took a deep breath, crossed himself, and ran onto the bridge.
He reached Grove just as the train rumbled onto the far end of the bridge, a little more than a furlong away. Leon wrestled the wheelchair off the track, tore the tape from the old man’s wrists, and dragged him from the chair. He pushed Grove down onto the metal grating as the train blew by. The long string of freight cars finally passed and vanished into the darkness. Grove sat up and gingerly pulled the duct tape away from his mouth. His lips were bleeding in several places.
“I wasn’t worried,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me out here.”
“How could you be so sure of that?” Leon asked. “You said you could only see a few seconds into the future.”
Grove was quiet for a time. “Well, I might have lied a little about that.” Leon didn’t say anything, just stared at Grove.
“It’s too bad you had to give the money back,” Grove continued. “I forget what you call it, but I remember a sign that said Keeneland lets you bet on races at other tracks.”
Leon thought of the fat envelope of bills tucked above the sun visor in his car, the money he’d set aside for Grove, and he broke into a wide, toothy smile.
“C’mon, Grove,” he said to the old man. “Let’s go home. comment
© 2007 Milton C. Toby