Bullet Work (4 page)

“Who do you like here?” Dan flashed the
program to him just to make sure the boy knew he was talking about
the race.

Silence.

When the boy realized that the man wasn’t
going away, he said, “Four is angry. Three feels strong. One looks
relaxed.”

A glance at the program determined that the
morning line on the four was 15-1, the three was 8-1, and the one
was 10-1. “Don’t like the favorites?” Dan asked.

The boy swung his leg off the fence, like he
was uncomfortable with the questions. He looked down the tunnel as
the last of the competitors moved through, toward the track. “Seven
is hurting, two looks sick, nine don’t wanna race today.”

Dan again stared down at his program. The boy
had just called out the top three favorites in order, despite the
fact that he had no program, not even a slip of paper in his
hands.

“Seven. Jasper June. He’s hurting? What do
you know?” Dan was hoping for some inside information.

“Just watchin’.” The boy started rocking like
he was about to jump down from the fence.

Dan realized he was coming on too strong. He
was spooking the boy.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I’m Dan. Dan Morgan.”

He extended his hand. The boy looked down at
the hand, and after a pause reached down and shook it
delicately.

“What’s your name?” Dan said. “You see, when
you introduce yourself and give your name, the other guy is
supposed to tell you his.” Dan laughed, trying to break the ice.
The boy didn’t react and just treated it like another
interruption.

Finally. “AJ.”

“Okay, AJ. Nice to meet you. I saw you the
other morning in the kitchen, when those guys were hassling you.
I’m sorry about that.”

AJ just nodded, looking off in the
distance.

Like it happened all the time, Dan
imagined.

“Look,” Dan said. “As long as I’m around,
those guys aren’t going to bother you. Or if they do, they’ll catch
hell from me. That’s our deal. Okay?”

AJ nodded, looking toward the tunnel.

“I’ve got a couple horses. Jake Gilmore
trains for me.” Dan was getting no reaction from the kid. “I heard
you work for Latimer. He’s a good trainer.” Dan didn’t know if that
was true or not; he just said it. Silence.

“AJ? So what does AJ stand for?”

The boy paused a long time, probably hoping
Dan would just move on, but he didn’t.

“Stands for Ananias Jacob. Ananias Jacob
Kaine.”

“That’s an unusual name. Is it a family name?
Ananias, I mean.”

“It’s from the Bible.”

“That’s cool.” Dan’s knowledge of the Bible
wouldn’t fill a thimble, but he tried to convey that he was
impressed. “AJ, I’ve got to run. I want to get a bet down before
they get to the post.” He started to walk away, then stopped and
turned back. “Uhm, I don’t mean to trouble you, AJ. I’m a lawyer,
and we ask a lot of questions. I’ve just seen you around and—”
And what?
Dan thought. “And if you ever
need help, you call on me. Okay?” He held out a business card.

The boy took the card and looked at him for
the first time. “Okay, mister.”

Chapter 8

Dan scampered up one of the back
stairways to the mezzanine level. He didn’t have a strong feeling
about the race but thought he would take a flier on the horses AJ
touted. “Give me a five dollar exact box, one, three, four,” he
said to the cashier. What did he mean, the four looks angry? Is
that good? “Give me twenty across on the four.”

Dan scooped up the tickets and headed out
toward the track. From where he stood on the mezzanine deck he
could see the whole racetrack. The horses were still warming up,
and it was four minutes to post.

  

From that first day with Uncle Van at the
racetrack, Dan was hooked. He followed the stake races leading up
to the Kentucky Derby each year like a forensic scientist tracking
DNA. The events leading to the midsummer derby, the Travers’, at
Saratoga were indelibly etched in his mind.

The season wasn’t complete without total
devotion to the Breeders’ Cup in the fall, the Super Bowl of horse
racing. They constituted championships for virtually every category
of racing. Two-year-olds, fillies and mares, sprints, distance,
turf and dirt surfaces.

From the time he was legally old enough—okay,
and maybe a few times before that—Dan would be at the track or at
some nameless off-track betting establishment to get a bet
down.

One summer, between his sophomore and junior
years in college, he just handicapped for a living. He had rented a
house near the Pentagon with four other guys from college, but
rather than take a job painting houses or working on a construction
crew as he’d done in the past, Dan just went to the track—every
day.

That summer taught him more about money
management than any college accounting course. He also learned the
complete ins and outs of racetrack operations and the dynamics of
preparing horses to compete. It was a master’s degree in
handicapping. Dan didn’t win every day. Anyone who told you he did
was a liar, but Dan won enough to pay his rent and other minimalist
living expenses. It was total freedom, and he relished every
minute.

Dan inhaled deeply and absorbed the
excitement in the air as he walked the mezzanine level. The
reserved box seats were suspended below him. At one time these had
been the high ticket seats, but now dark-paneled luxury boxes were
housed inside the exclusive clubhouse one level up. Dan preferred
the box seats because the people were real. He also told himself
the view was better from this position, just over the apron at the
track level.

He spotted who he was looking for in one of
the front row boxes just beyond the finish line. He walked over two
aisles and skipped down the steps to the three men sitting in the
box.

“Gimme a winner,” Dan said.

Lennie Davis looked up from his form. “Hey,
Danny boy.” Lennie was a longtime handicapper and close friend. He
had a doctorate in mathematics and no visible means of support. He
played the ponies, but successfully enough to stay with it.

Eyeglasses hung on the tip of Lennie’s nose,
allowing him to read his computer printouts and see the racetrack
and odds board with total efficiency. His gray hair was receding,
but he made up for it by letting it grow in the back. The long
strands were pinned together by a rubber band, and the silver locks
extended about a foot down his back. The ponytail matched his
rail-thin physique. He wore a flowered Hawaiian shirt over
camouflage cargo pants. “Sit down, Danny boy.”

The box was four beige folding chairs on a
concrete slab, confined on three sides by green painted railing.
The open side allowed access to the steps leading up to the
mezzanine or down, via a separate staircase to the track’s apron.
It was nothing like the luxury boxes in the clubhouse, devoid of
all glamour and prestige.

But for Lennie and his entourage, it was
home. It was a haven for serious handicappers amid the chaos of the
casual bettors who milled about the grandstand in hopes of finding
the lock of the day. Dan sidestepped Lennie and took the chair next
to him.

“Who do you like in here?” Dan asked.

Milton Childers piped up from the chair in
front of Dan. “Bunch of fuckin’ stiffs. They’ll probably all
lose.”

“I take it you got the favorite?” Dan said.
Lennie and the fourth man in the box, TP Boudreaux, laughed
hard.

“’Course he has the favorite,” TP said.
“Whenever he has no clue—which is most of the time—he bets the
favorite. Just like usual.”

Milton grunted and said, “Who’s up today, me
or you, Boudreaux?”

Dan reached forward and shook TP’s hand. TP
was a jock agent, which, for the right kind of guy, was a license
to steal. TP was that kind of guy.

A jock agent represented jockeys the way
talent agents represented actors. He worked with trainers to get
his riders on the best horses and working for the best barns.

There were two critical skills for a jock
agent. First, find and sign great new talent and, second, do
whatever it takes to get your guy on the best horse and riding
“first call” for the best barns. Agents made ten percent of the
jockey’s fee, which was ten percent of the purse won, plus a
nominal mount fee on losing rides.

Ten percent of ten percent wasn’t much at
first glance, but the jock agent could fill a race card with his
riders, take home a consistent paycheck, and never risk life or
limb hanging onto the back of a wild animal.

TP was as smooth as they came. He wore a
crisp, clean polo shirt over khaki slacks. As a former jockey, he
was just over five feet tall, with dark hair parted down the middle
and a matching black moustache.

“How’s your boy going to do in here, Teep?”
Dan asked. TP represented Emilio Juarillo, and he had a mount on
the one horse, Vindicate.

“I’ll be happy if he hits the board. New
rider like Emilio has to ride a bunch of dogs and work his butt off
in the mornings to get any of these guys to give him rides.
Emilio’s a natural-born rider, tough as a bucket of nails, but has
no personality. Needs to keep up with his English lessons,
too.”

TP found many young riders in Peru and the
Dominican Republic. He’d sponsor their immigration in exchange for
a long-term contract as their agent. He’d done well with a few
riders and had the perfect pitchman’s demeanor with trainers to get
his guys rides.

Lennie leaned forward and looked to the left
to see the horses nearing the post. “Got anything working here?”
Meaning—did Dan have a bet?

“Yeah, I put the one, three, four together
and bet the four across.”

TP smiled and nodded, acknowledging that Dan
had action on his rider.

Milton quickly looked at his program, then
the tote board. “The four? Hollering Hal? What do you know, Morgan?
Is the fix in?”

“No, the fix isn’t in. I’m just taking a
flier.”

“Interesting,” said Lennie, scanning his
sheets. “Hollering Hal’s got some back speed. Been off for awhile.
Second back off a layoff. Stretching out to a mile and a teenie off
a six. Looks to be in a little too tough for my money.”

“What do you think?” Dan asked Lennie.

“Well, unfortunately, I’m with Magic Milt on
the favorite, Jasper June. He ran a solid Z pattern last time out.
And against these types, his Beyer’s are strong. The pace will be
to his advantage. He might draw off and win by daylight. Hoping to
keep him above 5-2,” Lennie said, looking up quickly to check the
tote board in the infield, “but he’s starting to get pounded at the
windows.”

True to his Ph.D., Lennie was a pure numbers
guy, relying on Beyer speed ratings, Ragozin numbers, and pace
figures.

The “figs,” as they were known, were
mechanical calculations of prior performance. They were a means to
put math to perceived talent. Many of the figs were available in
the public racing program and commercial racing forms. Others were
purchased by subscription. Lennie absorbed numbers like a Hoover
ate dust bunnies. He could calculate percentages and implied odds
with blinding speed and ease.

“C’mon, Dan,” Milton said as he took a bite
of his hotdog. “Hollering Hal is 18-1. What do you know?”

Milton was suspicious of anything and
everything. He was convinced that a fixed race would come by and he
would be left out. To compensate, he looked for strange angles or
reasons to support long shots, in the bizarre hope that his
interpretation would somehow match up with the inside job.

Aside from horseracing, Milt’s favorite hobby
was eating, and, on days like today, he was able to engage in both
activities at once.

Milt was the classic “before” picture for
famous weight-loss programs. Bones and muscle surrounded by a thick
layer of fat and flab. The “after” picture would never be taken. He
wore dress pants that hadn’t been pressed in the current decade and
a crumpled white dress shirt, adorned with a tie that bore the
stains of spilled mustard, barbeque sauce, and anything else that
didn’t quite make it all the way to Milt’s mouth.

Magic Milt worked as an insurance agent.
Actually, he inherited the family business, but his devotion to
food and horses meant it was just a matter of time before he broke
the place. He was content living his life, and the future, for
Milt, meant the next race on the card.

Maj was a lifetime hunch player, and, if he
didn’t have an angle to play, he took the favorite. In North
American racing the favorite won about 30 percent of the time, some
tracks a little higher, some a little lower, but over time the
favorite was always 2-1 odds against. The strategy of only taking
favorites, betting chalk, was akin to committing economic suicide
on the installment plan.

Maj either didn’t care about the percentages
or wasn’t good at math. Unlike disciplined handicappers such as TP
and Lennie, Milt couldn’t let a race go by without putting down a
bet. He had to have action going. It was a lifetime losing strategy
but one Magic Milt followed religiously. Maybe he considered the
wagering a tax on his enormous food budget.

“I’m just taking a flier, okay? Nothing’s
going down, Maj.”

Just then track announcer Dean Horn came over
the intercom:

“They’re all in…and they’re off.… Jasper
June gets away well.… My Guy up on the outside and Hollerin Hal
between horses…past the grandstand for the first time it’s Jasper
June showing the way…Hollerin Hal up to challenge…and Vindicate
trails the field.…”

Milton was waving his arms and shouting,
“Just like that, baby, all the way around. Stay right there,
baby.”

Lennie glanced at the time just as the first
quarter was posted. “Twenty-three and one, a little quick for this
bunch.” Lennie watched a horserace the same way a seasoned cardiac
surgeon performed a bypass, dispassionate and analytically.