Game Bet

by Forrest, Richard;

Her husband shook his head. “Fine.”

  Her voice was a whine. “Did I do all right?”

  “I’m sure you did, sweets. I’m sure you did.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Thursday: 10:45 A.M.

  He stood with his back against the wall, in the empty office. He kept thumbing the Garand’s safety off and on. The live shell lay in the chamber, its projectile nose and casing securely inserted in the barrel, its rear flange exposed to the striking area of the weapon’s firing pin.

  Where in hell were they?

  “What’s the line on the Sox-Yanks game?”

  “Eight to five.”

  “For Christ’s sake, they don’t have God pitching.”

  “Take it or leave it, Cory.”

  “OK, put me down ten times.”

  “You know the new house rules. Green up front.”

  “Come on, Vito. We’ve been doing business for years.”

  “You’re in too deep. In the meanwhile, when do I see action on the back money? Certain parties are getting very impatient.”

  “Soon!” He slammed the phone into its cradle with sufficient force to make a clatter. Ann Boynton, his secretary, gave a quick glance back into the office.

  Bloodsuckers! They were content to gobble every penny you had until it was gone. Then they hardly knew you. He began to create a line of figures on a scratch pad. How much had he paid Vito since he started with the book? Mustering out pay from the service, the cash settlement from his mother’s estate, two or three thousand a year out of his salary … The figure dismayed him, and he crumpled the paper into a wad and aimed for the wastebasket. He missed.

  He felt a surge of anger and looked down at the Texas Shopping Center presentation on the desk in front of him. As a mortgage officer in the Real Estate Department of the Nutmeg National Bank, his present job was to analyze the efficacy of the shopping center for a possible construction loan.

  It was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

  He had been home from the army two weeks when the letter arrived from the chairman of the board of the bank. It was a short invitation for a lunch meeting at the bank’s executive dining room on the following Monday.

  “We at Nutmeg don’t forget our friends,” the chairman had said over coffee. “I refer, of course, to your father. A fine man and outstanding congressman.”

  Cory wondered how much they had paid the old man for favorable banking legislation.

  “He always had Connecticut at heart,” the chairman continued.

  And half in his wallet, Cory thought. His mother had died a year after his father, shortly after he entered the army. He had always wondered if it were possible to die of a broken heart, or did you just give up living?

  “I understand you have given up your military career,” the chairman had said.

  “Yes, sir. The army seems to have a superabundance of junior officers.”

  “Just as well. There’s no real future in the armed forces.” It was a statement of assurance. “However, we at Nutmeg have always found the discipline inculcated in junior officers stands them in good stead in our various departments. Now, I understand that you never finished Yale?”

  “I dropped out after my dad passed away.”

  “We don’t usually take young people into our executive training program without a Bachelor’s degree, but in your case, Cory, there’s a spot for you here at the bank if you desire.”

  He took the job as there wasn’t anything better to do.

  It was only ten o’clock Monday morning, and the week stretched in an infinite line toward Thursday. He had already had a coffee break, but there were still seven more hours of the day that he was chained to the desk.

  He pushed his chair back so abruptly that it banged against the credenza aligned along the rear wall. Ann looked up from her typewriter as he walked through the outer office. He gave her a perfunctory wave.

  Dan Hawkins was vice-president of real estate for the bank, and Cory’s boss. Through the open door Cory could see the tall, asthenic man with a shock of brown hair hanging over his forehead, bent over a large survey map.

  “Is he free?” he asked the secretary.

  “He is, and so am I this Friday.”

  Cory smiled. She had light hair, nice legs, and a “cheerleader” cuteness. “What happened to Gary?”

  “He decided to find himself and left for California.”

  “That’s what you get for going out with those younger guys.”

  “You wanted to see me, Cory?” Dan Hawkins looked up from his scrutiny of the survey map. “Come in.”

  Cory slumped into a side chair at the desk. “Jesus Dan. I feel like a lump of garbage. I think I’m coming down with something.”

  Dan removed his glasses and slowly folded them. “Big weekend at the club?”

  Cory ignored the remark. “I think I’ve got a virus.”

  “Do you want to see the company doc?”

  “I want to take a couple of aspirin and go home to bed. Which is exactly what he’ll tell me.”

  “What do you have on deck?”

  “That Texas center. I’m doing a rent-role analysis, but you won’t need to give it to the loan committee until next Wednesday.”

  “OK, get some rest.” He replaced the glasses and bent back over the survey as Cory started for the door. “Oh, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “Sure.”

  Dan Hawkins twirled his glasses nervously. “There’s been some talk.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t put much credence in office gossip, never did; but sometimes you’re forced to track these things down.”

  Cory felt a cold chill. “What sort of talk, Dan?”

  “That you’re in pretty deep with a bookmaker.”

  “How in hell did that get started?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. I thought you might know.”

  “I do place a bet now and again. You know, a few bucks on the Series or the Superbowl, that sort of thing. If you call that heavy gambling, we’d have to take half our staff to the rack.”

  “We all do that once in a while.”

  “I was kidding with a couple of the guys in Commercial Credit about placing some ridiculous bets.”

  “Kidding?”

  “What I call coffee-break braggadocio. Hell, anyone with any sense knows that betting large money with the books is throwing money away.”

  “I had to ask, Cory. In a bank, with all our fiduciary responsibilities, we have to be careful. That defalcation we had in Trust three years ago still haunts the chairman.”

  “I remember. Wilkins, wasn’t it? Blew forty thousand on some blonde.”

  “Glad there’s nothing to it. We’ll see you back on deck when you feel better.” He turned back to the survey map as Cory left the office.

  Cory calculated his recent sins as he waited for the elevator: one case of adultery, a lie just now to Dan, and worst of all, stupidity. What in hell was Norm Lewis up to with their insane wager?

  The recoil rocked Cory’s shoulder as the blast reverberated over the hills.

  He fired the remainder of the clip in rapid sequence and then stooped to retrieve his brass. Slinging the Garand over his shoulder, he walked across the field to the target. The bullets had pierced the paper slightly to the right of the center circle. At a hundred yards that wasn’t bad shooting. It was obvious that the rifle was pulling to the right. He would have to zero in the sights. He tore the target off its frame and replaced it with a virgin copy and turned back to the clubhouse.

  Will Ratherman, the club’s combination custodian and weekend cook, wore soiled overalls, heavy muddy boots, and needed a shave. He leaned against the porch rail and sucked on a corncob pipe as Cory approached.

  “Didn’t expect to see you out here during the week, Mr. Williams.”

  “I wanted to get the old M-1 zeroed in.”

  “Huntin’ season’s months away, and you can’t use that cannon for dee
r in this state anyway.”

  “I’ll tell you, Will. I was sitting in my cozy little office in the city and I got to worrying about you up here all alone.”

  “Like it better during the week, when no one’s here, rather than the weekend, when all the drunks arrive.”

  Cory laughed. “Do you know where the spotter scope and bench are?”

  “In the cellar. I’ll get them.”

  In fifteen minutes Cory had the M-1 mounted on the shooting bench next to the powerful spotter scope on its tripod.

  He slowly squeezed off the first shot. Before the echo of the round had ceased bouncing from August Ridge, he had shifted his position to the scope and peered through the eye piece. He was right. It was drawing off center. He made a slight adjustment to the sight and fired another round.

  It took three more shots before the sights were perfectly adjusted to compensate for the weapon’s natural deflection. Now each fired round went true. He dismounted the rifle and stood. Loading a full clip, he shot rapid fire toward the small circle one hundred yards down range. All the shots struck the inner circles, three in the center of the bull’s eye. It was good shooting.

  He was walking back to the clubhouse with the bench and scope when it struck him. Why was he bothering to zero in a rifle when he was going to use a camera?

  What in hell was he doing?

  Norm Lewis met Cory in the marble vestibule of the large house, took the encased Garand from his hand, and motioned for Cory to follow him.

  They went down a wide hall to the rear of the house. As they passed a book-lined study (each volume bound in identical Moroccan leather, no doubt chosen by a decorater), Cory saw Ruth Lewis, dressed in tight jeans, sitting in an easy chair with her feet curled under her. She was watching television with a drink in her hand. She didn’t turn to look at him.

  In the kitchen they entered a narrow doorway to the cellar. Norm’s workroom reminded Cory of something the proverbial mad scientist might have devised if he were interested in carpentry and woodworking. There seemed to be every conceivable type of drill, lathe, and saw in the spotless room.

  Lewis removed the Garand from its case and locked it in a vise. He began to mount a long, narrow camera on the rifle, slightly forward of the rear sight. He still hadn’t spoken.

  “Don’t jar the sight,” Cory said. “It took me an hour to zero the thing in.”

  “What the hell do you care? You’re not going to shoot the President, although that’s not a bad idea. I’ll triple the bet if you use a live round.”

  “I’m not even going to answer that. Which raises a question. Why can’t I just use the camera without taking the rifle along?”

  Norm looked up from his work. “Because that would take the risk out of it. There will be a hundred guys taking pics of the creep on Thursday, but you’ll be the only one with a rifle.”

  “How do I know you’ve got film in there?”

  “I don’t. You’re going to buy and insert the film yourself.” He bent back to his work for a few minutes before he loosened the vise and tossed the rifle to Cory.

  Cory caught the weapon by the stock. “How does it work?”

  “There’s a small plate on the top of the camera that lifts out. See?”

  “Right.”

  “Drop the film magazine in there and it automatically engages. There’s a reflexive lens that operates nearly like a telescopic sight.”

  Cory hefted the rifle to his shoulder and looked through the rear sight and into the camera. “Clear enough. I suppose this little switch to the side is the shutter trip?”

  “Easy enough?”

  “No secret bullets in there?”

  “It’s a camera. Where will you be doing it from? I have to know in order to preset distance and shutter speed.”

  “Be?”

  “What spot have you picked out? I assume you’re not going to stand on a street curb and raise the gun to your shoulder when the guy’s car passes by.”

  “I’ve been thinking of one of the windows in a high-rise office building.”

  “The Faber Building?”

  “That was my thought. I’d like something on the fourth to eighth floor.” For the second time that day Cory lied. The fact that he had already decided on the Morrison Building, which was set back to the side of the Faber Building, didn’t seem to violate the ground rules of their wager. The few added feet shouldn’t affect the clarity of the photographs dramatically. He had no conscious reason for the falsehood, but somehow felt that a little bluff in any gambling venture wasn’t a bad idea.

  Cory raised the rifle again. He pushed the small shutter release and heard the whirr as it tripped. “I load the film and take the picture. Then what?”

  “Bring the gun and camera back here as soon as you can. I’ll take the film out and develop it in my darkroom.”

  “While I watch.”

  “Trusting, aren’t you?”

  “For ten thousand dollars, I’ll watch them develop.”

  “Suit yourself.” Norm took the rifle and made some adjustments to the camera. “I’ve set shutter and speed. It will take in nearly any visible light. If you try and remove the camera from the weapon, I’ll be able to tell.”

  “Good enough. No other rules? As long as I come back with the pictures?”

  “That’s right. No other rules. Care for a drink?” Without waiting for an answer Norm strode up the stairs. Cory replaced the rifle in its case and followed.

  He found Norm in a room opposite the study, by a dry sink, mixing a pitcher of martinis. The room was lined with glass cases filled with a hundred different types of handguns. Along one wall was a display of early-model Colts. Next to the Colts was a shield of highly burnished wood containing a small silver plaque with the inscription: “Norman R. Lewis—ember of the Committee of One Thousand.”

  “Like the Colts?” Norm asked as he handed Cory a drink.

  “It looks like a complete collection.”

  “It is.”

  “What’s the Committee of One Thousand?”

  “Just a bunch of police buffs. You know the kind of group I mean. Guys like me who have more money than they know what to do with and like playing cops. If a cop gets killed in the line of duty, we make contributions to his family. In return they let us ride patrol once in a while. Just one of my hobbies.”

  “You don’t seem to have room on your walls for the picture of the President.”

  “Picture?”

  “Since you’re paying rather well for a photograph of the President, I assumed you’d have if blown up and framed.”

  “I wouldn’t have a picture of that guy in the john.” He raised his glass in a toast. “To the winner.”

  “The winner.” They drank. “Why the game, Norm?”

  “Because you won’t do it, old buddy. There’s risk involved, and you’ve lived a life without risk. If you somehow did manage to pull it off, it would prove to me that there’s still some of the old Cory Williams left.”

  “I haven’t changed.”

  “But you have.”

  Cory finished his drink. “See you Thursday.”

  The man in Toledo waited until the telephone conversation was made to Deerford, Connecticut before he switched on the scrambler. The possible odds of a phone tap were so remote as to be infinitesimal, but he was a careful man.

  “Bishop says the King is vulnerable.”

  “Can you do anything?”

  “A pawn has been inserted for sacrifice. We’re going for it.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Both connections were severed without further word. The man in Toledo sat back with his arms behind his neck and smiled.

  Cory’s apartment was a one-bedroom affair with an L-shaped living room that provided a dining area. The small kitchen was separated from the eating area by a counter-bar, and barely contained enough room for him to open the oven and refrigerator doors at the same time. There was a miniscule balcony overlooking the city park that he ra
rely used. He kept the rooms neat but cluttered, with one wall lined with marksman trophies and another with a hundred books on numerous subjects. His reading was extensive although undisciplined, as he ranged from topic to topic as his interest was piqued.

  It was a high-rent building, but it boasted an indoor pool that he used for swimming laps three times a week. He was in excellent physical condition but sometimes wondered why he bothered.

  He put a card table in the center of the room and spread a map of the City of Deerford across it. He reread the news articles concerning the President’s visit.

  Fifteen years ago he had ridden in a presidential motorcade with his father.

  This one would be similar. When the limousine approached the intersection near the Morrison and Faber buildings, it would slow for the television cameras which would be mounted on the nearby plaza. No politician could resist the temptation to greet the enthralled throng while under the watchful eye of the camera. The cars would slow, perhaps even stop, as the President leaned from the open vehicle to shake hands.

  Cory folded the maps and replaced the table. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while and left the apartment.

  There are bars like the Clock and Chime in every city—quiet places for serious drinkers a cut above the beer-and-shot crowd. Each has it own aura: there are gay bars, single bars, and sporting bars. The C and C was sporting for those who sat along the long bar, and a dark place of assignation for those in the lounge area.

  Cory had been coming to the C and C for nearly five years, not on a daily basis, but with a certain regularity. He entered and waved at the regulars at the bar as he took his usual stool. He had played liars’ poker with half of the men and made serious wagers with the other half.

  Fred, the bartender, began to mix an orange blossom as soon as Cory sat down. “How’s it going, Mr. W.?”

  “Not bad. What’s the line on tonight’s game?”

  “Seven to four.”

  “Can you get me down a couple of times on the Sox?”

  “Sure.” Fred poured the cocktail until liquor brimmed the glass and then nodded toward the shaker to indicate that there was more in the hole. “You want to settle with me now for the bet, Mr. Williams?”

  “I’ll catch you tomorrow, if I lose.”