by Paul Levine
"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
A Bet With "Intervention"
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?"
"We're not Jewish, Uncle Goldy."
The old man shrugged. "And I'm not your uncle. But then, nobody's perfect. You want to eat a little something?"
"Sure," Scott said.
Goldy turned to Bobby. "How about some chopped liver on a garlic bagel with onion?"
"Why don't I just go straight to the Maalox and skip the preliminaries?" Bobby replied.
"Suit yourself, but you don't look so good. Food can cure a lot of ills."
Bobby ordered coffee for himself, and a reuben and cream soda for Scott.
"The older I get, the earlier I eat dinner." Goldy attacked a piece of chicken bobbing in his soup like a life raft at sea. "Then I fall asleep even before they start the night games on the Coast." He looked up long enough to discover that Bobby wasn't listening. "Okay, boychik, what can I do for you?"
Bobby walked Goldy through it, the old man listening while slurping up noodles from his spoon. Scott kept quiet, letting his father make his spiel. There were half-a-dozen patrons in the ancient Collins Avenue delicatessen whose walls had blown-up photos of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis, Jr. staring down at them. Like Goldy, Bobby thought, throwbacks to a by-gone age.
Bobby tried to put some excitement in his voice, though Scott had dampened his mood. Now Bobby watched for Goldy's reactions and all he got was a grim frown and his own reflection from the dark glasses.
Damn! He's not buying into it.
"Let me get this straight," Goldy said when Bobby finished. "You need someone to put up five million dollars."
"In cash," Bobby said, "to be placed in escrow."
" Oy vey."
"I prepared the contract myself. Kingsley's worried about getting paid if he wins, so he insisted on the escrow. The money will be held by First Florida Bank. So will two per cent of Kingsley's stock in the team, which covers the five-point-five million he's risking. He takes Dallas minus four. If we win, I want twenty per cent of the total, including the vig, one-point-one million, which almost covers what I have to pay LaBarca the day after the Super Bowl. You'll get three-point-four million. If we lose, you gotta pay the whole bet, five million."
The old man took off his sunglasses and blinked, his heavy-lidded eyes as sad as a beagle's. "I don't like it."
Bobby felt panic bubbling up inside him like water in a boiling spring. "C'mon Goldy, you're a bookie. The line is f
our points. What's wrong with making the book?"
"What's wrong is that I'd be putting up five million to win three-point-four. That's be fine if I needed some heavy wood on Dallas to balance the books. But it's just the opposite. Too much money is coming in on the Mustangs. They're the glamour team, plus more people like the favorites. So I can't get a splitter because I don't have enough money coming in on Denver, and I can't lay it off because every book in town is overloaded with Dallas money, which means I'd be bankrolling it myself. It's meshugeh. "
"You're talking as if we'll lose. We're gonna win!" Bobby bellowed, loud enough for a blue-haired woman to turn around in the next booth.
"You'll pardon me for saying so, Bobby, but you're not the best bookmaker in the world, or even in this booth."
"C'mon Goldy, I know football."
Goldy narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. "What specifically do you know about this game that leads you to think Denver will cover the spread?"
"I just feel it in my bones, that's all."
"Not enough boychik."
Bobby felt his heart sink as if into a muddy lake. Without Goldy, he was lost.
"Bobby, we've known each other a long time, haven't we?" Goldy said, his voice tinged with sadness.
"Since I was a kid. You gave me my first job."
"And later," Goldy said, "when you came home from Texas with no wife and no profession, like some shlepper…"
"You taught me how to make book. I haven't forgotten all the things you've done for me."
"It goes both ways," Goldy said. "I won't forget how you got the case dismissed when that momzer U.S. attorney indicted me, and you didn't charge me a dime."
"How could I take money from you, Goldy?"
"That's why it's hard to say no to you. I love you like you're my own son, but Bobby, you got no kop for bookmaking, no head for the numbers, the odds, the instincts you gotta have. So when you come to me like this…"
The old man raised his hands as if there was nothing he could do. They sat silently a moment, the only sounds the restaurant clatter of dishes on counters and the murmur of voices at other tables.
Suddenly, Bobby felt exhausted, the dejection pinning him to the booth, as if gravity had increased tenfold. Men on death row had brighter futures.
No, strike that, Your Honor. Men on death row have the same future.
Goldy pushed his plate aside, patted his lips with a napkin and turned to Scott, who looked as if he might cry. "I'm sorry, bubeleh," Goldy said. "You know I'd do anything for you and your Dad."
"I know, Uncle Goldy," Scott said, choking back the tears.
"So tell me if I'm wrong. Put in your two cents worth."
Scott shot a look toward his father, and Bobby tried not to show his concern, but his heart was flopping like a trout on the line.
Help me, Scott! Help me.
He'd always taught Scott to tell the truth, but just now, he prayed for a white lie. His son was a tow-headed portrait of innocence with a shred of corned beef glued to his lip by a dab of melted cheese.
"I think Denver is a good bet," Scott said, eyes on his sandwich. "The Mustangs are due for a letdown."
"Aye, the kid's not as good a liar as his father," Goldy cried out.
"No, Uncle Goldy, I mean it. We can win the bet."
That's my boy, Bobby thought. It hit him then, the realization that the feelings between them were mutual. Of course! Why hadn't he realized it before? You get back what you give. He always knew he would do anything for his son, but he was just learning what his son would do in return. A surge of emotion flooded over him like a warm, tropical wave.
Goldy replaced his spoon on his plate and studied the boy. " Nu? Tell me about it. Are you using your algebraic formula of good defense stopping good offense? Is it a particular match-up on the lines? Why won't Dallas cover?"
"Oh, they will, Uncle Goldy. Dallas is the better team, and without some intervention, they won't have a letdown. They'll win and cover the spread."
"What are you talking about?" Bobby asked, confused. "You just said Denver was a good bet."
"Intervention?" Goldy mused. "What does that mean?"
Goldy and Bobby waited. Scott leaned close over the Formica tabletop and shot glances in both directions. As far as Bobby could tell, there were no spies among the octogenarian clientele.
"To win the bet," Scott whispered, "we're gonna have to fix the game."
"What?" Bobby recoiled, astounded.
"We can fix the Super Bowl so that the Mustangs don't cover."
" Sha! Shtil kind," Goldy sputtered. "Hush child! We don't even joke about those things. Besides, it can't be done. No one's ever gotten to a referee. No league player has ever been accused of throwing a game or shaving points. You can trust the game more than your banks or politicians or any of our institutions."
"There's another way, Uncle Goldy."
The old man looked at him suspiciously. "How?"
"Dad and I know the Mustangs. I mean, we really know them."
"So?"
"We can't bribe them or make them throw the game, but we can still make them lose."
Bobby looked at his son and read his mind. Okay, so maybe he didn't really know precisely what Scott was thinking, but he knew where he was headed. It was like that with Christine. When they were on the same wave length, they finished each other's sentences. The bonding process. Two people who are so close begin to think alike. Husband and wife, father and son.
"I think I know where Scott's going with this," Bobby said, "and it might work."
"You want to fill me in?" Goldy asked.
Bobby and Scott exchanged glances. "Give it a try, Dad."
"Scott's hung around Valley Ranch and the practice fields and the hotels," Bobby said. "He's listened to the players and the coaches. I've handled their legal problems. Together, we know their weaknesses. I can tell you right now who'll be violating curfew, who'll be doing drugs, who'll be chasing women."
"And I know who's superstitious and who loses his play book and who falls asleep in squad meetings," Scott said.
"They have vulnerabilities," Bobby continued, picking up the beat. "Craig Stringer's likely to leave his best work in a cheerleader's hotel room. Nightlife Jackson could get arrested. Buckwalter Washington could gain twenty pounds at the hotel snack bar."
"So you're just gonna hope they get in trouble?" Goldy sounded skeptical.
"No, we're gonna lead them into trouble," Bobby said.
"Together, we know how to get to them," Scott added.
"You're sure about this?" Goldy's interest was rising.
"You bet," Uncle Goldy.
"Hold on second boychik. You're talking about sabotaging your grandfather's team."
"So?" Scott's face was a portrait of blue-eyed innocence.
"What Goldy means," Bobby said, "is that you've been a Mustangs fan since the day your Mom brought you home from the hospital and decorated your crib in silver and blue. You love the Mustangs."
"Sure I do, Dad, but not as much as I love you."
PART THREE
The Big Dance
28
Even Cheerleaders Get the Blues
Thursday, February 2
Three Days Before the Super Bowl
Let the madness begin. Christine Gallagher surveyed the surreal scene outside the stadium where a radio station had set up a ten-foot high heap of cow manure. A man who won a drawing-or had he lost? — was about to leap into the fetid pile of crud from a diving board in hopes of rooting out a pair pf fifty-yard line seats to the game. The bullshit would be thick inside the stadium too, she thought, as the interminable press conferences had begun.
The hoopla and hype, fueled by a media blitz, had spread across South Florida. Overhead, a plane pulled a banner advertising an all-nude Super Bowl Cruise, featuring the talented lap-dancing ladies from Club Plutonium. There were street festivals, bay cruises, blimp rides, private jets, and theme parties with rivers of bloody Marys and m
ountains of stone crabs. Outside the stadium were corporate tents for manufacturers of soft drinks, athletic shoes, muscle cars, and even a little elastic bandage that goes across the nose and is supposed to prevent snoring, a handy device in the event of a typical Super Bore of a game.
A paean to capitalism run amok, Christine thought, then chased away the heretical notion. She was, after all, the marketing director of a Super Bowl team. With contract renewals coming up for the team's official soft drink, shoes, cars, sports drinks, candy bar, bank, and phone carrier-everything but jock itch powder-a victory could boost rights fees by millions of dollars a year.
Showing her credentials to a security guard at the press gate, Christine passed a pit full of alligators and crocodiles attended to by Miccosukee Indians in colorful garb. Entering the stadium, she wondered vaguely what other rapacious reptiles she'd be dodging all week.
On the field, more than two thousand reporters from two hundred countries jostled each other and moved in little clusters, like herds of well-fed sheep, from one player. The reporters, bobbing and weaving, tried to avoid bumping their heads on hundreds of video cameras, peering like cyclops, at the Mustangs, dressed out in uniforms without pads. There was a pecking order here, Christine knew, with the largest clump of sheep surrounding number seven, the quarterback who was as quick with the quip as he was in hitting the tight end over the middle. Now, the reporters circled Craig Stringer, alternately taking notes on small pads, then looking up to ask questions, their heads bobbing like bidders at an auction.
"I know you fellas like baseball," Stringer was saying to a Japanese camera crew, "but it's an undisputed fact that football players are smarter. In baseball, they got a diamond showing them where to run, and still, they gotta have coaches at first and third base telling 'em which way to go. If not, some fool would get a hit and run all the way to the right field wall."
The Japanese interviewer dutifully nodded while others in the cluster scribbled notes.
