Rumours & Lies

by Timothy Quinlan

name escaped him at that moment, and another, well dressed, gentleman.

  “Where should I put big money chief?” the well-dressed man asked.

  “Number two Donny,” the trainer mouthed, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.

  Ford pretended that he hadn’t heard, overdoing it a bit by glancing around at a couple of horses that he had no interest in, and then finally turned and walked over to a bench in the shade. He sat back, crossed his legs, trying to appear nonchalant, and opened a racing program to the fifth race. Number two was a horse named Chocolate Bar; he was listed at the opening as a fifty to one shot. There would be plenty of money to be made if Chocolate Bar pulled off an upset; a two dollar bet, assuming the odds stayed where they were, could turn into a hundred bucks in a manner of minutes. Ford looked at the giant odds board beside the paddock; eighteen minutes until the fifth race, and Chocolate Bar was holding at around fifty to one; boy, nobody liked this horse. Ford ran inside the grandstand building, took an escalator up to the second floor, and settled into a chair facing a large bank of televisions. He needed to think this through. He sensed an opportunity.

  Ford ambled over to a pay phone, and called his best friend Sherman, who knew something about horse racing. “Sherman, Ford here. Listen, I’m at the track, and I need a little advice.”

  “You’re at the track? Who you with?”

  “I’m by myself; why?”

  “Pal, I would’ve gone with you.”

  “I know, I was off work today and I just decided at the last minute to . . . listen, don’t worry about it. I overheard something, and . . .”

  “What do you mean you overheard something,” Sherman interrupted.

  “Listen, shut up. I need to talk to you about it. What do you know about races getting fixed at Oakhill?” Ford said and glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

  “What are you talking about? What did you overhear?” Sherman asked, serious now.

  “I’m standing at the paddock, and you know that trainer who always wears the straw hat. What’s his name?”

  “Nielsen Rich?”

  “Yeah, he’s with his horse,” Ford said, “a speedy colt who’s the favourite in the fifth race, and this well dressed slick looking guy named Donny comes up to him, and asks him where to put some serious cash, and Rich tells him to put it on number two.”

  “Has the fifth race run yet?”

  “No, it’s in about sixteen minutes,” Ford said, glancing down at his watch. “This is why I’m calling. Number two is a horse called Chocolate Bar—like a fifty to one shot. What do you think?”

  “Wow. And number two isn’t Rich’s horse right?”

  “Right, Rich’s horse is the favourite.”

  “Certainly sounds like something’s up. Are you sure you heard this guy right?”

  “Yeah, Rich even looked a little uncomfortable telling the guy to bet on number two,” Ford said, and glanced around again to make sure nobody was listening to him.

  “What do you mean by uncomfortable?” Sherman asked.

  “Well, he acted like he didn’t want anyone else to hear.”

  “I guess that makes sense. If you’re involved in something illegal, you sure wouldn’t want anyone to know.”

  “But, how would it work, I mean, is everyone in on it?”

  “Wouldn’t need everyone. If I had to guess, I’d say this horse Chocolate Bar has a past that nobody knows about; maybe raced on a different continent. It’s not that hard to give a horse a new identity. Chocolate Bar is probably a decent horse, a ringer if you will, and combine that with a little help from the favorite’s jockey, and maybe one more rider and presto, you’ve got a fifty to one shot winner.”

  “Really. Should I bet it?”

  “Only, if you want to make a ton of cash,” Sherman said quickly and with a patronizing tone.

  “Could turn two bucks into a hundred pretty quick,” Ford said, not entirely sure how Sherman defined a ton of cash.

  “Two bucks? Ford, this is the chance of a lifetime. Pal, you’re betting on a sure thing.”

  The reference to a “sure thing” wasn’t lost on Ford given his penny stock experience, but he didn’t dwell on it. He and Sherman had really only become close friends since his resurrection and they didn’t often discuss his past problems; he wasn’t even sure that Sherman knew all the gory details. “What, you think I should drop like a hundred bucks?” he said, knowing now that Sherman was thinking of a larger amount.

  “Pal, I think you should try and get your hands on like ten grand,” Sherman shouted.

  “What?”

  “I’m serious, how much time left until the race?”

  Ford didn’t bother checking his watch. “About fifteen minutes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On the second floor, in front of the betting windows by a large bank of televisions,” Ford said, glancing around despite the fact that he didn’t need to.

  “Go to the last window,” Sherman said. Ford looked up at the last betting window. “There’ll be a guy there named Arnie Burton; go over to him, and tell him you had a certified check for ten grand that you were going to bring with you today, but that you forgot it at home. Tell him you want to put a ten thousand dollar bet on your credit card.”

  “Are you crazy?” Ford said, louder than he would have liked. He glanced to his right and locked eyes with an elderly lady, her brows furrowed above her glasses, her petite body nestled into a hard metal seat, five seats away from Ford. Ford smiled, and shook his head as if they were the only two sane people in the world. She gave a scolding look and returned her gaze to her racing forum.

  “Ford, they’ll just put the authorization through. They’ll probably have to take a call from your card issuer, but at least you’ll have the flexibility to pull the trigger if you want to; explain to him that you want to put the authorization through now, and that you’ll make the bet closer to post time. He’s done this before, believe me.”

  “I only have about four thousand worth of room on my card.”

  “Then four thousand it is my man.”

  “Holy smokes Sherman. If Vivian knew I was doing this she’d kill me.” Ford had been sitting and stood now.

  “You haven’t made the bet Ford, and besides, what will Vivian’s reaction be when you bring home a cheque for two hundred thousand bucks?”

  “Oh man,” Ford said and exhaled loudly.

  “Ford, this is about as risk free as you can get,” Sherman said, sounding now like a penny stock salesman.

  Sherman’s exuberance started to stir familiar emotions within Ford. As he had done when he got in trouble with the penny stocks, Ford’s focus was on the winning side of the bet. He envisioned himself with Vivian living an easier life, envisioned himself going to the bank and depositing two hundred thousand dollars, envisioned himself, full of regret, having not made the bet after Chocolate Bar won the race. The memories of the emotions he had felt having lost his wife’s trust and his entire worth were also floating around in his mind somewhere, but they couldn’t seem to push themselves to the forefront.

  Ford spotted Arnie, looked at his watch, and decided there was no harm in putting the authorization through. He reassured himself that he hadn’t actually done anything illegal, and spoke more quietly into the phone than he had before. “Let me go and put the authorization through. I’m not making the bet; I’m just going to put the credit card thing through. I’ll call you back.”

  He raced over to the betting counter and confidently introduced himself to Arnie Burton, who checked Ford’s identification, took down some other information, and then took his card and disappeared into a back office, promising to return in a moment. Ford called Sherman back.

  “The guy’s got my card.”

  “Two hundred thousand. Pal, if you’d invited me to go with you today, I’d be putting out twenty grand.”

  “Well, I didn’t Sherm, and I haven’t bet anything yet. If I lose four grand, Viv
ian and I are done; I mean there goes everything. I’ve been down this road before Sherman.”

  “Two hundred thousand bucks can solve a lot of problems Ford.”

  Somewhere in his mind, perhaps in his subconscious, Ford was disappointed in Sherman’s attitude. He wanted a friend to tell him to walk away, that it was alright to walk away from a sure thing.

  “What if the horse trips or something?” Ford said, fairly certain in hindsight that he had said something stupid.

  “How many times have you been to the track Ford?”

  “Maybe twenty.”

  “Ever seen a horse trip?”

  “No but . . .”

  “Pull the trigger Ford. How much time left?”

  Ford looked at his watch. “About eight minutes.”

  “Do you really want to be on the phone with me in ten minutes, having not made the bet, and facing the realization that you basically just threw a fifth of a million dollars away.” Whether he knew it or not, Sherman had just tapped into his best chance to sway Ford. It was the threat of overwhelming regret that Ford had trouble with. Sherman was right; how would it feel to take a fifth of a million dollars and place it into a garbage can.

  “No, but so much can go wrong,” Ford said, pleading with his friend although Sherman didn’t know it.

  “Like what?”

  “Like one of the jockeys, who isn’t involved, rides his horse around the track faster than Chocolate Bar. Chocolate Bar. Geez.” The true absurdity of what Ford was contemplating dawned on him. “I can’t believe I’m thinking about betting my life on a horse named Chocolate Bar.”

  “Pal,