Rumours & Lies

by Timothy Quinlan

you’re just trying to talk yourself out of it now. Don’t blow this,” Sherman said, a frantic edge to his voice.

  Arnie Burton came out of the back office and gave Ford a thumbs up. “You’re good for four grand. Give us the word and we’ll place a bet for you,” he shouted.

  “Thank you. Give me a couple of minutes please,” Ford said, and waved.

  “There you go Ford; sounds like you’re ready to go. Keep an eye on the clock Pal; you don’t want to get locked out of two hundred thousand smackers.”

  “There’s five minutes left Sherman. I’ve got lots of time,” Ford said, running a hand through his hair and exhaling slowly.

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “Maybe I should just go and find Nielsen Rich and plain out ask him if something is going on,” Ford said, again sensing that perhaps he had uttered something stupid.

  “Oh, yeah that’s a great idea. I’m sure he’d fully admit to you that he was involved in an illegal activity such as fixing races. Have you lost your mind? They’d probably send someone to your house to assassinate you.”

  “But if I lay four grand on this, isn’t someone going to be suspicious?”

  “Pal, people make crazy big bets every day. Most are losing bets; a couple hit it big. Besides, you haven’t done anything wrong. All you did was stand by the paddock, and mind your own business. There’s no crime in overhearing something. You win big, and it’ll be written off to crazy luck.”

  “I don’t think I can do it Sherm,” Ford said, taking a deep breath. He was having trouble with his breathing now, and his heart seemed to be racing.

  “Ford, listen to me. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Pull the trigger man.” Sherman was getting excited now.

  “If it was just me Sherm, I’d do it, but my life is not that simple . . . it’s just more complicated than I can explain.”

  “If you deposit two hundred thousand dollars in your and Vivian’s bank account, you’ll have a super marriage. I mean a super duper marriage and the honeymoon will be pretty good as well. Think about the smile on Vivian’s face. Think about how “I don’t think I can do it Sherm,” Ford said again, anticipating his friend’s disappointment.

  “Think about how much easier life would be for both of you. For the kids you’ll have. Don’t blow this Ford. Step up to the plate my man.”

  Ford felt nauseous and his mouth was dry, but there wasn’t enough time to get a drink. He and Vivian didn’t lead a luxurious existence by any means. They got by, but the bills always seemed to outpace the money coming in, and they could never quite get ahead of the game. Ford had shared all the details about his past problems with her and she had been supportive—she truly seemed to love him and was content grinding away with him. The twenty bucks he’d drop at the track once a month created a small tinge of guilt although it was truly his only self centered extravagance, but to throw four thousand dollars in the garbage would be beyond justification. He’d never be able to tell Vivian; it’d take them months to dig out of a hole like that. But he had heard something. Had heard the trainer, whose name he again couldn’t remember, conspiring with the well dressed guy named Donny. Was there a winning lottery ticket sitting in front of him, waiting to be picked up?

  “How much time left?” Sherman asked, snapping Ford out of his thoughts.

  Ford looked to the digital clock on the wall on the pillar beside him, needing a little more accuracy. “Two minutes.”

  “Ford, give Arnie the word man; tell him you’re going to put four grand down on Chocolate Bar. You need to do it now. This is the moment of truth Ford.”

  Ford took a deep breath, closed his eyes and thought about his ex-wife, his first life, the indignity of it all, the financial struggles he and Vivian faced, the children they hoped to have, and then in a moment of clarity, he knew exactly what to do. He turned to Arnie, who was waiting on him. “Nothing from me, no bet.”

  “Ahhh, you broke my heart Ford,” Sherman said into his ear.The betting windows closed, and a bell went off signaling the start of the race. Ford stayed on the phone with Sherman, but glanced up at the monitor above his head, unsure of whether he actually wanted to watch the race. He took his program out of his pocket and turned to the next race; the sixth.

  After a couple of minutes of perusing the horses in the sixth race, Ford turned his attention back to Sherman. “Well Sherman, looks like I have good news and bad news.”

  “Give me the good news first pal,” Sherman said softly, his spirit broken.

  “‘Where should I put big money?’ is what the slick looking guy named Donny had said Sherm.”

  “So what?”

  “Big Money is a horse in the sixth race, his trainer is Donny Edmunds. Something tells me, Big Money is in the second stall in the paddock right now.”

  “Pal, what are you talking about?”

  “‘Where should I put the horse’ is what Donny Edmunds was asking. Number two was a reference to a stall not to Chocolate Bar.”

  “Oh boy Ford, you need to be careful my man, you almost blew four grand. What’s the bad news?”

  Ford looked up at the monitor above his head. “Chocolate Bar just won the fifth race at Oakhill.”

  The Old Man and His Daughter

  An old man and his daughter made their way to their regular table, in their regular restaurant. He ambled slowly, while she moved more quickly and tried to hide her impatience. They sat, silent, each contemplating their own agenda. The old man had the advantage; he knew hers, she had no idea of his.

  Harry Pearl’s hand trembled uncontrollably as he tried to move it towards the sugar bowl, so he returned it to the safety of the table, and wondered who had seen. God, he hated getting old, and God he hated tea. Not because the taste did anything dramatic to his taste buds, but rather because he couldn’t sweeten it; he was unable to make his aged hand extend to the sugar bowl in front of him, and return with a significant number of crystals. And this angered him to no end. His daughter was aware of his dilemma; she thought about helping, paused to consider the pending argument which would take full flight, and finally gave in to her common sense. She reached out and helped. Harry pursed his lips, looked off into space at nothing in particular, and sighed. He hated getting old.

  Harry was eighty-four, a fact which he acknowledged only rarely and with stubborn reluctance. It was with joy and more than a hint of pride that he often acknowledged that he was a thirty year veteran of the Parliament of Canada, and currently, while not sitting in the House of Commons or the Senate, was gainfully employed as a special advisor to the Prime Minister. His daughter Emma, Harry was afraid, was part of a growing faction that believed his best years were behind him; that he’d lost his edge. Perhaps even that senility haunted his mind. Despite this, Harry hadn’t disowned her, and actually cherished her occasional company.

  They made it a tradition to meet every three months for lunch at a restaurant right in Ottawa. It was a cozy little place located within a five minute drive from Parliament Hill, and was frequented by many in Harry’s line of work. On this day, it was only going to be dessert and a coffee. The sugar incident was undoubtedly going to touch off a conversation that they had had many times.

  “Dad, there’s no shame in needing a bit of help,” Emma said, knowing that this would heat up the conversation but wanting her father to address her concerns.

  “Why did you do that? My doctor has me off sugar,” Harry lied.

  “Why exactly has your doctor got you off sugar?” she asked, knowing he had no answer. He gave her a look that suggested she not challenge his lies. “Dad, you’re eighty-four, and have had two great careers; not many people can say that. Sometimes I think you forget that you had a wonderful career teaching before you even got into politics.”

  Harry remained silent.

  “Maybe it’s time to slow down, to think about retiring. Just think about it. Whenever the maximum age debate comes up, I can’t help but feel that they’re talking about you personally.
I know you don’t sit in the Senate anymore but do you really think you’re helping the Prime Minister as an advisor. You can’t be adding much value at this point dad.”

  Her words didn’t stun Harry as they might have a father unused to taking such abuse from an offspring—he’d heard it all before, and her earlier thought about the two careers offered little solace. His career teaching science had been boring, and he barely remembered it; although he didn’t dare mention this for at his age you weren’t given any room with respect to memory. Misplace your keys, and eyes begin to roll, and knowing facial expressions soon follow. Expressions that imply uselessness and senility. Harry was very aware of these subtle expressions and fully understood the flawed logic that zipped through the tiny brains behind the eyes that delivered these messages. He went through life now communicating at a snail’s pace, scrutinizing every word before he let it leave his mouth. Ironically this probably compounded the perceptions.

  “Emma, politics isn’t exactly rigorous; we don’t slide down a fire pole into the chamber; we don’t lift heavy boxes, and we make decisions by voting not arm wrestling. As long as I can hear, see, speak and think, I can help the Prime Minister, and to be honest, only one of the first three is probably necessary.

  His daughter gave him a look that suggested that she thought his comment was completely absurd. “You can rule out