Bullet Work

by Steve O'Brien

  She was able to get a position in the secretarial pool at the Central Intelligence Agency. It sounded cooler than it was. “The Firm,” as it was known in the D.C. area, had prestige and allure as a place of intrigue and mystery. For his mom it was just a job. She worked hard and made plenty of friends, but being a single mom and working full-time was a constant drain on her.

  Fortunately, his mom’s sister, Frannie, bought a house in the same neighborhood. They used to joke about how “lucky” they were to find their dream home two blocks away. Dan eventually knew better. Frannie and Van weren’t wealthy, but Frannie knew his mom would need the help, so they moved nearby. That way, Dan could go to Frannie and Van’s after school, have a home-cooked meal, and do school work while his mom kept up her hours at work.

  Frannie and Van didn’t have kids. So despite losing his dad, Dan ended up with a family and a half. Van taught him how to throw a football, how to ride a bike, how to deal with bullies, and, a few years later, how to pick the ponies.

  Chapter 7

  A few steps past the kiosk where he bought his program, Dan spotted the boy with the limp and tattered ball cap sitting on the top railing of the whitewashed fence surrounding the paddock. From where the boy was sitting, he could see the entire paddock and be near the horses as they departed through the tunnel to the front of the racetrack.

  The incident from Crok’s kitchen the previous day haunted Dan, and the memory created an instant buzz kill for his opening day euphoria. His failure to assist the boy was one thing, but the behavior by the three men was barbaric. What caused them to pick on someone as small and unimposing as the boy with the limp? Sure, he was different, but his problem was that he was also weak.

  Jungle animals don’t attack the different; they attack the weak. They also don’t attack a gathering; they attack loners.

  Being different, weak, and alone, the boy would continue to be an easy target for those punks. The backside was a society within a society. It was unforgiving. It was the Wild West.

  Paranoia and greed drove action. Respect was carved from dominance. Jealousy was borne from fear. Oddly, though, the men feared the boy. If he could do this job well, what did it say about them? Better to run him off. So, they lashed out in fear. By minimizing the boy, they elevated themselves. It was natural selection. If left unabated, it would run its logical course.

  Dan couldn’t erase what had happened the day before, but just maybe he could alter the landscape of the jungle.

  He tapped the boy on the leg. “Hey, how you doing?”

  The boy didn’t look at him, just said, “Fine” in a quiet voice, like he wasn’t sure anyone was actually talking to him.

  “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 rig
ht 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.

  Dan could only recall Lennie raising his voice one time, but he could be forgiven for that as Lennie had a 35-1 shot keyed in a superfecta that paid $466,000. Other than that one time, Dan had never seen Lennie shout, root his horse on, or make a scene. He was the consummate thoroughbred gambler.

  “They turn up the backside.… Jasper June leads by two, Hollerin Hal, My Guy, and Minion’s Gate.… Topic A is fifth…three back to YaYa Dime, Total Energy, Billie’s Dream, Anacka…two more back to Bishon and Vindicate trails…half mile in forty-six and two.…”

  “Stay right there, seven.” Milton was shaking the remaining bite of his hotdog toward the track. “No passing zone, baby. Stay right there.”

  “That Hollerin Hal is hanging right with them,” Lennie stated. “Jock’s working too hard on the seven. TP, here comes your boy.”

  “Out of the turn and into the stretch Jasper June has led every step of the way. Hollerin Hal starts to inch closer on the outside.… Minion’s Gate starting to make a move…and Vindicate on the extreme outside is closing fast.…”

  Milton could sense that Jasper June was losing steam. “Damn it, hit that horse, c’mon.”

  Dan jumped to his feet. Hollerin Hal was going to do it. He was clearly going to hit the board, but the one horse was moving quickly.

  “Danny boy may have a winner,” Lennie said.

  “Hollerin Hal surges to the lead.… Jasper June trying to hold on…Vindicate in the middle of the track…at the wire it’s Hollerin Hal, Vindicate second, Jasper June holds third and Minion’s Gate fourth.”

  Lennie slapped TP on the shoulder. “Hey Teep, your boy almost got there.”