Wodi pointed to one whose winglike ears were pinned back. “I like that one with the spot on her snout.”
“She’s a he, and he’s a loser,” called out an eavesdropper in a gravelly voice. “Bet him and regret him.”
Kal looked to see who’d spoken. Behind the Suertons, a figure sat cross-legged on a stripe of well-manicured grass. Wearing a light hood, she pored over an array of datapads as she sipped from a tumbler. Around her neck hung macrobinoculars, hardly necessary at this distance—and when she looked up at Kal and the Three, he realized she, too, was Heptooinian; one of the few others in Canto Bight.
The racing “me,” he supposed. No coincidences around the Lucky Three.
The woman tilted her head to look at the fathier Wodi had mentioned. “That’s Time for Flatcakes, out of Kreegah.”
“It’s always time for flatcakes,” Wodi said, hypnotized by the creature.
“I want flatcakes,” Kal mumbled, feeling hungry. He remembered where he was. “We shouldn’t bet him?”
“No wins, no places, no shows,” the woman said without looking at her notes. “Completely deaf and barely needs the blinders. You’d win more betting that the stable master could run around the track on his hands.”
Dodi looked back. “They’ll let us bet on that?”
“No, sweetheart. It’s an expression.”
Kal sighed, and the brothers went back to watching. It was clear they were going to bet based on something silly, and given the current stakes he wasn’t sure if he could handle that. He turned back to the woman—and, no longer half blinded by the track’s lights, he realized he recognized her.
“You work at the casino. Currency exchange.”
“Guilty,” she said, pulling back her hood to expose silver hair. Her name was Joris, he recalled; she reminded him of his grandmother, long gone. “I can only afford to play the red-eyes,” she said. “I sleep a few hours and get up early before work.”
“Devotion.” Seeing that the post parade had stalled—Time for Flatcakes had decided that sideways was the way to go—Kal gestured to the ground beside Joris. “May I?”
“Luxury seats, no waiting.”
Kal’s joints cracked as he sat, happy for relief from the brothers’ frenetic pace.
“Kick your shoes off,” she said, noticing his expression. “This isn’t the elite balcony at this hour.”
He did exactly as she said. Dress shoes doffed, he sat back and let his stocking feet rub against the softest grass he’d ever touched with his hands. “Kaljach Sonmi,” he said. “My friends and I need a sure bet.”
“Let me guess. You need to double up by sunrise.”
“Actually, closer to a factor of twenty.” He smiled weakly. “Is that possible?”
“Oh, I double up three times a day.” Joris rolled her eyes at him. “You work the comedy club here?”
“Look, I’m not insane. I know probabilities, and that systems only work over the long term. But I’m guessing you know nuances to this game that would take fifty years—”
“Watch it.”
“—for anyone else to learn,” he said, rescuing himself. “People like you make their money off people like me.”
“Not nearly enough,” she said, drinking from her tumbler.
Thodi looked back and said tartly, “If you know so much, I’d think you’d be rich.”
“I make enough to keep coming back,” she said. “What would I do if I hit big? I’m already in Canto Bight.”
Kal nodded with recognition. He respected grinders with longevity, whatever the game. “I’m just asking—begging—you to tell me anything. Because my friends are likely to bet because they like the color of the jockey’s hat, and at the stakes I need I’d feel a lot more comfortable knowing something.”
She studied him, trying to decide what to make of him. “Hats aren’t the worst system I’ve heard of.”
At the railing, Thodi slapped Dodi’s arm. “Hear that? I told you I was right!”
Kal’s breath quickened. “This race, which one do you like?”
She clicked her tongue. “None of them.”
“None?”
“That’s why I’m keeping such a laser focus on the parade, dear.” She waved dismissively. “These are claimers.”
Kal had heard the term. “What’s that?”
She snickered. “Sure you aren’t just off the shuttle?”
“Three years in the card room and a death mark in three hours,” he said with a straight face. “Claimers?”
She seemed to decide he was entertaining. “Okay,” she said, passing him one of her datapads. Kal beckoned for the brothers to gather behind him.
“I don’t want to get grass on my trousers,” Wodi said.
“You were in the fountain earlier,” Kal said. “Get over here.”
“What’s all that stuff?” Dodi asked, kneeling with the others to peer over Kal’s shoulder.
“It’s research,” Thodi said, sniffing with disdain. “Some people trust it.”
Dodi nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. It’s what the bigwigs do.”
“Ah,” Wodi said. “How big are our wigs?”
The screen was filled with numbers and letters Kal was familiar with—but not in any combination that looked like a rational language to him. “You were saying, Joris?”
“See that icon by the race number? This is a claiming race, which means the fathier can be bought before the race starts.”
“Bought?” Kal asked. “By whom?”
“By anyone who meets the posted price. I think this one’s forty thousand.”
“How interesting!” Dodi said. He turned to his brothers. “Hear that?”
Kal was confused. “I don’t get it. What’s the idea?”
“It keeps the owners from putting really good animals in the race,” Joris said. “If a fathier is truly better than the ones it’s classed with, someone will recognize that and buy it out from under them.”
Kal nodded. “It makes sure everything’s even.”
“At this hour, it makes sure everything’s junk. How much faith can you have in an animal you’d be willing to lose? But forty thousand Cantocoins and you’re an owner.”
Kal pored over the racing form—and looked at the live odds updates. “These odds are mostly the same.”
“That’s a sign that nobody betting knows anything,” Joris said. “The smart money doesn’t know where to go. Fathier racing is pari-mutuel—”
Behind Kal, Thodi and Wodi rose and walked away, while Dodi yawned loudly.
“Simpler,” Kal said.
“Usually I sit here trying to find the best value. A fathier that’s better than its odds,” Joris said. She glanced at one of her devices. “But the only consensus on this race is that your Number Three, who is currently holding up traffic out there by trying to lick the steward, is bound for life as a private citizen.”
Ninety-nine to one. Kal scrolled past it. No time for losers now. “You don’t see anything?”
Joris sighed and skimmed her screen. “I guess I’d play the Six.”
Kal read the names beside the numbers—and couldn’t believe his eyes. “Vermilion.”
Dodi snapped awake. “Vermilion Six was our wild card!” He shook Kal’s arm. “We have to bet it, Kal. It was lucky earlier.”
“Lucky for you, not for me.” He hated to even to consider it. “These odds to win don’t pay much.”
“I wouldn’t bet it to win,” Joris said. “To show, maybe. With a blaster to my head.”
“Just a top-three finish?” The odds Kal saw disappointed him. “That pays even less.” He returned her datapad. “Nothing better?”
“I’d be surprised if any of these things completes the oval without needing the track coroner.” Joris began collecting her gear. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need some more caf. I still have to work this morning.”
This morning. The words were a punch in his empty gut. Kal had known the track was a mistake. Too long bet
ween races—and as a purely mathematical matter, there was nothing he could bet on that would give him the odds he needed.
Joris stood, and he and Dodi rose to thank her. Kal started looking for his shoes on the grass when he noticed something else.
“Wait a second,” he said, feeling for his belt. “Where’s my pouch?” He looked down. His shoes were there, but nothing else.
“Lose something?” Joris asked. She’d been sitting on his right; the pouch had been on his left hip.
“My money.”
“Most people say that after they bet.”
Kal stooped over and looked around on the ground. Nothing.
“We have a change,” blared the public address system, “regarding the Number Three in the thirteenth.”
“That will be them scratching your Flatcakes friend,” Joris said, “on grounds of causing offense to the great sport of fathier racing.”
“Time for Flatcakes, sired by Kreegah, has just been purchased from the Blumba Stables and Genetic Research Corporation.”
“Wait a minute,” Kal said, looking one direction after another while the announcer paused. “Dodi, where are your brothers?”
The announcer paused. “New owner: Kaljach Sonmi!”
KAL SPRINTED ALL THE WAY into the clubhouse before he realized his money wasn’t the only thing he was missing.
“Sir, where are your shoes?” asked the female Ithorian behind the information desk. “I hesitate to ask, but even at this hour, there are certain expectations—”
“Do you wear shoes?”
The hammer-headed creature was taken aback. “Uh…no. I can’t.”
Kal spun and began pointing around the betting hall. “Look at all the people here that don’t wear shoes. You’re not the only one.”
“I see your point, sir.”
“Then skip the dress code and tell me why they just called my name over the public address system!”
“Was…it about lost shoes?” she asked tentatively.
“They said I bought a fathier!”
“Congratulations, sir. It’s a wonderful sport. I’m sure you’ll enjoy—”
He let loose an anguished wail that both silenced and unnerved the attendant.
“Kal, are you all right?” Dodi called out.
Kal looked to his left and saw that Dodi was standing at a betting window. “Can you stop for even a moment?” Kal called out. “That’s not the information desk!”
Looking guilty, Dodi pocketed something and joined Kal. “No need to shout.”
Now they start worrying about disrupting things? Kal looked away to hide his expression—and saw Thodi and Wodi enter from down a staircase. Wodi bubbled with glee. “Did you hear, Kal?”
“I heard. I heard!” He stepped in front of the pair. “Why did you do it?”
“What?” Wodi said.
“The fathier! You stole my money and bought the fathier with it.”
Thodi and Wodi looked at each other. Both seemed baffled. “We didn’t steal anything, Kal,” Thodi said. He passed Kal his empty pouch—and a sheet of flimsiplast. “Here’s your title and receipt, see?”
Kal stared at it, seeing but not understanding.
“We did what you wanted,” Wodi said.
“What are you talking about?”
“You said ‘I want Flatcakes,’ ” Thodi said. “That lady had said we could buy him. Wodi suggested we could help you out.”
“I—” Kal went slack-jawed. “I said I wanted flatcakes, the food!”
Thodi looked at Wodi. “How were we to know that?” Thodi asked.
“I don’t think you can get flatcakes at this hour,” Wodi said. “I’ve tried.”
“Kal,” Dodi offered, “maybe you could have been more specific,”
“Specific?” Kal grabbed the sides of his head. “Why should I need to tell people I don’t want to buy a fathier?” He looked at the document. ALL SALES FINAL, it read. “Did you at least get any change?”
Thodi smiled. “You had exactly the right amount. They even waived the licensing fee. They seem to do these quick transactions all the time.”
Lucky me, Kal thought.
Dodi tugged at his sleeve. “Don’t you see?” he said. “You don’t need any money now. You don’t have to bet. When Time for Flatcakes wins, his owner wins the purse.” He pointed to a display. “For the thirteenth, it’s four hundred thousand. Imagine winning that!”
For a heartbeat, Kal did—before remembering which fathier it was that he now owned. Kal put his arm around Dodi’s shoulder and directed him to the other side of the display, where the betting line was. “He’s ninety-nine to one, Dodi. There is no ‘when he wins.’ It’s just going to be me, broke, and owning a half-blind fathier!”
Dodi seemed to reach some realization—and then he looked to his brothers. “We need to fix this, fellows.”
Thodi shrugged—and Wodi wore a blank expression, still not understanding he’d done anything wrong. “What do you want us to do?”
“And they’re in the paddock, saddling up at last for the thirteenth,” the announcer said. “Ten minutes to post time. Place your bets.”
Kal stayed focused on the display with the line—and closed his eyes to think for a moment. When he opened them, he addressed the others. “Bet him.”
Dodi looked at him puzzled. “Bet who?”
“Bet the Three. Bet Time for Flatcakes—with your own money,” Kal said emphatically. “Bet the daylights out of him.”
Dodi’s eyes narrowed. “Right.” He headed to the betting window he’d been at before.
Thodi and Wodi quickly joined him, the latter looking more confused than usual. “Kal, you just said he couldn’t win.”
“But he will win, because you’re betting on him. You’re the Lucky Three!”
Thodi’s brow furrowed, and he crossed his arms. “I don’t mind you betting what we bet, Kal, but we don’t give loans. That’s not how Mother raised us.”
“I’d never argue with your mother.” Amid his ongoing panic, Kal had made a calculation. He didn’t need to bet so long as Time for Flatcakes won. And if the Lucky Three were fully behind the fathier, it was like rolling funny dice—with no Jedi Knight around to stare him down.
Kal stepped back and watched the big display—where he saw the Number Three’s odds change rapidly, improving from ninety-nine to one to eighty, then fifty, then finally thirty-three to one.
The Suertons hurried to his side, each holding fistfuls of transparent flimsiplast bet vouchers in their hands. “We did it, Kal!” Wodi said.
Kal was still dazzled by the board. Time for Flatcakes remained a long shot, but their bets had caused the odds of the rest of the field to worsen, with no clear favorite evident. “Just how much did you put down?
“A lot,” Thodi said. “Most of what we’ve won today.”
“I bet him in every combination they let me,” Wodi said. “Exacta, perfecta, superfecta, pluperfecta, hyperfecta!”
“I don’t think some of those are things, Wodi,” Thodi said.
“It was enough,” Dodi said. “More than enough. You’re behind the fathier, Kal, and we’re behind you.”
Kal exhaled—and breathed normally for the first time in a while. He’d struggled with his doubts, but now he was all in on the brothers’ luck. He didn’t know how to feel—and it was exhilarating.
“Five minutes to post.”
“Let’s go!”
Kal and the brothers hurried through the parlor toward the grandstand. Along the way, he saw Joris standing nearby with her freshly filled tumbler, gawking at the changes on her datapad. “What fool put all the action on the Number Three?”
“They’re not fools,” Kal said as he and the trio rushed by. “They’re my friends.” He looked back at her and winked. “And I’m the fathier’s owner!”
He didn’t wait to see her reaction.
THE SECOND KAL STEPPED OUT from the clubhouse level onto the grandstand, the attendant he’d spoken wit
h earlier appeared beside him.
“If this is about the shoes, I’ll find them after the race.”
“Oh, no,” the Ithorian said. She pointed up and to the left. “Master Sonmi, you’re entitled to view the race from the owners’ boxes.”
Dodi looked to him. “My brothers like to watch from the bottom row. Do you want me with you?”
“No!” Kal burst out. Then, more calmly, “No, you should be with your brothers.” If his theory—if you could even have a theory about luck—still held, the three of them together would be for the best. “Root for Flatcakes.”
Dodi waved and followed his kin down the steps, while Kal turned and began ascending. He’d gone only a few meters when someone rose to greet him.
“Sounds like you’ve been busy,” Orisha Okum said. She looked awake, even for this hour—and was newly dressed in a sharp red cloak and boots, with a beret over her pulled-back hair. “I heard the announcement. You bought a fathier?” She laughed.
“You’ll laugh harder when you find out which one.”
“I was sent here to escort you somewhere, but you’re going that direction anyway. The box we want is all the way at the end.” She looked down at his feet. “Did you lose your shoes?”
“Life’s a party.”
The box was at the far upper left corner of the loge, beyond which there was a break in the grandstand for vehicle and equipment entry. Scaling the steps along the wall, he saw workers over the side, toiling in a line of maintenance pits far below. Huge cables ran in and out of the chasms. When races ran nonstop, maintenance at this hour seemed the least intrusive.
Kal gulped as he reached the box and its open gate. He didn’t expect that Big Sturg Ganna would be watching from any kind of seats at this deathly hour, but nothing surprised him anymore.
“Good evening, Master Sonmi,” called out a voice with a refined accent. “Please join us.”
Kal stepped through the aperture and saw two rows of seats in the box. At the bottom sat his two Wookiee watchers from earlier. Behind them, alone, sat a white-haired Nimbanel in a business suit. When Kal entered, the whisker-faced creature put down the datapad he was figuring on and rose. “Greetings. I am Mosep Binneed. We spoke when our association began.”
Canto Bight Page 25