by Mike Ramon
A MODEST WAGER
“So this guy I used to know,” Jimmy said. “He used to go around the neighborhood, right? And he would look for dogs that were sort of just roamin’ around, dogs with no leash, right?”
Marcus was only half listening; the bulk of his attention was fixed on the small TV set sitting atop a crude table made up if a couple cinderblocks and some rough boards. They were in the back of Donnelly’s , a bar that doubled as a betting parlor; the betting parlor part wasn’t strictly legal, which is why Jerry Donnelly insisted that any business to do with gambling be done in the back room, away from the prying eyes of respectable folks. Marcus, a longtime patron of Donnelly’s, had yet to see any of these so-called respectable folks Donnelly seemed so protective of. It was a place that only boozers and losers chose to frequent.
“And then he would snatch ‘em,” Jimmy continued. “Then he would wait. A few days would go by, and after hearing little Timmy and darling Tammy crying about their little lost doggy for a coupla days, mommy and daddy would print out some fliers, and they’d start putting them up all over the neighborhood. If they’re offering a reward, he returns the pooch and says that he found it wanderin’ around. Kinda genius, ain’t it? I mean, sure the reward was never too big, but it’s a quick way to make some spendin’ money. Enough to get a case of beer, maybe take the little lady to a steakhouse. What do you think?”
“What do I think about what?” Marcus asks.
“About what? About the guy I used to know who heisted dogs. Weren’t you listenin’ to a thing I said?”
“What did he do when they didn’t offer no reward?” Tony cut in, having been drawn in by Jimmy’s story of the dognapper.
Jimmy turned his attention to Tony, a small relief to Marcus, who didn’t give much of a holy hell about anything other than the ballgame on the tube right about then.
“Whuzzat?” Jimmy slurred.
“What if there weren’t no reward?” Tony said. “What did he do with the dogs then?”
“How the hell should I know?”
It was the bottom of the ninth, and Derek Jeter was up to bat. He was facing the arm of Joaquin Benoit, the closer for Detroit. The Yanks were down 4-6, with two outs. Marcus wasn’t from New York, had never been to New York, and would most likely never go there. He didn’t care about the Yankees any more than he did about some dog shit stuck to the bottom of his shoe, but he had wanted to make some money, and the Yanks had seemed like a smart bet. They had been on fire the past few weeks, while the Tigers had been cold. Now New York was just one out away from losing him fifty bucks.
“I’m gonna get another beer. You want one?” Jimmy asked.
“Nah, I’m good,” Marcus answered.
Jimmy got up and disappeared through the door that would take him into the main part of the bar, where the respectable folks supposedly were. On the TV Jeter caught a fastball and knocked it out in a line drive. He hauled ass to first, considered trying for second, then evidently thought better of it and stayed at first. Marcus raised up out of his seat a little, his heart pumping just a bit faster. He managed to calm himself down, reminding himself of all the times before when he had allowed himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, his luck would turn, only to be disappointed.
Next up to bat was Curtis Granderson, the center fielder. He was oh for three at bat so far; his bat was asleep, and Marcus wasn’t holding out much hope. Benoit let loose with the first pitch, a curveball that broke way outside. Ball one. Benoit took his time with the second pitch, finally throwing a fastball, low and inside. Granderson caught it, sending it into the near outfield. He hustled to first, just beating the throw from Brennan Boesch, while Jeter took his place safely at second. Now there were two runners on base, with A-Rod coming up to bat.
Jimmy reappeared, sitting down next to Marcus and sipping his beer. Marcus just hoped the man could keep his trap shut and let him concentrate on the game. Fifty bucks was nothing to sneeze at, considering the economy and all.
The first pitch to Rodriguez was high and outside; he tipped it, and it went foul. Strike one. The second pitch came in low and fast, and A-Rod pulled back, letting the pitch go by. The umpire called it a strike. Rodriguez didn’t look too happy with the call, and Marcus sure as shit wasn’t happy with it; it had definitely come in over the plate too low. Rodriguez stepped out of the batter’s box for a moment, adjusted his helmet, and stepped back in, a determined look now on his face.
The next pitch was a slider, one of Benoit’s signature pitches, but it arrived at the plate lazy and dragging, and when A-Rod swung at it, it looked like he was playing tee ball. The contact between the ball and the bat sounded like a pistol shot, and the ball rocketed away. The view changed to a wide shot, with the camera following the ball as it sailed through the night air, getting lost momentarily in the stadium lights. Marcus stood up, his breath caught in his throat as the ball flew on. For a moment it looked like it was too far to the right, as if it were going to come down foul. But somehow, some way, it stayed fair, and the crowd in the stadium went wild. In the back room of Donnelly’s Marcus went wild, too, letting out a yip and jumping higher than even he would have thought possible.
“God damn!” he yelled.
“Christ Almighty, Mark-o; it ain’t like you won the Powerball or somethin’,” Jimmy said.
But it was like that to Marcus, it was like he won the Powerball. He went on celebrating, and soon his mirth caught on, and the rest of the riffraff occupying the back room began celebrating with him, those who had won, those who had lost, and those who hadn’t bet a single red cent. They were loud and raucous, and they just didn’t give a shit. Out in the bar, where there were no respectable folks to be seen nor heard from, nobody took any notice of the commotion.