by John McEvoy
That was a dozen years earlier, and The Fount had never regretted his decision. So proficient had he proved to be at picking winners that the Delano Tower management set up a special private room complete with television sets and his own personal mutuel clerk. Because the Vegas casinos no longer operated as independent bookies handling horses races, having chosen to send all monies bet with them into the common pools at the racetracks, the casino managers loved all horse bettors, winners or losers, since—like the racetracks—they received a percentage of each dollar bet. The bettors were all competing against each other, not against the casinos, which simply provided the mechanism for their action while taking a nice layer of cream directly off the top. The bigger the bettor, the larger the casino’s total share. Since The Fount bet thousands of dollars each day, the owners of the Delano Towers treated him royally. The fact that he had chosen to set up shop at their place gave them a healthy publicity boost among the knowing players who trekked to, or lived in, what author Tom Wolfe once termed “middle-class America’s Versailles.”
With his betting research laid out on the poolside table, The Fount sipped at his margarita. Then he sat back in his chair for a few moments, relishing the feel of the morning sun on his face, the challenge of the day to come. He was a happy man.
When his cell phone rang a few minutes later, The Fount checked its caller ID. Clicking on the phone he said, “Matt, my man. What’s up?”
Matt O’Connor replied, “I’ve got one for you. Ready? Baseball trivia. Who was the only man to die as a result of an injury suffered in a major league baseball game?”
Said The Fount dismissively, “Are you kidding me? Ray Chapman, hit in the head by a fastball. August 16, 1920. He was a shortstop for the Cleveland Indians.”
Matt said, “I’m not done yet. Who threw the pitch that killed Chapman?”
The Fount sighed again. “Carl Mays. Come on, Matt, who do you think you’re dealing with here?”
“I’m not done,” Matt repeated. “After poor Chapman was carted off the field, Mr. Smart Guy, who did they put in the game to run for him?”
The Fount smiled appreciatively before saying, “Not bad. Not bad. Harry Lunte ran for Chapman. How’s that?”
“You son of a gun,” Matt said admiringly.
“Now,” Matt continued, “let’s talk about why I’m calling. I need to come and see you for some advice and counsel.”
“I’ll vacuum the welcome mat, Matt. Are you bringing Maggie?”
“Nobody—not even me, whom she justifiably adores and reveres—brings Ms. Maggie Collins anywhere. I invited her to accompany me. She declined—she’s got a string of horses to train.”
“So I’ll vacuum half the welcome mat. How long you staying?”
“One day—most of which I need to spend with you.”
“You can use the guest bedroom at Chez Zimmer. I hope you’ve got some good Chi Town stories for me.”
***
Matt had first met Dave Zimmer at a Las Vegas handicapping “world championship” that he was covering for the Racing Daily in the summer of 2000.
Not being involved as a contestant, Matt found himself bored in this sea of seriousness: hundreds of dedicated horse players lured from all over the country by the chance at a $100,000 contest winner’s share. By the end of the first day, as Matt told Maggie on the phone that night, he was “convinced they could run J-Lo naked up and down the aisles here and these guys wouldn’t take their eyes off the fifth at Far Grounds.”
After three days the contest winner was declared: Dave Zimmer, aka The Fount. Matt’s post-contest interview with Zimmer had gotten off to a rocky start. The two men were in the casino’s private hospitality room. A waitress asked for their drink orders.
“Jack Daniels on the rocks with a splash,” Matt answered.
Zimmer said, “I’ll have a Daniels and Coke.”
Matt’s distaste for The Fount’s drink order was evident. “Daniels and Coke,” he snapped. “That’s a disgrace. Like mixing Moet champagne and Mountain Dew.”
The Fount’s face flushed. “I’m not the only guy who likes Daniels and Coke,” he said defensively. “I first heard about it when I was reading a magazine article about Roy Hofheinz, the guy who built the Astrodome. He drank Daniels and Coke.”
Matt said, “I don’t care if Roy Hofheinz, or Roy Rogers, or Trigger drank that mix. It’s crap. It’s a desecration.
“This,” he continued, tapping his half-empty glass, “is booze that deserves respect.” He took a long, respectful swallow.
“You ever hear of Bing Crosby’s bandleader?” Matt continued. “Phil Harris? A major league drinker.”
“Married to Alice Faye,” The Fount shot back. “My mother was a big fan of hers.”
“Right. Now, I’m going to tell you a story about this good bourbon. One time Crosby had a concert date in New Orleans. The local paper sent out a rookie feature writer, a young woman, recent j-school grad, to interview him in his hotel suite. It goes well—Crosby’s shot a good round of golf that morning, he’s in a fine mood. As the interview concludes and the young reporter is preparing to leave, she says, ‘By the way, Mr. Crosby, where is Mr. Harris? I understand he’s not in town yet.’
“‘True, true,’ says Crosby, playing it straight. “‘Phil can’t get here until tomorrow. Coming down from New York, he made a little detour into Tennessee. Said he had something very important to do there.’
“Naturally, the reporter’s curiosity is piqued. ‘That’s interesting,’ she says, ‘do you have any idea what he was doing in Tennessee?’
“‘Oh, yes, my dear,’ says Crosby, ‘I know exactly what Phil was doing in Tennessee. He went to Lynchburg—to lay a wreath on Jack Daniels’ grave.’
“This poor girl bought this fable,” Matt laughed. “It got right past her editor and was in the paper the next day. And even though what Crosby said Harris was doing was apocryphal, it emphasizes my previous point—Jack Daniels deserves to be treated with utmost respect. Not with Coke.” He emptied his glass for emphasis.
“Why are you taking up my time with this?” said The Fount impatiently. “What do you want?”
“I want your story for my paper—your background, how you got started handicapping horses, your lifestyle. But first I’ve got to ask you something else. My paper carries countless tout ads from people offering to sell their selections for money. As sharp as you must be—you know, to win a contest like this—why haven’t you started your own tout service?”
The Fount clunked his empty glass down on the table. “Why,” he asked, “should I tell anybody what I know when I’m the only one who knows it?”
Matt looked at him with new respect. “I can understand that,” he said. “I once asked one of these tout sheet kingpins that same question. Know what bullshit he came back with? Said he was dying of cancer, had just months to live, and therefore wouldn’t have enough time left to make all the winning bets he needed to make in order to finish paying for his grandchildren’s college educations. He looked me straight in the eye when he was telling me this. That was nearly eight years ago. He’s still in business, as healthy and crooked as ever.”
A grimace appeared on the Fount’s long, thin face. “I know the old bastard you’re talking about,” he said. “He’d steal a homeless cripple’s only blanket.”
“Exactly,” Matt said, laughing with him.
More Jack Daniels had followed that night in Las Vegas, and a friendship was formed. When The Fount came to Chicago for a big race, he always called Matt and they met for dinner. Matt, in turn, recognized The Fount as a valuable source to have on the Las Vegas scene, and he consulted him often.
This morning, after telling Matt he’d have him picked up by a driver at the airport the next morning, The Fount hung up the phone. He again stretched his lanky frame. His food order arrived, courtesy of two busboys being supervised by Darlene. Once the spread was laid out before him, he fell to with
a vengeance.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Flight okay?”
The Fount asked Matt the question without taking his eyes off of the computer screen before him. Matt closed the door behind him and entered The Fount’s Delano Towers work room. He nodded at the only other person in the medium-sized, carpeted, and functionally furnished space that contained the dozen television sets, two couches, a dining table with four chairs, a pari-mutuel machine, and a huge desk with a swivel chair behind it in which sat The Fount, hard at work.
The other person in the room was Wally Jensen, a longtime employee of the Delano Tower race book who now served as The Fount’s personal attendant. Wally sat on a stool behind the pari-mutuel machine, which was located back of a wooden counter at the room’s north wall. Near Jensen in that area was a refrigerator stocked with beer, sodas, three bottles of champagne and a huge deli tray, half emptied. Wally also had access to a house phone, which he was using to order The Fount’s lunch.
“…No mayo on the smoked turkey sandwiches…double Cobb salad…four bean burritos…large anchovy-pepperoni pizza with double cheese…Yeah, that’ll be it for now. I’ll talk to you again in a few hours. Thanks.”
The Fount called out, “Pimlico, sixth race. Two thousand to win on the seven. Hit it, Wally, they’re going into the gate.”
Wally quickly punched in the numbers. The machine kicked out a ticket, which Wally carefully placed atop a pile that had grown to nearly four inches high since his work day began. The Fount had thus far bet about three-quarters of his normal daily action—around $40,000.
Matt set his travel bag down and stretched out on the couch. He rubbed his eyes. He was worn out. He’d risen early and written that day’s column, then pounded out another one for the next day before driving to O’Hare for his flight to Vegas. He hadn’t had time to see Maggie in two days and felt bad when all he could do was leave a final message on her voice mail. “Duty calls, Scoop-Sleuth answers,” he had said jokingly. “Be back tomorrow night.” He hoped she thought it was funny.
The Fount said, “Matt, why don’t you go up to my suite and take a break. I’ve got to stay here through the third at Bay Meadows. There’s a two-year-old in there I want to see. After that we can talk.”
When there was no answer, he looked over at his friend, who was already asleep beneath the bank of TVs that carried the Midwestern night tracks. He turned his attention back to the television set showing the sixth race at Pimlico. Number seven was crossing the finish line nearly four lengths clear of his nearest rival. The Fount smiled.
***
Ninety minutes later the two men were seated at the dining room table. Matt was now refreshed, while The Fount appeared fatigued. “I’ve been working fourteen hours, so excuse me for being kind of out of it,” he said. “I’ve got just about two hours for you. Then I’ve got to grab some sleep before I start working on tomorrow’s races.” When The Fount was working—which was twenty-four/seven for forty-eight weeks a year—nothing could make him deviate from his iron-clad schedule. A few weeks earlier his mother had begged him to return home for his Uncle Morris’ funeral. “Ma,” he had told her, “I can’t do it. I’ll visit his grave on my vacation in December. He’ll still be there.”
“This is an amazing existence you’ve carved out for yourself. Who could ask for anything more?” Matt said ironically. “You live in a hotel. You work eighteen hours a day, watching races, making figures, calculating odds, busting your brain. You have no social life. Wally is probably the person you say the most words to each day.” Matt shook his head.
“Who could ask for anything more?” replied The Fount happily. “Pass me those tortilla chips and the dip bowl, will you? Then tell me why you’re here.”
Matt began by describing the death of Bernie the bookie, then told The Fount about his relationship with Bernie’s nephew Moe. The Fount’s eyebrows went up when he heard the name Moe Kellman. “Moe I’ve heard of,” he said. “I’m impressed. His name still means something to the old Vegas guys.”
“Look,” Matt said, “I’m not here just on Moe Kellman’s behalf. I think there could be a hell of a story for me—if I can figure out what the hell the story is.”
The Fount said, “What are you looking for?”
“I’m looking for your expertise. There isn’t a man in America who watches and bets more races a day, or a year, than you. What I’m asking is this: have there been any kinky races that you’ve noticed the last few months? You know what I mean—strange reversals of form, hard-to-explain upsets. Anything along those lines?”
The Fount gave Matt a long look. Then he hit a mute button that silenced all twelve TVs. He signaled over his shoulder for Wally to end his shift. Wally left slowly, ears wide open as he neared the doorway. Like most longtime Vegas residents, Wally knew information was currency, and he would have liked to glean some here. He closed the door reluctantly. Horses dashed about in silence on eleven of the TV sets. The Fount went up to the set in the middle of the wall and inserted a videotape in the VCR.
“It’s not funny you should ask, Matt. I’m just kind of surprised that nobody else has. Take a look at this.”
The tape was of the Dell Park Derby. The announcer calling the race seemed astounded at what he was describing: “And here they come down the stretch. It’s longshot Chuck A Lot leading the way by two, now three lengths. Grisham’s Dream is second, Wing Warrior third…and the overwhelming favorite Lord’s Heir is not doing enough…he’s beaten today, folks!”
The Fount hit the pause button. He said, “Well?”
“Well what?” Matt answered. “I saw the result of that race last month. It was a big upset. Lord’s Heir, the heavy chalk, finished out of the money. That happens.”
“Yes, he did,” said The Fount. “The chalk, Lord’s Heir, huge favorite, ran out. Let’s run this race back in slow motion, okay? Then you’ll see why the ‘overwhelming favorite’ Lord’s Heir flopped through no fault of his own. Watch this closely.”
***
On board his return flight to Chicago the next morning, Matt reviewed what he’d learned the previous night while watching two significant races with The Fount, who had first concentrated on the Dell Park Derby and Lord’s Heir.
“Take a close look as they come out of the gate,” The Fount said. “Lord’s Heir breaks inward just enough to lose about two lengths. The jock, Randy Morrison, is pulling hard on the left rein, just for an instant, just enough to get the horse off course. This horse runs his best races on the lead. But after this kind of start, he can’t get to the front like he usually does.”
The Fount was silent as he and Matt watched the field go around the first turn and then down the backstretch, Lord’s Heir buried in the middle of the pack and stuck down on the rail. “Okay,” The Fount said, “now they’re going into the far turn and Morrison’s still got him down inside with nowhere to go. He’s waiting for an opening—or, he seems to be waiting for an opening. Look right there! The opening comes when the five horse drifts out, but Morrison doesn’t go through. He pulls Lord’s Heir to the right and goes around two horses instead of zipping up the rail when it was clear. It looks like a bad decision, and it was. When Lord’s Heir finally gets rolling in the stretch, he’s got too much ground to make up. He doesn’t hit the board, although he only misses third by a length. The winner pays $48.40. Payoff on the National Pick Four is $460,000 for $1. Two winning tickets.”
The Fount hit the mute button and turned to Matt. He said, “Randy Morrison is one of the top five riders in the country. He’s been ranked up that high for several years and for good reason. He’s terrific. I’ve watched him in hundreds and hundreds of races. And he just doesn’t make mistakes like that. What he has done here is very cleverly, very subtly, stiff his horse. Lord’s Heir didn’t lose that race. Randy Morrison lost it for him.”
The Fount extracted the tape from the VCR and inserted another. Before hitting the play button, he went to the re
frigerator and got a quart of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. Matt declined his offer to share the ice cream. The Fount began polishing it off out of the container, accompanying the ice cream with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. “Haven’t eaten in a while,” he explained. Between bites he started the videotape and resumed his lecture.
“Now here’s the Gorham Stakes from New York two weeks ago. Another heavy favorite—Sena Sena. He’s ridden by another top jock, David Guerin. On paper, Sena Sena stands out in this field. Pure class. He’d won his last five in a row. Horse is a stone cold closer—usually comes from way back with a big rush in the stretch and wins going away. Not many sprinters run like that, but he does, and he’s a big crowd favorite because of it, as you know. Watch this.”
Matt saw Sena Sena come shooting out of the gate as if there was a flame thrower scorching his rump. The horse’s ears were back and he looked startled as Guerin whipped him hard right-handed while urging him forward. Sena Sena got the message. He dug in and sped to the front, opening up by two lengths, three, then five as the field went down the backstretch. The fractions were torrid. Guerin kept his hands moving on the horse’s neck and Sena Sena entered the turn nearly seven lengths in the lead. Then the gas started to go out of Sena Sena. At the eighth pole this exhausted leader was passed by four horses. He staggered across the finish line seventh. Matt saw Sena Sena’s trainer, red-faced and steaming, give Guerin hell. Guerin didn’t even look at the trainer after he dismounted, just hurried away to the jockeys’ room, his face averted.
The Fount stopped the tape. “That winner paid $34.60,” he said. “The National Pick Four that day returned $245,000.”