“Hey.” Tyler’s voice brings me back to the present. “Are you okay?”
His eyes show concern, though his hands are stuffed in his pockets. Maybe he’s afraid of breaking something. I set down the chopsticks I didn’t realize I’d been examining during my trip down flashback lane.
“Yeah,” I say, and set my path for the most direct route to the back of the store. Tyler follows, sticking close, a sort of golden-retriever presence just off to my right.
“Julep, how lucky to see you today.”
Ralph steps out from behind his cash register and gives me a firm but fast hug. He looks nothing but happy to see me, which likely means he doesn’t know anything about my father being missing. But then, I didn’t really expect him to know. I came because if anyone would know about my dad’s “field of miracles,” it’d be Ralph.
“And who is new boy?”
“Ralph, this is Tyler. Tyler, Ralph—an old family friend.”
“Very handsome. Is he clever as Sam?”
“I’m sure he’s very clever,” I say smoothly.
“Sam is building World Wild Web page for me still, yes?”
“Yes,” I say. I can feel Tyler smirking. “It’s World Wide Web, Ralph.”
He dismisses my correction with a slightly arthritic wave. “I don’t care what its name. I just need page.” He looks shiftily at Tyler. “For the store.”
“It should be done any day now. There’s some complication with the … um, shopping-cart function. But Sam’s got it well in hand. He’ll come show you how to use it when it’s ready.”
“Enough shop talk,” Ralph says, gesturing for us to sit down in the two silk-upholstered chairs. He pulls a battered folding chair from behind the register and joins us. Then he hands us paper cups containing lukewarm water from the water cooler and jasmine tea bags.
“How your father? I not seen him long time,” Ralph says.
“Actually, that’s why I’m here. He’s gone.”
“You mean, on trip?”
“As in, someone trashed our apartment—”
“What?” Tyler says, eyes wide. “When?”
“I’ll fill you in later,” I say to him, and then turn back to Ralph. “Someone was looking for him, or for something he had. I can’t reach him, and he hasn’t been back in two days. I was hoping … I was hoping you could tell me something.”
Ralph mumbles something in Korean, then, “I told him not to do it.”
My pulse races. Could Ralph know everything? Could it be that easy?
“Not to do what, Ralph?”
Ralph gives me a look that’s half shame, half pity. “He told me not to tell you.” I open my mouth to protest, but Ralph continues. “I don’t know much. But I tell you what I know. Bad business.”
A chill settles into my blood. For Ralph, “bad business” is code for the mob.
There are two things you need to know about the mob. The first is that mobsters hate con men. Con men tend to be loners. Mobsters tend to, well, you know, mob. Con men often infringe on a mob’s self-appointed territory, and they don’t really share very well. Of course, neither does the mob, so you can see the conundrum.
The second thing to know about the mob is that they have a tendency to eliminate the competition in a rather permanent way. If you get mixed up with the mob, it’s like betting against a casino—sooner or later, the house wins.
My dad didn’t deal with the mob, and not just because the mob wouldn’t deal with him. He was first and foremost a businessman. A little on the shady side, but he knew a bad bet when he saw one, and he wasn’t addicted enough to the game to make stupid mistakes. In fact, the only good thing about working for the mob was—
“How much?” I ask.
“What’s going on?” Tyler jumps in. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What did I miss?”
“How much did he owe you, Ralph?” My tone is chillier than a beach bunny at the South Pole. I’ve never been mad at Ralph before for my dad’s gambling habit, mostly because Ralph was never a brute about it, but also because it’s not Ralph’s fault. But if he strong-armed my dad into paying a debt …
“No, no. He not owe me anything. He not place bet in months.”
My jaw drops. “But … that doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t make sense?” Tyler insists. “Can one of you please tell me what’s going on?”
“Ralph is my dad’s bookie, as well as his friend. I didn’t tell you before because it could be dangerous for Ralph if too many of the wrong sort of people know.”
“The wrong sort of people?” Tyler repeats, his expression incredulous. I can’t tell if he’s amused or if I’ve offended him.
“You know,” I hedge. “Upstanding sorts. People on the Pollyanna side of the law.”
He shakes his head at me, a mixture of wonder and consternation on his face.
I take a breath. I didn’t want him to know all this—but then why did I bring him with me to see Ralph in the first place? His knowing became inevitable the moment I got into his car.
“Ralph thinks my dad’s disappearance has to do with a job he was pulling for the mob.”
“What do you mean? Why would he be working for the mob? What does your dad do?” Tyler says.
“People think I’m a thief,” I remind him, leaving it to him to connect the dots.
Turning back to Ralph, I ask, “What else do you know? Do you know which mob?”
“Which mob?” Tyler says, his voice sounding strangled. “You mean there’s more than one?”
I sigh. “This is not the time for Organized Crime 101. But yes. Usually grouped by nationality.”
“I don’t know, Julep,” Ralph answers. “I only know he looking for the final score.”
“This isn’t like my dad at all. The final score? He got out of the big con years ago. Are you sure, Ralph?”
Ralph nods, his small frame drooping a little in his chair. Weathered and sad, he’s never looked more like a shriveled apricot than he does in this moment. I want to hug him, so I hug myself.
“Do you know what the job was?”
Ralph says, “Forgery, I think.”
“Any idea what they wanted him to work up?” Even knowing what my dad was faking might help.
Ralph shakes his head. “That all I know, jang mi.”
“I think he might have left something at the racetrack for me to find,” I say, taking a different tack. “Do you know where he might hide something? A room? An outbuilding?”
He shakes his head again, and I place my hand over his.
“Thanks anyway, Ralph. If you find my dad before I do, give him hell and then call me, okay?”
Ralph returns my weak smile and gives my hand a light squeeze. I set my cup on the small table separating my chair from Tyler’s, tea untouched.
Tyler sets his tea down as well, taking his cue from me. Ralph gets to his feet with a little hop-shuffle and scuttles around behind his register. He comes back with a shoe box full of freshly baked Korean cookies and hands me the box with fatherly pats and admonitions to stay out of trouble. He even shakes Tyler’s hand.
Then he escorts us halfway to the door before turning back to his books, mumbling again. This time it catches my attention.
“What was that?” I say, stopping in my tracks.
“What?” he asks.
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing. Some nonsense your dad say before he left last time.”
“What was it?”
“Eh … you.” Ralph points at me absently, as if thinking hard to get it right. “Me.” He points at himself. “And sixty-three.”
THE FIELD OF MIRACLES
The next day, Sam and I ditch school and head out to the racetrack. The weather’s fairly balmy for so late in the year, which is a relief. Whatever it is we’re looking for could be outside as easily as inside.
“Will you knock that off?” Sam says as I slide the window down and then back up again. It’s par
tly for the novelty of being able to decide whether the window is open or shut. My main mode of transportation being the “L,” I don’t often get the choice. But it’s also because it annoys him. I never said I was a good person. I open the window an inch and leave it there. Sam sighs.
“Have you thought about the fact that neither of us is twenty-one years old?” he says. Before I can respond, he continues. “What am I saying? Of course you have.”
I hand him the fake driver’s license I crafted for him last night.
“On the house, courtesy of Julep’s Department of Motor Vehicles.”
“Might as well get the practice in,” he says, taking the glossy card. “I hear the real DMV hires a lot of rehabilitated cons.” He glances at his new license. “Sam L. Jackson? I thought the first rule of forgery was to avoid names people will recognize.”
“It is,” I say. “I just couldn’t resist. Besides, there’s a good chance we won’t need it.”
“Which means there’s a good chance we will.”
I called Sam after Tyler’s and my conversation with Ralph and told him about the mob. He was as floored as I was, but it didn’t seem to occur to him to back slowly away. When I then followed up with the comment that I was prepared to go this one alone, he said I was stupid and to call him back when I’d borrowed a brain. I was happy with this response, since I’d already made him the ID.
“Do you have any idea where to start looking?” he asks.
“I’m pretty sure it has something to do with sixty-three.”
“Why sixty-three?”
“It’s something my dad used to say. He said it to Ralph the last time Ralph saw him, so I’m betting it’s somehow related.”
“You’re betting?” Doubt shades his question.
“It’s an educated guess.”
Sam mumbles something about grifters with egos bigger than a battlestar.
“I could call Tyler and have him meet us there.”
“I think we have it covered,” Sam says, scowling.
I smirk at him from the passenger’s seat. I have no idea why Tyler bothers him so much. It’s not like we haven’t worked with other people before. Once, for school spirit week, we worked with the entire JV lacrosse team.
Lucky for us and our newly minted IDs, the racetrack is actually family friendly, for the most part. The only areas off-limits to minors are the cordoned-off gaming rooms with Keno, slot machines, and smoking sections. The rest of the spacious center is open to all.
The first thing you notice when you walk into the main area are the rows and rows of posh desk cubbies complete with leather chairs, reminiscent of study carrels in a library. The rows are situated in front of a bank of twenty or so large flat-screen TVs hanging from the ceiling.
Small brass lamps light each of the miniature desks with a soft golden glow, and matching brass plates affixed to the sides of the cubbies display progressing numbers. My heart rate picks up for point-nine seconds, until I realize the numbers are all in the triple digits. There’s a 163, a 263, and so on, but no plain old 63.
Sam must notice the same thing, because he asks, “Where are the tens?”
“He wouldn’t have made it that easy.”
“Easy?” Sam gives me a look like I’ve been mainlining Looney Tunes. “Easy like leaving a cryptic note that leads to nowhere? Easy like getting involved with you-know-what in the first place?”
“If I’m right and he’s leading me to something, he’d make it as hard as he could in case someone else was on the same trail. Come on, Sam. You know my dad.”
Sam swipes his fingers across his phone at tachyon speed.
“We could check the banks of electronic betting machines. They might be numbered. Also, Trackjunkie953 suggests looking for numbers in the box seats.”
“Where are they?” I ask.
If you’re worried that Sam’s Web connections could give us away to the mob, don’t be. Sam knows what he’s doing. It would take an act of god or government to find him when he decides to cover his tracks. Besides, the mob isn’t known for their technological prowess. They’re more into the blunt-instrument approach.
“Upstairs, west side,” he says, turning the phone lengthwise to orient the map to our location. “Looks like we can take these stairs.”
The premier box seats are located in the center of the building for the best view, of course. Next to the entrance is a giant bronze plaque with a list of names of all the donor families responsible for the latest racecourse renovation. Richland and Stratton are both on there, along with several other recognizable surnames from St. Aggie’s. If I needed any more proof that I’m attending the most elite school in Chicago, well, now I have it.
Sam and I comb the empty rows, looking for sixty-threes of any kind. No luck. The seats are labeled with letter-number combinations, with nothing above the number forty.
“At this point, I’d be satisfied with a sixty-three spelled out in M&M’s.” I smack the back of one of the seats in frustration.
I remember my dad bringing me here once when I was little. I remember the sounds most: people shouting at the horses as they hurtled around the track, the trumpet as it announced the start of each race, the loudspeaker calling for last bets. We weren’t sitting in the box seats, though. We were sitting in the stands. I remember crawling over the benches, collecting discarded bet receipts among the sticky patches of spilled soda and cigarette butts.
“Bet receipts?” I say. “Do bet receipts have numbers on them?”
“I’m sure they have lots of numbers on them,” he says. “But most of them aren’t fixed numbers. They change based on the race and the horse you bet on.”
He’s right, of course. But something about the idea is nagging at me.
I sidle past Sam and slip a couple of bucks into a betting machine. Rows of colorful buttons pop up on the screen. First, I need to pick a track. I’m about to select the Hawthorne Raceway when my hand stops in midair.
“Sam, the tracks are numbered.”
There are thirteen racetracks from all over the country to choose from. Each track has a corresponding number, but they’re not in numerical order. They’re random, at least to my untrained eye. But there is a sixty-three.
“Churchill Downs,” I say. “So, what? Are we supposed to go there?”
Sam inhales sharply as his fingers fly over his phone. “The over-twenty-one rooms have names. I thought I saw … There it is! Churchill Downs.”
I grab the phone out of his hands so I can read the tiny lettering for myself.
“Sam, you’re a genius!” I say, kissing the phone, which of course makes it go all wonky. I hand it back to Sam, who gives me a strange look. “Whatever. Just get us there.”
I follow him back down the stairs and around the corner, then suddenly remember that we need to act our parts to get in the door.
I grab the back of Sam’s hoodie. “Hold it,” I say, breathy from excitement. “We need to be college students, remember? We need to dial it down.”
“Right,” he says, collecting himself with a roll of his shoulders.
I straighten Sam’s Columbia College hoodie I had one of my previous clients “borrow” from one of his older brothers. Then I further muss my messy ponytail and check my eyeliner and too-bright lipstick in my trusty pocket mirror. I take off my jacket and loop it over my arm, tugging down my spaghetti-strap tank top to reveal more of my minimal cleavage, complete with a convincing tattoo of a butterfly.
“Let’s go,” I say, taking Sam’s arm like the fawning girlfriend I am.
Strolling into the over-twenty-one area is easy. No one asks any questions, partly because we look confident and cocky, like we’re challenging people to card us, and partly because it’s not a big race day, so there isn’t much risk of underage betting.
“Sam, look,” I say, pointing at the desk cubbies, exact duplicates of the ones downstairs.
Sure enough, the brass plates are numbered, and it takes us no time to locate sixt
y-three. I feel under the desk and under the chair, search the shelves, and press along the back, checking for false walls. I don’t even know what I’m looking for—a piece of paper, I’m guessing. But I don’t find anything. I try to cuff my disappointment. Obviously, I’m not thinking of something. Sam is tapping his phone.
Then I notice the desk lamp—specifically, that one of the screws in the base is loose. I elbow Sam and hold out my hand. He sees where I’m looking and gives me his Swiss Army knife. The knife is old, so pulling out the mini-screwdriver is easy.
I shakily unscrew the rest of the base and give the knife back to Sam. I barely feel him take it from my grasp.
When I tip the lamp off its base, a folded piece of paper pops out, as if saying It’s about time, rookie!
I snatch it up and unfold it, leaving the lamp where it lies.
MEN TURN INTO BOYS WHEN CONSUMED BY THE LAND OF TOYS.
“What’s it say?” Sam asks as I sink into the green leather chair.
“It’s another stupid clue,” I say. “Why is he doing this? I con people; I don’t sleuth.”
Sam tinkers with the remains of the lamp.
“What’s this?” he says, pulling a small silver key from the base.
I take it from him to examine it more closely. No distinguishing marks, no numbers or letters of any kind. But it is an unusual shape. The shaft is cylindrical, with two small teeth on the business end—similar to a skeleton key, though it’s smaller than a house key and has an unusual art deco handle.
I have no idea what it opens. Safe-deposit box, drawer, mausoleum, windup toy … it could be anything. And there’s nothing I can see in the note that even hints at the answer. Or even a place to start looking. Which means I’m back where I started.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
A disgruntled racetrack employee with a receding mullet tromps into my line of vision. Hairy arms fold across a barrel chest.
“Defacing private property?” I say with a sheepish grin.
“I need to see your IDs.”
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