by Chris Fraser
Dayla spoke on my way out, “That Corynne sure is pretty—if you’re into the college-girl thing—I hope you’re already moving on that.”
I didn’t respond and shut the door behind me.
I placed Wade on the floor of his new home and unlatched the cage. He slowly sniffed his way out, gave me a brush against my leg, and darted under the bed where he’d stay for the next two days.
Ole Miss was on the road—at Tulane with a 5:00pm kickoff. Preston’s plan was to watch a full slate of games while having a little welcoming party for our new guests. For the past week, Matador and some contractors had been furiously working on the back balcony. Preston, possibly coming to grips with the realization that he wouldn’t be attending many more home games, decided to create a “football oasis” out on his favorite part of the house. A sixty-inch big screen was the centerpiece, surrounded by a seven-piece wicker furniture set. Hanging from the beams above the big screen were three twenty-seven-inch TVs mounted on a swivel. The topper was an amazing custom-made bar fitted into the nuances of the balcony—it must have cost a fortune. Preston would be able to watch four games at a time. It was his design and it came out exactly as he had planned. We were to meet on the back balcony at 5:00pm for barbecue and drinks and all the football we could handle.
After the phone stopped ringing for the early games, I joined Jay in unloading the U-Haul while Dayla put their things away and organized her new house to her liking. We were carrying in his CDs, being careful not to let any fall and disrupt his chronologically organized collection, when Jay asked, “Corynne seemed a little cold this morning. Couldn’t help but notice a bad vibe between you two. What’s up?”
“Nothing, man, maybe it’s her time of the month, you know women,” I said, using a cheap excuse since I wasn’t ready to tell him how I’d laid it on the line with her and was rebuked with extreme prejudice. Things were gonna be awkward enough, I didn’t want Jay then Dayla involved.
“Her period, T? A little weak, don’t ya think?”
“No, we’re cool. I think she’s been overwhelmed at school lately.”
“Whatever man, don’t tell me,” Jay said, seeing right through me as usual.
Early September in northern Mississippi is a nice time to do anything outside. The balcony was afire in the waning golden twilight that shimmered off the trees, dancing in the early evening breeze. Dayla was excited about the party—she decided to dress more demure for the event with a tight long-sleeve red sweater covering most of her artwork and a black skirt with red pumps stretching her long legs. Jay and I dressed as we always did. Preston said we looked like a couple street punks, but he’d grown used to it by now.
“Welcome, welcome, well what do you think?” Preston asked, turning the prawns on the grill and tending to the catfish. He was in a good mood.
Matador had done nice work—it looked fantastic. The new furniture, the TVs, and the bar looked great. Chinese lantern lights glowed above the big screen that had the Ole Miss pre-game on, while USC vs. Oregon, Tennessee vs. Florida, and Texas vs. Texas A&M were on the smaller TVs hung from above. It looked like heaven to me.
Preston took Dayla’s hand. “My lady, aren’t you a sight? Makes you wonder what you’re doing with Jay,” he said winking at Jay.
“Why thank you, fine sir,” Dayla said playing along, even giving a slight curtsy. Matador and Delotta were in a spirited game of backgammon and Corynne was holding Tucker up to one of the Chinese lanterns that he found so fascinating. She gave me another courtesy hello—no emotion, no smile. Her lukewarm reaction to me stung more than I’d ever let on; why did I have to go against my better judgment and freak her out by baring my soul? Nobody likes to be put into that position, she barely knew me; what I took for romantic overtures was nothing more than cursory niceties from a well-mannered host.
I should have known a girl like her would never be with a lower-class small-time bookie from the parts of Orange County that don’t make it into the brochure. But goddamn, she was beautiful! If God, or Buddha, or Allah came down and told me he’d create a woman for me, I would use Corynne as the prototype. I was starting to wish I’d never laid eyes on her.
Ole Miss got up early and didn’t look back. Deuce was having his way with a weak Tulane defense—scoring three touchdowns by the half. The Rebels were on their way to another win and an easy cover as well; netting Preston another $500 with my lay-off bookie. With the game in the bag, Preston was able to get away from the TV and enjoy the party. The ice-cold beer was stacked in the built-in fridge hidden under the bar. The drinks were iced and strong. Jay found a taste for scotch and stuck with it, clanking glasses with Preston and Matador with each new pour. The girls, including Delotta, were sipping Mojitos, and tried to keep up. I stuck to the beer. I wasn’t in much of a party mood.
It was later in the evening, the darker hours, when the crickets own the night, and well after Delotta and Tucker had gone to bed, when Preston wanted to talk. Matador had wandered off somewhere, and Corynne and Dayla, now best friends, were chatting away on the railing looking out on to the black night. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and she probably noticed—God, I was a creepy fuck. Preston asked Jay and I to sit on the couch opposite him, we noted the serious tone and sat down. Preston immediately lightened the mood when he lit up a joint and started passing it around. Jay laughed; he couldn’t get over these old guys puffing away.
Preston’s attention was focused on Jay. “Now, Jay, we’re very pleased to have you here, and I’ve already had this conversation with Trent.” Jay’s face got serious. Preston went on. “Now that you are living here—and we’d like you to stay as long as you want—you just have to play by my rules. And they’re pretty simple: don’t be a dick, be loyal, and be discreet, that’s it, and you’ll become a member of the family.” Jay nodded his head and passed up the joint, trying to convey his seriousness, I didn’t. “Now, Trent’s been here for a short time, but we already consider him family and trust him completely.” I gave a slight smile and Jay eyed me proudly. “And we’d love to consider you and Dayla family as well with all the privileges and responsibilities that go with that. Can you play by these simple rules?”
Jay stood up and thrust out his hand with conviction. “Preston, I don’t know if you know this, but I’ve never really had much of a family, other than Trent and Dayla, and the fact that Trent’s already on board and you’re willing to accept me and Dayla in the short time you’ve known us, I can’t imagine anything I’d like more.”
I’d known Jay forever and I can’t ever remember seeing him like this. He’d never talk about his family, this was the closest he’d ever come, and this sincerity was a side I’d never seen before.
“That’s what I want to hear, son, welcome aboard.”
Now that Preston had that out of the way, he asked Jay if he and I could talk in private. Jay shook his hand again and slipped off, joining the girls. “Now, Trent, we need to get to you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you moping around here lately, and I think I know why.”
He had my attention. I was hoping he’d guess wrong. “It’s Corynne, isn’t it?” He guessed right.
“Yeah maybe,” I said.
“I thought so. I may be dying, but I ain’t dead yet. I know Corynne well enough to tell when she’s got boy troubles. I’ve dealt with it before with the last one. But you, you don’t seem yourself, son; you want to tell me what’s going on between you two?”
“Not really.”
He shot me a disappointed look. “All right, you don’t need to tell me what happened, I understand. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you a little bit of what I’ve learned about women over my extensive dealings with the fairer sex.”
“Shoot,” I said, glad that my sorry love life was no longer the topic.
“You see, you don’t know it because your neck deep in it at your age—you said you're twenty-five right?”
“Yeah.”
“You look younger. Anyway, when you’r
e dealing with women—girls rather—if they’re under twenty-five, you don’t stand a chance, son—their maelstrom of flighty capriciousness is at an-all-time high. Don’t get me wrong, it stays with them throughout their life, but ebbs with age and looks. Girls of that age don’t have a clue what they want, what with the hormones and their fairy tale ideals on love and life that haven’t been struck down by reality yet. You’re playing with fire when dealing with women that young. Trust me; they get more malleable in their late twenties—especially if they’re not married yet. Their biological clock starts ticking, all their friends start getting married and all the good guys are taken off the market by the girls who come to grips with reality sooner. But until then, you’re fucked…so buck up, no point getting down about it.”
I was relieved to hear all this, and shit, it made sense, but I still wanted to end the conversation. “Thanks Preston, I’m gonna grab another drink, you want anything?”
“Yeah, hook me up, but come right back here, I’m not through with you yet.”
I wasn’t getting away that easily.
I handed him his drink and cracked my new beer. I took another stab at changing the topic. “You know, whatever’s going on between Corynne and me, it’s really nothing, we’re still friends. I just tried to take it a little further and she wasn’t into it, case closed, we can move on.”
“Aha, so there it is, rejection and the awkward aftermath.”
“Nah, we’re cool,” I lied, lighting up a smoke. Preston must have sensed I wasn’t into this anymore, so he tried to wrap it up.
“All right, two more things and I’ll shut up. Now, Corynne is family and I love her to death, but you’re in for a world of pain if she gets under your skin, which I think she might already have. Remember what I said about girls under twenty-five. You can times that by two with her—unwed mother, abandoned by the father, and throw in serious daddy issues as well and you got nothing but trouble.”
Daddy issues? I wanted more but didn’t pursue it. Preston took a long hard drink and went on. “And second, if you two did get together and your aim was true, I’d be all for it. I think you’d be very good for her—a smart young enterprising lad such as yourself.”
“Thanks, Preston, I appreciate that. It means a lot to me. I doubt anything will happen, and hopefully we can get back to friends status.”
“Just know I’m rooting for you, son,” he said, painfully pulling himself up off the couch. He’d noticed the conversation was getting quite lively with Jay and the girls and he wanted in. I didn’t feel like joining their group, so I stayed put and pretended to occupy myself with the late game—UCLA was handing Arizona their ass, fifty-two to seven, another $500 winner I gave Preston. When I saw that my presence wouldn’t be missed, I snuck back to my place to get some rest. Tomorrow was a big day.
20
Otto’s phone call woke me. The clock read 9:17am. “Wake up, motherfucker. Today’s the day.”
I was still half asleep. “Who is this?”
“You know exactly who this is, this is your conscience calling, giving you shit about abandoning me.”
“What you got for me today, Otto?” I asked, knowing he’d be a wealth of insider knowledge.
“I got plenty, you ready?”
“Actually no, let me pull myself together, get some coffee, and I’ll give you a ring back, games don’t start for two hours.”
“Cool, I got a few calls to make anyways.”
NFL opening day, the best day of the year, the first week of sixteen—Christmas morning for any fan, bettor, and especially bookmaker. This was our busy time. The time that got us through the off-season, through the lean action of basketball and the non-existent baseball play—it was time to make money. I had to get the lines and fix them but first, coffee and a smoke.
Otto was a busy man, working the phones since six, scanning all his sources for information then dishing out his own when he had any juicy items. This was fun for him, made him feel like a mover and shaker and gave him just enough of the old Jersey neighborhood to satisfy the inner mobster he’d so idolized growing up.
“Okay, what ya got,” I said, ready to go after my coffee, a shower, and two smokes.
“First things fucking first, did you tell all your players to come in and drop off money with me here at the bar, ‘cause they’ve been coming in droves. If you include what Jay collected and what I got this week, I think we are all paid up.”
“Had to man, with Jay and I out here it’s the only way, this gonna be cool with you?”
“I guess, what else can we do? But you know I don’t like the exposure.”
“It’s just temporary ‘til we can get a guy to collect for us.”
“Then we gotta pay him 15%.”
“At least that.”
Otto broke down and said, “Fuck it, just have ‘em come in for now. They can pay me, but my percentage just went up to 60%.”
“It’s only fair,” I said. I couldn’t fight it. He had a point; he was taking over one of my jobs.
“Okay then, I’ll just hold the money that I got for you here, might be the only way I can lure you back.”
“I’ll be back. I just need to take care of some business out here.”
“Whatever you say, T, whatever you say,” he could see through my bullshit almost as well as Jay.
Otto was right. He had a laundry list of privileged info for me this morning: hidden injuries, severity of known injuries, point spread anomalies, coaching strategies and tendencies, weather and turf conditions, players’ personal problems, alcohol and drug addictions, and team infighting…on and on he went. The info was too much to take in. Can’t they just play the games was always my thought, but we needed all the help we could get, anything to give us an edge.
Preston came in about an hour before kickoff. He wanted to witness the mayhem, said he got a kick out of watching me work. He went to the kitchen and started making a bloody mary—how all the ingredients got there, I don’t know. I had him make me one too. When he finished in the kitchen, he gingerly sat down, watched one of the pre-game shows, and lit up a joint. He tried to pass it to me, but I refused, had to keep sharp today. Soon after his arrival, the phones began to ring.
“Two twenty-two,” the voice said.
“Yo, Kev, how we doing this morning?”
“Good, now that football’s here. By the way, did Otto tell you I’m all paid up?”
“Yes, he did. Good work. It’s kind of nice starting at zero, huh?”
“Whatever, T, just give me a run-down.”
“Two twenty-six.”
“Hey, Mark, so you want three plays all for a buck? Let me read them back: $100, Pitt -7, $100, San Fran -10, and $100 on Dallas -7.5.”
“That’s right, T, and you know what, that sounded even better when you read it back, parlay those three for a buck as well.”
“You got it. You’re looking at $800, or you're looking at nothing.”
“Two twenty.”
“Hey, Scott, what you looking at?”
“What you got in the Green Bay-Detroit game?”
“Green Bay by 6.”
“And what you got on Tampa-Minnesota?”
“Minnesota by 7—just moved up from 6.”
“Fuck, give me Minny anyways for $50, same on Green Bay, and tease them motherfuckers down for $50 as well.”
“You got it, both Bays for $50 and the tease.”
“Two twenty-four.”
“What’s the good word, Matt?”
“Just give me a run-down and I’ll call you back.”
“Two twenty-one.”
“Wilson, what do you need this morning?”
“Give me a buck on Green Bay over 48 and a buck on Baltimore under 36.”
“You got it.”
“Two eighteen.”
“Well if it ain’t my old friend Petey, heard you had a nice little meeting with Otto the other day.”
“Yeah, T, and I’m all paid up, had to put it on
my credit card, but I’m all good. You gonna let me play today? It’s opening day, man, you got to.”
“You’re paid up, you can play.”
“Thanks, T, give me a run-down.”
“No problem. Ready?”
“Two fifteen.”
“Well if it ain’t Rob the parlay king. Coming to crush me this fine morning?”
“You know it, T, I’m coming hard today, you’re gonna wish I never called.”
“I already do.”
“I’ve been studying this shit for months, I’m ready to go.”
“Okay my man, but be gentle.”
“Let’s start off with my five star lock of the year parlay: Raiders +7, to the Seahawks +4, to Atlanta +9, for a buck.”
“Nice, I’m liking the dog plays.”
“You’re going down today, T, I’m feeling it. Let me analyze some more and I’ll call you back.”
“Good luck.”
The calls kept coming until kick off—I couldn’t even come up for air. My bloody mary was untouched, the ingredients separated and stacked in the glass. Preston, now on his third, was trying to get my attention. I turned my phone off to have a much-needed smoke and see what he wanted.
“Trent, you’ve been giving me nothing but winners so far, go down the list of today’s games and give me your three best plays—only your locks, just the top three that jump out at ya.”
“My three best plays of the day, huh? Let me give these lines a good once over.”
While I was looking over the list, Preston said, “I’ll tell you what, son, I could watch you answer them phones all day, you really got this down to science, don’t ya?”
“Been doing it for seven years,” I said, concentrating on the games as I knew Preston would heed my advice like the gospel and play them heavy.
“You ever want a new backer, I’d be happy to be your bank. Win or lose, I’d be in it just for the action and the fun.”
“Oh we’d win, and that’s the fun,” I said without looking up.