“Appreciate it,” Billy said.
Cory and Morris had strolled onto the first tee and were hitting their drives. They were both out of practice and needed to work on their games if they planned to pull off any more golf scams. Done, they got into a cart and drove down a dirt path.
Billy pulled a driver out of his bag and walked onto the tee, where he took several practice swings. Tony G approached holding a sleeve of new golf balls.
“Let’s use these,” the bookie said. “You can have the number-one ball.”
They hadn’t even started, and Tony G was already hustling him. During their match, Tony G would make Billy’s ball vanish and would drop a ball with identical markings in a sand trap, costing him several valuable strokes.
“How long you in town?” the bookie asked, making small talk.
“I’m here for the weekend. Weather sure is great.”
“You’re telling me.”
Tony G got a call from a client. The bookie stepped off the tee and passed the information to Guido. Knowing Tony G wasn’t looking, Billy removed the racing form from his pocket, refolded it lengthwise, and returned it to his pocket so it was partially exposed.
“Let’s play some golf,” Tony G said. “You like to gamble?”
“Doesn’t everyone? What’s your handicap?” Billy asked.
“I’m an eight. How about you?”
“I’m an eight, too. How about we bet five hundred a hole?”
“I’m game. You do the honors.”
Billy teed up and hit his drive. Every golf course in Vegas followed a basic premise. If a player drove his ball straight and stayed out of the rough, he was rewarded with a decent score.
Tony G went next and hit a powerful ball that sailed forty yards past Billy’s. Like hell you’re an eight, he thought.
They drove down the path. Halfway down the fairway, they got out and found their balls. Up on the green, Cory and Morris were putting out. Tony G waited until they had left before taking his next shot, which landed five feet from the flag. Billy’s shot sailed over the green into the rough. They returned to the cart.
“You into the ponies?” Tony G asked.
Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Tony G had spied the racing form in his pocket.
“Love ’em,” he said.
“What’s your favorite track?”
“Santa Anita. My father used to take me there when I was a kid, taught me how to handicap. He died a few years ago, left me his company. He was the best.”
He turned his head and pretended to wipe away a tear.
“I’m happy to take your action,” Tony G said. “You can bet on the races while we play.”
“I think I’ll take you up on that.”
He pulled the racing form from his pocket. It was 3:50 p.m. Each race had a post time, and he flipped the pages and stopped on the eighth race of the day, which was listed to start at 3:55 p.m. Cory’s pick for the eighth race was a horse named Solid Gold.
“Five grand on Solid Gold to win,” he said.
“Five grand? That’s some serious money, kid.”
“I can handle it.”
Tony G pulled out his iPhone. Most bookies relied on apps to check the results of sporting events in real time to prevent being swindled on events that had already occurred. Using an app named Today’s Racing, he checked the eighth race at Santa Anita.
“There’s a lot of money riding on Solid Gold. The odds have dropped to even money. You still want it?” Tony G asked.
Billy said yes. He needed to stick to the script and not improvise. Tony G drove to the green, and they finished the hole, which the bookie won by two strokes.
When they returned to the cart, the eighth race was over. Tony G pulled up a replay on his phone using the Today’s Racing app, and they watched Solid Gold stumble out of the gate and finish sixth. Billy had lost the hole and the race, and was down fifty-five hundred bucks.
“Too bad,” Tony G said without a hint of sympathy.
Billy hid a smile. The fish had taken the bait. All he needed to do now was reel him in.
FORTY-ONE
Billy proceeded to lose the next three races at Santa Anita. A half inch of rain had fallen at the track earlier in the day, and the conditions were sloppy. It seemed to be affecting many of the favorites, all of whom were falling out of the money.
His golf match wasn’t faring any better. On the front nine, he lost six holes and tied the other three. On the holes that he tied, Tony G purposely missed a couple of makeable putts, just to keep Billy in the game.
His losses were adding up. He was going to win it all back, but that didn’t matter. He hated losing, even if only for a short while.
Tony G parked the cart in a shaded spot by the teeing ground of the tenth hole. It was 4:53 p.m. The twelfth race was listed to start at 4:58 p.m. Cory and Morris were on the tee, preparing to take their drives. They had purposely slowed down and were holding up play. Tony G bit off the end of a cigar and said, “Who invited these jerks?”
“They sure are slow,” Billy said.
“You’re telling me. I’ve never seen them before.”
Clutched in Cory’s hand was a sixteen-ounce can of Budweiser. The can appeared to slip out of Cory’s grasp, and hit the ground.
“Shit,” Cory said.
The scam was on. Cory grabbed a towel from his bag and dried off his shirt. Morris picked up his partner’s driver and, along with his own club, pretended to loosen up. As Billy watched, the clubs formed letters in the air using the semaphore code.
Morris held the club in his left hand by his side, the club in his right hand at twelve o’clock. The first letter was D. The club in his left hand stayed by his side, while the other club went to eight o’clock. The second letter was A. The club in his left hand went to four o’clock, while the club in his right remained at eight o’clock. The third letter was N.
That was all Billy needed to know. He stuck his left hand into his pants pocket, located the swami gimmick, and jammed it under his thumbnail. He brought his hand out of his pocket and held it in his lap. With his right hand, he grabbed the racing form off the dashboard. Turning sideways in his seat, he opened the form to the twelfth race so the page was hidden from Tony G.
“I’m on a losing streak,” he said.
“Happens to the best of us,” the bookie said.
He scanned the horses entered into the twelfth race. The ringer was named Dana’s Boy, listed at seventy-to-one odds. He circled the name with the swami gimmick.
“Here she is. I think my luck’s about to change.”
He passed the racing form to Tony G and pointed at the ringer that he’d just circled.
“Five grand on Dana’s Boy.”
Tony G studied the form. As he’d done with each of Billy’s bets, he pulled up the twelfth race on the app on his cell phone and studied the true odds, which fluctuated before the start.
“This horse is dog food, kid. Why’d you pick it?” the bookie asked.
“My mother’s name was Dana, and I’m her boy,” he said.
Tony G relayed the bet to Guido. By now, Cory and Morris had hit their drives and left. Billy got his driver and went to the teeing ground. Tony G joined him moments later.
“Youth before beauty,” the bookie said.
Billy teed up and hit his drive. He was laughing inside, and his ball flew straight and true. For his next shot, he chipped to the green, then sank a twenty-foot putt for his first birdie of the day. Tony G couldn’t touch him and lost the hole.
As they left the green, Tony G pulled up a replay of the twelfth race on his iPhone, and they watched Dana’s Boy tear up the wet track at Santa Anita and beat the field by five lengths.
“Dog food my ass!” he shouted into the bookie’s ear.