Hazard (3 page)

“Another invitation,” remarked Keven.

Hazard dropped the ticket into a nearby mailbox and got into the car. Keven refused to let Carl ride alone in the back seat. There was plenty of room for three in the front. The car was a 1938 Packard sedan in nearly mint condition. Original black paint without a scratch, interior upholstery authentically redone. Hazard had won the car playing gin the same January afternoon two years ago when he'd lost heavily on Miami in the Super Bowl. It was claimed that the Packard had once belonged to a gangster and was bulletproof. It was solid and heavy enough but Hazard doubted that any gangster would be suicidal enough to settle for such a getaway. The best the Packard could do was zero to sixty in forty-five seconds, which didn't even beat an old Volkswagen.

When Hazard explained this to Keven, she said, “That's probably why they made it bulletproof.” She preferred to believe the car had seen plenty of gangland action. Another thing she especially liked about it was being able to ride high above all the lower-slung newer cars, a superior vantage from which she could discreetly observe the various indiscretions of people in cars alongside. She thought she now knew why, really, there were so many accidents.

They dropped Carl off in front of his apartment building. Hazard promised to phone Carl the next day and Keven advised Carl to relax in a warm bath with a cupful of soda bicarb mixed in to make the water feel soft. Soft as love, she said. They watched Carl go in, his walk stiff-weary, as though the entire weight of his body had gone to his legs.

Hazard headed the Packard up Third Avenue and it wasn't until they were stopped for a traffic light at 64th that Keven discovered Carl had forgotten his attaché case. Hazard's first thought was to keep the case until tomorrow. Surely Carl wouldn't be needing it until then. But Keven reminded him that they were expected up in Connecticut in the morning, so Hazard cut over to Second Avenue and drove back downtown.

When they turned onto 49th, that one-way street was backed up with cars, barely moving because a delivery van was double-parked, causing a tight squeeze for the cars wanting to get by. Carl's building was halfway down the block. When they were almost to it they saw Carl come out. He was flanked by two men in black suits. Dark-haired with swarthy complexions.

Carl and the two men entered a waiting limousine. Another man of similar appearance was in the front seat next to the driver, who had on a visored chauffeur's cap.

Hazard thought it best to wait until he was alongside the limousine; then it would be simply a matter of getting Carl's attention. But the limousine at once started away from the curb, aggressively using its left fender to pull out into the line of traffic. It was three cars ahead of the Packard, and Hazard could only watch it proceed around the double-parked van and increase its speed to the corner, where it turned right against the light and was gone.

Hazard remembered how tired Carl had been. What was more important than the rest Carl needed so badly? Hazard didn't want to believe Carl was allowing himself to be used to the breaking point by the damned government. Some extreme emergency must have come up, something important that truly demanded Carl's attention.

Hazard considered leaving the attaché case with the doorman of Carl's building but decided that would be too casual. He'd call Carl the next morning. If Carl needed the case, Hazard would make a special trip down from Connecticut the following night.

He replaced thoughts of Carl with the expectation of picking some winners at the track that night. Also, he anticipated having a couple, or maybe three, hot dogs. He was hungry and no hot dogs ever tasted as good as the ones sold at the track. His stomach concurred with a grumble.

At that moment Keven told him, “I'm hungry too.”

Hazard wished for some sure way to keep his thoughts to himself. She was incredible.

She insisted that he stop at a health-food store on upper Madison. While she went in to shop, Hazard read the racing form. He didn't have to study it. No straining to assimilate the crowded lists of rather hieroglyphic abbreviations and numerals. He merely scanned each page once, using his eyes like a camera to record all the information. In less than two minutes he had it all in mind. He folded the paper and dropped it to the floor of the car. The Yorkshire immediately began tearing at it as though it were a helpless enemy.

Hazard slouched down and started handicapping, mentally reviewing and comparing the past performances, workouts, best times, distances, and all other possibly meaningful statistics of the horses that would be running that night. By the time Keven came from the store he'd made his selections in four races.

He drove while she fed.

Into his mouth she stuffed prunes and dried apricots, raw almonds, cashews, pumpkin and sunflower seeds. Deaf to his complaint that he wasn't a goddamn bird, she kept on feeding him: little mealy apples and sections of anemic stunted oranges not half as tasty as the ordinary but twice as expensive because they were guaranteed to have been organically grown. She topped a carton of natural cultured yogurt with a generous sprinkle of raw wheat germ and shoved spoonfuls at him. He opened his mouth and took it rather than have it slop all over him. She encouraged him with remarks of how much better all these things were for his well-being, and although he was grateful for her caring for him, he had to say the flavor and consistency of the yogurt resembled coagulated milk of magnesia. For a final test Keven unwrapped a pressed-fig-and-sesame bar that didn't taste bad but not good enough really to qualify as dessert in Hazard's opinion. All the while Keven blithely munched away, making appreciating sounds as though everything tasted marvelous. But Hazard noticed she didn't finish the yogurt, gave it to the Yorkshire on the premise that the dog required something more nourishing than a racing form.

They arrived at Yonkers Raceway too late to bet on the third race. A horse named Skippa Skoo took it by a head.

“I had him picked,” said Hazard, irritated.

“He only paid three forty,” said Keven. She detested favorites, ignored them, never bet on anything less than four to one.

Hazard shrugged off what he considered an avoidable loss and looked to the next race, an Exacta. That is, it offered a try at picking the horses that would come in first and second. The payoff was, of course, proportionately greater, frequently as much as a hundred to one. Hazard's system for playing the Exacta was to key on one horse, the one that he thought had the best chance of winning. He combined that choice with two or three other horses, a couple of second favorites and the most promising long shot, covering every possible order of finish. The whole thing depended on the key horse. If it ran out, all was lost.

Which is what happened.

The horse Hazard keyed on got boxed in on the final turn, had plenty left, but couldn't make its move. Right off, Hazard was out three hundred. Keven, on the other hand, had disregarded the Exacta and placed a straight five-dollar bet on the fourteen-to-one winner. That put her seventy-some dollars ahead. She managed to be not too elated and knew better than to boast about it. She left Hazard bitching to himself while she went to collect.

Hazard wandered around trying to lose the loser feeling. His seeing the various cliques of heavy players didn't help. They were regulars, pros. There was nothing slick about them. No fifty-dollar hats and hundred-dollar shoes. They were mostly paunchy types in baggy, pleated trousers and wash-and-wear shirts, talking through their teeth that clamped half-smoked unlit cigars. An altogether separate caste, elite in this element. They let that be known by exposing their thick folds of hundreds, which they counted and recounted, over and over as though disbelieving how much they were up or down. No show of emotion, ever. Certainly not a smile among them. It was serious business. They seldom watched a race. Usually they stayed inside the grandstand area, indifferent to the excited, urging crowd. Above such behavior. They might as well have been waiting for a bus instead of a race result on which they had thousands riding. At times, when they had inside information that was particularly solid, they bought their tickets, went directly to the win windows and stood there without a doubt, ready to cash in.

Hazard recognized several of these heavy players from other times, other tracks. He knew them well enough to exchange nods. It occurred to Hazard that maybe they had something good going tonight. Perhaps he could get in on it. But it would mean he'd have to talk his way in with them, and they'd consider it a handout. He vetoed the idea. It wasn't his style. They weren't his style.

Instead, he bought a hot dog, squirted it with mustard and ate it quickly. It would have tasted better, he thought, if Keven hadn't stuffed him with all that garbage.

He went back to where he'd said he'd meet her. He found her intent on the tote board, oblivious to the two silk-suited Seventh Avenue types who were on the offensive, had her in a verbal crossfire.

Hazard wasn't worried, but he cut in, claimed Keven with an arm around and took her out of range. She didn't act glad to see him but that wasn't unusual. Whenever he came back to her she just picked up where they'd left off, as though they hadn't been apart. Not that she was cold. Rather, she preferred getting to and staying with the heart of things. In many respects her eccentricities were equal to Hazard's, and no doubt that was one of his reasons for liking her.

She called his attention to the number-three entry on the tote board. “Could be an overlay,” she said.

“Could be,” he said.

The number-three horse had been a two-to-one favorite on the morning line but was now ten to one. The odds were being affected by an unexpected amount bet on a couple of other horses in the race. Keven was very excited about it. To her it was like finding a fantastic bargain at Bloomingdales. A favorite going at a good price.

Hazard concentrated for a few moments and again mentally handicapped the race. His conclusion was that the number-three horse had a definite edge. That meant someone was purposely manipulating the odds and would, at the last possible moment, chunk down on number three. An overlay.

“If only the price stays up,” hoped Keven.

Hazard grunted.

Then she looked at him and changed. He could feel her pull away before she did.

“You're a cheat,” she said.

“What the hell did I do?”

“I'm not going to care anymore. You just go ahead and do whatever you want. Ruin yourself, I don't care.”

He suspected she meant the hot dog but he wasn't ready to admit it. “I didn't do anything.”

“You don't have to lie.”

“I'm not. I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

“Eating that horrible stuff.”

“What horrible stuff?”

“They're full of sodium nitrate and other toxic things,” she said with distaste.

He knew she knew. He couldn't get away with anything, the way she was tapped in on his mind.

“You've got mustard on your mouth,” she told him.

He was relieved to hear that. Caught but relieved because at least it was something tangible that had given him away. He rubbed his mouth while his eyes were on the pari-mutuels. “It definitely looks like an overlay,” he said, to change the subject.

She remained cool, dug into her purse for some raw almonds and ate them. An intentional object lesson. He could hear her teeth crunching on them.

“I'm going to bet,” he said, and started away.

“I want to leave.”

His look told her she'd better not.

She went with him, and during the wait in the long line at the seller's window Hazard tried to make small talk but couldn't get a word from her. He believed the punishment exceeded the crime.

After that race Hazard was ready and happy to leave. The number-three horse won and paid eighteen-fifty. Hazard had two hundred on it so for the night he was ahead by fifteen hundred. And Keven was two hundred fifty richer. It called for some laughs but during the ride back to the city she only talked to the Yorkshire, who seemed to agree when she said how stupid most people are, the way they mistreat themselves. However, when they were going down Lexington Avenue she turned to Hazard and with a contrite smile asked, “Baskin-Robbins?”

He was happy to hear it.

That chain of ice-cream stores had a branch in the next block and he double parked while she went in to get a double cone for him and a pint for herself.

Now it was time for laughs, as he drove and licked fast to keep pistachio from dripping, and she eagerly spooned cocoa bean revel, her favorite, straight from the carton. The only excuse she offered for this total lapse in her health-food convictions was an immodest reference to herself as an uncontrollable ice-cream freak. She was such a regular Baskin-Robbins customer that she deserved having at least one of their thirty-one flavors named after her. Keven Krisp Caramel, for example. Anyway, she was the only girl Hazard knew who could devour a whole pint alone, with ease.

The Packard pulled up at the entrance to her apartment building. “My tongue is frozen,” she complained between spoonfuls.

Hazard said nothing. His fingers were sticky from the ice cream. He wondered if this was one of the nights when she wanted him to take the initiative. She didn't usually. Usually she liked to make the decision, at least pretend to be making it. Above all, Hazard could never assume that she'd be staying the night or weekend at his place. He always had to stop at her place, giving her the option. Sometimes she let him know immediately by asking, “What are we stopping here for?” Other times she kept silent for a long while, as though thinking herself into it and finally projecting her feelings. “You'll be lonely if I don't stay with you tonight, won't you?”

It had become routine by now. However, it was not a matter of conscience with her. It couldn't possibly be, considering she was the one who'd set the terms of their relationship at the very start, telling him, “Let's keep this on a purely physical basis.”