"Why don't I just go straight to the Maalox and skip the preliminaries?" Bobby replied.
"Suit yourself, but you don't look so good. Food can cure a lot of ills."
Bobby ordered coffee for himself, and a reuben and cream soda for Scott.
"The older I get, the earlier I eat dinner." Goldy attacked a piece of chicken bobbing in his soup like a life raft at sea. "Then I fall asleep even before they start the night games on the Coast." He looked up long enough to discover that Bobby wasn't listening. "Okay, boychik, what can I do for you?"
Bobby walked Goldy through it, the old man listening while slurping up noodles from his spoon. Scott kept quiet, letting his father make his spiel. There were half-a-dozen patrons in the ancient Collins Avenue delicatessen whose walls had blown-up photos of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis, Jr. staring down at them. Like Goldy, Bobby thought, throwbacks to a by-gone age.
Bobby tried to put some excitement in his voice, though Scott had dampened his mood. Now Bobby watched for Goldy's reactions and all he got was a grim frown and his own reflection from the dark glasses.
Damn! He's not buying into it.
"Let me get this straight," Goldy said when Bobby finished. "You need someone to put up five million dollars."
"In cash," Bobby said, "to be placed in escrow."
" Oy vey."
"I prepared the contract myself. Kingsley's worried about getting paid if he wins, so he insisted on the escrow. The money will be held by First Florida Bank. So will two per cent of Kingsley's stock in the team, which covers the five-point-five million he's risking. He takes Dallas minus four. If we win, I want twenty per cent of the total, including the vig, one-point-one million, which almost covers what I have to pay LaBarca the day after the Super Bowl. You'll get three-point-four million. If we lose, you gotta pay the whole bet, five million."
The old man took off his sunglasses and blinked, his heavy-lidded eyes as sad as a beagle's. "I don't like it."
Bobby felt panic bubbling up inside him like water in a boiling spring. "C'mon Goldy, you're a bookie. The line is four points. What's wrong with making the book?"
"What's wrong is that I'd be putting up five million to win three-point-four. That's be fine if I needed some heavy wood on Dallas to balance the books. But it's just the opposite. Too much money is coming in on the Mustangs. They're the glamour team, plus more people like the favorites. So I can't get a splitter because I don't have enough money coming in on Denver, and I can't lay it off because every book in town is overloaded with Dallas money, which means I'd be bankrolling it myself. It's meshugeh. "
"You're talking as if we'll lose. We're gonna win!" Bobby bellowed, loud enough for a blue-haired woman to turn around in the next booth.
"You'll pardon me for saying so, Bobby, but you're not the best bookmaker in the world, or even in this booth."
"C'mon Goldy, I know football."
Goldy narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. "What specifically do you know about this game that leads you to think Denver will cover the spread?"
"I just feel it in my bones, that's all."
"Not enough boychik."
Bobby felt his heart sink as if into a muddy lake. Without Goldy, he was lost.
"Bobby, we've known each other a long time, haven't we?" Goldy said, his voice tinged with sadness.
"Since I was a kid. You gave me my first job."
"And later," Goldy said, "when you came home from Texas with no wife and no profession, like some shlepper…"
"You taught me how to make book. I haven't forgotten all the things you've done for me."
"It goes both ways," Goldy said. "I won't forget how you got the case dismissed when that momzer U.S. attorney indicted me, and you didn't charge me a dime."
"How could I take money from you, Goldy?"
"That's why it's hard to say no to you. I love you like you're my own son, but Bobby, you got no kop for bookmaking, no head for the numbers, the odds, the instincts you gotta have. So when you come to me like this…"
The old man raised his hands as if there was nothing he could do. They sat silently a moment, the only sounds the restaurant clatter of dishes on counters and the murmur of voices at other tables.
Suddenly, Bobby felt exhausted, the dejection pinning him to the booth, as if gravity had increased tenfold. Men on death row had brighter futures.
No, strike that, Your Honor. Men on death row have the same future.
Goldy pushed his plate aside, patted his lips with a napkin and turned to Scott, who looked as if he might cry. "I'm sorry, bubeleh," Goldy said. "You know I'd do anything for you and your Dad."
"I know, Uncle Goldy," Scott said, choking back the tears.
"So tell me if I'm wrong. Put in your two cents worth."
Scott shot a look toward his father, and Bobby tried not to show his concern, but his heart was flopping like a trout on the line.
Help me, Scott! Help me.
He'd always taught Scott to tell the truth, but just now, he prayed for a white lie. His son was a tow-headed portrait of innocence with a shred of corned beef glued to his lip by a dab of melted cheese.
"I think Denver is a good bet," Scott said, eyes on his sandwich. "The Mustangs are due for a letdown."
"Aye, the kid's not as good a liar as his father," Goldy cried out.
"No, Uncle Goldy, I mean it. We can win the bet."
That's my boy, Bobby thought. It hit him then, the realization that the feelings between them were mutual. Of course! Why hadn't he realized it before? You get back what you give. He always knew he would do anything for his son, but he was just learning what his son would do in return. A surge of emotion flooded over him like a warm, tropical wave.
Goldy replaced his spoon on his plate and studied the boy. " Nu? Tell me about it. Are you using your algebraic formula of good defense stopping good offense? Is it a particular match-up on the lines? Why won't Dallas cover?"
"Oh, they will, Uncle Goldy. Dallas is the better team, and without some intervention, they won't have a letdown. They'll win and cover the spread."
"What are you talking about?" Bobby asked, confused. "You just said Denver was a good bet."
"Intervention?" Goldy mused. "What does that mean?"
Goldy and Bobby waited. Scott leaned close over the Formica tabletop and shot glances in both directions. As far as Bobby could tell, there were no spies among the octogenarian clientele.
"To win the bet," Scott whispered, "we're gonna have to fix the game."
"What?" Bobby recoiled, astounded.
"We can fix the Super Bowl so that the Mustangs don't cover."
" Sha! Shtil kind," Goldy sputtered. "Hush child! We don't even joke about those things. Besides, it can't be done. No one's ever gotten to a referee. No league player has ever been accused of throwing a game or shaving points. You can trust the game more than your banks or politicians or any of our institutions."
"There's another way, Uncle Goldy."
The old man looked at him suspiciously. "How?"
"Dad and I know the Mustangs. I mean, we really know them."
"So?"
"We can't bribe them or make them throw the game, but we can still make them lose."
Bobby looked at his son and read his mind. Okay, so maybe he didn't really know precisely what Scott was thinking, but he knew where he was headed. It was like that with Christine. When they were on the same wave length, they finished each other's sentences. The bonding process. Two people who are so close begin to think alike. Husband and wife, father and son.
"I think I know where Scott's going with this," Bobby said, "and it might work."
"You want to fill me in?" Goldy asked.
Bobby and Scott exchanged glances. "Give it a try, Dad."
"Scott's hung around Valley Ranch and the practice fields and the hotels," Bobby said. "He's listened to the players and the coaches. I've handled their legal problems. Together, we know their weaknesses. I can tell you right now who'll be violating curfew, who'll be doing drugs, who'll be chasing women."