to use his name, I just need information he could provide. Mr. Bonadio, would you happen to know anyone like that?”
Bonadio’s laughter flowed through the phone. “Are you shitting me?” he chortled. “I’ve got the guy for you. He worked for us for a long, long time, making our betting lines. Brilliant guy, a genius. We called him the Wizard of Odds. He could move numbers around in his head like an Einstein.
“When we finally let him retire,” Bonadio continued, “he said he wanted to keep his hand in by making a little book on his own. Fine, we said. He’d earned the right. Believe it or not, Professor, that was about twenty-five years ago! He’s the oldest bookmaker in town, maybe in the whole fuckin’ world.” Bonadio laughed. “Name’s Bernie Glockner. I’ll give you his address and phone number.
“Tell the Wizard I said for you to call. Tell him hello from me.”
Chapter Seven
That night Matt rose from his chair as Maggie Collins walked through the terrace doorway of Chicago’s North Pond Café, on her way to joining him at a table that overlooked Lincoln Park and its duck-dotted lagoon. As usual, she turned as many heads as a waiter bearing a platter of flaming saginaki.
“What are you grinning at?” she said as she slid onto the chair he was holding for her.
“Grinning? Was that what I was doing? I thought I was just gazing in awe. You look terrific. It occurred to me again today that you’re really the only job-related perk I’ve had since I started writing about racing.”
“And more than you deserve,” Maggie answered, blue eyes gleaming as she patted her short-cropped black hair into place. It was said with the smile that so frequently flitted across her tanned face.
North Pond Café, with its wonderful food and exceptional view of the city, was one of their favorite restaurants, even though it was not located near either of their homes. Maggie owned a western suburb condo only minutes from Heartland Downs, where she trained her horses. Matt was an Evanston condo resident with a much longer commute to the racetrack but with nearby Lake Michigan as ample compensation. They dined at North Pond at least three times a month, usually after which Maggie spent the night at Matt’s place before arising at 4 p.m. for her drive to the racetrack. It was a trek that she made in exchange for Matt staying at her place the numerous other nights each month they spent together.
Maggie and Matt had been an item for nearly three years. At thirty-six, he was three years her senior and one marriage ahead of her. He and his wife Kathy had agreed to disagree after five increasingly passionless years during which Matt repeatedly refused to leave racing journalism to join her wealthy father’s media empire as a general sports columnist. Matt and Kathy realized that they had married far too impulsively, and too young, and parted on extraordinarily amicable terms, ones flavored by mutual relief.
Kathy quickly remarried—an executive in her father’s company—and, from what she told Matt, was a happy woman. In his turn, Matt entered a relationship with Maggie Collins, one-time North Shore debutante, now full-time horse trainer, a person as wrapped up in her work as he was in his. They had arrived at a comfort plateau that involved time spent together on a regular but never codified basis, a rewardingly shared sex life, and no hints of a need for formal commitment on the part of either one of these very independent individuals.
As Matt confided to his friend Rick, “It’s like going steady in high school, except as adults.”
“Better not let Maggie hear you say that.”
“Funny thing is, Rick, she feels exactly the same way I do.”
Matt often thought how lucky he was, especially compared to his friend. Rick, a lifelong bachelor, had begun a volatile, sporadic relationship eight years earlier with Chicago actress Ivy Borchers. Ivy maintained she would marry Rick only if he stopped betting on
Bonadio’s laughter flowed through the phone. “Are you shitting me?” he chortled. “I’ve got the guy for you. He worked for us for a long, long time, making our betting lines. Brilliant guy, a genius. We called him the Wizard of Odds. He could move numbers around in his head like an Einstein.
“When we finally let him retire,” Bonadio continued, “he said he wanted to keep his hand in by making a little book on his own. Fine, we said. He’d earned the right. Believe it or not, Professor, that was about twenty-five years ago! He’s the oldest bookmaker in town, maybe in the whole fuckin’ world.” Bonadio laughed. “Name’s Bernie Glockner. I’ll give you his address and phone number.
“Tell the Wizard I said for you to call. Tell him hello from me.”
Chapter Seven
That night Matt rose from his chair as Maggie Collins walked through the terrace doorway of Chicago’s North Pond Café, on her way to joining him at a table that overlooked Lincoln Park and its duck-dotted lagoon. As usual, she turned as many heads as a waiter bearing a platter of flaming saginaki.
“What are you grinning at?” she said as she slid onto the chair he was holding for her.
“Grinning? Was that what I was doing? I thought I was just gazing in awe. You look terrific. It occurred to me again today that you’re really the only job-related perk I’ve had since I started writing about racing.”
“And more than you deserve,” Maggie answered, blue eyes gleaming as she patted her short-cropped black hair into place. It was said with the smile that so frequently flitted across her tanned face.
North Pond Café, with its wonderful food and exceptional view of the city, was one of their favorite restaurants, even though it was not located near either of their homes. Maggie owned a western suburb condo only minutes from Heartland Downs, where she trained her horses. Matt was an Evanston condo resident with a much longer commute to the racetrack but with nearby Lake Michigan as ample compensation. They dined at North Pond at least three times a month, usually after which Maggie spent the night at Matt’s place before arising at 4 p.m. for her drive to the racetrack. It was a trek that she made in exchange for Matt staying at her place the numerous other nights each month they spent together.
Maggie and Matt had been an item for nearly three years. At thirty-six, he was three years her senior and one marriage ahead of her. He and his wife Kathy had agreed to disagree after five increasingly passionless years during which Matt repeatedly refused to leave racing journalism to join her wealthy father’s media empire as a general sports columnist. Matt and Kathy realized that they had married far too impulsively, and too young, and parted on extraordinarily amicable terms, ones flavored by mutual relief.
Kathy quickly remarried—an executive in her father’s company—and, from what she told Matt, was a happy woman. In his turn, Matt entered a relationship with Maggie Collins, one-time North Shore debutante, now full-time horse trainer, a person as wrapped up in her work as he was in his. They had arrived at a comfort plateau that involved time spent together on a regular but never codified basis, a rewardingly shared sex life, and no hints of a need for formal commitment on the part of either one of these very independent individuals.
As Matt confided to his friend Rick, “It’s like going steady in high school, except as adults.”
“Better not let Maggie hear you say that.”
“Funny thing is, Rick, she feels exactly the same way I do.”
Matt often thought how lucky he was, especially compared to his friend. Rick, a lifelong bachelor, had begun a volatile, sporadic relationship eight years earlier with Chicago actress Ivy Borchers. Ivy maintained she would marry Rick only if he stopped betting on
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