Fancy became everything the computer numbers said he was: a charging, relentless ground-eater with speed to spare. And my ticket out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“S o we have the horse. What do we do now?” Ashton asked. “There’s no way we can influence what the odds on him will be.”
“True enough,” I said, looking out the window at the street from our favorite table in the coffee joint. “But we won’t mess with his odds. We mess with the others.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the form comes out the day before. Everyone who’s a serious player gets it as soon as it hits the street. The line on Deb’s Wild Fancy is going to show his lack of wins and fades at the finish going into a race with proven horses. He’s an underdog.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So we let him stay that way. Our job is to influence the other numbers and keep action off our ride.”
“How do we do that?”
“Hardy,” I said.
“Hardy? How is he going to help us?” Ashton looked worried, and I grinned. I was starting to get a plan on the rails. It felt good to be in the game again.
“We don’t tell him that he is,” I said.
“Oh, that’s just great!” Ashton said, slapping the table with his palm. “The last time you didn’t tell him about something almost got you killed.”
“Yes. But he showed me something. Something that we needed to know.”
“And what might that be?”
“Desperation,” I said. “He wasn’t angry that I didn’t keep him in the play. He was hot because he lost—and he can’t afford to lose.”
“So?”
“So we put him on a different horse.”
He gave me a look of utter disbelief.
“You want to get him to put money down on a horse that you know isn’t going to do anything? How is that going to help?
“When there’s a sudden drop of loot, it shows on the odds board right away. The amount in the win pool goes up, and the odds go down. Every player worth his salt watches how the pool is being affected. It tells them where the action is.”
He thought for a moment.
“So you get Hardy to lay down a bundle on this other horse. That makes the players react and the odds change. So the numbers on our horse go up?”
“You’re a born handicapper, kid.” I grinned.
“I just want to live to see thirty,” he said. “Hanging with you sometimes makes that feel like a challenge.”
“Yeah, well, it’s all about the road and not the map, baby.”
“Cool enough,” he said and clapped me on the shoulder. “But maybe we can try truckin’ down something other than a dirt road sometime there, Lightnin’.” He laughed. I felt good. Ashton was a great friend.
The thing about horse players is that the smarter they get, the less they really know. Numbers are like a complicated chord progression. You can stare at them all you like, but you actually have to put your hand on the guitar to make any sense of it. Horse players sit back and watch numbers and never do anything to work with them. They come to believe that the numbers have a mind of their own and will fall into the pattern they’re supposed to, and that their job is to watch them and react when all the signs are clear. This is what I was counting on.
The other thing that I was counting on is what players dread the most. The unseen. The weird little things that go on in the background that affect the way things turn out. A bandage or a tape job on a fetlock or a knee. A sheen of liniment on the shoulder or the haunch. Blinkers over the eyes or tape on the ears. Or just the sudden appearance of numbers in a cold hard splash that drives them to the windows in droves. Horse players are a superstitious bunch. They’re certain that the Fates are lined up to pick their pockets, and the things they can’t control or understand send them into hard mental tailspins. I needed that to happen. I needed Hardy for that.
The other thing I needed was money to play. A lot of it. When the big moment came, I needed to be at the window with a
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“S o we have the horse. What do we do now?” Ashton asked. “There’s no way we can influence what the odds on him will be.”
“True enough,” I said, looking out the window at the street from our favorite table in the coffee joint. “But we won’t mess with his odds. We mess with the others.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the form comes out the day before. Everyone who’s a serious player gets it as soon as it hits the street. The line on Deb’s Wild Fancy is going to show his lack of wins and fades at the finish going into a race with proven horses. He’s an underdog.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So we let him stay that way. Our job is to influence the other numbers and keep action off our ride.”
“How do we do that?”
“Hardy,” I said.
“Hardy? How is he going to help us?” Ashton looked worried, and I grinned. I was starting to get a plan on the rails. It felt good to be in the game again.
“We don’t tell him that he is,” I said.
“Oh, that’s just great!” Ashton said, slapping the table with his palm. “The last time you didn’t tell him about something almost got you killed.”
“Yes. But he showed me something. Something that we needed to know.”
“And what might that be?”
“Desperation,” I said. “He wasn’t angry that I didn’t keep him in the play. He was hot because he lost—and he can’t afford to lose.”
“So?”
“So we put him on a different horse.”
He gave me a look of utter disbelief.
“You want to get him to put money down on a horse that you know isn’t going to do anything? How is that going to help?
“When there’s a sudden drop of loot, it shows on the odds board right away. The amount in the win pool goes up, and the odds go down. Every player worth his salt watches how the pool is being affected. It tells them where the action is.”
He thought for a moment.
“So you get Hardy to lay down a bundle on this other horse. That makes the players react and the odds change. So the numbers on our horse go up?”
“You’re a born handicapper, kid.” I grinned.
“I just want to live to see thirty,” he said. “Hanging with you sometimes makes that feel like a challenge.”
“Yeah, well, it’s all about the road and not the map, baby.”
“Cool enough,” he said and clapped me on the shoulder. “But maybe we can try truckin’ down something other than a dirt road sometime there, Lightnin’.” He laughed. I felt good. Ashton was a great friend.
The thing about horse players is that the smarter they get, the less they really know. Numbers are like a complicated chord progression. You can stare at them all you like, but you actually have to put your hand on the guitar to make any sense of it. Horse players sit back and watch numbers and never do anything to work with them. They come to believe that the numbers have a mind of their own and will fall into the pattern they’re supposed to, and that their job is to watch them and react when all the signs are clear. This is what I was counting on.
The other thing that I was counting on is what players dread the most. The unseen. The weird little things that go on in the background that affect the way things turn out. A bandage or a tape job on a fetlock or a knee. A sheen of liniment on the shoulder or the haunch. Blinkers over the eyes or tape on the ears. Or just the sudden appearance of numbers in a cold hard splash that drives them to the windows in droves. Horse players are a superstitious bunch. They’re certain that the Fates are lined up to pick their pockets, and the things they can’t control or understand send them into hard mental tailspins. I needed that to happen. I needed Hardy for that.
The other thing I needed was money to play. A lot of it. When the big moment came, I needed to be at the window with a
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