White Collar Blackmail: White Collar Crime Financial Suspense Thriller by Peter Ralph Page B
Authors: Peter Ralph
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thought you were going to burst out cheering at the furlong.” Elliot grinned. “You did back the winner, didn’t you?”
The only time Todd could remember displaying emotion was when he’d lost the hundred and seventy, but maybe he’d let his guard down with Gunbarrel. “Yeah, I did.”
“I lost. Maybe I should buy that system of yours. It seems you’re always collecting. If I had your system, I’d be making some big bets.”
“And what’s a big bet for you?” Todd asked, expecting the answer to be a few thousand dollars.
“A hundred thousand. That’s a big bet for me, but I’ve made bigger. I’ve got this motto, if you want to win big, you bet big. Anyhow, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got a sure thing in the third at Sacramento. Are you interested?”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Todd replied, thinking this was the guy who was worried about his wife finding out about his losses. Bullshit!
“Of course.” Elliot grinned, as he turned to go to the betting windows. “You’ve got a foolproof system. Why would you listen to my tips?”
Todd was glad to see the back of Elliot, but he had said two things that resonated. It was a good system, and if you wanted to win big, you had to bet big. Hadn’t that just been proved with Gunbarrel? Todd’s next bet was going to be Gala Supreme in the fourth at Santa Anita, which would add another forty thousand to his kitty. However, the more he thought about what Elliot had said, the more inclined he was to increase the size of his bet. A bet of fifty thousand would net him two hundred and a bet of a hundred thousand would recover all his losses and make him no longer dependent on Montgomery Hastings & Pierce. The more he did the sums, the more logical it was to increase the size of his bet. Besides, Gala Supreme was ranked at 98 which made his decision even more compelling. By the time they jumped at Santa Anita, Todd had bet eighty thousand on Gala Supreme to win three hundred and twenty. Gala Supreme didn’t have any history of bad luck so how could Todd have factored in his heels getting clipped by Monterey at the turn. The ensuing spill brought down three horses, including Gala Supreme. After the race the commentator said, “I’m pleased to say that the jockeys and horses are okay. Monterey came down very hard, and I feared they might have to destroy him. All’s well that ends well.”
All’s well that ends well. Those words echoed in Todd’s head. He hadn’t thought of the welfare of the horses. He was too busy wallowing in misery. But he still had one bet to go and perhaps the race caller’s comment was prophetic. If Todd’s one remaining bet won, and he had enough on it, all would end well.
Thirty minutes later, he put on his overcoat and stumbled toward the door. He had lost one and fifty thousand. Jack Elliot was at the door talking to one of the heavies. "How'd you go, kid?”
Todd could hardly speak. His chest was constricted, and the weight of the world was burying him. “Not so good,” he muttered.
“That’s a pity,” Elliot said, doing his best to look concerned. “That tip I gave you came in at six to one. I won three hundred thousand. You should have been on it.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Todd didn’t usually drink spirits but on the way back to his apartment he picked up a bottle of Johnny Walker. It was futile, and he drank the bottle in less than three hours, but the misery remained. He toyed with going out to get another bottle before deciding to turn in. The whiskey didn’t help. He tossed and turned for hours, unable to fall asleep. Why was the system that had been so successful failing? What was he doing that was different? What had changed at the race tracks? He owed Ronny over three hundred thousand and had less than two hundred in the bank. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep.
He awoke on Sunday morning still feeling like shit. The sleep had done nothing for him. He was positive that the only way he’d
The only time Todd could remember displaying emotion was when he’d lost the hundred and seventy, but maybe he’d let his guard down with Gunbarrel. “Yeah, I did.”
“I lost. Maybe I should buy that system of yours. It seems you’re always collecting. If I had your system, I’d be making some big bets.”
“And what’s a big bet for you?” Todd asked, expecting the answer to be a few thousand dollars.
“A hundred thousand. That’s a big bet for me, but I’ve made bigger. I’ve got this motto, if you want to win big, you bet big. Anyhow, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got a sure thing in the third at Sacramento. Are you interested?”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Todd replied, thinking this was the guy who was worried about his wife finding out about his losses. Bullshit!
“Of course.” Elliot grinned, as he turned to go to the betting windows. “You’ve got a foolproof system. Why would you listen to my tips?”
Todd was glad to see the back of Elliot, but he had said two things that resonated. It was a good system, and if you wanted to win big, you had to bet big. Hadn’t that just been proved with Gunbarrel? Todd’s next bet was going to be Gala Supreme in the fourth at Santa Anita, which would add another forty thousand to his kitty. However, the more he thought about what Elliot had said, the more inclined he was to increase the size of his bet. A bet of fifty thousand would net him two hundred and a bet of a hundred thousand would recover all his losses and make him no longer dependent on Montgomery Hastings & Pierce. The more he did the sums, the more logical it was to increase the size of his bet. Besides, Gala Supreme was ranked at 98 which made his decision even more compelling. By the time they jumped at Santa Anita, Todd had bet eighty thousand on Gala Supreme to win three hundred and twenty. Gala Supreme didn’t have any history of bad luck so how could Todd have factored in his heels getting clipped by Monterey at the turn. The ensuing spill brought down three horses, including Gala Supreme. After the race the commentator said, “I’m pleased to say that the jockeys and horses are okay. Monterey came down very hard, and I feared they might have to destroy him. All’s well that ends well.”
All’s well that ends well. Those words echoed in Todd’s head. He hadn’t thought of the welfare of the horses. He was too busy wallowing in misery. But he still had one bet to go and perhaps the race caller’s comment was prophetic. If Todd’s one remaining bet won, and he had enough on it, all would end well.
Thirty minutes later, he put on his overcoat and stumbled toward the door. He had lost one and fifty thousand. Jack Elliot was at the door talking to one of the heavies. "How'd you go, kid?”
Todd could hardly speak. His chest was constricted, and the weight of the world was burying him. “Not so good,” he muttered.
“That’s a pity,” Elliot said, doing his best to look concerned. “That tip I gave you came in at six to one. I won three hundred thousand. You should have been on it.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Todd didn’t usually drink spirits but on the way back to his apartment he picked up a bottle of Johnny Walker. It was futile, and he drank the bottle in less than three hours, but the misery remained. He toyed with going out to get another bottle before deciding to turn in. The whiskey didn’t help. He tossed and turned for hours, unable to fall asleep. Why was the system that had been so successful failing? What was he doing that was different? What had changed at the race tracks? He owed Ronny over three hundred thousand and had less than two hundred in the bank. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep.
He awoke on Sunday morning still feeling like shit. The sleep had done nothing for him. He was positive that the only way he’d
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