Something for Nothing (30 page)

Martin was smiling as he got into his car. Where did Ludwig find these guys? Honestly. He glanced at the tickets—made sure they were
real, for the right game, all that—then looked over at Peter as he climbed in.

“Well,” he said. “What do you think? We got our tickets.”

“I know,” Peter said. “Can I see them?”

Martin handed the tickets over, and watched for a second as Peter sat there gazing at them. He remembered the feeling of awe at the sight of something like that—the Willie Mays autograph a friend of his had gotten after a Giants game in the late fifties, not long after the Giants had moved to San Francisco, the ticket stub his dad had from the 1938 fight between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling in Yankee Stadium. (His dad kept it in a little box in his desk drawer, and only let Martin and his brothers see it once in a while. They'd all gather around and hold their breath, looking and wondering.) Martin wanted Peter to have a few things like that—little pieces of evidence that showed he'd been on hand for significant events. He wanted him to soak up the atmosphere that came with a game like that, and—even more—he wanted him to be able to remember that feeling later on. He could look at his ticket stub and know he'd been there and had been a part of it.

“Wow,” Peter said. “I'm pretty sure these are in the first deck somewhere. And they're not very far back. We'll be able to see Gaylord Perry really well.”

Martin nodded, and backed out of Maddox's driveway. “Great,” he said. “Maybe we'll be able to tell when he's doctoring the ball. I'll bring the binoculars.”

As they made their way back to University and then onto the freeway, Peter started jabbering about Gaylord Perry's spitball, and about top of the A's lineup: Billy North, Campy Campaneris, Joe Rudi, and of course Reggie Jackson. That was the key, he explained. They had to get Perry to throw a lot of pitches, wear him out. But Martin's mind drifted. The encounter with George Maddox had left him feeling a bit unsettled. The guy had been a nut—no doubt about that. But Martin also felt a little sorry for him. Standing there haggling with Martin, trying to impress his ghost family, he'd been acting like he knew how
to drive a bargain—like he had his shit together. But probably when the lights went out at night, and George was staring up into the darkness of his bedroom, he was overwhelmed with fear and confusion. Will I lose my job? Can I keep my house? Can I feed my kids? And, Martin knew, Maddox's worries were linked to things over which he had absolutely no control: the price of oil, interest rates, tariffs, all the stuff Radkovitch had studied in college, and that he babbled about when he and Martin got together to talk about why Anderson Aircrafts was in the tank.

And that was the thing: Martin could relate to George Maddox's secret, nighttime worries because he was fighting a similar battle most nights. For a while he'd thought he had it figured out. He'd pick up the business section of the paper, look through the financial reports, and pretend he had a clear sense of how it all went down. I'm not one of the super rich, but I'm doing all right. I'm getting there. That's what he used to tell himself. But he'd been wrong. Now the financial world was kicking his ass, big time, and according to Radkovitch, at least, it was due largely to events taking place thousands of miles away, and that he'd never even know about: a conversation in a bank in New York or London, the slight turn of an oil spigot in the Middle East.

The question, though, was whether
anyone
knew what the fuck was going on—with money, the stock market, the oil market, and the rest of it. Martin's general feeling these days was that even the people who studied the financial markets—Radkovitch and the other so-called experts—knew about as much about what was going to happen a week from now (and why) as the local weatherman did about the weather. If you lived in L.A., that was okay, because it was always sunny in L.A. (or almost always). You didn't even pay attention to the weather report. But what if you lived somewhere else, a place where the weather was shitty and unpredictable? In Boston, say. Or Buffalo. Or even up in Tahoe. Then a weatherman with his head up his ass was a problem. Not that you wanted to hear a full confession, right there on the air. “I don't know what the weather is going to be like three days from now,
okay? Do I look like a wizard? But it's crappy out right now, so maybe it'll be a little better in a few days. Or maybe it'll be more of the same. I don't know, okay?”

So, yeah. The weatherman pretended to know what was going on, and so did the big shot money guys. The Chairman of the Federal Reserve, Nixon, Kissinger. All of them. They were all full of shit.

He drove, checked his rearview mirror, changed lanes. Peter was still babbling about Gaylord Perry. “Maybe the umpires will make him change his uniform,” he said. “They've done that before, in case he has Vaseline on it somewhere.”

Yep, Martin thought. It was scary. No one was in control. It was all just guesswork, with plenty of mistakes made every day—every minute—and plenty of fallout from those mistakes (broken lives, dashed dreams, the works). But it was also exciting, even a little bit liberating. Because if no one was in control, then there really weren't any rules. And though this was a problem, it also meant that if you were smart, ballsy, and a little bit lucky, you might be able to work the system and come out ahead in the end. And that's what everyone was shooting for, right? To finish further ahead than when they started? Wasn't that what this was all about?

B
y the time Martin got out to the fairgrounds in Pleasanton it was almost two o'clock, and by then it was hot. Ninety degrees, probably higher. It was also crowded and loud and smelly. There were big families with swarms of kids, everything smelled like cotton candy, and you could hear the mechanical carnival music of the merry-go-round and the other rides they carted in for the two or three weeks the fair was up and running.

It had been a long morning—brutally long, in fact—because Linda had insisted that they all go to the parade in Walnut Station.

“We're going,” she said. “It's the Fourth, and that's what you do. We always went to the Fourth of July parade when I was a kid. I loved it.”

Martin wanted to remind her that she'd grown up in Boston, where they had real descendants of the Pilgrims, and where the Fourth actually meant something, but he didn't bother. They'd had that argument before.

It was just as bad as he'd thought it would be. Usually they were up at Tahoe for the Fourth. This year, though, Temperature's Rising was racing, and so they were staying put. But it was at a cost, Martin thought more than once as he stood in the center of town with all the other local jerks. It was unbearable, watching them whoop it up for their smug kids as they chugged by on their holiday floats or stomped past in their marching bands, banging out John Philips Souza songs. Sarah had wandered away with a friend almost immediately, which had pissed Linda off; and Peter had gotten sulky because he was hot and thirsty and they hadn't thought to bring chairs or umbrellas or water.

“Why didn't you guys bring anything?” he'd asked, looking at the
coolers and lawn chairs lining the sidewalks. “Everyone else has that stuff.”

Mercifully, the parade was over by noon, and so after weaving through the crowds and the traffic they were back at the house by about one. But both Linda and the kids had lost all interest in the horse race, Peter in particular after Martin told him there wouldn't be time for rides or game booths over at the fair—it was just the horse races today.

“It's too hot,” Linda said. “I'm exhausted. And plus that crowd—Michael and Jenny and whoever else is going to be there. They're just going to get really drunk, and yell and scream, and it will be loud, and . . . Look, I just don't want to do it. Especially with the kids, and especially on the Fourth. We'll shoot off some fireworks when you get home and show us your trophy.”

At first he was disappointed. He'd been looking forward to having the whole family see Temperature's Rising at his best—show Sarah that her dad wasn't a complete loser, spend time with Peter, all of that.

But he was also immediately aware of how this might be a good thing. He could drink a little more, be a little looser.

“Okay,” he said. “I understand. Fine.”

H
E PARKED THE CAR
and within a few minutes he was moving quickly through the crowd of fairgoers and toward the race track. It was the kind of pace you could set when you were by yourself, not worrying about straggling kids getting distracted or lost. Soon he could hear an announcer on a loudspeaker announcing a race, and he could feel—or thought he could feel—a general buzz of excitement just on the other side of the fence. He paid the guy at the turnstile his two bucks, and then he was through to the other side.

Almost immediately he ran into Ted Reasoner. “Hey there, Martin,” Ted said. They shook hands and smiled at each other. Martin and Ted had been friends since Berkeley High. Now Ted was a jewelry guy. He'd taken over his father's shop in Oakland, then he'd expanded and had a
second one in San Francisco. Ted loved the horses more than Martin, even, but he didn't own one. Too much trouble, he'd always said. And not enough money.

“Hiya, Ted,” Martin said. “Where're you headed?”

Reasoner was wearing plaid pants and a gold-colored short-sleeved shirt, one with a little breast pocket. He was also wearing glasses that had thick black frames. If Martin wore that sort of outfit, he'd look like an idiot. But Ted was tall and thin, probably six-four, but only about 175 or 180 pounds. So somehow it looked right on him. He just had the look—the whole jazz-guy thing.

Reasoner pointed toward the ticket windows. “I'm gonna throw down some money here in a second.” He held up a sheet of paper he'd been holding. It was folded over, but Martin could see that it was a Past Performance Sheet. It had Reasoner's crazy scribbling all over it.

Martin nodded. “What race is it right now?”

“This is for the fifth,” Reasoner said. “Did you just get here?” He looked surprised.

“Yeah,” Martin said. “I was with Linda and the kids over at the parade. You know, it's the Fourth and everything.”

Reasoner nodded. He didn't seem interested. “So how does the horse look?” he asked. “What do you think? Should I put some money on him?”

Martin shrugged, going for understated. “Well, Val says he's looking really good,” Martin said. “But I don't want to steer you wrong. I mean, the race isn't fixed or anything. Or not that I know of, anyway.”

Reasoner let out a quick burst of laughter. “Ha,” he said. “You don't want to fix the races, do you? It would take all the fun out of it.”

Martin nodded. “I know. No fixes for me. Or at least not in the races that my horse is running. But I gotta say,” he added, “I wouldn't mind knowing when there's an occasional fix on.”

“Hey, here's a question for you,” Reasoner said. He took a step toward Martin. “What if someone said they'd pay you big bucks to make
sure your own horse doesn't win? What about that? What would you say if I gave you a check for that right now? How does a thousand dollars sound?”

Martin shook his head. “No,” he said. “No way.”

“Atta boy,” Reasoner said, giving Martin a slap on the shoulder. “That's when you know you're a real owner.” He moved toward the betting windows. “Good luck today,” he said.

“Thanks, Ted,” Martin said. He turned and started walking away, but he stopped short and turned back toward Reasoner.

“Hey, Ted,” he shouted.

Reasoner turned around and looked at Martin, waiting with an expectant look.

“The reason I wouldn't take a check from you is that I know it would bounce. Cash, Ted. Cash only.”

Reasoner laughed and gave a quick wave.

Down in the paddock area he found Val and Temperature's Rising. It was cooler there than out on the fairground, and filled with the familiar smell of hay and manure. He wasn't sure, but he thought Temperature's Rising recognized him and was glad to see him. When Martin reached out to stroke him between the ears, he pushed his nose forward and gummed his hand.

“See?” Val said. “He wants to know if you have an apple for him. He remembers. I'm telling you, Martin, this is a smart horse. And he's a winner. He's gonna win today, aren't you TR?” He patted the horse on the side of his long neck. The horse neighed at Martin, and pushed at his hand again.

“Okay, okay,” Martin said, laughing nervously and stepping back. “I don't have anything to give you. Do you have an apple or something, Val?”

Val shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not an apple, not before a race. But give him a handful of that grain.”

Martin paused, then reached into a plastic five-gallon bucket that was sitting on the ground outside Temperature's Rising's stall. He
grabbed a handful of the grain, and then held his hand out flat so that the horse could take the offering. He felt a wave of nausea as Temperature's Rising's wet lips closed around the little snack, but he stood his ground and didn't let on that he was disgusted.

Val watched as Martin looked around for something to wipe his hand on—these were nice pants, and he wasn't going to ruin them with horse spit.

“Listen,” he said to Martin, throwing him a towel and smiling. “All you have to do is sit up in the stands and watch. I just talked to Sanchez, and he guarantees a win. He said Temperature's Rising is absolutely peaking. He said he's running smooth and fast. He's gonna hang back through the first half, but don't worry. The horse'll do the work. You'll see. The only other real horse in the race is Champagne Taste. He's a lot like Temperature's Rising, actually. He'll be making a late move, too. But it won't be enough. Maybe a few months ago, but not today.”