Grace slept deeply until about eight o'clock that same night. Upon awakening, she was surprised to see that it was still light outside. For a moment the thought came that she had slept around the clock and it was morning. But then she heard the children screaming around the pool and knew that her unconscious state had lasted only a couple of hours.
Still weary and feeling the drugged remnants of her exhaustion, she tried to analyze why the blissful unconsciousness of sleep had fled. It took only a few seconds for her to realize that her heart was pounding and muscles tense with excitement. Then she remembered the dream! She had been at the track again and a horse with the number "five" had won convincingly; in the dream, Grace was screaming encouragement to the five horse for she had two hundred dollars bet on it to win. She even saw the exact payoff figures, $21.10, which meant that her win tickets were worth $2,120.
Again, just as she had experienced the night before, there was something akin to fever in her body. Her heart beat rapidly, her throat was dry and hoarse, and her legs felt rubbery to the point where she knew they could not support her weight. Most surprising of all, though, was the sudden realization that she wanted to be at the track right now so that the glamour and excitement might be tasted once again.
"Perhaps it's my extra-sensory-perception working," she told herself. "Maybe Jim is at the track and is thinking of me." That thought, too, excited her for there was no doubt that around the Turf Club Jim Meloney was a king, and last night he had chosen her for his queen. He had to be fond of her; after all, he couldn't have done what he had done if he didn't love her. Of course, she would never again permit him the liberties he had taken last night, but they could be friends. She would forgive him and tell him she didn't blame him at all… only herself. She could picture the scene now. He would be so relieved, for she knew that he must feel a terrible guilt about seducing the wife of a serviceman in Vietnam.
For a moment she was so sure he was thinking of her that she was positive the phone would ring within seconds, and it would be him, and he would invite her to share dinner with him at the track. Grace was so certain that this would transpire that she got out of bed and took the phone into the bathroom so she could hear it while she showered in preparation.
About nine, partially dressed, the first pangs of uncertainty and disappointment began setting in. By nine-thirty, Grace was dressed completely. She just had to go to the track… just had to. It was a craving so strong that it was simply impossible to dismiss it. Yanking open the French doors that led to the mutual sun balcony that Judi and her apartments shared, she quickly walked over to the little blonde's windows. There were no lights on anywhere in the flat. Grace tapped softly at the balcony door; when there was no answer, she repeated the knock a bit more loudly this time. Judi apparently slept on. Feeling resentment and frustration, Grace went back to her own apartment.
"I suppose I could go to the track by myself," she said in speculation. "That way if Jim wanted to apologize and talk to me privately, we wouldn't have to worry about Judi."
The last thought triggered the decision and fifteen minutes later Grace was en route to the track in a taxi. As the car came closer to Bay Meadows, she began feeling the buildup of an almost intolerable excitement that left her weak and debilitated. Mentally she urged the driver to go faster. It seemed as if at each traffic light the idiot stopped longer and drove slower.
When they finally drove up in front of the Turf Club and Club House entrance, Grace was almost in a frenzy, and it took a determined effort on her part to appear calm and collected. Part of her enforced composure disappeared when she was paying the admission fee and heard the crowd being to shout as another race started.
"Oh, dear God, please don't let my number five win it. I'll kill myself!" she silently said, as the noise grew in volume and then faded, signifying the end of the race.
At the top of the stairs she glimpsed the tote board and saw, with sudden relief that number ten had finished first, number three was second, and a photo was needed to separate third and fourth horses. Convinced by this that tonight was going to be another lucky evening, Grace slowly wove her way through the milling throng toward the box holders section in the Turf Club. No one was in Jim Meloney's box; furthermore, there were no racing forms or binoculars or cocktail glasses there to indicate that anyone had been sitting in the box.
It was only then that Grace scanned the program and discovered that Red Rebel Stables had no horses entered in tonight's races. Once again disappointment assailed her. Maybe Jim was spending the evening in another box with friends. Recognizing a trainer who had been in Jim's box as a guest the night before, she stopped in front of him and smiled brightly. "Why, hello there," she said in as friendly a manner as possible. "How are you tonight?"
The man looked puzzled; obviously, she thought, he doesn't remember me. He was completely non-committal when he nodded his head at her.
"I'm Grace Hope. We met last night. In Jim's… I mean… Mr. Meloney's box."
Recognition dawned on the face. "Oh, yeah. How you been?"
"Fine. Ah… have you seen Mr. Meloney here tonight?"
"Naw, he ain't here. He's down in Los Alamitos for the big handicap tomorrow."
Now it was impossible to conceal the disappointment, and the trainer looked oddly at her. "Thank you," she managed to stammer, then turned and walked rapidly away, feeling close to tears. Reaching the bar, she sat her purse down on the teakwood decking and tried to figure out what she should do.
A white-coated bartender moved down the bar and asked, "Yes, Ma'am?"
Grace really didn't feel like drinking, but ordered a dry martini anyway, thinking it might help her relax a bit. When it came, it tasted differently than last night's. She only then began to sense the vast and overwhelming loneliness of the track. There were almost ten thousand spectators present, but she felt completely isolated and alone. Idly, for lack of anything better to do, she ran her eye down the listed entries of the upcoming race. Suddenly her body stiffened and her heart felt as if it had stopped beating. Number five was a horse called Jim's Hopeful II. It was a message from the Gods; the name coupled with her dream was just too much to be coincidence… too much to be ignored. Obviously her extra-sensory-perception had been working. She looked out toward the tote board and was not at all surprised to discover that the odds were hovering between nine and ten to one which meant the horse would pay $21 or so if it won.
Abruptly then she felt the return of heat in her face, the weakness around the knees. She drained the remainder of her martini in one swallow and resolutely made her way toward the $50 win window.
"Bet with their money," Jim had said, and Grace had six hundred dollars of their money. That, of course, was far too much to bet; that would be sheer greediness. No, she decided, I'll bet, only two hundred dollars… that will give me two thousand.
Quickly, before she could change her mind, she shoved two $100 bills through the cage and said, as casually as she could, "On number five to win, please." The machine hummed four times and spat out four yellow tickets.
Shoving them into her purse, she hurriedly made her way out to the deck overlooking the track. A solid wall of spectators were in front of her, she couldn't see a thing.
"It is now post time," the public address system announced.
Frantically, Grace craned her neck and moved in first one direction and then the other in an effort to see the track.
"They're off!"
Like a little girl trying to view the circus parade, Grace began jumping up and down. The scream of the crowd made it obvious that several horses were battling for the lead. Then the thunder rose to one gigantic cacophony before fading away to disappointed murmurs and shrill cries of delight.
"Who won! Who won?" Grace tugged at the coat sleeve of the man in front of her.
He didn't even turn toward her, merely said, "The nine horse."
"But… but…" she felt like tears, "What happened to the five horse?"
Now the man faced her, obviously irritated at her persistent questioning. "Christ, lady, I was too busy watching my horse to give you a run down on everyone in the race." He softened when he noticed how attractive she was. "Five was back in the pack someplace." He nodded toward the tote board, "He didn't make the first four." Grace, not believing him, stood on tiptoe and saw the numbers: nine, three, two, six.
Blindly, she turned away, walking once again toward the bar. She stopped at the same spot she had been before. The same bartender came down from his post. "Another?" he asked, smiling.
Grace took a deep breath, then nodded. She sipped her martini; it tasted like acid in her mouth. What had gone wrong? She still didn't believe she had lost the two hundred dollars so rapidly. Where had she erred? Gradually, bits of Jim's information came back to her. Another axiom he had stated had been never to bet unless you're sure your information is reliable and the horse is in top shape.
As she stood there, sipping her drink, she decided that the entire problem really was simple. All she needed was the information, and she knew where to get that… from the owners and trainers she had met the night before.
Moments later, Grace was drifting aimlessly through the Turf Club box section. She nodded pleasantly to several people whom she had served champagne to the night before, and felt a stab of hurt as it became obvious that most of them did not recall her at all. No one invited her to stop for conversation or to share their box. As the time for the next race grew closer and she still had received no information about the race, she was becoming almost frantic when she finally spotted the trainer she had spoken to earlier talking to a man she recognized as an owner.
Pretending to be deeply engrossed in her racing form, Grace slowly inched closer. She felt no guilt about eavesdropping, only a feverish excitement and almost intolerable sense of suspense.
Then she heard the very thing she had been praying for. The trainer scratched his head and said in a quiet voice, "That makes sense. I know the horse can do it. I was talking to Dan this morning. He says the horse is ready for a big race."
The owner glanced quizzically over toward Grace who rapidly averted her eyes. He lowered his own voice and asked the trainer, "You taking a flyer on him?"
"Yep. He should win by a length."
"That's good enough for me."
Grace moved away from them to a spot where she could keep the two men in sight. When they went to the betting window, she planned to be right behind him. She watched, waiting impatiently as they exchanged gossip with several other men. To Grace it seemed as if they all were in agreement. She followed close behind as they began moving toward the seller's cage about two minutes before post time.
The two men got in the small line in front of the $100 win window. Before Grace could move in behind them, a fat, bleached blonde older woman joined the line. Above the hub-bub of the crowd, she could barely hear what was being said at the window. She attempted to twist her way close to the trainer, and was rewarded by a scowl from the blonde, who turned and said sarcastically, "Don't shove, sweetie. There's plenty of tickets for everyone."
As she was speaking, Grace saw the owner pick up his tickets from the seller. She hadn't heard what horse he had bet on. Now the trainer was at the window. Just at that second the public address system began blaring, "It is now post time."
Between the words, however, Grace heard the trainer say, "Six." And a split second later heard the rest, "five times."
Now the familiar fever was on her so badly that she could hardly stand it. The woman in front of her placed her mammoth handbag on the window sill and went through an elaborate stage production of opening the purse, looking for money, and scrunching up her eyebrows as though she didn't know what quite to bet.
"Hurry, please," Grace pled, breathing rapidly, fearful that the race would start before she could place her bet.
The woman, who was holding a hundred dollar bill between thumb and forefinger as if it were a wiggling worm, looked back in disgust. "You again? Well, now, you just wait your turn like everyone else."
From behind Grace came a gruff angry voice, "Lady, if I miss getting a bet down on this race because of your yapping, and my horse wins, I'm going to kick… your… butt."
"Well!" Outraged, the bleached blonde bent down and stared in at the pari-mutuel clerk. "Number three, please."
Grace was almost rude in her effort to push past the window to get her money down. "Number six… six times." The tickets were coughed out of the machine, and Grace ran toward the terrace in an effort to see the race. She got there just as the announcement was made, "They're off." It was only then that she realized she didn't know either the stable colours or the horse's name. All around her people were screaming, shouting encouragement to their horse. Grace, though, was silent… praying. The race lasted 21.3 seconds. As the horses flashed past the finish line, a big powerful gray gelding was at least a length in front. Squinting, she made out its post position number, and her heart stopped beating when she saw the black figure, "8". Vainly she looked for the six horse, and finally she saw it somewhere near the back of the pack.
She stood there frozen as if she were a statue, as the crowd thinned. What had happened was simply unbelievable. The money had come so fast… and had gone just as rapidly. It was a disaster. Now, if she remained, she would have to bet her own money, and there was only a few dollars in her purse.
For a split second Grace had the foolish hope that maybe she had asked for the wrong horse or that the ticket seller has mistakenly punched out tickets on the eight horse. The more she thought about it, the more she became convinced that it was a distinct possibility. Almost frantically, she rummaged in her purse until she found the tickets. Six. All sixes. There had been no mistake… none… she had bought a loser.
She jumped as an oily voice next to her said, "Well… well… well. Mrs. Hope. What a surprise!" He glanced down at the tickets in her hand, and Grace saw his eyes widen in surprise as he made a low whistle of amazement. "Jesus. You're quite a plunger. I never realized." Without bothering to ask permission, he reached down and peeled apart her tickets as though he were spreading a deck of cards. Again he whistled. "Six or seven hundred bucks. You know, you… ah… ought to do business with the local merchants instead of giving the state its fifteen percent bite. Ah… if you decide you want to get a bet down at another track – anywhere in the country – I've got a friend who pays track odds."
Grace was furious with him. Who did he think she was? Besides, she didn't like the sudden greedy look in his eyes or the speculative stare he had given her. "Thank you, Mister Karl," she said in her coldest voice, "but I don't need… or want… your help. Good night." She spun and began walking rapidly toward the bar.
Ricky Karl watched her go. He grinned nastily. He really had been surprised to see the cold, snooty bitch here. Even more, he had been surprised to see that she was hooked. He knew that look. He'd seen it often enough on his bookmaking customers. They were the born losers. They were hooked on gambling the same way some people get hooked on heroin or alcohol. She had the fever; he had seen it in her eyes. And, in spite of what she said or acted, it was only a matter of time before she came to him or one of his boys wanting to place a bet.
Laughing now, he pulled out his own losing tickets – some $1500 worth on the six horses. He dropped them to the floor, thinking that he really hadn't lost… he had won! The tight-assed, contemptuous Mrs. Hope would have unlimited credit with his firm. He thought with pleasure the route she would go, the fun he would have breaking her in to his own special demands. And when he personally was through with her, there would be the special shows he sometimes staged for the boys from the east coast and Chicago. God! They'd go out of their gourds when they saw a classy broad like this with Andy's specially-trained German Shepherd.
It had been, he thought as he waddled across the decking toward the down escalator, a pretty good evening, after all. He'd give the bitch a week… two weeks… before she started getting the urge to bet elsewhere or on the day races when she was working.
And once that happened, Grace Hope would be in his web from that day on.