Grace retired to a leather couch in the far comer of the Turf Club where the full realization of the enormity of her disaster finally manifested itself. She had lost six hundred dollars in less than 45 minutes. She had been so sure that her actions were in keeping with Jim Meloney's instructions. Admittedly it had been foolish in the first race to play a hunch; that wouldn't happen again! But she had followed Jim's axiom on the last race: Make sure your information comes from reliable sources.
Gradually her disappointment gave way to a smouldering resentment, then to anger… anger at herself and anger at the track. Some people made money at the track. She, too, would make money – or at least enough to get back her six hundred dollars. Then she would quit. After all, she had a head for figures and knew now how the game was played. The decision made, Grace counted the money in her purse. Twenty-two dollars! She put the two dollars aside for cab fare home, then quickly went back upstairs seeking information. A few minutes later she had purchased five two-dollar win tickets on a horse called Yellow Raft. She disliked standing in the two dollar ticket line; it seemed to be filled with riff-raff, seedy looking people. Yellow Raft won easily, but paid only $3.60 for each two dollar win ticket. On the next and last race of the evening, Grace pooled her original twenty dollars with the eight dollar winnings to bet a big, beautiful black horse by the name of Bar Bar Black which was going off at six to one. Grace made a swift calculation and decided her tickets would be worth about $210 when the horse won.
Screaming encouragement, jumping up and down, and her body afire, Grace saw Bar Bar Black come out of the gate and take what appeared to be a commanding lead. Then, on the far outside, a gray began closing ground. The two horses nosed up to the wire at almost the same instant. Grace was positive she had won, even though the Photo Finish lights were on. Then, after waiting for what seemed to be an eternity, with her knees actually quaking and throat painfully dry, she saw the photo lights blink out and the winner posted. It was the gray; Bar Bar Black finished second.
Grace rode silently home in the taxi. She could not ever remember being so weary as she was at this moment; it was as though she had been ill and running a high temperature. She was completely debilitated, washed out, but not too tired to feel the dull anger at the track still smouldering inside her brain.
When she got home, she went directly upstairs and to bed.
This time she didn't even think about the mail before sleep overcame her.
On Saturday, Grace cashed a hundred dollar check at the nearby super-market where she was known, and went back to the track, determined that today would be the last time she ever visited it. Her money was gone by the sixth race. She took a bus home and cried when in the privacy of her own bedroom.
California tracks generally are closed on Mondays, and Bay Meadows was no exception. On Tuesday evening, Grace was back again after writing a check for $175, almost all that she had left in the checking account. She came home with $35.
On Wednesday evening, she asked one of the trainers about Jim Meloney.
"Oh, he's taken part of the string and gone to Raton."
"Raton?"
"Sure. New Mexico. Quarter horse meet going on there."
That was the night Grace had to wait forty minutes across the street from the track for a bus because she had lost the taxi money. Several leering lone males in cars offered her a lift, and once she shrank back in terror prepared to scream for help when six husky youths in a car stopped. One of them got out of the car and said, "Hey, baby. Come on. We'll give you a ride home." A second boy was in the process of getting out of the car also when a police car cruised by and made a U-turn. The youths lost no time in leaving.
Grace went to the track every night for the next two weeks. At the end of that time, she had borrowed $500 from a loan company, asked for and received an advance on her salary, depleted her and Stan's pitifully small savings account, borrowed $30 from Judi… and pawned her engagement ring… and lost it all.
Grace was sure that Judi was puzzled by her sudden need of money and by absences away from the house every night, but the little blonde remained silent. Grace also was almost positive that Judi thought she was having an affair with Jim Meloney and was spending her evenings with him.
On a Friday, exactly three weeks after she had gone to the track for the first time in her life, Grace "borrowed" two hundred dollars from the bank deposit. She won that night and happily remained about even on Saturday. On Monday, she replaced the money.
The following night she heard some terribly exciting news about one of Jim Meloney's horses scheduled to start within the next two or three days.
The horse, Little Red Jewel, had never before started in a race, but it had broken a track record while in training earlier at Bay Meadows. Jim, it was reported, was going to try and pull one on the New Mexico and Texas owners by putting the no-record horse in a race with proven campaigners. The odds should be good.
It was at that point Grace decided it was really time to relent a bit toward Ricky Karl.
He always swam in the late afternoons, so Grace waited until she saw him in the pool, then put on her briefest bikini and went down to join him.
Ricky would have given odds that the untouchable Mrs. Hope was going to break the ice with him within the next day or so. Actually, he was surprised it had taken her this long. He had watched and made note of her downward movement from the hundred dollar win window to the two dollar show and place windows. She had the bug just about as bad as anyone he had ever seen. Knowing instinctively that she would come to him, he had bided his time, and now as he saw her wade into the pool he knew the time had come.
Grace waited for him to say something to her, but he seemingly was interested in other things. When he did happen to glance her way, she gave him a half-smile. Ricky simply nodded his head, then swam over to the end of the pool and began talking to a friend. Grace swam the length of the pool slowly, stopping at a place where she knew he could see her. She smiled again in a friendly manner and this time there wasn't even a nod. Now she began to get angry at him. After all, she was trying to make friends with him. That's what he had been trying to do for a long time, wasn't it? It was almost as if he were trying to make things difficult for her.
In spite of her heartfelt repugnance, Grace forced herself to finally swim over beside him and begin the conversation. "Mister Karl, could I speak to you for a second?"
"Sure, Mrs. Hope." He began swimming leisurely toward the side of the pool where no one was in earshot. He put his fat, pudgy arms up over the side, waited until she joined him, then asked, "What can I do for you?"
Grace hoped her dislike and revulsion didn't show on her face. He was so gross! He had layers of fat across his chest, resulting in breasts that actually were almost as large as those on some women. His stomach was covered with short black hair that resembled hog bristles. All things considered, though, what Grace disliked most about him were his eyes and his mouth – both mean, small, and obscene. She looked away from him and said, "The other night you mentioned you had a friend who could make a bet for me on other tracks?"
"That's correct, Mrs. Hope."
"Even Raton, New Mexico?"
"Even Son Pardo in Mallorca, if you want."
"How do I get in touch with him?"
"I'll give him your message."
Grace didn't like that arrangement. She didn't want Ricky Karl knowing about her information. He was the type who might blab it to all his friends.
Ricky watched her closely, evaluating just how far he could push her, knowing that she wasn't happy dealing with him. He waited, amused, like a big cat toying with a small mouse.
Grace didn't want to offend him, not until she got the information she wanted – the name of the bookie. She said, "I don't want to bother you. Just tell me where I can reach him."
Ricky grinned. "It isn't quite that easy, Mrs. Hope. Ah… maybe I'd better have him call you. I'm sure you understand. He's a bookie and bookmaking is illegal. I'll tell him all about you and let him know you're good for the dough."
"All right. But could you have him call me tonight or tomorrow morning?"
"Sure." Ricky had a hard time keeping the gloating out of his voice. The fish had swam into the net, now it was just a matter of hauling in. His eyes fell to the luscious, soft ripe mounds of her breasts, pinched tightly in their bra cups, looking eminently biteable. She didn't know it yet, but within two weeks he was going to take a tit in each hand and then press them around his cock and fuck her that way and shoot a hot stream of jism up against her chin and mouth. The haughty bitch… she really had some coming to her and he was just the boy to see that she got it. He felt his prick crawling in response to the mental stimuli.
Grace saw the hot, vacant look in his eyes and drew back in fear. Almost immediately he superficially seemed to be a nice person once again, but that one glimpse she'd had into the depths of his filthy soul was enough to make her wish she had never started talking to him in the first place. Grace lost no time in getting back to her own apartment.
The contact with Ricky's "friend" was made about an hour later when Grace's telephone rang.
"Mrs. Hope?"
"Yes?"
"A friend said you wanted to talk to me."
"Are you the… ah… bookie?"
"That isn't a nice word, Mrs. Hope."
"I'm sorry."
"Okay. Let's just say that you can make certain investments with me and let it go at that."
"All right, Mister… Mister?"
"You can call me Andy."
"Thank you, Andy. Now can you make a bet for me?"
"That's what I'm here for. What do you want?"
"There's a horse by the name of Little Red Jewel that's going to be entered in a race at Raton sometime soon and I'd like to place a bet on it."
Andy's voice didn't hesitate a second. "Its going in the fourth tomorrow."
"That soon?"
"That's what the form says. How much do you want on it?"
"Do you have any limit on the bets. How will I give you the money?"
"Our mutual friend says you're good for the dough. I can go two and a half bills for you."
"Two hundred and fifty dollars?" Grace couldn't keep the pleasure out of her voice. It seemed years since she had that kind of money to bet with.
"No, two thou five hundred."
Stunned, Grace couldn't speak for a moment, and Andy repeated his earlier question. "How much do you want to bet on the horse?"
"Five hundred," she said quickly. "To win."
"Okay. I'll be in touch. You want I should call at a certain time every day?"
Grace thought a moment, then answered, "Is eight fifteen in the morning too early for you?"
"Naw. I'll call." He hung up.
Grace left for the track. As she was going out the door, she felt a sudden stab of guilt about Stan. She hadn't written to him in five days. She stopped, feeling a brief note to him wouldn't take more than five minutes to write, but then went out of the apartment after deciding to do it after she got home.
The Gods smiled on Grace for part of the evening. She had gone to the track with fifty dollars – proceeds of an insufficient funds check she had written at the market. She came home with $220, and at one time she had been almost four hundred dollars ahead. It had been an exhilarating evening, the best in a long time, and Grace knew positively that things were looking up, that she would be out of the hole within a day or two – especially after Little Red Jewel won tomorrow.
The next afternoon Jim Meloney's horse finished eighth in an eight horse field. That same night, Grace came home from the track with only twenty six cents in her purse.
A week later, after a streak of unbelievably bad luck, she was in hock to Andy for $3100, and was apprehensive because she knew she could never pay that much money back. He hadn't asked for his money yet, but Grace knew it was just a matter of time. It was going to be terribly embarrassing when she had to confess that she was broke. The thing that frightened her most was the fact that she had written almost four hundred dollars in bad checks. The least of her worries was Stan who had written a hurt and bewildered letter asking her why he was receiving no mail from her.
And it was on Friday that she got the call at work from Andy wanting his money that afternoon.