I found this going through files the other day. Short story that I wrote several years ago just after Zenyatta lost the Classic to Blame. It’s a fun little piece, and I hope you enjoy reading it.
If the massive copy/paste here leads to format errors when actually posting, I will try to fix them on edit.
THE SURE BET
Money does indeed have a smell, but even in a bank, outside the vault, there is rarely enough of it in one pile with a nose in near enough proximity to detect it. Instead, a bank presses on the other senses: The feel of the bills beneath the fingers, anywhere from crisply new to tired and well traveled, the hard surfaces of the coins, the clatter as they clink on the counter, the low hum of discreet voices. Each teller window is its own miniature world, everyone subscribing to the illusion of privacy, pretending there isn't somebody else three feet away conducting his own business.
Another routine day at the bank, filled with not the smell of money but with endless customers. Sarah Chandler gave a surreptitious look at the clock and pasted on her well-practiced, friendly smile yet again as her next customer stepped up. Once, when she was new on the job, she had counted customers she served each day. That game quickly grew old once the average had been worked out, so then she practiced trying to create a life for each person. She had a two-minute view of their world, and she did her best to make the most of it, sticking with physical observations and not cheating by her brief glimpse into their accounts. That was a fun game, but still, thirty minutes from closing on Friday, even it wore pretty thin. An admitted addict of Sherlock Holmes stories, she often wished her routine, predictable life could be just a [U]little[/U] more exciting.
She was about to get her wish.
"May I help you?" she asked the man next in line. He looked nervous, and she made her first guess: Lost debit card. In the next second, her mind games shattered against the cold, hard reality of the gun he pulled out of his pocket.
"Give me all your bills in a bag. Now!"
"Okay." It came out as a high-pitched squeak instead of the reassuring, let's-stay-calm tone she had meant. The gun wasn't entirely steady; this man was as keyed up as she was, and it was his finger on the trigger. The illusion of privacy in the adjoining windows shattered, and the wave of realization swept across the bank, both customers and employees turning that way as its surge reached them.
Cooperate, Sarah reminded herself. There were rules for this, and rule number one was not to try to be a hero, not to resist. Simply hand over the money and let the police handle investigation and pursuit. It was safer that way.
Even so, this bank and all others had measures in place. As Sarah gathered the cash obediently, she made sure to include the "bait money," the money with serial numbers recorded that is kept at each window specifically for robbery. She didn't have a silent alarm at her window, but the next window over did, and she saw that teller surreptitiously hit it. There were multiple alarms scattered throughout the bank, and though she couldn't look into the manager's office without being obvious, she thought the new account desk had also hit theirs. The alarms would be ringing at the police station, and the officers would be coming.
"Hurry up," the man urged. She finished bagging her cash, and he gave it a little shake as he took the bag, assessing the weight and frowning. "Is that all you've got?"
"Sorry." She pulled out her empty drawer to show him. "It's been a busy day." It had been, but that wasn't the reason for the slim pickings. No teller is allowed to exceed a certain amount of cash on hand, and any overage is immediately sold to the vault. Only an average of about $2000 to $3000 would be available at a window, depending on the immediately prior transactions.
He stood on tiptoe, leaning forward to see the drawer, and her nose twitched slightly. What was that smell? Not body odor, not cologne, but [U]something[/U]. Where had she smelled that before?
Satisfied that she wasn't holding out, the robber sidestepped to the next window, his gun still a bit unsteady but no less dangerous for that. All customers had backed away from the windows, parting like the Red Sea, and he had no-line access to every teller in the row. "All of it," he demanded, and that teller took the bag and added her contribution, including her own bait money.
The odd smell had jolted Sarah's mind back into action, and with the gun no longer aimed right at her, it was easier to think. She studied the man, trying not to be obvious about it. Medium height, a little pudgy, dark hair and beard. She thought of Sherlock Holmes and tried to look at his fingernails, but he was wearing gloves. She tried for his earlobes instead, but they were barely visible under the hair. Eyes. Think, Sarah. What would Sherlock do?
The bank manager was visible standing in her office now, not coming out to startle the perp but giving a reassuring look to her team as the man proceeded down the line. Her expression spoke volumes. Good job, everybody. Keep calm; give him what he wants. The police are coming.
The man finished at the last window and then slowly backed up, the gun still sweeping the room. No one moved. Ten feet from the door, he turned and bolted, making his getaway. Sirens were audible, approaching in urgent crescendo, but he had been gone for over a minute before the first police car screeched to a stop in front of the bank.
Inside, the manager had left her office, reassuring the customers, praising the employees. Sarah let out a deep breath, her clock watch forgotten.
**
"A bank was robbed late this afternoon in Louisville. A man entered the First Citizen's Bank and produced a gun."
William "Bud" Samson looked up from the cash spread across the table. The late evening news was showing a picture from security cameras of him with the gun, and he chuckled, touching the towel around his neck. The temporary hair dye had been scrubbed out in the shower, and the stage beard was in the trash. He was once again his natural light brown, nothing at all like this security shot. "I'm on the news!" he announced proudly. All those people who had said he would never amount to anything - and that roster was a lengthy one - had been wrong. He laughed again, enjoying the joke even if he couldn't share it.
The news anchor was prattling on in professional tones. "No one was hurt in the robbery, and the gunman escaped with an undisclosed amount of cash. Police are investigating."
Bud's smile faded as he returned his attention to his "windfall." Math had never been his subject in school; nothing had, to be honest. But no matter how many times he carefully counted the take, he still came up with the same answer. He had stolen $9,538. Maybe he shouldn't have planned his robbery on a Friday. He'd counted on the late Friday traffic to delay the police, but he hadn't counted on the bank not having much in the drawers. Surely the James-Younger gang and Bonnie and Clyde had done better than this. Bank robbery just wasn't as profitable as he'd been led to believe.
The news progressed to the next story, and the anchor's professional tone changed, shimmering with its own unprofessional excitement. "In other leading stories tonight, Masterful is primed and ready for his defense tomorrow of his Breeders' Cup Classic victory a year ago. The 4-year-old horse, last year's Triple Crown champion . . ."
Bud looked up immediately at the name. There was the horse on the screen, head held high, ears pricked, a king graciously holding court before his subject media. Masterful truly was magnificent, but all Bud saw looking at him was another M-word: Money.
The seed of Bud's grand idea had been planted back in the spring. Caught in yet another acute money shortage, he had taken a roommate in his apartment to split expenses. The financial benefits were nearly outweighed by the assault on his senses, for Tom had been not merely a poor college student and a walking rent check; he had been horse crazy. He lived and breathed racing. Pictures filled their walls, and TVG became the eternal channel of choice. Tom seemed oblivious to his roommate's pointed disinterest. Phrases like "courage," "will to win," and "scrappy" bounced around the walls of the small apartment like ping-pong balls, for to Tom, Thoroughbreds were not just a sport or a business - that Bud could have understood, even if not shared - but something mystical, romantic, grand.
Bud's interest was not piqued until the day that Tom, ever evangelizing for his religion, insisted on taking Bud to the races at Churchill Downs. There was no big race that day, just the general card, as the major race days carried ticket prices beyond their meager budget. Still, Tom insisted that once Bud actually saw the sport live, he would understand.
So Bud ambled in boredom into the track a half step behind his tormentor, and he stopped dead as the reality of Churchill Downs hit him with the force of a bowling ball.
Money. [U]Money[/U]. Windows in an endless row, dozens of bet clerks taking in and paying out, hundreds of people in line. If Tom's passion was horse racing, Bud's was money, preferably acquired with as little effort as possible. His own dreams were of the eventual time he would not have to work and could just sit around and watch sports all day, [U]real[/U] sports played with a ball, not sports that whinnied. He longed to tell Walmart exactly what they could do with his minimum wage job as a stocker.
Here in front of his eyes was apparently more money than even he had dreamed of. He could almost smell it, could practically feel the bills between his fingers.
Tom looked back as he realized Bud had stopped. "Impressive, isn't it? The main building has been renovated a few times, but parts of it date back to the 1800s. Just wait till you see the post parade. All the silks; it's like a living rainbow."
Bud was still staring at the windows. "How much money do they have here?"
"Not sure. I know they've got a vault somewhere. On a big day - say the Derby or the Breeders' Cup, which will be here in November - all these windows will be open. They do millions of dollars of handle just at the track." Tiring quickly of looking at the windows, he latched onto Bud's arm and dragged him on toward the front of the grandstand. Bud walked along in shock, unresisting. Millions of dollars. [U]Millions[/U] of dollars. He was in the same building as millions of dollars in cash.
The numbness lingered throughout the day. Tom grew frustrated with his lack of cheering for tight finishes and was incredulous when Bud observed that all horses look pretty much the same. Still, Bud at least wasn't complaining constantly that he wanted to leave, and he walked back to the windows with Tom every time, watching the bills exchanged for a ticket and then the ticket often exchanged back for bills. Tom wasn't much of a gambler, neither by financial ability nor by inclination, but he was enough of a rabid fan that he was a decent handicapper, and his $2 and $5 bets here and there earned back the expenses and gave a moderate profit at the end of the day.
"Good day. There's my half of the power bill," he said as they left, counting off some of his bills and handing them over to Bud. Bud seized them like the Holy Grail.
"That's a lot better than a job," he commented.
"Oh, some people make it their job. Big-time handicappers can really get some money. Pick 6, exotic plays like that. But remember, you don't always win. They're horses, not machines, and they can always have a bad day or an unexpectedly good one. [U]Any[/U] horse can lose. Except, of course, Masterful."
Bud sighed as Tom launched into his oft-repeated ode to Masterful, the undefeated Triple Crown winner last year who had then added the Travers and the Breeders' Cup Classic. Already, his 4-year-old season had picked up right where last year's had left off. Bud fingered the money in his pocket and tried to tune out his roommate as they got into Bud's old, beat-up car and started the drive home. "You should have watched the Santa Anita Handicap on TVG earlier this year. He was in traffic, couldn't get loose to make his run until the stretch, and then WHAM! Here he came, and it wasn't even close. The best racehorse I've ever followed. He's [U]amazing[/U]!"
Once home, Bud did not become an overnight racing fan, much to Tom's dismay. But after that visit to the track, he dreamed for a week straight of bet clerks handing him bills as he went down an endless line of windows, and he awoke with the smell of money lingering in the air.
The one thing that [U]was[/U] interesting about Tom, as far as Bud was concerned, was that his father back home was an officer in a bank. He asked one evening if a bank worker would ever get tempted to take just a few of those tantalizing bills that streamed by under his nose all day, and Tom shook his head. "Too many checks and balances. I know Dad had to stay late a few times if somebody's drawer didn't balance. They notice if you're off, even if it's only a dollar. Nope, the only real way to get hold of a bank's money without the loan paperwork is to rob one, and even then, they have ways to make sure you always get some marked money along with the rest of it. Dad got robbed once. It was the marked money that nailed the robber." Bud filed this under random money trivia with the rest of his brightly polished collection and proceeded with his annoyingly low-dollar life.
Tom had moved out of state after graduation in early summer, but he called in September, on cloud nine. "Bud! I had to tell you. You'll never guess what I got for my birthday from Dad. A ticket to the Breeders' Cup! Masterful. I'm actually going to [U]see[/U] Masterful run in the Breeders' Cup Classic in November, and it's even held at Churchill this year. Maybe we can hook up in Louisville for lunch."
"Yeah, maybe. I'm working, you know. Things are pretty busy." Bud didn't want to. If the lunch happened to take place before the Breeders' Cup, the topic would be Masterful the wonder horse, 738th verse, and if it took place after, Tom would still be bubbling over with having seen Masterful in the flesh. Churchill Downs might have a lot of money on hand, but the only horses Bud was really interested in remained the ones represented in the engines of motorcycles and racecars. No way did he want to talk about nothing but a horse for a whole meal. He'd already served his time listening to Tom back when they lived together.
Bud escaped from the phone call without a firm commitment for lunch, and Tom was too excited to notice. Bud's plodding life continued, but reminded of the races, of the big days when all those windows would be open, he once again dreamed for several nights of going down that endless line and receiving cash from each clerk.
He couldn't help noticing Masterful's name as the Breeders' Cup approached. He was in the paper, on TV, in random conversations on the street. He was even being discussed in Walmart. Bud had lived in Louisville for five years since dropping out of school, and he couldn't remember ever having the general media be this excited about one horse. Masterful was returning to the site of his Kentucky Derby triumph, ready to win his final career start before retiring to stud, and everybody in the city, horse racing fan or not, was unable to escape that fact. Then came the announcement that the horse had been syndicated for stud to a Kentucky farm for 50 million. Even Bud read that complete article, his jaw slack in disbelief, waiting for the correction of the headline.
The next call from Tom came only a week before the race, and his ex-roommate's voice was so weak and shaky that Bud didn't recognize it at first. "Bud, this is Tom. I'm having Dad send you my ticket for Saturday."
Bud was stunned. "You're not going? What about Masterful?"
"Can't go. I'm in the hospital; got hit by a drunk driver. I argued over it, but I had internal injuries. Bleeding; had surgery. Docs won't let me fly. They say I'll still be in the hospital." Tom's voice was full of regret at missing seeing his hero race, as acute as the physical pain. "You go, Bud. You'll understand once you see him. He's incredible, sheer power. Watch him for me, okay? Watch him win. He'll win; he always does. Every single time."
People had called Bud uncomplimentary things like "a little slow" and "not the sharpest crayon in the box" all his life, but at that moment, his mind seized an idea so fiercely that he could almost feel the heat radiating from the light bulb. "He's still undefeated?" he double checked.
"Of course. He's the best. Tried to tell you that. Go see him, Bud. Great seat. You're right above the finish line."
A slow smile spread across Bud's face. "I'll go. Thanks, Tom. I'll watch him win for you. Wish you could be here," he lied.
"So do I."
The ticket arrived, and Bud called that evening to thank Tom and ask a few more questions. "I got the ticket for Saturday. Thanks, Tom. How ya doing?"
"Getting better. I had surgery this morning; 28 screws in my leg. Sorta like Barbaro." Tom's voice this evening was a little slurred.
Bud felt a twinge of sympathy. "That sounds like it hurts."
"Nope. They put me on morphine. Doesn't hurt at all. You be sure to see him, Bud."
"I will. I promise, I'll watch him for you. I'll even get you a picture. Tell me, Tom. Are you [U]sure[/U] he's going to win Saturday?"
"Are you kidding? He's the best. The greatest. Greatest racehorse ever. Nobody anywhere near him. Won't even be close, I tell you. He's a sure bet."
Bud's smile widened. "Thanks, Tom. Get well soon."
He hung up the phone and studied the ticket, his mind working in overdrive. That crowd, all those thousands of people, all those millions of dollars. No better place to exchange marked bank money and still earn a profit doing it. Bud began planning his disguise.
". . . connections say he is ready. Even though the trainer hopes tomorrow's forecast rain will hold off, he remains confident, regardless of track conditions, although Masterful has never run on a sloppy track. So all eyes are on Masterful for his date with destiny tomorrow." The news anchor's voice pulled Bud out of memories. Masterful was still on the screen, the undefeated king of racing, the 50-million-dollar horse, the one Tom assured him couldn't lose. He looked the part. Bud knew nothing about horses, but he had to admit this one sure looked like an undefeated champion.
He raised a packet of cash in salute to the screen. "See you tomorrow."
**
"$200 on 13 to win."
Sarah's head jerked up. To this point in her long and fun afternoon, the immense crowd had held the anonymity of numbers for her, but now for the first time, she became individually aware of the man two in front of her, and she unburied her nose from her program.
The voice was identical to the one she had heard just 24 hours before, only that time it had been on the other side of a gun. Even the nervous tremor in it was the same. The hair was different, though, lighter, and this man was clean shaven. Still, beards could be shaved or...
With a click of the mental puzzle pieces that would have made Sherlock proud, Sarah pegged that tauntingly familiar smell when he had leaned over the counter. Glue such as actors sometimes used. One of her brothers was in community theater. The beard had been false, and the hair could have been dyed.
The man accepted his ticket and left, and Sarah forfeited her place in line to trail him. She tried to be discreet, but he was looking every direction except behind him. His nervous walk was just as familiar as the voice; she had watched it all the way across the lobby to the bank doors. Sarah had to bite back the laughter of disbelief as the next similarity struck her. He was wearing the same old coat. He had hidden himself behind a false beard and hair dye in the bank, yet had not thought about the rest of the picture.
She didn't have long to follow him, as he checked into another betting line only five down. She tucked in right behind him, and once again, he bet $200 to win on #13. She abandoned line to follow him five down again. By now, she had his modus operandi, and she kept a careful watch in her peripheral vision on him but stayed in line herself long enough to place her own bet.
It was $25, the largest she had ever made, and reluctantly, she stuck with her analysis finalized last night. She had no doubt that Masterful was the best horse, but the cold rain had been falling all night and all day, turning the track into a swamp, and he had drawn the next-to-outside post position in a big field and might have trouble getting tactical position near the rail, the short way around. Also, post time for the Classic was late enough that when the Breeders' Cup was held at this track, unlike last year when it had been on the West Coast, the final races would be under lights. Masterful had never raced after dark, and while the track lighting was impressive, it still wasn't daylight. Three negative factors at the end of a hard year-long campaign. With an apology to her favorite, whose journey she had followed avidly all year, Sarah put down her money. "$25 on 13 to place." She collected her ticket, then scampered over quickly to the nearby line to keep an eye on her target.
Keeping an eye on him wasn't hard as she followed him through 15 more betting lines. Always the same bet, and by now, she had concluded what he was doing, although she still had trouble believing it. He was betting the robbery money to launder it? Clearly, he knew nothing of the delightful unpredictability of horses. She knew she needed to go find the police, but she was afraid of losing him in this swarming beehive of people while she hunted for backup. He wore a wrist band as she did colored for the clubhouse seats outside under the overhang, and she decided she would obtain his seat number before dashing off for the authorities. The forlorn thought that she might well miss the Classic while explaining herself to the law and convincing them flitted through her mind, and she stamped it down firmly. First things first. Fighting crime trumped recreation. She had saved up months for today, but there was always YouTube.
Finally, the man finished betting. He leaned against a pillar and thumbed through a thick sheaf of tickets, then took a deep breath and started for the stairs. The crowd outside erupted into a roar that shook the building, and Sarah knew the post parade had begun and that Masterful had emerged from the tunnel onto the track. She forced her eyes to stay on her quarry and not divert to a monitor to watch the horses.
The robber was moving much faster now. They emerged into the open air near the finish line, and he entered one of the boxes and sat down, ignoring his seatmates, rigidly staring at the track. From the steps above, she marked the row number and position, then turned and hit her best speed possible through the crowd, feeling like a salmon fighting the current. Police. Security. [U]Anybody[/U].
Anybody noticed her first. A hand closed firmly on her arm, halting her headlong flight, and she turned to face a burly chest sporting a polished badge. Louisville PD. "Ma'am, is there a problem?" She looked up to meet his eyes.
"Yes. . .I have the robber. . . from yesterday," she panted.
"You ran into a pickpocket?"
She shook her head vigorously. "No. The bank robber. I work at First Citizen's Bank. We were robbed yesterday; I was the teller he pulled the gun on. He's [U]here[/U]."
The officer immediately shifted focus from pickpockets to far more important prey. "You're sure?"
"Positive. He's wearing the exact same old coat. Voice is the same, walk is the same. He took off his beard - it was false. I mentioned a weird smell in my statement last night. That was glue. I think he dyed his hair, but I'm [U]sure[/U] he's the same man. Then I followed him to about 20 betting windows, and he had even more tickets than that. He's trying to launder the bait money by betting on Masterful." This all tumbled out urgently, trying to convince him, and by the end of that speech, she had his full attention. Surely all that was enough at least to take the man in for questioning. Maybe he still had the fake beard, glue, and dye at his house if they could get a warrant. Better yet would be the bank bag that had held the money.
"So where is he now?" He apparently believed her. The spring of tension in her relaxed half a turn.
"I followed him to his seat." She rattled off the number and turned back toward the stairs. The officer followed her, speaking quickly into his radio, requesting backup. They took the stairs together, the crowd separating rapidly now into either seats or clumps around the monitors.
Out on the front side of the track, Sarah pointed just as the grandstand roared even louder, followed by a gasp, then a greater roar. She couldn't hear the announcer, but she knew the race had started, and her eyes couldn't resist shifting toward the track as the officer started down the steps. The field rushed by under the lights, passing the finish line for the first time with a circuit to go, but she couldn't find Masterful. When she finally spotted him, she was baffled. Normally a stalker, staying in the first three or four horses until making his move, he was now many lengths behind the entire field, and his action lacked its usual smoothness. "What on earth?" she wondered aloud.
She could hear the announcer again now as the crowd died to a concerned murmur. "And Masterful is last following the incident at the start when Come Monday on the outside stumbled, slipped, and went down, impeding him badly. Come Monday has now been caught by the outrider and appears unhurt, and his jockey is on his feet. On the clubhouse turn, it's . . ." Worried, she followed the horse with her eyes around the clubhouse turn until the field disappeared onto the backstretch.
Two more policemen passed Sarah, jolting her back to her senses. The robber was staring in absolute disbelief at the monitor, and he never noticed the gathering posse behind him. Another man arrived, trotting quickly down the steps, and he pulled out a printout of the picture from bank security tapes that had been broadcast. The law enforcement committee studied it together, then the robber, looking at the coat and his facial structure. They held a silent vote and reached the same verdict with a mutual nod.
Just as they started to close in, the grandstand erupted with the most deafening noise Sarah had ever heard on a track. The robber couldn't have heard his own arrest even if he had noticed the law, which he hadn't yet. He turned away from the big screen to look up the stretch, leaning forward eagerly. The tumult grew. Sarah gave up watching the police, who obviously couldn't do anything until the volume was turned down anyway, and zeroed in on the track herself.
As the field entered the homestretch, Masterful was coming. Unbelievably, inexorably, he surged on the outside, his long strides hungrily devouring the gap, passing the others in his own special gear. Sarah stared. Masterful had been [U]so[/U] far back, at least 20 lengths behind everyone, and this was a first-class field, including an international champion who had shipped across the Atlantic. It seemed impossible that the horse had any chance, yet here he was, blazing down the outside, his bay nose stretched out in fierce determination, his white blaze totally covered in chocolate mud from his trip, his ears for the first time ever in a stretch drive flattened back. No longer was he toying with his opposition. No longer was it easy as it had always been for him, so the great horse rose to the challenge, as champions will, and somehow found more.
The noise was unbelievable as 70,000 people roared encouragement. In those moments, no matter what tickets they held, they were cheering for one horse.
The second favorite had the lead up ahead, having enjoyed a perfect trip. Everybody knew that Masterful would catch him; his strides were gulping the ground between them. But would it be in time?
The cheering abruptly switched off as if the crowd had been unplugged, the verdict realized a few seconds in advance, and in the final stride at the wire, the announcer's voice was loud in the sudden stillness as the champion barely missed getting up. Two strides later, Masterful was in front. It was two strides too late.
Sarah resumed breathing again, her eyes following the horse around the turn. "So close," she breathed, and it was not a requiem for the unblemished record but a tribute to the effort. How on earth had Masterful come so near to doing it after the accident at the start? The crowd slowly found its voice, and the quiet, respectful comments she heard around her were all similar. The favorite had lost no stature at all in this race today. Rather, he had added grit and determination to his former blithe dominance.
Bud stood stunned, looking at the finish line as if seeing his own photo finish picture permanently imprinted there. "He lost?" He was suddenly furious at Tom, at Masterful, at the world, at the cruel fate that once again had snatched financial success right out of his grasp when he had almost had it. He pulled the worthless tickets out of his pocket, and they fell like confetti from his numb fingers.
An iron hand landed on his shoulder, and he spun to face four police officers. Every scrap of color drained out of his face, and the guilty flinch he gave spoke louder than words. One of the men held up the security photo, and they all carefully compared the full facial view and the coat. Sarah came down the steps, looking at his face openly for the first time today. "I'm positive," she confirmed.
"You're under arrest. You're being taken into custody for suspicion of bank robbery. You have the right to remain silent..." As the first policeman recited the warning, another officer ducked to gather the discarded tickets from the floor.
Applause broke out around them, not the frantic roar of a few minutes ago but a warm approval. Masterful was returning to be unsaddled. Mud-streaked as never before, still breathing hard from the force of his effort, he was [U]almost[/U] perfection, and the imperfect world stood to honor that achievement. Sarah couldn't help joining in. "Good job, fella," she called. "Great race. You gave it everything."
Bud couldn't believe it. They were actually applauding that blasted horse. "He [U]lost[/U]," he snarled. "Don't you people realize he lost? It's just another stupid horse."
His words were lost in the crowd's salute, and only he and the policemen heard the cold, metal snick of the handcuffs.