Against The Odds (Anna Dawson #1) Read Online Free
Author: Mara Jacobs
nostalgia that first appealed to me about the boys.
“Look, he even mentioned Black Sunday,” Gus pointed out.
It was a famous story in odds maker history. Superbowl Thirteen; Steelers vs. Cowboys. The Steelers opened at 2 1/2 point favorites. People bet it. Heavy. Pushing the odds to 4 1/2 points. That looked good to the Dallas fans (their Cowboys could lose, but by less than 4 1/2 points) and the money came in from the other side.
Then some really big money came in and bet Pittsburgh (it was rumored to be a big CEO at some steel company) at the last moment and almost turned the odds again, but it was too late to matter.
Pittsuburgh won by 4 points and everybody won.
“Except the poor schmuck from Pittsburgh that took the Steelers at four and a half,” Saul was quoted in the article.
“And the odds makers,” Gus had added.
The journalist wrote about the fall-out for the casinos after taking such a huge loss. Lots of odds makers lost their jobs. But the five men who would become known as The Corporation had survived.
By then, of course they were all aware of each other, but only Ben and Saul could be considered friends. And they were best friends. It wasn’t until after they retired, some fifteen or twenty years ago, that they’d all begun meeting for breakfast each morning.
“This is a great article,” I said, as I looked up. The men were all still reading except Gus, who had already finished and had flipped back to the first page, studying the group photo. I did as well, and then laughed as I read the caption. “They’ve got your nicknames in the caption. Did you guys tell him?”
They all shook their heads no as they turned back to the picture page. I watched as each man’s face took on a different smile as they read their olden day’s monikers. Jimmy the Wop’s was a proud grin. Saul the Jew shook his head with a rueful smile. Gorgeous Gus ran his fingers through his beautiful hair, straightened his already straight tie. Danny the Mick broke out in an easy laugh. And Hyman Roth—Ben—sighed deeply. I figured he was secretly proud. His nickname, after the shrewd Jewish businessman, based on gangster Meyer Lansky, who brought casinos to Cuba in the second Godfather movie, was certainly the most creative.
The only one with a little imagination. I wouldn’t have put it past Ben to have somehow started it himself.
“I wonder where that kid got all this?” Saul asked.
That “kid” journalist was about my age. “I give him credit for putting that in the caption,” Gus said. “Not very politically correct.”
“Fuck politically correct,” Jimmy said what all the men were probably thinking.
And so was I. These men had worn those names with great pride back in the day. Just by watching their faces I could see how much being in the magazine meant to them. They’d all worked close to fifty years in the back rooms, breathing in smoke, taking calls from snitches all over the country that had hot tips about players, teams or coaches.
It was wonderful to see them out from the shadows, basking in a little limelight.
W e never got around to today’s games. I’d have to wing it on my own if I was going to place any bets this afternoon.
Not the first time, but I did like getting the boys’ feedback. At least I had the ride home with Ben, I could pick his brain.
We left Arizona Charlie’s. I walked slowly beside Ben, making sure the way was clear for his walker, but knowing better than to help him. I looked around at the clientele. Charlie’s was well off the strip and as such catered more to locals than tourists. And much, much older.
You were more likely to see someone wheeling an oxygen tank than a baby stroller.
Old school. And that’s how The Corporation liked it.
Ben was so engrossed in the magazine that I drove in silence. I made my way to Summerlin, into our swanky subdivision. When we got to the house, I was surprised to see several cars parked at the
“Look, he even mentioned Black Sunday,” Gus pointed out.
It was a famous story in odds maker history. Superbowl Thirteen; Steelers vs. Cowboys. The Steelers opened at 2 1/2 point favorites. People bet it. Heavy. Pushing the odds to 4 1/2 points. That looked good to the Dallas fans (their Cowboys could lose, but by less than 4 1/2 points) and the money came in from the other side.
Then some really big money came in and bet Pittsburgh (it was rumored to be a big CEO at some steel company) at the last moment and almost turned the odds again, but it was too late to matter.
Pittsuburgh won by 4 points and everybody won.
“Except the poor schmuck from Pittsburgh that took the Steelers at four and a half,” Saul was quoted in the article.
“And the odds makers,” Gus had added.
The journalist wrote about the fall-out for the casinos after taking such a huge loss. Lots of odds makers lost their jobs. But the five men who would become known as The Corporation had survived.
By then, of course they were all aware of each other, but only Ben and Saul could be considered friends. And they were best friends. It wasn’t until after they retired, some fifteen or twenty years ago, that they’d all begun meeting for breakfast each morning.
“This is a great article,” I said, as I looked up. The men were all still reading except Gus, who had already finished and had flipped back to the first page, studying the group photo. I did as well, and then laughed as I read the caption. “They’ve got your nicknames in the caption. Did you guys tell him?”
They all shook their heads no as they turned back to the picture page. I watched as each man’s face took on a different smile as they read their olden day’s monikers. Jimmy the Wop’s was a proud grin. Saul the Jew shook his head with a rueful smile. Gorgeous Gus ran his fingers through his beautiful hair, straightened his already straight tie. Danny the Mick broke out in an easy laugh. And Hyman Roth—Ben—sighed deeply. I figured he was secretly proud. His nickname, after the shrewd Jewish businessman, based on gangster Meyer Lansky, who brought casinos to Cuba in the second Godfather movie, was certainly the most creative.
The only one with a little imagination. I wouldn’t have put it past Ben to have somehow started it himself.
“I wonder where that kid got all this?” Saul asked.
That “kid” journalist was about my age. “I give him credit for putting that in the caption,” Gus said. “Not very politically correct.”
“Fuck politically correct,” Jimmy said what all the men were probably thinking.
And so was I. These men had worn those names with great pride back in the day. Just by watching their faces I could see how much being in the magazine meant to them. They’d all worked close to fifty years in the back rooms, breathing in smoke, taking calls from snitches all over the country that had hot tips about players, teams or coaches.
It was wonderful to see them out from the shadows, basking in a little limelight.
W e never got around to today’s games. I’d have to wing it on my own if I was going to place any bets this afternoon.
Not the first time, but I did like getting the boys’ feedback. At least I had the ride home with Ben, I could pick his brain.
We left Arizona Charlie’s. I walked slowly beside Ben, making sure the way was clear for his walker, but knowing better than to help him. I looked around at the clientele. Charlie’s was well off the strip and as such catered more to locals than tourists. And much, much older.
You were more likely to see someone wheeling an oxygen tank than a baby stroller.
Old school. And that’s how The Corporation liked it.
Ben was so engrossed in the magazine that I drove in silence. I made my way to Summerlin, into our swanky subdivision. When we got to the house, I was surprised to see several cars parked at the
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