I laughed. “You make a few good points, Jeff, I can see you’re a student of the game, but ’fess up—you hate the Yanks just like everybody else in New England, and it’s destroyed your perspective.”
“You want to put your money where your mouth is?”
“Sure. A fin. I make it a point not to take any more than a five-spot from the wage-slaves. Are we on?”
“We are.” And we shook on it.
“Okay,” I said, “now that we’ve got that accomplished, and since we’re on the subjects of baseball and betting—the two great American pastimes—I wonder if you could tell me where I could find some serious action in this town. If I may wax poetic, I want to lay a major wager. Bring me another beer and draw one for yourself.”
I saidmajor wagerMaine-style—majah wajah—and he laughed as he drew a couple of Narragansetts (which I had learned to call Nasty Gansett; when in Rome, one should, as much as possible, speak as the Romans do).
We clinked glasses, and Jeff asked me what I meant by serious action. I pretended to consider, then told him.
“Five hundred smacks? On theYankees? When the Braves’ve got Spahn and Burdette? Not to mention Hank Aaron and Steady Eddie Mathews? You’re nuts.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. We’ll see starting October first, won’t we?Isthere anyone in Derry who’ll fade a bet of that size?”
Did I know what he was going to say next? No. I’m not that prescient. Was I surprised? No again. Because the past isn’t just obdurate; it’s in harmony with both itself and the future. I experienced that harmony time and again.
“Chaz Frati. You’ve probably seen him in here. He owns a bunchof hockshops. I wouldn’t exactly call him a bookie, but he keeps plenty busy at World Series time and during high school football and basketball season.”
“And you think he’ll take my action.”
“Sure. Give you odds and everything. Just…” He looked around, saw we still had the bar to ourselves, but dropped his voice to a whisper anyway. “Just don’t stiff him, George. He knows people.Strongpeople.”
“I hear you,” I said. “Thanks for the tip. In fact, I’m going to do you a favor and not hold you to that five when the Yankees win the Series.”
4
The following day I entered Chaz Frati’s Mermaid Pawn & Loan, where I was confronted by a large, stone-faced lady of perhaps three hundred pounds. She wore a purple dress, Indian beads, and moccasins on her swollen feet. I told her I was interested in discussing a rather large sports-oriented business proposal with Mr. Frati.
“Is that a bet in regular talk?” she asked.
“Are you a cop?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, bringing a Tiparillo out of one dress pocket and lighting it with a Zippo. “I’m J. Edgar Hoover, my son.”
“Well, Mr. Hoover, you got me. I’m talking about a bet.”
“World Series or Tigers football?”
“I’m not from town, and wouldn’t know a Derry Tiger from a Bangor Baboon. It’s baseball.”
The woman stuck her head through a curtained-off doorway at the back of the room, presenting me with what was surely one of central Maine’s largest backsides, and hollered, “Hey Chazzy, come out here. You got a live one.”
Frati came out and kissed the large lady on the cheek. “Thank you, my love.” His sleeves were rolled up, and I could see the mermaid. “May I help you?”
“I hope so. George Amberson’s the name.” I offered my hand. “I’m from Wisconsin, and although my heart’s with the hometown boys, when it comes to the Series my wallet’s with the Yankees.”
He turned to the shelf behind him, but the large lady already had what he wanted—a scuffed green ledger with PERSONAL LOANS on the front. He opened it and paged to a blank sheet, periodically wetting the tip of his finger. “How much of your wallet are we talking about, cuz?”
“What kind of odds could I get on five hundred to win?”
The fat woman laughed and blew out smoke.
“On the Bombers? Even-up, cuz. Strictly even-up.”
“What kind of odds could I get on five hundred, Yankees in seven?”
