Courting Disaster by Carol Stephenson

the names of shell corporations Borys set up for the Russian mob. Apparently they hadn’t cared what names he used so long as he created a labyrinth of businesses to launder money.
    After clearing my schedule for the afternoon, I pulled into the gigantic parking lot of the most interesting of those Peabody companies—Kirwood Racetrack. I tucked the Mustang into a tree-shaded spot along the lot’s side. There had been a huge outcry from environmentalists when the racetrack site had been first proposed for this southwest corner of the county, resulting in numerous commission hearings. However, Palm Beach residents loved their gambling and finally money had won out.
    Within short order another tourism mecca had been born. Besides the trackside seating, the main building housed a restaurant with tiers of tables. I entered the front entrance and headed up to the betting level bracketed with bars on either side. After grabbing a high top table and placing an order for burger, fries and a diet cola, I pretended to study my program while I surveyed the place. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find. After all, I could be on a wild horse chase.
    As a public defender, I had never represented money launderers. When you hit that level of the criminal world, you could afford to get the best. I suspected even Borys ultimately would have obtained a private attorney. But I knew the basics of Money Laundering 101.
    First, illegal gains, such as drug money, are used to fund a legitimate business in what was called placement. Then, in the layering stage, the monies are stockpiled while waiting for the conversion. Finally the illegal monies are integrated by mingling with legitimate money.
    What better way to convert cash than at a racetrack? But was it through the restaurant, the bars or the betting? All three?
    Or was I totally out of my mind and imagining bad guys where there were none?
    Don’t go down that path, I warned myself. To occupy my mind, I studied the mix of bar patrons. A young woman, who hardly looked old enough to be out of school except for the wink of a gold wedding band on her left hand, fidgeted at the end of the bar. Was she a housewife here on the sly? An elderly couple sitting at the table next to mine carefully counted out a few dollars. Were they hoping to supplement their retirement income?
    Maybe the racetrack’s only evil was holding out the hope of winning big time to those who could ill afford to lose.
    The canned trumpet did its ta-ta ’ing call over the speaker system for the first race. Sipping my soda, I idly considered the horses listed in the program. Nine horses running. Prime numbers in reverse were seven, five and three. Good a bet as any. I grabbed my purse and headed to the first window. I bet a trifecta and returned to the bar.
    Munching on over-seasoned fries, I watched as the gates opened and the horses sprang forward. Their coats gleamed under the Florida sunshine. Toned muscles bunched and stretched as the horses hit their stride while their riders, decked in brilliant collars, clung to their backs like burrs.
    As they neared the last quarter pole, I found myself caught up in the thrill of the animals’ race around the track. I stood, like everyone else in the bar, yelling for my favorites. They passed the finish line in a blur. When the numbers were posted, I stared in disbelief at the ticket in my hand. I had won!
    Swallowing back a “yippee,” I grabbed my program and purse. Next to me the old man sadly tore up a ticket. I headed to the second line. I waited my turn and scanned the next race’s entries. This time the even numbers two, four and eight appealed to me. I handed the cashier my ticket and experienced a spike in blood pressure as she counted out five hundred smackaroos.
    I was hooked. I doubled my bet with another trifecta. This time I forgot all about eating my hamburger as my picks once more crossed the finish line. If I was calculating the odds correctly, I had just won a