thousand dollars. On shaky legs, I made my way to the third window and pocketed my winnings but tripled my next bet.
When I returned to my seat, I paused by the older couple and handed them a hundred-dollar bill. “Here, bet the seven, three, four trifecta in this race.”
The woman flushed. “No, we couldn’t possibly—”
“For luck,” I interrupted and waved off the man’s attempt to return the money. The woman nodded, grabbed the bill and went to bet. “For luck” was a concept she understood.
As for me, I had this thing about the karma of good fortune, probably due to the superstitious Celtic blood of my ancestors. If the fates chose to smile kindly on me for whatever reason, I had to pass it on. If I won a big case, I’d hand a ten to the corner beggar or go online and make a charity donation. Spread the fortune so it would continue to treat me kindly.
I won again and again, and so did my elderly couple as I fed the bets to them.
It was at window number ten that I ran into a problem with the cashier.
“This window is only for certain customers,” explained the girl, who could barely have been of legal age. “It’s reserved for high rollers.” While I wasn’t an international traveler, Florida gets snowbirds and tourists from every corner of the earth. I placed the girl’s thick accent as being Eastern European.
I rolled my eyes and slid the ticket toward her. “Check it out. If I’m calculating the odds correctly, this is worth ten grand. How much more of a high roller do you need?”
The cashier’s smile was polite but firm. “If you would step aside and go to the next window, ma’am.”
Irked, I moved away. The man behind me gave me a nod and stepped up. If he was a high roller, I was a monkey’s aunt. Having a Palm Beach debutante as your law partner, you learned to recognize expensive duds and bling. He had neither. In off the rack chinos and a no name polo shirt, he looked like a regular Joe off the streets. But he received a wad of bills from the cashier.
The woman next in line was equally nondescript in her appearance. Wearing sunglasses, she stepped up to the window and handed over a chunk of change to place a bet.
High rollers either lost it all or…
“Is there a problem?” asked a heavily accented male voice from behind me.
I turned and came face to face with a trio of men dressed in high-end suits, possibly Armani. I immediately recognized the man in the center. Dark-haired, dark-eyed with Slavic cheekbones, he was a looker and, from the way he smiled, he knew it. “Don’t I know you? I’m Vladimir Petrov. I own this track.”
“Carling Dent.”
While I would have given anything to not disclose my real name, I’d spied the discreet surveillance camera placed over the betting cages. It wouldn’t have taken Vladimir long to discover my identity if he pursued the matter. Then there was the small matter of his shrewd eyes. If he hadn’t placed seeing me at Rocket Fertilizer, he would eventually.
Mother always said honesty was the best policy. As an attorney, I couldn’t always follow her advice—a good white lie or other manipulation of the truth was often necessary—hopefully giving my real name wouldn’t screw me up now.
I raised my voice just a hair so it would carry over the noise, playing the frustrated gambler.
“Good. If you’re the owner, maybe you could help me. I was trying to cash in my ten thousand dollar winning ticket and was told that this line is only for certain customers.”
I glanced meaningfully at the other long lines and tapped my foot. “And I didn’t want to wait forever to collect my money and place my next bet.”
“I can understand your frustration, Ms. Dent,” Vladimir soothed and touched my arm. Oh yeah, lay on the charm, dude. “So much money, such good fortune.”
I gave him a saucy grin. “I’ve had a banner afternoon. I must come here more often.”
The cha-ching sign went off in his eyes. “Well, I couldn’t be
When I returned to my seat, I paused by the older couple and handed them a hundred-dollar bill. “Here, bet the seven, three, four trifecta in this race.”
The woman flushed. “No, we couldn’t possibly—”
“For luck,” I interrupted and waved off the man’s attempt to return the money. The woman nodded, grabbed the bill and went to bet. “For luck” was a concept she understood.
As for me, I had this thing about the karma of good fortune, probably due to the superstitious Celtic blood of my ancestors. If the fates chose to smile kindly on me for whatever reason, I had to pass it on. If I won a big case, I’d hand a ten to the corner beggar or go online and make a charity donation. Spread the fortune so it would continue to treat me kindly.
I won again and again, and so did my elderly couple as I fed the bets to them.
It was at window number ten that I ran into a problem with the cashier.
“This window is only for certain customers,” explained the girl, who could barely have been of legal age. “It’s reserved for high rollers.” While I wasn’t an international traveler, Florida gets snowbirds and tourists from every corner of the earth. I placed the girl’s thick accent as being Eastern European.
I rolled my eyes and slid the ticket toward her. “Check it out. If I’m calculating the odds correctly, this is worth ten grand. How much more of a high roller do you need?”
The cashier’s smile was polite but firm. “If you would step aside and go to the next window, ma’am.”
Irked, I moved away. The man behind me gave me a nod and stepped up. If he was a high roller, I was a monkey’s aunt. Having a Palm Beach debutante as your law partner, you learned to recognize expensive duds and bling. He had neither. In off the rack chinos and a no name polo shirt, he looked like a regular Joe off the streets. But he received a wad of bills from the cashier.
The woman next in line was equally nondescript in her appearance. Wearing sunglasses, she stepped up to the window and handed over a chunk of change to place a bet.
High rollers either lost it all or…
“Is there a problem?” asked a heavily accented male voice from behind me.
I turned and came face to face with a trio of men dressed in high-end suits, possibly Armani. I immediately recognized the man in the center. Dark-haired, dark-eyed with Slavic cheekbones, he was a looker and, from the way he smiled, he knew it. “Don’t I know you? I’m Vladimir Petrov. I own this track.”
“Carling Dent.”
While I would have given anything to not disclose my real name, I’d spied the discreet surveillance camera placed over the betting cages. It wouldn’t have taken Vladimir long to discover my identity if he pursued the matter. Then there was the small matter of his shrewd eyes. If he hadn’t placed seeing me at Rocket Fertilizer, he would eventually.
Mother always said honesty was the best policy. As an attorney, I couldn’t always follow her advice—a good white lie or other manipulation of the truth was often necessary—hopefully giving my real name wouldn’t screw me up now.
I raised my voice just a hair so it would carry over the noise, playing the frustrated gambler.
“Good. If you’re the owner, maybe you could help me. I was trying to cash in my ten thousand dollar winning ticket and was told that this line is only for certain customers.”
I glanced meaningfully at the other long lines and tapped my foot. “And I didn’t want to wait forever to collect my money and place my next bet.”
“I can understand your frustration, Ms. Dent,” Vladimir soothed and touched my arm. Oh yeah, lay on the charm, dude. “So much money, such good fortune.”
I gave him a saucy grin. “I’ve had a banner afternoon. I must come here more often.”
The cha-ching sign went off in his eyes. “Well, I couldn’t be
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