Page 7 of Soothsayer

“Oh, I see,” I said knowingly. “You’re afraid. It’s fine, I understand. A lot of men have these sorts of troubles when it comes to performance as they age. Don’t let it get you down.”

He gaped at me. “I…what? Listen here, boy—”

“One bet. C’mon, I’ll make it worth your while.”

He looked me up and down. “That better not be a roundabout offer to suck my dick.”

I laughed, attracting the attention of the cluster of men in front of the soccer game. One look and I knew how to play it. “No blow jobs,” I promised. “I’m not hitting on you, I swear. I’m just passing the time. Here—how about this. I predict the teamthat makes the next goal, and you get me a drink with your next round. Not whiskey, though.”

The cowboy stared at me for a moment and then shrugged. “Fine. Let’s play.” We turned around so we could see the screen. I’d already seen the group’s reactions, largely dismay within five minutes, and one of them was wearing a Manchester United jersey, which meant… “AS Roma gets the next goal.”

“If you say so.” He sipped his whiskey, and we sat in silence for a while. I could feel him getting bored, but about thirty seconds before he seemed ready to tell me to buzz off, there was action on the television. The group of men groaned, and as the replay flashed across the screen and the score changed, I smiled.

“Well, damn,” he said. “There it is.”

“I believe you owe me a drink, sir.”

“I reckon I do. What’ll you have?”

“Gin and tonic.” Light on the gin, heavy on the tonic—the last thing I needed was to get drunk right now. Fortunately, the bartender knew my preferences, and a minute later, I was sipping a drink of my own.

“What’s gonna happen next?” he asked me.

“I can’t say without a bet,” I told him.

“Fine.” He pulled a leather wallet out of his jacket pocket and unwound a hundred-dollar bill from his stack. “What’s the bet?”

“Oh no, a hundred is a little rich for my blood,” I lied. “Besides, it’s hardly fair. I feel like I’m taking advantage.” I emphasized it while he was still sober enough to appreciate my honesty. “You know nothing about soccer, and I’m generally a lucky person.”

“Lucky, huh?”

“Very lucky. I hardly ever lose.”

“Huh.” I could see the wheels in his head turning. “Tell you what. You win a few more of these little bets and maybe we’ll see what we can do together once there’s a crowd in here, yeah?I’ve got the means to bankroll a nice run, if you’re lucky as you claim.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “AS Roma again in…” I let the tension build in my mind, saw the time at the bottom of the television screen as the men in front of it moaned their derision, “about four minutes.”

“We’ll see. I’m Roger, by the way. Roger Vandermoor.”

“Cillian Kelly, and we will.” We shook hands and turned back to the screens.

Four minutes later and I was vindicated. The soccer fans groaned, Roger whooped and smacked his knee, and I got another drink for my troubles.

Apparently once Roger made a friend, he went all in. As the place slowly filled up, he paid for the drinks, the awful bar food that tasted far better than it should, and told me all about ranching and oil and natural gas and his dozen other businesses. I met his eyes every now and then, enough to get a glimpse of where things were going. It looked like he would stay even-tempered right up until the end, so I figured I was good.

When the baseball started, things got more interesting. The way to make money in an exchange like this was to play against the other gamblers, and Roger had all the bearing of a golden goose waiting to be plucked. The professionals flocked to our table, and he drew them in with his Texan affability and liberality with drinks, while I fed him the bets to make.

We didn’t play standard and completely ignored the spread—we made bets based on what I could see of the back of a particular player’s jersey as he slid into third, or on the quadrant of the stadium where the next home run would land. Goofball bets, stupid bets, and people took them out of curiosity and contempt and then kept betting to save their pride.

By the time the football game started, I was two thousand dollars and one Cartier watch richer, and everyone was drunkexcept for me. The mob gents who had joined in our fun had lost most of their good humor, though, and the only one still laughing was Roger.

“What’s the trick?” one of them demanded, looking like he wanted to shake me and see if my secrets poured out of my head. “How’d you do it?”

“He’s a lucky charm,” Roger said expansively. “Some folks just got that shine to ’em, ya know?”

“Nah, I don’t buy it. There’s something goin’ on here. Phin!” he shouted angrily toward the door. “You giving this fucker a leg up? Delaying the games so he can look things up early?”

“You want to watch your damn mouth, Morris,” Phin growled. Any sane man would have stopped then, but this man had clearly lost his inhibitions. “Check your phone and see if I’m lyin’.”

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