THE GOLD FISH: Sweet Sting (2.8)

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It wasn’t until later, when Joan was taking her nightly shower, that Don finally had the opportunity to open Wolfman’s envelope. With one ear cocked for the sound of running water, he fanned out its contents: six crisp ten-dollar bills and a stack of printed, white paper sheets.

Despite the close call, he grinned. On the one hand, boredom at the dealership had led to surprising the girls with dinner which (hopefully) won him points with Joan. On the other hand, it had also led to missing Wolfman’s visit at the car dealership, prompting him to show up here, of all places, which (probably) lost him points with Joan.

But on balance, Don figured, he was still ahead. Joan had seemed to buy the story that Wolfman was a kooky customer delivering a deposit on a car, but who knows what went on in that woman’s head? She’d been on high alert and suspicious of everything since the slip up that cost him his job last year. If you could call it a slip up, which he didn’t. Because what had gotten him fired was something every car salesman worth his salt did. In a competitive business like automotive sales, where both cars and customers were scarce, it was practically a standard operating procedure. It was the hiding of the keys, and it went like this: you had a customer who was interested in a specific car, but needed a few days to gather funds or get the wifey onboard. To ensure said car wasn’t sold by another salesman before your customer returned with the honey and the money, you parked the car on the furthest outskirts of the parking lot and hid the keys.

Was the practice a little sneaky? Maybe. Did everybody do it? Absolutely. Again, standard operating procedure! But what Don hadn’t realized at his last job was that the newest salesman at the time -- the Big Boss Owner’s good-for-nothing son-in-law, as luck would have it -- had shown the exact same car to an interested party before Don. But given the dumbass in question was as green as grass and lacked familiarity with standard operating procedure, he’d been too stupid to hide the keys himself. So when his customer returned, the keys were nowhere to be found because Don had already tucked them between the pages of Playboy magazine in his desk drawer. For his customer.

As a result, spoiled little sonny lost his precious sale -- one of the few he’d ever have, by the way -- and like the cry baby that he was, boo-hoo’d about it to his wife. Who, in turn, boo-hoo’d about it to her mother. Who, in turn, boo-hoo’d about it to her husband, the Big Boss Owner. Who, in turn, fired Don. The truth was Big Boss Owner couldn’t have cared less about his snot-nose son-in-law, but he did care about his wife and his little princess of a daughter. Neither of them understood the first thing about standard operating procedures, but both were capable of making his life a living hell.

The news of Don’s firing had spread through the dealership like wildfire, and every salesman on the floor had been, well, floored. The rules of the game had changed. None of them were happy about it either, but all of them were happy it hadn’t been them. As it easily could have been. But no. It had been Don. Who, in turn, had to tell Joan. Who, as you might have guessed, made his life a living hell. She’d screamed bloody-blue murder. From the way she carried on, you would have thought Don had killed a man.

So if Joan felt the hiding of the keys was a capital offense, Don thought with a grimace, what might she make of his recent dealings with Wolfman? Or the sweet, new opportunity he’d just been offered? Don suspected, and rightly so, that Joan wouldn’t like it. Not one little bit. But then again, Joan had never shared his sense of adventure, his joie de vivre, his belief that risk-taking was essential to the game of life. It’s what made the game fun. And it’s how you got what you wanted.

The proof was right in front of him. His most recent risk taking -- well-informed and well-researched mind you, not unlike using card counting to calculate the odds of an inside straight -- that had led to the fan of Hamiltons now spread across Don’s dresser. Sixty bucks that wouldn’t be in his possession if he hadn’t made two very astute -- if he did say so himself -- football bets.

Last weekend, the Dallas Cowboys had played the College All-Stars in the first round of pre-season games. Wolfman had set the line for the All-Stars at +21. Don liked the look of the All Stars and was confident they’d come out swinging, so he decided to roll the dice. (He was also a sucker for an underdog. After all, wasn’t he one himself?) And as he’d hoped and prayed, his faith had been rewarded. The All-Stars had eked out 7 points on their own, and given the generous point spread, Don had won the bet handily. Final score: Dallas 20, All Stars 7. Similarly, Wolfman had given the Kansas City Chiefs +7 against the New York Giants, and once again, Don bet on the underdog. And the Chiefs won it. 23 to 17. Fair and square. Even without the spread!

Two wins on two bets! And even more valuable than the sixty bucks was the glimmer of hope the wins had given him. Hope of a possible source of income that neither back pain nor impending hunchback-hood could threaten. Because, who wanted to buy a car from a hunchback? No one, that’s who. And for once in his life, Don was trying to look ahead.

But the bets were only one part of the plan. After all, there were still a lot of variables one couldn’t predict. Weather, injuries, etc. The trick was to not play against the house, but to be the house. That’s where the second part of Wolfman’s envelope came in: the set of printed white sheets. Each contained a summary of the twelve pre-season NFL games scheduled for the following weekend, along with the point spreads for each match up. FOR AMUSEMENT ONLY was written across the top of each sheet. Ha! Now that was amusing. Because these sheets, sometimes referred to parlay cards, were for pooled betting. And every week, Don was going to be the distributor. This week, there were only a handful of pre-season NFL games to bet on, but once the season started, bettors would also have the option to bet on COLLEGE GAMES! All Don had to do was hand them around to his buddies at the dealership, who would pencil in their aliases (how convenient was it that they all already had nicknames?), circle the team(s) they wanted to bet on, and return them to Don along with their wagers. Which would then be pooled by Wolfman. The more bettors, the bigger the pool.

The aliases, by the way, were Wolfman’s idea. Not only did he like the theatricality of aliases, but they also had the benefit of securing his bettors’ anonymity lest the sheets fall into the wrong hands, i.e., the hands of the fuzz.

It gave Don a chuckle given he was the outlaw Jesse James, and these betting pools were technically illegal. Ridiculous, of course, because gambling was truly a victimless crime. But there was a risk. Which Wolfman was only too happy to reward. For his part in the scheme, Don would receive a small piece of the pooled action, which he was free to pocket or use to fund private bets of his own. And with two wins already in the bag this year, Don liked his odds. He may have been useless where manly chores were concerned, but he was great at math. And his knowledge, calculations, and instincts about the upcoming football season were pretty good. Pretty darn good, in fact. He’d be a fool not to -- pun intended -- parlay his cut into something bigger, and he was happy to report that Donald Eugene Ward was many things, but a fool he was not.

Don was so proud of himself -- and so excited about the possibilities -- that it was all he could do not to tell Joan about it. If she wasn’t so uptight and damned provincial, she would no doubt see and admire the way in which he’d worked towards this opportunity. He’d been betting with Wolfman for nearly two years now. Mostly small individual bets, but Don had kept his nose clean. He paid up when he lost, never over-extended himself, and thanks to the slip-up, had become more popular with his network of car dealership buddies. He had taken one for the team, and they owed him. Who wouldn’t want to bet with Jesse? Throw a little love (and money) his way?

So Wolfman had offered Don the role of inside man at the car dealership, and Don now had a nice new source of income. An untraceable source of income. Invisible to Uncle Sam and if he so chose, his wife. And that, Don thought gleefully, was another win-win.

From the bathroom came the squeak of the faucet as Joan turned off the shower. Don opened his top drawer and stuffed the envelope with the betting sheets under the stack of important papers he kept there. Most precious among them was the already yellowing January 18, 1971 edition of the Baltimore Sun with the screaming headline “COLTS KICK THE COWBOYS 16-13. WIN SUPERBOWL V. Don had been a Colts fan since he was 18 years old, and the day they won the Superbowl may have been the best day of his life. Hands down. With a grin he patted the newspaper and the papers underneath -- surely the keys to his future financial castle -- and shut the drawer.

A flushed Joan entered the bedroom wrapped in a bath towel, her teased beehive only slightly less perky than before her hot shower, thanks to her weekly half can of Aqua Net.

Don studied her with appreciation. Despite having three kids, her body was still lithe and petite, and the constellation of freckles sprinkled over her damp shoulders never failed to weaken his knees and steal his breath. Yes, she could sting like a hornet, but when he thought about it, didn’t her piquant personality carry the same thrilling risk, the same hint of danger, as too much pepper on his fries? Or betting on football games? Sometimes a little sting was what sweetened the deal.

Distracted by those thoughts, Don watched his wife, mesmerized and full of longing, as she cursed and struggled to open her lingerie drawer in the tight space between the dresser and bed.

Sensing her husband’s gaze, Joan whirled at him. “What?!”

Don flashed her his most winning smile and lifted his eyes in question. After all, things were looking up and hope springs eternal.

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