At the very first, when he first started going to Calder, he was concerned totally with 'straight' betting and not at all interested in Perfectas or Trifectas, although he had worked out an elaborate system concerning the Daily Doubles. With more practical experience, plus all the theoretical work that he had completed, he began to tackle seriously the problems presented by Perfectas and Trifectas and realized that just as in the case of Daily Doubles, it was possible to gain great leverage by using the Perfectas and the Trifectas in such a way as to maximize his profit even if he was only really interested in one horse. That is, he would use the Doubles, Perfectas, and Trifectas as a way of maximizing his profit over that which he would normally receive by 'straight' betting a horse. In the case of the Daily Doubles, he would analyze in depth the first two races, to come up with one or two key horses that he would use in one race and 'link' them in such a way with the horses in the second race to further maximize the possible profit over merely betting one or two horses to win. This also had the effect of increasing the amount of possible betting situations.
Time passed extremely rapidly those first few months as he was so engrossed in the new situation and all the concomitant problems and situations which he had not fully anticipated, being isolated in the loft for so long, and never having ever even visited a racetrack for an afternoon of fun. The first few months were a struggle to keep above the 5% profit level as there were minor obstacles and a complete change of lifestyle forcing him to deal with a number of issues simultaneously, not the least of which was the situation back home with Charlotte and Astrid, which was not going well at all.
He was extremely perceptive on the first day, in thinking that Deutron would be an aberration and was so-called pure luck, in that it had come up on his very first bet, and certainly it was a long time after that before another such long shot would come in for him. But the fact that it was so difficult and that he was involved in such a difficult struggle to keep above the 5% profit level only made him more determined to further refine his techniques, because, after all, he was actually making money and it was no small thing, even though he was only making slightly over a 5 % return. During all the time he had been going to the track, he never met anyone, or at least anyone who would publicly admit that he had shown any profit at the end of a year. He did see many of the same old faces every day but they tended to be old-timers, men in their sixties and seventies who were retired, and who only frequented the $2 windows so he dismissed them as old guys living on their pension and coming out to the track to enjoy their own company and a day at the races on their retirement checks. He never saw anybody consistently betting at the $100 windows along with him, although occasionally he would see a very well dressed gentleman or two frequent the windows but it was only for a very brief period of time.
He was, of course, wearing his usual outfit all of the time now, all in black, and his boots had two inch heels on them on which he placed metal heel protectors which were nailed into the heels and these boots brought him up to very close to 6-foot-5 and he could be seen from just about any spot at the track. Not only could he be seen, but with these metal clips on his boots, every time he walked by you could hear this 'click, click, click', from as far away as 200 feet. So not only was he so obviously visible in size and outfit, but you could even hear him from a distance.
One afternoon, he was casually watching the rerun of the fourth race on TV, as they had a great number of TVs placed at all levels of the track, and he was watching this race, suddenly there was a commotion from behind. He turned and saw an old lady drop to the floor. Everybody went over to look as she was sprawled there, but nobody did anything. Suddenly, this man, about his own age, rushed over and started applying resuscitation techniques and obviously had some knowledge of first aid and the courage and desire to actually help this woman in distress. This alone amazed him and he approached closer, curious. The man had dark brown, curly hair, blue eyes, and looked rather average but was busily trying to revive the woman before the medics got there. Within 5 minutes the track medics arrived with a stretcher, he explained what had happened, what he had done and Cal could hear most of what they were saying. It struck him that though there were at least a hundred people standing around gawking, no one did anything. Any unusual or bizarre situation always interested him.
He walked over to the guy and said, “What happened?”
He stood about 6 foot tall, had very thick glasses, and told him that he had once trained as a medic for the Army and when he saw the woman slump to the ground, he immediately went over and did what he could. Cal thought this an amazingly human and rare gesture, the man introduced himself as Gaylord, he seemed quite happy to meet him and talk to him further. They sat down on some nearby seats, as there were always many vacant seats, and Cal was particularly interested in his motivation and the fact that he was the only person out of hundreds who saw fit to do anything about the situation. In the course of their conversation, Gaylord told him that he was happily married, that he had 3 children around 8 to 14 or so, and that he had just lost his job driving a delivery truck very early in the mornings, and not only that, but his wife who was also at the track had just lost her job at the same time. He divulged to Cal that they had come out to the track in the wild, long shot hope that somehow they would strike it big and extricate themselves from this terrible financial blow. After a while, his wife came over, a pretty young blonde, quite short, and sat down with them, just as friendly as her husband was and seemed genuinely glad to meet him. She more or less repeated what her husband had told him. Cal thought this just about the most improbably wild idea that he had heard recently. Here was a couple, practically broke, both of them jobless, coming out to the track with all of what remained of their money in the hope of striking it big. At this point, Cal hardly talked to anyone or acknowledged anyone's presence at the track because right at the start, when he first frequented the $100 windows to both buy and collect, he rapidly generated a quickly increasing crowd of people who would follow him around asking him for tips or the winner of the next race, which at first he gave out freely. After they became a real nuisance, and started attracting the attention of the security guards, which is exactly what he didn't want to happen, he started ignoring them or telling them he didn't know. There was practically no one at the track that he would talk to because it would only generate unwanted attention to him. But because of what he had seen Gaylord do, so spontaneously and so quickly when the old woman fell to the ground, he decided to do what he could to help this couple out. He immediately discovered that they knew practically nothing about racing, and they were, as Gaylord said, hoping to strike it big so that they could get back on their feet and pay their rent and possibly get a new job.
After some more talking, Cal said, “Listen, I've got a couple of good shots for you.”
He gave them three horses for the remainder of the day's card. They immediately wrote the horses down and checked their money. Gaylord asked him where he would be the next day because they intended on coming back as long their money held out. Cal told them that he could usually be found on the ground floor outside.
What began as a one day, helping hand sort of situation turned into a long term friendship, where, after a while, they forgot about even looking for a job and just came to the track to find Cal, talk to him briefly, get his picks, and managed to live week to week off of that. Gaylord and his wife were extremely appreciative and were always doing little things for Cal, like buying him drinks or asking him if he needed anything. From the first day Cal was amazed that Gaylord would immediately bet whatever he told him to and whatever amount, and the results being usually positive, Gaylord wanted to bet more and more. Every day, they managed to find him and it seemed quite obvious that he was the sole source of their income.
At around this same time, he frequently noticed a woman about his own age, with striking long hair and dark eyes, usually dressed in black herself, and she always seemed to be, somehow, in his general vicinity when he would look up or turn around. After a few weeks of this, he determined to strike up a conversation at the next opportunity.
One morning when he came in early, as he usually did to get out of the house, he saw her busily calculating inside on the first floor. There was hardly anyone there at the time and he walked over to where she was and sat down.
She turned to him and said, “I've seen you around. I've seen you around a lot.”
“I know. I've seen you, too. Do you come every day?”
“Just about.”
“It seemed like whenever I would turn around, I would see you.”
“Well, you're pretty hard to miss and I was interested in meeting you. I noticed that you were always at the $100 window.”
“So that's why you were interested in meeting me?”
“No, that's not why, but that's where I noticed you.”
He looked over her shoulder and saw that she had an elaborate system herself, busily calculating on separate sheets of paper for each race.
“I see you've got quite a project here.”
“Well, I do a lot of studying. I'm fascinated with the horses.”
That day was the beginning of one of his few other long-term friendships. In the coming months he would learn many things about her, that she was a college graduate, that she refused to work in any type of enclosed building or office, and that if she had to work, she preferred actual house-cleaning than doing the type of work for which she was trained. She couldn't tolerate the office situation, would rather do menial work and be her own boss than do more high paying work where she was under the control of a boss or company. After a while, they settled into a routine. Both of them came to the track early and they would meet on the first floor inside.
He would give her two or three of his best picks for the day, she would write them down, they would engage in small talk for about a half-hour before the first race. He never told her anything about his system. The following morning they would meet again, discuss how his picks had done, whether she had bet and how much money she had made on them. She made money on his picks but what she was most interested in was the system by which he made these picks, and over the course of time, it developed into a game between them, as was usually the case with him. He would give her 2 or 3 picks and she would try to work backwards from that to discover the factors that he was using to pick them. He had no qualms about giving her any number of picks, because he knew no matter how many picks he gave her and how many factors she figured by working backwards, she couldn't determine his system, because each pick was unique and based on a completely different set of factors. In other words, there wasn't any one thing that could possibly encompass or reveal the system he used, because he didn't use only one system.
It developed into this joyful, playful game, at least for him. He didn't know how much she enjoyed it. He thought it was sufficient that he gave her the picks, and if she wanted to figure out what system he used, well, that was her prerogative. Furthermore, she would continually ask him these thinly veiled questions about how he had come up with this or that pick, which he would calmly just brush off, or say something that was so obvious that anybody could see it.
He received a certain amount of satisfaction from knowing that she probably spent long hours at home backtracking on these picks, coming up with completely different factors to account for his picks, not really knowing what was going on. She had a bright mind so he imagined that this was an interesting task for her. Now, with his help, she was taking off fewer and fewer days to do her house-cleaning and attending the track more days. She was a highly trained bookkeeper, a college graduate, and yet, when she ran low on money, she would go out and clean houses for whatever money she needed. Although she repeatedly saw him collecting at the $100 window and she knew he gave her the actual horses that he was betting on, she still was so conservative by nature that she didn't increase her bets and continued to frequent the $10 windows and no higher. He once asked her why she never bet more than $10. She said she didn't feel comfortable going any higher than $10 and whenever she did bet more than that, somehow or other, she was bound to lose.
He didn't understand anything about what she was talking about. The best guess he could make was that when she increased the size of her bet, she lacked 'nerve', and would then change it to a safer bet. He knew there were 4 or 5 essential qualities to be a successful horse player or gambler and he knew that she lacked one, and that was 'nerve', or the ability to forget that money was really only money. She seemed to be using a combination method, where she factored in the picks he gave her with what she had come up with herself. He had noticed, by looking over her shoulder, that she was dealing with speed figures, she did know quarter times, half times, and final times. Obviously, she had at least the basics. Of course, he didn't know what she was doing with them. Although he freely gave Rita his two or three best picks for the day, she never gave him any of hers.
In Gaylord's case, he didn't have any picks and couldn't even read the Daily Racing form, so Cal didn't expect anything from him. As he got to know Gaylord and his wife over the years, he discovered that he was just a genuinely “good guy”, which was rare enough in this city, and he had no qualms about helping him and his wife, even though after awhile they had no interest at working at any job, just had an interest in coming to the track and finding him and getting his picks and asking him how much money to bet. And whatever he said, they did, without event thinking about it. On the other hand, he never knew what Rita would do with his picks and she frequently wouldn't tell him. She was a mystery to him in many ways and, this kept him fascinated.
At this time, about two months into his racing period, he went up to the $100 window one day and called out “No. 7, five times,” as he was now betting $500 at a time, and five times meant five $100 tickets.
As he turned away he heard the clerk say, “Numbr 7, Number 7, Number 7.”
The next clerk said the same thing to the next clerk, and on down the line. He whirled around to see all these clerks madly printing out tickets for the number he had just given the first clerk and a whole new problem had developed. What was happening, he quickly surmised, was that the $100 clerk was noticing that the horses he bet on were frequently coming in, he was telling his fellow clerks and when Cal came to the window and placed a bet on a number, the clerk would holler down the number to the rest of the clerks and they would all punch out tickets on that number. This was bad news, because what was happening was that a lot more money was being bet on his selection, which was depressing the odds on that horse, which in turn would lower the payoff on that horse. So in effect, he was getting less money than he normally would, and, especially on a long shot, this could make a lot of difference. He had to eliminate the fact that all these clerks could put thousands of dollars on his selection, so much lowering his odds that it would lower his profits.
Luckily there were TVs just about everywhere so he could watch as they loaded all the horses into the gate and they all had to be loaded into the gate before the bell rang and started the race. What he did was hang close to the $100 window and watch the TV as they were loading the horses, and wait until they were loading the 10 or 11 horse in, which meant they were about to take off, and then he would make his bet, not giving the clerks enough time to make many bets themselves. This resulted in even more curses from these clerks.
One afternoon, he was hanging at the $100 window, watching the horses load up, waiting for the last possible second, when this clerk pulled out a $100 bill and lay it on the counter.
Cal looked at it and said, “What's that for?”
“Just make your bet,” said the clerk.
Cal ignored him and turned his attention back to the TV, where they were loading the No. 7 horse in and he still had a lot of time left in which to bet.
He turned back to the clerk, and the clerk took another $100 bill and lay it down on the counter and said, “Will you hurry up and make your bet?”
Again, Cal ignored him and turned his attention to the TV. They were now loading the 9 horse in, and the 10, and he was going to wait until they were loading the very last horse, No. 12, into the gate before making his bet. He wasn't going to touch any of the money he saw on the counter.
He turned his back towards the clerk, and the man said, “Will you make your goddamn bet?”
Cal didn't say anything. He turned back to the TV again and calmly waited, while they were having difficulty loading the No.12 and final horse into the gate. There was usually an additional 10 seconds even after they had loaded the last horse in, during which time the starter would make sure that every horse's head was up and every horse seemed ready to go.
Cal whirled around and shouted, “No. 3, five times.”
“You son of a bitch.” But the clerk didn't press any button.
Cal shouted again, “No. 3, five times.”
The clerk shouted to his left, “Three, Three.” Then he started punching the buttons.
Cal got his five tickets and as he walked off he said to himself, “This situation has got to end.”
He had tried the $100 and $50 windows at all three levels and the situation was just as bad. He had even went to the $10 windows and bought 20 or 30 tickets here, and 20 or 30 tickets at another window, and 20 or 30 at another, but they had even caught on to that, because nobody would go to the $10 window and buy 20 or 30 tickets. But there was one option left, there was still the clubhouse.
The next day when Gaylord came rushing up to him, as usual, he said, “Listen, I'm not going to be here anymore. I'm not going to be in the grandstand anymore. I'm going to go up to the clubhouse.”
“Well fine, we'll just go with you.”
Gaylord was always happy, always in a good mood, always ready to do whatever Cal said.
“We'll just go with you. Why didn't we do that before? What are we doing in the grandstand anyway?”
“Well, I just thought I'd tell you.”
“Sure, we'll go together, we can exchange our tickets right there at the window.”
“I know that,” said Cal.
Then he went down to the first floor and there was Rita, busily going over her own figures, and he sat down next to her.
“Got anything hot today?” he asked.
As usual, she started talking about something else, anything else. She certainly wouldn't go out on a limb and actually tell him she liked a horse.
“Well,” he said, “I just thought I'd tell you that I'm not going to be here anymore.”
“What? You're not coming to the track?”
“No, I'm going to the clubhouse. I'll be in the clubhouse.”
“Well, I'm not going to the clubhouse.”
“I'm not asking you to. I just thought I'd tell you that I'm going there.”
“What for? What's the matter with the grandstand?”
“I thought I'd like a change of scenery. I've hardly ever been up there and I think I'd like a change.”
“You know it's $4 dollars, $2 more?”
“I know what the price is.”
“So why do you want to pay $2 extra? What's the matter with the grandstand?”
“I told you. I'd just like to see the clubhouse and I'll probably stay up there.”
“Well, suit yourself. I'm going to be right here.”
“Of course, I can wander back and forth any time I want, and I'll probably be seeing you anyway, but I'll be spending most of my time up there. You see, you can't go into the clubhouse, but I can go back and forth any time.”
“I know. I know. I just don't understand why you want to go to the clubhouse.”
“Change of scenery,” he said again, “I'm tired of the same old place.”
“Well, come and see me whenever you want to. You know where I sit.”
“Yeah,” he said, “Okay.”
He just got up and left, thinking to himself, “Hell with her. If she doesn't give a damn, why should I give a damn.”
He had only been to the clubhouse one time before, purely out of curiosity, just to see what it was like and who was there. He had wandered around the whole time and had found nothing particularly interesting, and no real reason to change from the grandstand to the clubhouse. But now there was a real reason. He didn't want to see another one of those $100 window clerks again or get into any trouble with the management of the place. He went up to the second floor, got the back of his hand stamped purple, paid an extra $2, and went into the clubhouse. This stamp, invisible to the naked eye, would enable him to travel freely back and forth between the grandstand and the clubhouse any time he wanted to. He didn't know any of the clerks in the clubhouse and he wanted to keep it that way.
He particularly enjoyed his first, or actually his second day there, because everything was new, and he wandered around inspecting the more lavish architecture and fauna and the fact that more men were dressed in suits and the women wore classier outfits, and, of course, everyone stared at him, he not having been there before.
“Good thing I don't have to wear a suit or coat,” he thought.
As the weeks passed in the clubhouse, he made slight adjustments to his various systems as he constantly correlated the Results Charts with the strength of his various factors and their permutations. Each race was unique and presented a different set of probabilities which either could or could not be predicted with various degrees of certainity.
He had given Gaylord the No. 5 horse in the 7th race, which was his only bet for the day, and he told Gaylord to put at least a couple of hundred on it, and he knew that he would. At this point, he didn't have to actually write out any calculations at all. He did bring his pen at all times because it was always necessary to calculate certain things, but he never used it anymore for any of the calculations of the various factors in the races. He had gotten so proficient, so efficient, with his systems that he could usually do everything in his head in a few minutes, with any given race. Only when it was extremely complex, need he sit down, and actually pour over it, but still he didn't use his pen. He would, in his mind, analyze all the factors, and could do everything he needed to in about a half hour.
At first, when he first started betting, he was always engrossed in the most detailed of calculations and almost all of his time was spent analyzing an re-analyzing, then watching the race, then comparing and re-comparing the results to his figures before the race. Now, months later, all that had taken him hours before to do, he could now usually do by just glancing at a race. It took him about a year at the track to get from the point of working almost the whole night before to the point of practically doing nothing but glancing at most races. Usually there were only two or three races to devote any time to at all.
Strangely enough, he found that although the night before he might only see one possible bet, when he actually got to the track and went over the races again, frequently he would find 2 or 3 betting situations that he had not seen the night before. Consequently, he found it necessary to be there the whole day, not knowing when an unusual situation might come up, due to a scratch or due to something he had not seen the night before.
The horses were coming out from the tunnel for the 7th race and he decided to go on to the walking ring which he hardly ever did. Gaylord charged up to him, program in hand, wondering what he would do next. This race was a special situation which, over the long months of experience, he knew he would very rarely encounter. He had picked out this horse immediately upon opening the paper, back home, 24 hours ago. He even happened to open the paper to the past performances of this horse. As soon as he saw it that night, he knew. Then he put the paper in the light and analyzed it closer and saw that, sure enough, almost unbelievably, here was the perfect betting setup.
The horse he was interested in was quite ordinary looking in the past performances. Right away, he could see that it was the only speed horse in the race, which was extremely unusual in the first place. There were 10 horses in the field and it was listed at 10 to 1. It had been going off at 10 or 15 to 1 and had almost always been tiring badly. But there was absolutely no other speed in this race. This was a case where he had to check out everything very carefully, because this was the kind of race that called for big money to be bet and he had to be sure that he wasn't ignoring some factor that could destroy all his figures.
The thing about racing that was so tough was that, if any one of thousands of things went wrong, you could lose, but everything had to go just right in order for you to win. That was what was so unfair about racing, but again, that was what drew him, that it was so tough. Try as he might and he tried again, he couldn't find any factor or reason why this horse shouldn't cakewalk to an easy victory. He had been tiring badly under fast fractions as a front runner. The final times of the other leading contenders were roughly the same as the horse he liked. He minutely examined the past performances of every horse, no matter how hopeless, to find some factor that might throw off all his figures. And he could find none. He had been looking at this page, since the previous evening. It was about the only reason for him to even be alive that day.
As they leaned over the rail, the horses approached, and he watched the horse's legs as they passed by. As he looked up he saw the No. 4 horse, the jockey was adjusting his stirrups, then came the five, and the jockey looked right at him.
He said to the jockey, who was only five feet away, “Just don't fall off, baby, just don't fall off. You got it made.”
The jockey turned his head as he continued, swiveled his head all the way around and continued to stare at him as he proceeded along the ring.
He had never spoken to a jockey at any time, ever before. Of course, the more raucous members of the crowd, half drunk, could and would shout just about anything, especially on the grandstand side. But he had never said a word to a jockey or a trainer.
As they started coming around again, he looked up, and the jockey was still staring directly at him. As he approached again, their eyes locked, and Cal said, “Don't fall off, just don't fall off.”
The jockey's eyes widened and continued to stare at Cal, swiveling his head as he passed. Cal was the only one who had said anything at this time. He really didn't know why he suddenly began talking to this jockey. It was like one of those things in the distant past, when some idea would pop into his head, and he would just do it. Again, the jockey, now on the far side of the ring, was still staring. And they would come around another time. He fiddled with his pen, his program folded to the 7th race and tapped it lightly on the bars. He didn't even recognize this particular jockey, although he knew almost all of them by face and as they approached again, the jockey never took his eyes off Cal.
Again, when they were five feet away, he said, not too loudly, “Just take him out nice and easy. Just don't fall off, baby, just don't fall off.”
Again the jockey's eyes grew wide and continued to stare directly at Cal as if he was some foreign entity that he had never seen before. All of this only reinforced his belief that the handlers of this particular horse knew all about what was going to happen. He didn't know what he would say if they came around another time, but they didn't, they just slowly filed out onto the track.
The horse was listed at 10 to 1 on the program, but he noticed, ever since the opening odds, that it was bouncing around 7 to 1. He hoped, ever since the evening before, that it wouldn't go down to 2 to 1 or even more ridiculous odds. Seven to 1 or so was just fine with him. It was now about 10 minutes to post. He had absolutely nothing to do except wander around and watch the odds for any unusual movement, up or down. He always waited until the last minute or so to bet because he never knew what last minute idea might pop into his head. He looked at the TV and watched them load the horses into the gate. He noticed that the odds were now 6 to 1, which was just fine with him. Under normal circumstances, he would figure the horse to go off at around 6 to 1. If it went off at around 15 to 1 he would truly be suspicious. But 6 to 1 seemed to be just about right, down from 10 to 1 on the program. It appeared that the connections of the horse, that is the trainer, owner, jockey, etc., if they had any brains at all, would be betting the horse and would drop the horse to at least 6 to 1. And the way that jockey stared at him all around the whole damn ring, three times, he couldn't get over that. After all, he didn't curse or insult him in any way. People would say all kinds of things to jockeys in the walking ring, unprintable things. He watched them load the horses in, continually glancing at the tote board for the slightest movement in the small lights that comprised the odds numbers on the tote board. His eye had been so trained over the months that he would automatically glance at the board as soon as he caught a flash.
It was only a 10 horse field and he didn't want to take any chances. As they loaded the No. 2 horse in, he approached the $100 window and heard a voice from behind.
“Who do you like?”
This was not unusual now in the clubhouse either, as he was as well known in the clubhouse as he had been in the grandstand. But he turned around to look anyway. When he saw who it was, he said, “I really liked 'Who Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest'.”
“Yeah,” came the laughing reply, “But who do you like in the race?”
Cal said, “The Five. Bet the Five.”
“You're here all the time, ain't you?”
“Yeah. What are you doing here?”
“Having fun. Having a little fun out here.”
“You're not working?”
“Obviously not. You really like this horse?”
“Bet the house.”
Cal leaned on the $100 window and said, “No. 5, ten times, to win.”
As the machine spat the tickets out, Nicholson said, “$1,000 bucks?”
“I told you, bet the house.”
After Gaylord bet his $200, he heard Nicholson say, “No. 5, ten times, to win.”
The three walked to the finish line and everything else followed from that race, from that day.
He could see all he needed to see and hear all he needed to hear from there. What he needed to hear was really very, very simple. As he stood there and they were loading the last of the horses in, he was recreating the race for about the thousandth time in his mind. He was almost mouthing the words.
“He breaks first, he's out by one, he's out by two, he's out by 3, he's under a hold and he's out by 4. He's out by 5. He's still under a hold and out by 5. They hit the turn. He's still under a hold and out by 5. They take the turn and they head for home. He's out by 6 and the jockey looks back and there's no one there, and the jockey turns around and cruises in. It should be as easy as that.”
The bell sounded and the gates opened. The horse went out by 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and cruised home easily by 5, just exactly as he had seen it about a thousand times since last evening.
The horse paid $15.60 to win. Nicholson and he collected $7,800 each and Gaylord pocketed $1,560.
There were other interesting characters in the clubhouse. 'Jimmy the Greek' had his own table and his own entourage there every day. He would hang out with the same guys, poring over the Racing Form with his figures, just like anybody else. He wasn't even bothered very much, hardly at all. And Cal wasn't either, not in the clubhouse, and he liked it much better.
And at the bar, there was always Eddy Arcaro, about 75 now, holding court usually, talking with a group of cronies. He had his own section, over at the bar in a corner, where they constantly relived all the great races, in the old days, 30 or 40 years ago.
The clubhouse was nicer, the clientele was more interesting and some of the jockeys sure stared a lot. But all was not well at home.
By the third year, Charlotte and Astrid were becoming increasingly unhappy. They were unhappy being in the big city, being as the University was a very small part of the political-economic structure of the city. Whereas in Gainesville, the University was dominant and Charlotte was able to wield great power and accomplish great strides in many areas. Astrid went hand in hand with Charlotte, and the two of them were a significant force where the University itself was very important in a very small town.
But in Miami, the University was almost insignificant in comparison to all the other competing institutions, sports events and other activities that you would find in a big city. In the big city, it was so much harder for Charlotte and Astrid to accomplish what they had been used to and there were almost nightly discussions on whose work took priority over what and why and when and how. And, although they had good jobs, it was difficult for both of them to reacquire the power and effectiveness that they had in Gainesville, and Astrid was unhappy on two fronts. Not only did she feel the same as Charlotte on the activism issue, but she actually missed all the work at the animal compound, especially with her 'save the wolf and endangered reptiles' campaign.
They were so much more effective being large fish in a small pond, as they were in Gainesville, than small fish in a large pond, which they seemed to be in Miami. In the big city, any one thing seemed to be insignificant because there were so many other important things going on simultaneously. Charlotte kept drumming home to Cal how her work was so much more important because it potentially had an effect over everything and anything, whereas his so-called work, which at this point she didn't even deem it as such, she felt was merely selfish and a personal exploration of his own and benefited no one else except him and his own personal curiosities and interest and mathematical formulas.
During their fifth year in Miami, although Cal was, in his mind, highly successful and fulfilled and still interested in what he considered this major confrontation between him and all the forces aligned against him, which included the track, the track take-out, the clerks, the horses, and even the unpredictable things that would happen that couldn't possibly be predicted by any system. Charlotte and Astrid were becoming more dissatisfied with their seemingly unimportant role in the course of events, no matter how they tried to become more effectual in trying to achieve all the great strides that they had accomplished while they were in Gainesville.
In Melrose there were virtually no arguments, complete peace and everyone felt fulfilled and useful and well on their way to achieving everything that they had always wanted and considered important in life. Cal had his interests and his genetic experiments and his life was completely fulfilled, as were Astrid's and Charlotte's. Here, they were having nightly arguments on the fact that, though Cal was fulfilled, they were not. Charlotte became so unhappy that she would frequently refer to Cal and his 'silly games' at the track.
Cal was now well into the summer of his fifth year of racing and was continually perfecting his systems. His relationship with Jack and Gaylord only increased his enjoyment at the track. During his second and third years, he had further refined and perfected his systems to include not only straight betting and the Doubles, but the Perfectas and the Trifectas which required a new set of guidelines and approach. He had refined his systems, over the five year period, to the point that his profit margin had increased from 5% in the first year to just about 9.5% going into his fifth year at Calder. He was now routinely betting $2,000 per bet and found himself analyzing and betting many Trifectas, as he could eliminate six or seven horses from many fields, which would leave him with three or four horses which he could position in all possible slots, to win, place, and show, and the Trifectas would return anything from a couple of hundred dollars to as much as $5,000 or $10,000. His betting increased greatly and his gross income was around $1,500,000 per year.
One evening, in the middle of his fifth year he was opening his mail when he noticed a letter from the Internal Revenue Service. He tore it open and it notified him that an Internal Revenue agent, Richard E. Chambers would be calling, wanted to see him at 8 p.m. the following Tuesday night, and he tossed the paper onto the table where Astrid and Charlotte were sitting.
They read it and Charlotte said, “Now you've done it. Now you're really in trouble. Now you'll see what all this insane, obsessive, worthless game of horse racing has resulted in. Now you're in trouble with the IRS and who knows what will happen next.”
“I'm not in any trouble. I'm not worrying about anything. You women just be around here next Tuesday night at 8. This Internal Revenue Service agent, Richard Chambers, will be here. Luckily, he made an appointment in the evening or I'd write him a letter back if he made one for the afternoon, and I'd tell him I couldn't make it because I was busy at the track, making money and I wouldn't want to lose a good bet and lose money, and we'd have to reschedule. I'm sure he'd get a big kick out of that. He'd have to make another appointment to go over my winnings at the track because I'd be too busy winning at the track.”
Cal had carefully kept all his tax forms for the last twelve years, even including forms from the Animal Compound. He went and got the one from the last year and looked it over that night. He noticed that his gross income was $1,582,278 and his deductions or losses were $1,431,969, leaving him with a net profit of $150,309, or just around 9.5% of the total money bet, which he thought was quite extraordinary. Especially in view of the fact that it had steadily risen over the years from about 5% during his first year to the current level of very close to 10%, and he didn't believe that he could ever get it very much higher, but he didn't need to get it very much higher. He had proven his point. He had beaten the “System”. He had beaten the “Racetrack System”. He was winning about 10%, which meant he would clear, at the end of the year, about $150,000, and he was doing it perfectly legally, and filing his income tax perfectly legally as required by Federal law, and listing his total gross income, his total deductions or losses, and his total net income for the year. He was betting $2,000 per bet and he remembered that back in his first year he had started betting exactly 10% of that amount or $200. He was comfortable doing this as his profit percentage rose steadily.
A certain amount of routine and boredom had set in by the fifth year and now with the visit of this Internal Revenue agent, he hoped that some bizarre excitement was about to take place. Charlotte and Astrid seemed to derive great enjoyment from the fact that they thought he worried about the position he was in, and furthermore, that he might be forced to quit betting all together by the IRS, they would all go back to their beloved Gainesville, the University, their activism groups, the life they loved and desired, and which fulfilled them so much. Their hopes rested on the fact that he was being investigated by the IRS. They thought it would put a stop to his constant obsession with the track, to beating the “Horse Racing System”, and they could all go back to their peaceful life in Melrose and Gainesville.
At 8 o'clock, just precisely at 8, there was a knock at the door, Cal opened it and invited the neatly dressed, fortyish man with closely cropped hair, government style suit and attitude into the kitchen to have a seat. He brought out his huge black briefcase, placed it on the table, and got out all the data that he had accumulated on Cal and his racing activities and income over the past five years. Cal himself had retrieved all his income tax returns and had them all piled neatly on the table.
The man started out by saying, “Are you Cal Rowland?”
“Right.”
“And your Social Security number is 278-345-2579?”
“Whatever it says on my income tax is what it is.”
“Well, I see you claim a gross income of $1,582,278 for the past tax year. Is that correct?”
Cal glanced at his tax return and said, “That's correct. A million and a half roughly.”
“We don't go by roughly here. Is that correct?”
“That's correct to the dollar.”
“Well, I see you've claimed deductions of $1,431,969, leaving you a taxable net income of $150,309 for the year. Is that correct?”
“That's correct to the dollar.”
“Okay,” said the man in a tone of complete confidence, as if he had cornered a rat in a hole and had a sledgehammer and was about to smash him to bits.
“Well,” the man went on, “we accept your gross income for the year 1981 as being $1,582,278. We'll accept that figure as your gross income. However, we question your deductions or losses of $1,431,969, leaving you with only a net profit of $150,309 for the year. I'm here to question your deductions or losses. We accept your gross income, but I'll have to require proof of your losses of $1,431,969.”
“What kind of proof?” Asked Cal.
“Well,” said the man, appearing to move in for the kill by the sound of his voice and the look in his eyes, “We would have to see every one of your losing tickets in the amount of the deductions or losses in order to verify that you have had such losses, that you can deduct from your gross income. Do you have any proof?” He asked confidently, as if he was certain that Cal didn't have any.
“Sure. I kept all my losing tickets every day, as I knew I'd have to have proof for deductions to subtract from my gross income.”
“Where are they?”
Cal got up and went into a bedroom where the closets were stuffed with huge shopping bags full of losing $50 and $100 tickets. He grabbed three in his arms and started out towards the man, lugging these full bags of tickets.
He dropped them on the floor and said, “Here are some. I'll have to go back and get the rest for the year.”
The man stood up and said, “Hold it.”
He reached in, looked at a couple of tickets, and glanced at the dates. Then he tossed the tickets back in the bag, sat back down, and started gathering his papers together. He neatly stacked them, put them back in his briefcase, and snapped it shut.
He then got up and said, “That's sufficient proof, that will be all for today.” And started walking towards the door.
Cal followed him and just stood there as he walked out and down the steps. Then he shut the door. After he was out of earshot, Charlotte and Astrid burst out laughing, and Cal just stood there with a big smile on his face and said, “So much for the Internal Revenue Service. They sure as hell aren't going to count every ticket in 6 full shopping bags and see if it all adds up to $1,431,969.”
Astrid jumped up and started clapping her hands. “You did it again, Cal. You are something else. You beat the “System” again. You not only beat the track and made $150,000 for the year, you beat the IRS too. You beat the damn IRS. The Internal Revenue Service. Remember when we were kids and you said you were going to beat the horses, and I said 'Yeah, Cal, maybe you can beat a horse.' I didn't know what you were talking about. I thought you were going to get some horse and beat it. I couldn't understand why you would want to beat a horse.”
“I remember. You were so dumb, you thought I was going to beat a horse. Well, it's over now, Astrid. I beat the horses and I beat the IRS too, if you want to call it that. All you got to do is play by the rules. If you can't win and play by the rules, you're not winning. If I were to cheat, I wouldn't be winning fair, it wouldn't be fair and square. And I want to win fair and square. I'm just not supposed to be winning $150,000 dollars. I'm supposed to be losing and that's one thing that guy will never understand. And not only that, I had to keep all those tickets, which you wanted to throw out so much, Charlotte. If we had thrown them out, I'd owe taxes on $1,582,000, and they'd take everything we had and we'd never be out of debt. So now we've got to keep those tickets and those shopping bags during the statue of limitations, which is something like 10 years. We have to get some storage locker to keep all these tickets, so that if the IRS comes around again in 5 years or maybe 10 years, I can go to this storage locker and drag out all these losing tickets. You know, Charlotte, you've got nothing to complain about now. I'm up to about 9.5, close to 10% profit, and I'm pulling in around $150,000 clear, which is a lot more than you're making at the University, you or Astrid, you and Astrid combined. So you don't have any problems on the economic front.”
“We're not complaining about the economics or the fact that you're making money or you beat the “System”. What we're complaining about is that we want to get the hell out of this city. We can't stand it anymore and want to return to the country, to the peace, the great country life we had, and the great work we were doing in our activism in Gainesville. That's what we want.”
“Hell with that.” Said Cal. “Do it here. I've got too many interesting things going here. I'm still learning. I'm still refining the Trifectas. My percentage is going up all the time, and I'm not done yet. Do whatever you have to do here. You've got 7 or 8 universities scattered around here, which is 7 or 8 more than you had in Gainesville.”
“And none of them are any good compared to Gainesville,” said Charlotte.
One day, in his second year at the track, he was in the clubhouse poring over the fifth race analyzing it over and over from five or six different viewpoints or aspects. This was a very complex race but he felt it was bettable. He had already spent close to an hour on the race the night before, and he had been working on it on and off throughout the first four races, and now he was still trying to get a handle, a grip on what would happen in the fifth race, because, although it was complex and difficult and there were many problems or obstacles which he saw which didn't appeal to him, he felt that it was possible with sufficient time and effort to gather from it the relevant data necessary to work towards some type of straight, perfecta, or trifecta bet. He was deep in thought, totally concentrating, which he had a great aptitude for ever since his testing days at the University, this ability to devote his whole being, every part of his mind concentrating like the rays of the sun on a magnifying glass to set fire to a piece of paper. He pored over and over the horses, he analyzed them over and over, trying to picture in his mind how the race would be run, exactly how and where each horse would be at all times during every part of the race. While he was completely engrossed, sitting there in the clubhouse, oblivious to everything and everyone else, suddenly, before his mind, right before him, he was able to 'see'. Suddenly, the race was there right in front of him and he could 'see' the horses in front of him as they were coming down the stretch, and he could 'see' the No. 5 horse passing the No. 3 horse at the finish line. He actually 'saw' the No. 5 horse cross first, and then the No. 3 horse right after it. After he 'saw' the race, he realized it would not be run as he would have predicted from his figures. The No. 5 horse was the winner and the No. 3 horse was second. He now realized how this was perfectly possible. But he had not realized it before even though he had devoted literally hours to the race. He raised his head and blinked his eyes in puzzlement and thought, “What does this mean?”
He had always tried to picture the races, how and where every horse was going to be, but he had never 'seen' a horse race actually run before the race was run, 'seen' the horses exactly the way they would run. Before, what he would try to do was predict and picture, but he never actually 'saw' anything. But this time, to his amazement, while he was so engrossed in the race and in all the horses, suddenly, in a flash, as if he had slipped into a trance-like state, he actually 'saw' the race unfolding in the stretch, and 'saw' the No. 5 pass the No. 3 horse at the finish. Now what was he to do? This had never happened before. What had actually happened? How could he have seen this happen? He was truly puzzled and just looked up and stared blankly at the people walking around. He looked back at the form and recreated the 'scene' he had just seen. Certainly it was possible, even probable.
He stood up, went to the $100 window and decided to bet a 5-3 Perfecta, for $1,000. It was worth $1,000 to see what would happen. The more he thought about it, the more sure he became that it would be a 5-3. He lounged by the $100 window and watched the horses being loaded in as he had done thousands of times before. He could sense exactly which horse was being loaded in without even looking up. Finally, as they got the 10 and 11 horses loaded in, he turned to the $100 window, and said, “5 – 3, ten times.”
He returned to his usual seat and waited for the inevitable, ” And they're off.”
His senses immediately heightened. He had not 'seen' the first part of the race down the backstretch and to the turn at all.
As they rounded the far turn, and headed for home, the stretch run gradually unfolded right before his eyes. The No. 3 was on the inside, still holding on, when he saw the No. 5 coming up fast and he passed the No. 3 right before the finish, exactly as he had 'seen' it.
“Damn.” He thought.. “This is a whole new thing happening. A whole new process is developing.”
There was no rush to cash the tickets so he just sat there, in a stupor, remembering over and over the events that led to this 'vision', so that he might be able to reproduce it. He didn't know how long he sat there with the tickets in his pocket, trying to recreate the events leading up to this strange, accurate vision, and wondering how and why it had occurred. Finally, he concluded that, being as he was frequently working with subjects and slipping into hypnotic trance himself at night, that he had, in the complete engrossment of his figures, inadvertently slipped into a precognitive hypnotic trance while trying to figure out the race according to his complex formulas. He figured that, while he was so engrossed in the race and everything concerning the race, his mind had slipped into a trance and he was able to somehow actually 'see' the running of the very end of the race and not just try to predict it. Deciding that this was probably what had happened, he rose from his seat, noticed that the perfecta payoff was a healthy $85, and headed towards the $100 windows. As he walked, he quickly multiplied 500 times $85 and got $42,500 plus some change.
When he got to the window, he tossed the tickets on the counter and saw the clerk examine them closely, even bringing out a magnifying glass and an electronic device. Finally, the clerk took the tickets, tossed them into a drawer, and started counting out $100 bills. Cal calmly watched as he reached 425, and then started counting out $20 bills. Still in a daze, he pocketed the $42,500 and sat down again, still trying to analyze just what this new development meant.
About twelve minutes before the next race, he started trying to analyze it, tried to recreate the exact circumstances of the previous race and tried to actually 'see' the home stretch as he did in the previous race. But nothing whatsoever came through. He tried again, engrossed himself in the race as he had done in the previous one, tried to do everything that he had done in the previous race and tried to imagine or 'see' what would happen at the finish line. But he couldn't 'see' anything. For some reason he could not reproduce what he had just 'seen' in the previous race, which had never happened to him before. Try as he might to duplicate exactly what had just happened, all he could do was work with his figures as he always did, and nothing else. There was no way to reproduce what he had just 'seen' previously. For the rest of the day, he was limited to working with his figures, as he always had. He continued the day as usual, still wondering exactly why this had happened.
It wasn't until about a month later, when he was deeply engrossed in another race, especially concerned with 2 particular horses, when suddenly, when he least expected it, there, right in front of his eyes, flashed the scene of two horses clearly crossing the finish line. He could clearly see the numbers on the horses, just as clearly as he had seen in that race a month ago.
“Damn,” he thought, “it happened again. It must be that I slip into a precognitive, trance like state when I least expect it and I have no control over it.” He had been trying at various times to recreate this, but with no success. Now again, when he least expected it, it happened. Again, the two horses that he actually 'saw' crossing the finish line, were not the ones that he would have predicted by his figures. Again, he ignored his figures and bet on the precognitive vision that he saw. He concluded that this was something he could take advantage of at rare and unexpected times and that he could not control it. This would be another little edge that he would have, but always when he least expected it. This was so different than trying to predict the race, because in this case he actually 'saw' the end of the race. Again, the race unfolded in the stretch run exactly as he 'saw' it in his vision, and, he didn't fail to load up on that combination.
As the months went by and this precognitive trance continued to occur about every month or so, he continued to try to recreate the circumstances leading up to it, but was never able to control it in any way. Eventually, he calmly accepted it and merely added it to his repertoire of systems. He had no idea how much these visions would increase his profit percentage.
At this point, he was experiencing something similar to what he had experienced at the animal compound around the fifth year. He had just about exhausted every conceivable possibility that he hadn't been able to work on in the loft because he didn't have the practical experience of being at the track or working with the trifectas or the perfectas. He had also reached a point where he could just scan the racing paper and he need not spend hours every night as he had at first and all he had to do was bring the paper to the track and glance at the paper for the relevant races. Even with the addition of the perfectas, trifectas, and the psychic precognitive visions, he found himself working less and less in the afternoon, and hardly at all at night. He was able to deal with ten times the amount of work and complexity, due to the increased number of betting situations and systems. He used his pen mostly to write down the order of the numbers that he would have to bet in the perfectas or the trifectas so that he wouldn't make a disastrous mistake in betting the wrong numbers which would, of course, correspond to the wrong horses.
As a consequence of all this, as at the Animal Compound, he had a great deal of time on his hands, and the racing scene was becoming more and more routine and repetitive despite the addition of many more factors. He began to bring poetry, philosophical and metaphysical books to the track, and spent more time reading than analyzing any race. He would isolate himself in any relatively deserted corner of the clubhouse, mark the relevant races ahead of time, curl up with a book and ignore the track completely until one of the relevant races would approach.
He would then meet Jack and Gaylord at the walking ring. He was now betting, on average, about 3 or 4 races on a 10-race card.
The IRS made repeated visits, always forcing him to show losing tickets to verify his deductions or losses. They felt he was doing something illegal but they couldn't figure out what it was. In fact, he was following IRS guidelines on gambling to the letter, even listing his profession on the tax forms as “Professional Gambler”. Since he was better known in the clubhouse then he ever was in the grandstand, he knew that someone, somewhere, would certainly begrudge his obvious winning and control of the races, any one of the many clerks or patrons, friends, enemies, high society types in the clubhouse, were bound to report him sooner or later to the IRS. Actually, he was playing the “IRS Game” along with the “Racing Game”. He was playing fair. He wasn't cheating in any way. He was using his figures. Every time he made over $600, he had to sign an IRS form with his Social Security number.
He noticed that other people who won over $600 at the track, would hire someone else at the track, some bum or some cheater, to collect the winnings, and put their name and Social Security number on the form, and then give them 10% of the winnings. Say they won $5,000 on a given bet. In order to get out of reporting their winnings to the IRS, to cheat the IRS, not play by the rules and play illegally, the winner would approach someone at the track, and he himself was approached many times, with the winning $5,000 ticket, and then that person would stand in for the winner and go collect the money and put down their name and Social Security number and they would be charged or taxed by the IRS for the $5,000. The actual winner, who was probably part of a criminal element, wouldn't report or pay any taxes to the IRS. The person who collected, being responsible for the taxes, would make 10 % of the $5,000, or $500, for collecting and would have to report the $5,000 in winnings to the IRS. The person that made the winning bet would give this cheater 10 % of the bet and collect the rest of the bet and he wouldn't be liable to the IRS for anything and, of course, would probably not list himself as a “Gambler”. Cal never did this type of cheating, which was illegal in every sense of the word and punishable by, he didn't know how much, but certainly by jail time. He was meticulous with his records, was even proud to display a winning $5,000 or $10,000 ticket, and was glad to pay the income tax on it. He collected sheaths of IRS forms which he had signed anywhere from $600 on up to $5,000 or $10,000 for winnings, where he had signed his own name and Social Security number, and was responsible for the amount. It didn't concern him because, on his income tax forms, he put down his gross winnings in excess of one and a half million dollars, so what did $5,000 or $10,000 mean? He admitted to winning millions of dollars already, and when he lost, he deducted the amount from his profits.
He noticed some apparently rich, well-dressed men, who grouped together and formed a syndicate, and made bets primarily on the trifectas. They bet large amounts, tried to make a kill, then would look around and find someone to collect the money at the window, and they had even approached him many times. The strange thing was that these men found it to their advantage to deny that they were professional gamblers and to fob off their winnings to these unfortunate hangers-on who would be glad to cash the tickets in their names for 10 % of the total winnings. Cal never did understand what advantage there was to this, except that these men could possibly say they were businessmen or even lie about that, and never admit to ever being at the track, or betting or winning any money at all. But in Cal's case, he enjoyed being a Professional Gambler and playing by the rules and enjoyed the challenge. He could say, “Look, I'm playing by your rules, and I've saved all my tickets, and I've reported all my winnings, and losses. What are you going to do about it?” And of course the IRS guy would just walk out.
He began to feel the need, as he had especially in his college days, to liven things up, and as he had already proven what he could do, what he set out to do, he didn't care what the repercussions might be. He felt this growing necessity to liven up the whole situation which had become, relatively, almost like a regular businessman going to work, putting in a 9 to 5 day, because he had mastered it so thoroughly. He realized the danger in exposing himself at the track and in creating bizarre spectacles. There was the danger that many patrons at the clubhouse had great power, including some of the older $100 clerks and some of the celebrity patrons that he might insult or create a scene with. He knew they had the power to contact track management and possibly have him barred from the track on trumped up charges of bookmaking or some other illegal activity. Although he never did do anything illegal, that didn't mean that if he created a scene or insulted the wrong person who had enough power, that they might not trump up charges and have him barred from the track. But at this point, he was getting to the stage where he didn't give a damn whether he went or not. He still enjoyed the thrill of winning and “Beating the System”, and he still experienced the same adrenaline rush as he had on that very first day at the track when he won his very first race on Deutron at 30 to 1 and collected $6,240 for $200.
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